Dave Zeltserman - The Caretaker of Lorne Field

He was going to get his contract and book back from Jeanette Thompson. He was going to finish this season and weed those damn Aukowies until first frost. After that he’d have all winter to talk sense into the members of the town council. He knew that he’d have to get Lester to come clean and tell them what really happened before they changed their minds. Later, after this season of killing Aukowies, he was going to find Lester and get through to his son.

Jack Durkin wiped his hand across his eyes and then pushed himself to his feet. The streets were mostly empty. If anyone had driven or walked by, he hadn’t seen them. He hobbled over to his bike and walked it to the Rusty Nail.

Charlie Harper stood impassively as Durkin hobbled into his bar. After Durkin laboriously seated himself on one of the stools, he ordered a shot of bourbon, defiantly meeting Charlie’s cold stare.

“Three dollars,” Charlie said.

With some difficulty, Durkin worked his wallet out of his back pocket, took out a ten dollar bill and placed it in front of him. Charlie stared at the bill for a good minute before picking it up and holding it to the light to make sure it was genuine. Satisfied, he put the bill in his pocket and poured Durkin a shot of bourbon.

“Where’s my change?”

Charlie had moved down the bar to pick up some empty glasses. Without looking at Durkin, he said, “It’s costing me forty bucks to fix the camcorder that you broke. I’m making those seven dollars a down payment towards that, and I expect the rest of the money later.”

“You’ll get it,” Durkin said. “Every penny of it.”

He lifted up the shot glass and stared at the amber liquid. Silently he said a prayer for Hank Thompson’s soul, then downed the bourbon in a single gulp. For a few seconds, the burn of it made him forget the throbbing in his ankle.

He cleared his throat and told Charlie that the town council had cancelled the Caretaker position. “That means the contract’s no longer in effect as far as I’m concerned, either,” he added. “If you want to come down to that field with me I’ll show you what those Aukowies really are.”

Charlie was wiping a rag over part of the bar. He froze, his muscles tensing. All at once he started laughing an angry laugh.

“Is that so,” he said.

“Yep, it is. What’s so funny about that?”

“Nothing. It’s pathetic, that’s what it is.” Charlie walked over to the cash register and took out a folded up newspaper that had been shoved underneath it. He unfolded the paper and placed it in front of Durkin.

“I’ve been saving this in case you ever had the nerve to step back in here,” he said.

The page in front of Durkin had an article about his arraignment hearing from a few weeks earlier with the headline ‘I’m Only Pulling Out Weeds Everyday’. The gist of the article was that he had come clean in court and admitted that the legend of monsters growing out of Lorne Field was nothing but a hoax so that he, and his ancestors before him, could milk it for all it was worth. Durkin’s face reddened as he read the article.

“I only said what I did because the judge needed me to,” he insisted.

“Sure, that’s why you said it.”

“If I didn’t I might’ve been locked up in jail. And then there’d be no one left to weed the Aukowies!”

Charlie eyes glazed over as he stared at Durkin. He didn’t bother to respond.

“Christ, Charlie, just come to the field with me, then! I’ll show you firsthand what Aukowies are!”

“I’ve got a better idea,” Charlie said. “Why don’t you go peddle your bullshit elsewhere. And unless you want to buy another drink, get the hell out of my bar.”

Durkin opened his mouth to argue, saw the hardness settling over his former friend’s face, and instead lowered himself from the barstool and did as Charlie suggested.

Over the next ten days Jack Durkin left Lorne Field only twice-once to try calling Jeanette Thompson, the other time so he could go back into town and ask Jerry Hallwell for an air mattress. That was the day after he found out about Hank, and he caught Hallwell locking up his Army Surplus store, but Hallwell turned him down flat. One look at Hallwell’s face told him that he had read the same newspaper article as Charlie Harper and, like Charlie, believed every word of it.

“I can take you down there, Jerry,” Durkin told him. “You can see for yourself.”

“Take me down there? What for, so you can cut off my thumb like you did your son’s?”

Durkin watched helplessly as Hallwell turned his back on him.

After that night, the idea of leaving the field exhausted him. Even when he ran out of aspirin he couldn’t get himself to mount Lester’s bike and ride the six miles to the supermarket for more. So when he finally finished the day’s work, he’d eat a dinner of either cold beans, sardines or tuna fish, drink a can of soda, and sit leaning against the shed until he thought he might be able to doze off for a couple of minutes. Then he would lay down on the three blankets he’d brought and try to ignore the aching in his back and the sensation of nails being hammered into his injured ankle and a constant fever that kept him shivering uncontrollably. Even when he’d fall into unconsciousness for a minute or two from sheer exhaustion, his clattering teeth from the now cooler nights would wake him.

It was around noon the following day when a rattling noise coming down the path to Lorne Field interrupted Durkin from his weeding. He looked up and was surprised to see his son, Bert, on his bike. He croaked out for Bert to stay where he was, his voice not much louder than a hoarse whisper.

Bert had gotten off his bike and started to approach the field. Durkin motioned with his arms and yelled at him again to stay put. He shuffled as quickly as he could on his injured ankle towards his son. He could see the worry on Bert’s face over his appearance. He hadn’t washed, shaved or bathed since he had been evicted from his home. From the way his shirt and pants hung loosely on him he knew he’d lost plenty of weight. When he reached Bert he stood awkwardly, not sure what to do.

“I’d hug you, son,” he said, “but I know I must smell pretty bad.”

Bert stepped forward and buried his face into his father’s chest. Durkin stood with his hands at his side for a moment, and then embraced his son.

“I’ve smelled worse,” Bert said.

“I don’t believe that for a second.”

“Well, maybe not, but I’ve missed you, dad.”

“I’ve missed you too, son.” Durkin took a step back so he could see his son. Bert was trying hard to smile but couldn’t stop looking worried.

“Where are they keeping you?” Durkin asked.

“In a foster home over in Eastham. If they knew I did this I’d be in big trouble,” he said, his grin turning sheepish.

“Eastham? That’s a long way from here. At least twenty miles.”

“It took me all morning to ride my bike here,” Bert said, now proud of his crime.

“You ain’t supposed to see me, huh?”

Bert shrugged noncommittally.

“What’s this foster home like?”

“It’s okay.” Bert looked down and kicked at the dirt. “Lester’s there with me. All he does all day is try to play video games with one hand and look at dirty pictures on the Internet.”

“Son, I didn’t hurt your brother. Whatever he’s saying, it ain’t the truth.”