The Caretaker of Lorne Field

As he lay in bed thinking about his dream, he realized it was the first time in years that he had thought about his pa. It had been almost thirty years since the old man died. After he had retired as Caretaker, he moved to Florida and only five years later dropped dead from a stroke. The funeral took place in August, and because it was held where his pa had retired in Bradenton, Florida, Durkin couldn’t attend. It always bothered him that they couldn’t have held the funeral back home, but he understood why. After so many years of weeding Aukowies, his pa wanted to spend eternity as far away from Lorne Field as he could.

Jack Durkin peered at the clock until his eyes focused. It was only two thirty-seven in the morning. He closed his eyes again, hoping he’d be able to get some more sleep. It was the first dream he could remember having since he was maybe five or six years old, and he hoped it would be his last.

The next four days Jack Durkin didn’t know what else to do but to keep going back to the Rusty Nail for dinner. He had no other food left at home, he had no money and he didn’t even know what bank Lydia kept their money at-and even if he did, assuming there was still even any money in their account, he wouldn’t be able to get there during business hours. Each time he went back to the Rusty Nail, Charlie’s attitude seemed cooler. That fourth day Charlie asked him about Sheriff Wolcott sticking his hand into a clump of Aukowies.

“I heard he did that,” Charlie said, his voice strained. “How come they didn’t bite his fingers off like they did Lester’s thumb?”

“’Cause they didn’t.”

“That’s not a good enough answer, Jack.”

Durkin peered at Charlie and saw the hostility brewing over his old friend’s face. The muscles bunched up along the bartender’s neck and shoulders, the same as if he were about to throw a drunken troublemaker out of his bar.

“Because they knew they could cause me more trouble by not doing anything,” Durkin said.

“You’re kidding. That’s your explanation for it?”

“It’s the truth, Charlie. I could see it in their faces. Somehow they knew.”

Violence passed over Charlie’s face like a storm cloud. He stood clenching and unclenching his fists, but the violence mostly petered out.

“According to Sheriff Wolcott they’re nothing but weeds,” he said, his voice tight. “Unless you’ve got cash to pay for your food and drink, you better leave.”

Durkin left. When he got home he sat listening to his stomach rumble and tried to figure out what to do. He couldn’t think of anything else, so he called Hank Thompson.

“Jack, how are you holding up?” the attorney asked on hearing Durkin’s voice.

“Not so good.” Durkin hesitated, feeling sick to his stomach having to beg this way. “I don’t know if you heard, but Lydia left me.”

“No, Jack, I didn’t hear. I’m sorry.”

“I don’t know what to do, Hank. She took the car. I have no money and no food in the house. I don’t even know what bank she uses. If I can just make it another seven weeks or so until first frost, I can straighten everything out then-”

“Jack, not another word. How about I drive over and pick you up. There’s an all-night supermarket out on Route 30.”

“I hate putting you out like this, Hank.”

“It’s no bother, Jack. Just hold tight and I’ll be over soon.”

Twenty-five minutes later Hank Thompson pulled his Cadillac into the dirt driveway. When Durkin got in the car, Hank offered him a handshake, then pulled the car onto the road leading away from the cabin.

“Must be quiet in there with Lydia and the boys gone,” Hank said.

“I’m used to quiet.”

“Still a shame for this to have to happen. Jack, I’ll be deposing Lester next week. I’m hoping to shake the truth out of him so we can get him and Bert back home. Maybe if that happens Lydia will follow.”

Durkin didn’t say anything.

Hank cleared his throat and mentioned that the sheriff was spreading it around town that the only thing growing in Lorne Field were weeds. “He claims he stuck his hand in a bunch of them and nothing happened?”

Durkin felt a tightening in the pit of his stomach. He nodded miserably.

“Any idea why they left his fingers alone?”

“I don’t know. I wish they had bit them off.”

Hank laughed uneasily at that. “So do I,” he said. “At least his pinky finger. Not that I wish too much ill will on our good sheriff, but it would make things easier for us. I’ve got a confession to make, Jack, and I hope it doesn’t make you mad. When I was twelve I snuck down to Lorne Woods and watched your grandpa weeding them.”

“You saw what they were then.”

Hank nodded. “They weren’t weeds. I can’t say why, exactly. It’s nothing concrete I can put my finger on, but I knew watching them that they were something other than weeds. And when your grandpa pulled them out of the ground, I swear I could hear something. Kind of like this shrill noise, almost what you’d expect from a dog whistle, but I’m positive I heard it.”

“Their death cry,” Durkin said.