The Caretaker of Lorne Field (10 page)

“Okay, let me show you how to zoom.”

Charlie showed Jack Durkin how to use the controls to bring the lens in and out. He had trouble manipulating the buttons with his thick callused fingers, but after a while he figured out how to position his nail just right so he could do it. He turned to Lester and asked whether he got all that.

“Hand me the camera and I’ll show you.”

Durkin handed the camcorder to his son, who then flicked a piece of carrot from his plate at his brother and recorded Bert’s reaction as the younger boy brushed the carrot piece frantically from his hair. Lester played the video back on the view screen, all the while smirking to himself.

“Very funny,” Durkin said.

“You wanted to know whether I knew how to use it.”

Charlie took the camcorder from Lester and got Durkin’s attention. “Let me rewind the tape. I recharged the batteries last night so you should be all set to go tomorrow.” Charlie turned the camcorder off and handed it to Durkin. “You’re going to let me see the video you take?”

Jack Durkin nodded. “You and the whole town.”

After Charlie Harper left, Jack Durkin took a couple of bottles of imported beer to the living room so he could drink them while he soaked his feet. Lydia stayed in the kitchen washing dishes and cleaning up. Both boys went upstairs. When they were alone in their room, Lester reared back with a clenched fist and struck Bert square in the shoulder.

“Oww!” Bert cried. He shied away and rubbed his shoulder, tears flooding his eyes. “Why’d you do that?”

“For being such a kiss-ass.
Oh, daddy, please let me do it instead of Lester.
” He clenched his fist tigher, muttered “asshole” under his breath.

“You better not hit me again.”

“Oh, no?” Lester raised his fist to deliver another blow but Bert stood his ground. “You better not,” Bert said, his voice changing to something threatening enough to stop Lester from following through with his punch. “I lied to Dad downstairs. I know you were one of the boys who threw tomatoes at him. You, Tony Morelli, Sam Parsons and Carl Ashworth.”

“Bullshit.” Lester’s color paled. He edged closer to his brother, his mouth pushed into a tiny circle and a sour breath came out of him. “Whoever told you that is full of shit.”

“Nope.” Bert shook his head. “I know it for a fact. Why’d you want to throw tomatoes at Dad?”

Lester’s eyes shifted away from Bert. He shook his head. He couldn’t articulate to his brother the frustration and humiliation that drove him to do what he did.

“You don’t want to tell me, don’t,” Bert said. “But you better be nice to me ’cause I know what will happen if Dad finds out what you did. I know because I snuck down to the basement this afternoon and read his contract. Want to know what will happen to you?”

Bert made a fist with his left hand and yanked it up while his head drooped towards his right shoulder, all the while his eyes bulging in a lifeless stare and his tongue pushing out of his mouth. He held that pose for a few seconds, then broke out laughing.

A red blush replaced the dead whiteness in Lester’s cheeks. “You’re making that up,” he said.

“Nope. According to Dad’s contract you’re supposed to be publicly hanged for what you did.”

Lester stood silently for a long ten-count. He edged several inches closer to his brother. “You’re lying. I don’t believe you know where his contract’s hidden.”

Bert shrugged and showed his boyish grin. “Don’t believe me,” he said. “But you better start being nice to me. Else I’m telling Dad.”

“You do and you’re dead.”

“No, not me,” Bert said with the utmost sincerity. “But you will be. Hung by the neck.” He again acted out being hung, then punched Lester as hard as he could in the shoulder.

Jack Durkin wiped his brow, squinting towards Lorne Woods. Lester should’ve been at the field an hour ago. Durkin had already finished one pass of his weeding and was a third of the way into his second pass.
How long does it frickin’ take to pick up a pair of work boots and gloves and ride your bike three miles? Can’t the boy be counted on for nothin’?

As he peered towards the woods and searched for any sign of his son, Durkin felt a sharp pain slice through his groin—almost as if someone had stuck a hand inside him and grabbed his guts and squeezed. The pain immobilized him. Sweat poured from his face, and he knew it was far more from nervousness than the heat and humidity—and he had a damn good reason for being nervous. In a corner of the field he had let an Aukowie grow to almost a foot in height. It was a violation of the Caretaker’s contract to purposely let that happen, but he couldn’t help it—he needed one that big so he could prove that these things weren’t weeds.

The pain cutting through his groin subsided and his stomach muscles unclenched to the point where he could breathe normally again. He looked over his shoulder and stared at the foot-high Aukowie and knew it was staring right back. At that size he could make out its face clearly. Others might confuse it for leaves and branches and thorns, but to him there was no mistaking its narrow slanted eyes and evilly grinning mouth. Those so-called thorns were sharp enough to cut a man’s hand off, and they’d get a lot sharper before the thing was done growing.

