Here by Mistake (20 page)

“So, Brendan, you’re from New Orleans, like that nice Mr. Costerman?” Mrs. Jones asked.

“Mommy, call him—” Reginald began. Brandon put a hand on his arm.

“Yes, Mrs. Jones. We came yesterday.”

“B likes
The Beverly Hillbillies
, Mommy.”

“It’s his favorite,” Stephen said.

Mrs. Jones seemed to lose focus for a moment. “How nice,” she said absently. “That’s a wonderful show.”

“He bought that shirt to look like Jethro,” Stephen said.

Brandon fixed killer eyes on him. He swung his foot under the table but missed Stephen’s shin.

They ate their sandwiches and drank their milk. Lunch seemed to make Mrs. Jones sleepier. Small talk wasn’t helping.

“Have you lived here long?” Sarah asked.

“Oh my, yes, dear,” Mrs. Jones said dully. “Mr. Jones and I moved here in . . .” Her voice trailed off, her head drooped, and she started to keel over. Reginald jumped up and caught her, and set her straight in her chair. “Oh, oh . . . what was I saying?” she resumed in a thick voice.

“When you and Daddy moved here,” Reginald reminded her.

“Yes, thank you, darling. It was 1948.”

“Mrs. Jones, can I ask you something?” Brandon asked.

“Yes, Brendan.”

Brandon looked grimly at Sarah and Stephen and made his pitch: “My aunt’s moving up here at the end of the month. She had a lot of stuff shipped, but there’s something in Kingsworth Shoes she wants back in New Orleans. Can you let us in so we can get it?”

Mrs. Jones smiled sympathetically but shook her head. “No, dear, I explained this to Mr. Costerman. I rent space to companies like Liberty Movers. They make contracts with people like your aunt. I can only let the companies into Kingsworth.”

“Can you make an exception if it’s important, ma’am?” Stephen asked.

“No, dear. I’m sorry. My lawyer set it up this way.”

It was no use. Discussion turned to the weather, movies, and the coming holidays. Mrs. Jones grew more and more tired and less able to follow the conversation. Twice she had fits of coughing, and twice she took swallows from the china cup. Finally the cup slipped out of her hand and hit the table, spilling its contents. Reginald jumped up and grabbed a dishcloth.

“Oh, I’m such a clumsy goose,” Mrs. Jones mumbled. “I’m afraid I must excuse myself and rest a bit.”

Everyone stood up. Reginald helped his mother out of her chair and guided her into the living room. Their voices trailed back to the kitchen.

“Thank you, darling. Now see your friends home.”

“I’ll stay with you, Mommy.”

“No, remember your manners. See them home, like a good boy.”

Reginald returned to the kitchen. He gathered the plates and glasses and placed them in the sink. Then he brought Brandon, Sarah, and Stephen into the living room, where they donned their jackets. Mrs. Jones was lying on the couch. Reginald watched her as he zipped his jacket up.

“Thank you for lunch, Mrs. Jones,” Brandon said.

“It was very nice,” Sarah said.

“Yes, thank you, Mrs. Jones,” Stephen said.

Mrs. Jones did not reply.

“She’s sleeping,” Reginald said as he opened the door.

They left the house and walked down the steps. As they headed back to Cherry Boulevard, Reginald was keeping a little ahead of his companions. When Brandon tried to catch up with him, he walked faster. So Brandon walked faster. Then Reginald ran. So Brandon ran and caught him, taking him by the arm.

“Cut it out, B,” Reginald cried, snatching himself away. His face was streaked with tears.

“Come on.” Brandon pulled Reginald over to the curb and sat down with him.

“It’s great how you help your mom,” Brandon said, keeping a grip on him. “If my mom saw you she’d be all over me. I skip out on chores a lot.”

Reginald was staring straight ahead. “My mom’s different than your mom.” He put his face in Brandon’s and said furiously, “Isn’t she, B?”

“What d’you mean?”

“You know what I mean,” Reginald wailed. He tried to get up, but Brandon held him fast.

Brandon looked behind him and nodded for Sarah and Stephen to come over. “It’s okay, Reginald,” he said coolly. “Sure, your mom’s got a problem. And sure, I know what it is. Want me to say it?”

Stephen gasped. Sarah, standing behind Reginald, mouthed, “NO” to Brandon. Reginald struggled to get free, but Brandon kept him in place.

“My mom’s friend’s got the same thing,” Brandon said. “She falls asleep all the time. Doesn’t matter what she’s doing, she just drops off. It’s a sickness, and it’s got a name. I just can’t remember it.” He jabbed Stephen’s shin with his free elbow.

