Here by Mistake Page 2

  “How’d you meet my Aunt Faye?” Brandon had asked him during a Fourth of July picnic in 2004.

  “Oh, Faye and my folks in New Orleans go way back,” Quint had replied. “When I was five my momma died, and she and Faye were this close.” He held two fingers together. “My daddy then had to raise me by himself, and he wanted me as independent as I could be as fast as possible. Faye thought the world of my daddy, but I still remember her giving him hell, telling him to ‘Let Quinton be a little boy’ and ‘Let Quinton play’ and ‘Let Quinton have fun.’ My daddy’d tell her, ‘Hell, no, Faye, he needs to grow up fast and handle this world. It’s my job to make him do it.’”

  Brandon smiled as he pictured the scene. “Who won?”

  “My daddy. When I was little he always told me, ‘Now you listen to your Aunt Faye.’ I called her that then. ‘She’s the nicest lady you’ll ever meet, after your mother.’ But he didn’t listen to her about me. He had me going to school when I was sick as a dog and doing chores ’til bedtime. He was a shipping clerk, and he taught me his job. By the time I was sixteen I knew it as well as he did. I liked working with the numbers the best.”

  It all sounded grim to Brandon. “Your dad was rough.”

  “My daddy was the best. Thanks to him I was always ready for what came my way. When I was eighteen I had my own place and was supporting myself. And I put myself through college.”

  “What’d Aunt Faye think about all that stuff?”

  Quint smiled warmly, and then he laughed. “She didn’t like my daddy’s hard-drivin’ ways, but I think she liked the result. When she moved to Rollings she hired me to drive her up here, which I did. Then I went back and went to college. The very day I graduated she called and offered me a job managing her money. I said ‘Hell, yes’— but in nicer words than that—and packed my things. I came to Rollings and never left.”

  At fifty-eight Quint lived the way he wanted, and that way was informal. His wardrobe consisted of sport shirts and khakis, summer and winter. His tables and chairs were stacked with financial reports and computer CDs. A can of Pledge and a dust rag draped over the top of it gathered dust in the living room.

  “What a mess,” Brandon would rag him when he visited.

  “Suits me,” Quint would reply, his gray eyes smiling. And it did. Broad but not fat, with tousled salt-and-pepper hair and usually two days’ beard, Quint looked a lot like his place.

  Brandon, Sarah, and Stephen walked up to Quint’s door and rang the bell. Quint opened the door, holding his coffee. “B, Sarah. How y’all been? Come on in.”

  Brandon liked how Quint always had time for him. Teachers, his track coach, even his parents might be too busy, but never Quint. He told himself it was because Quint set his own hours, but he knew it was more than that. He and Quint were friends. Each was interested in how the other was doing. Brandon didn’t feel the same way about any other adult. And, in spite of his ragging, he loved the informality of Quint’s house. It made him feel free in a way he didn’t at home.

  Sarah knew Quint through Brandon. She liked him, too, but didn’t like the clutter. Stephen was new to him.

  “And who do we have here?” Quint asked.

  “Stephen Walker,” Brandon said, as Quint and Stephen shook hands. “I met him on the track.”

  “Of course you did. Stephen’s the man you told me almost beat you in the sprints. How about it, Stephen, going to beat my man B?”

  “Soon.” Stephen smiled.

  “In your dreams.” Brandon smiled back.

  Sarah raised the dust rag from the can of Pledge. “This was here two weeks ago.” She sighed. “You need a wife to look after you.”

  “I had two of them,” Quint said. To Stephen he added, “Not at the same time, mind you.”

  “What happened?” Stephen asked.

  “They divorced me. The first one said she couldn’t take it anymore. The last one called me a neat freak.” He raised his shoulders. “She was one strange woman.”

  Quint stepped into the kitchen and called back to the living room: “Let me take a wild guess: Dr. Peppers all around?”

  “Yes, Quint, like always.” Brandon laughed.

