Here by Mistake (11 page)

Sarah shut her eyes. “B, you’re so dumb sometimes.”

“Then what?”

“Well, you could try shutting up once in a while.”

Brandon threw open his door and jumped out. He stormed over to the service drive, turned on his heel, and stormed back. He hopped in the car and slammed the door. “What d’you mean, ‘shut up’?”

“I mean just that—shut up. Stephen knows what happened in the park. And he knows why it happened. He doesn’t need you telling him every day.” She took out her pack of towelettes and pulled one free. She wiped Brandon’s face with it. “Stephen’s hurting, B,” she continued, more gently. “He’s super smart, so we forget he’s a kid. He’s twelve, and it’s not easy.”

“I’m trying to make him feel better.”

“I know. He knows it too. He’s not mad at you. But when you go on and on about how they were wasting him you’re causing him grief.”

“Then . . . what do I do?”

Sarah tugged lightly on his ear. “You’re not listening,” she cooed. “Shut up.”

“Shutting up isn’t doing anything.”

“Yes, it is. Today on the boat I didn’t talk to Stephen. When he talked I just listened.”

“What’d he talk about?”

Sarah raised her shoulders. “The swamp, mostly. He liked the alligators and the eagle. He talked a little about the fight.”

Brandon straightened up. “What’d he say?”

“He said he was really scared when the big, ugly one was choking him.”

The sight of the hulking teenager with his hands around Stephen’s neck came blazing back to Brandon.

Sarah touched his cheek to reclaim his attention. “He wouldn’t tell you that,” she whispered.

“What? Why not?”

“Because you like to act tough. And he doesn’t want you thinking he’s soft.”

“Soft? He fights great for a little guy. And anyway, I was . . . scared too.”

Sarah reached up and smoothed his hair into place. “Both of you can tell me that, but not each other. Want to help Stephen? If he says something, listen to him. Don’t talk so much.”

“What good’s that?”

“B, just try it.” Sarah smiled, putting her face in his. “You can’t do any worse with him than you are doing.”

Brandon was not convinced, but he decided to think about it. He followed Sarah out of the car and up the steps to the apartment.

The next morning, Quint was in the backyard working under the Edsel’s hood. The engine had been idling smoothly when, suddenly, it accelerated to a ferocious roar. The car shook fiercely and flung Quint away a moment before the hood crashed down. The engine cut out with a backfire. Quint sat up on the grass and waited for his head to clear. He gave his car a greasy thumbs-up.

Inside the apartment, Sarah was stirring awake during the episode. She screamed when the car backfired.

Brandon ran out of the bathroom. “What’s wrong?”

“What’s wrong?” Sarah moaned. “I thought we were under attack.”

Quint bounded up the steps and came through the door. “She’s soundin’ better every day.” He peeked in the kitchen, where Stephen was getting breakfast. “Coffee smells good. Let’s eat.”

“Yes,” Sarah mumbled.

They took their seats in the kitchen. Stephen filled four bowls with Cheerios and set out the milk. The bottle almost slipped out of Brandon’s hand when he poured some on his cereal. “Quint,” he said, “why’s the milk in a glass bottle?”

Quint was crunching his Cheerios. “Why not?”

“Back home it comes in a plastic bottle. Or a carton.”

Quint thought about it. “Maybe glass holds the cold longer when the man drops it off.”

“The man?” Sarah asked.

“The milkman. Drops it off every mornin’ in the box on the patio. Y’all are late sleepers and don’t see him.”

“I wondered what that box was for,” Sarah said.

Quint stopped his next spoonful halfway to his mouth. “Y’mean y’all don’t have milkmen?”

“No. We get it at the store.”

“Milkmen.” Brandon smirked. “You don’t have remotes, but you have milkmen.”

