Here by Mistake (19 page)

“Some kids were beating me up out front. Sarah and Stephen helped me.” Then Reginald added with a burst of excitement, “And B socked Jack Halstead! Knocked him flat.”

Quint nodded. “Uh-huh.”

“Well,” Reginald said, smiling, “I better go. Thank you, Sarah. And thank you, Stephen.” He grabbed Brandon’s hand and pumped it. “Thanks, B. I wish I could fight like you.”

Quint picked up Reginald’s accordion. “I imagine this is yours, Reginald. Y’take good care. Maybe we’ll see y’again sometime.”

Reginald zipped up his jacket. “Are you from the South, Mr. Coster?”

“New Orleans, born and bred.”

“New Orrr-leans,” Reginald said, as if trying to remember something. Then he lit up and asked: “B, is your aunt that rich lady from New Orleans? That Mrs. Birmingham who’s coming here?”

Brandon turned white. Quint broke into a sweat. Reginald looked at them, beaming.

“Yes,” Quint said, setting down the case. “Do y’know her?”

“Zowie,” Reginald exclaimed. “I should’ve guessed. I mean, who else has so much stuff?”

Quint pulled out his handkerchief and wiped his face. “Do y’know her?”

“No, but she’s got so much stuff she rents space from my mom for it.” He spread his arms and turned completely around. “Even this house can’t hold it all.”

Quint made it to the sofa and sat down. He beckoned for Reginald to join him. “Y’mom?” he wheezed. “Does she have a warehouse?”

“No, sir. She has part of Kingsworth Shoes on Broadway. My dad had it, but he died. Now she has it.”

“The factory,” Quint whispered.

“It’s got lots of space,” Reginald said proudly. “My mom rents it out.”

“Your mom owns the factory?” Sarah asked.

“Part of it. Lots of people together own it.” Reginald looked closely at Quint. “Are you okay, Mr. Coster?”

Quint was wiping his face with his sleeves, his handkerchief spent. “Me? Never better. Reginald, we need t’pick up something of Faye’s—Mrs. Birmingham’s—that came north by mistake. It’s not in this house. It must be in the factory. Will y’mom let us in so we can get it?”

Reginald clearly had no idea. “I’ll ask her.”

“Can I ask her? Where do y’live?”

The glow in Reginald’s eyes disappeared, and fright took its place. “Fifty-eight W-Winsome Drive,” he stammered.

At that moment, for the second time in his life, Brandon felt sorry for Reginald Jones. Jonesy would still be living at that address— alone—in forty years. Brandon’s address was 56 Winsome Drive.

“Why don’t we go now?” Quint asked, rising from the sofa. “Mind if we walk together?”

Reginald was pulling at his fingers. “W-well, okay.”

Quint took his hand and grabbed the accordion. Reginald gave Brandon a panicked look as he was steered out the door.

It was twenty minutes before noon, more than an hour since Quint had left with Reginald. Brandon and Stephen were sitting on the bottom stair in the entrance hall. Sarah was standing before the grandfather clock with the carved sailing ships. Brandon had raised the weights and set the time, and the pendulum was moving with deep clicks that made little echoes in the case. Sarah watched the minute hand move ever-so-slowly to nineteen before noon.

“Don’t you wish we could just turn the hands and speed up time to 2005?” she asked without turning around.

“That’d take a lot of turns.” Brandon grinned.

Sarah bowed her head. “I’d do them all, if it would work,” she said sadly.

Brandon got up and stood behind her. He whispered in her ear, “Okay?”

Sarah leaned back against him. “B, remember what you said in the cemetery?”

“Uh-huh. The Promise,” he said teasingly.

“Please don’t joke. Could you tell me that again, now?”

“I was just shooting my mouth off,” Brandon whispered, setting his chin on her shoulder. “You know it. You knew it then.”

“But I’d still like to hear it.”

Brandon opened his mouth, but the words didn’t come. Sarah turned around to face him.

“Why not?” she asked. “Do you still think we’ll get home?”

“Sure I do.”

“So why can’t you make the promise now?”

Brandon had to think why. “I . . . don’t know,” he said after a moment. “I know we’ll get back, but what I said the first day sounds so stupid now.” Then he smiled.

“What?”

“You owe me two Dr. Peppers, right? I’ll bet you double or nothing we get back.”

Sarah stepped back from him. “You want me to bet against us going home?”

“Sounds risky,” Stephen said mischievously.

Sarah gave Brandon a hard look, which dissolved into a smile. She told Stephen, “You’re my witness.” Then she kissed Brandon on the cheek. “Okay, it’s a bet.”

