Here by Mistake (9 page)

Brandon looked at him. “What’d you bet on?”

“Sports, mostly.”

“So, he’s . . .”

“A lot of things. And the less said about ’em, the better. I made bets with him.”

Brandon thought about it. “He really pays if you win?”

“Sure. There’re rules, even in his line of work.”

“And we’re cheating him.” Brandon said it without judgment.

“That’s a fact. Thanks t’Stephen’s book, we already know Breedlove’s speed.”

Brandon raised his sleeve to his nose and smelled the foulness. “I’m glad.”

Quint didn’t answer for half a mile. “I don’t know that I am. But short of robbin’ a bank, I couldn’t think how t’get the money in time. I don’t give a damn about Gabriel. He’ll never get as bad as he’s given, and I’ll enjoy takin’ that hundred off him. But I really wish y’had listened today, B. I wish y’hadn’t seen him.”

“Why?”

“There’s nothin’ t’be proud of in any of it. You and me, we’re friends in 2005, right? When y’get back, y’won’t be seein’ me the same way, not after this business tonight.”

Brandon shook his head. “I won’t see you any different.”

Quint took another half mile to answer. His voice sounded sad. “I don’t think so.”

With all they were up against, why was Quint hung up on Gabriel? Brandon tugged at his smelly clothes, wishing he could jump out of them. He could have cried, but he didn’t. “I don’t give a damn about Gabriel, either. Like Stephen was saying, we’d’ve been swallowed up by now if you hadn’t helped us. When we got here I swore to Sarah I’d get us back. She felt good hearing it, and I felt good saying it. But I can’t do anything, and she knows it. Stephen knows it, too, but he won’t say it. Guys like Gabriel don’t matter, Quint. You’re cleaning up my mess. I’m good for nothing.” He crossed his arms on his knees and put his head in them.

Quint reached over and rubbed his shoulder. “We get the money on the fifteenth,” he said. “We leave on the sixteenth. We’ll find the niche and we’ll make it work.”

It was a fine, cool day at the Rollings High School track. The September “Welcome Back Meet” had one race left: the 100 meter. The pistol cracked and Brandon took off. He rocketed ahead of the pack, kicked at the ninety-meter mark, and broke the tape with his best time ever. His best time? The school’s best time. It was a new record. Everyone in the stands was cheering. Brandon thrust his fists into the air and let out a triumphant yell.

“B, breakfast coming!”

Sarah’s call rose above the cheers, and Brandon half-realized it was a dream. He tried to hold onto it, but the whistling and clapping died away. He heard Sarah more clearly now.

“B, breakfast.”

He sighed. “I’m up.”

Brandon turned onto his back and opened his eyes. The Salvation Army clothes he had set out the night before looked even more stupid in the daylight. He’d wash his own clothes before the day was done. The dream was already slipping out of his memory, and that was good. Thinking about home just made things worse. He rolled onto Quint’s hard floor and stood up. “Something smells good,” he said.

“Sarah got tired of beignets,” Quint said, spread out on the couch with his ledger. “She said she’d make eggs, toast, coffee, and I said, ‘Great.’”

Brandon stretched and yawned. “Where’s Stephen?”

“Out here,” a voice called from the balcony. Stephen came in and took one look at Brandon. “What’s wrong?”

Embarrassed that his sadness showed, Brandon straightened up. “Nothing, just tired.”

Quint closed his ledger and pointed Brandon to the bathroom. “Get dressed so we can eat.”

Brandon emerged from the bathroom five minutes later in ill-fitting jeans and the red-checkered shirt he didn’t like. He went to the corner and sat on an orange crate.

“Well, well,” Quint said, smiling, “y’look like a true son of the sixties, B.”

Brandon hung his head.

“Okay,” Sarah called, “let’s eat while it’s hot.”

They took their seats at the kitchen table. Sarah divided a dozen watery eggs and eight pieces of black toast among them. Quint poured himself some coffee and raised the pot to Brandon, who shook his head. Quint took a sip and gagged, spilling some on the table.

Sarah jumped up and grabbed a dishrag. “You said you liked it strong.”

“Strong, not thick,” Quint gasped. “I’ll pour this in the Edsel.”

Brandon was looking out the window. Sarah got up the spill and sat down next to him. She started to say something, but Stephen tapped him on the arm. “I saw some decent turf yesterday when I was walking in Congo Square Park. Want to run today?”

It took Brandon a moment to hear the question. He perked up. “Sure.” Then he looked at Quint. “Well, I should really help work on the trip.”

Quint grimaced and swallowed a mouthful of eggs. “Nothin’ more t’do,” he said, reaching for his napkin. “I’m catchin’ up with accounts and packin’ stuff at Faye’s ’til we go. Y’all can’t help with that. Go off and enjoy.”

Sarah whispered in Brandon’s ear, “Can I go, too?”

Brandon still felt awkward around her, but he wasn’t angry. “Sure.”

No one ate the black toast, and breakfast was soon over. Brandon leaned back over his chair and looked upside down into the living room. “Too bad about the TV. Lousy picture, but it was something to watch.”

