Here by Mistake (17 page)

“Why doesn’t he come?” Sarah said anxiously.

“Stay cool, it’s the routine,” Quint said. Brandon looked at him, and he added, “I don’t always stick t’the speed limit.”

The trooper pushed open his door and got out of the cruiser. Tall and trim, clad in gray and topped with a broad-brimmed Stetson, he strode to Quint’s window. Sarah shrank in her seat.

“Good afternoon,” the trooper said in a flat voice. “License and registration, please.” He was wearing dark glasses, and Brandon couldn’t get a sense of his mood.

Quint took his license and registration out of his wallet and handed them over. The trooper examined them and checked the stickers on the windshield. “Louisiana. Long way from home.”

“Yes, sir,” Quint said.

“Where are you going?”

“Rollin’s. My cousins and Stephen here were visitin’ for a couple weeks. I’m bringin’ ’em home.”

The trooper took off his glasses and gave Quint a hard look. “Two weeks out of school this time of year? Doesn’t sound like a good idea. What’s the address in Rollings?”

Quint bit his lip. The trooper raised a suspicious eyebrow.

“Forty-two Scenic Drive, officer,” Brandon said. “William Stratham’s house. He’s my dad.” He gave Quint a playful push on the shoulder. “Quint hasn’t been there before.”

The trooper bent down to get a better look at Brandon. “Your dad took you out of school for two weeks?”

“Sure,” Brandon said. “He cleared it with the school district. Stephen’s folks too.”

The trooper peered into the back seat at Stephen. “I thought the schools didn’t like that this time of year. I thought it was hard to make up the work.”

“Not when you’re as good as we are,” Brandon said. He and Stephen laughed at the comeback. Sarah forced herself to smile. Quint leaned his head on the steering wheel.

The trooper thought it over. “Well, far be it from me to question the purposes of the Rollings Central School District, even if I do think it’s a bad idea.” He gave the license and registration back to Quint. “Do you know why I stopped you?”

Quint answered meekly. “No, sir.”

“Come on out and I’ll show you.”

They got out and walked to the back of the car. The trooper pointed to the license plate, which was dangling from the bumper. “The left-side screw either rattled loose or rusted through. You need to refasten it or you’ll lose your plate.”

Quint breathed with relief. “No problem, sir. I’ve got some wire in the trunk.”

The trooper ran his fingernail across the rust on the bumper. “That’s probably best,” he said. “This whole area’s shot. I don’t think it’d take the pressure of a screw.” He and Quint followed the rust around to the passenger side of the car. “Crazy this thing passed inspection with the shape it’s in. No offense, but this is one ugly pile of scrap.”

Quint laughed in spite of the situation. Stephen huffed indignantly.

“Well,” the trooper asked, “you’re sure you have the wire to fix it?”

“Yes, sir,” Quint said. He popped the trunk and took some wire and snips from his tool box. He cut a two-foot length, threaded it through the plate and bumper, and twisted the ends together. He put his things away and closed the trunk as gently as he could, but the Edsel still made its tinkling sound.

The trooper listened and just shook his head. “Well, Louisiana says it’s roadworthy.”

Quint shook the trooper’s hand. “Thanks for callin’ our attention t’the plate, sir.”

“You’re welcome,” the trooper said. He turned to go but stopped before Brandon. “And I trust your next vacation will be when school’s out, young man.”

Brandon smiled his brash smile.

The trooper got back in his cruiser. He steered around them and, with a wave of his hand, drove on.

Quint, Brandon, Stephen, and Sarah got back in the car. “Okay, B,” Quint said, with grudging admiration in his eyes, “is there really a William Stratham at 42 Scenic Drive in Rollin’s?”

“Sure,” Brandon said. “Only he’s my grandpa, not my dad. He’s been in the same house fifty years.” He clasped his hands behind his head and leaned back. “Of course, he didn’t really get me out of school, since he’s never seen me—yet.”

“Do you think the officer will check it out?” Sarah asked.

“I don’t think so,” Quint said. “He looked like he believed it. And anyhow, y’all will be back in 2005 before the day’s out.” He reached behind Brandon and pulled him close. “‘Not when you’re as good as we are’?”

Brandon and Stephen burst out laughing.

Quint let go of Brandon and signaled to pull out on the high- way. “I just hope there’s a place in Rollin’s where I can get a drink tonight.”

Turning off the Northway at Exit 16, they came to a sign pointing west that said eight miles to Rollings. Quint made the left.

