Here by Mistake Page 15

  Brandon was peering at some activity about two hundred yards ahead on the other side of the road. People were milling around two stone buildings and several large tents. A Ferris wheel poked above the tent tops. He pointed to the goings-on. “What’s that?”

  Quint looked up. “A carnival, looks like. Too cold for one as far as I’m concerned. Y’all wouldn’t catch me on that Ferris wheel.”

  “Um,” Brandon said, “if I can’t help you with the car . . .”

  “No.”

  “ . . . can we go up there and look around?”

  Quint eyed him skeptically. “Remember what happened the last time y’all went off on y’own?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well?”

  Brandon shrugged and slumped in his seat. Quint watched him for a moment and then turned around. “Y’all want t’see the carnival?”

  Stephen and Sarah nodded hesitantly.

  Quint sighed and whispered, “Oh, what the hell.” He took out his wallet and withdrew a one. “For sodas,” he said, handing it to Brandon. “Come back in an hour. Let Stephen time it. Don’t draw attention t’y’selves or get in t’any trouble.”

  Brandon tucked the bill into his shirt pocket. “Thanks, Quint.” He grinned.

  The three got out of the car and started up the road. Brandon was shifting uncomfortably inside his Salvation Army jacket. He observed his friends, dressed as he was in shapeless navy blue. “We look like three garbage bags with legs,” he snapped.

  They came to the beginning of a low stone wall that had cars parked along it. Stephen paused at a red 1960 Chevrolet Corvair until Brandon called to hurry him along. Another minute’s walk brought them to a gate in the wall and a plaque that said: CASTLETON WINERY. Next to the gate a plywood sign festooned with purple streamers and balloons announced the “Castleton Fall Festival.” They walked through the gate.

  Brandon led his friends to the first tent, which had three huge barrels (“Oak casks,” Stephen said) propped on their sides, each with a spigot. Pictures of grapes and posters explaining how wine is aged were set up on easels. The three moved on to the next tent, which had wine presses and posters explaining how juice is made. They poked their heads inside the third tent, which was all about fermentation. People were crowding around the exhibits.

  Brandon rolled his eyes. “Bor-ring.”

  The last tent had refreshments. There was plenty of soda in the Edsel, so they got hot dogs. Brandon paid the lady sitting at a folding table and started to walk away. She called him back and gave him his change. “Twenty cents each,” he told Stephen, shaking the coins in his fist. “No wonder Quint freaks about our prices.”

  They left the tent area and came to a wooden platform about ten feet high with rough-hewn steps leading to the top. Beyond the platform stretched a field with three rows of flags. Signs on the rows gave the distances: green flags were fifty yards out, yellow flags were seventy-five, and red flags were a hundred.

  “What’s with the flags?” Sarah asked.

  A bearded man in boots overheard her. “Apple-throwing contest,” he said loudly.

  “Apple throwing?”

  “Yessiree. Whoever lobs an apple the farthest wins a wine basket.”

  Brandon spun around. “When’s it start?”

  “Fifteen minutes.”

  Sarah grabbed his arm. “Forget it, B. We don’t need any wine.”

  “Who cares about wine? I want to win. I can throw better than these dorks.”

  “I’m sure you can. You’re Mr. Medal in baseball. But we can’t draw attention. Remember?”

  “I—” Brandon said, snatching his arm away. He saw Stephen shaking his head.

  “She’s right, B,” he said.

  Brandon looked longingly at the platform and bowed his head. “Okay.”

  Sarah smoothed his hair into place and slipped her arm through his. They walked over a grassy ridge to the Ferris wheel and watched as the ride started. Two gondolas were occupied: one with a young couple and the other with two boys about ten years old; all four were shivering.

  They continued on to the larger of the two stone buildings and found a small crowd at the base of the steps. A tall, middle-aged man with a deeply tanned face and the whitest teeth Brandon had ever seen stood in the middle of the crowd. He was dressed in a tie and topcoat, not the flannels of those around him. People were handing him slips of paper, and it looked like he was signing autographs. Brandon stopped a man walking away with one.

  “Who’s that?”

  “Austin Stanhope.”

  “Who?”

