Jeremy Fink and the Meaning of Life

by Wendy Mass

  “James,” I say as we follow behind, “does anyone call Mr. Oswald Ozzy?”

  He shakes his head and smiles. “Does he seem like an Ozzy to you?”

  “No.”

  As the elevator doors close, he says, “Old Ozzy was what they called his grandfather.”

  Chapter 10: Oswald Oswald

  Lizzy and I don’t speak much on the way home. She’s still fuming over the details Mr. Oswald “forgot” to tell us, so I spend the time preparing what I’m going to tell Mom. I know I can’t tell her everything. At least not until I understand what had really happened and what I think about it. As I push open our front door, the smell of curry fills my nose. That means Aunt Judi is over making one of her exotic dishes. Mom and Aunt Judi pounce when they hear me.

  “So?” they ask in unison, wiping their hands on matching aprons. “How was it?”

  “I hear you were whisked away in a limo!” Aunt Judi says.

  My rehearsed speech comes out in a flood of words. “The limo was amazing. There was soda and a TV! Mr. Oswald was really nice. James, the driver, drove us to our first delivery. It was a book to this lady on the Upper East Side. She was nice, too. That’s about it. Is it okay if I go to my room?” By the time I finish my speech, I’m a bit breathless. Aunt Judi’s smile is still wide, but my mother’s has started to slip a bit at the edges.

  “Ten minutes till dinner,” she says, giving me a long look. But she lets me go.

  I empty my backpack on the bed and search through the contents to find the envelope. It’s not here. I feel panic rising in me until I remember I’d stuck it in my pocket. The letter is yellowed and frayed, but when I unfold it, the type is still legible. No computer made this, that’s for sure. There are smudges of ink, and the letters don’t always line up. It was definitely made on one of those old typewriters where you’d hit a key and a metal spring with a letter on the end would fly out and strike the paper. Grandma still has one, but whenever I try to use it, the keys jam together.

  Leaning against the wall that I share with Lizzy’s room, I begin to read.

  Oswald’s Pawn Emporium

  Date: March 31, 1935

  Name: Mabel Parsons

  Age: 15 3/4

  Location: Brooklyn

  Item to Pawn: Winnie-the-Pooh. Signed by the author.

  Personal Statement of Seller: I need to sell this book because I need money to buy a dress for the cotillion because my parents can’t afford to buy me a new one and I’d have to wear my sister Janie’s old one but it is much too large and I would swim in it and no one will ask me to dance and if no one asks me to dance, I may never get married and this may be my only chance. I desperately do not want to be an old maid like my Great Aunt Sylvia who always says that she never married because she never had the right clothes. Please do not tell my parents.

  A black-and-white photo is taped below the personal statement. It is in surprisingly good condition for all this time. A girl in a polka-dotted dress and a ponytail is holding a book up in front of her. The cover has a picture of a bear on it, with his head stuck in a honey jar. I try to see if I can find Mabel in the girl’s face, but I can’t. Then I notice around her neck is that same necklace with the two hearts. I had assumed her husband had given it to her, but she must have had it before she met him. Young Mabel’s eyes are focused slightly to the side of the camera and her expression is firm.

  Under the photo it says:

  Price: $20.00 (twenty dollars)

  Signed by: Oswald Oswald, Proprietor

  Oswald Oswald? Who would name their child Oswald Oswald? That’s just insane. So it appears that my Mr. Oswald must have inherited the book from his grandfather. But why would he have us return it now? Why didn’t Old Ozzy sell it? Isn’t that what pawnbrokers do?

  Mom knocks on my door. “Five minutes,” she says, but doesn’t come in. I take another long look at the letter, and then carefully roll it up and stick it in the tube for Lizzy. I can’t explain why I don’t want to tell my mom the details about what happened today. I feel like it would be disloyal somehow to Mrs. Billingsly—and to fifteen-year-old Mabel. I grab the dictionary off my shelf and look up the word cotillion. It means a formal ball, which often introduces young women to society. I smile to myself, picturing Lizzy being introduced to society.

  At dinner I don’t talk much. Mom and Aunt Judi discuss an exhibit of outsider art, which my aunt is hosting at her art school next week. Mom says, “I thought the whole idea of outsider art meant that these artists aren’t interested in things like galleries or schools, or museums.”

