Here by Mistake (15 page)

“Whew. The guy at the desk was tilted back in his chair, snorin’ like a lion.” He laughed. “I had t’shake him like hell, but he finally came to and gave us Room 4.” He tossed the key to Brandon.

They opened the room and turned up the thermostat. Quint, Brandon, and Stephen then returned to the Edsel and popped the trunk. Sarah’s bundle was spread out atop the others, and Brandon could have sworn it had grown since morning. The three hoisted it on their shoulders and maneuvered it into the room. When they dropped it on the bed it barely dented the mattress. They looked at each other.

“Sarah can have the bed again,” Brandon said.

They brought in the other bundles and took turns in the bathroom. Brandon’s was last. While he was brushing his teeth he thought over his talk with Quint and decided he had to talk some more. He spit out a foaming gob of toothpaste and rinsed his mouth. He quickly dried his face and hands, wiped the sink with his hand towel, and opened the bathroom door. Light spilled across his friends, fast asleep.

Brandon was tempted to shake Quint awake but decided he could wait until morning. He stepped carefully over Stephen and stretched out on his blanket at the foot of the bed. Light from the window had cut a streak across the ceiling, and he watched it as he thought about the day. He had surprised himself when he said he would do it all again if he could be sure of getting home. Things had changed—he had changed, at least a little. He was still scared, but not as much. And he had a feeling he could now handle things coming his way.

Brandon smiled at the light above him. He would do everything he could to get himself and his friends back home. And once they were home, he might not be finished with the niche.

Morning came fast, and Quint decided not to start early. It was eight before Stephen and Sarah were up, nine before everyone had been to the bathroom. Brandon was staring at the bathroom door, wondering what Sarah could possibly be doing that took so long, when he heard kicks on the outside door. He opened it, and Quint hurried past him with four cardboard cups.

“Two coffees and two milks from the deli next door,” Quint said. “It’s still coffee, right, B?”

“Why certainly, Quinton.”

Quint set the cups on the dresser and turned around. Brandon burst out laughing.

“Something tells me this is goin’ t’be a hell of a day,” Quint said.

Sarah came out of the bathroom and everyone sat down on the rug. Even though breakfast was cornbread from New Orleans, spirits were high. Sarah said the bed’s mattress was the worst she’d ever slept on, but she joked with Brandon and sipped his coffee as she munched her cornbread. Stephen thanked Sarah for loaning him
David Copperfield
and started reading it with his breakfast. Quint finished first and stepped outside for a cigarette. Brandon looked up at the window and said to no one in particular, “It’ll be a great day.”

By nine forty-five the bundles were loaded in the Edsel. Quint brought the car to a roaring start, and they were off. They drove to the Gulf station near the I-81 ramp and filled up at thirty-three cents a gallon. Quint collected his change—and another Mary Poppins plate—and sped up the ramp to the highway.

Fall’s brilliant reds and golds were now behind them. The Edsel sailed past bare branches as it crossed the bleak Pennsylvania countryside. Brandon was picking out the names of towns on the road signs. “Shippensburg, Walnut Bottom, Carlisle,” he murmured. They sounded really strange. But then, he guessed, so must Rollings to someone who lived in Walnut Bottom.

The day was clear and the traffic light. By noon they had crossed the Susquehanna River and passed Harrisburg. At one o’clock Sarah brought out the Spam and bread and made sandwiches. They stopped to get four Dr. Peppers from the trunk and were stunned by the freezing air. Brandon wasn’t about to admit it, but he was now grateful for his Salvation Army jacket.

After lunch they followed the steep ups and downs of the Schuylkill Ridge for the better part of an hour. The hills were hard on the Edsel, which started bucking under the strain. Quint decided to stop in the next town and have a look at the engine. He took the exit for McAdoo.

The bucking became intense two miles from town. Thumps came from the trunk as heavy things knocked against each other. Stephen’s Dr. Pepper bottle flew off the back seat and landed on Brandon’s lap in front. Quint pulled to the shoulder just as steam started shooting out of the grille. He got out and used his handkerchief to raise the hood. After a quick inspection he got back in the car. “Overheated, needless t’say. There’s a split in the hose, and I need t’give some other things a goin’ over. It’ll take some time.”

“Are we stuck here?” Sarah asked nervously.

“No,” Quint said. “I’ve got rubber tape and antifreeze in the trunk, and any tools I’m likely t’need. We’ll lose time, but we’ll make do.” Sarah squeezed her hands together, and he patted her arm. “Not t’worry. I’ve brought her back from worse than this.”

Brandon was peering at some activity about two hundred yards ahead on the other side of the road. People were milling around two stone buildings and several large tents. A Ferris wheel poked above the tent tops. He pointed to the goings-on. “What’s that?”