  “Stanhope, the former governor,” the man said, looking at Brandon as if he were a little slow. “No one knew he was coming.”

  Brandon turned to Stephen. “Former governor. You know about that stuff. Is this guy worth an autograph?”

  Stephen craned his neck for a better look. “I don’t know, B. I’ve heard the name.”

  “Let’s skip the autograph,” Sarah said. “We don’t need somebody like that looking us up and down.” She took Brandon’s arm and pulled him past the crowd.

  A flagstone path brought them to the last attraction at the festival: a pony ride for little kids. Parents and their children were lined up along a rail fence surrounding a small corral. Brandon, Stephen, and Sarah watched as the attendant seated a boy of about four on the pony and walked him twice around the circle. The pony, big-boned and spirited, wanted to prance rather than walk. The attendant kept both hands on the bridle as he made the passes.

  After watching two kids ride the pony, Brandon stretched his arms and looked over at the wooden platform. The apple-throwing contest was underway. The bearded man in boots spat in his hands, wound up, and hurled an apple over the field. It dropped a yard or so past the yellow flags. A tall, square-shouldered man with red hair threw the next one. It soared higher than the first but fell a bit short of the yellows. Brandon watched the throws with a kibitzer’s eye.

  “Be back,” he suddenly said. “I’m walking up the grass a ways.”

  Sarah gave him a challenging look.

  “I won’t throw anything,” Brandon snapped. “I just want to see the contest from there.”

  He stamped off. Following a trench that tracked the western edge of the field, he arrived at the red flags just as an apple fell a foot shy of them, the best throw yet by far. A cheer went up from the platform.

  “What are you clapping for?” Brandon muttered. “None of you can throw.” He plopped down on the grass in a huff.

  At the corral the attendant had just seated a small girl on the pony and fixed her feet in the stirrups. He gave her the reins and tugged on the bridle to begin the ride. Suddenly the pony rammed forward, knocking the attendant into the fence. His legs buckled and he hit the ground. The pony squealed and reared, and several parents rushed into the corral. One man seized the bridle but slipped on the mud and lost his grip. Two women grabbed for the reins but missed, and the pony bolted out of the gate. It ran up the flagstone path past the wooden platform and charged into the field.

  The girl screamed and let go of the reins. Bounced hard, she flew off the saddle but didn’t fall free. Her right foot stuck in the stirrup, and the pony dragged her at a gallop as she shrieked and screamed.

  Onlookers shouted helplessly. One man on the platform yelled, “STOP” and stupidly threw an apple at the animal; it missed by ten yards. Roused by the noise, Brandon jumped up and saw the pony heading for the red flags. He hopped the trench and sprinted for the crossing point. Reaching it not quite in time, he leaned and made a flying leap—and caught a piece of the saddle.

  The pony charged on, dragging Brandon and the girl. Twenty yards past the flags it slowed and finally it stopped. Brandon found his footing and grabbed for the bridle, but missed. The pony squealed and reared, and came down almost on top of him. Brandon seized the reins, but the pony bucked and yanked him off his feet. He hit the ground on his back as a hoof pounded down next to his face. Scrambling back up, he blocked th
e pony, shifting and angling for an opening. Finding one at last, he leaped up and caught the bridle with both hands, giving it all his weight. The pony let out a piercing squeal, but its head came down. The rearing and the running were done.

  From the corner of his eye, Brandon saw three big men running up. The biggest one took the bridle; the second took the reins. The third man tried prying the girl’s shoe from the stirrup. When this didn’t work he unlaced the shoe and eased her foot out. A woman in red flannels ran up and knelt beside the girl.

  “Be still, dear,” she whispered. “Lie flat ’til the ambulance comes.”

  The girl was gasping and sobbing. She yelled out when the woman gently straightened her left arm. Her reddish hair was caked with mud, and there was a bleeding cut running from her left ear to her mouth.

  Almost everyone from the festival was rushing to the scene. The former governor—Brandon had already forgotten his name—arrived panting and wheezing. He fell on his knees where the girl lay and took her face in his hands.

  “Vicki, Vicki, my God, are you all right?” he cried, tears streaming down his face.

