by Nathan Roden
“Jesus!” Joshua screamed. He knew the girl’s name but he couldn’t remember it.
“Ma'am. Are you all right?”
Jill Englemann slowly pulled her glove away from her face. She was giggling.
“Jesus Ma'am?” she said.
“That is how I choose to be addressed from here until eternity.”
She slowly turned her glove around, holding a softball.
“That’s going to leave a mark.”
Jill looked at Joshua, who continued to stare at her.
“I think I’m ready to get up now,” she said.
“Oh,” Joshua said.
“Sure. Sorry.”
He extended both of his hands to her.
Joshua helped her up a little awkwardly, not knowing where to put his hands. They faced each other, closely. Joshua held onto Jill’s elbows. Her glove was against his chest.
“You have a very pretty swing,” Jill said, as she smiled up at him. ”But you know what, Babe Ruth?”
“What?” Joshua asked.
“You’re out.”
Joshua laughed.
He looked into the girl’s beautiful dancing eyes and he knew in that moment that he was looking at his wife, because sometimes things happened like that for the Babe.
Not George Herman “Babe” Ruth.
Joshua “Babe” Babelton.
The inevitable nickname found him on the first day of first grade. That day he became the third generation “Babe” in his family.
It was at a policeman's picnic when he was five years old that he first heard his father called “Babe” by some of his fellow officers. It turned out that it had been his father’s nickname for most of his life—however, his wife, Joshua’s mother, detested the name and refused to use it. Her fear of also being referred to as “Babe” led her to forbid the use of the name in her presence.
Joshua’s first grade teacher gave voice to the nickname at the eight fifteen roll call on Joshua’s first day of elementary school, no doubt thinking that she was remarkably clever. Joshua really didn’t mind, for now he had a brand new bond to share with his father. This was all good for a six-year-old living in St. Louis, Missouri.
An eleven year old named Babe living in Boston, Massachusetts was an entirely different matter.
Boston, a city rich in its baseball history and love of the game, was buried under nearly one hundred years of futility— a futility that was almost as famous as the team itself, known and joked about throughout the country. And to make matters as bad as they could be, the Red Sox faithful was forced to watch the rival New York Yankees victimize the Boston team year in and year out on their own path to fame, fortune, and glory. Each and every year further cemented the Boston failures—failure that was so entrenched that it was spoken of like a form of insanity. Season after season came and went without hope of success. Yankee fans delighted in their gloating and many made signs to carry to the ball park to remind the Boston fans that they would fail. And fail again. And again.
Because of The Curse. The Curse of the Bambino. The curse of “The Babe”. The trade of Babe Ruth from Boston to New York was looked upon as the beginning, middle and eternal continuation of Boston’s Baseball Demise.
It would be a few years before it was good to be a Babe in Boston.
Within a week of the softball incident, Babe and Jill were inseparable.
Jill’s mother had passed away prematurely only five years prior. Jack Englemann, Jill’s father, hit it off with Babe immediately. They discovered early on that they were the two biggest fans of the movie “Heaven Can Wait” in the entire western world. They quoted lines from the movie in each other’s company until Jill insisted that they had a rare, joint mental illness.
Jack had a daughter named Jill. Babe found this to be hilarious, but he never said so. Helen Englemann chose the name for her daughter and was fairly insistent about it, according to Jack. Perhaps Helen somehow knew that the bond between Jack and Jill would need to be particularly strong. Helen died after a long battle with an auto-immune disorder that baffled the local medical community for years. Jill was fifteen.
Jill shared her mother’s love of vintage clothes, which she not only kept, but altered and wore on a regular basis. She never looked out of fashion but instead looked like a classic movie star who had simply stepped off of the screen of a downtown theater—from one generation, into another. Babe noticed that when Jack saw Jill dressed this way, his reaction was bitter-sweet.
Two years passed quickly. Babe and Jill were engaged and very much in love, despite the fact that the running joke between them was that Babe was marrying her to get Jack. They dreamed, and they laughed, and they talked about buying a home and having three or four kids. After some good-natured debate, Jill promised Babe that he could name his first son after Joe Pendleton, Warren Beatty’s character in Heaven Can Wait. His price would be that he didn’t get to name any of the others.
“Okay, okay,” Babe said.
“Let me have a little Joe Pendleton and you can name the rest of them after vegetables if you want to.”
There was a lot of laughter and no tears.
Until the world fell apart.
It began with the fatigue—followed by the nausea, the loss of concentration, and the loss of motor skills. Jill Englemann’s body was at war with itself. She was incredibly strong and stubborn, and tried with all her might to fight off the nameless assault—the invisible demon that was not satisfied with stripping the life of Helen Englemann. It wanted her daughter as well.
Jill quit the softball team midway through her junior year. She was too weak to contribute, and the thought of taking a roster spot from another girl made her miserable.
Jill’s symptoms came and went. The planned date of her wedding approached and the small ceremony went on as scheduled. For months, Jill watched the bond of optimism grow between Babe and her father until she was unwilling to do anything to threaten it. The tears that she shed during her wedding came from a place that she would never share with anyone.
