Here by Mistake Page 23

  Sarah slipped off her jacket and tossed it on top of Brandon’s. “Okay, that makes sense,” she said. “That’s the basement with the lights off. So . . . we can go, can’t we? Even I’m not afraid of the dark, if it’s just the dark.”

  “It’s not just the dark,” Brandon said grimly. “I think Stephen’s right, and if he is, we’re in trouble. The niche was covered with slats when we got there that day.” He pointed to the recess. “They’ve got to be there. We just can’t see them.”

  Stephen’s head snapped up. “That’s right.”

  “Can’t y’just knock ’em out of the way when y’go through?” Quint asked.

  “You don’t go through, Quint, you fly through, head first,” Brandon said. “It’s some ride.”

  Quint looked from Brandon to the recess and back. “Well . . . hell. We can’t let that stop us. We need . . . wait a second.” He ran over to the storage cabinet he had hidden the chain behind. It didn’t budge when he pushed it, and he shined his flashlight at the base. “Bolted down,” he said bitterly. “Damn it.”

  “What is it?” Brandon called.

  Quint kicked the cabinet and ran back to his companions. “Find a wrench t’unbolt that chest.”

  “What for?”

  “So we can throw it in the niche and smash through the damn slats.”

  Brandon, Stephen, Sarah, and even Reginald looked at him as if he were crazy.

  Quint growled, “Y’all have a better idea?”

  They set out to find the wrench.

  Brandon and Reginald searched the west wall, checking shelves and drawers with the flashlight. Quint and Stephen covered the east wall, inspecting similar places as best they could in the shadows. They walked the rows of tables, benches, and machines and met in the middle of the floor, with no luck. It was Sarah who, while rummaging through the cabinet they sought to move, came up with a pair of basic pliers. Quint clamped them around a bolt in the base and tried turning it. The head barely moved before the pliers slipped off.

  “Damn it, it’s not the right tool.” Quint looked up at Brandon and Stephen. “This’ll take awhile.”

  “What time is it?” Brandon asked.

  Quint shined the flashlight on his watch. “Twenty after nine. Lots of time before tomorrow’s shift, but . . . maybe we can speed things up. While I work on this, see if y’all can find something not nailed down. Something that’ll fit through the niche but heavy enough t’break the slats.”

  They hurried off to look.

  Time passed with little progress. They found nothing suitable for throwing into the niche. After ninety minutes Quint had twisted loose only one of four bolts. Brandon and Stephen were standing over him, asking to take a turn with the pliers. Sarah was pacing up and down the west wall. Reginald was sitting cross-legged in front of the niche, flicking it occasionally and watching the waves.

  After one such flick a soft glow emerged from the recess. Reginald watched in wonder as the glow gathered focus and formed an image. It was an image crossed by wide black bars, and he had to look between them. He saw a large area with crates stacked up and stairs way down at the end. Then, to his amazement, he saw three figures come down those stairs. He jumped to his feet.

  “B! B, come quick.”

  Everyone came running.

  “Shush, Reginald,” Quint said. “Someone’ll hear—” The sight of the image silenced him.

  “The picture . . . it’s moving,” Stephen gasped.

  “It’s us,” Sarah exclaimed.

  “Two weeks ago,” Brandon whispered.

  Sarah leaned in so close her nose touched the recess and made a few ripples. She jumped back and rubbed her face. “But it wasn’t like this last time,” she said. “Last time it showed us that room in New Orleans, but nothing was happening.”

  The reason struck Brandon like a thunderbolt. “Sure something was happening,” he said excitedly. “Time was going by, we just didn’t know it. There was no one in the room.”

  “Right,” Stephen said. “Now we know . . . the niche doesn’t just give a point in time. It starts at a point and plays out time from there.”

  “Plays out time t’when, exactly?” Quint asked.

  “Probably to when they go through the niche,” Brandon said, pointing to the figures in the image. “Forget the bolts, Quint. In a minute I’ll be taking off the slats from the other side.”

  Reginald reached for the Brandon in the image but drew his hand back. “B,” he said anxiously, “if the you in that picture comes out here there’ll be two of you. You’ll burn up.”

