Here by Mistake (13 page)

“Yes, sir.”

“And y’wouldn’t do it again?”

“No, sir.”

“All right. No, y’may not pay for the book,” he told Quint. “But Sarah may have it, with my compliments.”

Jimmy sat up straight. “Grandpa.”

“I know, Jimmy.” Mr. Robb sighed. “But when I talked about makin’ an example, these weren’t exactly the thieves I had in mind.” He fanned the pages and gave the book to Sarah. “And, y’know, one of the privileges of old age is the freedom t’change y’mind.”

Jimmy huffed but said no more.

“Thank you, sir,” Sarah said. “But it’s thief, not thieves.”

“Beg pardon?”

“Stephen wasn’t part of it. It was just me.”

Mr. Robb nodded slowly. “I appreciate y’sayin’ that. And I notice he didn’t jump up and down, pointin’ his finger at you. Y’have a loyal friend in Stephen.”

“Yes,” Brandon said strongly.

Acknowledging Brandon, Mr. Robb smiled for the first time. “Well,” he said, rising, “y’all come with me.”

They left the room and walked across the store to Books/ Stationery. Mr. Robb turned the rack of paperbacks and picked out one. He raised his glasses and skimmed a few pages. “Amazin’ how it comes back,” he said softly. He fanned the pages and gave the book to Stephen. “With my compliments.”

Stephen stared at the book. “
A Tale of Two Cities
,” he exclaimed. Two women passing by looked around at him, and he hunched his shoulders. “Thank you, sir,” he murmured.

Quint shook hands with Mr. Robb. He brought his basket of groceries to the checkout and paid Jimmy. Brandon carried the bag out to the Edsel and got in back with Sarah. Stephen got in front, and Quint slid behind the wheel.

“Sarah’s had it, Quint,” Brandon said. “Don’t start yelling.”

“I’m not yellin’,” Quint said calmly. “But I need t’say this: If any y’all get so strung out y’might do something crazy, y’need t’let me know. This was a close call. Lucky for us Mr. Robb’s a nice guy.” He turned the key and the engine started smoothly. “And lucky for us we have a couple of Dickens fans in tow,” he added, with a wink at Stephen.

They got back on I-59 and crossed into Alabama. Five miles outside of Birmingham the traffic turned bumper-to-bumper and stayed that way. After an hour of crawling, Brandon found himself wishing for a backfire to relieve the boredom. Sarah brought out some bread and peanut butter and made sandwiches. Time passed, and it grew dark.

“We’ll do a little night drivin’,” Quint said when the traffic began to free up. “Soon as we hit Tennessee we’ll find a motel. Tomorrow’s another day.”

“Sounds good,” Brandon said through a yawn. “Okay, Sarah?”

Sarah didn’t answer.

“Let her sleep, B,” Quint said. “It’s been a big day. Stephen’s out too.”

Brandon leaned forward and crossed his arms on the seatback. “A big daaay,” he said hazily. He watched I-59’s center line zip through the headlights. “You were right when you said we change history just being here. Aunt Faye, those kids in the park, Mr. Robb—things got changed for all of them, at least a little. And for you, of course.”

Quint grunted.

“What’d you be doing now if we hadn’t come?”

Quint swerved to avoid a rough spot in the road. He shrugged. “Some books and odd jobs, just killin’ time ’til Tulane in January. Oh, and I was goin’ t’get over t’Royal Street for my tattoo.”

Brandon laughed softly. “You’ll be sor-ry.”

“How’s that?”

“Back in New York you always told me your tattoo was a mistake. When I said I wanted one you got mad.”

“That so? Did y’listen t’me?”

“Well . . .” Brandon said, “I still want it. But I haven’t got it yet.”

“Don’t tell me y’actually listen t’me in 2005, B?”

“Sometimes.”

“Well, I’ll settle for sometimes, after this last week. So, for the next forty years I don’t need t’look forward t’the kinds of fights we’re havin’ now?”

“No.” Brandon grinned. “And what’d you expect, anyway? In 2005 you’re like my dad. Now you’re like my brother. If I had a brother who was eighteen, no way I’d listen to him.”

