by Joe Gribble
know what to do!”
Julie gets up from her lawn chair and rushes over to Ms. Ramiro near the backstop.
Ramiro and Bob reach Ramiro’s mother at the same time, standing on the field side of the fence.
Bob turns to the umpire. “Time out, Ump.”
The umpire holds his hands up. “Time!” He turns to watch the interruption with interest. “Better make it quick, Coach.”
Ramiro’s mother is trembling. “They're kicking us out. You must come home.”
Julie puts her arm around Ramiro’s mother.
Ramiro tosses his helmet and bat over near the bench and heads toward the gate at a trot.
“Ramiro!” Bob calls after him.
“I gotta go home, Coach.” Ramiro jogs through the gate, then over to his sobbing mother. He takes her arm and guides her back to the car.
After Ramiro and his mother are out of earshot, Bob whispers to Julie, “Can they be deported?”
“It’s hard to say,” Julie says. “It’s possible my questions caused someone to flag their status. I'm so sorry.” She puts her hand on the fence, fingers gripping the chain link.
Bob puts his hand on hers. “Can you check on it?”
“Of course,” she says. “I’ll go check on Ramiro and his family, first.” Julie turns and heads back to her daughter.
The umpire is becoming impatient. “Come on, Coach. We have a game to play.”
“Hold on, Ump,” Bob says. He shouts to Julie as she is gathering her daughter to leave. “Call me!”
Bob trots back over to the bench. “Guys, I gotta get over to Ramiro's place. We're winning, so let’s finish this game quick. You’re up, Q. Take a walk, strike out, I don't care. Just make it fast.
Q grabs a bat and heads for the batter's box. “Got it, Coach.”
---
Apartment Complex
Bob steps out of his car in a modest neighborhood of small apartment buildings.
Julie stands near her car in the front of a large building. Sarah sits inside. Julie sees Bob and walks to meet him. “They’re gone.”
“Gone where?” Bob asks.
“To stay with a friend,” Julie says. “They’re scared to death.”
“It’s true, then?” Bob asks.
“I don’t know, but they think so. Someone came by.“
“Who?”
Julie shrugs. “It might have been Immigration, but they need a reason to snoop around.”
“This isn’t right,” Bob says. “Ramiro is a hard worker. He and his dad are both in construction. They’re roofers. They aren’t deadbeats. And they aren’t run-of-the-mill border crossers. They came here because they helped our government. They came here at the invitation of our government.”
Julie looks at him quizzically. “Sounds like you know something that isn’t in the records.”
“I can’t say anything,” Bob says. “Just trust me; they’re here because they did something good, something that helped the United States. We can’t let them be deported.”
Julie nods. “I'll swing by my office. Make some calls.” Julie steps closer to Bob. She takes his hands and looks in his eyes. “Did you call someone?”
Bob avoids her gaze. “No. Not yet.“
“I wish you would. They can help. I know they can,” Julie says as she puts her arms around him.
Bob holds her close, feeling the anger drain from his mind.
---
Security Forces Headquarters - Break Room
Bob is surprised the rent-a-cops aren't guzzling their morning coffee. In fact, the break room is empty. The tote board shows two more wins, and Bob proudly walks up to the brown paper and adds another W to the string.
He’s about to turn away when he notices a new sign on the bulletin board:
PTSD? STRESS? DEPRESSION? WE CAN HELP. CALL 257-8643
Bob’s shoulders sag. He glances at the nearby phone on the wall and reaches for it. His hand stops a few inches from the handset, and he withdraws, shaking his head. He starts to walk away, but stops before he gets to the door. He thinks about Julie, about what she asked him to do. It can’t be that hard, and such a little thing. He turns back and picks up the phone, then punches in the number.
The phone rings on the other end. Once. Twice. Three times. Bob is about to put the handset back on the hook when there’s an answer.
“This is Chaplain Peters.”
Bob starts to speak, but stops. He hadn’t thought this through, didn’t know the phone number was to the Chaplain. What was he going to say?
“Hello?” Peters asks, his voice calm.
“Oh, uh. Hi.” Bob can’t find the words. He pulls the phone away from his ear and uses his sleeve to wipe the sweat from his forehead. He stares at the phone, hears a faint voice coming from the earpiece.
“Hello?” Chaplain Peters asks again.
Bob puts the phone back to his ear and talks into the mouthpiece. “I… uh… I’m sorry, this was a mistake.” Bob closes his eyes and takes a deep breath.