  “I’m a nurse, Governor,” the woman in red flannels said. “Don’t let her move ’til the ambulance comes.”

  The governor put his face next to the girl’s and whispered in her ear. His trembling hand squeezed hers.

  Brandon had a few scrapes, and his jeans and jacket were streaked with mud. The nurse tried to make him lie down to await the ambulance. “No,” he said, pulling away from her. The crowd pressed in on him, cheering and slapping him on the back. Sarah ran up, threw her arms around him, and, for the first time ever, kissed him on the lips. Stephen grabbed his hand and shook it warmly.

  Then everyone became quiet. The people around Brandon moved to either side as the governor came up to him. He took Brandon’s hand in both of his.

  “Thank you. My Vicki—she’d have been killed. Thank—” he said haltingly. “I . . . must talk with you after the ambulance comes.” He let go of Brandon and hurried back to the girl.

  Oh, no, Brandon thought. He pushed through his well-wishers and took hold of Stephen and Sarah. “We’ve got to beat it right now!”

  At that moment Quint was walking through the gate in the stone wall. He passed a young couple with a stroller on their way out and overheard the man talking.

  “Can you believe that blond kid? I never saw anything like it.”

  Quint froze at the words “blond kid.” Then he ran and searched the tents and the area around the corral. Coming to the wooden platform, he looked across the field to where most of the people were. Three familiar figures were running in his direction. “Oh, hell,” he said. “Now what?”

  Brandon reached him first. “Quint,” he gasped, “we’ve got to get out of here.”

  Quint took him by the shoulders and turned him around. “What’s with the mud? What’y’all been doin’?”

  Brandon grabbed his hand and pulled him a couple of steps toward the gate. “There’s no time to talk. An ambulance is coming, and maybe police. Let’s go.”

  The expression on Quint’s face could have peeled paint, but the word “police” had gotten his attention. “Y’all come on then.”

  They ran for the gate. Two young men saw Brandon coming and cheered as he passed them. The bearded man in boots saw him, too, and, clasping his hands over his head, yelled “Hooray!” Quint looked at them as if they were crazy, but he didn’t slow down. He dashed out the gate and led Brandon, Stephen, and Sarah to where he had parked the Edsel. The doors flew open and they jumped inside. The key turned, the engine roared, and they were off.

  “Y’all get below the windows,” Quint ordered them.

  They drove slowly back the way they had come. No sooner had they passed the festival when a siren split the air and flashing lights appeared in front of the Edsel. Quint pulled to the shoulder as a police cruiser and an ambulance flew past. Then he got back on the road.

  Stephen and Sarah were talking excitedly from their crouched positions in back. They told Quint how the pony had bolted and dragged the girl and how Brandon had stopped it. Sarah gushed that Brandon had saved the girl’s life. And Stephen added that the girl was the daughter of the former governor of Pennsylvania.

  Quint’s temples were pulsing. “Y’all can sit up now,” he said as they passed the turnoff for I-81.

  “You missed the highway,” Brandon said.

  “I didn’t miss anything. We’re goin’ t’have this out.”

  They drove another mile and stopped at the edge of a meadow. Quint stepped hard on the brake and leaned into Brandon. “Do y’have some plan t’screw everything up, or do y’just make it all up as y’go?”

  “I did what I had to,” Brandon cried.

  “Had to, my eye. I told y’not t’draw attention to y’selves. I told y’we can’t afford questions, police, anything like that. Y’could’ve let someone else get the pony. But no, not Mr. Hot Shot. Mr. Hot Shot’s got t’be front and center.” He grabbed Brandon’s jacket and shook him. “Now look—Mr. Hot Shot’s covered with mud.”

  Brandon smacked Quint’s hand away and threw open his door. Quint grabbed for him, but Brandon jumped out of the car and ran into the meadow. Quint flung open his door and went after him. Stephen and Sarah scrambled out of the back seat and followed them.

  Quint caught up with Brandon and seized him by the arm. Brandon yanked himself free. “I had to do it,” he yelled. “I had to.”

  “I thought y’had t’get back home,” Quint shot back. “So what do y’want? To screw around here, or get back home?”

