Jeremy Fink and the Meaning of Life Read online

  “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