Here by Mistake Page 4

  Stephen shrugged. “I just do.”

  “So we’re here because I talked about 1965?” Brandon half-yelled. “I said I wanted to see it. I didn’t say I wanted to live here. I was born in 1991 too.” He stopped and pressed his palms to his temples. “What am I saying? It’s 2005, and that’s it.”

  Stephen got off his chair and hitched his backpack to his shoulder. “Maybe we should look around. Maybe there’s someone who can tell us something.”

  Sarah got up too. “Sounds like a plan. B?”

  “Sure.”

  Brandon and Stephen pushed open a pair of sliding wood doors in the wall adjacent to the niche. They stepped into the next room, which had no furniture. They crossed to the room after that, which also had no furniture. They kept going and found other rooms much the same. Table lamps were resting on floors. Rolled-up rugs were piled up against walls. Packing boxes were everywhere.

  “Looks like somebody’s moving,” Brandon said.

  Sarah peered nervously around every corner. “I wonder if anyone’s home,” she kept saying.

  Finally they came to the kitchen. Brandon snickered at the stove, refrigerator, and dishwasher, all in vivid pink. His eyes followed Sarah’s to the wall above the telephone stand. There a calendar showed the month of November 1965 with the legend: COMPLIMENTS OF THE PIGGLY WIGGLY FOOD STORE, 1900 LAFAYETTE STREET, GRETNA, LOUISIANA.

  Brandon flinched and backed into a row of cabinets. He turned around and spotted an envelope on the counter. He picked it up and gaped at the address.

  Suddenly there was a noise at the door to the outside. Brandon stuffed the envelope into his pocket just as the door opened. In walked a tall, thin lady in a pink suit, pink hat, and sheer pink scarf. Her pink purse hit the floor when she saw Brandon, Sarah, and Stephen.

  “Mercy sakes alive,” the lady exclaimed. “What are you doing in my house?”

  Stephen and Sarah froze. Brandon stammered: “Aunt Fa— We— I just—”

  The lady staggered to the refrigerator and leaned against it. She pressed a hand to her heart, but there was nothing wrong with her lungs. “Out, all of you, get out now,” she yelled. “Out now, or I’ll call the police.” Then she inhaled and let out a horrific scream.

  Brandon, Sarah, and Stephen scrambled and bolted out the door.

  They tore down the driveway and ran flat-out for three blocks. At the signs for Chestnut Street and Washington Avenue they turned onto Washington and slowed to a brisk walk. Five minutes later they came to a brick wall with a gate and a curving black iron sign that read LAFAYETTE CEMETERY.

  They rested against the wall. Sarah noticed a greenish metal plaque set into the bricks. She read aloud from it: “‘Once part of the Municipality of Lafayette, the cemetery is now a Garden District Highlight of the City of New Orleans.’” She repeated the last two words and dropped her face into her hands. “What are we going to do?” she sobbed.

  Brandon placed his hand on her shoulder and whispered in her ear, “We’ll be okay.” He peered inside the gate. “Let’s get out of sight,” he said. “Nobody’s in there. Come on.”

  They walked into the cemetery.

  “What kind of place is this?” Brandon asked after a few steps. “All these little buildings.”

  “Mausoleums,” Stephen said. “They can’t bury people in the ground here because of the water table.”

  They followed a weedy gravel path and were soon surrounded by mausoleums. All were built of gray or white stone. A few big ones had wrought-iron doors and stained-glass windows. Some of the smaller ones had graves stacked three high. Sarah grimaced as she walked among them.

  They came to a pure white mausoleum with a wreath of yellow flowers on the door. A satin ribbon entwined in the wreath had the words: “Charlotte DuPree, 1951 to 1965, Our Angel Is Now In Heaven.” Sarah stared aghast at the wreath. “That girl was fourteen,” she cried.

  Brandon tried moving her along, but she broke away and ran for the gate. He chased and caught up with her, steering her to a patch of grass blocked on three sides by mausoleums. There she sat in a corner while Brandon crouched next to her. Stephen kept a lookout.

  After a few minutes Sarah unclipped the cell phone from her belt and flipped it open. “No cell,” she murmured, snapping it shut. Stephen came and sat on the grass in the corner opposite her. He leaned his head against the stone and closed his eyes.

