Jeremy Fink and the Meaning of Life

by Wendy Mass

  “I’ll get it,” I say, bending over to pick it up. The envelope is yellowed and thin, and there’s a name written on the front in black ink. Mabel Parsons. Mr. Oswald takes it from my hand and sticks it back in the book. The cover is so faded that I can’t see the title.

  “Even a reader like you probably won’t be very interested in the topic of this book,” he says, placing it gently into a cardboard box lying open on his desk. “It’s about woodland animals.”

  “Woodland animals?” I repeat.

  He nods as he tapes up the box with a thick packing tape. “Owls, bears, rabbits. That sort of thing.”

  It does sound pretty boring. “Are you donating it to a library?” I ask.

  “Oh, no,” he says, but doesn’t explain further. He pulls a yellow Post-it note off a pad and sticks it on top of the box. He writes an address neatly on it, and I can see his hand shake a bit with the effort. I wonder how old he is. He’s definitely older than any of my grandparents. He presses an intercom on his desk, and I hear a low buzz a few rooms away. James appears a minute later, and Mr. Oswald hands him the package. “The address is on here,” he says. “I’d like you to accompany the children to the door, but then they’re on their own.”

  “Yessir,” James says.

  I’m about to follow the men out of the room when I turn to find Lizzy holding the blue-eyed doll in her arms. When she sees me looking, she quickly sticks it back on the shelf. I raise my brows, and she glares in return. We wind our way back to the front door, stopping once so I can pick up a sheet of the bubble wrap.

  “Good luck,” Mr. Oswald says warmly, swinging the door shut behind us.

  “Wait,” Lizzy says from the top stair. “Why do we need luck? What are we actually doing?”

  “Don’t worry, we’ll talk tomorrow.” With that, the thick door shuts. We turn to James.

  “Don’t look at me,” he says. “I just work here.”

  Chapter 9: The Book

  James opens the back door for us again, even though I tell him I can open it. He has the package in the front with him, so once again we have no idea where we are going, or what we’re supposed to do when we get there. I search my backpack for any stray candy to bring me comfort, but I’m all out.

  I hold out my hand to Lizzy, palm up. “Starburst, please.”

  “Flavor?” Lizzy asks, digging the pack out of her pocket.

  “Red,” I reply. I want to ask why she didn’t offer earlier, but I don’t. Pick your battles, Dad always said.

  As the limo heads into parts unknown, we amuse ourselves by pressing the button to open and close the window partition. Then we look outside to count how many people turn their heads as the limo passes them. Once that gets old, I wrap the box in the bubble wrap, and I can’t help popping the bubbles. Lizzy jumps every time. I then polish off one and a half peanut butter sandwiches while Lizzy eats a soy cheese-and-spinach wrap that her dad made for her. I can’t even watch. We’re about to turn on the TV when the car comes to a halt, and the window divider lowers.

  “We’re here,” James says over his shoulder. “Are you ready?”

  “What should we be ready for?” Lizzy asks. “I’m not getting out of the car until you tell us.”

  I take my hand away from the door handle and sit back in my seat.

  James twists around till he is facing us. “You will be delivering a package, that’s all.”

  I lean forward. “Why does Mr. Oswald need us to do this? Not to be rude, but why couldn’t you, or someone else who already works for him do it?”

  James smiles. His teeth are very white. “Because I don’t have a debt to society to pay.”

  “Oh, please,” Lizzy says with a wave of her hand. “That was a big misunderstanding.”

  James raises the window divider, and we hear him get out of the car. I’m about to open my door when Lizzy puts her hand on my arm. Her mouth opens to say something, but then she closes it again.

  “What is it?” I ask.

  “Nothing,” she says as James opens her door. She turns away and steps out. I slide over the seat and follow. I know she’s nervous about what we’re going to find here, but she’d never admit it. I have no problem admitting it.

  “You can leave your bag in the car,” James instructs me. “You won’t be needing it.”

  I hesitate. If Dad’s box got stolen I would never forgive myself.

  “It will be safe, I promise,” James says.