Durkin looked away from the foot-high Aukowie and went back to his weeding, moving slowly as he bent over and pulled out small two-inch baby Aukowies. After he had pulled out a couple a dozen of them, he sneaked a peek at the larger Aukowie. He knew it was studying him. He knew it hated him for what he was doing to its brethren. Not that hate much mattered to Aukowies. Fully matured they were killing machines that would lay waste to every human, animal, bird, fish and growth of vegetation on the planet. When they were done there would be nothing but dust and rubble left behind. With their evil grinning faces he couldn’t help thinking of them as devil spawn, hatched from hell to bring about their apocalyptic ending. But of course, he knew that was nonsense. For him to believe there was truly a hell he’d also have to believe there was a heaven, and even more difficult to accept, that there was a God. How could any God put the fate of the world on one man’s shoulders? How in the world could he believe in a God that would curse a family with that kind of burden? No, as much as they looked the part, he knew the Aukowies weren’t born in hell. Most likely they came from another planet, maybe an asteroid that crashed hundreds of years ago, or maybe they were simply the result of the evolutionary process run amok. But heaven and hell had nothing to do with these Aukowies. They were something random, and there was no divine intervention protecting man from them. That fate fell on the Durkins and their solid but all too human shoulders. And the load seemed to be getting heavier every day.

He forced himself to keep weeding, but every so often he had to look over at the foot-high Aukowie. He knew every minute it was growing just that much larger and knowing that made him feel funny inside. Made his legs sort of rubbery too. But there was nothing he could do about it. He needed to videotape that foot-high Aukowie in action, and in order for him to do that, he needed Lester’s help. Still, every time he looked at it he had to fight back the urge to dig it up while he knew he still could.

He got careless with his weeding, too distracted by the ever-growing foot-high Aukowie to concentrate properly on what he was doing, and ended up slashed right above his glove. He wrapped a handkerchief around the wound and cursed Lester bitterly. Cursed him first for not being there on time, cursed him for his laziness, and finally for not being stillborn like his sisters before him—because if he were, then Bert would be the eldest son and would be in line to be the next Caretaker. If Bert were going to be Caretaker, he wouldn’t have to worry about the human race coming to an end after Lester’s twenty-first birthday.

Durkin finished tying the handkerchief around his wound. A thin red line expanded slowly across it. He couldn’t afford to let any blood drip near the Aukowies—human blood drove them wild. He took his glove off and shoved it in one pocket and stuck his hand deep in the other pocket, then continued his weeding one-handed.

About the time he was halfway done weeding the field he spotted Lester trudging out of Lorne Woods. The boy moved in a slow, disinterested gait, every few feet kicking at the ground. Jack Durkin could see he didn’t have his work boots or his gloves with him.

“What are you doing?” he yelled.

Lester looked up, shrugged.

“How come you don’t have your boots or gloves with you? Don’t tell me you dropped them off at home?”

“I dunno. I guess I forgot about them.”

“You’re telling me you didn’t go to the Army Surplus store this morning?”

Lester shrugged again.

“For Chrissakes, I ask you to do one thing—” Durkin’s eyes grew wide as he watched Lester reach down towards an Aukowie seedling growing on the edge of the field. “Damn it, Lester, get your hand away from that!” he ordered.

Lester slowly pulled his hand back, a hurt look showing on his mouth. “I just wanted to see what the big deal is about these weeds,” he said.

“You want to lose a finger? That’s what’s going to happen if you try touching one of them without a glove.”

“I’m not going to lose a finger,” Lester insisted, his face a mask of hurt.

“You sure as hell will if you put your hand down there without knowing what you’re doing. Just stay right where you are. I’ll come get you.”

Durkin heaved the canvas sack over his shoulder and started towards his son. When he got within a few feet of the boy he slung the sack to him. The weight of the sack almost knocked Lester over. “You carry that,” Durkin told him. “We’ll dump this first and then get started with what we need to do.”

“This is heavy,” Lester complained.

“You’ll get used to it. Put it over your shoulder. It will be too hard carrying it two-handed like that.”

Lester struggled to get the sack over his shoulder, his knees buckling. “We’re taking it over to that stone pit over there,” Durkin said, pointing out with a thick knobby finger where his son had to bring the sack. As he led the way, he looked back once and couldn’t help grimacing watching Lester’s thin bird-like legs shake as he struggled to carry the sack of dead Aukowies. He regretted thinking the things he did earlier. The boy may not be much but at least he was out there trying. As thin and slight as he was, he was going to have a hard road ahead of him as Caretaker. The Durkins historically were of a stockier build. Lester, unfortunately, had to take after Lydia’s side of the family and end up as thin as a stick. The boy was already over six feet tall and didn’t weigh more than a hundred and thirty pounds. When they reached the stone pit, he helped Lester dump the sack out.

“It smells bad,” Lester said, wrinkling his nose.

Jack Durkin nodded. “Yep. Those dead Aukowies been baking in the sun for a few hours now, getting nice and ripe. Wait till you catch a whiff of them when I set that pile on fire later. The smell alone will prove that these ain’t no weeds.”

“They look like weeds,” Lester said stubbornly, his eyes squinting and peering off at the field.

“You’ll think differently soon. Now grab that empty sack and follow me.”

Jack Durkin led the way back to the shed near the entrance of the field. “Your great great grandpa built this almost a hundred years ago,” he proudly told his son. “Solid pine. Probably be around another hundred years.”

Lester shrugged, didn’t seem too impressed. “How come one of the weeds is bigger than the others?” he asked.

“’Cause I needed to let one get that size.” Durkin stopped to wipe some sweat from his brow. He frowned deeply at the foot-tall Aukowie. “Son, you’re going to have to be extra careful around that one. When they get that big they can whip out at you like a rattlesnake, and trust me, they’re far more deadly than any snake.”

“Sure they are,” Lester muttered under his breath.