Read Online Journey to an 800 Number by E.L. Konigsburg - Free Book Online

not picking melons and because it’s fun. You get to do a lot of different things. Man! We meet people like Woody and Ahmed.”
    “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 haveaspirin 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. Togetherwe 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