“Ahmed is not a people.”
“But he is the only camel I’ve ever known. Where else would I get a chance to meet a camel?”
“At a shopping center. At a school fair. You could meet them there. They are not what you might call exclusive.”
“It’s a real sacrifice for our father to let us go.”
“Which our father?” I asked, worried, considering the name of his second brother and considering that he’d said “sacrifice.”
“Our father, Manuelo senior,” he answered. “This is the height of the season.”
“What season?”
“Melons. Cantaloupe mostly. We pick melons down in the Valley.”
“What valley?”
“In Texas, the valley means the Rio Grande.”
“This is Oklahoma.”
“But we’re from Texas, man. We vacation in Oklahoma.”
Father spent what is called a restless night, and because he did, I did. A little bit of fever seemed to make him sleepy, but when his fever started to go up, he would waken, and I would give him Coke or ice water, or if enough time had passed, I would give him aspirin again. He looked feeble.
About six-thirty the next morning the sounds of the fairgrounds changed. Instead of an occasional animal noise and instead of the irregular creak of the seats of the ferris wheel and the eerie slap of the flag pole ropes against the pole as the wind blew them, I began to hear people. People calling to each other to say hello or to give an order. And the sounds of the animals changed from occasional to demanding. The sounds gathered together and got lost in noise the way a rainbow of clear colors gets lost to make white.
I slid down from the top bunk and did a quick job in what passed for a bathroom in Father’s camper. I started out the door when I heard Father moan. It was not a very loud moan, but it was loud enough. I returned to his bunk.
“I’ve got to get up,” he said. “I can’t seem to find my senses. Would you please help me, Bo?”
“It’s all right, Father,” I said. “Ahmed is taken care of. Everything is all right. I think you should go back to sleep.” It was not time for him to have aspirin again. Rosita had said two every four hours, so I held his head while he drank some ice water. He sank back down into the pillow. “Thanks, Bo,” he said, and he fell asleep again.
I studied my father for the next few minutes, and besides deciding that I’d better not leave him regardless of how interesting the sounds outside became, I also decided that whatever it was that was making him sick sure wasn’t stopping his hair from growing. Besides needing a shave, the hairs inside his nose and ears had sprouted like bread mold for a science project.
Mama Rosita came by about nine o’clock and asked about how Father was and how he had spent the night. She brought me some kind of donut that opened up and you poured honey in, and a cup of coffee. I would have preferred milk, but I was too polite to say so.
“I’m rushing back to the stand now,” she said. “When the breakfast trade is all done, I’ll be back to help you bathe Woody and change the sheets.”
“I’m looking forward to it,” I said, and she answered, “Good,” and left.
After she left I sat down to eat the donut and drink the coffee, and I realized how lucky I am to be polite. It was a good thing I didn’t tell her that I would have preferred milk because coffee went much better—just about perfect—with that kind of donut.
Mama Rosita returned about ten-thirty. Together we bathed Father. I wished we could shave him, too, but Mama Rosita said that appearances don’t count, but that being clean does. Iago brought me lunch and later he brought me supper, and in between those times I cannot tell you what I did, but I was kept busy: taking the bottle to Father for him to empty his bladder or feeding him canned chicken soup or holding his head while he drank Coke or water. His fever seemed to go down after lunch, but it shot back up about four o’clock, and I kept sponging him off with cool wet washcloths.
When Iago brought me my supper about seven, I sat out on the camper step and asked him to join me, but he told me that he had to hurry back because he had to take Manuelo his supper, too, since they were short-handed in their booth. I ate alone there on the step, sniffing the air and deciding that although it was full of peculiar smells and particulates, it had a quality that sure felt healthy.
I heard a knock on the camper door about eleven. It was Manuelo. He laid a pile of bills on top of the counter, reached in his pocket for some change, and said, “Sixty-seven twenty-five. I kept ten bucks in bills and coins to make change.”
“How can you have twenty-five cents? I thought the rides were a dollar or a dollar fifty. The money should be in multiples of fifty cents.”