The front door clicked and swung toward them. Quint and Reginald stepped inside. Brandon knew immediately the news was not good.

“Hi,” Quint said stiffly. “Reginald and I saw his mom. We talked a bit, and I asked about gettin’ in t’Kingsworth. She . . . couldn’t see her way clear t’let us in.” He ran his fingers back through his hair. “Anyhow, Reginald wants t’talk with y’all.”

Pale and unsmiling, Reginald stepped forward. “I told my mom how you all helped me, how you chased off Jack and the others,” he said in a trembling voice. “She says thank you . . . and please come to lunch today.” He added quickly: “But, if you can’t come that’s okay. I’ve got money to take you to the diner instead.” He plucked a five-dollar bill from inside his jacket and looked pleadingly at Brandon.

Oh, no
. Brandon wanted to say they had eaten, even though they hadn’t. If they had to go to lunch he could probably deal with the diner but not with Mrs. Jones
.
Reginald was such a geek. What would his mom be like?

“Mrs. Jones has given y’all an invitation,” Quint said. “Y’all should accept.”

Stephen and Sarah were shuffling their feet, waiting for Brandon. And Brandon knew what he had to do. “Let’s have lunch with your mom, Reginald,” he said through gritted teeth. “We’d really like to.”

Reginald’s face fell, but he murmured, “Okay,” and went out the door. Brandon, Stephen, and Sarah pulled on their jackets. Quint drew them close and whispered: “She’s grateful to y’all for helpin’ him. I struck out, but see what y’all can do. Go.”

“But what—” Brandon began.

Quint held up his hand. “No time, B. Do what y’all can, and get back fast. Just watch y’selves with her.”

“Watch—?”

“Y’all will see why. Now go.” Quint pressed them out the door and closed it.

Brandon stood on the steps and felt like screaming. He pulled in a deep breath. “Lead the way, Reginald.”

They set out for Winsome Drive. As they walked along, Reginald stayed glued to Brandon and closed every gap that opened between them. Brandon grew more and more annoyed until finally he grabbed Reginald to fling him away. Sarah gave him a fierce look, and he passed the gesture off as clowning.

“Zowie, neat, B,” squealed Reginald, forgetting his unhappiness about lunch. He pressed himself even closer to Brandon, who kept balling and unballing his fists.

Stephen spoke up. “So . . . what TV do you watch, Reginald?”

“Oh, um, I like
Bonanza
. And
The Wonderful World of Color
. My favorite’s
The Beverly Hillbillies.”

“Wow,” Stephen said, “that’s B’s favorite show too.”

Reginald looked up at Brandon. “It is?”

“That’s right,” Stephen said. “He even bought a shirt to match Jethro’s. He’s wearing it today.”

Brandon pondered whether to laugh or put Stephen on the ground. Stephen kept Reginald between them as they walked.

Suddenly there was a whirring sound directly behind them. As Brandon turned around, the kid in corduroy cut through the four of them on a bicycle. His fist caught Reginald between the shoulder blades and sent him flying. “Hah!” the kid yelled, pedaling furiously. Brandon took off after him but couldn’t catch up. The kid zoomed through the intersection with Whittier Street and followed the bend until he was out of sight.

Brandon ran back to his friends. Sarah and Stephen were helping Reginald to his feet. Brandon checked his face. “No cuts. Do you hurt anywhere?”

Reginald didn’t answer but walked off and plopped himself down on the curb. He crossed his arms on his knees and put his face in them. Sarah whispered in Brandon’s ear and gave him a little push in Reginald’s direction. Brandon shook his head, but Sarah pointed to Reginald and pushed him again. He scowled at her, but when she came at him yet again he went and sat down with Reginald.

“Hey,” Brandon said impatiently. “Can I say something?”

Reginald was gasping into his arms.

Brandon whispered in his ear, “That kid’s nothing.”

“I’m scared of him.” Reginald coughed. “I’m scared of all of them.”

“Yeah, all of them. It takes all of them to do their deal. When they’re alone they’re nothing. Put that kid in a real fight and he’ll fold up like his friend what’s-his-face.”

“Jack,” Reginald said. “I can’t fight,” he added miserably.

Brandon tapped Reginald on the knee. “Hey, I can’t talk to the back of your head.”

Reginald sat up but faced away from Brandon. So Brandon got up and stepped to the other side of him. Reginald turned on his seat to hide his face. Brandon followed him until they made a circle. Reginald kept turning, and they made another circle. Finally they both laughed and Brandon sat down again.

