The Caretaker of Lorne Field

Her head was spinning as she tried to get a handle on what he was telling her. Not that it surprised her. Not that it wasn’t exactly what she was expecting. Ever since the lawyer told her they could make millions she knew Jack would ruin it for them.

“This doesn’t make any sense,” she said, although she knew it made perfect sense, but she still couldn’t help herself asking why it was happening.

He sighed again. “Because your son, Lester, is telling the authorities that your husband grabbed him, wrestled him to the ground and cut off his thumb. I understand that the police are going to be arresting him soon. It’s probably better if you hire another lawyer to represent him.”

He hung up then.

She sat clutching the phone for another few minutes before heading upstairs to the bedroom to pack her clothes away in a small tattered cloth suitcase that she had last used nineteen years earlier when Jack took her on a trip to Miami. When she was done she called her friend, Helen Vernon. After that, she smoked a couple of more cigarettes, carried her suitcase out to Jack’s Chevy Nova and, with some effort, swung it into the trunk. She stood frozen for a long moment. When she looked back at the house, she daydreamed about lighting a match to it. In her mind’s eye she could see it going up in flames. But she didn’t light any matches. Instead, she got in the car and drove away.

Hank Thompson showed up at the police station while Jack Durkin was being fingerprinted. He was a tall, lean man in his early seventies with a thick bushy head of hair the color of cigar ash and an imposing air of authority about him. He waited until Durkin wiped the ink from his fingers, then offered his hand.

“I’m so sorry about your son’s accident,” he said with the utmost sincerity.

Durkin started to open his mouth to correct him, but closed it and nodded instead. “Lydia call you?” he asked. “I’m surprised she ain’t here yet.”

Hank Thompson’s thick cigar-ash-colored eyebrows came together as he frowned and shook his head. “No, I haven’t heard from your lovely wife yet. Officer Bob Smith called me to let me know what happened, but I also heard through the grapevine.”

“Hank, I need to get back to that field.”

Hank Thompson was still holding Durkin’s hand, and he placed his free hand on top of Durkin’s and gave it a warm pat. An understanding and comforting smile formed over his lips. “I know you do, Jack,” he said. “And I’m going to get you back there as soon as I possibly can.” The attorney turned to Officer Mark Griestein who was processing Durkin and told him in a pleasant but firm voice that he’d like to have a few minutes alone with his client. Griestein scratched behind his ear, nodded, and led the way to a storage chamber that doubled as a conference room, although up to that point it had never been used that way.

“I’ll be out here,” he told them. “Take your time.”

As soon as the door closed Hank turned to Jack and, with his voice trembling with indignation, said, “This is outrageous what they’re doing to you.”

“They violated my contract. They marched right onto Lorne Field and violated my contract.”

“It’s not right, Jack, not after everything you and your family has done for this town. I knew your dad well. He was a good man. This is just not right. But-” and he waved a long thin finger for emphasis, “it’s going to be taken care of. I’ve already spoken to Judge Harris and he’s heading to the courthouse as we speak. When he gets there, he’s going to open a special session for your arraignment hearing. Those bastards were planning to keep you locked up in jail overnight so they could make a big show of the hearing tomorrow morning.”

“I thought Judge Harris retired?”

Hank showed a sly, secretive smile. “Not entirely. He put off the paperwork so he could be called in as a consultant if needed. And Jack, that is very good news for us.”

Hank’s cell phone rang. He frowned as he held it at arm’s length so he could read the caller ID information, then he spoke quickly in it before hanging up.

“Good news. Judge Harris is at the courthouse now,” he told Durkin. “We’ll get you over there in about fifteen minutes and then back to your field.”

“I hope so,” Durkin muttered in a low guttural voice. “Two-inch Aukowies are hard enough to weed. Once they get to four to five inches

…”

“I understand, Jack. You don’t have to say any more.” Hank cleared his throat, his smile weakening a bit. “How are you going to explain to Judge Harris about what happened?”

“I’ll tell him the truth.”

“That it was an accident, right, Jack?” Hank placed a hand on Jack Durkin’s shoulder and stooped down several inches so he could meet Durkin’s eyes. “That’s what you’re going to tell him, right?”

Durkin nodded slowly as if he had had weights attached to the back of his head.

“That is the truth, isn’t it, Jack? That it was an accident?”

“Yep. You could call it an accident.”

“Good.” Hank nodded slowly as he assessed Durkin. “Any idea what your son has told the police?”