“You thinking I cheated you?”
“I was just …”
“The truth is that you were cheated.”
“I didn’t mean …”
“But I didn’t cheat you. Some gringo accused me of giving him wrong change, and I made it up to him even though I’m not at fault. In this business, man, you learn not to fight over two bits. You lose good will to fight in front of the customers.”
“Listen, Manuelo, I didn’t mean for you to think that …”
“You didn’t mean for me to think what, man?”
“I didn’t mean for you to think that I thought you were cheating.”
“Sure, man.”
“It’s just that I have this rather good ability in math.”
“Sure, man.”
“Listen, Manuelo …”
“No, you listen,” he said. “I’m not sure I like you, but I’ll tell you this. I love Woody. And so does Mama and Iago and Jesus and Emmy, too. We’ve loved him all the years we been coming to Tulsa. And we gonna continue to do for you because we’re really doing for Woody, and we’re not gonna let him down.” He picked up my supper dishes. “I’ll take these back to Mama. You tell Woody that Ahmed was a good boy today, and he’s all settled for the night.”
“I’ll tell him,” I said. “And would you please tell Mama Rosita thanks for the supper? Would you tell her that I said it was real good.” He turned to leave. “Would you also please tell her that?”
“I’ll tell her,” he said and left.
After he left I told myself that Manuelo was just pretty touchy and shouldn’t have jumped to any conclusions, and I told myself it was not my fault if I was rapid-fire in arithmetic, and after he left I hated him. Or me. I guess it was me I hated, but I hated him for making me.
Father’s fever broke that night, and by morning he awoke smiling and talked about getting up and getting going. I let him try, but, of course, he couldn’t. He sat halfway up and sank back down. “I’m as weak as May wine,” he said.
“Just lie there,” I said. “Would you like to have solid food today?”
“No, Bo,” he said. “I don’t feel strong enough to chew.”
“How about a mashed potato?”
“No, thanks,” he said. And he was asleep again in five seconds.
Mama Rosita appeared again, and I told her that Father’s health seemed to be improving, and she told me that it was time to change the sheets, and I told her that I couldn’t find any more clean ones, and I didn’t know what we would be changing them to, and she told me that she would send Iago over to baby-sit with Father and that I should take the sheets to the laundromat and wash them. I told her sure. I didn’t have any idea how to do laundry. I didn’t explain that laundry was one of the services we got for living on the Fortnum campus, and she didn’t ask. I wished she would have asked, but she didn’t. She just asked me if I had quarters, and I told her that I did, that Manuelo had given them to me, and I looked at her out of the corner of my eye so that I could see if she would give any hint about whether Manuelo had said anything to her about the money. But there was no hint, so I didn’t know if he didn’t say anything or if she just made it look as if he hadn’t.
Iago came with Emmy. He didn’t act as if Manuelo had said anything to him either.
I gathered together all the dirty clothes that we had and wrapped them in a sheet. Emmy then went to the cupboard and got a box of detergent and handed it to me. I started out the door. Emmy called after me. “Wait for me. I’m sposed to take you.”
I thought that lugging a couple weeks’ supply of dirty clothes including an extra set of sheets plus a box of detergent was enough to do without babysitting, too. But Emmy came along. She reached up for my hand that I thought I needed to help support the load I had slung over my shoulder. She took me straight to the laundromat. The minute that I set the bundle of sheets down, she began sorting them according to some system that I had seen but never taken seriously on television commercials. She then looked over the four piles and lumped two of them together. “We won’t use bleach this week,” she said, “and we’ll use the heavy loaders.” Then she asked me for nine quarters, which I gave her. She filled three washing machines, standing on a step stool that was nearby. She put three quarters, one after the other, in each of the three slots and came over to the row of chairs where I was sitting. She climbed into a chair next to me, turned, crossed her arms across her chest and said, “Let’s hope none of these suckers break down. The mother who runs this place screams and won’t give you your money back when they do.”