“Imagine that,” Quint said without missing a beat, “puttin’ milk before something as important as a TV remote control.” He took the pot off the stove and poured himself some coffee. He blew on it and took a sip. “Outstanding, my man,” he said to Stephen. “Give Sarah y’recipe.” Then he turned serious and said, “Be sure t’put y’bundles together before tonight. I’m takin’ care of some odds and ends today. We leave tomorrow at nine.”

Early that evening Brandon was on the couch watching TV. The news came on with the same announcer from two days before. The man’s hair was now brown, his face was pink, and his suit had gone from green to blue. He looked almost human.

News from Washington and Baton Rouge took up most of the program. Then the announcer read a brief item from notes, “Californian Craig Breedlove set a new world’s record for land speed today on the Bonneville Salt Flats in Utah. Breedlove’s custom-built vehicle,
Spirit of America
, was powered by an Air Force surplus J-79 jet engine. In two runs the twenty-eight-year-old daredevil reached a combined average speed of 600.601 miles per hour.”

Brandon put his head back and laughed out loud.

Quint walked through the door an hour later. Still on the couch, Brandon turned around. Their eyes met.

“See the news?” Brandon asked.

Quint nodded. “Watched it with my dear friend Gabriel. He was in a good mood ’til the report of a certain race out of Utah. Seems he bet some dumb sucker Craig Breedlove wouldn’t hit 600.601 miles per hour on the nose. But 600.601 it turned out t’be. So now poor Gabriel’s out a hundred dollars.”

“That’s too bad.”

“Heartbreakin’,” Quint said, dabbing a dry eye with his handkerchief. “But he’s a stand-up guy who settles his debts. ’Specially when the sucker he owes is standin’ right there. Sooo . . .” He reached into his pocket and pulled out something green. He spread out the something to reveal five twenty-dollar bills.

The sight of money had never made Brandon so happy. “So we’re set,” he exulted.

Quint gave the thumbs-up. “Tomorrow’s a go.”

Quint was up before dawn. He dressed in the dark and stepped gingerly over Sarah and Stephen. He was reaching for the doorknob when his foot came down on a shin, which jerked away. He lurched and fell on his tailbone with a thud. “Damn it,” he whispered, sitting up. Brandon also sat up. There was a moan from Sarah and, “What is it?” from Stephen.

“Nothing,” Quint whispered. “It’s early. Go back t’sleep.” He put his hand on Brandon’s shoulder. “Sorry, B. I didn’t see y’there.”

Brandon’s eyes were closed. “Where’re you going?” he asked hazily.

“T’get my bookkeepin’ money from the bakery. We’ll need it.”

“I’ll go too.” He yawned.

Quint shook his head. “No, not for this. It’s way early. Sleep ’til it’s light, then load the bundles in the car. I’m walkin’ t’the bakery so I don’t wake up the neighborhood.” He found his footing and stood up. “I’ll bring back breakfast.”

“Okay,” Brandon said, lying back down.

Quint found the knob and opened the door. “Y’know, B,” he whispered, “y’must be sleepy if you’re doin’ what I say without a fight.”

Brandon didn’t answer; he was already asleep.

Quint stepped out on the balcony and closed the door softly behind him. He went quietly down the steps.

By seven everyone was up. Brandon and Stephen brought their bundles down to the Edsel and loaded them in the trunk. Then Brandon ran back to get Sarah’s. She was still working on it.

“You’ve been packing since yesterday,” he complained.

“Chill, B. Give me five minutes.”

Brandon walked down the steps. He noticed the milk box on the patio and raised the lid. Sure enough, there was a cold quart inside. He brought the bottle up to the apartment and placed it in the refrigerator. Then he heard Sarah call out, “All set.” He walked into the living room to find her dragging her bundle to the door. It was bigger than his and Stephen’s put together.

“What’s this?” he exclaimed. “You got the same clothes we did.”

