Like Grownups Do (28 page)

Gabriel stopped the rhythmic rocking. He closed his eyes and grimaced.

“Is it warm in here?”

“Not really,” Babe said.

“I don’t even know where the thermostat is.”

Gabriel took off his jacket.

“I’m ready when you are, Mr. Babelton.”

Babe pulled a small booklet from his desk drawer.

“Okay, this exercise involves hypothetical situations that will profile your reactions based on moral stance, religious dogma, or belief system that may—”

“Are you not speaking to your mother?” Gabriel asked.

Aw, shit. Not this again,
Babe thought.
We’re back to Rain Man?

“Gabriel, we have a chance to finish up today and then we can forward the results to the Bureau. You could be at Quantico pretty damn soon. Isn’t that what you want?” Babe asked.

“Of course. Are you not speaking to your mother?”

Babe exhaled heavily and fell back in his chair.

“My mother and I have had a difficult time communicating, particularly since she remarried. I have been in her and Rick Richmond’s way for a lot of years. I don’t mean to air my dirty laundry, but you asked,” Babe said.

Gabriel tapped his fingers against his lips while he looked out the window.

“I wish you would call your mother, Mr. Babelton. You do not want to and you think that she does not want to talk to you. But you need to…you need to be the adult. Talk to her. Please. It will prove beneficial.”

“It’s not that easy. Do you know what it’s like to be treated like you’re not good enough? Like you’re—”

Gabriel jumped to his feet.

“She will need you. She will remember that she is not just a wife—she is still a mother. That she doesn’t want to be a—and she—”

Gabriel wobbled and sat back down slowly.

“She will need you,” he said, softly.

Babe stood up and walked around his desk.

“Hey. Are you all right? Talk to me.”

Gabriel blinked a few times and shook his head. He looked at Babe.

“I’m…Yes. I’m good.”

An hour and fifteen minutes later Gabriel handed Babe his exam booklet. Babe stared up at Gabriel. He thought that Gabriel looked a little spaced-out. He hated the thought of Gabriel being eighty-sixed by the FBI because he was not at his best.

“Once again, that was quick,” Babe said.

“Let’s not push this today, Gabriel. These last two tests are pretty intense. They require long, drawn-out responses, and I know that the Bureau pays a lot of attention to them. We got a little sidetracked today, so let’s just finish up some other time. It’s only Monday. Later in the week will be fine.”

“Sure. Tomorrow night at six thirty again, then?” Gabriel asked.

“If you’re up to it,” Babe said.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Gabriel asked.

“Well, the forecast is for rain,” Babe said.

Gabriel dismissed this with the wave of a hand.

“It may rain but it will not last—perfect baseball weather.”

Babe watched Gabriel leave the office. He sighed and his shoulders drooped. He picked up his cell phone.

“Hello, Mom? Do you have a minute? Hey, about Christmas Eve—”

Babe and Gabriel walked away from the concession stand.

“You’re not going to tell me we have the same seats tonight, are you?”

Gabriel shook his head.

“I am afraid not. We are on the same row but on the next aisle over.”

“Oh, the
horror
,” Babe said.

The Toronto Blue Jays acquired a starting pitcher during the off-season that had the Red Sox hitters tied-up in knots. The Blue Jay hitters were taking out all kinds of aggressions against the Green Monster, bouncing four hits off of it in the first two innings alone.

Babe turned to Gabriel.

“Man, this is getting ugly. You’re not miserable, are you?”

“Absolutely not. I love my Red Sox. But I love baseball, more,” Gabriel said.

Babe turned back to the game.

“Absolutely. Well said, my bizarre friend.”

Babe looked at Gabriel in shock, because Gabriel had punched him on the arm.

Gabriel stared straight ahead, grinning.

“That was for Miss Vandermeer.”

Babe laughed.

“It most certainly was.”

When the first Boston relief pitcher of the night came out to warm up for the top half of the fifth inning, Toronto had a 6-1 lead.

Thunder rumbled to the east and the first drops of rain began to fall. The first Toronto hitter popped out to first base. The second hitter walked. The rain became heavier, and on the first pitch to the next batter the ball sailed well behind him.

The pitcher stood on the mound with his arms outstretched in futility. The home plate umpire waved the teams off of the field.

“Well, I guess that’s it, then. Are you ready?” Babe asked, getting to his feet.

Gabriel looked up.

“This will blow over. They hate to stop games these days if they can help it.”

“Well, let’s get under cover,” Babe said.

Most of the crowd headed for the exits. They got to see most of a game and it didn’t look like the home team was coming back even if the game did resume.

What the hell—it was a weeknight and the season was young. There was plenty more baseball to be played this year.

Babe knew that was what people were thinking—because that was precisely what
he
was thinking. But if Gabriel wanted to stick it out, then Babe was a willing accomplice.

Ushers and security staff were uncomfortable with the crowd amassing on the mezzanine levels but enough people were leaving the park that they weren’t hassling anyone.

Babe stood looking out toward the field with his hands shoved into his coat pockets. He heard a commotion to his left.

