Here by Mistake (4 page)

“It was wild,” Brandon said to Stephen. “I tried making a fist, but I couldn’t feel my fingers ball up. It was like my hand wasn’t there. And it pulls on you. It tries to suck you in deeper.” Stephen took his hand and turned it over. “It’s good, no problem.”

The waves began to settle, and an image began to appear in the recess. Brandon, Stephen, and Sarah watched as the surface smoothed out and the image became sharp. They were now looking, as if through yellow glass, at an elegant room. There was a fireplace of light-colored brick, an overstuffed sofa, two end tables, and several chairs.

“Look,” Brandon exclaimed, pointing to the upper left of the image. “The grandfather clock with the ships. That’s in the hall upstairs.”

“That’s no hall, B,” Sarah said nervously.

“No, that room’s not in this house, but that clock is. And . . . so’s some of the other stuff. Is that Aunt Faye’s house in New Orleans?”

“That metal was just waving like the ocean,” Stephen marveled. “Now it’s showing us pictures.”

“Let’s get out of here . . .
now
,” Sarah said. “Let’s admit what we did, give Quint back his keys, and forget this thing.”

“We have to put the slats back on the frame,” Stephen said reasonably.

“Forget the slats! I’m scared; I want to go.”

“Just a sec,” Brandon said. He touched his finger to the grandfather clock, and the image dissolved into waves. “Stephen, I want to look inside it, but I don’t want to get pulled in all the way. Hold me around the waist so I can lean inside. Wear your backpack for more weight.”

Sarah strode forward and stood between Brandon and the niche. “Are you crazy?” she gasped. “You don’t know what’s in there. If you put your head in there who knows what’ll happen?”

“Sarah, my hand’s good, and I’ve got to take a look. I can’t just give it up and never know what this thing was.”

She started to cry. “B, pleeease.”

Brandon gently took her by the shoulders and moved her away from the niche. He grasped the border with his left hand. “Okay?” he asked Stephen.

Stephen donned his backpack and wrapped his arms around Brandon’s waist. Brandon took a deep breath and leaned his head and shoulders into the recess. The waves became intense where he broke the surface. After a few seconds Stephen kicked his foot as a signal to pull back. Instead, Brandon’s hand slipped off the border, and most of his body went through the surface.

“B! Sarah, I can’t hold him,” Stephen yelled as he struggled to back his friend out of the niche. Suddenly Brandon’s body lurched, and he and Stephen disappeared into the waves.

“B! Stephen!” Sarah screamed. She gaped at the roiling surface and saw nothing. “B! Stephen!” she wailed. There was no answer. “Nooo!” She ran a few steps toward the stairs, stopped, and ran back. “Somebody help us! Help us!” Panicked and shrieking, she dashed blindly after her friends and was gone.

“Ow,” Brandon cried. He had just stood up when Sarah’s head clipped his chin and knocked him on his tailbone. She sailed past him and fell on her face in the middle of a carpet. Stephen rushed to her.

“Leave me alone,” Sarah gasped. She sat up and drew her legs into her arms.

Brandon crawled over to her. “Sarah, are you okay?” he asked anxiously.

She was sobbing into her knees.

“Please, Sarah, don’t,” Brandon whispered. He never knew what to do when Sarah cried. He awkwardly patted her shoulder and kept whispering, “Please don’t.” After a minute she wiped her eyes and tried to stand. Brandon and Stephen helped her to her feet.

They stood up in the middle of an elegant room. Brandon knew it immediately as the room they had seen in the niche. He made sure Sarah was okay and went to check out the grandfather clock. The detailed sailing ships carved into the cabinet left no doubt that it was the clock from his aunt’s house.

Stephen straightened his glasses and looked about him. “B,” he said suddenly. “The armor.”

Brandon looked and did a double-take. Standing in a sunny alcove was the knight with the battle axe. A few minutes earlier it had been thick with dirt, stuck in a corner of his aunt’s basement. Now it was dazzling in the sun, and he had to squint to look at it.

Sarah pulled a towelette out of her pack and wiped her face. She turned around and let out a shriek. Brandon and Stephen spun around.

