The Caretaker of Lorne Field (8 page)

Even with the heat and humidity, even with worrying about Lester, Durkin moved with a quicker, lighter step than usual. The breakfast his wife had given him helped with his mood, but it was more the excitement of knowing there was a way to prove to the town—and more importantly to his thick-headed wife and equally ungrateful eldest son—that these weren’t weeds he was pulling out all day. His situation would change after that, setting things back to the way they used to be with townsfolk recognizing the importance of what he did and with them taking care of him and his family like they used to. Like they were meant to. Which would mean Lydia would quit her shrewish nagging, and maybe he’d be able to last four more years as Caretaker without dropping dead of a massive coronary.

Durkin moved quickly as he went up and down the field pulling out Aukowies in swift, deft movements, ignoring both the crackling of his back joints when he bent over and the shrill high-pitched death cries of the Aukowies. Maybe their cries were too high-pitched for most others to hear, but he sure as hell could. And not just him. More often than not, whenever a dog was within earshot, he’d hear the thing howl as if its eardrums were being pierced. Dogs never got too close to Lorne Field, usually scampering off after their first few mournful howls. As he continued weeding, he whistled cheerfully, drowning out the dying cries of the Aukowies.

Lydia sat stiffly in the leather chair, her hands clutched tightly in her lap. Bluish veins bulged from her skeleton-thin arms like rope. Helen Vernon appeared more relaxed as she sat to her right in an identical leather chair. Across the desk from both of them sat Paul Minter, his own black leather chair plusher and more expensive-looking than theirs, which made sense since this was his office. Minter was in his early thirties, but with his Dutch-boy haircut and smooth round face, he looked like he was barely out of his teens. His brow furrowed severely as he read through the Caretaker’s contract.

There were only two lawyers in town. Hank Thompson was in his seventies and had been practicing law since Lydia was a little girl. He was a kind man with a thick head of grayish hair and the bushiest eyebrows she had ever seen. A man whose gentle manner could put anyone at ease. She decided not to go to him. She didn’t trust him, not with the way he acted whenever he saw her husband—deferentially, almost like he believed in this Aukowie nonsense. If she consulted him, there was no doubt in her mind that he’d run to her husband and tell him what she was planning—attorney-client privilege be damned! The other lawyer in town, Paul Minter, was a relative newcomer to the area, moving there and setting up shop only three years earlier. Lydia also had qualms about seeing him, thinking it might be best to find an attorney well outside the county, but Helen convinced her that Minter would be safe.

Minter squinted for several minutes at the contract. Finally, he placed it gently on his desk, smoothing the vellum paper out with his fingertips, a bemused expression on his face as he looked from Lydia to Helen Vernon—almost as if he were expecting one of them to admit to the prank they were pulling on him. When both women continued to stare vacantly back at him, he shrugged to himself and picked up the Book of Aukowies. He took his time with it, carefully studying each page. When he was done, he closed the book and placed it next to the contract. He smiled in a bewildered fashion at Lydia. “This is on the level?” he asked.

“Yep.”

“This contract is dated 1710.”

“That’s right.”

“And this book is from the same time period?”

“I’d have to think so.”

“Amazing. I’ve been here three years and never heard a word about any of this.”

“I don’t suppose you would. We usually don’t talk about it with outsiders.”

“With outsiders?” He raised an eyebrow. “I guess after three years living here I’m still considered an outsider?”

Minter waited for Lydia or Helen Vernon to contradict him. When neither bothered to, he chuckled softly to himself. “Your husband’s still weeding that field?” he asked.

“Never missed a day.”

“And his ancestors have been doing it since 1710?”

“Best I know.”

“This is all fascinating, but what can I help you with?”

“I need to know if that contract’s legal.”

“I’d have to think so.”

“But how could it be? The United States didn’t even exist back then!”

“US federal courts have in the past upheld land grants made by King George II which also predates the Declaration of Independence,” he mused. “As crazy as this contract is, I don’t see any reason why it wouldn’t be valid. Of course, there are clauses within it that violate both state law and the constitution and couldn’t be legally enforced, but yes, as long as the field is weeded according to the specifications laid out in the contract, your family should be able to continue to maintain the residence granted by it. I hope that puts your mind at ease.”

“No, it don’t. What I want to know is if there’s anything you can do to get that contract revoked.”

Minter pursed his lips while he studied Lydia Durkin. “Now why would you want me to do that?”

“Because as long as that contract exists, her husband’s going to keep weeding that field, leaving Lydia and her family living in poverty!” Helen Vernon volunteered.

Minter folded his hands behind his head and leaned back in his chair, the springs making a slight creaking noise. “There might be a better way to handle this,” he said. “It seems to me that both you and this town are sitting on a potential goldmine.”

“What do you mean?” Lydia asked.

“It’s very simple. What we have here is a small, scenic New England town with a three-hundred-year-old legend of monsters growing out of the ground and a Caretaker who protects the townsfolk from them. People eat that kind of stuff up. Do you realize how much tourism Salem, Massachusetts, rakes in each year because of their history with witch trials which, by the way, didn’t even occur in Salem?”

When both women continued to stare blankly at him, he smiled knowingly. “A lot of money,” he said. “I’d have to think you have the same potential here.” He nodded slowly to himself as he thought it over. His tongue darted past his lips, wetting them. “This could definitely work. Imagine the Caretaker’s cabin turned into a museum with an attached gift shop selling tee shirts and replicas of this book, along with plastic models of monsters and God knows what else. We could even laminate the weeds and sell them too. And that’s only the tip of the iceberg. Picture tours to Lorne Field where we let people watch while your husband pulls little monsters out of the ground. Pipe in some unearthly screaming noises, along with some visual effects like monsters shooting past people’s heads. This could most definitely work. This could make all of us very wealthy, Mrs. Durkin.”

