The Caretaker of Lorne Field

by Dave Zeltserman

  “Don’t yell at me, Daniel.”

  He nodded, contrite. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Durkin. But you have to admit someone wanting to have teenagers executed for throwing tomatoes at him is pretty insane.” He waited for her to say something. When she didn’t, he wet his lips and edged closer to her. He asked, “I was wondering if that contract has anything in it about cutting off someone’s thumb. You know, as a punishment?”

  Lydia shook her head. “I’ve read it. There’s nothing like that in it. And my fool husband only does what’s spelled out in his contract.”

  “I’d like to read it also.”

  “You come over to the house when he’s not home and I’ll get it for you. You just can’t let him know I did it.”

  He licked his lips again and asked, “So you don’t think Jack’s acting any crazier these days than usual?”

  “Nope. No more than usual.”

  “Then what do you think happened?”

  “I have no idea. Probably it’s just an accident like Jack said. He was probably showing Lester how to pull out one of those weeds, and maybe what he was using slipped. Maybe he uses a knife. I don’t know. You’ll have to ask him.”

  “I will when I talk to Jack later. Did he bring Lester back to your house after the incident?”

  She nodded.

  “Why didn’t he come with you to the hospital?”

  A dark film fell over her eyes. “He had his weeding to do.”

  “So he went back to Lorne Field afterwards?”

  “That’s right. After he brought Lester home he headed back there.” She paused as she considered this, and as she did, her features weakened, becoming more like bone china than stone. “That would’ve been a violation of his contract. He’s not supposed to leave that field until his weeding’s done. It must’ve been difficult for him to do that.” A tear leaked from her eye. She wiped it away with a hand. “When do you plan on talking to him?”

  “As soon as possible.”

  “Daniel, can you wait until he leaves that field?”

  “I don’t know if I can do that—”

  “It would be hard on him to have someone come by that field like that. Please, Daniel, wait until he finishes his weeding.”

  He started to tell her that that wouldn’t be possible, that there was possible evidence at the field which he needed to examine, but instead he looked away from her and stared out the window. “I’ll try, but I can’t promise anything.” A red-tailed hawk flew into view, and he watched as it circled lazily in the sky and then darted out of sight. He imagined that it spotted a rabbit or squirrel. He turned back to her. “What bothers me the most about all this is wondering what happened to Lester’s thumb. If it was cut off in an accident, then where is it?”

  Lydia shrugged and said she didn’t know.

  “This just doesn’t make sense. If it was simply an accident, why didn’t Jack bring Lester’s thumb with him so it could be reattached…?”

  “He said it was lost,” Lydia said.

  “What?”

  “Jack said the thumb was lost,” she repeated weakly.

  “That doesn’t make any sense.”

  “That’s what he said.”

  Wolcott frowned, his lips straightening out into a hard line. He pushed himself out of his chair and told her he’d have Lester’s doctor talk to her. He stopped at the door, took a deep breath, and informed her that Child Services was investigating the accident. “Until their investigation’s complete Lester’s going to have to be placed in a foster home. Bert, too. I’m sorry, Mrs. Durkin, but those are the rules.”

  “That’s not right.”

  “There’s nothing I can do about it,” he said.

  “It’s still not right.”

  “Mrs. Durkin, what we have right now is a seventeen-year-old boy alone with his father having his thumb cut off and no reasonable explanation as to how it happened.”

  Lydia’s took a tissue from her pocketbook. Her hand shook as she dabbed her eyes with it. “That woman who talked to me, the one wearing a turtleneck sweater in ninety degree weather, she’s not with the hospital, is she?”

  “Do you remember her name?”

  Lydia found the woman’s card. “Suzanne Phillips,” she said. The card had a lot of acronyms and abbreviations on it and she had no idea what any of them stood for.

  “Ms. Phillips is with Child Services,” Wolcott said.

  “How can you have a woman like that—someone without the sense to wear proper clothes during the summer—be allowed to make decisions like that about my family?”

  “I don’t know, Mrs. Durkin.”

  “It’s not right.”

