The Caretaker of Lorne Field

“A few days.” Durkin appraised his older son carefully. “Need to make sure you’re prepared first. I got to get you a pair of good quality work boots and gloves. This ain’t no fooling around. These are dangerous critters.”

“I want to go too,” Bert said, pouting.

Durkin sighed. “You’re just going to have to be satisfied with your brother telling you about it. I got to call the town sheriff now, tell him about those delinquents violating the contract. It’s serious business, and their punishment’s spelled out clearly in the contract-”

“What’s their punishment?” Lester asked, his voice a nervous squeak as he interrupted his dad.

“Nevermind that. But you boys ask around. You hear anything, you let me know.” Durkin hesitated, his leathery features softening. “I thought it important to talk to you boys about what I do. It’s important business, ain’t no joke. You hear your mom talking foolishness or other kids in the town making jokes about it, just remember, they don’t know any better. You boys want to go back to your TV now, go ahead. Bert, get me the phone.”

Lester moved slowly off the sofa and took his time making his way up the stairs. He stopped when he got to the top. Half crouching in the shadows of the upstairs hallway, he strained to listen to his dad’s phone conversation with the sheriff.

Sheriff Dan Wolcott tried to remain patient while he sat in the front seat of his Jeep and listened to Jack Durkin, his face wearing the same patient smile as if he were listening to the ranting of an elderly person suffering from dementia. After a while, though, some color tinged his angular face and before too long his large ears were burning red.

“Jack,” he said, “we’re not going to publicly hang some boys for throwing tomatoes at you.”

“They violated the contract,” Durkin argued stubbornly, his own face redder than the sheriff’s. He held the contract up in front of him and pointed a thick finger at it. “It says right here anyone interfering with the Caretaker’s sacred duties needs to be hung publicly for all the town to see.” Durkin found the clause and read it to the sheriff for the sixth time, his voice shaking with anger.

“Jack, let’s be reasonable. If you really want to make a big deal over some kids throwing tomatoes, then fine, I’ll ask around, and if I can find the kids, I’ll talk to their parents. Maybe see if we can arrange for them to do some of your weeding as punishment. How’s that sound?”

Durkin was too furious to talk. All the color he had bled out of his face leaving it sickly white. Sheriff Wolcott watched him for a while, then shrugged. “I’m sorry some teenage boys did that to you, Jack, I truly am, but that’s what teenage boys do.” Wolcott paused to shake his head, his thin patronizing smile shifting back into place. “Look, why don’t you go back inside your house, clean yourself off, maybe take a nice hot bath and try to relax. I’ll talk to some of the teenagers around town, put a little fear in them and make sure this doesn’t happen again. How’s that sound?”

“You can’t just turn your back on the contract,” Durkin forced out, his voice harsh, barely above a whisper. “This is a sacred document. You have an obligation.”

“Look, Jack, that piece of paper is a relic, a fairy tale, nothing more. Some towns have apple festivals, some have pumpkin contests, we have a quaint tradition of having a family weed a field sitting out in the middle of nowhere. Just be thankful you’re being given a nice house for your family and some spending money for what you do, okay, Jack?”

“Sheriff Ed Harrison believed in what I did!”

“Yeah, well, last I heard Ed’s sitting in a senior care home right now having his diapers changed a dozen times a day without a clue what planet he’s on, so excuse me if I don’t put much stock in what he has to think. Sorry if I’m a bit blunt, Jack, but if you’re going to start talking nonsense about hanging kids in the town square, then this is what you should expect.”

“Those ain’t weeds I’m pulling out of that field everyday.”

“Yeah?”

Flustered, Durkin took the baseball cap from his back pocket and handed it to Wolcott. “One of the Aukowies did that,” he said. “After the cap was knocked off my head.”

Wolcott held the cap up and examined it, running his finger along the torn fabric. “This looks pretty threadbare to me,” he said. “It could’ve ripped open just by being hit by a tomato. At least that’s how it looks to me.”

“Damn it, an Aukowie sliced that open. Did it right in front of my eyes.” Anger choked him off. When he could, Durkin sputtered, “If you saw what they were you’d be treating this contract with the respect it deserves!”

“I’ll tell you what, I’ll stop by the field tomorrow and you can show me, okay?”

“I can’t do that. It’s in the contract-”