Dave Zeltserman - The Caretaker of Lorne Field

“I know, dad. Lester’s a weasel. He only said that stuff because he doesn’t want to become Caretaker.”

“What makes you say that?” Durkin asked. “Lester tell you that?”

“No, he doesn’t tell me anything anymore. But I know what a lying weasel he is. And that’s why he said those things.”

Durkin looked away from his son and towards the Aukowies growing in Lorne Field. “When you see Lester you tell him to tell the truth. He don’t have to be Caretaker.”

“I will, but I don’t know if it will do any good.”

“Just tell him.” Durkin took a deep breath. “Why don’t I show you how to weed them. You can help me.”

“Sure, dad.”

Weeks ago when Durkin had gone through the boxes left on the front yard of the Caretaker’s cabin, he found an extra pair of work gloves and brought them with him. Now he asked Bert to go back to the shed for them. Bert did as he was asked. The gloves were several sizes too big for him, and given how thin and slight Bert was, they made him look like a cartoon character. Almost like Mickey Mouse. But they would do. As they walked back to where the Aukowies were growing, Durkin took short, shuffling steps, trying hard not to grimace. He could feel his son’s eyes on him. He turned towards Bert and smiled, the questions plain on his son’s trusting face. About the way he was walking and how he was sweating so profusely and the fever that was burning brightly on his face and how thin and emaciated he had become.

“I’m okay, son,” he said. “Just a couple more weeks of weeding and first frost will be here. I’ll be able to rest then.”

They walked quietly to the waiting Aukowies. “Stand back, son,” Durkin said. “If you look carefully you can see their little faces. When they’re bigger, there’s no mistaking those evil grins of theirs. But even now you can see them.”

“I-I think I can see it,” Bert said.

Durkin pointed a finger at the nearest one. “Right there, see the way it’s looking at us. It’s hoping we’ll think it’s just a weed, but it’s watching us. You can see its little slit-eyes and grinning mouth and horns. You see it, Bert?”

“I see it, dad.”

“Listen to the sound it makes when I kill it.”

Durkin pulled the Aukowie from the ground and then looked hopefully over at Bert. “You hear it?”

“I-I’m not sure. What’s it supposed to sound like?”

“They scream when they die. Sometimes it takes a while before you’re able to hear, but just keep listening for it.”

“Try another one, dad.”

Durkin pulled another Aukowie out of the ground.

“I heard it,” Bert said, his eyes focused off into the distance, his brow furrowed in concentration. “I heard it scream.”

Durkin felt proud as looked at his son and knew he was telling him the truth. It brought back memories of the first day his own dad had taken him to Lorne Field. “Kind of what you’d imagine a dog whistle would sound like if you could hear it,” he said.

“That’s exactly how it sounded!”

“You want to help me, son? You can push the wheelbarrow while I weed them.”

“Sure, dad.”

“Now, don’t be alarmed, but I’m going to get on my knees. It’s just easier for me that way right now. My back’s been hurtin’ a little, and so’s my ankle, but it’s nothin’ serious.”

Durkin got down on all fours and started pulling out Aukowies and handing them to Bert so he could put them in the canvas sack. “Be careful how you hold those. Even though they’re dead, the fangs on them are razor sharp.”

“I’ll be careful.”

As Durkin weeded, he explained to Bert how he felt for the right angle on the Aukowies so they’d come out easily and not break off in the ground. Looking at his son’s face, he knew Bert was picking it up.

“I’m going to be the next Caretaker, won’t I, dad?”

“I’m afraid so,” Durkin said, his voice growing even more hoarse. “There’s no way around it.”

“I don’t mind.”

“I know you don’t, son,” Durkin said. He wished that there was some other fate possible for his boy. He could feel the weight of his son’s future pushing down hard inside his chest. Without looking at Bert, he asked if he’d seen his ma.

“She’s trying to get us back with her,” Bert said softly. “She visits every other day with a social worker.”

“Where she’s living?”

“Mom’s got her own apartment.”

Durkin turned a questioning eye towards his son, but muttered that that was good. “You know how she’s able to afford it?” he asked.

“Her friend, Mrs. Vernon, helped her. Mom’s going to be writing a book.”

Durkin backed away from a patch of Aukowies and stared hard at Bert. “That ain’t possible,” he said. “She talks even worse than I do. That woman can barely read, let alone write. What in the world could she be writing a book about?”

“Someone’s going to be helping her. They’re paying her a lot of money to write about her life.”

Durkin could see the real answer in his son’s embarrassment. “You mean about how she’s married to a crazy loon who thinks he pulls out monsters from a field all day long and cuts off his son’s thumb?”

Bert shrugged, his grin weakening. “I don’t know, dad.”

“It don’t matter,” Durkin muttered. He went back to his weeding. “Good for her. Let her take them for every penny they got.”

Durkin let his son help him for another half hour, then with a grunt pulled himself to his feet and smiled sadly at him.

“You better be headin’ off,” he said. “You got a long bike ride ahead of you.”

“I can help you some more.”

“No, I don’t want you riding your bike in the dark.” He winked at his son. “Or gettin’ in trouble at that foster home. Just tell Lester he needs to come clean. And tell your ma I’ll be talking to her soon.”

“I will.” Bert looked away and kicked at the ground. He stuck his hands deep in his pockets. “Dad, when I rode by the house I saw a padlock and eviction notice on the door.”

“It’s just temporary, son. Nothin’ to worry about.”

“Where are you living?”

“I’m camping out here until the season’s done.” He winked again at his son. “It’s fun. Playing Daniel Boone, livin’ out here in the wilderness.”

“Why don’t I stay with you and help?”

“Can’t do that, son. It would just get you in trouble. And me, too, when they come lookin’ for you. But I’ll be seeing you soon. Three weeks at the most, I promise.”

He held out his hand, and Bert looked at it, his bottom lip quivering. He stepped forward and grabbed his father in a hard embrace. Durkin stood helplessly for a moment, then embraced his son and smoothed the hair on his head while whispering hoarsely to him that everything was going to be okay. He let go after a minute, telling his son he had to get back to his weeding. Bert nodded glumly and took a step away.

“I started school already, so I can’t come during the week, but I’ll be back next Saturday,” he said.

“You better not. It’s too long a ride. Besides, you’ll just get yourself in trouble.”

“Nope, I’m coming back.” Bert walked reluctantly towards his bike. He stopped to wave to his father. “I’ll see you next week!”

Durkin waved back and watched as his son got on his bike and rode away. After that, he went back to his weeding.

Bert didn’t come back the next Saturday.

Durkin thought about it and decided the bike ride must’ve been too much for the boy, or maybe someone at the foster home had found out about his first trip to Lorne Field and took his bike away. Twenty miles back and forth was a lot of riding, and he couldn’t blame Bert for not doing it again. In a way he was glad he didn’t. He didn’t want his boy seeing him the way he was; besides, he’d have plenty of opportunities to see Bert after the weeding season was over. He had too much on his mind as it was. His ankle wasn’t getting any better, his back was stiffer and more bent each day, and he kept thinking about his last phone call with Jeanette Thompson. As she had asked, he waited a week before calling her again. This time her voice was shriller than before, sounding like nails on a chalkboard. She told him that she couldn’t find the items he had asked about and must’ve thrown them out. Before hanging up, she warned him not to call again, and that if he did, she’d take out a restraining order against him.