January 21, 1952: Egypt, GA:
The red Georgia clay crunched under Fred Barrell's boots as he walked down the narrow path that led from the old farmhouse to the gleaming new structure that had risen on the horizon: Effingham Speedway. The air was cool, a rarity for the South even in January, and it carried the faint scent of pine and earth, mixing with the distant roar of engines being tuned up for the upcoming season.
Fred had been here for nearly a week, staying with his nephew James Slocum and his family in the farmhouse that had once been his childhood home. It was a good place to clear his head after the whirlwind events of the past few days. Resigning from the Toronto Wolves had been difficult, but in the end, it felt like the right decision. The uncertainty and underhanded moves by Bernie Millard had worn him down, and after what had happened to his brother Dan, Fred knew he couldn’t stay.
But what came next? That was the question that gnawed at him as he took in the sight of the speedway, still feeling surreal against the familiar backdrop of the Georgia countryside.
James had done well for himself. The speedway was the first paved track in the National Automobile Racing Federation, a bold move that was already drawing attention from racing fans across the country. The track was impressive, a testament to James's vision and tenacity, and Fred couldn’t help but feel a swell of pride for his nephew.
As he approached the grandstand, Fred spotted James standing near one of the garages, talking with a couple of mechanics. James noticed him and waved, a broad smile on his face. The young man jogged over, his excitement evident.
"Uncle Fred, you’re just in time," James said, clapping him on the shoulder. "We’re about to take one of the cars out for a spin. Want to come along?"
Fred chuckled. "I think I’ll stay on solid ground for now, thanks. But I’ll watch from the sidelines."
James grinned. "Suit yourself, but you’re missing out." He paused, then added more seriously, "I’m glad you’re here, Uncle Fred. I know things have been tough lately."
Fred nodded, appreciating the sentiment. "Yeah, it’s been a bit of a whirlwind. But this place... it’s impressive, James. You’ve really built something special here."
"Thanks," James said, his expression softening. "It means a lot, coming from you. Listen, I’ve been thinking... I could use a partner. Someone who knows how to handle things, keep the operation running smoothly. And I can’t think of anyone better than you."
Fred raised an eyebrow. "Me? A racing promoter?"
James laughed. "Why not? You’ve got the smarts for it. And I’ve always thought you had a good head for business, even if you were wrapped up in baseball."
Fred smiled but didn’t answer right away. He was tempted, sure. But there were other factors at play—Tillie, the kids, the life they’d built in Toronto. And then there was Jack Carlisle, who had appeared out of nowhere a few days ago with a very different kind of proposition. The CIA... Fred hadn’t told anyone about that yet, not even James.
Before he could say anything, the roar of an engine echoed across the track. One of James’s cars shot out of the garage and onto the track, tires squealing as it accelerated down the straightaway. Fred watched it go, feeling a mix of admiration and trepidation.
"You’ve got a good thing going here, James," Fred finally said, turning back to his nephew. "But I’m not sure if it’s the right fit for me. I need some time to think about it."
James nodded, his expression understanding. "Take all the time you need. The offer’s open, whenever you’re ready."
Fred spent the rest of the day at the speedway, watching the cars circle the track and talking with the crew. By the time evening rolled around, he felt a bit more at ease. The weight of his decision still pressed on him, but being around family, seeing the fruits of James’s labor, had been good for his soul.
Later that night, back at the farmhouse, Fred found himself sitting on the porch with a glass of bourbon in hand. The night was cool and clear, the sky full of stars. The sounds of crickets and the occasional distant engine drifted through the air. It reminded him of the simpler times before the war, before baseball had become a business instead of just a game.
As he sat there, lost in thought, a familiar voice broke the silence.
"Mind if I join you?" Jack Carlisle stepped out of the shadows, his presence as sudden and unexpected as it had been days before.
Fred looked up, surprised but not entirely shocked. "You’re like a ghost, Jack. Always showing up when I least expect it."
Carlisle chuckled and sat down beside him. "Old habits die hard. You’ve had some time to think, Fred. Any closer to a decision?"
Fred swirled the bourbon in his glass, considering his words. "I’m tempted, Jack. You know I am. But... I’ve got a family to think about. Tillie... she’s not going to be thrilled about me jumping back into the spy game."
Carlisle nodded, his expression serious. "I understand that. And I wouldn’t push you if I didn’t think it was important. The world’s changing, Fred. The stakes are high, and we need people we can trust."
Fred sighed, leaning back in his chair. "I know. And that’s what makes it so damn hard."
They sat in silence for a while, the night enveloping them in its quiet embrace. Finally, Carlisle stood up, placing a hand on Fred’s shoulder.
"Take your time, old friend. But don’t take too long. The world’s not waiting."
With that, Carlisle slipped back into the shadows, leaving Fred alone with his thoughts once again.
The next morning, Fred packed his bags and said his goodbyes to James and his family. He promised to stay in touch and to seriously consider James’s offer. But as he drove away from the farmhouse, the weight of his decision still hung heavy in the air.