  Scooping curried chicken and rice onto her plate, Aunt Judi says, “It’s true that these artists are on the fringe of society, so to speak, but without an exhibit, they have no voice.”

  “Maybe they don’t want a voice,” Mom argues. “Maybe they just do it for their own pleasure.”

  I now officially tune out. This is a common argument between the two of them. Mom thinks that art is a personal thing, and Aunt Judi believes that art isn’t art until it’s appreciated by the public. I have no opinion. I do not understand art. Mom says I will when I’m older.

  The curry smell has permeated the apartment to the degree that my dinner-sized double-decker peanut butter sandwich tastes a little odd. Not bad exactly. Just different. I think this is a positive step for me.

  That night during the H.O.J., I take out the notebook that Officer Polansky gave us. I open it to the first page, and it feels like the first day of school. I admit, I like a blank notebook. It’s the best part of school. By the second day, I’m over it.

  A skilled recapper like myself should have no problem with this. Still, I find myself gnawing on my pencil top. The metallic, sawdusty taste isn’t entirely unpleasant.

  I bend over my notebook and begin to write.

  COMMUNITY SERVICE DAY ONE: OBSERVATIONS

  1. I could get used to riding in a limo. People think limos are only for movie stars and politicians and athletes, but they are wrong.

  2. Lizzy does not always share. Case in point: Starburst.

  3. Mr. Oswald didn’t exactly lie to us about what we’d be doing, but he didn’t exactly not lie, either. I am not sure why.

  I chew on the pencil again, and glance at all the books piled on my bookshelf. I haven’t had time to read ever since the box arrived. This must be a record for me. Suddenly it dawns on me that I didn’t see any books in Mrs. Billingsly’s apartment.

  4. Did Mrs. Billingsly give up her love of books because of losing her friend?

  5. She said she met her husband at that dance and she seems to miss him. I wonder if that means she was happy with her decision to sell the book.

  6. There must be two types of choices. Choices you make that seem harmless but can wind up leading to someone’s father dying, like deciding to have one more cup of coffee that morning so you need to go out and buy more and then you cross the street without looking and make an oncoming car swerve into a telephone pole to avoid hitting you. And the other kind, when you know what you’re doing will lead to something either bad or good. Or in Mrs. Billingsly’s case, both. She lost her friend, but she found her husband.

  7. It’s a good thing I make very few decisions in my life. What if I decided one day to eat three Butterfingers instead of two, and it led to war with Canada?

  As I close the notebook I wonder if it’s not too late for Mrs. Billingsly to have her friend back. What if Bitsy is missing her, too? With six minutes left to the H.O.J., I turn to the Internet and type in the words “Bitsy Solomon” and “Brooklyn.” I know it’s a long shot, but how many Bitsy Solomons can there be from Brooklyn?

  Only one, as it turns out.

  5/12/2002 Funeral services will be held for Bitsy Solomon Shultz at the Brooklyn Memorial Chapel at 10 a.m. on Sunday, December 8. In lieu of flowers, please consider making a contribution to the Double Heart Literacy Foundation. Mrs. Shultz started the DHL Foundation in 1950, in honor of a childhood friend who ignited her lifelong l
ove of reading. She served as honorary chairwoman from 1989 to 2000.

  My grand plan of showing up at Mrs. Billingsly’s door with Bitsy’s phone number is clearly not going to happen.

  I scroll down until I see a photo. She sort of looks like my grandmother, and around her neck is the same double-heart necklace that Mrs. Billingsly was wearing.

  I open my notebook again and add three more entries.

  8. Some choices are forever.

  9. I wonder if Mrs. Billinsgly knew that Bitsy named her company after the matching necklaces they both wore.

  10. Just because people aren’t in our lives anymore, doesn’t mean they stop thinking about us and vice versa.

  I climb into bed and grab the stuffed alligator tight. Sometimes the Internet tells you more than you want to know.

  Lizzy still isn’t downstairs by the time James arrives to pick us up. I toss my bag onto the seat and promise James that I’ll only be a minute. Out of breath from running up there, I pound on Lizzy’s apartment door. No answer. I use my key to open it, and stick my head inside. “Lizzy?”

  She still doesn’t answer. I hear the sink running in the hall bathroom. “Lizzy?” I call loudly through the closed bathroom door.