  Quint returned with three Dr. Peppers. He moved the stacks of financial reports from the sofa and chair to the coffee table, and everyone sat down. “May I?” he asked, picking up Stephen’s backpack. Stephen nodded. Quint reached into the pack and brought out two books. “The Almanac of American Politics 2005 . . . Twentieth Century Digest . . . Wow, Stephen, do you read these for fun?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll hand it to you. I just read the reports I need to for my work.”

  Stephen pointed at Quint’s arm, where something green was peeking from under his half-sleeve. “What’s that, sir?”

  “Quint’s the name, Stephen. If y’all start calling me ‘sir,’ I’ll be feeling the need to straighten up this place. Which I don’t want to do. This thing,” he continued, pulling up his sleeve, “is one of my big mistakes. I’ve made my share.” He showed Stephen a tattoo of a green chain stretching around his bicep. “I was eighteen when I got this. For maybe a year I thought it was the best thing I’d ever done. After that I wondered what the hell had gotten into me. I’d get rid of it if it wasn’t such a project to do it.”

  “It’s cool, Quint,” Brandon said. “Like I told you, I’m getting one either like that or with thorns.”

  “And like I told you, it’s a lousy idea, B,” Quint said. “People look at these things and say ‘thug’ to themselves. They look down on you before they even know you. And besides,” he added slyly, “you don’t have the muscle to make it look good.”

  Brandon laughed. “The hell I don’t,” he said, using a favorite phrase of Quint’s. He knelt beside Quint, rolled up his sleeve, and flexed his bicep.

  Quint made a muscle, which made Brandon’s look puny. “What is that, B, a walnut? Sarah, get the camera. This needs to be recorded.”

  Sarah took Quint’s Polaroid camera from the shelf above the couch. “Are you sure you want this picture, B?” She giggled.

  “You just don’t know power when you see it,” Brandon said, straining to make his muscle big. “Take the picture!”

  “Yeah, quick,” Quint said, “before he gets a hernia.”

  Sarah snapped. The camera flashed, whirred, and rolled out the photo.

  Brandon liked Quint’s Polaroid because it made a picture right away. “Your old-fashioned camera’s cool, Quint,” he said as he took up the photo. Slowly the image of two grinning friends and two mismatched biceps came into view.

  “You keep it, B,” Quint said as Brandon studied the snapshot. “Keep it in a secret place. So you won’t feel embarrassed.”

  They sipped their drinks and talked about different things: the school year that had just ended, some nasty teachers, a nastier baseball coach. Stephen answered a couple of questions about the Twentieth Century Digest. Brandon fell silent, looking as if he wanted to raise a subject but didn’t know how.

  Quint gestured for him to speak. “What’s on your mind, B?”

  “Quint . . . please, I want the key to Aunt Faye’s base—”

  He stopped when Quint shook his head. “Why did I even ask?” Quint said. “B, you’ve been after me for five years to get in that basement. Now you’re bringing friends along to ratchet up the pressure. I’m telling you, nothing’s changed from when you came at me last month. Your aunt was particular about all that stuff, even though she probably didn’t go down in that basement but two or three times in all the years. Her will’s finally going to be read after all the legal delay. Everything down there’s got to be catalogued and given out the way the will says. Anything not listed in the will’s got to be sold and the money given to the charities Faye chose. That’s what she wanted.”

  “I just want to look,” Brandon pleaded. “I won’t take or break anything. What’s the big deal?”

  “There’s no big deal; it’s just what she wanted, and we’
re going to respect that. What I never understood is why you’re so keen on it. Most things’re packed and stacked, and you can’t see what’s there without tearing the crates apart. Once and for all, B, forget it. You’re not getting down there.”

  Brandon saw it was no use, and he didn’t want to make Quint really mad. Conversation turned to Regents Exams, grades, summer plans. Then Sarah noticed it was two o’clock. Brandon made a trip to the bathroom, and then they headed out. Quint held the door for them. “To quote the old TV show, ‘Y’all come back now, hear?’” he said cheerfully as they left.

  Twenty minutes later they were back on Brandon’s porch in the plastic chairs. But something was now different. Brandon was acting happy one moment, angry the next. And he wasn’t paying attention to his friends.

  “What’s with you, B?” Sarah snapped. “You’re in your own world. So you didn’t get the keys. It’s not the end of everything. Get the paper so we can check out some movie times.”

