Here by Mistake Page 5

  “How y’all doin’?” exclaimed the someone, who promptly blew a blast on a trumpet.

  Stephen jumped and barely caught his backpack before it tumbled off his lap. He looked up at the trumpeter, who was a black man maybe sixty years old, tall and thin. He wore a black suit and top hat, a stiff white collar, and a narrow black tie. Across his chest hung a shiny red sash with the words “Preservation Hall.” He held an open umbrella in one hand and the trumpet in the other.

  “Y’all don’t look like y’from ’round here,” the man boomed, addressing Brandon and Sarah as well as Stephen.

  Brandon couldn’t make out the reason for an open umbrella on a sunny day.

  “The little lady looks t’need some cheerin’ up,” the man said, with a nod to Sarah. “Thaddeus Monroe at y’service, ma’am.” He tucked his trumpet under his arm, doffed his hat, and made a formal bow. His close-cropped silvery hair glistened in the sun.

  Sarah clutched Brandon’s arm, but she was no longer crying.

  “Y’request is my pleasure t’perform,” Thaddeus Monroe said.

  Brandon and Sarah looked at each other. Stephen spoke up: “How about ‘Alexander’s Ragtime Band’?”

  “Exxxcellent choice, young man. T’you, little lady, and the great Irving Berlin.” Thaddeus Monroe blew a few practice notes and launched into the song. After every few bars he paused the trumpet and sang the lyrics. His singing voice was deeper and more gravelly than his speaking voice. He danced and waved his umbrella in time with the music. When he was finished, Stephen, Sarah, and Brandon broke into applause.

  “I thank y’all. Thank y’all ever so much,” said Thaddeus Monroe with another formal bow.

  Stephen straightened up. “Do we tip you?” he asked.

  “Folks have been known t’do it, but nooo, thank y’kindly.”

  Brandon saw that Sarah was feeling better, and that was worth plenty to him. “We’d be glad to, mister.”

  “Much obliged, but nooo. Y’all have the look of folks who need t’be seein’ t’themselves just now. Y’all lose somethin,’ or someone?”

  “We’re just tired,” Brandon said. “We’re looking for 751 Decatur, but we’re still stuck in the 600s.”

  Thaddeus Monroe closed his umbrella with a flourish and pointed it east. “Four blocks that way, and y’all are there,” he said cheerfully. “Look for three red buildin’s in a row. It’s the middle of the three.”

  Brandon saw Sarah light up. “Thanks, mister,” he exclaimed.

  “Thank you, sir,” Sarah murmured.

  Thaddeus Monroe tucked his trumpet under his arm and tipped his hat to them. He turned on his heel and strolled up the square.

  Brandon asked Sarah, “Feel like starting out?”

  She nodded. The three got up and walked east out of the square. Immediately they came to a red, white, and blue billboard that announced: The One and Only, World-Famous, Never-to-Be-Imitated French Market of the Grand Old City of New Orleans. Ten steps past the billboard they were in a maze of grocery stands, food stalls, and snack shops.

  Brandon stopped in his tracks and gagged. “What’s that stink?”

  Stephen pointed to a fruit and vegetable stand with at least fifty loops of garlic hanging off a canopy. A fan was blowing the smell all over the street.

  “Hmmm.” Stephen smiled. “Too bad we already ate.”

  “Yeah, right,” Brandon said, walking quickly on.

  Ten minutes later they reached the fourth block from Jackson Square.

  “Look, the three red buildings,” Sarah cried. “Just like he said.”

  The two-story red stucco building in the middle stood out for its wrought-iron balconies and window trim. “751” was etched in the glass above the front door. Despite the elegant touches, however, 751 Decatur was far from beautiful. The windows were filthy, the stucco was mossy and cracked all over, and a rough stain about three feet high ran all along the outside of the building.

  They walked up to the front door. Brandon pressed the button marked APT 3. At once the speaker above the button crackled and hissed, and a loud voice burst forth: “Yeah?” Brandon leaned forward and tried to speak. Then another blast came from the speaker: “YEAH?” Brandon jumped. His heart was pounding as he got the words out: “Brandon Stratham and friends to see Quint— Quinton—Coster. We’ve got a letter from Faye Birmingham.” There was a long pause before the speaker hissed again: “Come ’round back, up the steps.”

