Journey to an 800 Number Read online

  Journey to an 800 Number

  Also by E. L. Konigsburg

  Jennifer, Hecate, Macbeth,

  William McKinley, and Me, Elizabeth

  From the Mixed-up Files

  of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler

  Altogether, One at a Time

  A Proud Taste for Scarlet and Miniver

  The Dragon in the Ghetto Caper

  The Second Mrs. Gioconda

  My Father’s Daughter

  Throwing Shadows

  About the B’nai Bagels

  (George)

  Up from Jericho Tel

  Samuel Todd’s Book of Great Colors

  Samuel Todd’s Book of Great Inventions

  Amy Elizabeth Explores Bloomingdale’s

  T-Backs, T-Shirts, COAT, and Suit

  Talk Talk: A Children’s Book Author

  Speaks to Grown-ups

  The View from Saturday

  Silent to the Bone

  The Outcasts of 19 Schuyler Place

  The Mysterious Edge

  of the Heroic World

  For Mae and Sid,

  Leonard R.

  and Michael B.

  sister and brothers in law

  and under the skin.

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  ALADDIN PAPERBACKS

  An imprint of Simon & Schuster Children’s Publishing Division

  1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

  www.SimonandSchuster.com

  Copyright © 1982 by E. L. Konigsburg

  All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

  ALADDIN PAPERBACKS and related logo are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  First Aladdin Paperbacks edition June 1999

  Second Aladdin Paperbacks edition June 2008

  2 4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3 1

  The Library of Congress has catalogued the hardcover edition as follows:

  Konigsburg, E. L.

  Journey to an 800 Number

  Summary: Bo learns about kindness, love, loyalty, appearances, and pretense from the unusual characters he meets when he is sent to stay briefly with his father after his mother’s second marriage.

  I.Title.

  PZ7.K8352Jo [Fic] 81-10829

  ISBN-13: 978-0-689-30901-4 (hc.)

  ISBN-10: 0-689-30901-5 (hc.)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4169-5875-8 (pbk.)

  ISBN-10: 1-4169-5875-4 (pbk.)

  eISBN-13: 978-1-610-59-7869

  Content

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Extraordinary Novel

  About the Author

  Journey to an 800 Number

  1

  When my mother married Mr. F. Hugo Malatesta the First, she sent me to stay with my father while she went on a honeymoon. To my mother he was always your father, the camel-keeper. My mother divorced him because of his camel.

  “What kind of a life is it for a wife and child to drive around the country with a camel,” she had said. “What kind of a life is it to spend your time getting people to pay to ride his hump?”

  My father’s camel has one hump; it is a dromedary. Bactrians have one more hump and more hair. My father’s camel also has a name. Ahmed. I don’t know if Ahmed means anything as a name. As a camel it means a lot to my father, the camel-keeper.

  “We have lots of fresh air and sunshine,” my father had said.

  “Half the time we go to shopping centers and half the time those are under a roof and air-conditioned.”

  “Aw, Sally,” Father had pleaded, “in small towns we’re always in some pasture. We move around a lot.”

  “That’s the point, Woodrow,” Mother had said. “What kind of a life is it for a child to move around a lot, living in a camper, driving an animal that doesn’t even look interested? I could understand a dog, Woodrow, I really could. A dog wags its tail at you. A dog comes when you call it. A dog shows interest.”

  “You can’t ride a dog, Sally. What would I do with a dog, Sally? No one would pay money to ride a dog—not even a big one, an English sheepdog, say, or a St. Bernard.”

  “That’s my point, Woodrow. I want a dog.”

  “We can’t manage a dog and a camel, Sal.”

  “That is also my point, Woodrow. I want a dog and a house. And meals from china plates instead of from Styrofoam containers. I don’t want a life that is tied to a camel.”

  My father said, “Ahmed has been good to us, Sally.”

  My mother said, “Ahmed has been no better to us than we’ve been to him. I’ve gone my last mile for that camel.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  My mother said, “I want to stop roaming, Woodrow. I want to settle down. Bo here is going to start school in a few years, and I mean for him to have a regular routine when he does, and I mean for him to have kindergarten before that. I do not want Bo to be a nomad.”

  Father thought. “Tell you what we can do, Sal. We can park the trailer in a regular trailer park. We can even take off the wheels and put it up on blocks. Then I’ll take Ahmed only as far as I can to be home on weekends. I’ll be a commuter.”

  “You don’t seem to understand. I want regularity.”

  “Commuting is regular, Sally.”

  “But the money isn’t. I want a regular house and a regular income. I want to know that I’ll have the same amount of money coming in next week as this. You have to decide, Woody. Either me and Bo and a regular job or your camel.”

  “But, Sally …”

  “I’m not going to argue. You know that I don’t like arguing with you, Woody,” Mother had said.

  In the United States it is difficult to get someone to take a full-sized camel off your hands, and my father had said that he didn’t want to give Ahmed to a zoo. Ahmed was, he said, not a wild animal. He was, he said, trained. He had a name.

  So Mother left. She took me with her. I was four years old at the time.