I scratched my head and said nothing. Emmy continued to sit there, her arms folded across her chest, staring at the washers while they filled up and began doing whatever it is they do.
“You can go home,” I said. “I’ll wait.”
“Mama told me to help.”
“Did Manuelo say anything to your mama about me?” I asked.
“About your checking on the money, you mean?”
“Well, about that or about anything else.”
“Manuelo just said that you’re a asshole, and Mama, she said that you’re young for your age and that we should remember that what we do is because we love your papa. No one said anything else. Jesus looked like he wanted to say something, but Mama told him to zip up and get to bed.”
We sat in silence until the machines finished their cycle, and then Emmy showed me how to dry the clothes and fold them when they were done. On the way back to the camper, she held my hand again just like someone who is really her own age.
That night when Manuelo stopped by with the money, he just put it down on the counter. I said nothing, and he said nothing. Mama Rosita and Iago, or Jesus or Emmy came by at times during the day, and so did a lot of the Fair regulars. They brought gifts for Father. A man who had a hot dog concession brought a six-pack of beer. Two Indians from the Five Civilized Tribes Booth of Indian Folk Art brought Father a blanket from all of them. (It was a large booth.) Pete, a security guard, brought a cellophane pack of Tom’s cheese crackers. Fanny brought a basket of fruit from all of the game concession people. I had to thank each of them and give each a health report on Father. I now knew why when famous people get sick, they have a hospital spokesman give health bulletins at certain times during the day. I got tired of saying that Father had had a good night or that his fever was down. I got tired of saying the same things, and I got tired of hearing the same things. So you’re Bo? How do you like our Fair? That’s some nice guy you have for a daddy. You take good care of that old man now, hear?
I got tired of it all.
I got tired of hearing how Father was one of the nicest guys in the world.
On the last day of the Fair, Father was feeling well enough to get dressed and shaved and sit for short periods of time on the camper step. “Hey, Bo,” he said, “why don’t you take a day off and just wander around the fairgrounds and see what there is to see. I’ll be all right.” He reached inside his pocket and handed me ten dollars. I told him I didn’t want it. “Aw, go on,” he urged.
“I don’t want pay for my services,” I said. “I have fifty dollars that Mr. Malatesta gave me.”
Father put the ten back in his pocket. “Have it your way.” He shrugged.
“And now that you’re fully conscious, I would appreciate being called Maximilian.”
I walked away. I don’t know why I said that to Father. I really didn’t mind being called Bo. When people have names as strange as Jesus, it doesn’t much matter if you’re called Bo instead of Maximilian or Max.
Father told me that he was going over to the track to see Ahmed, and he invited me to come along, but I didn’t.
The sounds of the fairground were different that night. Everyone was breaking up camp, doing as much repacking as they could so that they could pull out early in the morning. Manuelo came by with the sign and the money. He told Father that he had locked the gear in the box in the truck, and he also told him that he was glad that he was feeling better.
I was anxious to see how Father would handle this thank you because it was a big one. This is what Father did: he punched Manuelo in the upper arm. It was what is called an affectionate punch, and he said, “Manuelo, whenever you want a job, you have one with me if you can find me.”
Manuelo said, “Sure, Woody, and whenever you want the best tacos in Texas, you can buy them at Mama Rosita’s at a discount.” Then he gave Father a light jab in the stomach.
“Now you wouldn’t dare try that if I were a healthy man.”
“No. Then it would be full of tacos.”
“I’m coming with you to your mama’s. I want to say goodbye until next year.”
Neither invited me to go along, so I didn’t.
Manuelo and Father left with the air between Manuelo and me still ugly enough to give cramps. I made certain that I was in bed before Father got back. I was glad that Father’s illness had made me move to the upper bunk because that way he didn’t have to see me when he came back. He took his old guitar down and started strumming and humming. I called down from my bunk, “I thought you said that we’d have a long drive tomorrow. Don’t you think you ought to get some sleep?”
