Authors: David Ciferri
“Y’said an accident got y’all here,” he said to Brandon. “What was the accident?”
Brandon told him about the niche and how it had transported them from New York in 2005 to New Orleans in 1965. He told Quint about his aunt’s shock at finding them in her house and their escape before she could call the police. He told Quint about the cemetery, the Cajun Grocery, Jackson Square, Thaddeus Monroe, and the walk to 751 Decatur.
When Brandon was finished, Quint was rubbing his temples again. “I have t’ask,” he said, “can I see this funny money from 2005?”
Brandon took out his wallet and withdrew the five-dollar bill. He handed it over. Quint held it up to the light, crinkled it, and smoothed it out. Then he gave it back. His face was still a blank.
“And so y’all want me to . . . ?”
“Get us back in Aunt Faye’s house so we can make the niche work again,” Brandon said. Sarah and Stephen nodded vigorously.
Quint rose from the orange crate. “Amazin’, truly,” he said. “Look, uh, Brandon, was it? I can’t explain the Dick Tracy toys or the books or the picture or the tattoo. Or the money; it’s weird, but at least the paper feels right. But what the hell do y’all take me for? A time machine niche! Good grief.”
“Quint,” Brandon exclaimed. “Please.”
“Please, nothing,” Quint snapped. “If y’all didn’t look so bedraggled, I’d swear a pal of mine had put y’all up t’this as a gag. But I know folks in trouble when I see ’em, and y’all are in trouble for sure. Y’all are just kids. Maybe I’d help if y’told me the truth. But if all y’got for me is the magical niche, there’s the door.” He pointed to it.
“Stop it,” Sarah cried. “Stop it. I knew you wouldn’t help.” Brandon tried to calm her, but she pushed him away and buried her face in the couch.
Surprising himself, Brandon struggled to get his arms around Sarah. He finally succeeded. “Nice going,” he said bitterly to Quint. “We were counting on you.”
“I’ll help y’all,” Quint told him. “Just tell me the
truth
.”
At that moment Stephen sat bolt upright. He opened the
Twentieth Century Digest
and paged to an entry. He read for several seconds and then checked his watch. Finally, he leaped to his feet with the book and yelled, “YESSS!”
Quint stepped back and nearly fell over his orange crate. Brandon stared wildly at Stephen. Even Sarah forgot herself and turned around.
“November 9, 1965,” Stephen exclaimed. “It’s in the
Digest
.” His watch beeped again. “Four o’clock! It happens in sixteen minutes.”
“What does?” Brandon asked.
“The Northeast Blackout.”
Quint kicked the orange crate across the room and said, “What the
hell
is the Northeast Black—”
“A power failure,” Stephen told him. “On November 9, 1965, there was—is—a power failure in the northeastern United States. My grandfather told me about it. He got stuck in an elevator in Manhattan for six hours because of it.”
“It happens in a few minutes?” Brandon asked.
“It happens at 5:16 p.m. New York time,” Stephen said breathlessly. “That’s 4:16 p.m. New Orleans time. That’s in sixteen minutes.”
“The whole Northeast of the country loses power?” Quint scoffed. “That’s as crazy as your niche story.”
Stephen thrust the
Digest
into his hands and pointed to the entry. “Read this,” he said. “In sixteen minutes the TV’ll start talking about it. When the news matches what the book says, you’ll know we’re for real.”
Quint muttered something Brandon didn’t catch, but he read the entry. “It’s science fiction,” he said when finished. “Where’d y’get this damn book, a novelty store?”
“Can we watch TV?” Brandon asked.
“Be my guest.” Quint went to the television and switched it on.
Brandon waited. “Is it broken?” he asked.
“It’s warmin’ up,” Quint snapped. “Don’t TVs warm up in 2005?”
“It’s slow because of the vacuum tubes,” Stephen said. “They just don’t have good electronics yet.” He glanced at Quint. “Sorry, sir.”
