The Caretaker of Lorne Field

Weeding the Aukowies was tricky. You had to make sure to keep your fingers away from their little pincers. Given a chance they’d spring to life and cut one off. You also had to be careful how you plucked them from the ground. Kind of feel your way to know which angle to pull at. When you did it right, and Jack Durkin almost always did it right, you’d pull out a thin root-like thing that ran a foot or so. He knew it wasn’t any root, not with the sickly-sweet smell he’d be able to catch a faint whiff of, or the shrill little death scream that he could hear when the air was perfectly still. If you pulled the Aukowie out wrong you’d only break it off at the stem leaving the root-like thing feeding what was left. It would still make a shrill little noise-to Jack Durkin it would sound more like a rage-filled cry than anything else, and next time it came up the stem would be tougher, thicker, and you’d better be all the more careful pulling the damn thing from the ground ’cause you wouldn’t get another chance after that. Durkin could sometimes go a whole season without pulling one wrong. When he did screw up, he’d mark where he made his mistake, then make sure next chance he had he’d pull the thing up right. As if his life depended on it.

After thirty-one years of weeding Lorne Field, he usually needed no more than a few seconds with an Aukowie, his hands deftly finding the right spot on the weed to grab, and almost instinctively knowing which angle to yank it so it slid out easily from the ground. Still, with thousands of these Aukowies pushing up, it would take him close to four hours to complete a full pass of the field. By the time he was done a second wave of Aukowies would be waiting for him. Maybe not as many as when he first arrived, but with the added fatigue factored in, his next pass would take close to another four hours. Add the same for his third and final pass. By then the Aukowies would be done for the night.

He had walked back and forth length-wise three times across the field pulling out hundreds of Aukowies, hearing them all screaming shrilly as they died, when he came across what at first sight looked like a daisy. He stood disoriented for a moment, blinking and wiping the sweat from his eyes. He had never before seen a flower growing in that field of death, and the fact that one could actually survive out there buoyed his spirits. Actually made him feel good. He stared at it, admiring it, until he realized what he thought were petals were actually groups of pincers turned inside out.

Up to new tricks, you little bugger, he thought.

With the toe of his work boot he nudged the thing. It didn’t take the bait, though, staying perfectly still and maintaining its daisy-like camouflage.

Durkin crushed the Aukowie under the heel of his boot. He imagined the thing struggling now, but it had no chance. He reached down and got a good hold of the Aukowie by its stem. Feeling for the right angle to pull at, he lifted his foot and in the same motion yanked the damn thing as hard as he could. The root-like thing ripped out of the ground. He had the sense for a second of sniffing anti-freeze. More like he could taste it in the back of his throat. Durkin shoved the remains of the daisy-like Aukowie into his canvas sack.

“Ain’t nothin’ here but a bunch of weeds, huh?” he said bitterly.

A light breeze came up, and the Aukowies seemed to answer him by swaying to it. He could swear they were moving faster than they should’ve given the breeze that was blowing. Durkin knew the sound of his voice grated on these Aukowies. He knew it drove them crazy, and it took every bit of restraint they had not to react to it.

“What other tricks you got up your sleeve?” he yelled out, which made the Aukowies sway just that much faster, at least to his eye.

“Yeah, well,” he muttered, “whatever you got it ain’t good enough. Just ain’t good enough, you dirty little buggers.”

He stood still for a moment to catch his breath. Then as the Aukowies’ swaying slowed a beat and became more in sync with the breeze that was blowing, Jack Durkin continued his weeding.

Lydia stood at the kitchen sink scrubbing the breakfast dishes. Both boys had finished eating and were out doing God knows what, but that was fine with her. They should be out having some fun, at least somebody in that house should be. A sour taste flooded her mouth as she thought how her life had become nothing but drudgery. Cleaning, sewing clothes, scraping by and most of all, worrying. Worrying about how she was going to juggle the bills coming in, how her boys were being deprived of what they deserved and how little she was able to have for herself. A knock on the back door shook her out of her dark thoughts. She left the sink to find Helen Vernon standing outside on the back porch.

“Thought maybe you could use some company,” Helen said through the screen door.

Lydia opened the door to let her friend in. “I’ll put on some coffee,” she said.