Authors: David Ciferri
Quint walked Stephen to a bench a few yards past the Edsel and sat him down. Stephen bowed his head, pinched his glasses, and pulled them off.
Quint whispered to him, “My man, want t’put y’stuff back in the bag?”
Stephen didn’t answer.
“Want t’talk about it?”
Stephen shook his head slightly.
Quint sat quietly with him for a moment. Then he pulled him close and whispered in his ear: “I’m sorry, Stephen.”
All the breath rushed out of Stephen at once. He grabbed Quint’s jersey and buried his face in it. His body jerked, and his things slid off his lap to the grass. Quint held him and rubbed his back as the jerks kept coming, and held him as they faded away.
“My man, y’handled y’self well today,” Quint whispered when Stephen’s breathing was steady. “How old are y’again?”
Stephen’s voice was barely a whisper. “Thirteen.”
“Thirteen?”
“In thirty-two days.”
“Oh,” Quint said. “I just wondered. Seems like y’always know the answers t’the questions we have. And of course I only believed the time travel story after y’proved it t’me with the book. How’s it such a young guy knows so much?”
Stephen didn’t answer.
“History’s y’subject, right?”
He nodded once.
Quint glanced over his shoulder at the grocery. “Well, I imagine this is one bit of history y’could’ve done without. Things’re better in 2005, right?”
Stephen shrugged. He still held Quint tightly.
They were quiet for a time. Stephen relaxed his grip and drew away from Quint. He felt the jersey with his hand. It was damp. “Sorry, sir,” he murmured.
Quint grinned. “Still with the ‘sir.’ Think y’can manage callin’ me Quint?”
“You’re older. That’s . . . h-hard.”
“Okay.” Quint smiled. “‘Sir,’ it is.”
“Sir,” Stephen whispered, head bowed, “please don’t tell B I was crying.”
Quint tried to see his face. “Think he’d laugh?”
“No.”
“Well, it’s none of his business anyhow.”
Stephen let out a quick breath. “Thanks, sir.” He spotted a passing 1965 Chrysler Imperial and followed it until it made a left.
Quint watched him watch the car. “I think cryin’s a good thing,” he said thoughtfully. “Charles Dickens said in one of his books—I forget which—that all folks cry, but some just do it on the inside. And he said the inside kind of cryin’s the bitterest kind. Makes sense t’me.”
“
Great Expectations
.”
“What?”
“He said it in
Great Expectations
.” A reluctant smile played on Stephen’s lips.
“Oh, hell.” Quint laughed. “That’s the last time I try impressin’ you with my book smarts.” He glanced over his shoulder and saw Brandon and Sarah finishing their walk. “Well, my man, should we be goin’?”
Stephen nodded and they stood up. Brandon and Sarah joined them.
“Stephen, I’m sorry about my big, stupid mouth,” Brandon said. “I didn’t mean to make you feel worse.” He collected Stephen’s things from the grass and placed them in the backpack. “And Quint, I know I could’ve brought the police down on us. Like my dad says, I wasn’t using my head. I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay, B. I don’t know why the hell I stopped here, anyway. We can get food anyplace.” Quint checked his watch and gazed northward. “Y’know, if we ever get out of New Orleans, we might just make this plan work.”
They picked up Interstate 59 and crossed into Mississippi. Quint was keeping to the speed limit. Brandon was in the front seat poring over the road maps.
“We’ll do Mississippi and Alabama today,” Quint said. “Tomorrow, Tennessee and Virginia. On the eighteenth, Pennsylvania and New York.”
Almost as soon as he had said this, road work slowed traffic to a crawl. After a few minutes at 15 miles per hour, the Edsel started bucking. The bucks grew worse until they were practically bouncing the car. Then the engine cut out with a backfire. Sarah shrieked, and Quint cursed as he struggled to restart the car. The driver behind them had leaned on his horn for ten seconds when the engine finally turned over with a roar. The Edsel sped forward, catching up with the traffic.
Sarah pulled a towelette from her pack and wiped her face. Stephen looked over at her from his book. “Are you okay?”
“No,” Sarah replied. She leaned forward and said to Quint: “Please, I’m . . . scared, just thinking about everything. I need to take my mind off it. Please can I get a paperback to read?”
“No,” Quint said. “We need t’watch every dollar. When we stop for the night I’ll try t’find y’somethin’ t’read that won’t cost us money.”
Sarah slumped in her seat and said no more.