As they approached the town, Brandon gazed out at farmland that stretched as far as he could see. The sun broke through the overcast and brightened the dry cornstalks that hadn’t been plowed under.

Suddenly Stephen grabbed the seatback. “Sir! Can we go back a minute?”

“What? How come?” Quint asked.

“I saw something. Please, just for a minute?”

Quint checked his mirror and slowed down. “Well . . . okay. For a minute.”

They made a U-turn and drove until Stephen said, “Here.”

Quint pulled to the shoulder and everyone got out. Stephen ran across the road and kicked at some leaves surrounding a large object. He stepped back to reveal a block of granite about three feet square. On it were carved the words: FIVE MILES ΤO H. KILNER AND COMPANY.

“It’s the marker!” Brandon cried.

“It is,” Sarah gasped.

“Big deal,” Quint said. “What the hell’s H. Kilner and Company?”

“A department store,” Sarah said. “It closed before we were born.”

“Before what?” Quint exclaimed. “So what’s the big deal about the stone? Y’all never even saw the damn store.”

“We know the stone,” Brandon said. “It’s still here in 2005. It’s where the mall is.” He turned to the cornfield and spread his arms. “This is where the mall is.”

“Will be,” Stephen murmured. He picked up a chunk of corn- stalk and tossed it into the field. “I guess this is the first difference we’ll see.”

Quint observed Brandon, Stephen, and Sarah take in the mall that wasn’t there. “But not the last, I imagine,” he said, more patiently this time. “Look, we’ll do the tour of town like y’all want. But we need t’keep movin’ if y’want t’make it home today. Okay?”

Everyone agreed, and they returned to the Edsel.

Three miles past the marker they came upon a Chamber of Commerce sign with tiles for twenty businesses and the greeting: WELCOME TO ROLLINGS—WE’RE OPEN FOR BUSINESS. Quint made a right on Wilmer Street. Brandon was giving directions.

“Where are all the houses?” Sarah asked in amazement. “There’s so much space.”

Stephen pointed to a white Victorian home with a red 1965 Mustang in the driveway. “That house is yellow back home,” he said. “Wish it still had that Mustang.”

Brandon was leaning over the dashboard to see as much as he could as soon as possible. “Take a right, Quint,” he said excitedly.

They turned onto Forbus Street and rolled over the giant words SCHOOL ZONE on the asphalt. To their left a parking lot with yellow buses opened to a circular driveway and the tan brick expanse of Rollings High School.

Sarah almost fell on top of Stephen, looking out his window. “It’s the same,” she squealed.

“What d’you mean, ‘the same’?” Brandon snapped. “Where’s the rest of it?”

“That’s all there is right now, B,” Stephen said. “Remember that plaque outside the nurse’s office? The east wing was built in 1979.”

At that moment two football players, uniformed in red and gold, ran into view on the east lawn. One of them caught a ball thrown from behind the school.

“Friday practice,” Brandon said excitedly. “Look, the same colors.”

They drove slowly past the school. Brandon gazed far down the east lawn and saw a touchdown. His head was swimming.

“Which way, B?”

He looked blankly at Quint. “Huh?”

“Which way?”

“Oh, um, left.”

They turned onto Grand Avenue and drove for three blocks.

“Okay, McDonald’s, where are you?” Stephen smiled as they made a left onto Broadway.

“Probably the same place as the east wing,” Brandon murmured.

He felt a pang of disappointment when he turned out to be right. The area occupied by McDonald’s, Taco Bell, and Gino’s Pizza in 2005 was taken up by an enormous gray building with frosted windows. An electric sign on the roof said “Kingsworth Shoes.”

“It’s huge for a shoe store,” Stephen said.

“It’s not a store, Stephen, it’s an outlet,” Sarah said smugly.

“It’s neither,” Quint said. “It’s a factory.” He pointed to a row of openings about four feet square in the west side of the building, several feet above the pavement. “See that? That’s the loadin’ dock. Trucks back up there t’pick up the shoes and take ’em t’stores.” As he was speaking, a steel door rolled down over one of the openings.

“So that’s where store stuff comes from,” Brandon said, half- seriously.

“Uh-huh,” Quint said. “I take it y’all don’t have factories in Rollin’s in 2005.”

“No,” Stephen said.

“Then where the hell do the folks work?”

Brandon thought a moment. “Walmart,” he said.

They drove on and came to a movie theatre with an elaborate display for
Doctor Zhivago
. Red-and-white banners flanking a poster for the film announced: “The Epic of Our Time!” Atop the marquee a red neon sign was blinking the word: “COLONIAL.”

