Like Grownups Do (34 page)

When he had needed a display case for a Pedro Martinez autographed baseball, he bought six of them, just in case. He took the tissue, formed it into a ball was well as he could, and put it inside the case. He searched through his desk drawers until he found a Sharpie. It was a purple one. Good enough. On the blank adhesive sticker that came with the case he wrote—

Brian’s Song.

He arranged the case along with the three other cases that occupied a corner of his desk. Those three contained baseballs. Two autographed balls and a home run ball that had cost him a broken finger and some elbow flesh, from a slide across the concrete floor of the outfield stands at Fenway Park.

Battle scars. Worn with pride.

Tear-stained tissue. Displayed with pride.

I love Brian Piccolo.

Damn straight.

Babe had forwarded Gabriel’s file to the Bureau office, but all employment operations were suspended.

Where is he? What is he doing?
Maybe walking all over Boston; just waiting.

That didn’t seem likely. Maybe he was walking from hospital to hospital— talking to old ladies. Babe could picture that.

What could he have said to that woman? Did he tell her that he was an angel? Was that what she thought? What she believed? Or…

These were the thoughts that ran through Babe’s mind as he drifted in and out of sleep; disturbing thoughts about the man that he had given his seal of approval to be trained as a Special Agent for the FBI.

The following Thursday the auditors announced to the RCI staff that they should be finished with their audit by noon on Friday. Babe called the hospital and was forwarded to Jack’s new hospital room. Babe invited Jordan and MG to join the rest of the RCI staff for lunch at Momma’s on Friday. Jack crossed his arms and made his pouty face. MG patted him and promised to bring him a leftover box.

“Uh-huh. MG and leftovers. I’ll be lucky to see a pickle,” Jack said.

Tom answered the phone at his desk. Babe and Millie were already waiting for him by the door. Tom sat down slowly and dropped the phone into its cradle. He buried his face in his hands for a moment and then shrugged.

“Christie just took her temperature
and
it looks like I’ll be going home for lunch today.”

“We’re going to get the play-by-play until you’ve spawned your whole litter, aren’t we?” Babe asked.

“I don’t know why you’re not shopping this to PBS. This kind of human drama documentary is right up their alley. ”

“If I had invested in a high quality turkey baster six months ago, I could be looking forward to a cheeseburger right now,” Tom said.

Babe and Millie arrived at Momma’s, where they found Jordan and MG seated at a table in front of a silent television. The Red Sox and Yankees were about to play the first game of a double header after being rained out last night.

Babe ordered a regular cheeseburger and fries. Jordan did the same. Millie ordered the Caesar salad.

MG studied the menu briefly before also ordering the Caesar salad.

“Wait,” she said to the waiter.

He was a regular night time employee, filling in for the afternoon.

“Can I get some shredded cheddar on that?” she asked.

“Shredded cheddar. Yes ma’am,” the young man said, gathering up menus. MG was holding her’s hostage.

“And some sliced turkey. Maybe a little diced ham,” she said, “and black olives. Please.”

“Ma’am, that’s pretty close to being the Chef salad. Would you like to have that?”

“Oh, no, I’m not really that hungry,” MG said, still looking at the menu.

“All right, then, I’ll get this start—” the waiter started to leave again until Jordan grabbed his sleeve.

Jordan shook his head discretely.

“On second thought, let’s make that the bacon double cheeseburger. With fries.” MG said

“And a chocolate shake.”

“All right ma’am. Did you—”

“Double chocolate.”

“Yes, ma—”

“And one of those big pickles,” MG said.

The young man stood still.

“Better make that two pickles. Jack loves these pickles.”

The waiter moved one foot slowly, keeping an eye on MG.

“And a brownie. Just a small one.” MG said.

At this point the young waiter looked toward Jordan and then Babe, and then around the room, because he was certain that he was being Punked.

“So, instead of the salad—” the waiter began.

“Let me have the salad to go. I may be hungry later,” MG said.

“Yes ma’am.”

“The chef salad.”

The waiter looked at Jordan, who gave him a quick simple nod and the ‘Yes, you may go now’ look.

The young man looked exhausted.

Babe occasionally glanced at the baseball game. The last time he looked it was the bottom of the third inning, yet he had no idea what the score was or what had happened so far. He finally realized that he wasn’t really watching the game at all, he was watching the crowd; Watching for Gabriel.

Later that afternoon Babe was in the middle of a walk with Mr. Pendleton when his phone rang. He smiled at the display.

“Gabriel. There you are. What have you b—?”

“Hello? Excuse me, sir?” the voice on the other end of the line said.

“I’m sorry?” Babe said.

“Isn’t this Gabriel’s number?”

“That’s why I’m calling, sir. I’m calling everyone that was in my call log. My name is Lee. I’m in the Navy and I just got back into town from deployment. I called my phone company a year and a half ago to suspend my account since I was going to be on a carrier for at least a year. They said everything was cool, but when I got home last week they had given my phone number away. I called them back, and of course they had no record of that earlier call, plus they said that I had to do the suspension in
writing.
They had never mentioned
that
.

“ I talked to a supervisor and they gave my number back. I didn’t want to have to call a hundred people to change my number; I’m going to have to leave again in a month. I just wanted to let you know, sir—better now than at two in the morning, you know?”

“Sure, Lee. Not a problem. I don’t suppose you know anything about the guy who had this number?”

“No. Sorry. That would probably be illegal.”

“Yeah, you’re right. Thanks for calling,” Babe said.