“But when I’m old and fat I’ll get respect.” Quint sighed. “That’s nice t’know.” He reached up and ruffled Brandon’s hair. “If I’m just a kid, what’s that make you? Little Brother?”

“Yeah, well . . .”

They were quiet for a time. Brandon watched the center line zip through the headlights some more. He could feel himself smiling, and he still felt like talking. “Ever think time travelers would drop in on you?”

Quint shook his head. “Can’t say I ever did. If anyone’d told me a month ago this’d happen, I’d have called him nuts. I still can’t believe it sometimes.”

“Oh, yeah,” Brandon said. “Sometimes in the morning when I’m waking up, but not really awake yet, it feels like a dream. I think I’ll wake up in my bed at home, but I don’t.” He looked behind him at Sarah. Then he checked Stephen. Both were asleep. “You know, Quint,” he whispered, “sometimes I really like being here because it’s so wild. I’ve never done anything like it, and I’m really stoked. But sometimes I’m really scared. I don’t know if I’ll see my mom again, and I . . . cry when no one’s looking. And sometimes I’m really stoked and liking it one minute, and scared and crying the next minute. It’s crazy.”

“I know, B. I’ve had times like that. And if I’d ever had the time y’all have had this past week, I’d be spinnin’ like a top.”

“Do you . . . think we’ll get back?”

“I think so.”

Everyone was awake when they crossed into Tennessee. Quint spotted the Dixieland Motel a mile outside of Chattanooga and turned into the lot. He parked in front of the office.

“Stay put ’til I check it out,” Quint said. He walked into the office and was back in two minutes. “Twelve dollars, not bad,” he said, twirling the key to Room 4 on his finger. “Let’s move it.”

Brandon and Stephen carried their bundles into Room 4. Then Quint and Brandon returned to the Edsel and together maneuvered Sarah’s bundle into the room. Room 4 had one bed, and everyone agreed Sarah should have it. She untied her bundle and pulled out enough blankets for Quint, Brandon, and Stephen to bed down comfortably on the floor. They took turns in the bathroom.

Brandon checked out the TV until Quint pointed to his watch. He turned it off and spread out his blanket at the foot of the bed. His hand brushed against something papery and he picked it up. It was
A Tale of Two Cities
.

“Stephen, can I see your book?”

“Sure.”

Brandon skimmed a few pages. Then he read aloud from page one, “‘It was the best of times, it was the worst of times . . .’” He closed the book and caught Quint’s eye. “It sounds like now.” He smiled.

Quint chuckled and switched off the light.

Everyone was up by six thirty. Quint left the room and returned in ten minutes, balancing four cardboard cups.

“The office has free mornin’ coffee and milk; can’t beat that.” He smiled. “Got two of each. I assume you’re takin’ coffee this mornin’, B?”

“Of course.”

They sat on the floor with their drinks and a box of doughnuts from Kewanee Foods and Sundries. Quint was poring over a Tennessee road map as he munched a plain doughnut. Stephen was reading
A Tale of Two Cities
, oblivious to the food in front of him. Sarah was yawning and smiling after a night in a real bed. Brandon wasn’t looking happy, but he was humming a tune.

“Time to change tracks, B,” Sarah said teasingly. “You’ve played that one ten times.”

Brandon stopped humming. “It’s from the TV,” he said.

“Does it have words?”

“Uh-huh. ‘Winston tastes good like a cigarette should.’”

Quint raised his coffee in a toast. “You’re pickin’ up the ads. Maybe soon you’ll move on t’the shows.”

“The commercials are better than the shows,” Brandon said. “The commercials are funny. The shows are stupid.” Then he thought of something. “Y’know, I never saw a TV commercial for cigarettes back home. Here they’re on all the time.”

“That’s right,” Sarah said. “It’s really weird.”

Quint took another plain doughnut from the box. “Why’s it weird? Y’all have cigarettes, right?”

“Sure,” Brandon said, “but they don’t sell them on TV.”

“Cigarette advertising was taken off television in 1971,” Stephen said without looking up from his book.

