The Caretaker of Lorne Field

“Yeah, of course. The contract. How could I forget. Awfully convenient, that contract. Look, it’s been a long day, Jack, and I have to get back to the wife and kids. I’ve got no problem with this quaint little tradition we have here. You want to play the part, act cantankerous and eccentric, that’s fine too, but if you start acting insane we’re going to have a problem. A big problem. And you demanding that some kids get hung because they threw tomatoes at you is acting insane. Goodnight, Jack.”

Wolcott waited patiently for Durkin to realize there was no point in saying anything else. After Durkin left the Jeep, the sheriff drove off, honking twice as he turned the blind corner leading away from the Caretaker’s cabin.

Durkin stood frozen for a long moment, his skin color not much different than the moon overhead. It was late already. Usually by this time he was asleep in bed, but with the way his stomach was grumbling and the rage he was feeling tightening his chest, he knew he’d just be lying awake all night. Instead he got into the rusted-out Chevy Nova Bill Chambers had given him brand new twenty years earlier. It took several tries before the engine turned over, then he headed towards town.

Jack Durkin sat alone at the bar at the Rusty Nail watching the baseball game on a TV set mounted on the back wall. The owner, Charlie Harper, had brought over a cheeseburger, a plate of fries and a pint of ale, all on the house. He always treated Durkin on the house, not that Durkin ever abused the privilege, usually only stopping by once every few months. Charlie was in his seventies and was one of only a few shop owners still around town who believed in the Caretaker’s importance. Charlie poured a couple of black and tans, brought them over to a table, then moved back behind the bar to keep Durkin company. He listened grimly as Durkin told him about the day he’d had.

“Those punk kids,” Charlie said.

Durkin nodded, draining what was left of his pint. He waited while Charlie refilled his glass.

“That wouldn’t have been tolerated when your pa was Caretaker. Or his pa before him.”

“There’d be holy hell if they tried that with either of them,” Durkin agreed.

Charlie shook his head, frowning. “It’s just not right,” he said. “Sheriff Wolcott just blew you off?”

“Yep. He thinks all I do is pull weeds all day. That my job’s nothing but a joke. ‘A quaint tradition’ was how he put it.”

Charlie’s frown deepened, his large face forming into a massive crease. “That’s the problem today,” he said. “When I was a kid we were taught to respect what you Durkins did for us. But it’s just not done these days. Parents worry too much about upsetting their precious little kiddies. Making it all into nothing but ghost stories instead. It’s just not right.”

“Big part of the problem’s the size of the honorarium,” Durkin said. “You pay someone so little, how can you respect what they do? But it didn’t used to be so little.” He paused to wipe some beer from his mouth and watch a groundball go up the middle putting runners on first and third. “You know what the president’s salary was when the county added the honorarium?”

Charlie shrugged. “I dunno. Two hundred thousand?”

“Nope. I looked it up once. Twenty-five thousand dollars. That’s all. And you had a whole country to come up with that money. The eight thousand figure was damned good in comparison, especially since you only had a small county to raise it, mostly nothing but farmers back then.”

Charlie joined Durkin in watching the game. The runner on first stole second standing up.

“Pitcher’s delivery’s too slow,” Durkin observed. “Even I could’ve stole that base.”

Charlie nodded in agreement.

The next batter hit a two-hopper down the third base line and over the diving glove of the third baseman, scoring both runners on base. Durkin turned away from the game in disgust.

“He wasn’t positioned right,” he said. “He should’ve been guardin’ the line.”

“Yep.”

“And he shouldn’t’ve dove like that. If he just stayed on his feet he could’ve at least knocked the ball down and saved a run. I don’t know what the hell they teach players today.”

Charlie looked away from the TV, distracted by the sound of muted laughter coming from a corner of the bar. Sitting at a table were the two Hagerty brothers, Jasper and Darryl, both red-faced as they laughed and elbowed each other over a private joke. The Hagerty brothers were in their early thirties and worked construction. Dressed in stained tee shirts and overalls, the long greasy brownish-blond hair on both their heads looked as if it hadn’t been washed in months. Jasper pointed a finger at Jack Durkin’s back and laughed harder, spitting out beer as he did so. He caught Charlie’s eye and elbowed his brother, signaling him with a hushing-type gesture by placing his index finger to his lips. The two Hagerty brothers struggled to keep quiet, but both burst out laughing harder than before. Charlie asked Durkin to excuse him, then walked over to Jasper and Darryl Hagerty.