Finally the TV warmed up. The snowy black-and-white picture showed Bozo the Clown waving his arms and singing to an audience of little kids. Quint, Brandon, Stephen, and Sarah watched and waited.
“I thought just old movies came in black-and-white,” Brandon said.
“Old TV shows, too,” Stephen said. He rolled his eyes. “Can you believe what they watch?”
Brandon smirked. “Why’s the picture so lousy?”
“It’s probably pulled in by an antenna on the roof,” Stephen said. “I don’t think they have cable yet. And they sure don’t have satellite.”
“No cable, no color, stupid shows, and no remote,” Brandon said, forgetting himself. He looked at Quint in amazement. “Do you really
get up
every time to change the channel?”
“It hasn’t killed me yet, Brandon,” Quint told him.
Brandon flinched as if he’d been struck in the face. “It’s ‘B’,” he said hotly. “Only my parents call me Brandon. And my teachers. You’ve always called me B.” He looked back at the TV.
Taken aback, Quint started to say something, but then a test pattern bumped Bozo off the TV.
Stephen checked his watch. “4:16 p.m.”
Brandon took a seat on the floor next to the TV. He turned the channel knob until the word BULLETIN filled the screen.
“ . . . problem with transmission from our sister station in New York,” the voiceover said. “The cause of the interruption is not known at this time. Regular programming will resume as soon as possible. Please stay tuned.”
Quint sat on the couch with the
Twentieth Century Digest
in his lap. Brandon turned the channels for more news. He felt the knob slip into place with a soft “thump” for each channel that came up. It was weird turning a knob after having soundlessly flown through channels with a remote all his life. Brandon thought of Stephen’s crack about bad electronics and smiled. But he had to admit—to himself—that making something physically happen and hearing it happen was kind of cool. At five fifteen p.m. he “thumped” to a channel that had a bulletin with fresh information: “There has been a massive power outage in New York City and surrounding areas. The cause and extent of the outage are being investigated. Regular programming will resume as soon as the problem is corrected. Please stay tuned for reports of further developments.”
Brandon kept turning the channels. Gradually the situation became clear. New York City was not the only place affected. Power was out in New York, New Jersey, Pennsylvania, Massachusetts, New Hampshire, Vermont, Connecticut, Rhode Island, and parts of Canada. Quint checked the bulletins against the entry in the
Digest
. Hours passed.
Stephen’s watch beeped. “Eight thirty.” He yawned.
Quint closed the
Digest
and stood up. He clasped his hands behind his head and stretched from side to side. “I can’t talk now, my brain’s shot. Y’all got a place t’sleep?” No one answered him. Quint nodded. “I’ll go out and bring some food back. Y’all can clean up and sleep here tonight. We talk this out in the mornin’, okay?”
“Okay,” Brandon said.
Quint gave his head a shake and walked out the door. In half an hour he was back with what looked like a bucket of fried chicken. Only it wasn’t fried chicken.
“Jambalaya,” he said. “From the French Market.”
Brandon, Stephen, and Sarah followed him into the kitchen and took seats around a battered Formica table. Quint divided the bucket among four plates. Jambalaya turned out to be a spicy dish of rice, vegetables, and a kind of meat Brandon didn’t recognize. He jabbed a strip of it with his fork and turned it around, wondering if it was alligator or turtle.
“Just eat it,” Stephen whispered to him.
He did and was surprised it tasted so good.
When dinner was over, Brandon turned on the TV again. Most places in the Northeast were still without power. Quint threw some cushions and blankets on the floor. Everyone took a turn in the bathroom.
“Tomorrow we talk,” Quint said when everyone had found a spot on the floor. He switched off the light.
Brandon awoke with a start. The gray light in the room told him it was early, but he was too awake to close his eyes again. Stephen and Sarah were sleeping on either side of him, but where was Quint? He got up and stepped carefully over Stephen. He checked the kitchen, the bathroom, and the small room where Quint kept most of his stuff. A chill ran down his back when he realized Quint was gone. Then he heard a noise at the window and went to look out.