Sarah smiled sweetly at him. “I’m bringing some blankets in case we have to sleep in the car. And a pillow. And some towels and soap, and shampoo. Some toothbrushes and toothpaste, plates to eat on, water glasses, and knives and forks. A few pots and pans. And a few other things. They might come in handy, and I’m sure you didn’t think of them.” She smoothed her hand over his cheek. “Thanks so much for bringing it down for me, B.” She walked into the bathroom and closed the door.

Brandon glared after her. “Thanks so much, B,” he mouthed to the bathroom door. Then he hoisted the bundle on his back and staggered to the balcony. He pounded down three steps and stopped to shift the load. Two steps later he stopped to shift it again. Halfway to the patio his muscles were screaming, and in a rage he almost pushed the bundle over the railing. Making it to the last step, his foot slipped on the iron and he went tottering across the patio.

Stephen was sitting behind the wheel of the Edsel, his nose in the owner’s manual. Looking up, he jumped out of the car and ran over to Brandon. He grabbed part of the load and helped maneuver it to the Edsel. When the bundle hit the trunk, both he and Brandon collapsed on the grass. Stephen burst out laughing. Brandon was furious and wanted to stay that way, but hearing Stephen got him laughing too.

“Sarah travels prepared,” Stephen gasped.

“Uh-huh.” Brandon coughed. “She came here with just the clothes on her back. Now she’s got more than Quint.” He grabbed the Edsel’s bumper and pulled himself to his feet. “Just like my mom. At home we’ve got this huge walk-in closet. It’s packed with her stuff. My dad’s got two suits on the end.”

Quint turned the corner of the building and, seeing Brandon and Stephen, walked over. “What’re y’doin’ on the ground, my man?” he asked Stephen, taking his hand and pulling him up. “Bundles in the car?” he asked Brandon.

“Yeah.” Brandon smirked. “So’s half your apartment.”

Quint glanced in the trunk and gave the big bundle a push. “Sarah’s?” He smiled.

“She’s starting a walk-in closet,” Stephen said.

Quint closed the trunk and held up a bag from the bakery. “Last time for beignets. Let’s eat.”

Five minutes later they were sitting around the kitchen table. The beignets were warming in the oven. Stephen’s coffee was brewing on the stove.

“Those bruises are lookin’ better,” Quint said. “Y’all doin’ okay?”

“Yes,” Brandon and Stephen said together.

“Can I get a book to read on the trip?” Sarah asked. “It would help take my mind off things.”

“Sure,” Quint said. “Pick out whatever y’want.”

Sarah replied meekly, “All your books are on sports. I mean a novel.”

Quint shook his head. “No novels here.”

“Can I buy one?”

“No.”

“Please,” she begged. “Just a paperback. I still have some one-dollar bills.”

“No. Sarah, listen. We don’t have money for novels. This trip’ll be a stretch. And keep y’own dollars ’til 2005. We can’t chance gettin’ picked up for passin’ funny bills. We can’t be havin’ any contact with the police. We need t’remember what’s important here.”

Sarah bowed her head. “Okay.”

Quint reached into his pocket and brought out a ring of keys. “Faye gave me these the other day, t’keep ’til I drive her north. These’ll get us in the house in Rollin’s. I’m expectin’ the day we arrive t’get y’all through the niche and start headin’ back. That’s what we need t’be thinkin’ about.” He set the keys on the table.

The round brass tag stamped BIRMINGHAM caught Brandon’s eye. “Wait a sec. Those are the keys I took from your house . . . I’ve got those keys in my pocket.”

“What?” Quint asked.

Brandon brought out his keys. He held the tag on his ring next to the one on Quint’s. “Look,” he exclaimed. “My tag’s not shiny, but that same little piece is broken off under the M.”

“He’s right,” Stephen gasped. “They’re the same keys.”

“Impossible,” Quint huffed.

Suddenly Brandon yanked his hand back. His keys hit the table. “Ow,” he cried. “They burned me.”

Sarah took his hand and turned it over. Then she looked back at the table and let out a shriek.