  Not wanting to make a big deal out of it, I shrug the bag off my shoulder and leave it on the seat. Then I quickly move it from the seat to the floor, thinking it’s less likely to be seen there. I close the door tightly behind me and find Lizzy leaning against the car, tapping her finger on the tinted windows. Okay, so I guess my bag will be safe. James makes a big show of clicking on the alarm.

  We follow James a few doors down and find ourselves in front of a tall apartment building, the kind with a doorman. James hands me the package. I hand it to Lizzy, who promptly hands it back to me. The doorman tips his hat at us, and we follow James into the building and up to the desk, where a security guard is reading the newspaper. James clears his throat and says, “We are here to see Mrs. Mabel Billingsly. She is expecting us.”

  The guard lazily lays his paper down on the counter and picks up a phone. He presses three numbers. “And you all are?”

  James says, “You may tell Mrs. Billingsly that we are representatives of Mr. Oswald.”

  The guard mumbles, “Oh, may I?” and presses one more number. James pretends not to hear the guard’s comment, but I’m sure he did. The guard relays the message and then hangs up. “Okay, you can go up.”

  We step into the elevator and James presses 14.

  Lizzy says, “It would have to be the fourteenth floor again!”

  “What’s wrong with the fourteenth floor?” James asks.

  “You don’t want to know,” Lizzy says with a shiver.

  I ask, “Why would anyone want an old book on woodland animals anyway?”

  Lizzy shrugs. “Maybe it’s an antique. James here, although a man of few words, did say Mr. Oswald sold antiques.” Suddenly her eyes widen, and she adds, “Unless it’s not really a book at all!”

  “Interesting,” I say, considering this theory. Mr. Oswald did shut the book pretty quickly, so I couldn’t get a good look at it. “You’re right! It could be a hollowed-out book with money or jewels or a treasure map hidden inside!”

  “Yes!” Lizzy says, grabbing my arm. “That’s why Mr. Oswald wants us to deliver it! As minors, we wouldn’t get into as much trouble as an adult would. Maybe he’s connected with the mob!”

  We stare accusingly at James. Lizzy does her best hands-on-hips glare. James shakes his head and rolls his eyes. “It’s a book,” he says firmly. The elevator opens, and James steps out. Lizzy and I don’t move. “It’s a book,” he says, even more firmly. The doors start to close, and he has to stick his foot in to get them to bounce back open.

  “We might as well go with him,” I say to Lizzy. “Mr. Oswald doesn’t really seem like the kinda guy who would set us up.”

  “I guess not,” she admits.

  We step out of the elevator, and James walks down the hushed hallway a few steps ahead of us. This sure is different from our apartment building. Air conditioning in the halls, for one. And carpet that doesn’t have any stains on it. I run my hand along the patterned wallpaper. No dust. There are chairs and a little table every few feet. So neighbors can chat, I guess?

  “Here we are,” James says, stopping in front of 14G. “You’re on your own. I’ll be waiting out here.”

  “Sure, so we can deliver the contraband,” Lizzy mumbles, “while you keep a safe distance.”

  “It’s a BOOK,” James insists, heading toward a chair a few doors down.

  Neither of us makes a move to knock. Finally, I shift the package under my arm and ring the buzzer. A few seconds later, the door creaks open, and an elderly woman in a light pink dress stand
s before us. She is wearing a thin gold necklace with two entwined hearts hanging from it. Her watery blue eyes are almost see-through. She stands very straight.

  Addressing me, she says, “I didn’t expect Mr. Oswald to be so young.” Then she steps aside to let us enter. She closes the door behind us, unknowingly leaving James out in the hall. We’re on our own now.

  The apartment is smaller than I would have thought, but has a big window with a wide view. We must be on the Upper East Side because I can see the East River. I’ve got to start paying more attention in the limo.

  “I’m not Mr. Oswald,” I tell her. “My name is Jeremy Fink, and this is Lizzy Muldoun.”

  “Mabel Billingsly,” she says, holding out her hand.

  In the sunlight that streams in through the window, she seems even older. Her skin looks paper-thin. I’m afraid to shake her hand too hard, but she has a surprisingly strong grip.