  First we went to the junior college at Morrisville, New York, where Mother got an associate degree in hotel management. Mother finished her degree when I was ready to start school. She then took the job of executive housekeeper at Fortnum School in Havemyer, Pennsylvania, outside of Philadelphia.

  She chose that job because it came with a cottage on the school grounds and free tuition for me when I would get to seventh grade. In the meantime I went to the neighborhood school, and since Fortnum was in a nice neighborhood, my elementary education was quite satisfactory.

  Mother’s job involved ordering light bulbs and bathroom supplies and keeping track of linen and food for the dorms. She didn’t actually clean the rooms or cook the food; she supervised the people who did. We developed quite a nice life for ourselves, even though we never got a dog. I did not mind not having a dog. I am not your basic animal lover.

  We called ourselves Sarah J. (her) and Maximilian R. (me). Some people called me Max. I always told people that the R. was just an initial and didn’t stand for anything, but it wasn’t, and it did.

  I was born after a rainstorm at 2:00 p.m. on May 15 in Taos, New Mexico. The rainstorm is important because my father had promised my mother that he would name me according to an old Indian custom. He had promised my mother that immediately following my birth, he would walk blindfolded outside
the hospital. (A friend of mother’s would guide him.) Once outside, he was to take off the blindfold. The first thing he saw would become my name. The first thing my father saw was a rainbow. That was what the R stood for. My real name is Rainbow Maximilian Stubbs: the Maximilian because Mother thought it meant a lot. People began calling me Bo right away. We spelled it Bo instead of Bow so that no one would confuse my name with the first syllable of bow-wow. Both my parents always regarded it as a good omen that the first thing that Father saw after I was born was a rainbow. So do I. After all, there was a chance that I could have been called One Dog Squatting.

  After we settled in Havemyer, no one called me Bo. Except Father. He would come to Havemyer about once a year, but he would not stay at our house on the Fortnum school grounds. He stayed at a campground outside town. Ahmed stayed with him. He drove to our place in his truck.

  One year he asked me if I would like him to bring Ahmed to Fortnum to give the students rides. Free. I told him I didn’t think it was a very good idea. I didn’t tell him why. He didn’t ask.

  One of Mother’s duties was to set up for tea and cakes when the Board of Trustees of Fortnum met. Mother would put on one of her good dresses and pour a second cup of coffee for anyone who wanted a second. She would stay in the background looking quiet and pretty, but listening. She knew that if the Board of Trustees started talking about cutting down on expenses, she would have to change the light bulb order from hundred watt to sixty and the toilet paper from two-ply to scratchy.

  Mr. F. Hugo Malatesta the First was appointed to the Board of Trustees of Fortnum School in the fall, and he noticed mother at the first meeting he attended. Mr. Malatesta’s wife had died two years before. His children were all grown. Both of his sons had gone to Fortnum School. One of them was a lawyer. The other was a stockbroker. His daughter was married to a lawyer and played tennis and raised money for worthy causes that got her picture in the paper quite a lot. Mr. Malatesta was near the age of retirement and well into the age of grandchildren. He had five grandchildren. One of them, F. Hugo Malatesta III, was two years younger than I. The F. stood for Francesco, pronounced Fran-ches-ko, but never used.

  F. Hugo called mother on the telephone the afternoon following the evening of that first meeting, and he asked her to marry him in the spring. Mother said that she would marry him in the summer. She said that she would be happy to. Mother explained her reasons to me: I would be starting Fortnum in the fall, and she wanted me to go as a regular day student and not as the child of a servant of the school. Mother had been around the school enough to know that the children of faculty—and Mother’s rank was lower than faculty—have a name. They are called UW’s, which is the abbreviation for United Way, which means charity. Mother said she didn’t want me to be a UW when I entered Fortnum.

  I looked forward to Mother’s wedding, and I looked forward to moving into Mr. Malatesta’s house and having Mother drive me to Fortnum from there. The house had six bedrooms and four bathrooms, a gardener, a housekeeper, and I think they sent their laundry out.

  Mother looked forward to her wedding, and she looked forward to her honeymoon. Even though this was her second marriage, she told me that it was her first honeymoon. Mr. Malatesta was taking her on a cruise, and that was why I was to stay with my father, the camel-keeper.

  I was to meet him in Smilax, Texas.

  I asked Mother to get my school blazer before she left for her honeymoon cruise. She reminded me that at my age I could easily outgrow a jacket in a period of a month. I told her that I didn’t think that I would. She got me the jacket.

  She and Mr. Malatesta drove me to the airport. Before I boarded the plane, Mr. Malatesta gave me fifty dollars, five tens. He didn’t make any big fuss giving it to me. He just said, “Spend it foolishly,” and I told him that I would.

  I got off the plane in Smilax wearing my navy blue school blazer with the Fortnum School crest on the breast pocket. It was the first Saturday in August, and when they wheeled the steps up to the plane and opened the door, I thought that someone—God—had made a mistake. There was no out-of-doors there. There was no air there. I felt that I was breathing mayonnaise. I was sweating down to my insteps and up to my eyelids. The heat made everything look wavy, but I still was able to spot my father from the top of the airplane stairs.