Two girls in their twenties, and obviously friends, were either sitting or falling to the floor of the mezzanine. One of the girls made it to the floor and then pulled the other one down on top of her. When they stopped laughing long enough to regain some composure, they swapped their shoes for rubber boots. They helped each other wiggle into ponchos.

They made their way to the edge of the mezzanine, opened up umbrellas, and laughed some more as they splashed their way back toward their seats. Babe felt old just watching them.

Gabriel walked up beside him as he watched the girls’ descent.

“Are you seeing this?” Babe asked.

Gabriel didn’t answer. Babe turned to look at him.

Gabriel was wearing a poncho and held out another one at arm’s length.

“You’re serious, aren’t you?” Babe asked.

Gabriel pulled his coat open, exposing a lining completely composed of zippered compartments. Each compartment contained pieces of foul weather gear.

“I have anything you might need to remain dry. After the rain stops the seats will be wet. I love rain delays. Have you ever been to a rain-delay game?”

“Not one that I stayed for,” Babe said.

Gabriel looked disappointed.

“I thought you were a fan. Like me.”

“I am a fan,” Babe said.

“Not wanting to stand around on the mezzanine for two hours before they cancel the game doesn’t make me not a fan.”

Gabriel grinned.

“That is the most negatives I have ever heard in one sentence.”

Gabriel looked toward the field. Then he looked at Babe and pointed toward the field.

“What am I supposed to be looking at?” Babe asked.

“There are players and coaches in the dugout. They seem to think they are going to play some more,” Gabriel said.

“Give me the damn poncho.”

Twenty minutes later the tarp was rolled off the field and players began warming up again. Babe and Gabriel returned to their seats. Babe looked around the park, and then turned in his seat and looked above them. There were maybe two thousand fans left in the stadium.

“You know,” Gabriel said, “Many people despise baseball. They say it is too slow, the games last too long, there are too many delays, and too much time when nothing is happening.”

“I know; some of the same reasons why I like it,” Babe said.

“You have no idea why I want to stay, do you?” Gabriel asked.

“You love baseball, I guess,” Babe said.

Gabriel leaned forward.

“It is more than that,” he said.

“These men. They are all millionaires; well, if they take care of their money. But in this city you only see them play in front of huge crowds. It is loud and bright and there are TV cameras and reporters.

“But this is the same game they have been playing since they were four years old—the game they played for years for the sheer love and fun of it. You can go see them at spring training in Florida but it is not the same. They play games, but they do not mean as much as games like this one. You will enjoy the remainder of this game, I believe.”

And Babe did, indeed. Boston made the game closer yet never really threatened to overcome Toronto’s lead.

But there was a difference in the entire atmosphere. The chatter of all the coaches and players could be heard from across the field. The game no longer had the sheen and shine of professional entertainment. The game announcer seemed content to let the game speak for itself.

This was just plain old baseball. When a player was on first base and talking to the other team’s first basemen, anyone near the field could hear the conversation.

In the calm and quiet of the late night, skeletal crowd, the faces of the players offered a glimpse into their pasts—of backyard batting practice with Dad, Little League tournaments, and high school games played before only a few parents.

Seagulls that normally waited at roof level for their end of game treasures had taken over large sections of bleachers. Babe looked at Gabriel and wondered again,

Who is this man
?

The game concluded and there was a mild round of applause before the public address system came alive with the music that accompanied the ends of games. Tonight the music seemed louder than ever because of the sparse crowd. Babe stood and stretched.

He looked at Gabriel, who was—
what
?

Waving to the two girls in the rain gear. Waving them down to the lower level.

The girls walked to the aisle and started down, dancing down the steps. Babe looked at Gabriel again in disbelief.

Gabriel jumped up on the top of the dugout and held out his hand to one of the girls. She took his hand and climbed up.

“Come on up,” Gabriel said to Babe.

“They will not allow us up here for long.”

“What? Gabriel. Have you lost your
freaking
mind?”

Obviously you have,
Babe thought.

Because Gabriel and the girl were dancing on top of the dugout.

The other girl pushed Babe in the back.

“Come
on
, man. Let’s go.”

Babe fell forward and caught Gabriel’s outstretched hand. He found himself on top of the dugout and the only one of the four not dancing to the music. He looked up at the nearest two security guards. The criminal trespass dancers had yet to be detected. He looked at Gabriel, who stopped in the middle of his version of a Steve Martin/Dan Aykroyd dance.

“Come on, Babe.
Pleeeaase
?”

Babe closed his eyes and swayed a little. The girls squealed in delight.

“Go Babe. Go Babe. It’s your birthday.”

The rain began to fall again. All four lifted their faces upward and laughed—and danced. Badly.

They heard the voices of the approaching security guards. They jumped down and ran for the exit, waving to each other as they split up.

Standing at the entrance gate, Babe began to laugh as he shook the rain from his hair.

“What the
hell
,” he said to Gabriel, “Was
that
?”

Gabriel smiled.

“Random acts of silliness and frivolity are merely the spirit rising up and demanding to make a statement.”

“A statement. What statement?” Babe asked, peeling off his poncho.

“Life is short,” Gabriel said. He stepped from underneath the awning, closed his eyes, and lifted his face to the rain.

“But tonight— we
live.
”

Twenty-Eight