Jeremy Fink and the Meaning of Life Read online

  Lizzy claps her hands and we set to work gently lifting the tape up from both ends. We eventually meet in the middle and lift the whole piece straight off. Lizzy drapes it over the top of a kitchen chair. I open the four flaps, and we look in.

  At first all we can see is a bunch of crumpled pieces of newspaper. For a brief moment I think there’s nothing else inside. I’m afraid to touch anything, but Lizzy apparently has no such qualms because she digs right in and pulls out balls of newspaper with both hands. She tosses them onto the table and is about to reach back in for the next layer when I stop her.

  “Wait,” I say, gathering the balls into a neat pile. “We’ll have to pack this back up later exactly how we found it.” I’m about to lay a wad of newspaper onto the pile when a headline catches my eye. I smooth the crumpled page out on the table. My heart quickening, I hold the page out to Lizzy and say, “Look at this article.”

  She shakes her head. “You know I don’t believe in reading the newspaper. Too depressing. Why would I start reading it now?”

  “Just read it,” I persist. “It’s from the science section.”

  She rolls her eyes and grabs the paper from me. “ ‘Scientists Believe Black Holes Might Be Key to Time Travel.’ So what?” she asks. “Just add this to your time travel file. Your mom won’t notice one piece of newspaper missing.”

  “I don’t need to add it to my file,” I tell her, taking the paper back and rolling it back up into a ball. “I already have it.”

  “Huh?”

  “This newspaper is five years old!”

  She grabs more pieces out of the box until she finds one with a date on it. With a sharp intake of breath she says, “You’re right! This page is from the week after… after…” Lizzy’s words trail off and she busies herself pulling more paper out of the box. I know what she was going to say. The paper is from the week after my father died.

  Silently we pull out the rest of the newspaper until only two things are left in the box—a typed letter on business letterhead and a rectangular object the size of a shoe box, wrapped in tissue paper. We stare at each other, wide-eyed. Lizzy starts to reach for the letter and then pulls back. “Maybe you should do it.”

  “But what if it’s something my mom wouldn’t want us to see?”

  “We’ve come this far,” she says, then quickly adds, “but it’s up to you.”

  I wipe my sweating hands on my shorts. As much as I don’t want to admit it, I’m drawn in by the mysterious package, and I can’t help myself. I square my shoulders and carefully lift out the letter, trying not to wrinkle it. The address on the top is the same as the one on the return label. The letter, at least, is not five years old because it has yesterday’s date on it. I read it out loud, trying to keep my voice steady:

  Dear Laney,

  I hope this finds you well. I know I wasn’t supposed to send it until later this summer, but we have shut down the Manhattan branch, and I didn’t want to take the chance of misplacing it in the move to our Long Island office. Another reason to send it early—and you won’t like this, I’m afraid—is that I seem to have misplaced the keys. I am fairly certain that you sent them along with the box to my office, and I have a vague recollection of hiding them somewhere quite clever. Alas, too clever, I’m sorry to say.

  The locksmith I visited explained that the locking mechanism on the box is an intricate system of levers and pulleys. Each of the four keyholes needs a different type of key, and an internal latch will prevent the box from being pried open. Figures Daniel wouldn’t settle for a normal box with one keyhole like everyone else. I am certain you and Jeremy will figure it out before the time comes.

  I have nothing but fond memories of David from our college days, and I was honored to do him the favor of holding onto this all these years. All my best wishes to you.

  Yours truly,

  Harold

  Lizzy takes the letter from my hand and reads it over to herself. “What does this mean?” she says quietly. Lizzy rarely says anything quietly, so I know she’s as surprised as I am. I don’t trust myself to speak, so I just shake my head. I can’t recall my father mentioning a college buddy named Harold, although admittedly I tuned out whenever my parents started reminiscing about the old college days. But this Harold person must have known them pretty well since he called Mom Laney, which only her close friends do. So my mother sent this package to him and told him to send it back five years later? Why would she do that? And what does he mean about doing a favor for my dad?

  Before I can stop myself, I reach in and lift the wrapped object out of the box. The tissue paper slides off and falls to the floor. I am left holding a smooth wooden box with keyholes on four sides. A clear varnish makes the wood seem almost alive. The first thought that strikes me is how pretty it is. I had never thought that a wooden box could be pretty. Heck, I don’t think I’ve ever even used the word “pretty” before, and if Lizzy ever asked, I’d deny using it now.

  Lizzy bends down to pick up the piece of tissue paper at my feet. She stands up slowly and says, “Um, Jeremy?”

  “Hmmm?” I’m unable to take my eyes from the box in my hands. I shake it gently and hear some muffled objects shift and knock against each other. It can’t weigh more than two pounds.

  “Um, you might want to turn that over,” Lizzy says. I just keep shaking the box back and forth, mesmerized. She finally grabs it from my hands, flips it over, and hands it back. Staring up at me are the engraved words THE MEANING OF LIFE: FOR JEREMY FINK TO OPEN ON HIS 13TH BIRTHDAY.

  I’d recognize my dad’s handiwork anywhere.

  Chapter 2: The Explanation

  “Looks like the package wasn’t for your mom after all,” Lizzy says after a few minutes.

  I don’t answer. My hands are shaking, and I set the wooden box down on the kitchen table. We back away about two feet and stare at it.

  “So this is a birthday gift from your dad?” Lizzy asks.

  I nod. My heart is beating so fast that I actually hear it pulsing in my ears.

  We stare some more and the words float in front of me. The Meaning of Life. For Jeremy Fink. 13th Birthday. Mom has obviously known about this for at least five years. Why did she keep it from me? I don’t have any secrets from anyone. Well, I guess I haven’t told anyone about kissing Rachel Schwartz at her bat mitzvah last April, but that’s mostly because it wasn’t so much a kiss as it was our lips accidentally occupying the same space as we reached for the last Shirley Temple on the waiter’s tray.

  “So what do you think is inside?” Lizzy asks.

  I finally speak. “No idea.”

  “Can the meaning of life be in a box?”

  “Wouldn’t have thought so,” I say.

  “And you never saw this box before?”

  I shake my head.

  “Your mom never mentioned it?”

  I shake my head again and try to recall what I’m supposed to do to avoid having a panic attack. I’ve only had one, the time Mom and I flew to Florida to visit my grandparents last year. No matter what they say about how safe flying is, I think only birds and superheroes should be in the clouds. Deep breath in, hold it for four counts, deep breath out. I had never considered the meaning of life before. Why hadn’t I considered it? What is wrong with me? Has everyone else thought about this except for me? Maybe I was too busy trying to learn about time travel so I could keep Dad from taking the car out on that fateful day. My time travel research is important though, if not vital, to all of mankind. How was I supposed to put that aside to ponder the meaning of life?

  “Are you all right?” Lizzy asks, looking up at me. “You look a little green.”

  I do feel a little light-headed from all the deep breathing. “I should probably sit down.” We head to the living room and sink down into the tan corduroy couch. I lean back and close my eyes. When I was three, I named this couch Mongo. It was one of the first pieces of furniture that my parents found during the height of their old collecting days, before I was