  Sarah got between them and pointed her finger at Quint’s nose. “You need to shut up,” she yelled. “You weren’t even there, and you don’t know what you’re talking about.” She backed him up several steps. “For your information, no one else was close enough to the pony. Only B was close enough and fast enough, so what was he supposed to do, Stupid?”

  Quint stopped and stood his ground. “He was not supposed to get involved,” he yelled back. “Y’said y’self it was a pony ride for little kids, a damn pony. It would’ve slowed on its own.”

  “It was a big pony; it was almost a horse,” Stephen said calmly. “And that girl really got hurt. Sarah’s right. You didn’t see it, and you don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  His face purple, Quint stepped to Stephen and leaned over him. “Is that a fact?” he roared.

  Stephen stood on his toes and put his face in Quint’s. “YES,” he roared back.

  Quint stumbled backward and fell hard on his tailbone. He looked up at Stephen with wide gray eyes.

  Stephen straightened his glasses and looked down at him. “I thought you were better than that,” he said coldly.

  “He . . . is,” Brandon said, amazed by what he had just seen. “If Quint’d been where I was he’d have chased the pony too. I know it.”

  Quint got up and slapped the grass off his khakis. “Y’do? Don’t be so sure. If I were in y’all’s shoes and had t’get back home, I’d do what I had t’do t’get there.” He scraped a burdock off his sleeve and flicked it away. “No matter what y’all say, I don’t believe that girl would’ve died. B, y’damn near set the police on us. If y’had, they never would’ve let y’all near the niche. It would’ve been all over. All over. Y’all should think about that.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Sarah said.

  “What?”

  “She means,” Brandon said grimly, “I had to go after the pony even if it killed our chance to get home.”

  Quint looked at Brandon as if he couldn’t have heard right. “That’s . . . the way y’all feel about it?”

  “Yes,” Stephen said.

  “Yes,” Brandon said.

  Tears were rolling down Sarah’s face. “Yes,” she gasped. “Go ahead and leave us if it bothers you so much.” She put her arms around Brandon and clung to him.

  A siren rose in the distance and died away. Quint looked off in its direction and ran
his hands back through his hair. “Well, I will be damned,” he said. He took two steps in the direction of the Edsel, stopped, and turned around. “Well, I’m goin’ t’New York. Y’all comin’?”

  Brandon, Sarah, and Stephen followed him to the car and got in.

  Quint turned the key and the engine started smoothly. He reached over and fingered the muddy sleeve of Brandon’s jacket. “Today’s a hard day,” he said quietly. “What if we just make it out of Pennsylvania and find a motel? We’ll clean up and rest, and tomorrow we’ll be in Rollin’s. Y’all okay with it?”

  “We’re okay,” Brandon said.

  They drove back to the turnoff and got on I-81. Quint’s makeshift repair had worked. Climbs and descents were now fairly smooth, even at low speeds. They made decent time and passed Wilkes-Barre before dusk.

  Clouds rolled in, and rain flecked the windows. Brandon leaned his head against the glass and closed his eyes. Sarah curled up in her corner. Stephen read David Copperfield by flashlight for a time, then put it aside and sat in silence.

  They passed Scranton and picked up I-84. The rain gave way to a heavy fog, and Quint slowed to half the speed limit. After an hour of crawling, the Edsel’s headlights cut through the mist and blazed a sign that said: “Welcome to New York—The Empire State.” Quint cleared his throat.

  “What d’y’all think, should we stop like we said, or make Poughkeepsie?”

  They were the first words spoken in the car since Wilkes-Barre. Brandon, mildly surprised, said, “Sure.” Stephen said, “Yes, Poughkeepsie.” Sarah, half-asleep, mumbled, “Okay” and turned over on her side.

  They crossed the Hudson River at Newburgh and followed Route 9 to Poughkeepsie. They stopped at a market on Worrall Avenue and bought bologna, cheese, and bread for dinner. Less than a minute after leaving the market, Quint spotted the floodlit black-and-white sign for Binder’s Motel. He turned into the lot.

  They carried the bundles into the room—Number 7 this time. When they were settled, Brandon made the sandwiches and gave out the Dr. Peppers. He ran out to the Edsel when he realized he had forgotten the bottle opener. No one spoke during dinner.