Dave Zeltserman - The Caretaker of Lorne Field

He got out of his crouch and moved away from the stone pit before letting go of his breath and risking breathing in again. Traces of that stench still lingered and had somehow gotten into the back of his throat, making him feel like he could taste it. Tearing the wrapper off a pack of gum, he stuck two sticks in his mouth and chewed them, anything to get rid of that taste. Later he’d gargle a case of mouthwash if he had to. After a minute or so all he could taste and smell was the peppermint flavor of the gum. Relieved, he took a deep breath and, for the hell of it, walked out into the middle of the field. Standing there, he could’ve been standing in the middle of any plowed farm plot. Nothing special about it. Just that all the weeds and grass had been pulled out.

The noises running through his head slowly quieted down.

He realized how still it seemed. How unnaturally quiet it was for a country evening. No chirping, no buzzing, no noises of any kind.

And no mosquitoes.

When Jack Durkin arrived back at the cabin Lydia told him that Lester was being kept overnight at the hospital and that Child Services had come over earlier and taken Bert away.

“When the hospital releases Lester, he ain’t going to be allowed to come home either. Not until they decide you had nothin’ to do with Lester’s accident.”

Durkin didn’t bother looking at her. He took one of the imported beers Charlie Harper had brought over and sat alone at the kitchen table. Later, when Lydia was at the stove, he told her in a tired monotone that Lester would tell them what happened and the boys would come home then.

Lydia had warmed up leftover pot roast for dinner and they ate quietly with neither of them looking at each other. Halfway through dinner Lydia asked him to just tell the truth about what happened to Lester.

“I know it must’ve been an accident,” she said. “You were probably trying to show Lester how to dig up one of those weeds and something slipped. If you just tell people the truth everything will be able to go back as it was.”

Durkin dropped his fork and knife onto his plate and looked up to meet Lydia’s eyes. As he stared at her his own eyes became liquid. He sat motionless for no more than half a minute, but to Lydia it could’ve just as easily have been an hour, at least that’s how long it seemed. He broke the silence by pounding on the table with his fist hard enough that the impact knocked a glass off the table and Lydia almost leapt out of her skin. The glass shattered into dozens of tiny shards with pieces scattering across the antique pine floor.

“If you think I’m going to clean that up, you’re crazy,” Lydia said.

Durkin’s thick eyelids lowered an eighth of an inch as he stared at her. “You took the videotape out of that camcorder,” he said.

“What? I don’t know what you’re talking about-”

“Don’t lie to me. You think I’m stupid? After you kept telling me to wait on videotaping the Aukowies.”

“I didn’t do anything,” she insisted stubbornly.

He pounded the table again. This time it had no effect on her.

“Goddamn it! I could’ve proven to the town that Aukowies are real. The videotape would’ve shown what they really are. Damn it, Lydia, why’d you have to do it?”

She had shifted her glance away from him. As she met his liquid eyes again, her own were as dry as sand.

“Why? Because I spoke with a lawyer yesterday who has a way for us to make a lot of money. More than you could imagine. But not if you start videotaping those weeds so you can prove to everyone they’re nothin’ but weeds. I’m not going to let you ruin this for us.”

“Goddamn you-”

“You shut up! I have one son in the hospital and another taken out of my home, so you have no right to curse me or blame me for nothin’. You understand me?”

Durkin didn’t say anything. A hot intensity burned on Lydia’s small wrinkled face. Her hands clenched into tiny fists and her knuckles showed bone-white.

“If I thought for one second that you hurt Lester intentionally, I’d already be out the door, but not before putting a nice heaping spoonful of arsenic in that pot roast. Tomorrow morning you’re going to admit to people what really happened. You’re going to say that it was an accident and not a weed that bit off Lester’s thumb.”

Durkin didn’t say anything. He just sat breathing hard, the moistness in his eyes quickly drying up.

“And why couldn’t you bring Lester’s thumb back with you?” Lydia demanded, thin veins streaking her neck and a large bluish one standing out in the middle of her forehead. “The doctors could’ve reattached it! Why couldn’t you bring it back?”

“There was no thumb left.”

“Shut up. Don’t you try that nonsense with me!”

“But there wasn’t,” Durkin said. “Once the Aukowie was done with it there was no thumb.”

“Shut up!” She hit the table herself with an open palm-not nearly as hard as her husband had, but hard enough to make a sharp crack. She grabbed her hand and held it as if it were broken. Tears welled up in her small eyes and started to leak down her cheeks. “Just shut up and quit talking this nonsense,” she cried softly.

“Let me get some ice for that.”

“I don’t need any ice from you.”

Durkin pushed himself away from the table, hobbled over to the cabinets making sure to avoid the broken glass littering the floor, then found a plastic bag and filled it with ice from the freezer. He brought the bag over to his wife and placed it gently against the hand she was holding.

“Do you think you broke it?” he asked.

“No, nothin’s broke.”

“Maybe I should take you to the hospital and have them check it?”

“Just sit down and finish your dinner.”

Durkin opened his mouth to argue, but instead sat back down. He halfheartedly continued eating. Lydia watched him for a while, then told him the lawyer was going to be stopping by soon to explain how they were going to turn their lives around. “You’re going to agree to whatever he says or so help me,” she said, her voice not much more than a snake’s hiss.

“I ain’t violating the contract.”

“You won’t have to.”

He nodded dully and went back to his food. He peeked at her a couple of times to try to figure how badly her hand was hurt and how he was going to get someone as stubborn as her to the hospital.

A few minutes before nine someone knocked on the front door. Lydia dumped the bag of half-melted ice into the kitchen sink then, before leaving to answer the door, warned her husband what she’d do to him if he ruined this for them. When she came back into the kitchen, she brought Paul Minter with her. He took a step towards Jack Durkin and then skipped to one side to avoid a piece of glass.

“You realize you have broken glass on your floor?” he asked Lydia.

“He’ll clean it up,” Lydia said, turning an angry glare towards her husband.

“The hell I will,” Durkin muttered.

Minter looked at both of them. “If this is a bad time…” he started.

“As good a time as any.” Lydia took her seat as stiffly as a corpse.

Minter gave them both curious looks again then, avoiding the broken glass, he made his way over to Durkin and introduced himself. Durkin grudgingly took his hand and muttered his own name in response. Minter carefully made his way over to Lester’s seat at the table.

“Mr. Durkin, it’s a pleasure meeting you.” Minter looked around the room smiling artificially. “Has your wife mentioned to you any of what we’re planning?”

“Nope. Not a word.”

Durkin snuck a quick look at his wife and couldn’t help worrying about how awkwardly she held her injured hand. He also didn’t think this kid sitting at the table with them seemed like much of a lawyer. He sure wasn’t dressed like one, wearing a polo shirt and short pants, and without anywhere near the imposing presence of someone like Hank Thompson. Durkin wiped his hand off with his napkin and watched as Paul Minter showed off a large toothy grin.