They passed the road work and started to make better time. The Edsel ran more smoothly above 40 miles per hour, and Brandon was glad for Sarah’s sake. He leaned his head against the window and watched the countryside sail by. When Quint mentioned food, Stephen brought out some bread and bologna and made sandwiches. After lunch the conversation petered out, and for fifty miles no one spoke.
“How y’all doin’?” Quint asked at last.
“Okay,” Stephen said, immersed in his book.
“Uh-huh,” Sarah murmured.
Quint waited. “B?”
Silence.
“B?”
“What?” Brandon exclaimed, jolting awake. He gave his head a shake. “What, Quint?”
“Just feelin’ lonely and wantin’ y’company.”
Brandon gave him a sour look. “Thanks.”
“But seriously, we need t’talk,” Quint said. “Have y’given any thought t’how different y’all will find y’hometown? Forty years is a long time.”
Stephen closed his book. “I haven’t thought about it, but that’s right.”
“Sure that’s right,” Brandon said. “But who cares? We’re going straight to Aunt Faye’s house and through the niche, right?”
“That’s the plan,” Quint said. “But let’s face it, our plans have a way of goin’ awry. If something happens and there’re problems, delays, y’all need t’stay on track. Don’t let what y’see in Rollin’s throw y’all.”
Brandon turned around to see Stephen. “Bet the McDonald’s on Broadway’s not there. I wonder what’s in its place.”
“Maybe a place that serves alligator,” Stephen said.
“And another thing, keep a low profile there,” Quint said. “Y’all are time travelers, and anything y’do changes history. Y’shouldn’t run in t’anyone, but if y’do, get away fast. And no dramatic gestures. Are y’hearin’ me, B?”
“Yes. So, you’re just talking to me?”
“No, I’m talkin’ t’everyone.”
Brandon sighed.
Yeah, right
.
“I mean it,” Quint said. “If y’all want t’find Rollin’s in 2005 the way y’left it, don’t do anything wild there in 1965.”
“You’re right, sir, thanks,” Stephen said.
Brandon grunted.
“Okay, Sarah?” Quint asked.
“Yes.”
Stephen opened his book and immediately snapped it shut. “I just thought of something. Remember
Back to the Future
?”
“Sure,” Brandon said.
Quint cocked an ear. “Back to what?”
“It’s an old movie that hasn’t been made yet,” Stephen said. “A kid goes back in time and accidentally keeps his parents from getting together. They almost don’t get married, and they almost don’t have kids. He almost disappears because of it. It’s the kind of thing you were talking about.”
“Wow,” Quint said. “That’s a point. Y’all don’t need any run-ins with y’folks when we get there.”
“My parents haven’t been born yet,” Stephen said. “Sarah?”
“What? Oh, um, they’ve been born, but they’re in California.”
Brandon shifted uneasily in his seat. “Mine are in Rollings. I guess my dad’s ten now. My mom’s about five.”
“It shouldn’t come up,” Quint said. “Just so y’all remember t’step lightly when we get there. Oh, and by the way, how’d the movie come out?”
“Everything turned out great.” Stephen smiled.
“Uh-huh,” Quint said. “Hollywood.”
They made good time through Mississippi and passed Meridian ahead of Quint’s schedule. A mile before the Alabama state line Quint turned off I-59 and followed the signs to the town of Kewanee. He found Main Street and drove north, looking for a grocery store. “There’s one,” he said, pointing to Kewanee Foods and Sundries. He parked in front of the store and cut the engine, which went out with a bang. Sarah jumped in her seat.
“Sorry about the noise,” Quint said. “I’ll be quick but, if y’all want, c’mon in. Just don’t get in t’anything, okay?”
“Okay,” Brandon said.
They filed into the store. Quint took a wicker basket and headed for the food aisles. Brandon strolled over to Books/Stationery. He checked out the magazine rack, browsing titles he had never heard of. “
Life
. . .
Look
,” he murmured. Then he spotted the comic books—and his jaw dropped. He waved Stephen over.
“Look,” he exclaimed. “
Superman, Batman, Spiderman
. You know what ‘Collectibles’ on Broadway would pay for these? They’re new! Mint! Look at the price. Twelve cents.”
“Too bad we don’t have money.” Stephen smiled.
“Twelve cents,” Brandon repeated. “Let me talk with Quint.”
“You know what he’ll say. Focus on getting back, not on comic books.”
Anger flashed in Brandon’s eyes, and Stephen braced himself. The moment passed, however. “You’re . . . right,” Brandon said reluctantly. He ran his finger over the top of the November
Superman
. “Twelve cents. I better go before I change my mind.” He grinned sheepishly and walked off.
