Here by Mistake (5 page)

“Two twenty-six,” William said briskly.

Brandon looked up. “Huh? We want all this stuff.” He passed his hand over the items on the counter.

William said again, “Two twenty-six.” He added with a grin, “’Course, y’can pay more if y’really want to.”

Brandon looked at his friends and back at William. He withdrew a five-dollar bill from his wallet and handed it over.

William glanced at the bill and laughed out loud. “Last time I saw Mr. Lincoln he was front and center, not off t’the left,” he said. “And what a big picture of him it is. Y’all are havin’ fun with me.”

Brandon snatched the five back and stared at it. Sarah stepped forward.

“That’s my boyfriend—anything for a laugh.” She smiled. “I tell him not to do it, but he’s just a jokester.” She reached into her pocket and gave William three one-dollar bills.

“That’s more like it,” William said. He winked at Brandon. “Remember, counterfeitin’s a federal offense.” He gave Sarah her change.

“Thanks, William,” Sarah said sweetly as he placed their things in a paper bag. She slipped her arm through Brandon’s and pulled him toward the door. “This way, you.” Stephen took the bag and followed them out.

They sat on the grass between the Cajun Grocery and the next row of shops. Stephen made bologna sandwiches for himself and Brandon, and a peanut butter one for Sarah. Brandon checked the bills in his wallet, and Sarah enjoyed her first laugh of 1965. “As if we need a counterfeiting charge on top of everything.” She giggled.

“So the five and ten changed, but not the one,” Brandon said, putting his wallet away. “I don’t even remember.”

“I didn’t think of it, either,” Stephen said. “We’ll run out of money fast.” He thought a moment and added, “I’m glad William didn’t check the year on those ones.”

“Anyway, thanks, Sarah,” Brandon said. “Fast work.”

Sarah licked her finger and notched a one in the air. “At least William has a sense of humor.”

“We will run out of money,” Brandon said to Stephen. “But at least things are cheap here.” He checked the prices on the receipt. “Can you believe it? Last summer my dad kept saying how cheap things were at the Jersey shore. He said he should retire there. He should see this place.”

Stephen scanned the front page of the newspaper. “It’s November 9,” he said casually. Then he looked up. “November 9, 1965,” he repeated slowly. “I think . . . yes, something happened that day. Something big. But I can’t remember what it was. Do you know, B?”

Brandon had just taken a huge bite of his sandwich. He shook his head.

“Whatever it was, shouldn’t it be in the paper?” Sarah asked.

“No, this is news from yesterday. But something big happens today. If I can just remember . . .”

Brandon swallowed and swiped at a fly buzzing the bologna. “Well, let’s eat and maybe you’ll think of it.”

Sarah tried twisting the cap off her Dr. Pepper. “Ow,” she said, shaking her fingers. “What’s the matter with this thing?” Brandon took the bottle and tried. No luck.

“We need a bottle opener,” Stephen said. His friends looked at him, and he shrugged. “Nineteen sixty-five will take some getting used to.”

Brandon swallowed the last of his Dr. Pepper and raised the bottle to Sarah. “Tastes even better than home.” He smiled. “You owe me one of these, you know.”

“If—when—we get back, I’ll pay up. I’ll pay double if you talk Quint into helping us.”

“Deal. And if he throws us out, you don’t owe anything.” Brandon stood up and brushed the grass off his jeans. “All set, Stephen?”

Silence.

“Stephen.”

Stephen’s head jerked up from the newspaper. “What?”

Sarah leaned over to see what he was reading. “What’s so interesting?” she asked.

“Everything! It says here Charles De Gaulle’s running for president of France.”

“So?” She smiled.

“So, Charles De Gaulle died in 1970.”

Brandon bunched up the papers from lunch and threw them in a trash barrel. “Well, Charles has his deal and we have ours. Tell me something about our deal. Why’s the Dr. Pepper taste better?

“Probably because it’s made with sugar instead of corn syrup.”

Brandon checked the ingredients on his bottle and looked at Stephen. “How do you know this stuff?” he asked, half-annoyed.

