Authors: David Ciferri
“Y-yes, Reginald,” Stephen said. “Thanks for helping us.”
“No problem,” Reginald said. He made a fist and gave Brandon a tap on the arm. “Don’t cry, B. I’ll get those keys.” He made for the front door.
Brandon gaped after him. “Don’t cry, B?” he mouthed to Stephen. They followed him into the entrance hall.
Reginald pressed the iron latch with his thumb and clicked it. He dragged the heavy door open. “Tomorrow, five thirty,” he said boldly. He set his shoulders back and marched out of the house.
Brandon burst through the back door. Stephen and Sarah looked up from the kitchen table. Quint’s head popped up from behind the refrigerator door. “Where y’been, B?”
Brandon pulled off his jacket and threw it at the hook on the wall. It missed and fell in a heap. “I found the money you left on the counter,” he said, plopping down on the chair next to Stephen. “I went up to Broadway to get us breakfast, but everything’s closed.” He looked past Sarah at the clock on the stove. “Ten thirty. What’s the deal?”
Quint closed the refrigerator door and set the milk on the table. “It’s Sunday,” he said calmly.
“So?”
“So, stores are closed. That’s why I went shoppin’ yesterday.”
Brandon ran his thumbnail up the seam in the tabletop. “In 2005 they’re open on Sunday,” he fumed.
“Well, in 1965 they’re not,” Quint said evenly. “Make the best of it.”
Stephen took a bowl off the counter and placed it in front of Brandon. “Have some Cheerios, B.”
“I don’t want Cheerios.”
Stephen poured milk on his cereal and slid the bottle to the middle of the table. “You have to eat something,” he said reasonably.
Brandon jumped up and stood over him. “I don’t need you telling me what I have to do,” he said fiercely. “Okay?”
A chair screeched as it slid back. Sarah got up and walked around the table. “Sit down,” she told Brandon, pointing to his chair.
He shrank from her and sat down.
“Stop taking it out on Stephen, B, or this is going to be one long day.”
He shrank farther from her.
“Today we need the other B. The one who saved the girl. The one who helped Reginald yesterday.”
Brandon bowed his head. He was rubbing his palms on his knees.
“Well?” Sarah said.
Brandon swallowed hard. “I’m sorry, Stephen. Sarah’s right. It’s me. Not you.”
“I’ll let it go, B.” Stephen smiled. “Since you belong to
The Beverly Hillbillies
Fan Club.”
Slowly Brandon raised his head. “I almost forgot about that. That’s not over, Stevie.” Sarah stopped on her way to her chair and turned around. Brandon watched her out of the corner of his eye. A tense moment passed. “Okay, it’s over,” he said grudgingly.
Sarah returned to her chair. Quint poured himself some coffee and took his seat at the table. Brandon filled his bowl with Cheerios.
Stephen finished first and pushed his chair back from the table. “We haven’t run in two weeks, B. Pretty soon we’ll forget how.” Brandon crunched his Cheerios. “We never did get timed in the hundred. Before exams you said you’d get your dad to do it.”
“I must’ve been dreaming,” Brandon said with his mouth full. “He doesn’t have time. He never has time.”
“He hasn’t met me yet.” Stephen grinned. “When we get back let me ask him. I’ll connect with him.”
Brandon swallowed a big lump and fairly spit his words out: “You connected with him yesterday. He’s the one who jumped you. The one who called you the N-word. The one who knocked Reginald on his face.” He flung his spoon down on the table. It bounced high and landed with a clang in the sink.
“What?” Sarah asked. “How do you know?”
“I know my own dad,” Brandon exclaimed. “I’ve seen pictures when he was little. And I’d know him anyway. I knew Jonesy, and I know my dad.”
The hum of the refrigerator was the only sound in the kitchen until Stephen cleared his throat. “I can’t say anything right today,” he murmured.
“I should’ve known something else was goin’ on with you, B,” Quint said. “How old’s this kid—ten?”
“Something like that.”
“You almost caught him yesterday when he hit Reginald,” Sarah gasped.
This was news to Quint, and he muttered a curse. “What would y’have done if y’caught him?”
Brandon was silent.
Quint drained his coffee and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “It’s a damn good thing he got away.” Brandon started to speak, but Quint cut him off: “How many times do we have t’go through this, B? Muckin’ around with history in this town is trouble. Bad as it was, what happened yesterday was supposed t’happen. Don’t y’all want t’go home and know it when y’get there?”
Brandon was in no mood to hear this again. “Who cares?” he said petulantly. “We won’t get home.”