“It can’t be,” Stephen gasped.

“No way,” Brandon exclaimed.

It was the niche, attached to the wall facing them, minus the wood frame. The recess was as solid as the rest of it. Brandon, Stephen, and Sarah stood transfixed.

“We came through that,” Stephen said finally.

“How?” Sarah asked, wiping away a tear. “The inside part’s not moving.”

“It must’ve been waving when we came through,” Stephen said. “It’s like you said. It’s some kind of doorway. We must’ve unlocked it at the other end.”

Brandon stepped to the niche and examined it closely. “Maybe . . . it’s not the same one?” he suggested.

Sarah snapped: “Just how many of these things do you think are running around, B?”

“But how can it be in two places at once?” Brandon asked defensively.

“You say that clock’s in your aunt’s hallway. And the armor’s in the basement. They’re in two places at once.”

Stephen trembled. He took a seat on a straight-backed chair. “Two places, but not at once,” he whispered. “Remember your ‘dream,’ B?”

“I said show us 1965,” Brandon said. He blinked at Stephen. “So what’re you saying? This is 1965? That’s crazy.”

“No crazier than what we’ve already seen,” Stephen said, with a fearful nod at the niche.

Sarah felt behind her for a chair of her own. “1965?” she asked in a shaking voice. “I was born in 1991.”

“Hold it, wait a sec,” Brandon said. He stared into the recess. “Niche, show us where we were.”

Nothing happened.

“Show us the basement in Aunt Faye’s house.”

Nothing happened.

“Take us
back
,” Brandon yelled, bringing his fist down hard on the recess. It hit with a dull thud. “Ow!” He rubbed his hand briskly.

“You got it going with the picture in the basement,” Sarah said.

“That’s right,” Brandon said. He reached into his pocket and brought out the snapshot of Quint and himself. “Niche,” he said, holding it up, “take us to this place and . . . and time.” He touched the picture’s corner to the recess.

Nothing happened.

Brandon drew back his fist—and let it drop.

“It won’t work now,” Stephen said.

“‘It won’t work now,’” Brandon said sarcastically. “And how do you know? Are you an expert on niches?”

“Remember the Latin,” Stephen said. “‘The young who believe and who search.’ You—we—haven’t searched for anything or found it. We’re trying to go back before we even try. The niche won’t let us do that.”

Brandon started to speak, but Sarah cut in. “Stephen, we don’t know anything about that niche. How can you know a thing like that?”

Stephen shrugged. “I just do.”

“So we’re here because I talked about 1965?” Brandon half-yelled. “I said I wanted to see it. I didn’t say I wanted to live here. I was born in 1991 too.” He stopped and pressed his palms to his temples. “What am I saying? It’s 2005, and that’s it.”

Stephen got off his chair and hitched his backpack to his shoulder. “Maybe we should look around. Maybe there’s someone who can tell us something.”

Sarah got up too. “Sounds like a plan. B?”

“Sure.”

Brandon and Stephen pushed open a pair of sliding wood doors in the wall adjacent to the niche. They stepped into the next room, which had no furniture. They crossed to the room after that, which also had no furniture. They kept going and found other rooms much the same. Table lamps were resting on floors. Rolled-up rugs were piled up against walls. Packing boxes were everywhere.

“Looks like somebody’s moving,” Brandon said.

Sarah peered nervously around every corner. “I wonder if anyone’s home,” she kept saying.

Finally they came to the kitchen. Brandon snickered at the stove, refrigerator, and dishwasher, all in vivid pink. His eyes followed Sarah’s to the wall above the telephone stand. There a calendar showed the month of November 1965 with the legend: COMPLIMENTS OF THE PIGGLY WIGGLY FOOD STORE, 1900 LAFAYETTE STREET, GRETNA, LOUISIANA.

Brandon flinched and backed into a row of cabinets. He turned around and spotted an envelope on the counter. He picked it up and gaped at the address.

Suddenly there was a noise at the door to the outside. Brandon stuffed the envelope into his pocket just as the door opened. In walked a tall, thin lady in a pink suit, pink hat, and sheer pink scarf. Her pink purse hit the floor when she saw Brandon, Sarah, and Stephen.