Quint looked up. “A carnival, looks like. Too cold for one as far as I’m concerned. Y’all wouldn’t catch me on that Ferris wheel.”

“Um,” Brandon said, “if I can’t help you with the car . . .”

“No.”

“ . . . can we go up there and look around?”

Quint eyed him skeptically. “Remember what happened the last time y’all went off on y’own?”

“Yes.”

“Well?”

Brandon shrugged and slumped in his seat. Quint watched him for a moment and then turned around. “Y’all want t’see the carnival?”

Stephen and Sarah nodded hesitantly.

Quint sighed and whispered, “Oh, what the hell.” He took out his wallet and withdrew a one. “For sodas,” he said, handing it to Brandon. “Come back in an hour. Let Stephen time it. Don’t draw attention t’y’selves or get in t’any trouble.”

Brandon tucked the bill into his shirt pocket. “Thanks, Quint.” He grinned.

The three got out of the car and started up the road. Brandon was shifting uncomfortably inside his Salvation Army jacket. He observed his friends, dressed as he was in shapeless navy blue. “We look like three garbage bags with legs,” he snapped.

They came to the beginning of a low stone wall that had cars parked along it. Stephen paused at a red 1960 Chevrolet Corvair until Brandon called to hurry him along. Another minute’s walk brought them to a gate in the wall and a plaque that said: CASTLETON WINERY. Next to the gate a plywood sign festooned with purple streamers and balloons announced the “Castleton Fall Festival.” They walked through the gate.

Brandon led his friends to the first tent, which had three huge barrels (“Oak casks,” Stephen said) propped on their sides, each with a spigot. Pictures of grapes and posters explaining how wine is aged were set up on easels. The three moved on to the next tent, which had wine presses and posters explaining how juice is made. They poked their heads inside the third tent, which was all about fermentation. People were crowding around the exhibits.

Brandon rolled his eyes. “Bor-ring.”

The last tent had refreshments. There was plenty of soda in the Edsel, so they got hot dogs. Brandon paid the lady sitting at a folding table and started to walk away. She called him back and gave him his change. “Twenty cents each,” he told Stephen, shaking the coins in his fist. “No wonder Quint freaks about our prices.”

They left the tent area and came to a wooden platform about ten feet high with rough-hewn steps leading to the top. Beyond the platform stretched a field with three rows of flags. Signs on the rows gave the distances: green flags were fifty yards out, yellow flags were seventy-five, and red flags were a hundred.

“What’s with the flags?” Sarah asked.

A bearded man in boots overheard her. “Apple-throwing contest,” he said loudly.

“Apple throwing?”

“Yessiree. Whoever lobs an apple the farthest wins a wine basket.”

Brandon spun around. “When’s it start?”

“Fifteen minutes.”

Sarah grabbed his arm. “Forget it, B. We don’t need any wine.”

“Who cares about wine? I want to win. I can throw better than these dorks.”

“I’m sure you can. You’re Mr. Medal in baseball. But we can’t draw attention. Remember?”

“I—” Brandon said, snatching his arm away. He saw Stephen shaking his head.

“She’s right, B,” he said.

Brandon looked longingly at the platform and bowed his head. “Okay.”

Sarah smoothed his hair into place and slipped her arm through his. They walked over a grassy ridge to the Ferris wheel and watched as the ride started. Two gondolas were occupied: one with a young couple and the other with two boys about ten years old; all four were shivering.

They continued on to the larger of the two stone buildings and found a small crowd at the base of the steps. A tall, middle-aged man with a deeply tanned face and the whitest teeth Brandon had ever seen stood in the middle of the crowd. He was dressed in a tie and topcoat, not the flannels of those around him. People were handing him slips of paper, and it looked like he was signing autographs. Brandon stopped a man walking away with one.

“Who’s that?”

“Austin Stanhope.”

“Who?”

“Stanhope, the former governor,” the man said, looking at Brandon as if he were a little slow. “No one knew he was coming.”

Brandon turned to Stephen. “Former governor. You know about that stuff. Is this guy worth an autograph?”

Stephen craned his neck for a better look. “I don’t know, B. I’ve heard the name.”

“Let’s skip the autograph,” Sarah said. “We don’t need somebody like that looking us up and down.” She took Brandon’s arm and pulled him past the crowd.

A flagstone path brought them to the last attraction at the festival: a pony ride for little kids. Parents and their children were lined up along a rail fence surrounding a small corral. Brandon, Stephen, and Sarah watched as the attendant seated a boy of about four on the pony and walked him twice around the circle. The pony, big-boned and spirited, wanted to prance rather than walk. The attendant kept both hands on the bridle as he made the passes.