Quint was climbing the steps with a newspaper and a brown paper bag. Brandon breathed with relief and opened the door for him. Soft light spread over the room, and Stephen and Sarah stirred on their cushions.
“Good mornin’,” Quint said as he stepped inside.
They gathered in the kitchen. Quint threw the bag on the counter and the newspaper on the table. The
New Orleans Times-Picayune
for November 10, 1965, unfolded to its front-page headline: POWER FAILS ACROSS NORTHEAST. Quint took the
Twentieth Century Digest
off the counter and opened it to the page he had dog-eared.
“Y’book quotes a wire service report—word for word— that’s in the paper today,” he said to Stephen. “Y’book had the report before the report was even written.”
Stephen was silent.
“Y’all are on the level,” Quint said. “I’m nuts t’say it, but I believe y’all.” He closed the
Digest
and set it on the counter. “Now I don’t know what the hell to do.”
Brandon looked up quickly. “What d’you mean? Just get us back in Aunt Faye’s house. We’ve got to get to the niche.”
“Y’said y’self it didn’t work when y’all tried it a second time,” Quint said with a shrug. “I think y’all need more help than I know how t’give.” He avoided looking Brandon in the eye. “What if we bring the police in? They might hook us up with folks who could really do something.”
“What?” Brandon exclaimed. “We could’ve gone to them ourselves if we were crazy enough.”
Quint looked wearily out the window. “I just don’t know.”
Brandon was trembling. For the first time he felt really scared he wouldn’t get home. And Sarah and Stephen! He had brought them to this crazy place, and now the police were going to grab them. Blood was pounding in his ears. He couldn’t get his breath. “Quint, the police’ll just stick us in some kids’ home somewhere. We’ll never get back.” Tears ran down his face, and he didn’t care. “Quint,” he begged, “we can’t go to anybody else. Please help us!”
Quint closed his eyes and bowed his head. He stayed that way for a long time. “Okay,” he said quietly, at last.
They took seats around the kitchen table. Quint tore open the brown paper bag—the writing on it said: “Dante’s French Market Bakery”— and gave everyone two square, sticky doughnuts.
“Beignets,” he said. “They cooled off on the way back.”
Brandon bit into one and realized he was hungry. “Wow, this is great.” He ate his beignets and felt a little better. He couldn’t take his eyes off Quint.
Quint poured milk for his guests and ran some water into a steel percolator. He scooped coffee into the basket and placed the pot on the stove. After setting the flame, he took his seat at the table and put his face right in Brandon’s. “And if it’s not too much trouble,” he said sharply, “just what the hell are y’all starin’ at?”
Brandon flinched and slid his chair back. “Sorry. I’m just trying to . . . match you up with the Quint I know.”
“Oh, really?” Quint asked, taking a bite of his beignet. “And who’s that? Who am I in 2005?”
Glad to have piqued his interest, Brandon brought his chair back to the table. “Well, you’re definitely you. As soon as I saw you I knew you. But now you’re . . .”
“What?”
“You’re more like me—than like you.”
Quint’s gray eyes smiled.
“You saw the picture,” Brandon said. “That’s you. You’re big. Your hair’s gray. Your voice is a lot deeper. And you don’t sound so Southern.”
Quint laughed. “I don’t sound . . .”
“Your accent’s not so strong in 2005,” Brandon said. Sarah and Stephen nodded.
“But you’re still sloppy,” Sarah said teasingly. “Your house still looks like a bomb went off in it.”
“Only it’s scattered with computer disks along with the papers,” Stephen put in. “When computers come along you’ll be using them.”
“Believe it or not, my man, we have computers in 1965.” Quint smiled.
“I don’t mean something that takes up a whole room,” Stephen said smugly. “I mean something that sits on your desk. Or something you carry around with you.” He bit his lip. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to diss your computers, sir. It’s not your fault they’re primitive.” He gasped. “I didn’t mean that, I mean, I mean . . . they’re great, for now.”