Brandon glared at him. “How do you know this stuff?”

“It’s in the
Twentieth Century Digest
.”

“Doesn’t make sense t’me,” Quint said. “Everyone knows cigarettes are bad for y’health. But if companies sell ’em, why can’t they buy ads?”

Stephen closed his book and noticed the box of doughnuts. He picked out a jelly one. “I guess to cut down on people starting to smoke. Back home we have more rules about smoking than you have now.” He tapped Brandon’s leg with his book. “Remember the first day when we passed that restaurant with all the signs? The smoke was pouring out the door.”

“Yeah,” Brandon said.

“You wouldn’t see that back home,” Sarah said.

“How come?” Quint asked.

“Because you can’t smoke inside most places.”

Quint blinked at her. “Y’kiddin’.”

“No, it’s true; they passed laws.”

“Y’mean, the guvmint gets t’tell y’what y’can do in 2005?”

“Well . . .” Sarah said, sounding a little embarrassed, “it tells smokers they have to go outside, or smoke at home.”

“My dad smokes,” Brandon said. “My mom won’t let him do it in the house. She says it stinks up everything and wastes money.”

“Well, I’ll admit the money adds up,” Quint said, reaching for his coffee. “What’s a pack of smokes go for in 2005?”

“About five dollars.”

Quint laughed and spilled some coffee on the rug. He blotted it with a napkin. “Okay, B. But seriously, what’s a pack run where y’all come from?”

Brandon wasn’t smiling. “I told you, Quint: five dollars.” Quint looked at Stephen, who nodded. He looked at Sarah. “That’s about right,” she said.

Quint’s mouth fell open. “Five dollars?”

“Yeah,” Brandon said.

“A
pack
?”

Brandon leaned away from him a little. “Yeah . . . a pack.”

“That’s in Rollings,” Stephen said. “In Manhattan, my uncle pays seven.” He looked closely at Quint. “Are you all right, sir?”

Quint pulled a wrinkled handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his face. “Five dollars a pack,” he said numbly.

“What do they cost here?” Brandon asked.

“Thirty cents.”

Brandon gave a start. “I know everything’s cheap here, but that’s wild. Anyway, I never saw you smoke back home. You’ll quit someday.”

“No wonder,” Quint said, regaining his color. “I probably went broke payin’ for the damn things.”

At eight thirty Quint, Stephen, and Sarah were waiting in the idling Edsel. Brandon stepped out of Room 4 and closed the door behind him.

Sarah rolled down her window. “Hurry up, B,” she snapped. “You’re moving like you’re ninety.”

Brandon walked to the car and got in back with her.

Stephen turned around. “Okay?” he asked.

Brandon nodded.

Quint put the Edsel into reverse—and it stalled. He turned the key again and the engine roared for half a minute before settling into a silky idle. “Keep your borin’ cars,” he said as he backed out of the parking space. “This one has personality. Right, Sarah?”

“Well, it has something.”

They made a right out of the parking lot. “Time for gas,” Quint said. “We’ll stop in Graysville.”

They drove the mile to town and found a Gulf station on Water Street. The sign with a big red 34 on it drew a dagger stare from Quint.

“Thirty-four cents a gallon,” he said indignantly as they pulled up to the pump. “Pretty soon folks won’t be able t’afford gas in this country.”

Sarah covered her face with her hands.

“Shhhh,” Brandon whispered to her. “He’s still not over the cigarettes.”

An attendant in a crisp gray uniform and cap appeared at the window. “Fill ’er up,” Quint said. The attendant placed the nozzle in the Edsel and started the pump. While the tank was filling he wiped the windshield, checked the oil, and inspected the tires. Brandon and Stephen watched him.

“Is that in your book?” Brandon asked.

“No,” Stephen said. He added slyly, “You’re the one who wanted to see how things used to be.”

The attendant hooked the nozzle back on the pump and scribbled on his pad. “Five twenty-one, sir.”

Quint gave him a ten. The attendant counted out Quint’s change to the penny and gave him a small ceramic plate with a picture of Mary Poppins in the center. “It’s a promotion we’re doin’ now, sir,” he said sheepishly.