A pencil-thin line of smoke was rising from Brandon’s keys. Before anyone could say a word, another line of smoke appeared, and just as quickly still another did. An acrid smell began filling the kitchen. Brandon waved the smoke out of his face and glimpsed the marbled pattern of the tabletop through his keys. “They’re disappearing,” he cried.

Everyone watched as the keys grew fainter and fainter. In a few seconds they were gone. All that remained were a scorched spot on the table and the awful smell in the air. Sarah rushed to open the window.

Quint stammered, “They . . . th-they . . . ”

“So that’s what happens,” Stephen said. “It makes sense.”

“What does?” Sarah asked, wiping her eyes.

Stephen tapped the scorched spot lightly with his finger. “There’s only one set of those keys. We had two because we came through time. One set had to go, and that’s what just happened. The keys from 1965 are still here, and they’ll age into the set B had.” He fell silent. And then he trembled.

“What?” Brandon asked.

Stephen gripped the table to steady himself. “I was just thinking about us. What if we go back to 2005 and come face-to-face with . . . ourselves. What’ll happen?”

“You mean, the same thing that happened just now?” Sarah cried.

“I don’t know,” Stephen said ominously. “And I don’t know what to do about it before we jump through the niche.”

Quint brought the Edsel to a roaring start at nine o’clock, and they were off. They took North Peters Street to Elysian Fields Avenue and got on Interstate 10.

“I almost forgot, we need more food,” Quint said, giving his face a little slap. “I know a place on the way.”

They turned off I-10 at Crowder Road and drove for two blocks, pulling up opposite a gray cinder block building with no sign. The front windows were completely covered with posters announcing food specials.

“Sit tight,” Quint said. “I’ll be quick.”

“Let me—” Brandon began.

“No,” Quint said. He got out and slammed the door.

Brandon fumed as Quint trotted across the street to the store. “He doesn’t even listen. I want to see what they have.” He threw open his door and jumped out.

“B,” Sarah said anxiously, “you’ll just make him mad.”

Brandon didn’t reply. He ran across the street and entered the store.

Sarah sighed and told Stephen, “I’m getting him before Quint thumps him.” They got out and ran to the store. First inside, Sarah spotted Brandon in the canned goods aisle. She hurried over to him.

“Where’s Quint?” she asked.

“In the bathroom,” Brandon said sharply. “I’m waiting for him.”

“B, let’s go now.”

“No.”

Sarah took him by the arm. “This way,” she said. “Come on, Stephen. We’re going.”

At that moment a shout came from the back of the store: “Hey!”

Brandon, Sarah, and Stephen spun around. A huge man in a soiled gray apron was pounding down the aisle toward them. His beard was bushy black and his eyes were red.

“You!” the man shouted. “What y’hangin’ ’round here for?” Brandon stepped forward. “We’re waiting for our friend. He’s in the bath—”

“Shut up, boy. Move aside,” the man barked. He bumped past Brandon and Sarah and stood over Stephen. “I asked y’a question. What y’hangin’ ’round here for?”

Stephen shrank from him. “We’re . . . like my friend said, we’re w-waiting . . . ”

Brandon squeezed himself around the man and stood in front of Stephen. “We’re together,” he cried. “Our friend’s in the bathroom.”

The man inhaled loudly and roared, “I ain’t talkin’ t’you, boy! Y’got a problem mindin’ y’own business?”

Brandon pushed out his chest and roared back, “Call me ‘boy’ one more time, you fat—”

“Hold it.” Quint ran down the next aisle and came up behind Stephen and Brandon. He took them by the shoulders and pulled them behind him. “What’s the problem, Fatty?”

The man raised his sweaty face. “Quint, these yours?”

“All three.” Quint nodded to Sarah, who edged around Fatty and joined her friends. “What’s the problem?” he asked again.

“What’s he doin’ here?” Fatty growled, pointing at Stephen.

“My mistake. Everyone was supposed t’sit tight while I came in,” Quint said, with a blistering look at Brandon. “They’re leavin’ now.”