Quint laughed again and patted Stephen’s shoulder. “How’s it I end up in New York?” he asked Brandon. “I don’t like the cold at all.”
“After you got out of college, Aunt Faye asked you to work with her money. You moved to Rollings for the job. You do the same work for lots of people. It looks really boring, but you like it.”
“Workin’ with money’s never borin’, my man,” Quint said. “I support myself now doin’ books for some businesses. I’ll be takin’ accountin’ at Tulane.”
Brandon yawned into his fist. “Anyway, you’ve lived in New York as long as I’ve known you.”
“As long as that,” Quint said in a tone Brandon didn’t quite like. “Brandon—sorry, B—how old are you, anyway? Fifteen?”
“Fourteen.”
Quint chuckled, and Brandon thrust out his chin. “What?”
“I’m just wonderin’ what I’m doin’ at fifty-eight hangin’ ’round a bunch of damn kids.”
Now it was Quint who bit his lip. Sarah threw the last bit of her beignet on the table. Stephen turned on his chair and looked out the window. Brandon fixed steely eyes on his host.
“Sorry,” Quint said. No one spoke. “Sorry, really, sometimes I just talk without thinkin’ and say stupid things.” Silence. Quint gave Brandon a playful tap on the arm. “Hey, B,” he said.
“You’re a lot better in 2005,” Brandon said. “Maybe it took you that long to learn some things.”
“Look, I said I’m—”
“We don’t hang together,” Brandon said. “We just talk sometimes, okay? Sometimes you tell me stuff, but mostly it’s me talking, I guess. You listen and you don’t throw me out. Everyone else just wants me to get lost.” Quint started to speak, but Brandon cut in. “Like my dad. He spends all his time on golf. If his golf buddy calls him on the phone, he’ll yak for an hour. But if I want an hour with him, he’ll just tell me: ‘Self-reliance depends on keeping one’s own counsel and company.’ That’s how much he cares.”
“What’re you talking about, B?” Sarah asked. “We talk all the time. You and Stephen talk. At school you’re always kicking it with someone.”
“It’s not the same. You and Stephen are great, but Quint’s . . .”
“An adult, at least in 2005,” Quint said wryly. “Now I’m eighteen, and maybe not quite fillin’ the bill.”
Brandon hunched his shoulders and leaned over the table. “I can’t picture you at eighteen, even with you right here.”
Quint reached over and rubbed the back of Brandon’s neck. “Well,” he said gently, “I’ll work on actin’ better, not sayin’ dumb things. You work on rememberin’ I’m forty years behind the guy y’all know. Workin’ together, maybe we can get y’all back where y’belong. Deal?” He gave Brandon his hand and they shook on it.
“Now, t’business,” Quint said. “Y’all need t’get t’this niche. And since y’nearly gave poor Faye a heart attack when y’dropped in on her, she’s not likely t’let y’all back in her house.”
“Right,” Brandon said. Sarah and Stephen nodded glumly.
“So, we need t’go when she’s not there.” Quint placed his other beignet in front of Brandon. “I know Faye well enough t’stop by and talk. I’ll use the excuse that I’m drivin’ her north in two weeks. I’ll find out when she’s out for a mornin’ or afternoon, and we’ll make our move then.”
“Can you do it and not make her suspicious?” Sarah asked.
“Sho’ can,” Quint exclaimed. “Ah’ll just charm her w’my Southern sweet talk.”
Everyone laughed.
“It’s wild how your accent’s almost gone in 2005.” Brandon smiled.
“I imagine all the years in New York’ll sand it down some. And by the way,” Quint added, flashing a teenage version of the grin Brandon knew so well, “in these parts, it’s y’all who have the accent.”
Late that morning Brandon was sitting in front of Quint’s TV with a smirk on his face. Stephen came in from outside and stepped over Sarah, who was napping on some cushions. A minute later Quint walked in. The TV show cut to commercial.
Brandon put his head back on the couch. “Aaarrrgh,” he said. He asked Stephen, “Ever watch
The Beverly Hillbillies
?”