Stephen sighed with relief. “Narcolepsy,” he said.

“That’s it,” Brandon exclaimed. “That’s what your mom’s got. Right?”

Reginald stopped struggling. “N-narco . . .?”

“Narcolepsy,” Stephen said again.

“Don’t act like you don’t know it.” Brandon smiled. “Looks like you’ve been helping her with it a long time.”

Reginald stared blankly at him.

“That’s it, isn’t it?” Brandon said. “Narcalessy.”

Reginald tried to get his tongue around the word. Finally he gave up. “Um . . . um . . . yeah. That’s what she’s got.”

Brandon squeezed his shoulder. “You do great helping her.”

“Yes, Reginald,” Sarah said. “Your mom’s sick and you help her. It’s a lot to do, but you do it. It’s wonderful.”

“That’s right,” put in Stephen. “Good going, Reginald.”

“And thanks for making us lunch,” Brandon said, relaxing his grip on him.

Reginald’s thoughts seemed very far away. “You’re welcome,” he said hazily. Then he turned his head on its side and asked, “Do you really like
The Beverly Hillbillies
, B?”

Brandon laughed. “What’s that got to do with anything?” He looked Reginald dead in the eye. “I sure do. It’s my favorite.” Reginald closed his eyes and pressed himself against Brandon. Brandon threw a jab at Stephen’s shin but missed.

They got up and continued on their way. Reginald was now sticking close to Brandon again. Stephen and Sarah were following them. Stephen hummed the tune from
The Beverly Hillbillies
as they walked.

Half a block from the Birmingham house Brandon saw Quint coming from the other direction. He was carrying a bag of groceries and walking with his head down. He cut across the driveway and disappeared behind the house, not seeing Brandon and his friends.

Something was up, and Brandon had to find out what. When they came to the house he turned to Reginald and offered him a fist bump. Reginald scowled at the fist, so Brandon spread his fingers and they shook hands. “Thanks again for lunch. It was great.”

Reginald looked eagerly at the house. “Can I stick around, B?” he asked. “Pleeease?” he begged when Brandon shook his head.

“We’ve got to get with Quint—Mr. Coster. We’ve got to talk over some private stuff,” Brandon said. “We’re still here tomorrow. Come on over, and we’ll give you lunch. But now we’ve got to go.”

He gave Reginald a tap on the arm and followed Sarah and Stephen up the steps. Stephen clicked the latch with his thumb and pushed the door open. As Brandon closed it behind him he saw Reginald standing on the sidewalk, still looking at the house.

They threw their jackets over the banister and hurried to the living room. They found Quint bent over the hearth with his hands on the mantelpiece. He was staring into the ashes.

Brandon went up to him. “What’s wrong?”

“That depends,” Quint said in a peculiar voice. “Any luck with Mrs. Jones?”

Brandon stepped back and swallowed hard. “No. She was nice about it, but she won’t let us in.”

Quint drew away from the hearth and took a seat on the sofa. He pulled out his handkerchief. “Then everything’s wrong. I went t’Kingsworth this afternoon. Saw the shift manager and tried talkin’ my way inside. He was one nasty character. He looked me up and down and said no, get out, no visitors, no tours. Then the general manager came out and did the same thing. He said what the hell was I doin’ there, and get the hell out before he called the cops.”

Sarah sat down next to him. “What did you do?”

“I got out, fast,” Quint said, with a bitter laugh. “I was hopin’ t’walk ’round the place. Maybe talk with folks—work out a way for us t’get in that wouldn’t depend on Mrs. Jones. But we can forget that.” He put his head back and pressed the handkerchief to his eyes. “We can just forget it.”

Brandon slid the ottoman over and took a seat. “So, what now?”

Quint didn’t answer.

Brandon tugged his trouser leg. “What do we do, Quint?”

Quint raised his head and let the handkerchief fall. The look in his eyes rocked Brandon. “There’s nothing t’do B,” he said quietly. “Tomorrow’s it. We can’t make it. We’re . . . done.”

“Done!” Brandon cried. “We can’t be done. It’s in there. We know it.”

“B, we—” Quint began. He broke off and turned his face away.

Sarah began to cry. Stephen backed himself against the wall, clutching his backpack as if it were a life preserver.

Brandon’s face dropped into his hands. Now he knew the ending: He and his friends would not get home. The niche was a few blocks away, yet completely out of reach. What a finish after all they had done! He tried to come up with an idea, something—anything— but couldn’t. His life in 2005 flashed before his eyes. He told himself, “I won’t, I won’t,” but it was no good. Tears were rolling down his face.

