Journey to an 800 Number (10 page)

I thought about what she said, and although I agreed with most of it, I couldn’t agree with all of it. “Woody is always Woody,” I said. “He doesn’t seem to fit in anywhere exactly. He’s an exception, I think. Woody doesn’t pretend about anything to anyone.”

“I don’t believe that,” Sabrina said.

“How could you know? You hardly know my
father. You’ve seen him only …”

“I don’t have to know Woody exactly. I know people.”

“I thought your big specialty was freaks.”

“I know freaks from having read about them. I know people from having been around, and I can tell you, Maximilian Stubbs, that when you really get to know your father, you’re going to find that he’s got disguises. Everyone does. I’m telling you, Max, only freaks have to live without disguises.”

“How old are you?” I asked.

“My chronological age is ten,” she answered. “But that is merely one of my disguises.”

Father was approaching, and Lilly waved to him to show him where we were. I lifted Lilly’s pocketbook and sweater from the bench between us. I saw her
HELLO
tag. It said:
HELLO
,
I’M
Lilly Walker, University of Michigan, 1958.

Father sat down and greeted Sabrina and Lilly warmly, and Ruthie Britten sat down directly across from Sabrina and studied her and asked the questions. “How do you like Denver?” “It’s lovely.” “What grade are you in?” “Going into fifth.” “What do you think you would like to be when you’re grown up?” “A plastic surgeon.” “Where did you come from?” “Salt Lake City.”

“I thought you came from Rahway, New Jersey,” I said.

“That’s where I live and go to school, but I just came from Salt Lake City.”

“And,” I said, thrusting her mother’s
HELLO
badge in her face, “your name is Pacsek; here it says
Walker.”

“Mother has resumed her maiden name. Said it gave her a better sense of self.”

“How could she do that if you’re from Railway?”

“The legal papers came through while we were visiting Salt Lake City.”

I reached across her lap and picked up her sweater. Her
HELLO
badge said,
Sabrina Walker.
“Did you have your name changed, too?”

“No. I just called myself that for this convention. It makes it much easier for mother to introduce me by the same name she has.”

There was something wrong. I knew that anyone with my mathematical abilities should be able to figure out what it was. I thought a minute and it came to me, clear as the answer to one plus one. “You mean to tell me that you are going around announcing yourself as Sabrina Walker, daughter of Lilly Walker?” She nodded. “And Walker was your mother’s unmarried name?”

“Yes, when she was a Lambda Gamma at Michigan, she was known as Lilly Walker.”

“That means that you are saying that you are your mother’s daughter, and your mother is using her unmarried name. Do you know what that makes you?”

Sabrina stared at me a long time. Her eyes looking
straight at me, then through me. At last she said, “Maximilian Stubbs, of all the ways there are to be smart in this world, I never want to be smart like you.”

“Maybe I can’t help being smart.”

“Your trouble, Maximilian, is that you’re not so smart that you’re a freak about it, and you’re not smart enough to pretend.”

We ate in silence for a while, and one of the girls from down at the end of another table came over. “We’re done,” the girl said. “Our table got served first.” Both Sabrina and I looked at her and said nothing. “We’re done,” she repeated, looking at me.

Sabrina said, “This young lady is Jennifer Susan Anderson. She has not one but two of the most popular names in the fifth grade.” Jennifer Susan smiled. “But since she’s from Begonia, South Carolina, she is known by one and all as Jenny Sue.”

“Pleased to meet you, Jenny Sue,” I said.

“What’s your name?” she asked.

“My name is Maximilian Stubbs. Most people around here call me Bo.”

“Max’s father owns the camel, Ahmed. Maybe you’d like to look at Ahmed and take a ride on him.”

Jenny Sue asked where he was; I pointed in some general direction, and Jenny Sue started skipping off. “I’ll get there first,” she said.

After she was out of earshot, Sabrina said, “A head cold is more interesting than that child.” Then
she raised her eyebrows and said to me, “I didn’t know you had a nickname.”

“I don’t like it.”

“Why did you tell us then?”

“I thought that Jenny Sue, being a South Carolina sorority girl, would appreciate it. Bo sounds sort of Southern.”

Sabrina said, “I find that interesting.”

“What do you find interesting?”