“No.”
“Don’t start. I’m watching an old one, but they say it’s on at night, too. It’s about this family from the mountains that gets rich and moves to Beverly Hills. They have this daughter, Elly May, who’s . . .” He craned his neck to make sure Sarah was still sleeping. “. . . hot. But then there’s this guy Jethro. He’s old enough for college, but he’s in sixth grade. He brags on that, and it’s supposed to be funny. His uncle says he’s got to have a long talk with Jethro someday, and that’s supposed to be funny, too. And then there’s Granny, cooking up gizzards and mules for them to eat. You hear the laugh track go crazy when they do this stuff. What’s everyone laughing at?”
“That show’s a hit,” Quint said. He added sarcastically, “Y’tellin’ me it’s not still on in 2005?”
“Hell, no,” Brandon snorted. “In 2005 we watch VH1 and MTV. Action, music, videos. I’m not used to cows and gizzards.”
The end credits of
The Beverly Hillbillies
started to roll. The four stars of the show came out of their mansion and waved to the TV audience as banjo music played. “Aaarrrgh,” Brandon said. At credits’ end a voice called out: “Y’all come back now, hear?”
Brandon sat up straight. “Remember?” he asked Stephen. “Quint told us that when we went to his house and I stole the keys. He even talked about an old TV show.” He turned to Quint in amazement. “You remembered that for forty years?”
“Nothing escapes this steel trap, B,” Quint said, tapping his temple. “Think y’all will remember y’favorite shows in 2045?”
“Yes,” Brandon said quickly. Then he really thought about it. Two thousand forty-five was eighty years from where they were now. “Maybe,” he added. “My dad says I watch junk, but if you remember Jethro, I’ll remember VH1.” Then he laughed. “Bet my dad watched
The Beverly Hillbillies
.”
Sarah stirred and sat up on her cushions. “I was hoping it was all a dream,” she said sleepily. “Oh, well.”
Quint beckoned his guests to the kitchen. They took seats around the table.
“I saw Faye,” he said. “She goes t’the beauty shop tomorrow mornin’ at ten. So that’s when we move.”
“Will we have enough time?” Stephen asked.
Quint gave him a sidelong glance. “Judgin’ by most women when they go, we’ll have all day.” Brandon snickered until Sarah kicked his leg. Quint continued: “Faye still has packin’ t’do. I asked if I could earn some money helpin’ with it. She said ‘Yes, certainly, Quinton’ and gave me the keys.” He took them out of his pocket and held them up.
“I hope the niche works this time,” Sarah said nervously.
“The niche,” Quint exclaimed. “I almost forgot—I saw the damn thing when she took me through the house. It’s that brassy item stuck t’the wall in the livin’ room?”
“That’s it,” Stephen said.
“And y’all made that a doorway through time—with a picture?”
“Yes,” Brandon said. “And I know it sounds crazy.”
Quint reached over the counter and snatched what looked like a strip of bark off a plate. He bit off the end and started chewing. “Dried alligator, I snack on it sometimes,” he said. He thrust the strip in Sarah’s face. “Want some?” Sarah gagged and shook her head. Quint said to Brandon, “Crazy’s right, B. And y’were also right about the police. If we went t’them with this story, they’d toss y’all in an orphanage and me in a nuthouse.” He swallowed and bit off another piece. “What’d it feel like, anyhow, comin’ through that thing?”
Brandon didn’t want to talk about it. But Quint had a right to ask. “When I looked inside it, it was just dark. I couldn’t see anything. But did I ever feel it. It pulls really hard on you, and I had to grab the edge. I guess my hand slipped—I don’t remember—but just like that I was flying in the dark. Then there was light in front of me, and then I was rolling across Aunt Faye’s rug.”
“Why’d y’stick y’head inside it?”
“Because I’m dumb, okay?” Brandon said sharply. “Sarah told me not to—begged me not to. I didn’t care. I saw that metal waving like crazy and I had to look behind it. Stephen tried to pull me out, but he got sucked in, too. It all scared Sarah so much she just—”
“Winked out, and ran after them,” Sarah whispered.