He knew right away he had made a mistake. Quint smashed his cup down on the table; it shattered, sending fragments every- where. Sarah screamed. Stephen rocked back on his chair. Quint got up and turned Brandon’s chair around to face him. “I haven’t come this far t’hear that from Mr. Time Traveler,” he said darkly. “It’s bad news for all of us if we’re caught in that factory tonight. So make up y’mind right now, B. D’we do it or don’t we?”
Brandon felt Quint’s hot breath on his face. He opened his mouth.
“WELL?”
Brandon nodded stiffly. “W-w-we do it.”
Quint sat back down. He slipped the china loop off his finger and placed it in Stephen’s bowl. He picked the fragments off the table.
“I’m glad you’d finished your coffee, sir,” Stephen murmured.
“Uh-huh,” Quint said. “Me too.”
At three o’clock Quint was in the driveway working under the Edsel’s hood. The engine had been idling smoothly when suddenly it accelerated to a ferocious roar. A cloud of black smoke enveloped the car, at which point the engine cut out with a backfire. Quint walked out of the cloud, yawning into his fist.
Brandon came out of the house and peered up the driveway. Quint saw him and beckoned him forward. They walked into the garden and sat on a stone bench facing the fountain.
“How’s the car?” Brandon asked.
“Never better. Ready t’go back.”
Brandon leaned forward and folded his hands. “Sorry about this morning.”
“That’s okay, B,” Quint said, scraping at an oil stain on his thumb. “Think Reginald’ll make it at five thirty?”
“He’ll make it. He runs that house.”
Quint chuckled. “Not bad for a—what’d y’call him before?— geek?” He laughed outright.
Brandon bowed his head.
“Nice kid,” Quint continued. “But y’can see why other kids pick on him. Doesn’t make it right, but y’can see why it happens.”
Brandon was silent.
Quint drew a Marlboro from his pack and lit it. He blew the smoke away from Brandon. “If I’m honest, I have t’say I kicked a few geeks t’the curb in my time. I’ve seen lots of Reginalds. When I was comin’ up I wasn’t good t’them.” He took a long pull on his cigarette. “How ’bout you?”
“I never knocked one on his face. I never called one a nigger.”
Quint grunted. “Glad t’hear it. Does y’dad do that in 2005?”
“No.”
“Think maybe he’s sorry he did it when he was ten?”
Brandon saw where Quint was going. “How do I know?” he snapped. “He just gets on me for my stuff on his way out the door to play golf.”
Quint drew deeply on his Marlboro and scraped it out on the stone. “Well, it’s certainly on y’mind,” he said in a tone Brandon didn’t quite like. “Y’could ask him about it when y’get back. Y’might be surprised by what y’hear.” He observed the look on Brandon’s face and added, “’Course, y’would need t’take that chip off y’shoulder before y’ask.”
Brandon flew off the bench. He took five strides in the direction of the house, turned on his heel, and took five strides back. He plopped down next to Quint. “What do you know about it?” he cried. “You’re on his side, and you don’t even know him.”
Quint laughed. “C’mon, B, y’know better than that.” Brandon leaned forward in a huff, and Quint rubbed the back of his neck. “Don’t worry, it’s comin’ t’a close. After tonight y’won’t have t’deal with me anymore.”
Brandon’s shoulders slumped. He was quiet a long time. Then he whispered, “I’ll miss you, Quint.”
“You’ll get over it. Anyhow, you’ll be seein’ me the way you’re used t’me. As an old man.”
“You’re not old back home. You’re fifty-eight.”
Quint chuckled. “Well, I’m eighteen now and I call that old. What d’you call it?”
“I call it fifty-eight,” Brandon said stubbornly. “And it doesn’t matter. I told you before, you’re a lot like you in 2005.”
“Then what’ll y’miss?”
The question caught Brandon by surprise, and he had to think a moment. “Um . . . the fights, I guess. We fight like we’re brothers. I kind of like it.”
Quint nodded. “Come t’think of it, I do too.” He squinted at the statue of the woman with her jug, dazzling white in the sun. “By the way, still got that picture of the both of us?”
Brandon took out his wallet and withdrew the snapshot. “It got a little bent,” he said, handing it over.
Quint held the picture out of the glare. “Man, oh man alive,” he said softly. “We sure don’t look like brothers here. I’m old and fat, and you look like a little kid—not like Mr. Time Traveler.”
“It was two weeks ago.”
“Uh-huh. Two weeks and a lifetime.”
Brandon watched him study the picture. “We had fun that day. We were at your place a long time.”
“Well, it looks like I’m enjoyin’ myself. What’re we doin’ with our arms, anyhow?”
“You said my muscle wasn’t big enough for a tattoo. I proved you wrong.”
“Y’did?” Quint brought the snapshot right up to his eyeball and drew it away slowly. He set it on his knee. “I’ll take y’word for it, B.”