“Mercy sakes alive,” the lady exclaimed. “What are you doing in my house?”

Stephen and Sarah froze. Brandon stammered: “Aunt Fa— We— I just—”

The lady staggered to the refrigerator and leaned against it. She pressed a hand to her heart, but there was nothing wrong with her lungs. “Out, all of you, get out now,” she yelled. “Out now, or I’ll call the police.” Then she inhaled and let out a horrific scream.

Brandon, Sarah, and Stephen scrambled and bolted out the door.

They tore down the driveway and ran flat-out for three blocks. At the signs for Chestnut Street and Washington Avenue they turned onto Washington and slowed to a brisk walk. Five minutes later they came to a brick wall with a gate and a curving black iron sign that read LAFAYETTE CEMETERY.

They rested against the wall. Sarah noticed a greenish metal plaque set into the bricks. She read aloud from it: “‘Once part of the Municipality of Lafayette, the cemetery is now a Garden District Highlight of the City of New Orleans.’” She repeated the last two words and dropped her face into her hands. “What are we going to do?” she sobbed.

Brandon placed his hand on her shoulder and whispered in her ear, “We’ll be okay.” He peered inside the gate. “Let’s get out of sight,” he said. “Nobody’s in there. Come on.”

They walked into the cemetery.

“What kind of place is this?” Brandon asked after a few steps. “All these little buildings.”

“Mausoleums,” Stephen said. “They can’t bury people in the ground here because of the water table.”

They followed a weedy gravel path and were soon surrounded by mausoleums. All were built of gray or white stone. A few big ones had wrought-iron doors and stained-glass windows. Some of the smaller ones had graves stacked three high. Sarah grimaced as she walked among them.

They came to a pure white mausoleum with a wreath of yellow flowers on the door. A satin ribbon entwined in the wreath had the words: “Charlotte DuPree, 1951 to 1965, Our Angel Is Now In Heaven.” Sarah stared aghast at the wreath. “That girl was fourteen,” she cried.

Brandon tried moving her along, but she broke away and ran for the gate. He chased and caught up with her, steering her to a patch of grass blocked on three sides by mausoleums. There she sat in a corner while Brandon crouched next to her. Stephen kept a lookout.

After a few minutes Sarah unclipped the cell phone from her belt and flipped it open. “No cell,” she murmured, snapping it shut. Stephen came and sat on the grass in the corner opposite her. He leaned his head against the stone and closed his eyes.

Brandon got up and started pacing back and forth. “I know, it’s my fault. I had to look inside the niche. I screwed everything up.”

“It’s done, B,” Stephen said, his eyes still closed.

Sarah was silent. Brandon knelt down beside her. “Please, Sarah . . .” he begged.

“B,” she whispered, “my mother doesn’t know where I am. I can’t reach her. She’ll worry herself sick. I’m . . .” She hid her face.

Brandon felt himself start to tremble. What in the world could he do? He steadied himself and said, “Sarah, I’ll get us home.”

How?”

He groped for an answer. “I . . . don’t know. But I’ll get us home. I promise. I swear it.”

Sarah looked at him as if she were seeing something for the first time. “Well, okay, B.” She took his hand and let him help her up. Stephen got up as well.

“And Stephen,” Brandon said, “you could’ve let go, and I’d have been sucked into the niche by myself. You held on. Thanks.” Knowing Stephen didn’t trade fist bumps, Brandon took his hand and shook it.

“I couldn’t let you have all the fun, B,” Stephen said with a wry smile. He looked out over the cemetery. “That lady was your aunt?”

The question sent a chill down Brandon’s spine. “Yeah. I can’t believe it, but I do anyway. When I was a kid she had white hair and she walked bent over. Then she was in a wheelchair, and then she was in bed.” He turned to Stephen with wonder in his eyes. “Now she’s got brown hair and she walks straight up. She doesn’t look much older than my mom. It’s crazy. Six months ago I went to her funeral. But that was my Aunt Faye.”

“Then it really is 1965,” Sarah murmured.

