The Caretaker of Lorne Field

Durkin nodded. He looked from Wolcott to the other two men with him. Griestein’s face was a blank screen, his eyes shielded by mirrored sunglasses. Bob Smith, on the other hand, looked deeply worried. Durkin had finished his freshman year of high school before dropping out. During that year he played third base for his school’s varsity baseball team, while Bob Smith, a senior, played first. His coach thought Durkin had major league potential, and so did the scouts who came to watch him play. That was the reason he dropped out after one year; he didn’t want to hear about all the potential he had when his future was already set. But during that season him and Bob had been good friends.

“Okay, Jack,” Wolcott said, “you can leave the canvas sack where it is. Let’s go.”

The last thing Durkin wanted to do was give Wolcott any satisfaction, but he couldn’t stop himself from saying how an Aukowie chewed off Lester’s thumb and if his boy couldn’t remember what had happened it was because of his being in shock.

“Is that so?” Wolcott said. “One of these weeds bit it off, huh? It’s funny, to me they only look like weeds. Maybe godawful ugly ones, but still just weeds. How about you, Mark? These weeds look like they could bite off someone’s thumb?”

Griestein shook his head.

“How about you, Bob?” Wolcott asked. “You think they could do something like that?”

“Dan, let’s just do our job and get out of here.”

“One minute. I just want to see how hungry these man-eating weeds really are.” Wolcott walked over to a clump of two-inch Aukowies and lowered his hand towards them. Durkin closed his eyes. He didn’t want to watch what was going to happen. After several seconds of squeezing his eyes shut tight, he was surprised when he didn’t hear any screaming.

“Come on, Jack,” Wolcott said, “take a look for yourself and tell me why my fingers aren’t being bitten off.”

Jack Durkin opened his eyes. Wolcott’s fingers were right in the middle of the Aukowies. He could see their little faces as they smirked at him, and he understood.

They knew.

How?

Somehow they knew they could hurt him if they resisted their natural urges. That they could beat him this way. But he could see the strain building on them. He could see them weakening.

“Just keep your fingers where they are,” Durkin said.

Wolcott stood up, not bothering to hide the disgust on his face. “Come on, Jack, let’s get you to the station.”

Griestein nudged Durkin, and he followed behind Wolcott while the two police officers stayed on either side of him.

“You don’t know what you’re doing,” Durkin told Wolcott. “Without me weeding they’re going to be four to five inches by nighttime.”

“I’m doing my job, Jack. That’s all I’m doing.”

When they got onto the path leading back to the cabin, Durkin asked if they could stop by his house so he could tell Lydia what was happening.

“Sorry, Jack, I need to take you to the station. After you’re processed, you can make a phone call.”

Bob Smith glared at Wolcott, then over Wolcott’s protestations, handed Durkin his cell phone. “Go ahead, Jack,” he said, “give Lydia a call.”

Durkin stared at the phone as if he were being asked to perform an emergency appendectomy. Trying to keep his voice low so Wolcott couldn’t hear him, he admitted that he didn’t know how to use it. Even if he did, he doubted whether he’d even be able to push the buttons on it with his fingers being as thick and swollen as they were. Bob Smith asked for his home number and dialed it for him. When Lydia picked up, Durkin told her he was being arrested and for her to bring his contract to Hank Thompson and tell him what was happening. “I know you know where it’s hidden, so don’t try arguing otherwise. And I don’t want that other lawyer involved.”

Durkin handed the cell phone back to Bob Smith and thanked him for his help. Bob Smith looked like he badly wanted to ask him a question, but he restrained himself.

Even though Lydia had been expecting that very call from her husband all morning, it was still a shock after she got off the phone with him. She sat at the table and chain-smoked through half a pack of cigarettes before she felt like she could move. Then she brought the phone to the kitchen table and tried to make up her mind about what to do.

Her right hand, the one she had injured hitting the table, had swollen to twice its normal size and was a purplish-bluish color around the base of her palm. It hurt too much for her to hold the receiver in it, so she had to rest the receiver on the table while she dialed with her left hand and then picked it up also with her left hand. When she told the receptionist who she was, she was put on hold for five minutes before Paul Minter answered. His voice sounded odd as he told her it was over.

“What?”

“It’s over, Mrs. Durkin.”

“What do you mean it’s over?”

He sighed. “Just what I said. The town council doesn’t want anything to do with this anymore. I spoke with all of them and it’s over.”