  “No,” Brandon said. “When they go through they won’t come out here. They’ll come out two weeks ago, in New Orleans.”

  “This is nuts,” Quint said. Everyone looked at him, and he threw up his hands. “I’m not sayin’ I don’t believe it. I believe it. I’ll believe anything at this point. But it’s still nuts.”

  “So . . .” Sarah asked, “when can we go?”

  Transfixed by the doings in the image, Brandon barely heard her. “What? Oh, um . . . we’ll go through right after they do so there won’t be doubles of us when we get there.”

  “Right,” Stephen said.

  They watched as the Brandon, Stephen, and Sarah in the image explored the basement. Sarah emerged from behind some crates looking shaken. (“That’s when the grizzly scared me,” Sarah said, pointing.) She walked down the middle of the basement, paused to browse some snapshots, and started walking again. She drew closer, then closer still, and stopped when she was as tall as the Sarah watching her. She looked up and down and from side to side with a puzzled expression. (“I’m trying to figure the niche out,” Sarah said.) Then Brandon and Stephen ran out of the stacks and stood with her.

  “Wild,” Brandon whispered. “They’re looking right at us, but they don’t see us.”

  “We see them,” Reginald said. “Why can’t we hear them?”

  Quint shrugged. “It’s not a TV.”

  The Brandon in the image grabbed the wide black bars and pulled them away. In his hands the black bars became slats. Quint glanced at the pliers in his hand and pushed them into his back pocket.

  “In a minute they’ll go through,” Brandon said. “All set?”

  Stephen slipped off his jacket, folded it neatly, and set it on the floor next to Brandon’s and Sarah’s. He took off his glasses and zipped them into a side pocket of his backpack. Sarah tucked her cell phone into a button-down pocket of her jeans and retied her Nikes. “My shoes almost flew off before,” she said. Stephen donned his backpack and clipped the strap across his chest.

  Brandon checked his pockets and made sure his Adidas runners were laced tightly. “Well, that’s it, I guess,” he said. “Reginald . . .”

  Reginald had backed away from the niche and was standing near the conveyor belt. Brandon went up to him and, not thinking, offered him a fist bump. Reginald grabbed the fist and pried the fingers open. Looking away, he grasped Brandon’s hand. “Thank you, B,” he said formally.

  Brandon laughed. “‘Thank you, B’? Thank you, Reginald. You saved us.”

  Reginald shrugged.

  Brandon held onto his hand. “See you again?”

  Reginald bowed his head and tried to pull his hand back. Brandon held on for a moment, then let go. He started to turn away.

  “Stop,” Reginald said.

  Brandon stopped.

  “You promised,” Reginald said, looking him dead in the eye. “No more hating.”

  Brandon gave him a nod which was almost a bow. “I promise.”

  The Sarah in the image was arguing with Brandon. He took her gently by the shoulders and moved her away from the niche.

  Brandon approached Quint and stuck out his hand. “Quint, I can’t think what to say . . . Um, thanks.”

  Quint grabbed his hand and pulled him into a bear hug. “I’ll miss the fights, B,” he said, slapping him on the back. “Now my life’ll be borin’ again.”

  Brandon held on to him. �
��I wish—”

  “No wishes.” Quint smiled. “Just remember, y’owe me a conversation about our friend, Mr. Niche.”

  Reluctantly Brandon let him go. “Okay,” he murmured.

  Stephen and Sarah quickly said their goodbyes to Quint and Reginald.

  The Brandon in the image, braced by Stephen, leaned toward them. Just when it seemed he would pop out of the niche and land on the factory floor, the image dissolved and the recess churned anew. It settled quickly with an image showing only Sarah. Quint, Brandon, Stephen, Sarah, and Reginald watched her panicked figure, face twisted, screaming in silence. She ran toward the stairs, ran back, and bolted toward them. The image vanished and the churning resumed.

  “It’s time,” Brandon said. He gave the snapshot to Quint and the thumbs-up to Reginald. He did his best to smile. “See you in forty years.”

  Quint held up the snapshot. “See y’tomorrow,” he said with a wink.