  “Just a second!” she calls back, sounding annoyed. “Oh, all right, come in.”

  I push open the door to find her in front of the mirror holding a dripping towel to her eye.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask hurriedly.

  “If you must know,” she says, pulling the towel away to reveal a very red eye, “I poked myself in the eye.”

  “With what?” I ask, searching the room for any sharp sticks.

  She mumbles an answer, but I can’t hear her. “What did you say?”

  She groans and repeats, “I poked myself with an eyeliner!”

  “What’s an eyeliner?”

  “Hey,” she says, noticing for the first time that I’m standing on the bath mat. “No shoes in here.”

  “Why not?”

  She stares at me with her one good eye. “What if you stepped on a worm when you were outside, then you came in here and stood on my bath mat? Worm parts would get on it, and then I’d come out of the shower and step on worm guts in my bare feet. Is that what you want? Is it?”

  I slowly back into the hall. It is best not to answer when she’s in a mood like this. “You better hurry,” I warn her. “James is waiting outside. I don’t want to be late on our second day.”

  She sighs loudly and puts down the towel. “Does it look really bad?”

  I shake my head, even though it does look pretty bad. “No one will even notice.”

  Lizzy looks doubtful, but follows me out of the bathroom after one last glance in the mirror. While she puts her shoes on, I hurry downstairs and tell James what happened.

  “Women and their makeup!” he says knowingly, shaking his head. “Do they think men notice if their eyes are lined or their cheeks are pink?”

  “Lizzy doesn’t wear makeup,” I inform him.

  “She does now,” a girl’s voice says from behind me. It’s Samantha, the new girl.

  “How do you know?” I ask.

  She is too busy pressing her face against the limo’s window to answer me. I glance around but don’t see any signs of her evil twin.

  The front door of the building bangs open, and Lizzy runs down the stairs. She ignores me and James and quickly pulls her hair in front of her red eye as Samantha turns around.

  Samantha looks from me to Lizzy and back again. “Is this car for you guys?” she asks incredulously. “Are you, like, rich or something?”

  Lizzy opens her mouth, but I quickly answer, “Rich uncle.” Without waiting for James this time, I yank open the back limo door. Lizzy hurries in ahead of me, her hair still hanging in her face. As James closes the door behind us, I hear Samantha call out, “Wait! Whose uncle?”

  “That was a close one,” Lizzy says, reaching into the fridge and grabbing a can of orange juice.

  “Do you want to tell me what’s going on?” I ask, unwrapping my breakfast sandwich.

  “It’s nothing,” she says with a shrug. “Samantha came over for a little while last night, that’s all.”

  I stop mid-bite and rest the sandwich on my lap. “Really?” I ask, trying not to sound surprised or, worse yet, jealous.

  “Yes, really,” she says. “Why is that so hard to believe?”

  I quickly take a bite of my sandwich. Who can expect someone to answer with a mouth full of peanut butter? “So what did you guys do?” I ask when I’m done chewing.

  She shrugs. “Girl stuff. You wouldn’t have been interested.”

  We’re now on uncharted grounds. I change the subject. “Did you read the letter from Mrs. Billingsly?”

  She nods and asks, “Who would name their kid Oswald Oswald?”

  “I know!” I exclaim, and we both laugh. The tension in the car dissolves. By the time we pull up in front of Mr. Oswald’s building, everything’s back to normal. I don’t want to ruin the mood by telling her what I learned about Bitsy Solomon.

  “How does my eye look now?” Lizzy asks as we climb out.

  “You can’t even tell anymore,” I assure her. It is mostly true.

  “Good,” she says firmly. “Because I don’t want anything to distract Mr. Oswald when I give him a piece of my mind.” She storms past James and walks directly up to Mr. Oswald’s door. Raising her fist, she is about to pound on the door when Mr. Oswald opens it. Lizzy barely stops short of hitting him.

  “Whoa there, little lady,” he says, backing up. “You must be anxious to get started.”

  Lizzy puts her hands on her hips and does her best glare. “You’ve got a lot of explaining to do, mister.”

  “Oh, my,” he replies, unable to hide a smile. “Let’s go to my office and discuss whatever’s bothering you on this beautiful summer day.”