Something in the entrance hall creaked. No one paid attention. Then it creaked again. Stephen looked up and saw a pair of eyes peeking around the archway. The moment the eyes met his they disappeared. “Reginald,” he said.

Reginald’s face appeared, followed by the rest of him. He stood in the archway, shaking from head to foot.

“How’d . . . you . . . get . . . in?” Sarah asked through her sobs.

“I . . . I came in the b-back door,” Reginald stammered. “It was wide open.”

Quint gave his own face a slap. “Damn me, anyhow. My head was swimmin’ when I came in.”

Reginald looked at them in horror. “What happened?” he cried. Then he ran to Brandon.
“You're
crying, B?” he gasped.
“You
are?”

Brandon got off the ottoman and wiped his eyes. “Leave me alone, Reginald.” He gripped the mantelpiece and stared into the ashes as Quint had done.

Reginald got on the hearthstone, ducked under Brandon’s arm, and stood up in front of him. Their noses touched. “Why? Why’re you crying, B?”

Brandon saw white. He grabbed Reginald by the shoulders and started to throw him sideways. Sarah screamed, and he let go. Then he saw Reginald’s face. “What’re
you
crying for?” he said fiercely. “You don’t even know the deal.”

“Tell me,” Reginald wailed.

Brandon leaned into him. “We’re in big trouble, okay?”

“What trouble?”

“We can’t tell you, and you wouldn’t believe it anyway.”

“Tell me.”

“No.”

“
Tell
me.”

“Tell him.” It was Quint speaking. “Go ahead and tell him, B,” he said wearily. “What the hell difference does it make?”

Brandon almost wheeled on Quint, but he stopped and thought about it. What the hell? What the hell was right. Who cared if Reginald thought they were crazy? They had bigger problems than that now. “Sit down, Reginald,” he said.

Reginald took a seat on a straight-backed chair.

“We—Sarah, Stephen, me—we’re time travelers,” Brandon said. “We’re from 2005. We’re here by mistake—my mistake. We’ve been trying to get back for two weeks. Quint’s helping us.” He told Reginald the whole story, including how they knew the niche was in Kingsworth Shoes. When he was finished he actually felt relieved.
Let the geek laugh. Who cares?

Reginald was swaying on his chair. “Zowie,” he exclaimed. “All the way from 2005?”

Brandon and Stephen looked at each other.

“Two thousand five,” Reginald whooped. “Zowie.”

“Does that mean you . . . believe us?” Sarah asked.

Reginald leaped off his chair. “Sure, I believe you.”

“It took us hours to make Quint believe us,” Brandon said.

Reginald looked at Quint as if he were a little dense. “How come?”

“How old are you, Reginald?” Quint asked.

“Nine.”

Quint nodded. “I’m eighteen. If I’d been twenty-one I’d have probably thrown the three of ’em down my back steps.”

“Who cares who believes it?” Brandon yelled. “We can’t get home.” He grabbed the mantelpiece and kicked the hearthstone. Reginald tried to get in front of him. “Don’t look at me, Reginald,” he said.

Reginald took a step back. “Tomorrow’s Sunday,” he said matter-of-factly. “Kingsworth’s closed.”

“So?”

“So, that’s the time to go there.”

“Reginald,” Quint said patiently, “the managers there almost set the cops on me today. And y’mom won’t let us in.”

Reginald was unfazed. “My mom has keys.”

“Nice, but she won’t let us use ’em. And we can’t get around her.”

“Hah!” It was a dismissive bark of a laugh, and it had come from Reginald. Brandon turned around. Had he heard right? “That’s what you think, Mr. Coster,” Reginald said, his eyes glinting. “I get around my mom all the time. And I can get those keys with my eyes closed.”

Brandon took him by the arms. “You know where she keeps them?”

“I know where she keeps everything.”

“When can you get them?”

Reginald thought about it. “She opens the safe to get money on Sunday,” he said, a conspiratorial smile spreading over his face. “That’s where the keys are. I’ll make something happen so she looks away. Then I’ll take them.”

Brandon looked at him intently. “When’s she open the safe?”

“In the afternoon. Around four thirty. I can get here by five thirty. Okay?”

Everyone took in the idea. Quint rose from the couch and stood with Brandon and Reginald. “So we just waltz int’a closed factory and turn it upside down for our friend the niche,” he said dubiously. “If we get caught we’re cooked.” But Brandon looked pleadingly at him, and he shrugged. “Ah, what the hell. My life’s been borin’ these past two weeks. I need some thrills.”

“Thank you, Reginald,” Sarah said, wiping her eyes.