“It’s not a mistake,” Chaplain Peters says. “You called to talk. I answered to listen. Take all the time you need. You don’t even have to tell me who you are, but that would help.”
Bob leans forward and rests his head against the wall, eyes still closed. “I think I’m okay, but my friend asked me to call.”
“Sounds like you’ve got a good friend,” Peters says. “Why do you think your friend wanted you to call me?”
“I just... I kinda… I kinda lost it a few days ago,” Bob says.
“What does that mean, ‘kinda lost it’?” Peters asks.
Bob waits a long moment. He isn't sure whether he is embarrassed about what he did, or whether admitting there might be an issue will result in an extensive ”therapy” session. He doesn't want to be pulled off the line and into some psych ordeal. Better to leave out the details. “I had a little flashback. That’s all.”
“I take it you’ve been overseas?” Peters asks.
“Yeah,” Bob says. “The ‘Stan.”
“Me, too,” Peters says. “When did you get back?”
Peters was making this easy. Bob was already feeling at ease talking to someone who had at least been where he had. Bob thought about the time. How long had he been back? Although it seemed like a lifetime, he counted the months and was surprised at the answer himself. “Six months, not counting the time in Landstuhl.”
“Landstuhl? You were wounded, I take it?”
Bob looks at his arm. “Only part of me.”
There was a long silence before Chaplain Peters spoke again. “Listen, I’m more than happy to keep talking on the phone if that helps you, but I really prefer to meet with people face-to-face. Is that something we could do?”
Bob thought about that for a few long seconds. “I don’t want to be pulled off my job.”
“I understand,” Peters says. “I’m just here to help point you in the right direction, just to listen, if that’s what you want.”
Bob thought it over. He thought of Julie again, of how she just sat beside him on the sofa after he destroyed the steaks. It was the least he could do. “I think we could meet.”
“Good,” Peters says. “When is a good time for you?”
“How about tonight, after work, say eighteen hundred?” Bob asks.
“Anytime works for me,” Peters says. “Mind telling me who you are?”
---
Security Forces Headquarters
Bob knocks on the edge of the open door and steps into Major Kepler’s office. “You asked to see me, sir?”
Kepler looks up. His eyes are red. “Yeah, Bob. Close the door and take a seat.” Kepler closes the folder he was reading.
Bob shuts the door behind him and takes a chair near Kepler’s desk.
Kepler pauses for several seconds before speaking: “I’ve got some bad news.” Kepler takes another second or two. He turns his gaze away before continuing. “We got hit again. IED.”
Bob clenches his jaw, and then
asks quietly, “How many, sir?”
Kepler finally turns his attention back at Bob. “Three KIA. Six wounded.”
Bob wasn’t expecting this. Not so soon. “Shit.” He stares at the floor for a bit before looking back up at the Major. “All from Wright Patt?”
Kepler nods. “Parker. Dunn. Bradford. You knew 'em?”
“I know them....” Bob says. “I know all of them. I threw against Bradford before I left. We called him Sergeant Invincible. He was fearless… a great guy. They all were.“
“I wanted you to hear first,” Kepler says.
“I appreciate that,” Bob says.
“Their bodies will go through Dover first,” Kepler says. “Then on to their hometowns.”
“Bradford’s a local,” Bob says. “He’s from Fairborn.”
Kepler nods. “They're sending a casualty notification team to his folks today, so keep this close for now.”
“We need to have a memorial service. It’s only right,” Bob says.
“I'm heading over to see the Chaplain in a few minutes,” Kepler says.
“Peters?” Bob asks.
“Yeah, Captain Peters. He’s a good man. He used to be a cop, believe it or not.”
Bob stands up. “A cop? Wonder how he ended up a chaplain?”
“I always wanted to ask him,” Kepler says. “Now’s probably not a good time, though.”
“Mind if I tag along?” Bob asks. “I’ve got an appointment to meet with Chaplain Peters later anyway.”
Kepler stands up and grabs his hat. “Be glad for you to go with me. I really didn’t want to do this alone, anyway.”
---
Bandits Baseball Field
Practice has been good. Aja has put a little more spin on his curveball. Q seems to be batting a little better, and Shinji is even a little more comfortable with hard throws heading his way. As the daylight begins to disappear, Bob calls it a day. The Bandits disperse and Bob sits with Ramiro