Here by Mistake Page 7

  Brandon looked at Sarah, who looked at Stephen, who looked at Brandon.

  “What is it?” Quint asked.

  “We’re like you—can’t believe it,” Brandon said.

  The clock ticked away the minutes. “Y’know, y’all are lucky,” Quint said after a long silence. “When y’all get back y’can catch up with me right away about all this. Me, I’ve got t’wait forty years t’talk with y’all about it.”

  The Edsel pulled up in front of Faye Birmingham’s house at ten fifteen. Quint cut the engine and prepared his passengers. “Stay here. I’ll make sure she’s out. When y’all see me go t’the back, just take y’time and come after me.”

  “Okay,” Brandon said.

  Quint got out of the car. He climbed the steps to the front door and rang the bell. Then he rang it again. When no one answered, he descended the steps and walked around to the back door. Brandon, Stephen, and Sarah got out of the Edsel and followed him. Quint took out the keys and let everyone into the kitchen. Brandon snickered again at the pink appliances.

  “Shush,” Quint said. “Okay, now—” He froze.

  Brandon cocked an ear. He had also heard something.

  Quint used one finger to part the curtains in the window. “Oh, no,” he gasped. “It’s Faye.” He gestured frantically at the next room. “Y’all get in there.”

  They ran into the room, which was empty except for two packing boxes on a pallet. Quint steered them to a double window with floor-length drapes. “Hide in there!” Brandon, Stephen, and Sarah jumped behind the drapes, and just in time. The back door opened and Faye Birmingham, dressed in her signature pink, walked in.

  “Quinton, hello,” she said cheerfully as Quint stepped into the kitchen. “You came to do packing? What a dear.”

  “Mornin,’ Faye,” Quint said. “Got here a couple minutes ago. Uh . . . cancel y’appointment?”

  “No, indeed,” Faye said, with a faint air of exasperation. “I promised Jeannie I’d bring my Italy pictures to show her. Silly me, I left without them and only remembered when I got to the shop. They’re holding my chair while I pick them up.” She looked closely at Quint. “Are you all right, Quinton? You look so pale.”

  “Just a touch of a cold, maybe,” Quint said, coughing a little. “Needs t’run its course.”

  “Well, don’t make it worse,” Faye said kindly. “If the packing needs to wait, it can.” She glanced over his shoulder. “I’m sorry, Quinton, but I must hurry. Excuse me.” She breezed past him into the room and went directly to the packing boxes. Her gloved hand reached into the larger one and brought out a photo album marked ITALIA. As she turned to go she gave the window a sharp look. “I’ve just never cared for those drapes. I’ll probably leave them behind.”

  “I don’t blame ya, Faye. They don’t suit y’good taste.”

  Faye smiled sweetly and checked her watch. “Oh, dear. Quinton, I must go. Now you take care of yourself.” She walked quickly to the kitchen and out the door.

  Quint wheeled around. “Get out from the drapes! She might look at the window.”

  Brandon and Stephen jumped out from the first drape, Sarah from the second. They listened as Faye’s engine started and her car rolled down the driveway. When she was safely away they took stock. Quint looked like he might indeed be coming down with a cold. Stephen removed his glasses and put them back on, then caught himself repeating the gesture. “Just nerves,” he said sheepishly.

  Sarah was trembling; Brandon went to her.

  “She almost c-caught us,” Sarah whispered.

  “But she didn’t,” Brandon said confidently. “And we’re almost there.”

  “Well, I thank y’all for not sneezin’.” Quint chuckled, joining them. “One of God’s jokes, I suppose, that Faye should notice those drapes today.” Sarah wiped away a tear, and he asked gently: “Y’both okay? If y’can, I think we should move.”

  “Let’s go,” Brandon said.

  They walked quickly to the living room. As he crossed the threshold, Brandon noticed the grandfather clock with the carved sailing ships. It now sat on a pallet, its corners fitted with protective pads. Not looking where he was going, he bumped into Quint, who had stopped. Stephen and Sarah had also stopped. They were staring at an indentation in the wall opposite the fireplace.

  “Wait a minute,” Quint said. “Am I crazy, or is this the room?” He turned completely around. “Okay, there’s the white fireplace. Where the hell’s the niche?”