Stephen grinned at him. He got up and slid the newspaper into his backpack. Brandon decided to let his question go. He unfolded the map and found their location. “This’ll be easy,” he said with confidence. “We go east on St. Charles, then south on Canal ’til we hit Decatur. Then we find 751.”

They set out. The afternoon was bright and warm. Sarah pointed to an electric sign on the New Orleans Savings Bank that said seventy-two degrees.

St. Charles Street was crowded with eating places. A sandwich-board sign in front of Café Creole said Try Our Alligator. Smaller signs in the windows said Try Our Crawfish and Try Our Frog Legs. Brandon stuck his head in the door, and a strong fishy smell drove him back. The three walked on, and soon they came to fancier places without the big signs.

Brandon stopped outside the wood-paneled entrance to Etienne’s and peered at the menu in its glass case. “What’s ‘dirty rice’?” he asked, frowning. “It can’t be what it sounds like.”

“Beats me.” Sarah smiled. “Why don’t you eat a big pot of it and let us know?”

Brandon wasn’t listening. “What’s jambalaya? And what’s etouffée? Whatever they are, I think they have alligator in them.”

Sarah started to say something, but Brandon cut in. “Turtle soup.” He pointed to it under appetizers. “They chop up turtles for soup. It says here it’s a specialty of the house.”

Stephen ran his finger down the desserts column. “Beignets,” he pronounced with a perfect accent. Brandon gave him a blank look, and he explained: “French doughnuts. I never had them, but my mom and dad say they’re really good.”

“Probably the only things here that are.” Brandon smirked. “I’m not into dirt and alligators. This place needs a McDonald’s.”

They continued on their way, taking a right on Canal Street. Then they found Decatur, and Brandon started looking for 751. Six blocks on they came to a wide-open space with flower gardens, a church, and a river. “The Mississippi,” Stephen observed. A curving black-iron sign similar to the one at the cemetery called the place Jackson Square. Sarah spotted benches and pulled Brandon toward them.

“Good idea,” Brandon said as he was tugged along. “We need to keep rested.”

They sat down. Brandon had been grateful when lunch and the walk seemed to take Sarah’s mind off the mess they were in. Now he realized she was thinking about it again. She pressed herself against him and began to cry.

What to do? Brandon put his arm stiffly around her. “Please don’t, Sarah,” he begged. “I’ll do anything . . . I know I messed up; I swear I’ll fix it. Please . . .”

“I’m not mad at you, B,” she whispered. “I’m just so scared . . .”

Stephen was sitting on a bench across the sidewalk from them. He nodded understandingly to Brandon and glanced around the square. Up near the church a brass band was playing a march for a few onlookers. Two flower beds to his left, an artist at an easel was sketching a blonde-haired lady in a formal pose. Down near the river an ice-cream vendor was selling pops out of a pushcart. Someone approached him from his right. He looked up.

“How y’all doin’?” exclaimed the someone, who promptly blew a blast on a trumpet.

Stephen jumped and barely caught his backpack before it tumbled off his lap. He looked up at the trumpeter, who was a black man maybe sixty years old, tall and thin. He wore a black suit and top hat, a stiff white collar, and a narrow black tie. Across his chest hung a shiny red sash with the words “Preservation Hall.” He held an open umbrella in one hand and the trumpet in the other.

“Y’all don’t look like y’from ’round here,” the man boomed, addressing Brandon and Sarah as well as Stephen.

Brandon couldn’t make out the reason for an open umbrella on a sunny day.

“The little lady looks t’need some cheerin’ up,” the man said, with a nod to Sarah. “Thaddeus Monroe at y’service, ma’am.” He tucked his trumpet under his arm, doffed his hat, and made a formal bow. His close-cropped silvery hair glistened in the sun.

Sarah clutched Brandon’s arm, but she was no longer crying.

“Y’request is my pleasure t’perform,” Thaddeus Monroe said.

Brandon and Sarah looked at each other. Stephen spoke up: “How about ‘Alexander’s Ragtime Band’?”

“Exxxcellent choice, young man. T’you, little lady, and the great Irving Berlin.” Thaddeus Monroe blew a few practice notes and launched into the song. After every few bars he paused the trumpet and sang the lyrics. His singing voice was deeper and more gravelly than his speaking voice. He danced and waved his umbrella in time with the music. When he was finished, Stephen, Sarah, and Brandon broke into applause.