“Did you see the cars when we were running?” Stephen asked. “We passed a white Studebaker. The only Studebaker I ever saw was in a picture.” He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “We came back in time all those years.”

“And we wound up in New Orleans?” Sarah asked.

“Because the niche is here in 1965,” Stephen said. “That’s how I figure it, anyway. You hop in the niche at the time you start and come out at the time you pick—that B picked with the snapshot. If someone moves the niche in between those times, oh, well, you come out at the different time and the different place.”

“It’s all so crazy,” Sarah said, shivering.

“I know,” Stephen said. “I’m like B. I can’t believe it, but I’ve got to. We can’t all be having the same dream.”

“Good luck to us getting someone to help us,” Sarah said. “What can we tell them, the truth?”

“Good luck to us getting back in that house,” Stephen said. “If we can’t get to the niche, I don’t think we can get back.”

“We’ll get back,” Brandon said firmly. “First we need a plan. No, first we need some food.” He looked at his friends. “Hungry?”

They nodded.

“Me too. Let’s get to a store and get something to eat. Also, a map. Also, we can use the bathroom.”

“A map?” Sarah asked. “We can find your aunt’s house again.”

“Not for that,” Brandon said. “We need to find . . .” He took the envelope out of his pocket and showed it to them. “751 Decatur Street, Apartment 3.”

“What’s there?”

“Look at the name.”

“‘Mr. Quinton Coster,’” Sarah read aloud. Her head snapped up. “Quint?”

“Wow,” Stephen said. “What’s he doing here?”

“He’s from here,” Brandon said. “He hasn’t moved to New York yet.”

“Would he help us, you think?” Sarah asked nervously.

Brandon replied strongly, “If I ask Quint for help, he’ll help.”

“B,” Stephen said, “this Quint doesn’t know you—he’s never met you. If you say, ‘Hi, Quint, we came from 2005 through an ancient niche,’ he’ll think you’re crazy. And anyway, how old is Quint in 1965?”

Brandon thought a moment. “Eighteen.”

Stephen bowed his head.

“How does your aunt know him?” Sarah asked.

“She knew his family,” Brandon said. “When she moved— moves—to Rollings she’ll get him to drive her. Maybe that’s what this letter’s about.”

Sarah heaved a sigh. “Stephen’s right, you know. Quint won’t believe this. He’ll just throw us out.”

“Quint’s all we’ve got,” Brandon said. “Aunt Faye won’t talk to us. She’ll just call the police. Quint’s the only one who can get us to the niche. I’ve got to make him believe it.”

His friends looked at him glumly.

“Okay?”

Stephen shrugged. “I don’t have a better idea.”

“Me neither,” Sarah said.

“Okay, then.” Brandon squinted at the sun. “About what time is it?”

“I’d guess about noon,” Stephen said.

Brandon nodded confidently. “That’s what I think too. We better get started.”

They followed the weedy path out of the cemetery. Brandon led the way north on Washington Avenue, then east on St. Charles Street. He had no idea where he was going, but the direction felt right to him.

Long, low cars kept passing them. “Tail fins,” Stephen exclaimed as an old Cadillac rumbled by. He stopped and spun around. “Sedans and station wagons. Not an SUV in sight.” Then he ran a few steps down a side street. “Look, an old Beetle,” he said excitedly.

“There’s a place,” Brandon said, pointing across the street half a block ahead.

The place was a white clapboard store with peeling paint and a moldy awning. Flowing script on the window said “Cajun Grocery.” Sarah collected Stephen and they ran to the store. “Can we use the bathroom?” Brandon asked as they stepped inside.

The teenager at the checkout had red hair and a name tag that said William. He grinned and pointed to the back of the store. Sarah went first. Stephen picked up a map of New Orleans and a newspaper and placed them on the counter. He set his watch by the clock on the wall: ten minutes past one. Brandon collected a loaf of bread, a jar of peanut butter, a package of bologna, and three Dr. Peppers. After a visit to the bathroom he took out his wallet to pay. William punched the prices into the cash register. “No scanner,” Sarah whispered to Stephen.