  “I got the keys.”

  “What?”

  Brandon’s hands were folded in his lap and his eyes were on them. “When I went to the bathroom I opened the big closet back there. There’s a cardboard box with all kinds of junk; keys, too.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a ring of keys. The ring had a round brass tag stamped BIRMINGHAM. “I saw these once before when I was there. One of these’ll get us in the house. Another’ll get us in the basement.” He looked up at his friends.

  Sarah snatched the keys out of his hand and shook them in his face. “And what do you think Quint will do when he can’t find these?” she said. “It won’t take him long to figure it out.”

  “These are spares,” Brandon said defensively. “Quint keeps the ones he uses in his office. He probably hasn’t gone in that box in a year. And if something wasn’t there he’d . . . probably think it was lying around somewhere. Everything’s so scattered in that house.”

  “That’s dreaming and you know it,” Sarah told him. “Quint can push his hand into any pile of junk in that house and pull out whatever he’s looking for. The place is scattered; he isn’t.”

  “I thought you were such good friends, B,” Stephen said.

  Brandon’s face flushed. “We are.”

  “He tells you no, so you just sneak around his house and take what you want,” Stephen said, looking him in the eye. “Grimy, B.”

  “That’s right,” Sarah said. “Some friend.”

  Brandon stood up and shoved his chair back. “You sound like I killed somebody,” he said angrily. “Okay, just go if that’s what you think.” He pointed to the street.

  “You didn’t even act like this with Jonesy this morning,” Sarah said. “You’re just mad because you know yourself it was grimy.”

  Stephen nodded, and Brandon wheeled on him. “If I’m so grimy, go before I rub off on you.” He grabbed Stephen’s backpack from the table and threw it in his lap. “Are you deaf? Beat it! Or do I have to throw you out?” He stood over Stephen and pointed to the street again.

  Trembling, Stephen slid his chair back and got up. He walked stiffly away from Brandon, around the table, and down the steps.

  “Stephen, please stay,” Sarah said as he passed her. Stephen didn’t answer. When he reached the street he hitched his backpack to his shoulder and started up the hill.

  Sarah motioned Brandon to the other end of the porch. He joined her, saying, “Okay, okay, but where’s he—” He stopped when Sarah slapped his face so hard he nearly lost his balance. He straightened up, gaping at her.

  “Now you shut that mouth of yours and listen,” Sarah said in a whisper that cut through Brandon more than Jonesy’s yelling ever had. “After the Algebra Regents on Tuesday I saw Stephen and we talked. I ragged on him for not hanging out with anyone much. He said it was really hard for him to do that. He said the kids in school didn’t like him and talked about his glasses and his books. He said they messed up his backpack and stole his stuff. And he said he only felt safe from all that when he was with you.”

  “He knows I don’t mean it. He knows me.”

  “I know you, since third grade. He knows you six weeks.”

  “He says I’m grimy.”

  “Listen to me. Stephen told me more on Tuesday. He told me things about himself, in a way like he was embarrassed. His old school tested his IQ last year, and it was through the roof. His parents both teach college in Albany, and they read all the time like he does.”

  “So why’s he embarrassed?”

  “Because he’s got no friends. Think about it, B. He’s an eighth grader who took sophomore classes this year. His glasses are so thick you could start a fire with them. Who’s he going to hook up with?”

  Brandon said impatiently, “What kind of friend calls me grimy?”

  “The best kind, if it’s true,” Sarah said, leaning close until her nose touched his. “You were mad at yourself before he said that, and you know it. If you don’t want to lose a good thing, you’ll run after him.”

  “Run after him!”

  “Yes, Stupid!”

  They looked up the hill, where Stephen was passing the second house. He walked behind a hedge a few feet off the road, but Sarah pulled Brandon to the other end of the porch where they could see him. Stephen took off his glasses and drew his sleeve across his eyes. Then he came out from the hedge, hitched his backpack to the other shoulder, and continued up the street.

  “Oh, no,” Brandon said softly. He called out, “Hey, Stephen, wait up, please, Stephen.” He ran down the steps and up the hill.