Quint handed the plate to Stephen, who handed it to Brandon, who handed it to Sarah. They pulled out of the station.

On their way to the I-75 ramp they passed a movie theatre. Giant red letters on the marquee announced:
THE SOUND OF MUSIC
.

Sarah pressed her face to the window. “My grandmother loves that movie.”

Brandon looked out the back window. “Never heard of it. What’s it rated?”

Quint cocked an ear. “Rated?”

“Can anybody go see it?”

“Sure, if they want. My former girlfriend tried draggin’ me t’see it, but I’m not one for musicals.”

“I don’t think movies are rated in 1965, B,” Stephen said. “I think ratings came later.”

“What the hell are ratings?” Quint asked.

The question and the way he asked it irritated Brandon. How could anyone not know about ratings, anyway?

Sarah explained. “Back home movies are rated by who can see them. ‘G’ means anyone can go. ‘PG’ means parents shouldn’t take little kids. ‘PG-13’ means they really shouldn’t take little kids. And ‘R’ means no kid can get in without a parent.”

“Don’t forget NC-17,” Stephen said. “That means no kid can get in at all.”

“Ho-ly smoke,” Quint exclaimed. “G, PG, PG-R-17. Y’have t’follow all that? Y’all have too many rules in 2005. Are the movies dirty or what?”

“They’re not dirty,” Brandon said. “Some have sex. Some are bloody. Some have cursing. And some have everything.” For some reason Quint’s jibe about rules really irked him. What did Quint know about 2005, anyway? “So what about now? Can a kid see any movie?”

“Sure,” Quint said. “Some movies aren’t really right for kids, but their folks decide on takin’ ’em or not.”

“I think ratings are better,” Brandon said challengingly.

“Sounds t’me like they make decisions for folks who could decide for themselves.”

“And you think it’s okay to stink up the air by smoking inside?” Brandon shot back.

“Well, if folks want t’smoke, I think other folks should leave ’em be.”

Brandon glowered at him.

Quint kept shaking his head. “Can’t smoke, can’t go t’the movies. Two thousand five’s gone crazy,” he said dismissively. “Way the hell too many rules.”

“We
don't
have too many rules, Quint,” Brandon said hotly. “You don’t know what it’s like ‘when’ we come from. Someday you will, but you don’t now. You only know 1965, with its stupid TV, its stupid clothes—” He looked down at his Jethro shirt and gave it a yank. The top button popped off.

“Lighten up, B,” Sarah snapped. “What’s your problem, anyway?”

Brandon pushed himself into the corner and put his head down. Quint angled his mirror to see him. “I’m sorry, B,” he said after a moment. “It’s a fact. Y’all have seen my time, but I haven’t seen yours. I’m not in a place t’be judgin’ it.”

They got on I-75 and continued north along the Beaver Ridge. The day was fine and clear, the traffic light. They passed Knoxville ahead of schedule and picked up I-81. The Edsel was giving no trouble, and even Sarah seemed to be enjoying the ride. By early afternoon they had crossed into Virginia.

“Today makes up for yesterday.” Quint smiled. “We’ll stretch a bit at Meadowview.”

The Meadowview Rest Area was a patch of hillside carved out of the surrounding woods. Several picnic tables and brick barbeques ran up to a whitewashed building with restrooms. The only other car (a 1950 LaSalle, per Stephen) was leaving as they arrived. Quint parked and cut the engine, which stopped as smoothly as it had run all day.

“Brrr,” Sarah said as she got out of the car, for even in the full sun it was colder than it had been in Tennessee that morning. Stephen and Sarah headed for the restrooms. Quint lit a cigarette and strolled along a rail fence dividing the rest area from the woods. Brandon followed several paces behind him. Quint reached the end of the fence, drew deeply on his cigarette, and pinched it out.

“What’s the matter, B?” he asked without turning around.

Brandon walked slowly up to him. “Sorry I barked on you, Quint.”

“I didn’t know y’felt so strongly about movies and smokin’.” Quint smiled.

