Dave Zeltserman: The Caretaker of Lorne Field

© 2010

Jack Durkin let out a groan as his wife, Lydia, dropped a bowl of corn flakes in front of him.

“Aw, woman,” he moaned. “You trying to kill me? Corn flakes? This makes twenty-three days straight now.”

“You don’t like it? Get a job that pays money.”

“Get a job that pays money,” he said, mimicking her. “I got a job, you old hag-”

“Don’t you dare call me that!”

“Well,” he said, sniffing, “don’t you make fun of my job then. I spend every day saving this world, and don’t you forget it!”

She laughed at that. “Saving the world? You old fool, you spend all your time pulling out weeds from a field nobody cares about.”

“Pulling out weeds?” he exclaimed with indignation. “Hell you say! I spend every goddamn day from winter thaw to first frost saving this worthless planet. Those ain’t no weeds I’m pulling. They’re Aukowies, as you damn well know! Weeds, huh? Do weeds scream every time you kill one of them?”

Lydia Durkin stopped scrubbing the previous night’s dishes to roll her eyes. Half under her breath she muttered that he was nothing but an old fool.

“Old fool, am I? We’ll see. Maybe I forget to pull one of them evil little suckers out, let it grow nice and big and hungry.” Being as quiet as he could, he pushed himself away from the table and tiptoed over to her on his bare feet. Then, once within striking distance, he jabbed his fingers hard into her ribs, tickling her. “Nothing but one of them Aukowies eating you up,” he laughed.

“Stop it! Stop it!” she screamed, jerking away and striking out with an elbow, catching him flush in his stomach. He stopped, and he stopped laughing, too.

“It’s not funny,” she said. “It’s not funny us living like this. Because you have to spend every day walking up and down a field pulling weeds-”

“They’re not weeds, you crazy old bat-”

“Shut up! I told you not to call me that! And I’m not old, only forty-six. I only look old ’cause I’ve been living with you like a pauper. Because you’re too lazy to get a real job.”

Jack Durkin held his stomach gingerly, still recovering having had his wind knocked out of him by that elbow. Damn thing was as hard as a crowbar. His knees felt creaky as he hobbled back to his chair. Without much enthusiasm he took a bite of corn flakes, then dropped his spoon back into the bowl.

“I got a job,” he said defiantly. “The most frickin’ important job in this whole goddamn world. And I’m under contract, goddamit!”

“You and your lousy contract.”

“Don’t you dare,” he said, pointing a thick finger at her. “That contract is the most sacred piece of paper on the planet. Don’t you dare desecrate it!”

Something about his tone stopped her. She went back to scrubbing the dishes and muttering under her breath what a useless fool she married. Jack Durkin sat scowling, first at her then at the bowl of corn flakes sitting in front of him. He pushed the bowl away, his round face turning red.

“Where are Lester and Bert? Why ain’t my sons eating breakfast with me?”

“It’s summer. I’m letting them sleep past six o’clock!”

“Well, that’s not going to happen again. Tomorrow morning they’re damn well joining me for breakfast. If I’m off saving the world every day, least they can do is join their pa for breakfast. You get them woken up or I’ll drag them out of bed myself. Don’t you think I won’t! And quit your goddamn muttering!”

Fed up, he pushed himself away from the table, grabbed his baseball cap and thermos, and headed towards the door.

Lydia Durkin stared stone-faced at him, but once he opened the door she softened a bit. “Ain’t you gonna eat nothin’?”

“Not in the mood now.”

“Well, I’ll bring you a lunch.”

“No, you don’t. It’s in the contract, goddamit! You don’t come out to Lorne Field. Never!”

He bent over and slipped his wool socks on and saw one of his toes sticking through the fabric. He glared at the toe angrily as if it had no right to be there, then put on his work boots. It took time tying up his laces, especially with how bad his back felt. When he was done he slowly straightened up, trying hard not to let Lydia see how much pain he was in, and with a loud harrumph stepped outside and slammed the door behind him.

Damn, that woman put him in a foul mood. Should be a law against her serving him corn flakes twenty-three straight days, especially her knowing that was all he’d have to eat until eight that night. And that little witch could’ve ruptured his spleen elbowing him the way she did. Chrissakes, all he was doing was being playful. As infuriating as all that was, what stuck in his craw was the way she belittled his job. Made it sound like he was some kind of loon.

Thinking about all that only made his foul mood blacker.

There was a time when the Caretaker of Lorne Field was held in reverence. When people respected the position and understood the sacrifices the Caretaker made so the rest of them could be safe. With his pa things started to change-slowly, maybe, but they changed as the ones who believed started to die off, and it had only grown worse under his tenure. Damn it, he had the most important job in the world, and now it was just one slight after the next. If not from his wife, then from the rest of the townsfolk. Even from his own boys…

Thinking of that made his back ache more than it had been.

Years of tending to Lorne Field left him with a rounded spine, bowed legs and creaky knees. All that bending and stooping he had to do all day long. Fifty-two years old and he felt like an old man. More than that, he looked like one. The sun had dried him out during all those years of walking back and forth across Lorne Field. Left his skin like a piece of rawhide. Probably responsible too for a good part of his hair falling out.

He stopped to work out the kink in his back. Bad enough he had creaky knees, now he had a kinky back. And if that weren’t enough, he was reduced to walking on foot down the dirt path to Lorne Field because some delinquent punks stole his bike. He had asked Lydia to buy him a new one, but she refused, claiming they didn’t have the money. When Chester Conley owned the town’s sporting goods store he would’ve gladly given Durkin a free bike, but Chester had long since retired to Arizona, and his son who took over the shop didn’t see things the way Chester had. Now Durkin was going to have to wait until the first frost to figure out how he would raise enough money for a new bike, which left him stuck having to walk for the rest of the season. One more indignity piled upon all the rest. One more stinking burden to shoulder.

A black, black thought entered his head. He could teach them all a lesson. If he bought a bus ticket, he could be in California in three days. Probably take eight, maybe nine days for the Aukowies to mature, another week or so for them to ravage the land and make their way to the west coast. That’d give him more than two weeks of peace and quiet. Two weeks without some raisin-faced shrew picking the flesh off his tired old carcass. Two weeks without his ungrateful boys rolling their eyes and smirking at him. Best of all, two weeks without any condescending looks from those townsfolk when he walked past them. Oh boy, would that teach them! Let them see how funny their jokes were when Aukowies shred them into mincemeat! Of course the Aukowies would get his wife and boys first, not only because they were closest but ’cause of the grudge they held against him. They’d make ’em suffer. Probably take their time too, at least as much as an Aukowie could.