  Brandon turned to Sarah and Stephen. “Like he said, around b-back.”

  They walked to the back of the building and found a patio with iron steps leading to the second-floor balcony. Brandon’s legs felt like rubber as he started up the steps. He was halfway to the top when a figure emerged from the doorway above and stood on the balcony. It was a slim young man in khaki pants, with no shirt. His gray eyes peered at his visitors with amused wonder beneath dark brown hair.

  Brandon nearly fell backward at the sight. “Quint!”

  “I thought you sounded like a kid,” Quint said. His voice sounded tinny to Brandon compared to the one he knew. “Y’all have a letter for me?”

  Brandon was staring open-mouthed at him. The question sank in and he nodded.

  Quint waved them forward. “C’mon in.”

  They followed him into the apartment. Brandon stood in the middle of what he supposed was the living room and smiled in spite of himself. Papers, books, and clothes were strewn everywhere. The remains of lunch—and maybe breakfast—were spread out on the floor in front of an old TV. A stock car racing poster and a Tulane University bumper sticker were the only decorations on the walls. A damp, stale smell hung in the air. It was Quint’s place, all right. He saw Sarah crinkle her nose in disapproval.

  “Be right back,” Quint said. He stepped into the next room and returned wearing a white collared shirt. “Here, y’all have a seat.” He swept some papers off a threadbare couch. “Pardon the mess. Don’t get around t’cleanin’ much. Moved here from my daddy’s place three months ago.”

  Brandon, Stephen, and Sarah sat down on the couch.

  Quint pulled up an orange crate and sat facing them. “Sorry I don’t have anything to offer y’all, except a glass of milk or water.”

  “We’re fine, thanks,” Brandon said.

  Quint nodded. “Can I have the letter?”

  Brandon took it out and gave it to him.

  Quint looked at the envelope and smiled. “Addressed and stamped, and then she sends it by messenger.” He chuckled. “Faye’s great—heart of gold—but particular t’her own ways.” He tore open the envelope and read the letter. “Sounds good,” he said when finished. “She’s leavin’ for New York soon. Hired me t’drive her north.” He picked a Tulane University bulletin off the floor and fanned the pages. “It’ll sure help with expenses.”

  “You’re in college now,” Brandon said.

  “Startin’ January,” Quint said.

  The room was cool, but Brandon was perspiring.

  Quint leaned forward and smiled. “Anything wrong?”

  Brandon drew his sleeve across his forehead. “I . . . I don’t know how to start,” he stammered. “We . . . I need to . . . we . . . need your help.”

  Quint’s smile disappeared. He looked from Brandon to Stephen to Sarah. “What’s wrong?”

  “Quint—can I call you that?” Brandon asked anxiously.

  “Uh . . . sure.”

  Suddenly it was all hopeless. Quint would never believe the story. No one would. “We . . . know you from before, even though you don’t know it,” Brandon blurted out. “We’re lost, and you’re the only one who can . . . help us get back.”

  “Y’not makin’ any sense,” Quint said. “What do y’all need from me?”

  Brandon pushed his hands back through his hair. He locked eyes with Quint. “We’re from New York—New York in the year 2005,” he said as steadily as he could. “We’re here by accident. It was my fault. Because of me, Stephen and Sarah are lost too. You and
me, we’re friends in 2005. We can maybe get back, if you help us.”

  Quint’s eyes were wide. “I . . . you . . .” he began.

  “I know I sound crazy,” Brandon said. “There’s no way to tell it without sounding crazy.” Then he asked, “Where’s your tattoo?”

  “My what?”

  “In 2005 you have a tattoo on your arm. You said you got it when you were eighteen.”

  Quint rubbed his temples as if he had a headache. “I’m plannin’ on one,” he said. “Got the design folder last week. Circled the one I want last night, in fact.”

  “A green-link chain around your bicep?” Brandon asked.

  Quint’s hands dropped to his lap. He stared at Brandon but made no reply.

  Brandon reached into his pocket and brought out the snapshot of Quint and himself. “This is you and me in 2005,” he said, handing it over.

  Quint studied the picture, and then he studied Brandon. “That’s definitely you,” he said, handing it back. “And I’ll admit the old guy looks a little like my daddy.”