  “As if you didn’t know,” Lizzy snaps, storming into the house. I flash Mr. Oswald an embarrassed smile as I enter. I want answers as much as Lizzy does, but one can still be polite about it. As we pass through the box-filled living room, I inhale deeply. Someone is baking!

  Mary is waiting for us in the library with orange juice and chocolate crumb cake. If Mr. Oswald is trying to win us over, he’s got my vote. I happily munch away while Lizzy waits impatiently for Mr. Oswald to get settled behind his desk.

  “Everything went smoothly yesterday, I trust?” Mr. Oswald asks.

  “We do have some questions, like—,” I begin, but Lizzy cuts me off.

  “Why didn’t you tell us Mrs. Billingsly didn’t know why we were coming?” she demands. “Why did you tell us her book was about woodland animals? Why did your grandfather hold onto it for over sixty years? My father said that kids under eighteen aren’t allowed to pawn stuff. It’s illegal.” She lowers her voice a bit on illegal.

  Before he answers Lizzy, he turns to me and asks, “How about you, Jeremy? Do you have anything to add to that list?”

  I am tempted to ask why someone would name their kid Oswald Oswald, but Ozzy was his grandfather, so it wouldn’t be very respectful. I shake my head.

  “Is every delivery going to be like that one?” Lizzy asks.

  Mr. Oswald shakes his head. “Not exactly like that one,” he says. “Nothing is ever exactly like anything else. I apologize for not having the time to prepare you fully yesterday, and I hope you will forgive me and allow me to explain. Jeremy?”

  “Yes, okay,” I say, surprised and kind of flattered that he would ask my forgiveness.

  “Lizzy?” Mr. Oswald asks.

  Lizzy sighs loudly. “Whatever.”

  “Good!” Mr. Oswald exclaims, pushing himself up from his leather chair. “I’ll explain by showing you another item.”He walks over to his nearest rows of shelves and reaches up for the only item on the top shelf—a brass telescope. Even on his tiptoes, he can’t quite reach it. I suddenly have this horrible image of him falling and breaking a hip and us having to pic
k up trash in Central Park. I bound out of my chair and offer to help.

  Hoisting myself up on the bottom shelf, I reach for the telescope. It’s heavier than I would have thought, and my foot loses its grip on the shelf. Lizzy yelps as I start to tip over backward. Mr. Oswald moves faster than I would have thought possible and steadies me.

  “Good thing you don’t weigh much more,” he says, clasping me on the shoulder.

  “Sorry ’bout that,” I say, reddening. I carefully hand him the telescope. Here I had been worrying about him falling, and instead I almost crush him!

  “You okay?” Lizzy whispers.

  I nod, embarrassed. Maybe I should take up weight-lifting.

  Mr. Oswald places the telescope on the desk in front of us. “This,” he says proudly, “is a Broadhurst. It was the most powerful telescope for backyard viewing in its day.”

  “Which was when?” Lizzy asks.

  “The nineteen thirties,” he replies. “Isn’t it a beauty? On a clear night, you could see the whole solar system with this one.”

  Unable to stop myself, I blurt out, “My very energetic mother just served us nine pizzas.”

  Lizzy gawks at me like I have two heads. “He’s lost it; he’s finally lost it. I knew the day would come.”

  Mr. Oswald chuckles. “Jeremy has just given us a mnemonic device for remembering the order of the planets.”

  Lizzy rolls her eyes. “See?” she says. “I told you he reads too much.”

  “I believe one cannot read too much,” Mr. Oswald says. “Jeremy, your mnemonic device might have to change. I’ve been reading about Pluto perhaps losing its planethood. Astronomers think it’s too small to fit the definition of a planet.”

  I nod. I had read about that, too.

  “Figures they’d get rid of the one named after Mickey Mouse’s dog,” Lizzy grumbles.

  I lean closer to the desk and check out the telescope. It is obviously very old, because it is made of some kind of heavy metal like brass or copper instead of plastic. I have asked for—and been denied—a telescope for my birthday ever since I was eight. Mom argues that it’s impractical because there are so many lights in the city that we can barely see the stars. This kid at school used to brag that his family owned one, but instead of aiming it at the sky, it was pointed at the apartment building across the street from his. After I heard that, I decided to keep my blinds closed in case we have some nosy neighbors as well.