  Wolcott looked away from her and didn’t answer.

  “When’s Bert and Lester going to be allowed to come home?”

  Wolcott sighed and squeezed his eyes with his thumb and index finger. “I’ll talk to Jack and Lester and see what they both have to say. If I can clear this up quickly enough, maybe tomorrow.”

  Lydia sniffed and gave Wolcott a hard look. “Well, make sure that you do that.”

  He hesitated for a moment with his hand on the door-knob, then walked back to her so he could give her a hand and escort her to the doctor who had performed Lester’s surgery.

  Time floated by Jack Durkin. One moment he’d be aware of weeding in one part of the field, next he’d be realizing that he was pulling out Aukowies fifty feet away from that spot. Somehow, even with his mind turning on and off like that, he survived it without any further injuries. He guessed he had gotten to the point where he could weed Aukowies in his sleep, which was a good thing since he was for the most part sleepwalking that afternoon. He was surprised when he was done with his last pass of the field and saw it was only six-thirty. Even with everything that had happened he had finished early.

  Even with all the distractions . . .

  Even with having to half-carry Lester the three miles back to their home . . .

  He heaved the canvas sack over his shoulder and carried it to the stone pit. After dumping the Aukowie remains with all the others, he tossed a match onto the pile and watched it burst into flames. Once again they shot close to twenty feet upward, a bluish-reddish flame lighting the sky. It was an unnatural color for a fire, something that burning weeds shouldn’t cause. It hit him then that he had planned to videotape the flames. Up until that moment he had forgotten about Charlie Harper’s video camcorder. After Lester lost his thumb he put the camcorder in the shed for safekeeping. He turned to retrieve it, but stopped after a couple of steps knowing the flames would be out by the time he got it. He turned back to the fire and watched it burn. It didn’t matter. Lester had videotaped enough of that foot-high Aukowie in action before he dropped the camcorder . . .

  The scene played back again in his mind, just as it had all afternoon. He had warned Lester what to expect, but the boy still thought it was all one big joke. When the foot-high Aukowie quit playing possum and whipped out at him, he was ready for it but his boy wasn’t. He sidestepped the attack, then tried to pin the thing back with the spade. Lester, who was standing a good ten feet away to his left, nearly dropped the camcorder then. Durkin glanced over his shoulder and saw the boy fumbling with it, his skin paling to a sick white. He yelled at him to just be careful and keep videotaping. He knew a one-foot high Aukowie didn’t have anywhere near the strength of a fully matured one, but they could still surprise you. If he had been able to leverage his full body weight and strength properly he would’ve been able to pin that Aukowie to the ground, but he was reaching too much and didn’t have his full weight behind him and the Aukowie was able to whip the spade out of his hands. It flew past Lester and almost hit him. Lester stumbled then. He dropped the camcorder also.

  Durkin realized too late that Lester had reached down for the camcorder. It didn’t click fast enough in his mind that it had fallen among two-inch high Aukowies. Before he could say anything he saw his son’s thumb disappear. It was as if it had been chewed up by a
buzz saw. He remembered the pink spray that came from it. He remembered Lester staring down at his hand, confused, trying to make sense out of what had happened. And then the screaming. Jesus, there was a lot of screaming. Even now in the dead stillness of the early evening he could hear traces of it.

  He slapped Lester hard across the face then, trying to bring him out of his shock. Lester stopped screaming. He still whimpered and cried, but he stopped his screaming. Durkin needed to tie something around his son’s hand. His own shirt was too dirty and damp with perspiration. He was afraid it would infect his son’s wound, so he had Lester take his shirt off and he wrapped it tightly around Lester’s damaged hand. After the shirt was tied as tightly as he could make it, Durkin picked up the camcorder and led Lester off the field. He had to keep telling his son to keep his hand held up. He didn’t have to look down to know the rustling sounds were being made by baby Aukowies that had gotten a taste of human blood. Durkin left the camcorder in the shed and then brought Lester back home.