  Brandon got up and started pacing back and forth. “I know, it’s my fault. I had to look inside the niche. I screwed everything up.”

  “It’s done, B,” Stephen said, his eyes still closed.

  Sarah was silent. Brandon knelt down beside her. “Please, Sarah . . .” he begged.

  “B,” she whispered, “my mother doesn’t know where I am. I can’t reach her. She’ll worry herself sick. I’m . . .” She hid her face.

  Brandon felt himself start to tremble. What in the world could he do? He steadied himself and said, “Sarah, I’ll get us home.”

  How?”

  He groped for an answer. “I . . . don’t know. But I’ll get us home. I promise. I swear it.”

  Sarah looked at him as if she were seeing something for the first time. “Well, okay, B.” She took his hand and let him help her up. Stephen got up as well.

  “And Stephen,” Brandon said, “you could’ve let go, and I’d have been sucked into the niche by myself. You held on. Thanks.” Knowing Stephen didn’t trade fist bumps, Brandon took his hand and shook it.

  “I couldn’t let you have all the fun, B,” Stephen said with a wry smile. He looked out over the cemetery. “That lady was your aunt?”

  The question sent a chill down Brandon’s spine. “Yeah. I can’t believe it, but I do anyway. When I was a kid she had white hair and she walked bent over. Then she was in a wheelchair, and then she was in bed.” He turned to Stephen with wonder in his eyes. “Now she’s got brown hair and she walks straight up. She doesn’t look much older than my mom. It’s crazy. Six months ago I went to her funeral. But that was my Aunt Faye.”

  “Then it really is 1965,” Sarah murmured.

  “Did you see the cars when we were running?” Stephen asked. “We passed a white Studebaker. The only Studebaker I ever saw was in a picture.” He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “We came back in time all those years.”

  “And we wound up in New Orleans?” Sarah asked.

  “Because the niche is here in 1965,” Stephen said. “That’s how I figure it, anyway. You hop in the niche at the time you start and come out at the time you pick—that B picked with the snapshot. If someone moves the niche in between those times, oh, well, you come out at the different time and the different place.”

  “It’s all so crazy,” Sarah said, shivering.

  “I know,” Stephen said. “I’m like B. I can’t believe it, but I’ve got to. We can’t all be having the same dream.”

  “Good luck to us getting someone to help us,” Sarah said. “What can we tell them, the truth?”

  “Good luck to us getting back in that house,” Stephen said. “If we can’t get to the niche, I don’t think we can get back.”

  “We’ll get back,” Brandon said firmly. “First we need a plan. No, first we need some food.” He looked at his friends. “Hungry?”

  They nodded.

  “Me too. Let’s get to a store and get something to eat. Also, a map. Also, we can use the bathroom.”

  “A map?” Sarah asked. “We can find your aunt’s house again.”

  “Not for that,” Brandon said. “We need to find . . .” He took the envelope out of his pocket and showed it to them. “751 Decatur Street, Apartment 3.”

  “What’s there?”

  “Look at the name.”

  “‘Mr. Quinton Coster,’” Sarah read aloud. Her head snapped up. “Quint?”

  “Wow,” Stephen said. “What’s he doing here?”

  “He’s from here,” Brandon said. “He hasn’t moved to New York yet.”

  “Would he help us
, you think?” Sarah asked nervously.

  Brandon replied strongly, “If I ask Quint for help, he’ll help.”

  “B,” Stephen said, “this Quint doesn’t know you—he’s never met you. If you say, ‘Hi, Quint, we came from 2005 through an ancient niche,’ he’ll think you’re crazy. And anyway, how old is Quint in 1965?”

  Brandon thought a moment. “Eighteen.”

  Stephen bowed his head.

  “How does your aunt know him?” Sarah asked.

  “She knew his family,” Brandon said. “When she moved— moves—to Rollings she’ll get him to drive her. Maybe that’s what this letter’s about.”

  Sarah heaved a sigh. “Stephen’s right, you know. Quint won’t believe this. He’ll just throw us out.”

  “Quint’s all we’ve got,” Brandon said. “Aunt Faye won’t talk to us. She’ll just call the police. Quint’s the only one who can get us to the niche. I’ve got to make him believe it.”

  His friends looked at him glumly.

  “Okay?”