  Sarah watched from the porch as Brandon caught up with his friend. Stephen tried to walk around him, but Brandon talked and gestured and took him by the arm. He pulled him over to the grass where they sat down and talked some more. After a few minutes they came together down the hill and up the porch steps. They sat in the plastic chairs again.

  “I’m sorry,” Brandon said, looking quickly at Sarah and Stephen and then at his feet. “I dumped on both of you. I’m twisted up over the keys.” He took a basket of silk flowers off the table and started fidgeting with it.

  “It’s done, B,” Stephen said.

  “Yes,” Sarah said. “You’re really hung up on that basement, aren’t you?” She looked off in the direction of Cherry Boulevard. “The harm’s done with the keys. I know we shouldn’t, but since you have them . . . do you want to see the basement?”

  Brandon dropped the basket. “For real?”

  Sarah turned to Stephen. “What do you think?”

  As before, Stephen appeared nervous but fascinated. He ran the straps of his backpack through his fingers as he thought about it. Then he said, “Okay.”

  THREE

  The Niche

  Faye Birmingham’s house was the biggest in Rollings. To Brandon it had always looked like a castle, except there was no moat. The gray stone façade rose for three stories and was topped with battlements. In his mind’s eye, six-year-old Brandon had seen knights shooting arrows at an invading army from those battlements. At six and a half, he had prowled the yard with his lance on a mission for the king. At seven he had even started to dig the moat, a project his mother quickly put a stop to.

  Faye Birmingham and her husband had been collectors—of everything, it seemed to Brandon. The house’s twenty-three rooms were filled with things he had never seen anywhere else. Pink glass chandeliers hung in the entrance hall. A huge grandfather clock with sailing ships carved into its cabinet faced the main staircase. Tables inlaid with colored stones filled the living and dining rooms. Paintings instead of pictures hung on the walls.

  Everything looked fancy—and old, but nothing looked worn out. And some of the things were really strange. On visits to his aunt when he was little, Brandon had explored the house and tried to make sense of it all. Once he found a spinning wheel in a second-floor closet and asked his mother what it did. She did her best to explain, but he still couldn’t quite get his mind around it.

  Walking along Cherry Boulevar
d with Sarah and Stephen that afternoon, Brandon recalled the spinning wheel and smiled to himself. The house was cool. But the basement would have the coolest, strangest stuff—the treasure. He was finally going to see it, and now he was old enough to make sense of it all.

  They arrived at the house and walked around to the back door. Brandon brought out the keys and pushed one into the lock. It wouldn’t turn, and he pulled it out. “Here’s the same kind of key with more rust on it,” he said. He slid it into the cylinder and turned until he heard a click. He pushed the door open.

  They stepped inside and closed the door behind them. The room was the kitchen, and it was big. Oak cabinets, granite countertops, and stainless steel appliances covered three walls. One doorway opened to the entrance hall and another to the dining room. The shades were drawn, but the dining room’s formal table and twelve chairs were visible in the shadows.

  Stephen whispered, “What a place.”

  “No need to whisper; we’re the only ones here,” Brandon said crisply. “No need to stay in the dark, either.” He flipped the switch above the telephone stand, and the kitchen blazed with light.

  Sarah stepped into the entrance hall and looked up at the chandeliers. “Where did they come from?”

  “Venice, my mom said,” Brandon replied. “I know. Lots of rooms and all kinds of stuff. We could go through the whole house, but it’s getting late. The basement’s over here.”

  He showed his friends a nook with a steel door in the wall. The door had two locks—one in the knob and one above it. After three guesses Brandon found the key for the knob, but it turned very hard. “C’mon,” he said. “When’s the last time someone opened this, anyway?” Then he heard a click. He chose the shiniest key on the ring for the lock in the door, which turned out to be the one. He released the deadbolt and pulled the door open.

  The three looked down into complete darkness.

  “The windows’ve always been blocked up,” Brandon said. He felt for a switch on the wall and flipped it, and lights below came dimly to life. Brandon went down first. Stephen hitched his backpack to his shoulder and went next. Sarah followed, pulling cobwebs she couldn’t see out of her face.