The Caretaker of Lorne Field

“Well, yeah, technically it is. This is town property and trespassing notices have been posted. But forget that for now.” He hesitated, his tongue wetting his lips. “Jack, we need to talk.”

“Go ahead and talk. It’s a free country. But I got weeding to do.”

Wolcott stood silently for several more minutes, then in a quiet voice said, “You don’t look well, Jack. It doesn’t even look to me like you’ve been eating. How much weight have you dropped, forty pounds? Let me take you to the hospital. We can talk after you see someone.”

“I’ve been eating fine. And I told you, I’m busy.”

“You’re no longer Caretaker, Jack.”

“It don’t matter. Somebody’s got to keep saving the world each day.”

Wolcott watched while Durkin pulled up another dozen Aukowies and then repeated that they needed to talk.

Durkin turned and looked at Wolcott through red-rimmed eyes. “You think I ain’t nothing but a crackpot, huh? How about I prove to you what these Aukowies really are.”

He pulled his work glove off his left hand and reached down into a clump of Aukowies. He had his eyes squeezed shut, waiting for them to tear his fingers off. He could feel them bristling against his skin, but nothing else. He opened his eyes and could see them weakening. They’d been waiting for this chance for years, and he knew the temptation was too much for them. He could feel the tension building in them as they struggled to keep from ripping him apart.

“Jack, what are you doing?”

“Just give me a minute,” he forced out, his voice sounding like his throat had been scraped with sandpaper. “They ain’t going to be able to hold out much longer. A little while longer and they’ll show you their true colors.”

“For Chrissakes, Jack, just stand up already!”

He felt the Aukowies rustling harder against his skin. He knew it was only a matter of seconds before they’d lose control, but before that could happen he was dragged to his feet. Wolcott had his arms around his chest and was lifting him up, and Durkin was too weak to fight it. He looked angrily in Wolcott’s eyes and saw nothing but sadness.

“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.

Chapter 11

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.