Jeremy Fink and the Meaning of Life Read online

  Lizzy looks doubtful. “So how do you pay your bills?”

  He laughs again. “I didn’t say I gave it all away.”

  “Don’t you get tired of looking at the same things?” she asks. I was wondering that, too. “Like that picture. It’s nice and all, but it’s, like, the only thing to look at.”

  He shakes his head. “I don’t get tired of looking at it. When each object is framed in space, when there are big blank areas around it, it changes, subtly, every day. When you have twenty of something, the individual object can’t shine. Plus, I believe that once you find something you love, something that works, why keep looking for more? People always think there is something better around the corner. I decided a long time ago I’d stop wasting my time looking for something better and enjoy what I had.”

  “Is that what your shirt means?” I ask. “It’s a joke, right? Or, like, sarcasm?”

  He looks down at the words on his shirt and smiles. “Yes. This is one of my favorite sayings. The sad thing is, I used to believe it was true. But you can’t take things with you when you go, so what is the point of accumulating them? I don’t expect you children to embrace this way of life at your age. It’s something one has to come to on one’s own, if the time is right.”

  I am glad he said that, since I don’t want to start feeling guilty over all my books, or my mutant candy collection, or my comics, or any of the rest of my stuff. Still, I can sort of understand what he means.

  “You’ve heard the expression ‘Go with the flow,’ right?”

  We nod.

  “Well, that’s how I’ve decided to live my life. If you go along with the flow of life, without trying to change others, or change situations that are beyond you, life is much more peaceful.” He suddenly picks up the lamp and hands it to Lizzy. “Here,” he says, “why don’t you take this.”

  Her mouth literally falls open. “Me? Why?”

  “I already have a lamp.”

  We all turn to look at the small blue plastic lamp on the table. It looks like one of those lamps you could buy at a drugstore for five dollars.

  “Wouldn’t you rather have this one?” she asks. “It’s so much nicer.”

  He shakes his head. “Mine is perfectly fine. It sheds light. That’s what a lamp is made for. Everything is at its best when it is doing exactly what it was created for. A lamp gives light. An apple gives sustenance and refreshment. A chair is perfect in being exactly what it is—a chair.”

  “I have no idea what that means,” Lizzy says, looking down at the lamp in awe. “But thanks for the lamp!”

  “Can I ask you something?” I blurt out.

  He nods with a smile. “Anything for such special guests.”

  “Is that the meaning of life? What you just said?”

  “Jeremy!” Lizzy exclaims. I knew she’d be shocked that I asked, but I couldn’t help it. If we never find those keys, I still want to know what’s inside the box. This man clearly knows a lot about life, and no adult has ever said these kinds of things to me before. I can’t leave until I know more of what he knows.

  Mr. Rudolph cocks his head and looks at me sideways. Then he laughs and gestures for us to follow him through the archway into the next room. “This visit is just full of surprises! I think we’ll need to sit down for this.”

  I glance back at the still partially open front door and hope James won’t mind waiting a little longer. The room he leads us into is similar to the one we left, only this one is much smaller with big, colorful pillows in the middle. A vase with the largest white-and-purple flower I’ve ever seen rests in the middle of the circle.

  “I meditate here,” he explains. “And if I have guests, this is where we visit. Pick a pillow and make yourself comfortable.”

  Lizzy carefully places the lamp behind her and plops down on a red pillow. I choose a yellow one, and Mr. Rudolph takes the white. “Look at the flower,” he instructs us. “What do you see?”

  “Um, a flower?” Lizzy says, then quickly adds, “A big white-and-purple one that smells good?”

  He turns to me. “Jeremy? What about you?”

  I stare at the flower, inexplicably wondering if it’s going to suddenly turn into something else, like a cat or a matchbook. When it doesn’t, I say quickly, “Same as what Lizzy said.”

  “Exactly right!” he exclaims, surprising me. “It is a large white-and-purple, sweet-smelling flower. An orchid, to be precise. Now wait here.” He unfolds his legs and strides out of the room.

  Lizzy leans forward and whispers, “What are we doing?”

  “This is the next plan on our list,” I explain, hoping she’ll understand. “We might never open my dad’s box. If I can figure out the meaning of life before my birthday, then at least it won’t be so awful if I can’t open it.”

  She doesn’t answer, only nods thoughtfully. “Okay, I get it. But what if this guy doesn’t know the answer?”

  “Then we’ll ask everyone we can.”

  At that moment, Mr. Rudolph returns. Surprisingly, he is carrying the photograph of the sunset under his arm. He leans it up against the wall and sits back on his pillow.

  “Now, what does this picture mean to you? Lizzy, you first again.”

  Lizzy fills her cheeks with air, and slowly lets it out. “What does it mean?” she repeats. “I guess it means that whoever took it is a good photographer. It’s pretty.”

  “How about you, Jeremy?”

  “I really don’t understand art,” I admit. “It’s nice? It brightens up the room?”

  “How does it make you feel?” Mr. Rudolph prods.

  “Er, kind of sad, I guess? Like it’s the end of something, but it’s kind of relaxing, too?”

  “Lizzy?”

  “Um, it makes me want to go to the beach?”

  Mr. Rudolph smiles. “Okay, great answers. To me, this photograph reminds me to treasure each moment, because they are fleeting. A minute later, and the sky would be dark. It also reminds me of the day I took the picture, and whom I was with. I can carry the beauty of this sunset with me, inside me, so that when I do not see much beauty around me, I can use some of what is stored inside. So we see that already, this one photograph of a sunset means different things to all three of us. But here’s my real question: what do you think it means to the flower?”

  At the same time, Lizzy and I ask, “Huh?”

  “Exactly!”

  “Huh?” we repeat.

  Mr. Rudolph reaches out and lifts the flower out of its vase. “To a flower, this photograph means nothing. So when you ask what is the meaning of life, there can be no answer that will apply to everyone and everything. What is a photograph, or a sunset, to a flower? We all bring our own perceptions, needs, and experiences to everything we do. We will all interpret an event, or a sunset, differently.”

  He pauses, and I am trying to keep up with him. “Basically,” I say slowly, concentrating on my words. “What you’re saying is that it’s all relative. The meaning of the sunset, or of life itself, is different for everyone?”

  “Exactly,” he says.

  “Nah!” Lizzy exclaims, getting to her feet. “I’m not buying it. I think there has to be some meaning that means the same thing to everyone. Otherwise, nothing makes sense.”

  Mr. Rudolph smiles and stands up. “Fortunately, you have a long time to find out.”

  “Not as long as you’d think,” Lizzy mutters.

  As we head slowly into the big room, I turn to him and ask, “But even if the sunset has different meanings for everyone, it still has meaning, right?”

  “That’s a tricky question to answer,” Mr. Rudolph says, stopping to replace the frame back on the wall. “That sunset will still shine just as surely, just as colorfully, whether it is shining on a wedding or a war. So it would seem that the sunset itself doesn’t have inherent meaning; it is just doing its job. If the sunset doesn’t have meaning apart from what we give it, does a rock? Or a fish? Or life itself? But just because a park bench, for