“I’ll be damned,” Quint said, his head snapping up. “One of the outfits I do books for’s gettin’ rid of their old set and givin’ it t’me. They told me last week, and I damn near forgot.” He beamed and looked around the table. “And are y’all ready for this?”

“What?” Brandon asked.

Quint paused dramatically. “This television is . . . color!” His guests looked at him blankly.

“Aren’t they all color?” Sarah asked.

Quint’s face fell. “No.”

“I thought the old one would be color if the shows were in color,” Brandon said.

“No. It was just a black-and-white TV.”

“Oh,” Sarah said. Stephen shrugged. Brandon yawned into his fist.

Quint stood up and put his hands on his hips. “A color TV is a big deal,” he said indignantly.

“Oh,” Brandon said. Finally he caught on. “Oh. That’s great, Quint. We’re really happy for you.”

Quint threw up his hands and returned to the living room. He plopped down on the couch and opened his ledger. “Anyhow, I can pick it up this mornin’, if y’all can help before y’go runnin’. It’s heavy.”

“Sure,” Brandon said.

“Yes, sir,” Stephen murmured. He whispered to Brandon and Sarah, “I keep forgetting how primitive it is here.”

“We hurt his feelings,” Sarah whispered back.

Brandon nodded and whispered, “Next time he gives us that drumroll buildup, we’ll jump up and down no matter how stupid it is.”

The Edsel heaved to a stop on Quint’s back lawn at ten thirty. Sticking out of the trunk was a twenty-one-inch Zenith stereo television in a sleek oak cabinet. It was secured with ropes, and Quint set to work on the knots. Getting the TV into the trunk had taken every ounce of their strength, and Brandon and Stephen crawled out of the car. They looked at the steps to Quint’s apartment as if seeing them for the first time.

Quint merrily pulled the last knot out. “Okay, here we go.”

Forty-five memorable minutes later the TV was in the apartment. Quint was connecting the wires from the wall to the back of the set. Brandon and Stephen had collapsed on the couch.

“They’ll need a crane to steal this one,” Brandon whispered.

“And that does it,” Quint said, with a twirl of his screwdriver. He walked around the set and pulled the ON switch. They waited. And waited.

“It’s even slower than the old one,” Brandon said. “No remote, either.” Channel knobs and “thumps” were cool, but getting off the couch all the time was not.

“Don’t start, B,” Quint said.

Finally a picture appeared. The program was the news. The announcer’s face was beet red and his hair was bright orange. He wore a green suit.

“Wow, look at that,” Quint said. “’Course the color could be tweaked a bit.”

“Tweaked a bit,” Brandon exclaimed, pointing at the announcer. “If I saw something like that coming up the back steps, I’d hit it with a shovel.”

Stephen burst out laughing. Sarah breezed in through the back door and stopped in her tracks. “What a horrible picture,” she gasped.

“It needs a tweak,” Brandon said.

“Tweak? What’re you watching?
Creature from the Black Lagoon
?”

“All right,” Quint snapped. “The color’s off. That’s what these knobs are for.” He worked the dials below the screen, and slowly the color became more natural. He turned the channels and came upon a rerun of
The Beverly Hillbillies
. “Well, well, your favorite show, B.”

“Aaarrrgh,” Brandon said. He closed his eyes, but it was no use. Jethro was eating plate after plate of “vittles” and Granny was boiling a mule for dinner. Elly May was pining away for a “fella” and Mr. Drysdale was trying to fix her up with a movie star. The banjo music was strumming Brandon’s nerves. He opened his eyes to find Quint, Stephen, and Sarah grinning at him. What was so funny?

“That Jethro, he has fashion sense,” Sarah said.

Brandon was annoyed. Just what did
that
mean? Then he noticed something familiar about Jethro’s shirt. He checked the pattern on his own shirt—and the air went out of his lungs. He leaped off the couch and ran to his clothing bundle. He yanked off his shirt.

“Y’have t’wear it sooner or later, B,” Quint said. “We can’t afford another.” The balled-up shirt came flying and hit him in the face. Quint fell back on the couch, laughing.

After lunch Brandon, Stephen, and Sarah set out for Congo Square Park. They followed Decatur Street to Jackson Square, which as before was crowded with sightseers, musicians, and artists. Brandon hoped to run into Thaddeus Monroe for another song, but he was nowhere in sight. They turned north and passed the big church at the top of the square (which, per Stephen, was St. Louis Cathedral). Stephen stopped to gaze at the spires until Brandon called to hurry him along.

They entered the French Quarter and passed several open doorways with dark interiors. One such interior had rows of blue and pink lights; Brandon turned into it until Sarah grabbed his collar and pulled him back to the street. He grinned at her and quickened his pace. At the intersection of Orleans Avenue and Burgundy Street he turned around to ask Stephen something—and marched straight into a man standing on the corner. Both he and the man fell down.

“I’m sorry, mister,” Brandon cried, scrambling to his feet. “My fault.” He and Stephen took the man by his arms and raised him up.

The man appeared to be about forty. He was dressed in white trousers, a white shirt, a white bow tie, and a white derby. His face was fat and pink, with his nose the pinkest part. He coughed as he was raised up, and Brandon and Stephen got a blast of breath that left them wide-eyed.