  Brandon clasped hands with Stephen on his right and Sarah on his left. He stared boldly into the recess. “Now.” They dashed forward and disappeared into the churn.

  Reginald shrieked and buried his face in Quint’s chest.

  The recess settled quickly but did not produce an image. Instead, it deepened into the amber metallic hue of the rest of the niche. Quint separated himself from Reginald and went up to it. He brushed the recess with the back of his hand. He pressed his palms to the cold, hard metal. “I’ll be damned,” he whispered.

  “Ow,” Brandon cried. He tumbled head over heels, flipped over Stephen, and landed on his back.

  “B? Okay?” Stephen asked, himself rubbing his tailbone.

  Brandon sat up slowly and nodded. “You?”

  “As soon as I find my glasses. My backpack flew off after all.”

  “Here it is.” It was Sarah’s voice. She poked her head out of the green folds of a comforter she had landed on. “It hit me in the face,” she snapped, handing it over.

  Stephen unzipped the side pocket and took out his glasses. The taped stem had come off. He put them on anyway.

  “They sit straighter on your face than before,” Brandon said, rotating his shoulders. “Can everyone stand?”

  They got stiffly to their feet. Brandon raised his head and saw the niche—shining as always and leaning against the stone wall. He went up to it and knocked on the recess. It was solid. He turned around. Row upon row of stacked crates stretched before him. The smell he recalled from his aunt’s basement filled his nostrils. A smile spread across his face.

  “Everything’s the same. We made it. We’re back!”

  “We’re back,” Sarah agreed. “But it’s not the same.” She waved her hand across piles of comforters, blankets, and pillows on the floor. “These weren’t here.”

  “That’s right,” Stephen said, flipping the quilted corner of a sleeping bag with his foot. “Where’d they come from?”

  A hearty laugh, familiar yet deeper than they had become accustomed to, cut through the stale air. A broad figure stepped out from behind the first row of stacks. His salt-and-pepper hair and two days of white beard caught the light. His gray eyes were smiling. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he said. “I’ve been waiting forty years for this.” He spread his arms and grinned. “Welcome back, y’all.”

  Brandon took an amazed step back, then ran and threw his arms around him.

  Quint laughed again. He held his friend tightly. “Welcome home, B,” he said.

  FIFTEEN

  The End and the Beginning

  They climbed the stairs to the kitchen. “Let’s sit down a minute,” Quint said. They took seats around the same table where, forty years before, they had planned their move on Kingsworth Shoes. Quint leaned back and blushed as his young friends studied him.

  Brandon started off. “I have questions.”

  “Me too,” Stephen said.

  Quint nodded. “Tomorrow, we—”

  “What happened, Quint?” Brandon cut in. “You didn’t look this old before.”

  Sarah answered him curtly. “Yes, he did. He’s the same as when we left.”

  Brandon glared at her. “No way. His hair’s grayer, and there’re bags under his eyes.” He pointed to the bags.

  “He had those before,” Sarah snapped.

  Stephen leaned across the table for a better look. “That’s right, they’re no different.”

  Quint huffed, “As I was saying, tomorrow—”

  “I think we changed time and caused it somehow,” Brandon cut in. “He looks fatter, too.” His voice became contrite. “I’m sorry, Quint. I didn’t mean to change things up and do this to you.”

  Sarah lost all patience. “You’re crazy, B. He was just as fat before.”

  Smack! Quint’s palms hit the table, and everyone jumped. “Y’all are looking wonderful, too,” he said evenly. “Now, as I was saying, tomorrow we all need to talk. It’s important. Be at my place at eleven, okay?”

  Everyone agreed.

  “Sir,” Stephen said.

  Quint was massaging the bags under his eyes. “Yes, my man.”

  “Today’s the day we left for 1965, and”—he leaned his chair back to see out the window—“it still looks like afternoon. Did we come back right after we left?”

  Quint was nodding before he had finished. “Yes. Y’all got back less than a minute after Sarah ran through.”

  Stephen gasped. “You were in the basement the whole time.”

  “I knew today was the day. I hid in the stacks with the quilts. When y’all left I threw them in front of the niche as fast as I could. I’d just finished when y’all came back.”