“What you choose to try to fit into.”

Sabrina walked with me over to the riding track, and we watched Ahmed while others took rides. Three times I asked Sabrina if she would like to ride him. She said no three times. “I thought you liked Ahmed,” I said.

“I do, but I don’t care to ride him. I like the
idea
of a camel. I mean that I’m awfully glad there are camels in this world.”

“Why?”

“Because they are strange. And I’m awfully glad I got to know someone who owns one.”

“Why?”

“Because he has a strange son.”

I had never thought of myself as strange; I can honestly say that I have spent all my time that I can remember trying not to be strange. Trying to be as normal as everyone else at Fortnum Preparatory School for Boys. I thought about Sabrina a lot that night. I had a lot of time to think about her. Father
was at Ruthie Britten’s again. He had taken his guitar.

We stayed at Oakes’ Dude Ranch for ten days, and I had a lot of time to think. When we were ready to move on to Las Vegas, I knew two things: I still did not like camels, and I liked Sabrina. And looks had nothing to do with either. Maybe looks had nothing to do with either.

On our way to Las Vegas Father told me that he was especially glad to have Ahmed’s new livery because in Las Vegas, Ahmed would be in show business. Ahmed had been hired by the Pyramid Hotel to star in their revue called “Arabian Chic,” and the star of the show would ride on stage on top of Ahmed. Rehearsals would begin the day after we got there, and Father would be doing this gig—two shows a night—for three months.

“I’m sorry you won’t get to see Ahmed perform,” he said. “But minors are not allowed.”

“Can I watch the rehearsals? I asked.

“I’ll check and see,” Father said.

After we settled Ahmed at the trailer park, we had a whole day to explore Las Vegas, and this is the way I would describe it: On the edge of the desert there is a highway with restaurants, gambling parlors and hotels on both sides. All of the hotels have many restaurants, many theaters and a large gambling casino on the inside. All of them have bright lights on the outside. This row of hotels is called “The Strip.” And what it is most like is a
comic strip. One section follows another, and all are more or less the same things drawn differently. Everything has stronger outlines and brighter colors than what is real. And within The Strip there are no real conversations, just words in balloons. And the guys who use The Strip do not have to think, but the people who invent it do.

The next day we drove to the Pyramid Hotel and entered a parking area below ground. We parked the truck and then we parked Ahmed. We took him from the truck and tethered him between the support pillars of the garage. We found a metal door that led up a short flight of stairs.

“The back door again,” I said to Father.

“This time it’s the stage door, Max. We’re in show business.”

There was so much confusion backstage that no one paid any attention to the fact that I, an under-legal-age boy, was helping out. Father never bothered to check with anyone to see if I was allowed to. Backstage I had expected to see girls who looked like cosmetic commercials, but instead I saw girls who looked like you could put a grocery cart in front of them and turn them loose in a grocery store, and even the meat manager wouldn’t turn his head.

Father said, “Wait until they put on their glamor outfits for evening.”

“But you said I wouldn’t be allowed in this evening.”

“You probably won’t be. Some of the girls will be topless.”

“I saw a girl nursing her baby right in your trailer park right in Smilax, Texas.”

“Not the same thing,” Father said.

“Why not?”

“Because no one was charging admission.”

“Will the girl riding Ahmed be topless?”

“No. The star of the show is never topless.”

“Who’s the star of the show?”

“Trina Rose. She’s an old friend of mine. Of your mother’s, too.”

“You mean Trina Rose, the English singer? The one who recorded
Walkin’ Papers?”

“Yes.”

“And
Cry for Baby Love?
And
Home Neat Home?”

“Yes, that one.”

“Mother never told me she was a friend of Trina Rose’s.”

“Maybe it didn’t seem important to your mother.”

“When did you meet her?”

“Back when I lived at the ranch outside Taos. Trina Rose was known as Baby Bloom then. Her real name is Catarina Rosenblum, but she came to the ranch as Baby Bloom. She was just one of the dozens of kids who came around with a guitar and
crashed at my place. That was before she hit it big. When she heard that the show manager of the Pyramid needed a trained camel, she got in touch with me. That’s how I got this gig.