“But I can’t—I can’t fight,” Reginald said. “I’m a loser.”

Loser? The word struck Brandon, although he had been calling Jonesy worse things than loser his whole life. “My mom says the one who fights is the one who’s run out of ideas,” he said, a little uneasily. “You’re not a loser. Maybe you’re the one with ideas.”

“Ideas?” Reginald asked, looking him full in the face. “I don’t need ideas. I need to fight. Like you do.”

“I don’t fight all the time, Reginald,” Brandon snapped. “And most times I don’t win. Most times it’s pretty much even at the end. Once I lost and hit my head on the street. I got five stitches.”

“I never win. And they know it. They know I’m a loser.”

Brandon saw white. “You’re not a loser, Reginald,” he exclaimed. “You play the accordion. I wish I could play the accordion. I can’t—I can’t play anything.” He shut his mouth and stared wildly up the boulevard. Had he really just wished he could play the accordion?

Reginald pulled out his shirttail and wiped his eyes with it. “I’m a loser,” he said softly, “but thanks for yelling about it, B.”

Brandon was afraid he would offer him an accordion lesson, but he said simply, “Want to go to lunch?”

They got up and joined Stephen and Sarah, who were leaning against an oak tree on the next lot. Brandon looked past Sarah’s warm smile but let her slip her arm through his as they continued on their way.

Brandon had dreaded passing his own house, but when 56 Winsome Drive came into view his heart gave a leap. The green siding, flagstone trim, and wraparound porch were straight out of 2005. True, the shrubs below the porch were different. And the siding, as he got closer, turned out to be wood instead of vinyl. And the stupid-looking red car in the driveway, per Stephen, was a 1963 Ford Galaxie. Still, it was home, and it looked like home. Once past the house he fought off the temptation to look back.

“Here we are,” Reginald said when they reached his driveway.

Brandon looked up at the white cinder-block house. Like his own, it was straight out of 2005. The wooden steps to the door could have been the same ones he had climbed the day Jonesy yelled at Stephen, except they were a freshly painted gray. The steps did not creak at all as Reginald led the way up them.

At the top Reginald opened the door a crack and called: “Mommy, I brought my friends for lunch.” He listened, but there was no answer. “Just a minute,” he said. He stepped inside and closed the door. When he opened it a minute later his face was ghostly white. “Come in,” he whispered.

They stepped into the living room. Brandon knew it from the day he had peered through Jonesy’s door. The brown leather chair with nail-head trim was in its same spot in the corner. But whereas in 2005 the leather had been blistered and torn, it was dark and shiny now. They tossed their jackets over the chair and followed Reginald into the kitchen. Seated at the table was a frail-looking woman in a blue dressing gown. She appeared to be about fifty, with a bony face and brown hair streaked with gray.

“Mommy, this is Brandon. Call him B,” Reginald said, his eyes darting from the woman to Brandon and back. “This is Stephen, and this is Sarah. They all helped me today.”

Reginald’s mother cleared her throat and tried to stand. The effort brought on a spasm of coughing, and she fell back on her chair. She snatched a china cup from a rolling cart to her right and took a swallow, whereupon the coughing stopped. Smiling at her visitors, she gestured for them to join her at the table. They pulled out the chairs and sat down.

“Thank you for bringing your friends, darling,” she said. “And thank you, Brendan, for coming to Reginald’s aid today.”

Something in the air made Brandon think of the man in white back in the French Quarter. “That’s okay, Mrs. Jones. Thank you for inviting us.”

“Call him B, Mommy. Sarah and Stephen helped me, too.”

“Thank you both,” Mrs. Jones said sweetly. “I’m so glad you came.” Her eyes fluttered shut and her head drooped.

“Mommy,” Reginald cried, springing to his feet. “I’ll make the sandwiches.”

Mrs. Jones’s head came up and her eyes opened very wide. “Yes, thank you, darling,” she said with a gasp.

The table had not been set. Reginald took five plates and five glasses from the china hutch and lined them up on the counter. He took Wonder Bread from a drawer and peanut butter and jelly from a cabinet and made five sandwiches with assembly-line speed. He got the milk from the refrigerator and filled the glasses. Sarah watched him.

“Isn’t he wonderful?” Mrs. Jones said to Sarah. “I don’t know what I would do without my Reginald.”

Reginald brought the sandwiches and glasses of milk to the table and took his seat between his mother and Brandon. Then he jumped up and grabbed some paper napkins from a drawer. He gave them out and sat down again.