“Oh, no,” Fatty said. He waddled forward, crowding everyone to the checkout counter. “No, no, I’m losin’ goods t’thieves ever’day, ever’day, Quint.” He scowled at Stephen. “Gi’ me th’ bag.”

“You’re crazy, Fatty,” Quint told him.

Fatty put his sweaty, bushy face right in Quint’s. “I’m lookin’ in that bag or I’m callin’ the cops, Quint. I ain’t askin’ permission.” He stuck his palm out to Stephen. “Giv’ it here.”

Shaking all over, Stephen slipped the left strap off his shoulder. As he was doing the same with the right, Fatty grabbed the left strap and yanked it. Stephen lost his balance and hit the floor. Fatty threw the backpack on the counter.

“Hey!” Brandon yelled. He rushed past Quint and shoved Fatty in the chest with both hands.

Fatty swayed, but his great weight kept his feet in place. He bared his teeth at Brandon and swung his arm back to slap him.

“Hold it!” Quint yelled. He grabbed Brandon around the waist and started dragging him to the door. “Sarah, come here!”

Brandon struggled to free himself. “Let go, Quint! Let me go. Get off me.”

Quint pulled him up next to the door. “Hold it open,” he told Sarah. She did as he said. Quint turned Brandon around and flung him outside. “Go,” he told Sarah, and she followed.

Brandon righted himself and ran back to the door. Quint blocked him. Sarah grabbed his arm and tried to pull him away.

Quint’s temples were pulsing. “Sarah,” he said, looking Brandon in the eye, “keep him outside or I swear t’God I’ll flatten him myself.” He slammed the door in Brandon’s face.

Fatty roared from the checkout, “Quint, I don’t want fightin’ in th’ store.”

“Oh, shut
up
,” Quint said, returning to the counter. “Y’brought all this on with y’nonsense. Check the damn bag so we can go.”

Fatty huffed and pulled the backpack’s Velcro fasteners apart. He flinched at the ripping sound. “What th’ hell’s this stuff?” he muttered. He groped inside the pack and brought out the
Twentieth Century Digest
. “Y’read this, boy?”

“Yes,” Stephen murmured.

“Hah. A scholar. Well, well.”

“What’d y’expect?” Quint said acidly. “He’s not goin’ t’be a grocery clerk.”

Fatty turned his red eyes on Quint and then resumed his search. He brought out Stephen’s notebook and
The Almanac of American Politics 2005
. “Hah,” he scoffed, dropping them on the counter. He turned the backpack upside down and shook it.

“Gee, nothin’ stolen,” Quint said. “Happy?”

Fatty wasn’t. He scooped up Stephen’s property and threw it at him. “And I ain’t expectin’ t’see y’in here again.”

Stephen’s things scattered over the floor. He bent down and picked them up.

“Not t’worry, Fatty,” Quint said. “He’s got too much pride t’be seen in this stinkhole.”

Fatty bristled and stuck out his chin. “Did I hear y’right?” he roared.

“I imagine so,” Quint roared back. “Unless you’re deaf as well as fat.” He steered Stephen out the door and slammed it behind them.

Brandon was pacing back and forth in front of the Edsel. He looked up and saw Quint and Stephen crossing the street. “Stephen,” he yelled. “Are you okay? Can you believe that guy? We should go back in there and—”

Stephen was gasping and clutching his things to his chest. Quint held him close and leaned into Brandon. “B, shut—the— hell—up.” He told Sarah, “Get him out of here. Y’all walk ’round that block.” He pointed to it. “Don’t come back for fifteen minutes.”

“Quint,” Brandon exclaimed, “I’m trying—”

Quint released Stephen and took Brandon by the shoulders. He turned him around and shoved him in the direction of the block. “Go. Fifteen minutes.”

Brandon started to come back but stopped when Quint took a step in his direction. Sarah grabbed his arm and pulled him toward the block. He stamped away with her.