“Baby Bloom and Sally were the best of friends when they arrived at the ranch. Of course, Sally stayed on. Baby Bloom left about a year after you were born. She left me her guitar as payment for room and board. I told her she didn’t have to do such a thing, but she said that she had to do something nice for the man who took such good care of Sally. That’s her guitar I still play.

“She told me that leaving her guitar at the ranch was the real cause of her success. She said that having that guitar on her lap all the time was like trying to sing and operate a computer at the same time. She said she just had to concentrate on her fingering so hard, she couldn’t break out into song. So once she left the guitar at the ranch, she just dropped her hands to her sides and lifted her chin and sounds came out that were shaped like her and not like anyone else. And then since she didn’t have to spend her time practicing playing, she started writing music instead.”

“I wish I had known that you and Mother are good friends of Trina Rose,” I said. “I could have made everyone at Fortnum green with envy. Absolutely green. Chartreuse.”

“What would you want to do that for, Bo?”

“To show them.”

“To show them what?”

“That I’m not a UW.”

I explained to Father that UW meant United Way, and that it meant the scholarship students at Fortnum.

“But you won’t be a UW. You’ll be F. Hugo Malatesta’s stepson.”

“No, I won’t be. He’s not adopting me.”

“In any case, he’s paying. You won’t be a UW.”

“Aren’t you ashamed to have another man pay for your son’s education?” I asked.

Father said, “No.”

Trina Rose arrived for rehearsal promptly at two. That was exactly the time she was supposed to. Father said that she was a real pro, and professionals were always on time.

Trina Rose was fat. She was not heavy the way that Mama Rosita was. Trina Rose was fat like a huge scoop of vanilla ice cream that’s been at room temperature for a couple of hours. She wore dresses that looked like a parachute with a hole cut in the center for her head and neck. She billowed when she walked.

Father sat quietly in a corner waiting for the crowd that had arrived with Trina Rose to thin out. When it did, she noticed Father and ran toward him with both arms outstretched like a kite fluttering to the ground.

“Woodrow Stubbs, you bloody old fart,” she
said. “If I hadn’t just had my second breakfast, I would eat you right up. How’s that short-haired, long-legged beast of yours? I’m referring to Ahmed, of course. Nothing private intended.”

Father laughed and hugged Trina Rose back. “Ahmed’s fine,” he said. “And so is Sally. Sally just got married.”

“Well, I’ll be switched,” she said. “Sally Ghost married again. I’ll bet she caught herself some guy with a billion in the bank and a foot in the grave.”

“His name is F. Hugo Malatesta, the First,” I said. “And he is rich, but there can be young grandfathers, you know.”

Trina Rose looked at me, put a hand on my shoulder and said, “It’s Bo!” She turned to Father and said, ‘Tell me! It’s bloody Bo, isn’t it?” Father nodded. Trina Rose came over to me and hugged me so that I was lost in a tangle of arms and sleeves. She didn’t let me go. She clutched me to her and rocked me back and forth. Then she pushed me to arm’s length still holding me. She studied my face, and then she pulled me to her again. “He’s right handsome, Woody,” she said. “And he looks bloody normal, too. God, that Sally Ghost doesn’t know how lucky she is.” I was still crushed against Trina Rose’s bosom, and she started rocking me again. Then she pushed me just far enough from her to stretch her arms full length and clamp her hands behind my neck. “Listen, Bo,” she said, “did you know that I’m your bloody damn godmother?” I
shook my head as best I could. “Well, I bloody well am,” she said, “I led your daddy blindfolded out of that bloody hospital. Now I want you to watch my whole damn rehearsal from the minute I arrive on top of bloody Ahmed until I sing my final-most song. And I want you to bloody well know that I’m singing to you, love. This whole rehearsal is for you.” Then she said to Father, “Can I have him stay with me, Woody? I have half a hallway full of rooms. I could sleep two in the bathtub alone. You should see it. It’s pink marble. Looks like a goddam war memorial. Christ, you can stay too, Woody, if you like. I won’t bother with your bloody animal, though.” Father did not answer. He had no chance to because she called, “Mordred! Mordred!” Mordred was her bloody manager, I found out. “These two old friends of mine will be moving into my suite. Tell the hotel bloody management.”

Father declined. He insisted to Trina Rose that it would be inconvenient for him to be in a high rise so far away from Ahmed.