Dave Zeltserman - The Caretaker of Lorne Field

That night he dreamt of his pa. He was back in high school, the night after his baseball team’s championship game. He almost won the game single-handedly, hitting two homeruns and a double and making several tough plays at third, but his team still lost 8-7. His pa missed the game like all his other games since he had to spend the day weeding Aukowies, but in the dream they had dinner together and afterwards he came up to the bedroom that Jack shared with his brother. His pa asked Joe to leave so him and Jack could talk alone.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t be there today.”

“I know, pa.”

“Your ma was telling me you almost carried your team on your back today.”

Jack was in the middle of oiling his glove. He wiped off some of the oil and rubbed what was left deep into the leather.

“My last at bat I was slow to the ball,” he said. “If I’d picked up on the spin faster I would’ve driven the ball over the fence instead of bouncing it off it. We would’ve won the game if I’d done that.”

“Sometimes it’s a matter of inches, son.”

“Yep.”

His pa sat silent for several minutes. Jack kept rubbing the oil deeper into his glove.

“Folks are saying you could be a big leaguer,” his pa finally said.

Jack shrugged.

“I’m sorry, son,” his pa said. “If it was up to me I’d make Joe the next Caretaker instead of you. But I can’t do it.”

“I know, pa.”

“Everything in the contract’s written for a reason. Any of us start messin’ with it and we’re all lost.”

Jack nodded and kept his eyes on his glove. He tried hard not to cry. He didn’t want his pa to see him crying.

“I know it ain’t fair,” his pa said. “I know it as well as anyone, son. But if I made Joe the next Caretaker, then what happens if he has two boys? Neither of them are going to want the job when the time comes. And they’ll have every reason to fight about it because I cheated with you. And then what? I can’t set that type of precedent, son, no matter how much I’d like to.”

“You don’t have to explain, pa.”

“But I want to. Nothin’ I’d want more than to see you have a chance playing professional ball. But if we start cheating on the contract, we got big problems. We have to follow the contract to the letter. This thing is bigger than you or me, Jack. Ain’t no job harder. You got the weight of the world on your shoulders. But you can do it, son. I got no doubt that you got it in you to be Caretaker. And as hard as the job is, people here will respect you for it. You’ll be saving their lives every day. It makes it easier knowing that. Most days it’s what keeps you going.”

The sixteen-year-old version of Jack Durkin in his dream nodded and wiped a finger across his eye, trying hard not to let his pa see that he was wiping away a tear.

Durkin woke up and realized he was crying in his sleep. He was ashamed of it, even though there was no one there to see it. He wiped a hand across his eyes, then lay in bed thinking about his dream. He tried to remember if he ever had had that talk with his pa and decided he hadn’t. He couldn’t even remember his pa ever eating dinner with them. It was just a dream, nothing more. His pa never talked to him about playing baseball. Never acknowledged that he was all-state or had set state records with both his twenty-two homeruns and.620 batting average. The only talk he could remember having with his pa about something other than his future as Caretaker was after his freshman year of high school. His pa suggested that he drop out of school since there was no point in continuing.

As he lay in bed thinking about his dream, he realized it was the first time in years that he had thought about his pa. It had been almost thirty years since the old man died. After he had retired as Caretaker, he moved to Florida and only five years later dropped dead from a stroke. The funeral took place in August, and because it was held where his pa had retired in Bradenton, Florida, Durkin couldn’t attend. It always bothered him that they couldn’t have held the funeral back home, but he understood why. After so many years of weeding Aukowies, his pa wanted to spend eternity as far away from Lorne Field as he could.

Jack Durkin peered at the clock until his eyes focused. It was only two thirty-seven in the morning. He closed his eyes again, hoping he’d be able to get some more sleep. It was the first dream he could remember having since he was maybe five or six years old, and he hoped it would be his last.

The next four days Jack Durkin didn’t know what else to do but to keep going back to the Rusty Nail for dinner. He had no other food left at home, he had no money and he didn’t even know what bank Lydia kept their money at-and even if he did, assuming there was still even any money in their account, he wouldn’t be able to get there during business hours. Each time he went back to the Rusty Nail, Charlie’s attitude seemed cooler. That fourth day Charlie asked him about Sheriff Wolcott sticking his hand into a clump of Aukowies.

“I heard he did that,” Charlie said, his voice strained. “How come they didn’t bite his fingers off like they did Lester’s thumb?”

“’Cause they didn’t.”

“That’s not a good enough answer, Jack.”

Durkin peered at Charlie and saw the hostility brewing over his old friend’s face. The muscles bunched up along the bartender’s neck and shoulders, the same as if he were about to throw a drunken troublemaker out of his bar.

“Because they knew they could cause me more trouble by not doing anything,” Durkin said.

“You’re kidding. That’s your explanation for it?”

“It’s the truth, Charlie. I could see it in their faces. Somehow they knew.”

Violence passed over Charlie’s face like a storm cloud. He stood clenching and unclenching his fists, but the violence mostly petered out.

“According to Sheriff Wolcott they’re nothing but weeds,” he said, his voice tight. “Unless you’ve got cash to pay for your food and drink, you better leave.”

Durkin left. When he got home he sat listening to his stomach rumble and tried to figure out what to do. He couldn’t think of anything else, so he called Hank Thompson.

“Jack, how are you holding up?” the attorney asked on hearing Durkin’s voice.

“Not so good.” Durkin hesitated, feeling sick to his stomach having to beg this way. “I don’t know if you heard, but Lydia left me.”

“No, Jack, I didn’t hear. I’m sorry.”

“I don’t know what to do, Hank. She took the car. I have no money and no food in the house. I don’t even know what bank she uses. If I can just make it another seven weeks or so until first frost, I can straighten everything out then-”

“Jack, not another word. How about I drive over and pick you up. There’s an all-night supermarket out on Route 30.”

“I hate putting you out like this, Hank.”

“It’s no bother, Jack. Just hold tight and I’ll be over soon.”

Twenty-five minutes later Hank Thompson pulled his Cadillac into the dirt driveway. When Durkin got in the car, Hank offered him a handshake, then pulled the car onto the road leading away from the cabin.

“Must be quiet in there with Lydia and the boys gone,” Hank said.

“I’m used to quiet.”

“Still a shame for this to have to happen. Jack, I’ll be deposing Lester next week. I’m hoping to shake the truth out of him so we can get him and Bert back home. Maybe if that happens Lydia will follow.”

Durkin didn’t say anything.

Hank cleared his throat and mentioned that the sheriff was spreading it around town that the only thing growing in Lorne Field were weeds. “He claims he stuck his hand in a bunch of them and nothing happened?”