  “It was there,” Stephen said, pointing to the indentation. “It’s gone!”

  “It’s cemented int’a a wall, my man,” Quint snapped. “I saw the damn thing yesterday.” He scratched his head. “I’m just mixed up. Maybe—”

  “He’s right,” Sarah gasped. “This is the room. The niche is gone.”

  “Yes,” Brandon said. He stepped to the indentation and looked around. “There’re chunks from the wall and dust on the floor. And . . . sawdust? What’s this? Oh, no.” He reached behind an overstuffed chair and picked up a length of furring strip. “They took it off the wall and framed it.”

  Stephen noticed a paper beneath a vase on the coffee table. He slid it out and read it. “It’s the niche,” he said excitedly. “This says Liberty Moving and Storage took possession of a ‘Roman wall ornament’ for shipment to Rollings, New York, on November 10.”

  Quint snatched the paper out of his hand and read it. The expression on his face grew fierce. “Yesterday mornin’ it was right there,” he yelled, jabbing his finger at the indentation. “Yesterday afternoon they took it, just hours before we could get here.” He crumpled the paper and bounced it off the coffee table. “Can y’all believe it?”

  Sarah broke into sobs and ran from the room. Stephen went after her.

  Brandon jumped out of the way as Quint strode to the indentation. “There must be a hundred boxes of junk t’move out of this house,” Quint yelled. “All these little dishes and things. But the movers don’t take those, they rip something gigantic out of the damn wall and take that.” He side-kicked the indentation, leaving his tread mark on the plaster. “Damn it.” He dropped into the overstuffed chair.

  Brandon watched him. “Quint,” he said after a moment.

  “Don’t talk. Let me think.” Quint raked his fingers through his hair. Then he got up. “B, get that damn shippin’ statement. We might need it.”

  “What’re you thinking?”

  “I can’t think, not now. Let’s get the hell out of here.”

  SEVEN

  Plan B

  The Edsel skidded to a stop back at 751 Decatur. Quint got out and slammed his door; Stephen winced at the tinkling sound. They climbed the steps to the apartment and Quint let his guests inside. He stayed on the balcony.

  “Y’all relax a bit. I’m goin’ back t’Faye’s.”

  “What?” Brandon asked.

  “I have t’pack some boxes t’make it look good,” Quint snapped. “She saw me there, remember? Also, I need t’ask her one or two things when she gets back.” He clasped his hands behind his head and stretched from side to side. “And I need some time t’think this over. Y’all take it easy. When I get back, we talk.” He trotted down the steps and hopped in the Edsel. A few seconds later he was roaring down the service drive.

  Brandon watched the car until it was out of sight and closed the door.

  Sarah was sitting on the edge of the couch. “I think he’s had it,” she said quietly. “I think he’s going to the police.”

  Brandon wheeled around. “No way. He doesn’t know what to do. Like he said, he’s got to think about it.”

  “Think about what? What’s he going to do, chase the niche all over the country? I think he’s had it with the niche and with us.”

  “He didn’t go to the police.”

  Sarah sighed. “He’s your friend, B.”

  “He’s your friend, too,” Brandon shot back. “Stephen, do you think he went to the police?”

  Stephen was sitting on an ora
nge crate, looking very sad. He shook his head.

  “Oh, well, that settles it, two against one,” Sarah said. “Look, I don’t even blame him. What can he do? And maybe . . . maybe the police can do something.”

  “Like what?”

  “It can’t be any worse than this,” Sarah told him. “We have families. What do you think they’re going through while we sit here eating beignets and bombing around New Orleans in that horrible car?”

  “They haven’t gone through anything,” Stephen said. “My mom hasn’t even been born yet. If yours has been, she’s just a little kid. She’s not thinking about you yet.”

  “I’m not talking about this time, Stephen, I’m talking about 2005,” Sarah said impatiently. “Our families are living in that time while we’re living in this one.” She stopped and looked at him distractedly. “I mean . . . aren’t they?”

  “I don’t know,” Stephen said. “I don’t know if it works that way. But if we can get back to the point in time you took that picture of B and Mr. Coster, that puts us back before the trouble started—and before anyone started worrying.”