“I don’t give a . . . I don’t care anything about movies and smoking. But I guess you knew that.”

Quint grunted. “So what is it?”

Brandon pressed his fists to his eyes. “Last night I dreamed we got to the niche and it didn’t work . . . We couldn’t get home. I tried everything, but it just sat there. Then I turned around and you and Stephen and Sarah disappeared, and I was alone. I yelled for you to come back, but you didn’t. I got so scared I thought I’d throw up. I just fell down and started screaming. Then I woke up.”

“Hmmm. Scary stuff.”

“Yeah. I know it’s just a dream. But I can’t stop thinking about it. And all day long my stomach’s been like that—like it was when you disappeared.”

Quint put his hands on Brandon’s shoulders and looked intently at him. “Listen t’me, B. I don’t blame y’for bein’ scared. Since y’all got here it’s been one hell of a ride. But don’t feel alone. Sarah and Stephen are goin’ through the same thing—more scared sometimes than others, but always scared. We’re in this together, and we’re goin’ t’find that damn niche. If it works, great. If it doesn’t, we’ll come up with a different plan. And whatever that plan is, we’ll come up with it together, not alone.” He turned his head on its side. “Okay?”

Brandon nodded slightly.

“Y’still look like hell.” Quint said it with a smile.

Brandon hung his head.

“All y’had today was coffee and a doughnut. Could y’put some food in that sickly stomach of yours?”

“Um . . . yeah.”

“C’mon.” Quint threw his arm over Brandon’s shoulder and they walked back to the rest area. Sarah saw them as she was coming out of the ladies room. She ran up to Brandon. “Are you okay?” she asked, smoothing her hand over his cheek.

“I’m good.”

Sarah and Brandon walked ahead and joined Stephen in the Edsel. Quint took out his wallet and thumbed through the bills. Then he strode briskly to the car.

“Our money’s holdin’ up better than I thought,” he said as he dropped behind the wheel. “Why don’t we give the grocery food a rest and have a late lunch at HJ’s?”

“HJ’s?” Sarah asked.

“Howard Johnson’s.”

Brandon squinted at him. “That’s a place to eat?”

“Of course. Don’t y’all know Howard Johnson’s?”

“I thought they were hotels,” Sarah said.

“They were restaurants, too,” Stephen said. “My uncle took me to one in Times Square when I was a kid. But I think it closed. I never saw one anywhere else.”

“They’re everywhere,” Quint said. “We passed a bunch on this trip. Remember the orange roofs?”

“I . . . think so,” Brandon said.

“They’re not still ’round in 2005?”

“The hotels are,” Stephen said, “but I think the restaurants are gone.”

Quint sighed at this glimpse of things to come. “Well, well. I’ll just have t’load up on their fried clams while I can.”

Five minutes after leaving Meadowview they passed a billboard for a Howard Johnson’s in the town of Marion, six miles ahead. Brandon was feeling a little better, thinking less about his dream and more about a meal not wrapped in plastic. He teased Sarah about her bundle and needled Quint about Howard Johnson’s twenty-eight flavors of ice cream.

“Baskin-Robbins has thirty-one,” he cracked.

“But they don’t have fried clams,” Quint replied serenely.

They took the Marion exit and drove the mile to town. Quint found the restaurant on Montague Street. He parked next to the entrance and cut the engine, which stopped without a shake or a bang. “On schedule, extra money, and the Edsel’s runnin’ like a top.” He grinned. “What d’y’think, Sarah? D’we need a couple of backfires t’get our blood flowin’?”

“My blood’s peachy, thanks.”

They walked past the restaurant’s tiny manicured lawn and the free-standing sign listing the specialties of the house (first among them, fried clams). Brandon held the door for his friends. Quint stopped at the cigarette machine in the vestibule and dropped three dimes into the slot. He pulled the knob under Marlboro. “Don’t worry, I’m not smokin’ inside,” he said. “After this mornin’ I might just quit the damn things early.” They crossed the linoleum image of Simple Simon Meeting a Pie Man Going to the Fair and took a booth at the front window.