  The flames died down. All that was left was a foul stench and a mound of smoldering ashes. He thought about Lester and wondered how his boy was doing. He wouldn’t die from losing his thumb like that, not unless he bled to death or picked up a nasty infection. And Durkin couldn’t help wishing that one of those two things would happen. He also couldn’t help regretting not tying his own shirt around Lester’s hand. While he felt ashamed for those thoughts, he no longer had any doubts about Lester. The boy was not cut out to be Caretaker. It was as simple as that. He couldn’t risk the fate of the world in Lester’s hands. Bert was going to have to be Caretaker. Durkin found himself alternately wishing Lester was okay and hoping his son would die.

  He used a shovel that he had brought from the shed to bury the Aukowie ashes and mix in lime. When he was done he stored the shovel and canvas sack back in the shed and took the camcorder. He stood for a moment looking upwards at the barren sky overhead. Even in the early evening with the Aukowies weeded out, birds still avoided the area. All his years coming here he never once saw a bird fly over Lorne Field. Never saw any squirrels or chipmunks in the woods nearby either. He wondered whether it was like this in the winter when the Aukowies were deep underground and hibernating. He wondered if birds dared fly past the field then. He decided one day he’d have to come out and see for himself.

  He started down the dirt path leading to the Caretaker’s cabin. Thoughts about Lester bombarded him. He could see clearly the look on Lester’s face as his son realized what had happened to his thumb, then how helpless Lester was when he had to be mostly carried those last two miles home. He tried to shake those images from his mind and instead focus on what he had to do. Bert needed to become the next Caretaker. Which meant that he was going to have to continue being Caretaker for another eight years. As hard as that sounded, he was going to have to accept that. It also meant he was going to have to take the necessary steps to make Bert his eldest son. Unless Lester died from losing too much blood. Or picked up a deadly infection . . .

  All of Durkin’s strength bled out of him as those thoughts crept into his mind. He grabbed onto a tree for support, his legs wobbly beneath him. He decided then that he would have to ignore the contract and transfer the Caretaker position to his second son. What was wrong with that? After losing his thumb, Lester was probably no longer even capable of doing the job. It was just common sense. Durkin felt better, less shaky, at least for the moment. Then all his recent transgressions came crashing down on him. First letting an Aukowie grow to one foot in height, then leaving the field before finishing his weeding for the day, and now this. Up until two days ago he had lived his life exactly to the letter of the contract, never wavering, never making any exceptions. As far as he knew, all Durkins before him had done the same. And now this.

  The first Durkin to turn his back on the contract . . .

  He was so damn cold. His tongue had turned fuzzy, like he had swallowed a wool sock.

  The same one that his pa and grandpa and every Durkin before them held sacred. And now one intentional violation after the next . . .

  His head reeled with that thought. The ground started to slip sideways on him. Then the sky went black and the earth rushed up to meet him, smacking him in the face. He didn’t even feel it. He couldn’t feel anything except being so damn cold. He tried to lift his head up through the blackness but couldn’t.

  Dear God, he thought, I’m going to die right now and nobody’s going to be left to save the world. I do believe in you. Please, I want so much to believe in you.

  He didn’t die, though. He realized he had only fainted. After a minute or so the blackness started to fade. Slowly, he rolled onto his back. He lifted his hand in front of his eyes and could see its outline through a dim haze. He dropped his hand to his forehead, resting it there. His skin felt so damn clammy and wet. He shivered, realizing his shirt was drenched in cold sweat. After several more minutes he was able to push himself to a sitting position. He had dropped the camcorder when he fell and was now reaching out with his arms trying to locate it. He felt it, then gathered it up and pushed himself to his feet. He made a decision then. He was-n’t going to violate the contract again. No more exceptions.

  He steadied himself, waiting until he had some strength in his legs, then set off down the path again. He was surprised when he turned the next bend to see Sheriff Wolcott leaning against a tree.

  “Jack,” Wolcott said, nodding.

  “What are you doing here?” Durkin asked, his voice coming out as a low croak. “You’re not supposed to be out at Lorne Field. It’s against the contract.”