  “And to get back,” Brandon said, “we don’t need the police. We need the niche.”

  Sarah flew off the couch and got in his face. “The niche is on its way to New York. What are we supposed to do? Fly there?”

  “We’re supposed to wait and not get excited,” Brandon said, excitedly. “I promised I’ll get us back, and I will.”

  “Oh, right, ‘the Promise,’” Sarah sneered. “You made this mess, B, but you don’t know how to fix it. We’re not back in the cemetery now. It’s two days on. We need a plan, and you’re still talking about your stupid promise? Is that all you’ve got? You’re pathetic.”

  Stephen jumped up and pushed his way between them. “Stop it,” he cried. “Stop it, now.”

  Sarah stamped into the bathroom and slammed the door. Brandon dropped down on the couch, his head in his hands. The room fell silent.

  Stephen was still standing where he had pushed them apart. “B,” he said.

  “I don’t want to talk now, Stephen.”

  Stephen took his seat on the orange crate. Ten minutes went by. “B,” he said, “why don’t we go for a walk?”

  “Not now, Stephen.”

  The bathroom door opened. Sarah tiptoed out and came around the couch. She sat down lightly next to Brandon. “B,” she whispered, “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay, Sarah.”

  “I know you’re doing your—”

  “Please, I just don’t want to talk right now.”

  Sarah tried to see his face, but Brandon was hiding it with his arms. “All right,” she murmured. She got up and went quietly out the door.

  Stephen rose from the orange crate and donned his backpack. “Going for a walk, B,” he said. Brandon didn’t answer. Stephen walked out the door and started down the steps. Sarah was sitting cross-legged on the balcony.

  “Well, I certainly messed that up,” she said as he passed her.

  “Yes, you certainly did,” he said without looking back.

  The Edsel lurched to a stop on the back lawn at four fifteen. Quint hopped out with a bucket of jambalaya and a six-pack of Dr. Pepper. He bounded up the steps and pushed his way through the door. “Gravy train’s here,” he called out. “Y’know, someday I need t’learn how t’cook.”

  Brandon, Stephen, and Sarah were on the couch watching Bozo the Clown. No one was making fun of it.

  “Hi, Quint,” Brandon said sullenly.

  Quint looked from each of them to the next. “Uh-huh. Let’s eat.”

  They got up and followed him into the kitchen.

  After a quiet dinner Quint slid his plate forward and propped his elbows on the table. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  Brandon opened his eyes very wide. “What d’you mean?”

  Quint snorted and turned to Stephen. “What’s wrong?”

  Stephen was making circles on his plate with his fork. He looked up at Quint but did not answer.

  Quint smacked his palms down on the table and looked at Sarah. “Well?”

  “I thought you were going to the police today,” Sarah said. “I thought you were sick of us and the mess we’re in. B said no, you weren’t. We had a big fight about it and . . . I really insulted him. I said I’m sorry, but he’s still mad.”

  “I’m not mad,” Brandon said.

  “Yes, you are.”

  Quint leaned back on his chair and scraped his teeth over his lower lip. “And what about you, Stephen?”

  Sarah answered. “He’s on B’s side.”

  “I am not,” Stephen said hotly.

  “Yes, you—”

  “Quiet,” Quint said. He took the empty jambalaya bucket and threw it in the garbage pail. “The police? To tell y’the truth I was thinkin’ about ’em again.” Brandon flinched, and Quint continued. “But only t’talk about. What’d y’all think, that I’d have cops racin’ here, sirens screamin’, without even talkin’ with y’all?”

  “No, we didn’t, Quint,” Brandon said.

  Quint cracked his knuckles and looked around the table. “Y’all need t’remember one thing, and you said it, Sarah—y’all are in one hell of a mess. Y’all can’t afford bickerin’ with each other. Either keep y’feet on the ground, look after each other, work together, work with me, or . . . forget what y’had where y’all came from, and get used to livin’ in 1965.”

  Brandon and Sarah paled. Stephen nodded slightly.

  “If y’all won’t do that for y’selves, why the hell should I put myself out and take the next step?”

  Brandon sat up. “What next step?”

  “Today I went back t’Faye’s, like I said. I packed some boxes and saw Faye when she got back. I asked for an advance on what she’ll pay me to pack her house and drive her north in two weeks. She said, ‘Yes, Quinton, certainly,’ so I got the money—seventy-five dollars.”