  “So, what brings you to my humble abode?”

  Lizzy and I exchange worried glances. “Er, don’t you know?” asks Lizzy.

  Mrs. Billingsly shakes her head.

  I hold out the package. “Didn’t you order this from Mr. Oswald? The antique dealer?”

  “Antiques?” she repeats. “No. I haven’t bought an antique in years.” She leans in like she’s going to tell us a secret. “Truth be told, they give me the creeps.”

  I like that she’s not talking to us like we’re little kids. “So you don’t know what this is?” I ask, and hand her the package.

  She shakes her head again and says, “Why don’t we find out?” She leads us through the living room and into the small kitchen. Resting the box on the kitchen table, she pulls a knife out of the drawer. She neatly slices through the tape, then pushes back the sides of the box. The whole thing is very reminiscent of us opening the package with my dad’s box in it. Except this time, I know what’s inside, even if Mrs. Billingsly doesn’t.

  She reaches in and pulls out the small book. She turns it around in her hands, and tentatively opens the front cover. She reads something written there, then closes it again, hugging it tight to her chest. When she looks up, her eyes are full of tears. But they are shining, too.

  “Where did you get this?” she whispers.

  “We told you,” Lizzy says. “Mr. Oswald asked us to deliver it. We sort of work for him.”

  She stares at us blankly, and then her eyes focus abruptly and she backs up a step. “Old Ozzy? No, that’s not possible. Why, he’d have to be a hundred and twenty years old by now!”

  I may not be great at figuring how old adults are, but I’m pretty sure Mr. Oswald isn’t any older than seventy or seventy-five. Definitely younger than Mrs. Billingsly.

  I shake my head. “I think he’s only in his seventies. And I can’t imagine anyone calling him Ozzy.”

  Lizzy nods in agreement.

  Mrs. Billingsly looks down at the book and says in a shaky voice, “How much do I owe you for this?”

  Lizzy and I look at each other, alarmed. Mr. Oswald never said anything about collecting payment.

  “Um, nothing?” I reply uncertainly.

  But Mrs. Billingsly no longer seems to be paying attention to us. She keeps rubbing her hand across the cover of the book. Abruptly she walks out of the kitchen and sits down on the couch in the living room. Lizzy leans close and whispers, “Should we leave now?”

  “I don’t know,” I whisper back. “I’m not sure what’s going on.”

  “Me either. She sure seems to like that book though.”

  I nod. “But why doesn’t she remember ordering it?”

  “She’s really, really old?” Lizzy suggests.

  “I don’t think that’s it.”

  “Let’s go find out,” Lizzy says. We slip into the living room and each take a chair opposite the woman.

  “Um, Mrs. Billingsly?” Lizzy asks. “Are you okay?”

  Mrs. Billingsly looks up from the book lying open on her lap. I notice the envelope that I had picked up from Mr. Oswald’s office floor is on the cushion at her side. She smiles and asks, “Would you like to hear my favorite part?”

  I find it hard to believe someone has a favorite part in a book on woodland animals. Without waiting for our answer, she starts to read:

  Later on, when they had all said “Good-by” and “Thank-you” to Christopher Robin, Pooh and Piglet walked home thoughtfully together in the golden evening, and for a long time they were silent.

  Lizzy jumps up from her chair. “Woodland animals!” she snorts. “That’s Winnie-the-Pooh!”

  “Shh!” I tell her, pulling her back down. “Let her finish.”

  Mrs. Billingsly continues:

  “When you wake up in the morning, Pooh,” said Piglet at last, “what’s the first thing you say to yourself?”

  “What’s for breakfast?” said Pooh. “What do you say, Piglet?”

  “I say, I wonder what’s going to happen exciting today?” said Piglet.

  Pooh nodded thoughtfully. “It’s the same thing,” he said.

  Mrs. Billingsly stops reading, but doesn’t lift her head. Why hadn’t Mr. Oswald told us the book was Winnie-the-Pooh? This whole thing doesn’t make sense. Suddenly I realize something that should have been obvious from the minute she took out the book.

  “Mrs. Billingsly,” I say, “did this book once belong to you?”