Stephen switched his backpack to the other shoulder and noticed Sarah browsing through the books. While he was watching, she took a paperback off the rack and slipped it under her shirt. He hurried over to her.
“What’re you doing?”
“Please, Stephen,” Sarah whispered. “I need a book to read.”
She looked quickly from side to side. “Let me walk close behind you.” Stephen took a step back. “No,” he whispered. “Put it back.”
“Pleeease.”
Stephen turned on his heel and walked away. Sarah followed close behind him and walked faster when he did. Stephen passed the checkout and was reaching for the door when a voice called out, “Y’both need t’stop.”
They stopped. A young man with slick blond hair walked around the checkout and waved them back from the door. “The young lady has an item she didn’t pay for,” he said sharply. “I watched y’both work it out in the glass.” He pointed to a large, round mirror above the door. Then he reached over the counter and hit the courtesy bell four times.
A man emerged from a doorway halfway up the main aisle and came slowly to the checkout. He had thick, completely white hair and black horn-rimmed glasses a little like Stephen’s. The tag on the pocket of his seersucker suit said “L. Robb, Prop.” He neither smiled nor frowned, but raised his chin to the young man who had rung the bell. “What is it, Jimmy?”
“These two were stealin’, Grandpa. Y’said we’d make an example next time.”
Sarah dropped her face into her hands. The paperback slipped from under her shirt and hit the floor.
Mr. Robb stooped over and picked it up as Quint and Brandon joined them. He asked Quint, “Y’all together?”
“Yes,” Quint said.
Mr. Robb called to a young man arranging gift candy. “Jack, look after the register for a few minutes.” To Quint, he said, “Here, this way.”
He led them into a small, windowless room off the main aisle. They pulled up chairs around a steel table. Sarah was crying softly. Brandon took a seat next to her.
Mr. Robb glanced at the book. “
David Copperfield
, one of my favorites,” he said. He looked around the table. “Anybody got something t’say?”
“I stole it,” Sarah said through her tears. “Stephen wasn’t part of it. He told me not to, and he walked away. I followed him.” She covered her face with her hands. “I’m sorry.”
Mr. Robb turned to his grandson. “Jimmy?”
“Well, it could be like she says. I was watchin’ the glass. He did walk away, and she did follow.”
Quint spoke up. “It’s my fault. We’re on a trip north t’see family. Sarah’s scared about her mom, and she wanted a book t’take her mind off it. Money’s tight, so I said no. I didn’t know how much she needed it. If you’d take the money now I’d be glad t’pay.”
Jimmy cut in. “Grandpa, y’said we wouldn’t let the next one go.”
Mr. Robb held up his hands. “I know what I said, Jimmy. Just hold y’horses.” He turned to Sarah and Stephen. “Y’know, we’ve had problems with folks stealin’, but usually it’s something like cigarettes, not a book. Y’all ever steal anything before?”
They shook their heads.
“Hmmm. Y’know, the police station’s two doors down. But even that little walk seems like a lot of fuss and bother over . . . ” He raised his glasses and checked the book’s cover. “. . . ninety cents.”
Sarah begged, “Please, sir, let us pay you for it.”
“Y’should’ve paid before headin’ out the door,” Jimmy snapped.
Sarah bowed her head and squeezed Brandon’s hand.
Mr. Robb opened the book and skimmed a few pages. “Amazin’ how it comes back after all the years. Either of y’read Dickens before?”
“Yes,” Sarah and Stephen said at once.
“Who’s y’favorite character?”
“Agnes in
David Copperfield
,” Sarah said.
“Sydney Carton in
A Tale of Two Cities
,” Stephen said.
Mr. Robb closed the book. His glasses fell back on his nose.
“Why Agnes?”
“Because she was brave and kind,” Sarah said. “She loved her father, even though he drank. She’d have done anything for him.”
Mr. Robb nodded slowly. He asked Stephen, “And why Sydney Carton, young man?”
“Because he saved Charles Darnay from the guillotine. He gave his life for something bigger than himself.”
Mr. Robb exhaled and sat back on his chair. “Young folks readin’ the classics. Nice t’know it still happens. Y’know, when my grandchildren were y’age, all they ever talked t’me about were comic books.”
Brandon flinched.
“It’s worth ninety cents t’hear this,” Mr. Robb said. “Er, Sarah, is it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Y’not a good thief. Y’got caught.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I know y’sorry y’got caught. Are y’sorry y’stole from me?”