“I’ve been sleeping a lot, Bo.”
I climbed down out of my top bunk. I had to know. “Did Manuelo say anything to you about me?”
“No. Should he have?”
“I just wondered if he mentioned anything about the money?”
Father said no, and then I told him what had happened. He said nothing. He said nothing for a long time. He just kept his hands on his guitar and continued to say nothing until finally I said, “Aren’t you going to say anything?”
“Next time don’t be so anxious to show how smart you are.”
“That’s next time. What can I do about Manuelo?”
“Nothing. Except consider it a lesson for next time.”
“You sure don’t know anything about how to comfort someone.”
Father started strumming his guitar again. I waited. If Father could be good at saying nothing, I could be better at waiting. He stopped strumming, but he didn’t put his guitar down. He did look up at me and study me for a long, long time. I waited that out, too. At last he said, “Tell me, Bo, if you had your first choice of anything in the world to do for the rest of this month, what would it be?”
“I’d be on that cruise with Mother and F. Hugo Malatesta the First. I’d be eating in the first-class dining room and I’d be strolling around the first-class deck and I’d be swimming in the first-class pool.”
“Would you feel more at home there than you do here?”
“I don’t know if I would. How should I know if I would? All I know is that first class is something I was meant to get used to, and life with a camel isn’t any kind of training for it.”
Father laughed. He put his guitar down and said, “Come here, Bo.” I hesitated. He repeated, “Come here.” I did.
He put one arm around me and then the other. “Do you know what? I would like to be on that cruise, too. I would like to be going first class. And do you know why? Not because it’s something I want to get in practice for but because I’d like to watch those people. It would be like watching people from another country. And then ever afterwards, I’d know that I had seen some
thing up close that I’d never seen before.” He pushed me away from him, just a little way. Our eyes were on the same level. He said, “Let me ask you this, Bo. Do you think you could visit with me, with Ahmed, as I would visit that cruise? Like a foreigner? Watching the customs and saying, ‘Oh, that’s strange. Oh, that’s new’—but remembering that you’re a visitor, and visitors don’t set the customs; they observe them. Do you think you could do that?”
“Sure. I could do that,” I said. “But you’re asking me to try to be something I’m not.”
“How do you know that Mr. Malatesta isn’t asking the same thing?”
I thought about that awhile before I realized that I didn’t really know what Mr. Malatesta was asking. Father pulled me toward him. It was a hug.
“I’ll do it,” I said. He tightened his hold on me. “There’s just one thing more I want to say.”
“What’s that?”
“I’m really sorry about Manuelo.”
“I know, Bo. I know you are. You probably will be for a long time.”
“And I really don’t like camels.”
“That’s two things, Bo; that’s two things.”
We went to bed, and I felt ready to be a stowaway in Father’s summer. I even felt a little anxious to.
4
Our next stop was Oakes’ Dude Ranch outside Denver. We took two days getting there. Father’s strength was at about three-fourths, and remembering how the disease had wiped me out, I could tell that he was pushing it, so I made up a few extra hunger pangs and a few extra calls of nature that I described as urgent. Father never suspected what I was doing and never got impatient with me for doing it.
Father said that I would like Oakes. It was a big place where conventions brought people by the busload for an evening’s or an afternoon’s entertainment. They had a big ranch meal with steaks grilled on the outdoor grills. In the evening some of the ranch hands would sing around a campfire. And the people would ride horses. Father had been bringing Ahmed for the past five years because being that there were more Eastern city folk at these conventions than almost anything else, they felt awkward about riding horses. But since no one knew how to ride a camel and everyone looked awkward doing it, Ahmed had been a big hit, and they had invited Father back year after year. We would be eating with the conventioneers, he said. Gave them a better feeling to be eating with the ranch hands. They thought it was more authentic, and it gave them a chance to talk to someone who didn’t do the same daily things they did. The ranch hands all doubled at waiting tables plus something else: like singing or helping people on the horses or doing rope tricks.
Journey to an 800 Number Page 6