January 22, 1952: Toronto, ON
When Fred returned to Toronto, the city felt colder, more distant. It wasn’t just the weather; it was the uncertainty that clung to him like a shadow. He pulled into the driveway of their home and sat in the car for a few moments, staring at the house where Tillie and the kids were waiting. He knew he had to talk to them, to lay out the choices before him. But he wasn’t sure how they’d react.
With a deep breath, Fred finally stepped out of the car and headed inside, determined to face whatever came next.
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The next morning Fred Barrell sat at the kitchen table, nursing a cup of coffee as the morning light filtered through the frost-covered windows. Tillie bustled around the kitchen, preparing breakfast for their three children before they headed off to school. The clatter of plates and the hum of conversation filled the room, but Fred’s mind was elsewhere, turning over the decisions that lay ahead.
The time in Georgia had been both comforting and disorienting—comforting because it had brought him back to his roots, and disorienting because it had stirred up so many possibilities he hadn’t previously considered. The trip had left him with two distinct options: return to the world of intelligence with the CIA, or dive into the burgeoning world of stock car racing with his nephew James.
Fred took a sip of his coffee and glanced over at Tillie. She was in the middle of instructing Hobie on how to properly pack his lunch. It had been a conversation they’d had countless times before, but Fred couldn’t help but notice how easily Tillie handled the routine, how she kept everything in their household running smoothly even when his mind was miles away.
After Carlisle’s visit in Georgia, Fred had been torn. The idea of working with his old friend again had its appeal—there was a part of him that missed the adrenaline and the sense of purpose he’d felt during the war. But then, there was Tillie, who had made it abundantly clear after the war that she’d had enough of espionage and danger, enough of the uncertainty that came with it. Their children were growing up fast, and both Benny and Hobie had found their place in the world of hockey, which brought its own set of demands and commitments.
Fred’s thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the front door closing. Junior had already left for school, taking college classes in the offseason, and now Benny and Hobie were heading out, their voices echoing down the hallway as they debated the merits of snap shots versus wrist shots. Fred smiled despite himself—his sons were becoming just as passionate about hockey as they were about anything else, and it was clear they had potential in the sport.
Tillie sat down across from Fred with her own cup of coffee, studying his face for a moment before speaking. “You’ve been quiet since you got back from Georgia,” she said, her voice gentle but probing.
Fred sighed, running a hand through his hair. “There’s a lot on my mind, Tillie. I’ve got some big decisions to make, and I don’t want to rush into anything.”
Tillie nodded, taking a sip of her coffee. “I know. But you’ve never been one to sit still for long. What are you thinking?”
Fred hesitated for a moment, then decided it was time to lay it all out on the table. “Carlisle came to see me while I was in Georgia. He wants me to join him at the CIA.”
Tillie’s expression hardened slightly, her lips pressing into a thin line. “The CIA?” she asked, her voice carefully neutral. “You mean more of the same cloak-and-dagger stuff you did during the war?”
Fred nodded. “Yeah. He made a good case, Tillie. Said there’s a new threat out there, and I could be of use again.”
Tillie was quiet for a moment, staring into her coffee cup as if it held the answer to her thoughts. Finally, she looked up at Fred, her eyes firm. “Fred, we’ve been through enough. You’ve been through enough. I’m not sure I can go through that again—waiting, wondering, worrying if you’ll come back.”
“I know,” Fred said quietly. “And that’s why I haven’t made any decisions yet. There’s something else, too.”
“What is it?” Tillie asked, her tone softening slightly.
“James offered me a job with NARF,” Fred said. “He’s got a lot on his plate with his father-in-law being sick, and he could use a partner. He said he thinks I’d make a good businessman.”
Tillie raised an eyebrow, a slight smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “A businessman, huh? I can see that. You’ve always had a good head on your shoulders, Fred. But is that what you want?”
Fred leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling as if the answers were written up there. “I don’t know, Tillie. Part of me thinks it might be nice—something different, something away from baseball. But I’ve spent my whole life in sports. It’s what I know.”
“Maybe that’s exactly why it’s time for a change,” Tillie suggested. “You don’t have to decide right now, but whatever you choose, make sure it’s something you want, not just something you think you should do.”
Fred nodded slowly, appreciating Tillie’s wisdom as always. “You’re right. I need to figure this out, but I wanted to talk it over with you first. And the kids too. This decision affects all of us.”
“Good,” Tillie said, reaching across the table to squeeze his hand. “We’ll figure it out together.”
The two of them sat in comfortable silence for a moment before Fred spoke again. “I think I’ll head over to the rink today, watch Benny and Hobie practice. See if that gives me some clarity.”
Tillie smiled. “You do that. And remember, whatever you decide, I’m with you.”
Fred finished his coffee and stood up, feeling a bit lighter than he had in weeks. He still had decisions to make, but with Tillie by his side, he knew he’d find the right path. As he grabbed his coat and headed for the door, he glanced back at her, grateful for the steady presence she had always been in his life.
Outside, the January air was crisp, and Fred took a deep breath, feeling the cold bite at his cheeks. He looked up at the gray sky, knowing that change was coming, but feeling ready to face it. One step at a time, he thought to himself as he made his way to the rink.
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Fred Barrell (l) talking with Jack Carlisle in 1952
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