  “I don’t believe I’m at Lorne Field.” Wolcott slapped his neck and studied the palm of his hand before wiping it against his pants leg. “I’ve been standing here waiting for you and getting bit up by mosquitoes. Damn things are the size of hummingbirds here. I don’t know how the hell you stand it.”

  “What do you want?”

  “Jesus, Jack, you know what I want. Your son had his thumb cut off. You need to tell me about it.” Wolcott’s eyes narrowed. “Jack, is something wrong? You look sick.”

  “Never mind how I’m feeling. You ain’t my doctor.”

  Wolcott chuckled softly. “No, I’m not. But you don’t look well at all. What happened out there today, Jack?”

  “Didn’t you talk to Lester yet?”

  “Not yet. He’s doped up on painkillers and his doctor asked me to wait ’til tomorrow.”

  Durkin felt lightheaded and almost lost his balance. He could see that Wolcott noticed it.

  “So Lester’s okay?” he asked.

  “As okay as a seventeen-year-old boy can be after having his thumb chopped off.”

  “It wasn’t chopped off.”

  Wolcott raised an eyebrow and waited for Durkin to explain further.

  “Lydia knows what happened. She didn’t tell you?”

  “All she said was that there had been an accident.”

  “That’s all she told you?”

  “Jack, what happened?”

  Durkin met Wolcott’s eyes and told him that an Aukowie had gotten Lester’s thumb.

  “Come on, Jack—”

  “I’m tellin’ you what happened.”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “That’s what happened.”

  “Damn it, Jack, I’m trying to give you every benefit of the doubt here.” Grimacing suddenly, the sheriff slapped hard at his forearm, then his right ear. He looked back at Durkin and shook his head at him as if he were talking to a five-year-old child. “I need you to explain it to me, Jack.”

  “Don’t you patronize me. Not after what I do for you and your family everyday.”

  “Yeah, I know, you save the world for us. Thanks, Jack, we appreciate it. But you have to tell me exactly how Lester lost his thumb. And telling me that an Aukowie got it isn’t good enough.”

  “It ain’t, huh? I wish I could take you down to that field so you could see for yourself.”


  “Is that a threat, Jack?”

  “Nope, just something I wish I could do.”

  Wolcott straightened up, flinched and slapped the back of his neck. He searched the palm of his hand to see if he’d been quick enough. “Well, why don’t we do that, Jack?” he offered.

  “I can’t. That would be violating my contract.”

  “You violated it earlier today, didn’t you, Jack? When you brought Lester in from the field?”

  Durkin’s face reddened. “Yes, I did,” he admitted.

  “Of course you did,” Wolcott said. “You had to. What else were you going to do? Leave your son out there to bleed to death?”

  Durkin stared stone-faced at Wolcott. Wolcott waited for a response but didn’t get any. He slapped at another mosquito, then sighed as he glanced at his watch.

  “Look, Jack, it’s getting late. I have a family to get home to. Why don’t we take a walk back to the field and you can explain to me what happened.”

  Durkin didn’t say anything, just continued to stare hard at the sheriff. Wolcott smiled pleasantly. “Come on, Jack,” he said, “you violated your contract once today, what’s one more time?”

  “I ain’t doing it. Not never again.”

  Wolcott started to sigh, then hopped to one side, ducking his head and brushing furiously at his ear. “Goddamn these mosquitoes!’ he swore. He glared angrily at Durkin, his temper slipping away. “I want to hear right now what happened to Lester’s thumb,” he demanded, all signs of folksy pleasantness gone from his manner.

  “Not much to tell. Lester dropped this camcorder. When he reached down to pick it up one of the Aukowies chewed his thumb off. It all happened too fast for me to do anything about it.”

  “You’re telling me a weed bit off his thumb?”

  “They ain’t weeds.”

  Wolcott put a hand to his eyes and rubbed them with his thumb and index finger. He did for a while. When he took his hand away his eyes were rimmed with red. “Jack,” he said, “you realize how nuts this sounds?”

  “That’s what happened. Ask Lester if you don’t believe me.”