She was constantly bombarded with feelings of guilt, though being guilty of nothing.
Jill took an extra year to graduate with a degree in elementary education. Her roller coaster of symptoms became more pronounced—the peaks never achieving the previous height, the valleys dipping ever lower. The young couple seldom spoke about the future. The subject of children was never brought up again. The rare times that they made love, during those times when Jill’s health was at a peak, they were very careful about birth control.
Babe and Jack spent hours together in doctors’ offices and hospital waiting rooms. Babe knew, without it ever being said, that this was the same path Jack had already been down with his wife—the huddled whispers of doctors. The glances at the two men that said what no one would ever voice.
We don’t know what this is, or what to do about it.
Endless attempts at encouragement and comfort meant little, yet had to be voiced.
Doing everything we can. Consulting with the finest minds in the field. Another expert flying in next week. Another battery of tests on Thursday.
Babe scraped by to obtain graduate degrees in psychology and criminal justice. His grades slipped from excellent to barely above average. He never knew how many grades he was gifted by professors that knew about his wife’s condition. He went to work in Boston as a probation officer, until Jack intervened.
Jack Englemann was the Special Agent in Charge of the Boston FBI office. For two years he spent night and weekend hours devising a strategy to confront an issue that was running unchecked in his jurisdiction as well as the rest of the country.
The number of questionable acts of violence involving new recruits had taken a sharp upturn. Young men that had grown up with realistic games of violence and war simulation were now doing multiple tours of duty in war zones and hostile territories and then returning home to apply for positions in law enforcement. The FBI, along with other Federal, state, and local ag
encies, was facing a dilemma they had not prepared for.
Enter Research Consultants, Inc.—the pilot program conceived by Jack Englemann and submitted for Agency consideration.
The plan: a small office whose mission involved the preliminary testing of FBI applicants in the Massachusetts, New Jersey, Connecticut, upstate New York, and Maryland areas—a staff team of psychologists to work to evolve the testing and evaluation procedures involved in pre-employment screening. Jack proposed that the office be private sector, outside of direct oversight by the FBI, where the bureaucracy would not be a burden to its operation. The expenses for the business were to be covered through a consultant budget allowance.
The most controversial part of the proposal was Jack’s suggestion that the focus of the office be on much younger psychologists than the Bureau currently utilized. Younger psychologists, Jack reasoned, had a better perspective into the mindsets of the current generation of candidates than the generation that grew up with checkers and kickball.
Jack Englemann had twenty six years’ worth of good reputation within the FBI, and the D.C. office very much wanted this problem to go away. There was some opposition to Jack’s plan— the private sector component and young, inexperienced psychologists heading the list of objections. The decision to proceed was made shortly after Jack addressed the panel with the words,
“Do something, lest ye do nothing.”
Research Consultants, Inc. was launched. The top position was filled by Jack’s friend and college roommate, Jordan Blackledge. Twenty-eight year old Boston College professor Tom Reardon was hired for one staff position. The other position was offered to twenty-eight year old Joshua Babelton.
Babe recognized this as nepotism to the extreme, but he had no strength, or any position that he could think of, to argue with it. Jack insisted that Babe was perfectly qualified for the position.
Babe wished that he was in a position to celebrate. For one thing, he had just tripled his salary.
But on the list of wishes, this one was merely added to the pile. In place of celebration there was at least a sense of relief. He would now be able to handle the bills from the doctors and the hospitals and the pharmacies—bills that he knew Jack had been discretely paying.
As if on cue, two instances of questionable violence occurred within eight months of RCI’s existence. A raid in Baltimore resulted in the death of an innocent sixty one year old man. A young officer was under investigation. A raid in suburban Boston resulted in the shooting death of a fourteen year old girl—the lethal rounds coming from the gun of yet another young Special Agent. That incident was also under investigation, and the agent on administrative leave.
After three years on the job, Babe came home one evening to tell Jill that her birthday gift would be early this year. Her birthday was still two months and thirteen days away.
Babe had saved every cent that he could for three years. He walked Jill to his car and talked her into being blindfolded. This was no simple task, as his hands were shaking like a palsy patient’s. He drove for a while, stopped, and helped Jill from the car. He had her stand on the curb facing the street. He told her not to look around while he removed the blindfold.
Jill was a good sport and did as Babe asked.
He took a ring box from his pocket and placed it in her hands. She smiled at him, a little confused. She was more confused when she opened the box to find— a key.
She looked up at Babe and smiled.
“Honey, am I missing something?” she asked.
Babe said the words he had been rehearsing for ten months.
“Turn around.”
It was more house than he could afford, but Babe knew he did not have forever. A home with a yard and a garden was Jill’s dream. And he would move heaven and earth, and eat beans and weenies and Ramen noodles to give it to her.
Jill was in a bad place just two nights ago. Babe ran his fingers through her hair as she lay still. Her breaths came slowly with a slight rattle. Her eyes opened with a flutter.
“Babe,” she whispered.
“Will you promise me something?”