After watching two kids ride the pony, Brandon stretched his arms and looked over at the wooden platform. The apple-throwing contest was underway. The bearded man in boots spat in his hands, wound up, and hurled an apple over the field. It dropped a yard or so past the yellow flags. A tall, square-shouldered man with red hair threw the next one. It soared higher than the first but fell a bit short of the yellows. Brandon watched the throws with a kibitzer’s eye.

“Be back,” he suddenly said. “I’m walking up the grass a ways.”

Sarah gave him a challenging look.

“I won’t throw anything,” Brandon snapped. “I just want to see the contest from there.”

He stamped off. Following a trench that tracked the western edge of the field, he arrived at the red flags just as an apple fell a foot shy of them, the best throw yet by far. A cheer went up from the platform.

“What are you clapping for?” Brandon muttered. “None of you can throw.” He plopped down on the grass in a huff.

At the corral the attendant had just seated a small girl on the pony and fixed her feet in the stirrups. He gave her the reins and tugged on the bridle to begin the ride. Suddenly the pony rammed forward, knocking the attendant into the fence. His legs buckled and he hit the ground. The pony squealed and reared, and several parents rushed into the corral. One man seized the bridle but slipped on the mud and lost his grip. Two women grabbed for the reins but missed, and the pony bolted out of the gate. It ran up the flagstone path past the wooden platform and charged into the field.

The girl screamed and let go of the reins. Bounced hard, she flew off the saddle but didn’t fall free. Her right foot stuck in the stirrup, and the pony dragged her at a gallop as she shrieked and screamed.

Onlookers shouted helplessly. One man on the platform yelled, “STOP” and stupidly threw an apple at the animal; it missed by ten yards. Roused by the noise, Brandon jumped up and saw the pony heading for the red flags. He hopped the trench and sprinted for the crossing point. Reaching it not quite in time, he leaned and made a flying leap—and caught a piece of the saddle.

The pony charged on, dragging Brandon and the girl. Twenty yards past the flags it slowed and finally it stopped. Brandon found his footing and grabbed for the bridle, but missed. The pony squealed and reared, and came down almost on top of him. Brandon seized the reins, but the pony bucked and yanked him off his feet. He hit the ground on his back as a hoof pounded down next to his face. Scrambling back up, he blocked the pony, shifting and angling for an opening. Finding one at last, he leaped up and caught the bridle with both hands, giving it all his weight. The pony let out a piercing squeal, but its head came down. The rearing and the running were done.

From the corner of his eye, Brandon saw three big men running up. The biggest one took the bridle; the second took the reins. The third man tried prying the girl’s shoe from the stirrup. When this didn’t work he unlaced the shoe and eased her foot out. A woman in red flannels ran up and knelt beside the girl.

“Be still, dear,” she whispered. “Lie flat ’til the ambulance comes.”

The girl was gasping and sobbing. She yelled out when the woman gently straightened her left arm. Her reddish hair was caked with mud, and there was a bleeding cut running from her left ear to her mouth.

Almost everyone from the festival was rushing to the scene. The former governor—Brandon had already forgotten his name—arrived panting and wheezing. He fell on his knees where the girl lay and took her face in his hands.

“Vicki, Vicki, my God, are you all right?” he cried, tears streaming down his face.

“I’m a nurse, Governor,” the woman in red flannels said. “Don’t let her move ’til the ambulance comes.”

The governor put his face next to the girl’s and whispered in her ear. His trembling hand squeezed hers.

Brandon had a few scrapes, and his jeans and jacket were streaked with mud. The nurse tried to make him lie down to await the ambulance. “No,” he said, pulling away from her. The crowd pressed in on him, cheering and slapping him on the back. Sarah ran up, threw her arms around him, and, for the first time ever, kissed him on the lips. Stephen grabbed his hand and shook it warmly.

Then everyone became quiet. The people around Brandon moved to either side as the governor came up to him. He took Brandon’s hand in both of his.

“Thank you. My Vicki—she’d have been killed. Thank—” he said haltingly. “I . . . must talk with you after the ambulance comes.” He let go of Brandon and hurried back to the girl.

Oh, no
, Brandon thought. He pushed through his well-wishers and took hold of Stephen and Sarah. “We’ve got to beat it right now!”

At that moment Quint was walking through the gate in the stone wall. He passed a young couple with a stroller on their way out and overheard the man talking.

“Can you believe that blond kid? I never saw anything like it.”

Quint froze at the words “blond kid.” Then he ran and searched the tents and the area around the corral. Coming to the wooden platform, he looked across the field to where most of the people were. Three familiar figures were running in his direction. “Oh, hell,” he said. “Now what?”

Brandon reached him first. “Quint,” he gasped, “we’ve got to get out of here.”

Quint took him by the shoulders and turned him around. “What’s with the mud? What’y’all been doin’?”

Brandon grabbed his hand and pulled him a couple of steps toward the gate. “There’s no time to talk. An ambulance is coming, and maybe police. Let’s go.”