  A faint beep went off. Stephen checked his watch. “Three thirty,” he said. Everyone looked at him. “Sorry,” he murmured.

  “May I?” Quint asked, extending his hand.

  Stephen unclipped his watch and passed it to him.

  The breath went out of Quint as he examined it. He checked the time against his own watch. “No dial, but it’s accurate,” he said, passing it back. “Just what the hell kind of watch is that?”

  “Digital LCD,” Stephen replied. “Liquid crystal diode. Lots of watches are like it where—when—we come from.”

  “And look,” Sarah said, unclipping her cell phone from her belt and handing it to Quint. “My phone has the same kind of numbers. I can’t make a call to show you because the rest of the network’s not there—yet.”

  Quint turned the phone over and awkwardly opened it. He checked the display and moved his hand up and down. “It’s really light,” he said, giving it back. “Y’tellin’ me y’make telephone calls with that thing?”

  “Yes,” Sarah said.

  “And, sir,” Stephen said, “look at these books.” He took the two volumes out of his backpack and passed them to Quint. “Check out the copyright dates.”

  Quint opened the books to the copyright page. The Almanac of American Politics 2005 was dated 2005. The Twentieth Century Digest was dated 2001. Quint paged through Digest entries from 1980, 1985, and 1995. He closed the books and passed them back. His face was expressionless.

  “Y’said an accident got y’all here,” he said to Brandon. “What was the accident?”

  Brandon told him about the niche and how it had transported them from New York in 2005 to New Orleans in 1965. He told Quint about his aunt’s shock at finding them in her house and their escape before she could call the police. He told Quint about the cemetery, the Cajun Grocery, Jackson Square, Thaddeus Monroe, and the walk to 751 Decatur.

  When Brandon was finished, Quint was rubbing his temples again. “I have t’ask,” he said, “can I see this funny money from 2005?”

  Brandon took out his wallet and withdrew the five-dollar bill. He handed it over. Quint held it up to the light, crinkled it, and smoothed it out. Then he gave it back. His face was still a blank.

  “And so y’all want me to . . . ?”

  “Get us back in Aunt Faye’s house so we can make the niche work again,” Brandon said. Sarah and Stephen nodded vigorously.

  Quint rose from the orange crate. “Amazin’, truly,” he said. “Look, uh, Brandon, was it? I can’t explain the Dick Tracy toys or the books or the picture or the tattoo. Or the money; it’s weird, but at least the paper feels right. But what the hell do y’all take me for? A time machine niche! Good grief.”

  “Quint,” Brandon exclaimed. “Please.”

  “Please, nothing,” Quint snapped. “If y’all didn’t look so bedraggled, I’d swear a pal of mine had put y’all up t’this as a gag. But I know folks in trouble when I see ’em, and y’all are in trouble for sure. Y’all are just kids. Maybe I’d help if y’told me the truth. But if all y’got for me is the magical niche, there’s the door.” He pointed to it.

  “Stop it,” Sarah cried. “Stop it. I knew you wouldn’t help.” Brandon tried to calm her, but she pushed him away and buried her face in the couch.

  Surprising himself, Brandon struggled to get his arms around Sarah. He finally succeeded. “Nice going,” he said bitterly to Quint. “We were counting on you.”

  “I’ll help y’all,” Quint told him. “Just tell me the truth.”

  At that moment Stephen sat bolt upright. He opened the Twentieth Century Digest and paged to an entry. He read for several seconds and then checked his watch. Finally, he leaped to his feet with the book and yelled, “YESSS!”

  Quint stepped back and nearly fell over his orange crate. Brandon stared wildly at Stephen. Even Sarah forgot herself and turned around.

  “November 9, 1965,” Stephen exclaimed. “It’s in the Digest.” His watch beeped again. “Four o’clock! It happens in sixteen minutes.”

  “What does?” Brandon asked.

  “The Northeast Blackout.”

  Quint kicked the orange crate across the room and said, “What the hell is the Northeast Black—”

  “A power failure,” Stephen told him. “On November 9, 1965, there was—is—a power failure in the northeastern United States. My grandfather told me about it. He got stuck in an elevator in Manhattan for six hours because of it.”

  “It happens in a few minutes?” Brandon asked.

  “It happens at 5:16 p.m. New York time,” Stephen said breathlessly. “That’s 4:16 p.m. New Orleans time. That’s in sixteen minutes.”