“Of course,” Babe said, “Anything. Anything at all.”
“Will you stay with Daddy? He loves you. I know he does. He’s had to be strong. He’s tried to be my Superman for a long time. But I… I hear him. He cries sometimes. He needs somebody. He needs you.”
“I love Jack, honey. I’ll stay with him. Yes,” Babe said.
Jill closed her eyes.
“Yes, Jesus Ma’am.”
Babe blinked away tears and quietly cleared his throat.
“Yes, Jesus Ma’am.”
Three
“Sir? Please?”
Babe jumped when Jordan Blackledge elbowed him. He looked up and to his left at the impatient flight attendant who wanted nothing more than for him to move his seat to the upright position and fold up his god-forsaken tray table, since everyone knows that a tray table will cut your ass right in half during a commercial airliner landing. As Babe put away the in-flight magazine and folded the table, he saw the narrowing eyes and look of general disgust directed his way from the Assistant Special Agent in Charge of the Boston FBI office, Russell Eckhart.
Eckhart was not happy being assigned to this meeting in Phoenix. He was not about to say so, since complaining about Jack staying home with his dying daughter would not exactly be a great career move. But everyone that knew Russell Eckhart knew that he hated almost everything.
He had not always been that way. In fact, Russell considered his memories to have come from at least two separate lives—a fairy tale turned nightmare, followed by—whatever today was.
His childhood mirrored that of most any average, American, middle-class young boy. He lived with his mother and father in a suburban Virginia neighborhood where he played with his cousins and the other neighborhood children. Russell was a popular child and his father often played right along with them.
One cold, March night, however, everything in Russell’s world went wrong. His father visited him in his room and before he left, he told Russell, “This is our little secret, okay Champ?”
The secret turned into many secrets and went on for almost a year. But another eight year old “Champ” in the neighborhood was not as good at the game of secrets.
Russell’s mother met Graham Stemple of the FBI at about the time that her husband was being sentenced to life imprisonment without parole. Stemple was older, with the slow, confident demeanor of a plantation owner and a southern gentleman’s drawl that captivated Mrs. Eckhart. Mrs. Eckhart maintained a tiny waist that supported a sizable rack that captivated Mr. Stemple.
Russell vehemently denied every inquiry about his being molested by his father. He never told— anyone. But he knew that Graham Stemple knew—somehow. And even before he became Graham Stemple’s stepson, Russell knew that Stemple hated him for it.
He was his mother’s “Little Russ”, and he was guilty of being “average.” But average was nowhere near good enough for Graham Stemple. Russell’s education, and his brief work history, were all selected and orchestrated by his step father at great cost. During Russell’s first year of junior high school, and the night after Stemple first gave his wife a matching pair of black eyes, Stemple began a cycle of physical abuse of his stepson. The abuse was followed by long periods of apparent normalcy, and Russell watched his mother lose her mind while she pretended that the violence never happened. Stemple quickly learned to avoid their heads and faces whenever his rage consumed him.
Stemple pushed his stepson through every single minimum requirement for an entry position with the FBI, often strong-arming grades or recommendations with threats or intimidation. Stemple’s own career climb took him as high as the number three man at the training academy at Quantico, and this assured him a constant position of power over Russell. Stemple retired a year before his mandatory age, stepping immediately into a position of lobbyist and consultant for a defense contractor—one that had a repu
tation for skirting the edges of ethical behavior. Stemple began drinking more and more, and continued to develop a circle of influence that included well-placed politicians, all of whom were throwbacks to an era dominated by powerful bullies.
Russell Eckhart coped with his past the way he had learned from his mother—by trying to pretend that it never existed. The more time he spent away from his mother and step father, the more successful he became at his delusion.
And then Research Consultants Incorporated happened.
Jack Englemann.
The one man that out-ranked him at the Boston Bureau.
The goddamn teacher’s pet. Boy Scout. A favorite in D. C. . Mister Revolutionary Thinker. How the fuck do I compete with that? If this monstrosity of an idea succeeds, I never get that position. If it fails, I am nothing more than a part of a losing team.
The worst part?
The Boy. The god-damned Boy. Englemann’s own tragic, sob-story son-in-law. The anointed one—the prodigy. The Poster Child, helping Daddy to ‘save’ the Bureau from itself.
The Boy whose existence screamed at Russell Eckhart, reminding him every day that he was the property of Graham Stemple.
Look, Russ. See what Jack’s little boy can do? Can you make Daddy Stemple proud, Russ?
Joshua Babelton, the good son; the star that cast its shadow over the underachieving, average, and boring Russell Eckhart. Russell was no one. He was nothing. Graham Stemple spread his cheeks one day and shat Russell Eckhart into the ranks of the FBI.
After arrival at the Phoenix airport, Babe, Eckhart, and Jordan Blackledge were escorted to the Phoenix FBI office and ushered into a conference room. There, they were introduced to three members of the Phoenix Bureau: The SAC, Special Agent in Charge, the ASAC, or Assistant SAC, and an FBI psychologist. Three other men were introduced. Cole Palmer, his father, and one of his uncles.