Brandon nodded at the alligator; Quint tore off a piece for him. “Now Sarah’s sick worrying about her mom,” he said, biting into it. “I don’t blame her. It’s my fault, and I promised her I’ll get us back.”
Stephen was eyeing the alligator too. Quint twisted off the end for him. “When y’all tried the niche a second time it didn’t work. Sarah was sayin’ y’might have an idea why, my man.”
Stephen bit off a piece and his head snapped back. “I just remember the Latin talking about a search,” he said, rubbing his neck. “I think it meant that whoever uses the niche has to find something. Or go through something. Pass some kind of test.”
“Hmmm,” Quint said. “And have y’all passed it?”
“I don’t know,” Stephen said, grimacing with each chew of the alligator. “But I sure feel tested.”
“That’s some promise y’made Sarah, B,” Quint said. “What if we try every trick tomorrow—and the damn thing just won’t work?”
It was Brandon’s biggest fear, spoken out loud. He looked at Quint but had no answer.
Quint reached over and rubbed his shoulder. “I’d have wanted to see inside the damn thing, too,” he said gently. “Anyhow, we’ve got the keys and the time window. Tomorrow’s a go.”
Thursday, November 11, was another warm, clear day. Sarah awoke suddenly and sat up on her blanket. “Anybody home?” she called out.
“Out here,” Brandon called back.
Sarah got up and stepped outside. Brandon and Stephen were sitting on the balcony, their legs dangling between the iron bars. “Waiting for a train?” she asked.
“No, for Quint,” Brandon said, not hearing the joke. “He went to get his car.”
“His what? I thought he walked everyplace.”
“His friend borrowed it. He’s getting it back now. He wants to drive us to Aunt Faye’s.”
“It’s a 1957 Edsel,” Stephen enthused. “He says it’s a bomb. He doesn’t know what he’s got.”
“Ed-sell . . .” Sarah said, searching her memory.
“A 1957 Edsel,” Stephen corrected. “A classic. Hard to believe, but nobody bought it when it came out. People just weren’t ready for it.”
No sooner had he said this when the guttural roar of an engine sounded in the distance. It quickly grew louder. A long, dark green, badly rusted car zoomed up the service drive and lurched to a stop on 751 Decatur’s back lawn. The door opened and Quint hopped out. Bags in both hands, he pushed the door shut with his foot. The slam produced a tinkling sound that reached the balcony.
“That’s the rust inside it shaking loose,” Brandon said in disbelief.
Stephen gazed awestruck at the car. “People just weren’t ready for it,” he whispered.
“I’m not ready for it either,” Sarah snapped. She told Brandon, “It’s not that far to your aunt’s house.”
Quint bounded up the steps. “We’ll have a good breakfast first,” he said.
They went inside and took seats at the kitchen table. Stephen and Sarah filled their glasses with milk. Brandon asked for coffee when it was ready because “I drink it at home.” Sarah raised her eyebrows but said nothing. Quint tore open the bag from the bakery and passed out the beignets. Brandon bit into his and felt the still-warm sweetness spread over his mouth. “I’ll miss these,” he admitted.
They took their time with breakfast. Quint finished his coffee and checked the clock on the stove. “Nine thirty. We’ll leave at ten. Just t’be safe.” He helped himself to another cup and, when Brandon nodded, poured one for him. “How do y’all like my car?”
“A beauty,” Stephen gushed.
Sarah inhaled her milk and fell to gasping and coughing. As soon as she could speak she asked, “Does the . . . car . . . have seat belts?”
“Seat belts?” Quint laughed. “The sixty-six models have ’em; not my Edsel. It’s an old bomb, but it gets me places. Got it for fifty bucks.”
“That’s all?” Stephen cried.
“Yes, indeed. The only real expense is gas. It’s up t’thirty-one cents a gallon in these parts. Can y’all believe it?”