The man was not angry. “Not a’tall, young man, not a’tall. Pleasure to make your acquaintance.” He shook Brandon’s hand. “Pleasure to make your acquaintance,” he said to Stephen, shaking his hand too. He tipped his derby and swayed as he spoke.

Brandon caught him when he swayed a little far back. “Are you okay, mister?”

“Why, yes. Pleasure to make your acquaintance.” He shook hands with both of them again.

“Do you need help to go somewhere?” Stephen asked.

“Why, no. Pleasure—”

“Well, we should go,” Brandon said. “Thanks for being nice about it, mister.”

“Not a’tall. Pleasure to make your acquaintance.” The man shook hands with both of them and with Sarah as well. He tipped his derby and made a little bow as Brandon moved Sarah and Stephen along.

They crossed North Rampart Street and walked through the gate of Congo Square Park. Stephen led the way to the place he had in mind: a close-cropped lawn stretching from a circular flower bed to a stand of trees more than a hundred yards off. A few couples were strolling in the distance, but the “sprint track” was clear. Stephen slipped off his backpack and began his stretching exercises. Brandon did likewise, making sure that Sarah saw he could keep up the stretches as long as Stephen. They were ready in five minutes.

Brandon rolled up the legs of his jeans. “How can we run like this?” he complained. “We need shorts.”

“Excuses, excuses.” Stephen smiled. “Don’t worry, B. only Sarah will know I beat you.”

“In your dreams.”

Sarah drew Brandon’s attention to a bench fifty yards off to their left. Two teenagers were sprawled over it, talking and laughing. “They keep watching us.”

Brandon looked and shrugged. “Let ’em watch.” He told Stephen, “I’ll pace out a hundred meters best I can and mark the grass up there. That’ll be Start. Here’s Finish.” He dragged his heel across the turf at his feet, making a rough line. “After I dig the mark up there, raise your arm for Set and drop it for Go. Okay?”

Stephen checked the stopwatch on his wristwatch. “Right.”

Brandon set off with long strides. When he had counted off a hundred, he stopped and scratched a deep line in the grass. He was wiping the dirt off his shoe when he heard Sarah yelling.

“Hey, stop! B! B!”

Brandon snapped his head up. One of the teenagers from the bench had Stephen on the ground and was punching him in the face. Sarah was struggling to push him off. The other teenager was rummaging through Stephen’s backpack. Brandon gasped and took off toward them. “C’mon, B,
move
,” he huffed as he strained to reach his friends.

The teenager with the backpack took out Stephen’s notebook and started scrawling in it. The other one grabbed Stephen’s neck with both hands and started shaking him. Sarah shrieked and pulled off her shoe. She swung it with both hands and whacked the teenager in the mouth, knocking him over. He jumped up with blood spurting from his lips. Stephen got up, too, and swung at him but missed and fell. The teenager grabbed Sarah, slapped her, and shoved her down on the grass.

“I’ll kill him,” Brandon swore as he closed the last few yards.

Stephen got to him first. The teenager was taller and heavier, but Stephen ran and tackled him from the left. They rolled over each other, and this time Stephen wound up on top. He punched the teenager twice in the nose. The other one finally noticed his friend’s predicament and dropped the notebook. He stepped to Stephen and drew back his fist just as Brandon reached him.

Brandon seized the fist and, with his momentum, yanked the teenager to the ground. They jumped up and went at each other. The teenager caught Brandon below the left eye with a glancing blow. Brandon dipped to avoid a second punch and butted him, knocking him on his back. He leaped and pinned him down.

The teenager fixed murderous eyes on Brandon. “Nigger lover,” he hissed. He hawked up and tried to spit.

Brandon saw Stephen’s notebook and glasses on the grass next to them. The right stem of the glasses was broken off. The notebook was open to the page where the teenager had scrawled “NIGGER.”

Brandon thrust the teenager’s hands together and held them by the fingers. “Ever eat your words?” he asked, ripping the page from the notebook with his free hand. “Well, eat
this
.” He shoved the paper into the teenager’s mouth. “
Eat
it.” The teenager tried to bite him, but Brandon deftly withdrew his fingers and punched him in the eye. The boy’s mouth flew open and the paper went in deeper. “Eat it.”

The other teenager was struggling to flip Stephen off him. After several tries he succeeded and staggered to his feet. Stephen charged him again, but the teenager punched him in the stomach and pushed him down on the grass. Looking about him, he grabbed a brick from the edge of the flower bed and strode toward Brandon. Sarah ran and blocked him. The teenager sneered and drew back his hand to slap her again. He failed to notice that Sarah was holding her own brick. She bashed it into his right knee.

“Owww!” he howled, falling to the grass. He released his brick and gripped his knee with both hands. “Owww!” he screamed even more loudly.

The fight and the shouts had drawn attention. Stephen got up and saw two figures in the distance running toward them. “B! Sarah! Let’s get out of here!” Brandon was still feeding the paper to the other teenager. Stephen shook him and cried, “B, if we don’t beat it we won’t get home.”