  “The whole Northeast of the country loses power?” Quint scoffed. “That’s as crazy as your niche story.”

  Stephen thrust the Digest into his hands and pointed to the entry. “Read this,” he said. “In sixteen minutes the TV’ll start talking about it. When the news matches what the book says, you’ll know we’re for real.”

  Quint muttered something Brandon didn’t catch, but he read the entry. “It’s science fiction,” he said when finished. “Where’d y’get this damn book, a novelty store?”

  “Can we watch TV?” Brandon asked.

  “Be my guest.” Quint went to the television and switched it on.

  Brandon waited. “Is it broken?” he asked.

  “It’s warmin’ up,” Quint snapped. “Don’t TVs warm up in 2005?”

  “It’s slow because of the vacuum tubes,” Stephen said. “They just don’t have good electronics yet.” He glanced at Quint. “Sorry, sir.”

  Finally the TV warmed up. The snowy black-and-white picture showed Bozo the Clown waving his arms and singing to an audience of little kids. Quint, Brandon, Stephen, and Sarah watched and waited.

  “I thought just old movies came in black-and-white,” Brandon said.

  “Old TV shows, too,” Stephen said. He rolled his eyes. “Can you believe what they watch?”

  Brandon smirked. “Why’s the picture so lousy?”

  “It’s probably pulled in by an antenna on the roof,” Stephen said. “I don’t think they have cable yet. And they sure don’t have satellite.”

  “No cable, no color, stupid shows, and no remote,” Brandon said, forgetting himself. He looked at Quint in amazement. “Do you really get up every time to change the channel?”

  “It hasn’t killed me yet, Brandon,” Quint told him.

  Brandon flinched as if he’d been struck in the face. “It’s ‘B’,” he said hotly. “Only my parents call me Brandon. And my teachers. You’ve always called me B.” He looked back at the TV.

  Taken aback, Quint started to say something, but then a test pattern bumped Bozo off the TV.

  Stephen checked his watch. “4:16 p.m.”

  Brandon took a seat on the floor next to the TV. He turned the channel knob until the word BULLETIN filled the screen.

  “ . . . probl
em with transmission from our sister station in New York,” the voiceover said. “The cause of the interruption is not known at this time. Regular programming will resume as soon as possible. Please stay tuned.”

  Quint sat on the couch with the Twentieth Century Digest in his lap. Brandon turned the channels for more news. He felt the knob slip into place with a soft “thump” for each channel that came up. It was weird turning a knob after having soundlessly flown through channels with a remote all his life. Brandon thought of Stephen’s crack about bad electronics and smiled. But he had to admit—to himself—that making something physically happen and hearing it happen was kind of cool. At five fifteen p.m. he “thumped” to a channel that had a bulletin with fresh information: “There has been a massive power outage in New York City and surrounding areas. The cause and extent of the outage are being investigated. Regular programming will resume as soon as the problem is corrected. Please stay tuned for reports of further developments.”

  Brandon kept turning the channels. Gradually the situation became clear. New York City was not the only place affected. Power was out in New York, New Jersey, Pennsylvania, Massachusetts, New Hampshire, Vermont, Connecticut, Rhode Island, and parts of Canada. Quint checked the bulletins against the entry in the Digest. Hours passed.

  Stephen’s watch beeped. “Eight thirty.” He yawned.

  Quint closed the Digest and stood up. He clasped his hands behind his head and stretched from side to side. “I can’t talk now, my brain’s shot. Y’all got a place t’sleep?” No one answered him. Quint nodded. “I’ll go out and bring some food back. Y’all can clean up and sleep here tonight. We talk this out in the mornin’, okay?”

  “Okay,” Brandon said.

  Quint gave his head a shake and walked out the door. In half an hour he was back with what looked like a bucket of fried chicken. Only it wasn’t fried chicken.

  “Jambalaya,” he said. “From the French Market.”

  Brandon, Stephen, and Sarah followed him into the kitchen and took seats around a battered Formica table. Quint divided the bucket among four plates. Jambalaya turned out to be a spicy dish of rice, vegetables, and a kind of meat Brandon didn’t recognize. He jabbed a strip of it with his fork and turned it around, wondering if it was alligator or turtle.