Dave Zeltserman - The Caretaker of Lorne Field

“You arrestin’ me, Sheriff?” he grunted out.

“I don’t want to, Jack, but if you don’t leave the field I’ll have no choice. We do need to talk. It’s important.”

“What about?”

“This is not a good place, Jack-”

“You want to talk to me, talk now!”

Wolcott filled his lungs and let it out slowly. He looked away.

“There was an accident. Two weeks ago last Saturday. Your son, Bert, was riding his bike on the highway and he was hit by a truck. I’m sorry, Jack, but he didn’t survive.”

Jack Durkin’s stare turned blank. Breathing heavily, he left the wheelbarrow and canvas sack where they were and started towards the new dirt road that had been built. Wolcott kept pace with him.

“Jack, if I had any idea you were out here, I would’ve sent someone for you.”

Durkin continued to walk straight ahead as though deaf and dumb to the world. He went past the bulldozer and tractor and kept going. Both construction workers looked questioningly at the sheriff, who signaled for them to look away. Wolcott stepped quickly and grabbed Durkin by the elbow.

“Let me drive you somewhere. I can’t just leave you like this.”

Durkin ripped his arm free and kept his short shuffling pace until he reached the shed that his great grandpa had built. There, he stored his work gloves inside the shed, took Lester’s bike and pushed himself on it. The bike tottered for a long moment as he pedaled. For a few seconds it looked almost as if he were on a stationary bike before it started to roll forward. Wolcott stood watching. When the bike was rounding the bend, he yelled out that if Durkin came back to the field he was going to have to arrest him, that he would have no choice.

Jack Durkin bought a machete at the Army Surplus store for twenty-five dollars. Jerry Hallwell eyed him suspiciously as he rung up the sale.

“What are you buying a machete for?” he asked.

“Wha’cha think for? My weeding.”

“I heard you weren’t doing that anymore.”

“You heard wrong. Put that in a bag.”

Hallwell gave Durkin a long look before doing as he’d asked. Durkin handed him thirty dollars and Hallwell counted out the change.

“It looks like you lost a lot of weight.”

“Special diet.”

Hallwell nodded soberly. “I’m sorry to hear about Bert,” he said.

Durkin’s lips formed two grim lines as they pushed hard together, but other than that gave no indication he heard. He took his change and the machete and left the store. After buying some aspirin at the drug store, he took out what he had left from the money Hank had given him and counted six dollars and change. He chewed on a handful of aspirin, then walked across the street to the diner and took one of the booths.

When the waitress came over, he ordered scrambled eggs, sausage, pancakes and a pot of coffee. The waitress hung around looking uncomfortable. Durkin thought it was because of the way he looked and smelled, but then she started to tell him how sorry she was about what happened to Bert. He looked up at her and saw her smiling somewhat sad and brittle. She was young, no older than twenty, blond, and thin as a stick-maybe even skinnier than he had become. He saw her name tag read Nancy Wilkens and realized she was Lucy and Ed’s little girl, all grown up.

“Thank you, honey,” he told her.

She nodded, her smile growing sadder. “I used to see Bert riding his bike around town, always carrying his fishing pole. He was such a nice boy.”

The muscles along Durkin’s jaw hardened. He turned and looked out the window. After he felt her leave, he wiped the back of his hand across his eyes.

She brought the coffee pot first and he emptied it quickly, drinking six cups from it. She brought another pot with her when she brought the food. He had no appetite and barely tasted any of what he ate, but he knew he was going to need his strength. He knew he was going to have a hard night in front of him. He methodically finished what was on his plate, then sat back and drank more coffee. When the second pot was empty, Nancy came over and asked if he’d like more coffee or anything else.

“Nothing more, thanks,” he said, trying hard to smile at her. “Just the bill.”

“There’s no bill, Mr. Durkin. This is on me.”

“That ain’t right-”

“No, please.”

Jack Durkin took the six dollars and change that he had left and placed it on the table. “I can still leave a tip,” he said, winking. Before she could argue with him, he pushed himself out of the booth and hobbled out of the diner.

Shayes Pond could’ve made a nice Monet oil painting, with the lily pads floating on the surface and willow trees scattered along the banks. Jack Durkin knew Bert liked to go fishing there, and more times than not would bring home fresh water bass that he caught from the pond. Like Bert, Durkin went fishing a lot when he was younger, usually at a spot he’d discovered at Crystal Pond, but he could see why Bert liked this place. Once Durkin took over as Caretaker, that part of his life was gone. He saved his fishing pole and gave it to Lester when he turned ten, but Lester never really had any interest in it, and eventually his prized fishing pole ended up in Bert’s hands.

Probably because it was a school day, he had the place to himself. No other boys like Bert out there fishing. In a way he was disappointed. He found a grassy spot in the sun and sat down. For weeks he had heard nothing but his own moaning and sighing, but here he could hear bullfrogs in the weeds and squirrels and birds chattering noisily in the trees. The racket they made was soothing. It made him want to close his eyes, but he fought the urge. He had too much to think about. It was only three o’clock and he had hours to wait before it would be safe to head back to Lorne Field and deal with the Aukowies. There was still one-third of the field that he had never gotten to, and given all day to grow unabated that part would be covered by one-foot high Aukowies. He knew the Aukowies on the rest of the field would reach at least six inches high. Even at his strongest, he doubted whether he’d be able to handle the field like that. In his present shape, the only chance he had was using the machete.

He found himself staring at the pond and trying to picture Bert sitting on the bank with his fishing pole. After a while he gave in and let his eyelids close, then lay down on his back and felt the sun warming his face. Every time he’d start to drift off he’d think of Bert being hit by a truck and he’d be jolted awake. It got to where all he could see in his mind’s eye was Bert’s lifeless body.

He squeezed his eyes shut and rubbed them hard with the palms of his hands and tried to blot out that image.

What haven’t I done for you? he thought. What more do you need to take from me? I’m beggin’ you, just tell me which one you’re doing, punishing me or testing me? Which one is it?

He cried then. Tears lined his heavily-weathered face, his chest aching with each sob. After a while his exhaustion caught up to him and he passed into something between sleep and unconsciousness.

It was dark when Durkin woke. Disoriented, he pushed himself into a sitting position. Slowly it came back to him and he remembered everything that happened that day. He remembered what happened at the field. He remembered about his son. He squinted hard at his watch and saw it was nine thirty-five. After chewing on some aspirin, he found the machete next to him, pushed himself to his feet and got on Lester’s bike.