“There’s the Internet Café,” Brandon said. “It’s way different back home—different siding and lots of windows in front—but they still call it the Colonial.”

Two more blocks brought them to the intersection of Broadway and Academy Street, which was dominated by a four-story building of bright red brick. The first floor’s show windows were filled with Christmas toys and women’s fur coats. Above the entrance, set into the brick, was a square of granite exactly like the marker. Gold letters carved into the granite said: “H. KILNER & CO.”

“Wow,” Sarah gasped. “I never knew it looked like that.”

Stephen whistled softly as they passed through the intersection. “Nice. Too bad it didn’t last.”

“What happened?” Quint asked. “They tear it down?”

“No, it’s there,” Brandon said. “But they painted the brick this nasty brown color and boarded up the windows. It’s been closed forever.”

The next block had more stores: Bradley Jewelers, F.W. Woolworth, The Paris Model. The block after that had Stein Furniture, M. Schwartz and Company, and Rollings Cadillac/Oldsmobile.

“What happened to all these places?” Sarah asked.

“C’mon,” Quint said, “y’all have stores in 2005, right?”

“In the mall,” Brandon said. “Not much in town.”

They were coming to the end of Broadway. Sarah drew away from her window and closed her eyes. Stephen picked up
David Copperfield
and started reading.

“Take a left, Quint; we’ll show you your house,” Brandon said. “If it’s there.”

“It’s there,” Stephen said without looking up from his book.

Brandon turned around. “How d’
you
know?” he asked crossly.

“His house has a slate roof. That means it’s really old. It’s there.”

Thus corrected, Brandon brightened a little. “Oh,” he said. “Quint, follow Monell Avenue all the way to the Lutheran church. Take that left and a quick right.”

“Will do.”

Quint did as instructed but had to double back when he passed the Lutheran church, which hadn’t been built yet. Brandon exploded. “Nothing’s here! I don’t even know this town.”

“Relax, B,” Quint said. “What’d y’expect? Forty years is a hell of a long while.” He reached over and ruffled Brandon’s hair. “Y’all have been dealin’ with this thing for ten days and holdin’ it together. Don’t fall apart on me now.”

“It’s different now,” Stephen said.

“Yes,” Sarah said.

“Different how?”

“Because this is home,” Stephen said, closing his book. “I thought I’d know Rollings anytime. I don’t.”

“Me neither,” Sarah said. “I’m more lost now than I was in New Orleans.”

They turned onto Chapman Road and passed a small white house. “Hold it,” Brandon cried. “That’s it.”

Quint hit the brake. He made a three-point turn and pulled up in front of the house, which was a clapboard cape with black shutters and a gray slate roof. Brandon rolled down his window. “So that’s it, huh?” Quint smiled. “And here I was expectin’ columns and a four-car garage.”

Brandon leaned so far out his window he nearly fell out of the car. “It looks great,” he exclaimed. “It’s the same as home.”

“Except the driveway’s not paved yet,” Stephen observed.

“And whoever has it now paints it,” Sarah said.

Quint waited a minute and inched the Edsel forward.

“Wait,” Brandon cried. “There’s the tree.”

Quint hit the brake. Brandon pointed to a young maple about fifteen feet from the west side of the house. A wire run through a piece of hose had been wrapped around the trunk and hooked to poles on either side of it.

“You cut that tree down when I was seven,” Brandon said. “I helped you, a little. I was small. But you gave me ten dollars.”

“Ten bucks here, fifty-G there.” Quint sighed. “I’ll be spendin’ serious money when I get t’this town.”

“It was huge,” Brandon said. “You cut it down after a branch smashed the gutter off your roof.” He leaned out his window again. “Look at it now. I could pull it out with my hands.”

Quint snagged Brandon’s belt loop and pulled him back into the car. “Well, let’s leave it be so y’can earn y’ten bucks down the road.” He let up on the brake. “Where to?”

“Your house has a slate roof, B,” Stephen said.

Brandon rolled up his window and didn’t answer right away. “My dad says it was built in the 1930s, so it’s there,” he said softly. “Yesterday I wanted to see it. Now I don’t. Okay if we just go to Aunt Faye’s?”

“Yes,” Sarah said quickly. “Let’s go.”

Stephen nodded. “Yes.”

“Faye’s it is,” Quint said. “Which way t’Cherry Boulevard, B?”

Five minutes later they were turning into Faye Birmingham’s driveway. Brandon hopped out of the car and raised the garage door. Quint eased the Edsel inside and cut the engine without a backfire. Everyone got out.