Free Journey to an 800 Number by E.L. Konigsburg

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 whatFather 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