“I thank y’all. Thank y’all ever so much,” said Thaddeus Monroe with another formal bow.

Stephen straightened up. “Do we tip you?” he asked.

“Folks have been known t’do it, but nooo, thank y’kindly.”

Brandon saw that Sarah was feeling better, and that was worth plenty to him. “We’d be glad to, mister.”

“Much obliged, but nooo. Y’all have the look of folks who need t’be seein’ t’themselves just now. Y’all lose somethin,’ or someone?”

“We’re just tired,” Brandon said. “We’re looking for 751 Decatur, but we’re still stuck in the 600s.”

Thaddeus Monroe closed his umbrella with a flourish and pointed it east. “Four blocks that way, and y’all are there,” he said cheerfully. “Look for three red buildin’s in a row. It’s the middle of the three.”

Brandon saw Sarah light up. “Thanks, mister,” he exclaimed.

“Thank you, sir,” Sarah murmured.

Thaddeus Monroe tucked his trumpet under his arm and tipped his hat to them. He turned on his heel and strolled up the square.

Brandon asked Sarah, “Feel like starting out?”

She nodded. The three got up and walked east out of the square. Immediately they came to a red, white, and blue billboard that announced: The One and Only, World-Famous, Never-to-Be-Imitated French Market of the Grand Old City of New Orleans. Ten steps past the billboard they were in a maze of grocery stands, food stalls, and snack shops.

Brandon stopped in his tracks and gagged. “What’s that stink?”

Stephen pointed to a fruit and vegetable stand with at least fifty loops of garlic hanging off a canopy. A fan was blowing the smell all over the street.

“Hmmm.” Stephen smiled. “Too bad we already ate.”

“Yeah, right,” Brandon said, walking quickly on.

Ten minutes later they reached the fourth block from Jackson Square.

“Look, the three red buildings,” Sarah cried. “Just like he said.”

The two-story red stucco building in the middle stood out for its wrought-iron balconies and window trim. “751” was etched in the glass above the front door. Despite the elegant touches, however, 751 Decatur was far from beautiful. The windows were filthy, the stucco was mossy and cracked all over, and a rough stain about three feet high ran all along the outside of the building.

They walked up to the front door. Brandon pressed the button marked APT 3. At once the speaker above the button crackled and hissed, and a loud voice burst forth: “Yeah?” Brandon leaned forward and tried to speak. Then another blast came from the speaker: “YEAH?” Brandon jumped. His heart was pounding as he got the words out: “Brandon Stratham and friends to see Quint— Quinton—Coster. We’ve got a letter from Faye Birmingham.” There was a long pause before the speaker hissed again: “Come ’round back, up the steps.”

Brandon turned to Sarah and Stephen. “Like he said, around b-back.”

They walked to the back of the building and found a patio with iron steps leading to the second-floor balcony. Brandon’s legs felt like rubber as he started up the steps. He was halfway to the top when a figure emerged from the doorway above and stood on the balcony. It was a slim young man in khaki pants, with no shirt. His gray eyes peered at his visitors with amused wonder beneath dark brown hair.

Brandon nearly fell backward at the sight. “Quint!”

“I thought you sounded like a kid,” Quint said. His voice sounded tinny to Brandon compared to the one he knew. “Y’all have a letter for me?”

Brandon was staring open-mouthed at him. The question sank in and he nodded.

Quint waved them forward. “C’mon in.”

They followed him into the apartment. Brandon stood in the middle of what he supposed was the living room and smiled in spite of himself. Papers, books, and clothes were strewn everywhere. The remains of lunch—and maybe breakfast—were spread out on the floor in front of an old TV. A stock car racing poster and a Tulane University bumper sticker were the only decorations on the walls. A damp, stale smell hung in the air. It was Quint’s place, all right. He saw Sarah crinkle her nose in disapproval.

“Be right back,” Quint said. He stepped into the next room and returned wearing a white collared shirt. “Here, y’all have a seat.” He swept some papers off a threadbare couch. “Pardon the mess. Don’t get around t’cleanin’ much. Moved here from my daddy’s place three months ago.”