  Stephen shrugged. “I don’t have a better idea.”

  “Me neither,” Sarah said.

  “Okay, then.” Brandon squinted at the sun. “About what time is it?”

  “I’d guess about noon,” Stephen said.

  Brandon nodded confidently. “That’s what I think too. We better get started.”

  They followed the weedy path out of the cemetery. Brandon led the way north on Washington Avenue, then east on St. Charles Street. He had no idea where he was going, but the direction felt right to him.

  Long, low cars kept passing them. “Tail fins,” Stephen exclaimed as an old Cadillac rumbled by. He stopped and spun around. “Sedans and station wagons. Not an SUV in sight.” Then he ran a few steps down a side street. “Look, an old Beetle,” he said excitedly.

  “There’s a place,” Brandon said, pointing across the street half a block ahead.

  The place was a white clapboard store with peeling paint and a moldy awning. Flowing script on the window said “Cajun Grocery.” Sarah collected Stephen and they ran to the store. “Can we use the bathroom?” Brandon asked as they stepped inside.

  The teenager at the checkout had red hair and a name tag that said William. He grinned and pointed to the back of the store. Sarah went first. Stephen picked up a map of New Orleans and a newspaper and placed them on the counter. He set his watch by the clock on the wall: ten minutes past one. Brandon collected a loaf of bread, a jar of peanut butter, a package of bologna, and three Dr. Peppers. After a visit to the bathroom he took out his wallet to pay. William punched the prices into the cash register. “No scanner,” Sarah whispered to Stephen.

  “Two twenty-six,” William said briskly.

  Brandon looked up. “Huh? We want all this stuff.” He passed his hand over the items on the counter.

  William said again, “Two twenty-six.” He added with a grin, “’Course, y’can pay more if y’really want to.”

  Brandon looked at his friends and back at William. He withdrew a five-dollar bill from his wallet and handed it over.

  William glanced at the bill and laughed out loud. “Last time I saw Mr. Lincoln he was front and center, not off t’the left,” he said. “And what a big picture of him it is. Y’all are havin’ fun with me.”

  Brandon snatched the five back and stared at it. Sarah stepped forward.

  “That’s my boyfriend—anything for a laugh.” She smiled. “I tell him not to do it, but he’s just a jokester.” She reached into her pocket and gave William three one-dollar bills.

  “That’s more like it,” William said. He winked at Brandon. “Remember, counterfeitin’s a federal offense.” He gave Sarah her change.

  “Thanks, William,” Sarah said sweetly as he placed their things in a paper bag. She slipped her arm through Brandon’s and pulled him toward the door. “This way, you.” Stephen took the bag and followed them out.

  They sat on the grass between the Cajun Grocery and the next row of shops. Stephen made bologna sandwiches for himself and Brandon, and a peanut butter one for Sarah. Brandon checked the bills in his wallet, and Sarah enjoyed her first laugh of 1965. “As if we need a counterfeiting charge on top of everything.” She giggled.

  “So the five and ten changed, but not the one,” Brandon said, putting his wallet away. “I don’t even remember.”

  “I didn’t think of it, either,” Stephen said. “We’ll run out of money fast.” He thought a moment and added, “I’m glad William didn’t check the year on those ones.”

  “Anyway, thanks, Sarah,” Brandon said. “Fast work.”

  Sarah licked her finger and notched a one in the air. “At least William has a sense of humor.”

  “We will run out of money,” Brandon said to Stephen. “But at least things are cheap here.” He checked the prices on the receipt. “Can you believe it? Last summer my dad kept saying how cheap things were at the Jersey shore. He said he should retire there. He should see this place.”

  Stephen scanned the front page of the newspaper. “It’s November 9,” he said casually. Then he looked up. “November 9, 1965,” he repeated slowly. “I think . . . yes, something happened that day. Something big. But I can’t remember what it was. Do you know, B?”

  Brandon had just taken a huge bite of his sandwich. He shook his head.

  “Whatever it was, shouldn’t it be in the paper?” Sarah asked.

  “No, this is news from yesterday. But something big happens today. If I can just remember . . .”

  Brandon swallowed and swiped at a fly buzzing the bologna. “Well, let’s eat and maybe you’ll think of it.”