Mr. Pendleton stopped, and turned, looking at Babe with his head slightly tilted, panting.

“How the heck should
I
know?” Babe said.

Babe had just picked up the television remote control when his phone rang again. It was his father.

“How you doing, Dad?”

“I’m fine, Josh. How is Jack?” Robbie Babelton asked.

“Getting better every day. He should be out of this hospital by the end of next week. How is it look—?”

“Josh, listen. There’s no easy way to do this. I need you to see something. Call me right back. Okay. Can you do that now?” Robbie asked.

“Yeah, Dad. Sure. What is it?

“Check the C-Span website. No, they won’t have it. Shit, it’s probably on You Tube, already.”

“What
is
it, Dad?”

“Look it up on the computer, Josh—Rick Richmond interview. I want you to see it before it’s all over the place. Please. Call me right back.”

“Okay, Dad,” Babe said.

Babe turned on his computer and watched his hands shake as he waited for it to boot up.

Shit. Shit. What is it now?

Babe went straight to You Tube, where his fears were confirmed. The Rick Richmond interview topped the home page. “Rick Richmond’s Senior Moment”, with 475,000 views. “Stepford Candidate Malfunction”, and “Robo-Senator gets a virus”, hot on their heels. It was already viral.

Rick was seated in a one-on-one interview with a woman who was a regular field reporter with CNN. The interview began with the standard election year banter—nothing unusual; not until Rick referred to the reporter by the wrong name. The reporter was visibly shaken. Her eyes darted around as she sought help from her production team. She squirmed in her seat.

She retained enough composure to ask her next question, making no attempt to hide the fact that she was reading from her notes. Rick Richmond gave a stutter free, concise answer.

The only problem was that it was the same word-for-word answer he had given to the previous question—a completely
different
question. The reporter was panicking. She put a finger to her ear piece and mumbled something barely coherent about technical difficulties. The network cut away to a previously recorded program.

“Hello, Dad?”

“What do you think, Josh?” Robbie asked.

“No one could make a diagnosis from that, but it doesn’t look good. Campaigns are grueling and exhausting but Rick has been doing this for years. The damn video is already viral. It was on the You Tube home page and I watched the view count go to a million five while I was logged on. Shit, even if it was just a temporary flub he’s going to take a beating for it,” Babe said.

“I can’t believe that enough people watch C-Span for this to blow up,” Robbie said.

“The problem is, Dad, these days, as soon as someone captures a video it can be all around the world in a few minutes. There are thousands of people that live for blood in the water like this,” Babe said.

“God, do I feel old. I have a son saying ‘these days’. The first time I hear you reference ‘the good old days’, I’m going to order my scooter chair. Do you think this is…you know? Alzheimer's or Dementia? I don’t think your mother can handle this, Josh.”

“Yeah, I know. Those are a possibility. Let’s just hope his party people handle this right. Politics is one thing, but, man. I hope they don’t just kick him to the curb,” Babe said.

“I’m not going to call your mother on her cell unless I can’t get her at home by afternoon. I don’t even know where they were when that interview was done. Are the two of you…? When I talked to your mother on Christmas evening it sounded like the two of you had been fighting—”

“We had a little misunderstanding on Christmas Eve, but we’ve talked a few times since. We’re okay.”

“That’s good, son. Call me if you hear from her, all right?”

“I will. And, uh, Dad?”

“Yes, Josh.”

“If you decide to go to Chicago before you come up here, let me know. I could come and stay with you for a few days,” Babe said.

“That would be great. Let’s see what we find out.”

Babe tuned the television to ESPN and muted the volume. He grabbed two beers from the icebox and sat in the floor. Mr. Pendleton climbed into his lap. It felt like a really good time to take the edge off— before he had a shower and got ready to go back to the hospital.

“Mr. Pendleton, you’ll never know how good you had it out there—living in those bushes. At least you didn’t wake up in the morning with Mean Old Mister Reality standing over you holding a shovel full of shit, and saying, ‘Well, would you look at that! I believe you have some empty room there in your lap, Mister Man. Let me just empty this shovel full of shit in there. There you go. You’re welcome, Podner. See ya again, real soon.’”

Babe emptied the second beer in one long swallow. He turned Mr. Pendleton to face him and took a paw in each hand. He sang an impromptu song to accompany their impromptu dance.

*
Life is short, and then you die.*

*Somebody punches you in your eye.*

*Let’s be friends, I’m a real nice guy.*

*No. Take this shit, and don’t you ask why.*

*Shit, shit, shit,*

*Shit, shit, shit,*

*Shit, shit, shitty, shit.*

*Shit, shit, shit.*

Babe released Mr. Pendleton from the dance and held the dog’s head in his hands. He spoke in a stuffy, old English accent,

“Do not look at me after that fashion,
SIR.
I am a trained
PSYCHOLOGIST.”

Babe exited the bus juggling a paper sack filled with three bottles. He shook his head at his absence of coordination. One good thing about not driving—if you could behave yourself well enough to avoid the charge of public intoxication, there was no charge for busing while intoxicated.

That runs the count to two balls and one strike, with one out in the Boston half of the eighth. The Red Sox are attempting to avoid a sweep at the hands of the Evil Empire, in this, the third game of a three game set in the city that never sleeps….

Babe squeezed around the big screen television that threatened to block off the entrance to Jack’s hospital room. Jordan grabbed the remote control and lowered the volume. Babe sat his paper bag on the night stand and took out three quart bottles.