The other three boys caught up to him and they divvied up the tomatoes. Lester Durkin, Sam Parsons and Carl Ashworth all took off their shirts and used them as makeshift sacks to carry theirs while Morelli held onto the bag. Morelli pointed out where in the woods he wanted each of his co-conspirators to go. “You know how far it is to the field?” he asked Lester. Morelli’s round dark face was frozen in a heavy leer, but a wavering in his eyes betrayed his bravado. Lester shrugged and told him he had no idea.
“You’ve never been there before?”
“No. What made you think I would have?”
“I don’t know. I would’ve thought your old man would’ve taken you sometime.” Morelli paused before showing a nasty smirk. “After all, he’s got to teach you how to pull weeds since you are the Weedpuller. But I guess you get practice pulling your own weed every night when you’re alone.”
Lester tried shoving Morelli but didn’t budge him. “Quit calling me that!”
“You try that again,” Morelli said, “and I’ll shove one of these tomatoes down your throat. Understand?”
Carl Ashworth put an arm around Morelli’s thick frame and guided him to the side. “Come on, man,” Carl said, “this is going to be fucking awesome. Let’s just get to it.”
Morelli glared menacingly at Lester before turning to Carl Ashworth and Sam Parsons. “Stay hidden until the signal, okay?” He hesitated for a moment, and then looked back at Lester, a tenseness momentarily weakening his smirk.
“You’re sure the field’s this way?” Morelli asked.
“That’s the direction my dad heads off every morning,” Lester said.
With that the four of them ran into the woods, moving quickly at first, then slowing down as they crept closer to the field. Lester tried to keep low to the ground and hidden behind trees and rocks. After a while he could see the field and his dad in the middle of it. He tried keeping even closer to the ground as he edged forward, crawling to a thick oak tree sitting on the edge of the field. When he got to the tree he hid behind it, his heart beating like a drum in his chest, pounding so hard it felt like it was going to explode out of him. But the wild panic he felt at first was replaced by humiliation as he watched his dad walking up and down that field pulling weeds. He wanted to run up to his dad and pummel him for making him such a joke to his friends but he stayed where he was, tears flooding his eyes as he watched his dad work his way up and down the field, moving a little closer with each pass.
When his dad was within ninety feet of him Morelli threw the first tomato. It whistled past his dad’s ear. That was the signal, and it brought a hail of tomatoes flying at his dad. One hit him flush in the jaw, another took his baseball cap off, a half dozen more hit him in the body. As the tomatoes splattered off him he almost tumbled over, then he turned to face them, his eyes dumb as if he had no clue what was happening. Furious over the ridiculousness of his dad, Lester started throwing his tomatoes, missing wildly several times before hitting his dad square in the nose with one. It almost knocked his dad off his feet but he recovered his footing and shook his fist in Lester’s direction.
“You dumb asses!” his dad yelled, his face a bright red, partly from the tomatoes, mostly from blinding rage. “You’re violating the contract! Goddamn you all!”
By then Lester was crying. Crying from the humiliation, disgust and fear. He could hear his friends laughing like hyenas as they took off back to their bikes. With tears streaming down his face, Lester ran after them.
At first Jack Durkin was too mad to see straight. Those juvenile punk bastards. Sneaking up on him like that to pelt him with tomatoes. This was how they were going to show their gratitude for him saving their sorry asses each day? This was the respect they had for him? And goddamn it, they violated the contract! Didn’t they know what they were messin’ with? All he wanted to do was chase them down and beat the living tar out of each and every one of them. Even after he wiped away the tomato all he could see was a thick red haze. When this haze finally lifted and he could see straight again, he took several steps towards the woods but stopped cold when he realized what was left of the tomatoes thrown at him were lying among the Aukowies.
He turned and stared in horror, knowing the Aukowies were sucking the juices out of the tomato remains. In the dead still air, he was sure he could hear the slurping noises they made. For a long moment he stood paralyzed and watched.
Those damn fools, he thought. Didn’t they know they’d be feeding these Aukowies? With good reason the contract don’t allow food to be brought onto Lorne Field. Goddamn reckless fools!
He snapped out of whatever trance he had fallen into and quickly touched his face, then checked his fingers to make sure he wasn’t bleeding. According to the Book of Aukowies, human blood drove Aukowies wild with desire and made them grow like crazy. With some relief he saw that the only wet sticky stuff dripping from his face was juice from the tomatoes. He grabbed away from the Aukowies whatever tomato pieces they hadn’t absorbed yet and made a note of which ones had most likely feasted on the tomatoes. He focused his weeding efforts on them. They were already stronger and tougher than they should’ve been at that height. He had to be more careful with them, first pinning them under his foot, then digging around them so he could get a better grip of their root. He was amazed at how much thicker they had gotten and how much more muscle he had to use to pull them out of the ground, but eventually he got them all.
When he was done he picked up his baseball cap. A large rip had split it. Scowling at the cap, he shoved it into his back pocket, then scoured the field to make sure all the tomato pieces had been picked up and that no nourishment was left behind for the next wave of Aukowies.
Standing there, he felt exhausted. He touched his nose and winced. His hand shook as he moved it down to his jaw and felt how hard and swollen the area was where he’d been hit. Damn those punk kids to hell, he thought. The whole incident left him worn out and tired. His knees buckled a bit, his legs feeling as if bags of wet sand had been tied to them. All he wanted to do was to lie down somewhere and take a nap. He looked out at the remaining section of the field that still needed weeding, and then back at the rest of the field already showing new Aukowies sprouting out. Sighing heavily he lifted his sack over his shoulder and continued with his day’s work.
Chapter 3
Jack Durkin’s day usually ended at seven, but it wasn’t until eight o’clock that night he finished his third pass of the field and emptied the sack into a stone pit behind Lorne Field, adding to the small mountain of Aukowies picked earlier that day. Kerosene wasn’t needed. Just throw a match on the Aukowie remains and they lit up as if they’d been soaked in gasoline. The contract required him to watch them burn, so after setting a match to the remains, he stood and watched the flames shoot skyward. After the fire died out he gathered up the ashes, mixed them with lime and buried them. Then he headed home.
At a quarter to nine Durkin stepped through his front door, too bone-tired at first to do anything but glare angrily at his wife. He would’ve fallen over when he took off his work boots except he was able to throw out his right hand and grasp the wall and keep himself on his feet. Lydia’s color paled to a dead white as she watched him.