Brandon, Stephen, and Sarah sat down on the couch.

Quint pulled up an orange crate and sat facing them. “Sorry I don’t have anything to offer y’all, except a glass of milk or water.”

“We’re fine, thanks,” Brandon said.

Quint nodded. “Can I have the letter?”

Brandon took it out and gave it to him.

Quint looked at the envelope and smiled. “Addressed and stamped, and then she sends it by messenger.” He chuckled. “Faye’s great—heart of gold—but particular t’her own ways.” He tore open the envelope and read the letter. “Sounds good,” he said when finished. “She’s leavin’ for New York soon. Hired me t’drive her north.” He picked a Tulane University bulletin off the floor and fanned the pages. “It’ll sure help with expenses.”

“You’re in college now,” Brandon said.

“Startin’ January,” Quint said.

The room was cool, but Brandon was perspiring.

Quint leaned forward and smiled. “Anything wrong?”

Brandon drew his sleeve across his forehead. “I . . . I don’t know how to start,” he stammered. “We . . . I need to . . . we . . . need your help.”

Quint’s smile disappeared. He looked from Brandon to Stephen to Sarah. “What’s wrong?”

“Quint—can I call you that?” Brandon asked anxiously.

“Uh . . . sure.”

Suddenly it was all hopeless. Quint would never believe the story. No one would. “We . . . know you from before, even though you don’t know it,” Brandon blurted out. “We’re lost, and you’re the only one who can . . . help us get back.”

“Y’not makin’ any sense,” Quint said. “What do y’all need from me?”

Brandon pushed his hands back through his hair. He locked eyes with Quint. “We’re from New York—New York in the year 2005,” he said as steadily as he could. “We’re here by accident. It was my fault. Because of me, Stephen and Sarah are lost too. You and me, we’re friends in 2005. We can maybe get back, if you help us.”

Quint’s eyes were wide. “I . . . you . . .” he began.

“I know I sound crazy,” Brandon said. “There’s no way to tell it without sounding crazy.” Then he asked, “Where’s your tattoo?”

“My what?”

“In 2005 you have a tattoo on your arm. You said you got it when you were eighteen.”

Quint rubbed his temples as if he had a headache. “I’m plannin’ on one,” he said. “Got the design folder last week. Circled the one I want last night, in fact.”

“A green-link chain around your bicep?” Brandon asked.

Quint’s hands dropped to his lap. He stared at Brandon but made no reply.

Brandon reached into his pocket and brought out the snapshot of Quint and himself. “This is you and me in 2005,” he said, handing it over.

Quint studied the picture, and then he studied Brandon. “That’s definitely you,” he said, handing it back. “And I’ll admit the old guy looks a little like my daddy.”

A faint beep went off. Stephen checked his watch. “Three thirty,” he said. Everyone looked at him. “Sorry,” he murmured.

“May I?” Quint asked, extending his hand.

Stephen unclipped his watch and passed it to him.

The breath went out of Quint as he examined it. He checked the time against his own watch. “No dial, but it’s accurate,” he said, passing it back. “Just what the hell kind of watch is that?”

“Digital LCD,” Stephen replied. “Liquid crystal diode. Lots of watches are like it where—when—we come from.”

“And look,” Sarah said, unclipping her cell phone from her belt and handing it to Quint. “My phone has the same kind of numbers. I can’t make a call to show you because the rest of the network’s not there—yet.”

Quint turned the phone over and awkwardly opened it. He checked the display and moved his hand up and down. “It’s really light,” he said, giving it back. “Y’tellin’ me y’make telephone calls with that thing?”

“Yes,” Sarah said.

“And, sir,” Stephen said, “look at these books.” He took the two volumes out of his backpack and passed them to Quint. “Check out the copyright dates.”

Quint opened the books to the copyright page.
The Almanac of American Politics 2005
was dated 2005.
The Twentieth Century Digest
was dated 2001. Quint paged through
Digest
entries from 1980, 1985, and 1995. He closed the books and passed them back. His face was expressionless.