“How wealthy?”

“I’d have to think millions.”

“Millions . . .” Helen Vernon whispered.

“Jesus,” Lydia said.

Minter pulled himself forward, a sheen of excitement flushing his round face. “Mrs. Durkin,” he said. “There’s quite a bit of work needed to get this started. We’re going to have to get approval from the town council. Also we need to line up investors and bring in the right business people. It’s going to take me a few days to consult with people and draw up contracts, but we should be able to talk more about this early next week. How does all that sound?”

Lydia started to nod, then made a face as if she’d been punched in the stomach. “My damn fool husband’s not going to go for this.”

“Of course he will,” Minter said. “I’ll talk to him. Why don’t we wait until I have more information and the contracts drawn up. Then I’ll sit down with him. Don’t worry about anything.”

He shook hands with Lydia and Helen Vernon. When Lydia reached for the items she had brought, Minter asked if she could leave them with him.

“I can’t do that.”

Minter raised a dubious eyebrow. “Why not?”

“He’d throw a fit if he knew I’d taken those. Nobody else is supposed to know about his secret hiding place.”

“I’m sure it will be okay.”

“No, it won’t be. I need those back. And you can’t let on that I ever showed you them.”

Minter opened his mouth to argue but saw it was useless. “I’ll have copies made instead,” he said. “Why don’t you wait here. I’ll let you know when they’re done.”

Minter gathered up the contract and book and left the room. Lydia sat back down in the chair. She looked down and saw her hands shaking. She couldn’t stop them.

“I’m shaking like a leaf,” she told Helen Vernon.

“I don’t blame you.”

“Pinch me. Make sure I’m not dreaming.”

“You’re not dreaming, hon.”

“You think he knows what he’s talking about?”

“I think so,” Helen said. “It makes sense to me. If people go to Salem for witches, why not here for our monsters, even if they’re nothing but a bunch of weeds? Lydia, honey, I think you’re going to become rich.”

“As long as my husband doesn’t screw this up.”

“Why would he do that?”

Lydia didn’t say anything.

“Honey, I’m sure Jack’s going to be as thrilled about this as you.”

“You don’t know how crazy he can be.”

“If Jack interferes with this, you’d have every right to have him committed!”

“I’ll do more than that,” Lydia said, a darkness passing over her eyes. “I’ll skin that old fool from head to toe.”

The door to the office swung open and Minter walked back in. “My receptionist is making copies now,” he informed them cheerfully. “It shouldn’t be more than a few minutes.”

“How much are you going to be charging for this?” Helen asked.

Minter smiled at her, but with his mouth only. “I believe that’s between me and the Durkin family.”

“I’m asking for her.”

Minter looked from Helen to Lydia. Lydia’s face was hard, rigid, something that might’ve been carved out of stone. Her eyes locked on his. “Nothing upfront. Just the typical fifteen percent management fee,” he said.

“That sounds awfully high.”

“It’s not,” he said. “And it’s not negotiable.”

“Fifteen percent’s fine with me,” Lydia said. “You work everything out and get my husband to go along with it, then you’ll deserve it.”

“Mrs. Durkin, we’ll work this out. Your husband won’t be a problem. Trust me.”

Minter’s receptionist stuck her head in and informed them that the copies were ready. Paul Minter took turns shaking hands with Lydia and Helen Vernon. When he took Lydia’s hand, he covered it with both of his own. His smile appeared genuine as he gave the back of her bony hand a warm pat. “I’m very happy you came in today,” he told her. “This is going to be a boon, not just to you and me, but to the whole town. I should be calling you early next week, but feel free to call me anytime before that.”

On their way out, Helen told Lydia to cheer up. “Honey, you just won the lottery. No reason to be moping like this.”

“I’ll cheer up after my husband proves to me he ain’t as big a fool as I think he is.”

Later that evening when Jack Durkin returned from Lorne Field, he stumbled through the doorway, sniffed, then yelled out whether that was pot roast he was smelling.

“Take your work boots off!” Lydia yelled back from the kitchen. “I don’t want you tracking dirt everywhere!”

“I’ll damn well do what I want in my own home!” he yelled back to her, but he did a couple of one-legged jigs while he pulled off his work boots. With only a slight hobble to his gait he made his way to the kitchen. Lydia stood by the stove stirring something in a pot. She frowned at him. He ignored it and breathed in deeply.

“You are making pot roast,” he exclaimed. “What’s gotten into you, woman?”

“Shut up, you old fool,” she muttered under her breath.

Durkin walked over to the stove, reached to lift the lid from a large pot that had been put on simmer. His wife slapped his hand with a sharp crack. “It’ll be ready soon enough. Don’t get in the way!”

Durkin brought the knuckle of his slapped hand to his mouth and sucked on it. He was in too good a mood, though, to let her usual cantankerous behavior upset him. Craning his neck so he could look over her shoulder, he saw that she had mashed potatoes in the pot she was stirring. “Yankee pot roast and mashed potatoes, huh? You find out I’m dying or something?”

“Don’t let it get to your head. Lester and Bert both been asking for it.”

Durkin stepped back from his wife. Her thin body was stiff as she stirred the potatoes, almost stony, but there was something close to tenderness softening the corners of her mouth. Something like that in her eyes, too.

“Hot as hell out there today,” he told her. “But I was able to get off my feet a few times. It helped. I ain’t feeling so much like a cripple right now.”

“So you napped on the job, huh?”

Red flashed for a moment deep in his skull—almost like a firecracker had gone off—but he swallowed back the insult he had ready for her. Something about the softness around her eyes and mouth made him.