  Brandon flexed his shoulders and winced. “Thanks. It would’ve been some landing without the soft stuff.”

  “You could’ve stopped us going through in the first place,” Sarah said accusingly.

  Quint’s features then hardened into an expression Brandon had never seen on him. “Hold it right there, Sarah,” he said, thumping the tabletop with his finger. “I could’ve stopped y’all, but not in the first place. Remember, this was the point where time wrapped around. Y’all did your deal with the niche by yourselves in the first place. I wasn’t in the basement then. Y’all came charging into 1965 and turned it upside down, whether you wanted to or not. I and others have lived with your changes for forty years. They’re part of us. We don’t need a sermon from y’all now that it was all a screw-up. So I’m not apologizing for letting y’all go through the niche today. When it mattered—in the first place—it was y’all who made the decision. Do you read me on that?”

  Sarah paled and slid her chair back. “I’m . . . I’m . . . sorry.”

  “Sir,” Stephen said uneasily, “did bad things happen because of us?”

  Quint’s anger left him as quickly as it had come. “I don’t remember saying that. I think I just said there were changes.”

  “What changes?” Brandon and Stephen said together.

  Quint rose from the table. “Tomorrow, my place, eleven.”

  They got up and left the house. Quint walked up the driveway and raised the garage door. He backed his 2004 Acura down to where Brandon, Stephen, and Sarah were standing.

  “I was expecting the Edsel,” said Brandon, smiling.

  A faraway look came to Quint’s eye. “Best car I ever had,” he said softly. “Kept it going ’til sixty-nine, when the engine block cracked. This one’s okay, but there’s no suspense.”

  Stephen looked up from his reflection in the door. “Suspense?”

  “Hasn’t backfired once since I bought it.” He nodded to the back seat. “Y’all want a lift?”

  Brandon gave him a wave. “No thanks, Quint. See you tomorrow.”

  Quint backed into the street and drove off. Brandon, Sarah, and Stephen started for home. Brandon studied every house they passed for changes but found none. Stephen frowned as one modern car after another drove by. “Boring,” he grumbled as a 2000 Chevy Cavalier zipped up the street. “Nineteen sixty-five had a classic
every minute.” Sarah jumped with glee at the sight of a satellite dish on a house. She flipped open her cell phone and squealed when she got a connection.

  They came to Brandon’s house and stopped at the end of the driveway. Brandon traced in the gravel with his toe and tried to find words for his friends. “I hope everything’s okay for you at home. You never barked on me for what I did . . . um . . . thanks.”

  Sarah kissed him on the cheek.

  Stephen shook his hand warmly. “Wouldn’t have missed it, B.”

  At that moment the screen door of the Jones house flew open. A stout woman with curly brown hair stepped onto the landing and shook out a blanket. As she turned to go back inside she spotted Brandon and waved. “Hello, B,” she called out.

  Brandon stood as if frozen.

  “Say hello,” Sarah whispered.

  Brandon raised his arm and mimicked the woman’s broad wave. “Hi,” he called with a foolish grin.

  The woman nodded happily and went back in the house. His hand still in the air, Brandon turned to Sarah.

  “Who’s that?”

  Sarah took his arm and pulled it down. “How would I know?”

  He turned to Stephen.

  “I don’t know, B,” Stephen said slyly, “but I think she likes you.”

  Sunday, June 26, was bright and cool. Brandon, Stephen, and Sarah reached Quint’s door at ten minutes before eleven.

  Quint answered the bell, holding his coffee. “Come on in,” he said. “Time got away from me this morning. Was on the computer ’til four.” He brought them into the living room and moved two stacks of computer CDs from the couch to the end table. “Pardon me, my man,” he said, easing past Stephen to get to the kitchen. He returned with two chairs.

  Brandon flopped down happily on the couch. Nothing made him feel better than Quint’s place—in 1965 or 2005. He stretched and yawned and noticed the coffee table. For the first time he could recall it was not piled high with financial reports and business magazines. It held only a snapshot, face down, and a few sheets of paper. He turned over the snapshot. Sure enough, it was the one of him and Quint comparing biceps. Then he did a double-take. When he looked up, Quint was grinning at him.