“Good.” Brandon laughed. “But you were having fun. You didn’t throw us out.” A rush of wind came up and he drew his jacket close around him. “You didn’t throw us out in New Orleans, either.”
“I damn near did.”
Brandon looked down at Quint’s work shoes and his own Adidas runners. “Thanks for everything, Quint,” he said softly. “No matter what happens tonight, I owe you.”
Quint took out another cigarette, changed his mind, and slipped it back in the pack. “Y’welcome, B. But y’don’t owe me.” He took up the snapshot. “Can I have this?”
“Sure.”
Quint started to put it away, but Brandon reached over and snatched it. “But not now. I need it to get the niche started tonight. I’ll give it to you before we go through.”
A few dry leaves skipped across the garden on another gust of wind. The day was turning colder despite the sun, and Quint zipped his jacket to his neck. “Y’all have had one hell of a ride since November 9.”
“Yes.”
“Remember when y’said it was the best of times and the worst of times?”
“Yes.”
“Amazin’ thing, that niche,” Quint said coolly. “Tell me straight, B. After y’get back, would y’use it again? Visit some other time?”
Silence.
“If y’don’t know, y’can say that.”
At that moment two golden retrievers, collars clinking, trotted into the backyard through the trellis gate. They followed the gravel path along the far edge of the garden and disappeared through a gap in the hedge. Brandon was grateful for the few seconds they bought him. “I didn’t really know until now. Yes, I’ll use it again.”
Quint looked him full in the face. “Y’crazy.”
“Maybe. I’ve never been so scared. But I’ve never been so stoked, either. I’ll do it again. I know it.”
“Sarah and Stephen feel that way, too?”
“Stephen understands. Sarah’d lock me up if she knew.”
Quint took out his cigarette again and lit it. He burned through half of it with his first pull. “I’ll be damned. I can understand it too, but I still think y’crazy. I should just smash that thing after y’all go through it tonight.”
“Then we won’t get home,” Brandon said grimly. “The niche has to be there in 2005—in one piece.”
Quint gave his own face a slap. “Uh . . . right. Scratch that idea.”
They sat quietly watching the woman with her jug. A leaf flipped up by the wind hit her nose and stayed there, and they both laughed. Then Brandon had an idea. “Right now, why don’t we just fight about 1965 things? We’ll fight about the niche in forty years. Okay?”
“Uh-huh,” Quint said, scraping his cigarette out on the stone. “Forty years for me, tomorrow for you. You’re thinkin’ I’ll forget in all that time, right?” Brandon opened his eyes very wide, and Quint laughed. “Forget the innocent act, B, I know ya too well. But I’m okay with waitin’. We’ll just pick up this little talk in 2005.” He gave Brandon his hand and they shook on it.
The woman with the jug lost her leaf and turned to gray as clouds rolled over the sun. Two squirrels bounded across the garden, chased by another gust of wind. Quint stood up and rubbed his hands together. “We done here?” he asked, and Brandon nodded. He walked over to the Edsel and got in. The car started smoothly and he rolled it into the garage.
When he came out, Brandon was checking the license plate on the bumper. “I’ll miss the Edsel, too.” He smiled. Quint pulled the garage door down. He threw his arm over Brandon’s shoulder and they walked back to the house.
The grandfather clock with the carved sailing ships struck five fifteen. Brandon and Stephen were sitting on the bottom stair in the entrance hall, an open bag of potato chips between them. Sarah was curled up two stairs above them. Quint came down the hall, took a potato chip, and checked his watch. He cracked the front door and peered outside. “Early,” he said as he closed it. He headed back to the kitchen.
Five minutes later the doorbell’s Westminster chime started clanging. Brandon flew off the stair and had the door open by the third note. Before him stood Reginald in his boxy jacket and a red beanie that made him look silly. He was frowning.
Brandon’s face fell. “Hi, Reginald. Couldn’t get them?”
The corners of Reginald’s mouth turned up. He raised his beanie and tipped his head, and a ring of keys fell into his outstretched hand. “Told you, B.” He giggled as he stepped inside.
They gathered around the kitchen table. “They’re for the back way in,” Reginald said, showing off his keys. “This one’s for the chain on the doors. This one’s for the outside door. And this one’s for the inside door.”
“How do y’know all this?” Quint asked.
“My mom took me there once when it was closed,” Reginald said proudly. “She wanted to see it. I opened the doors for her.”
“Did you have trouble getting them?” Stephen asked.
“No.” Reginald smiled. “It was easy.”
“B,” Sarah said, nudging him, “wouldn’t it be something if stolen keys get us out of this mess after getting us in it?”