  She doesn’t answer at first, only runs her hand over the page. Then she says, “It was only half mine. The other half belonged to my best friend, Bitsy.”

  “You mean Betsy?” Lizzy suggests.

  Mrs. Billingsly shakes her head. “Bitsy. Bitsy Solomon.”

  “People had funny names back then,” Lizzy comments.

  I glare at Lizzy. “Go on,” I urge Mrs. Billingsly.

  She sighs gently and says, “I haven’t spoken to Bitsy in over sixty-five years.”

  “But you said she’s your best friend,” Lizzy says.

  “I misspoke,” Mrs. Billingsly replies calmly.

  I notice her left hand is shaking slightly. She sees me looking, and quickly puts her other hand on top of it. Just as quickly, I look away, sorry that I saw it in the first place. Sixty-five years is like an eternity. The longest Lizzy and I ever went without speaking was a week, and that was because she said the things on Star Trek couldn’t really happen.

  “Bitsy used to be my best friend,” Mrs. Billingsly explains. “Until I sold this book for a fancy dress. She confronted me, but I told her I hadn’t taken it. I knew she knew I had. Best friends always know when the other’s lying. For years I wanted to apologize, but I was too embarrassed.”

  “I don’t get it,” Lizzy says. “How could you buy a whole dress for the cost of that book?”

  Mrs. Billingsly opens the front cover and turns it around to face us. We lean closer to read the faded handwriting.

  To Bitsy and Mabel, Pooh’s biggest

  American fans

  Best regards, A. A. Milne

  “Oh,” Lizzy says.

  “Wow,” I say.

  “Old Ozzy gave me twenty dollars for it. Back then, in the thirties, that was near a fortune for a child.”

  I still think she must be confused about Mr. Oswald, since there’s no way our Mr. Oswald could have bought this book from her. I don’t have the nerve to tell her she’s wrong though. Lizzy, as usual, has no problem coming up with something to say.

  “Why’d you need this dress so badly?” she asks.

  Mrs. Billingsly closes her eyes. For a few minutes she doesn’t answer. I’m starting to squirm. Did she fall asleep? Lizzy pinches me on the arm and mouths, “What should we do?” I’m about to answer that maybe we should go, when Mrs. Billingsly opens her eyes and reaches for the old envelope. “It’s all in here,” she says, pushing the letter back into the envelope and holding it out to me. “Will you do me a favor and read it later? I’d like to be alone.”

  I stick the envelope in the back pocket of my shorts and, for the first time in my life, wish
I had worn something less sloppy.

  “Will your husband be home soon?” Lizzy asks. I hear something unusual in her voice—genuine concern.

  She shakes her head and looks over at a faded wedding photo on the coffee table. “No, Richard isn’t around anymore.”

  “How did you two meet?” Lizzy asks.

  My first thought is that I wish Lizzy would stop pressing her to answer these questions. But I quickly realize what she’s doing. She’s keeping Mrs. Billingsly talking in the hopes that when we leave, it won’t feel so abrupt.

  “I met him the night I wore that dress,” she says wistfully. “I was sixteen.” She raises her hand to her throat and rubs the little hearts hanging from her necklace. It’s a totally unconscious thing. I think she’d be surprised to know she was doing it. She continues, “Bitsy never even met him. She would have been my maid of honor.”

  “That’s so sad,” Lizzy says.

  Her comment snaps Mrs. Billingsly out of her reverie, and she pushes herself up from the couch. “Now I’m sure you two have better things to do then spend a summer afternoon with an old lady.” Without actually pushing us, she nevertheless herds us toward the door. “You tell Ozzy that I thank him from the bottom of my heart.”

  “But Mr. Oswald isn’t—,” Lizzy begins.

  I interrupt her and say, “We will.”

  She closes the door behind us, and we’re back in the fancy hallway. Neither of us says anything for a moment. James comes up behind us and asks, “So how did it go?”

  I can’t think of a word that would be a suitable reply. Lizzy just says, “Mr. Oswald has a lot of explaining to do tomorrow!” and storms off for the elevator.