  Brandon, Stephen, and Sarah waited.

  “I’ll put it together with what I collect over the next couple days from my bookwork. It’ll be tight, but it’ll be enough.”

  “Enough for what?” Brandon asked.

  “Enough t’drive t’New York, get y’all through that damn niche, and make it back here before I need t’repeat the trip with Faye.” Quint paused for the idea to sink in. “So that’s Plan B. What do y’all say?”

  “What d’we say?” Brandon exclaimed. “Yes.”

  Stephen nodded vigorously.

  “Can your car make it that far?” Sarah asked.

  This snapped the mood in the room. “Don’t worry, I’ll bring some tape and bailin’ wire in case anything shakes loose.” Quint laughed. “’Course, we can go t’the police, if y’all want.”

  “No,” Brandon said. “I’m not ending up in any kids’ home.”

  “Right,” Stephen said.

  Sarah nodded. “No police,” she said meekly.

  “All right, then,” Quint said. “Tomorrow we go t’the Salvation Army. Y’all need a change of clothes, and their stuff’s cheap. Also, we’ll do food shoppin’ for the trip. We leave on the fourteenth.” He caught the look in Brandon’s eye. “What is it, B?”

  “Nothing.”

  Quint sighed impatiently. “What is it, B?”

  Brandon hemmed and hawed and finally came to it: “You mean, we’re getting clothes like you wear?”

  Quint picked a piece of lint from his sleeve and let it float to the floor. “I imagine so,” he said, leaning back on his chair. “Any problem with that?”

  “No.” Brandon shrugged. “No one we know will see us.”

  Quint caught his chair before it flew out from under him. “Hah. B, the fashion plate.” He pointed to Brandon’s T-shirt and asked, “And just what the hell is Eminem, anyhow?” Brandon lit up and started to tell him, but Quint held up his hand. “On second thought, let it go.”

  A little after seven thirty that evening, Brandon and Stephen were on the couch watching TV. Qui
nt was stretched out on the balcony smoking a Marlboro. He took a long pull and scraped his cigarette out on the iron.

  Sarah stepped out on the balcony and closed the door behind her. “Can I ask you something?”

  “Sure.”

  “I really messed up today, yelling at B. I apologized, but it’s not good. He’s polite, he talks, but he’s not the same.”

  Quint kept his voice low. “Y’said y’insulted him. What exactly did y’say?” She told him. He whistled softly. “‘Pathetic’? Y’must’ve been screamin’ mad.” She nodded. “My daddy knows about this stuff,” Quint said thoughtfully. “He always told me t’keep my mouth shut when I’m screamin’ mad, ’cause my words’ll rip like a dagger, and they can’t be unsaid.”

  Sarah sighed. “That doesn’t help.”

  “No,” he agreed.

  “I said I’m sorry, and I meant it—mean it,” she pleaded. “What can I do?”

  Quint rolled the cigarette stub between his fingers as he thought it over. “I think you’re lookin’ for a quick fix for something that’ll take some time. B’s beatin’ himself up for bringin’ this on y’all. He wants t’think he can get y’all out of it. Callin’ him pathetic must’ve rocked him. Sooner or later he’ll do something right. When he does, show him y’see it, and in time he’ll come ’round. After all . . .”

  “What?”

  “He cares for y’all.”

  Early the next morning Quint was at the kitchen table doing the books for Dante’s French Market Bakery. Brandon, Stephen, and Sarah were watching TV.

  Stephen got up from the couch, stretched his arms, and ambled into the kitchen. He peered over Quint’s shoulder. “You know, sir, software in 2005 can do all that work in a few seconds.”

  Quint looked up distractedly. “What?”

  Stephen stepped back. “Um . . . nothing.”

  Quint went back to his ledger. Stephen leaned over his shoulder with an air that said “primitive” in every way but out loud. He shook his head and ever-so-softly sucked his teeth. Quint set down his pencil and turned around. Their eyes met.

  “Maybe I’ll go for a walk,” Stephen said helpfully.

  Quint nodded, and Stephen returned to the living room. He donned his backpack and went out the door.