  Sarah tried twisting the cap off her Dr. Pepper. “Ow,” she said, shaking her fingers. “What’s the matter with this thing?” Brandon took the bottle and tried. No luck.

  “We need a bottle opener,” Stephen said. His friends looked at him, and he shrugged. “Nineteen sixty-five will take some getting used to.”

  FIVE

  “Please Help Us!”

  Brandon swallowed the last of his Dr. Pepper and raised the bottle to Sarah. “Tastes even better than home.” He smiled. “You owe me one of these, you know.”

  “If—when—we get back, I’ll pay up. I’ll pay double if you talk Quint into helping us.”

  “Deal. And if he throws us out, you don’t owe anything.” Brandon stood up and brushed the grass off his jeans. “All set, Stephen?”

  Silence.

  “Stephen.”

  Stephen’s head jerked up from the newspaper. “What?”

  Sarah leaned over to see what he was reading. “What’s so interesting?” she asked.

  “Everything! It says here Charles De Gaulle’s running for president of France.”

  “So?” She smiled.

  “So, Charles De Gaulle died in 1970.”

  Brandon bunched up the papers from lunch and threw them in a trash barrel. “Well, Charles has his deal and we have ours. Tell me something about our deal. Why’s the Dr. Pepper taste better?

  “Probably because it’s made with sugar instead of corn syrup.”

  Brandon checked the ingredients on his bottle and looked at Stephen. “How do you know this stuff?” he asked, half-annoyed.

  Stephen grinned at him. He got up and slid the newspaper into his backpack. Brandon decided to let his question go. He unfolded the map and found their location. “This’ll be easy,” he said with confidence. “We go east on St. Charles, then south on Canal ’til we hit Decatur. Then we find 751.”

  They set out. The afternoon was bright and warm. Sarah pointed to an electric sign on the New Orleans Savings Bank that said seventy-two degrees.

  St. Charles Street was crowded with eating places. A sandwich-board sign in front of Café Creole said Try Our Alligator. Smaller signs in the windows said Try Our Crawfish and Try Our Frog Legs. Brandon stuck his head in the door, and a strong fishy smell drove him back. The three walked on, and soon they came to fancier places without the big signs.

>   Brandon stopped outside the wood-paneled entrance to Etienne’s and peered at the menu in its glass case. “What’s ‘dirty rice’?” he asked, frowning. “It can’t be what it sounds like.”

  “Beats me.” Sarah smiled. “Why don’t you eat a big pot of it and let us know?”

  Brandon wasn’t listening. “What’s jambalaya? And what’s etouffée? Whatever they are, I think they have alligator in them.”

  Sarah started to say something, but Brandon cut in. “Turtle soup.” He pointed to it under appetizers. “They chop up turtles for soup. It says here it’s a specialty of the house.”

  Stephen ran his finger down the desserts column. “Beignets,” he pronounced with a perfect accent. Brandon gave him a blank look, and he explained: “French doughnuts. I never had them, but my mom and dad say they’re really good.”

  “Probably the only things here that are.” Brandon smirked. “I’m not into dirt and alligators. This place needs a McDonald’s.”

  They continued on their way, taking a right on Canal Street. Then they found Decatur, and Brandon started looking for 751. Six blocks on they came to a wide-open space with flower gardens, a church, and a river. “The Mississippi,” Stephen observed. A curving black-iron sign similar to the one at the cemetery called the place Jackson Square. Sarah spotted benches and pulled Brandon toward them.

  “Good idea,” Brandon said as he was tugged along. “We need to keep rested.”

  They sat down. Brandon had been grateful when lunch and the walk seemed to take Sarah’s mind off the mess they were in. Now he realized she was thinking about it again. She pressed herself against him and began to cry.

  What to do? Brandon put his arm stiffly around her. “Please don’t, Sarah,” he begged. “I’ll do anything . . . I know I messed up; I swear I’ll fix it. Please . . .”

  “I’m not mad at you, B,” she whispered. “I’m just so scared . . .”

  Stephen was sitting on a bench across the sidewalk from them. He nodded understandingly to Brandon and glanced around the square. Up near the church a brass band was playing a march for a few onlookers. Two flower beds to his left, an artist at an easel was sketching a blonde-haired lady in a formal pose. Down near the river an ice-cream vendor was selling pops out of a pushcart. Someone approached him from his right. He looked up.