  He was standing behind a chain link fence with a lot of other people waiting for the plane to arrive. I had not seen him in one month more than a year, but he was easy to pick out of a crowd. He wore the same red bandanna around his neck and the same black hat that looked like Pinocchio’s that he had worn on his last visit to Havemyer. My father is what adventure books call swarthy, and he adds a big black mustache to that. He is a hairy man. He has black hairs that grow like boogers out of his nose and his ears if he doesn’t cut them with a scissors.

  Father spotted me and waved. I walked down the stairs and across the tarmac very slowly. I could not walk fast. The air seemed more solid than the asphalt I walked on. Actually, the asphalt was soft; I could feel my shoes sticking to it the way they do when you’re walking down the aisle in a really crummy movie. I could feel the navy blue wool of my blazer sop up sweat like a paper towel that was winning a contest in a television commercial.

  I reached my father and extended my arm for a handshake, but Father reached over and—hot as it was—hugged me. “Hi, Bo,” he said, “it’s good to see you. Very good.”

  “I’m called Maximilian now,” I answered.

  “Well, Max, did you have a good flight?”

  “The food was like a TV dinner.”

  “So you’ve already had lunch?”

  “That’s what they called it.”

  Father studied me awhile longer, reached his arm around my shoulder and said, “Let’s go collect your luggage.”

  The terminal was air-conditioned. Blasts of cold air were pushed through vents in the ceiling. The wind chill factor in the terminal building was minus fifteen degrees and felt good. As we waited for the luggage to come off the plane, I stood directly under one of the vents and allowed my sopping blue blazer to blow in the wind. Soon the conveyor belt began moving, and soon after that pieces of luggage came riding around on it.

  “If you’ll point out what belongs to you,” Father said, “I’ll lift it off.”

  I didn’t point it out, I lifted my two suitcases off the belt by myself and picked one up in each arm and said, “Shall we go?”

  Father reached down to take one suitcase from me, but I held on. I started walking, holding one suitcase in each hand. Before I reached the door, I thought my hands would break off at the wrists, but I carried both pieces to the door without his help.

  Father held the door open for me, and I walked through, my suitcases banging my knees, my shins, my thighs. Once outside, the hot air wrapped around me again. Once again I began perspiring like a lower species of animal. Sweat locked into the weave of my blazer and vaporized. I knew that there was a cloud of steam lifting from where I stood. And it was only one-thirty in Smilax.

  “You wait here,” Father said. “I’ll get the truck and pull around.”

  I waited there on the sidewalk watching the sun flick off the windshields of the cars as they pulled up to pick up their passengers. I thought that I would (a) go blind, (b) rot like a piece of fruit, (c) faint. Father arrived before I did any of the above. He asked me if I would like to take off my jacket, and I told him no, not at all. He shrugged and drove us to his trailer camp out on Highway Six.

  He gave me some cold Coke and asked me if I would like to see Ahmed. I told him no thanks and asked him where I was to put my things because I had some letters I wanted to write.

  “I do my writing at the kitchen table,” he said. “And you’ll sleep in the bottom bunk unless you prefer the top.”

  “The bottom will do quite nicely,” I said.

  Father said that he had to go to Pickwick Mall because he had advertized that Ahmed would be there between three and six. He invited me to
go along, but I told him no thanks, that I thought I had mentioned that I had some correspondence to take care of, and he said that yes, I had mentioned it, but he thought that maybe I would like to go with him and postpone writing my letters, and I told him that postponing things was not something I was in the habit of. He told me to help myself to anything in the refrigerator or the pantry and that he would be back about seven-thirty. He mentioned our going out for our first supper.

  The minute he walked out the door, I took off my blazer. I turned the air-conditioner to COLDEST and turned the vents so that they blew right over me as I threw myself across the lower bunk and fell asleep.

  I woke up because I sensed a strange light coming into the trailer. It was only the afternoon slant of the southern summer sun. It didn’t look like ordinary light. It looked as though if you touched it, it would punch back. I felt trapped by the blaze of light falling in slats through the windows of the camper.

  I walked outside. My father’s camper was a runt among the others in the park. A one-room aluminum job with a slope on the back. It looked more like a giant turtle than a trailer. There were almost no people outside. I walked around and saw through the windows the pale blue flickering light that told me that television was on. I couldn’t hear anything, for all the trailers had air-conditioners thundering away at one window or another.

  I went back inside my father’s trailer feeling the chill blast of his air-conditioner. I started to shiver and decided that I should probably get something to eat. The refrigerator was a little half job with a tiny yellowish light like a single bulb on a Christmas tree. I found some bread and some beer. The bread was stale; I didn’t know if the beer was, for it was the first I had ever tasted. I sat at the kitchen table tearing off pieces of bread between my teeth and swigging beer and wondering how many afternoons I would have to spend this way. I knew that I would not be going to shopping centers helping Father sell camel rides.

  I opened my suitcase and took out my paper and my ballpoint pen. I intended to write my mother a beautiful letter full of descriptive phrases and no split infinitives. I intended to write her every day, so that at the end of the month she would have a chapter of letters that would tell her what I thought of the meaning of life. I would give her permission to publish them when she asked.