Jeremy Fink and the Meaning of Life Read online

  “I could have done that,” I whisper.

  She plops the box on the counter. “Can you open this?”

  “What a pretty box!” the man declares, turning it around in his hands.

  Aha! I feel vindicated. He thinks it’s pretty, too.

  “The meaning of life is in this box, eh?” The corners of his mouth twitch upward.

  I pretend not to hear him. If my dad says the meaning of life is in that box, then darn it, it’s in there. “I’ve lost the keys,” I explain in as patient a tone as I can muster. “Do you have ones that might fit?”

  He examines the box closely and furrows his brows. “Hmm. Let me see. No markings on the box indicating where it came from or who made it. That would have been helpful. These keyholes are very specific—made for this box alone. Maybe there’s some other way to get in it.” He slides the box under a lamp and switches on the light.

  “The meaning of life in a box,” he mutters as he bends down to scrutinize it. “Who woulda thunk it.”

  An older man in identical overalls comes out from the back room. “What’s this I hear about the meaning of life in a box?” he asks.

  Larry Junior points to us. “These kids brought this box. Don’t have the keys.”

  “No keys, eh?” he asks, looking at us closely. “I’ll take over,”he says, stepping behind the counter.

  “That’s okay, Pop,” Larry Junior says. “I got it.”

  The old man—who I assume is Larry himself—shakes his head. “We just got a call that Mrs. Chang locked herself out again. I need you to go help her.”

  Larry Junior shrugs and grabs a toolbox from the shelf. “Good luck,” he says, and heads out. The bells tinkle behind him.

  We turn back to Larry Senior. He is resting his hands on the box, eyes closed. Lizzy and I raise our eyebrows and exchange a look.

  “Um,” I say tentatively, “so do you think you can open it for us?”

  Larry’s eyes snap open. “Nope.”

  My shoulders sag a bit.

  He continues. “This is no ordinary box. It has an elaborate locking mechanism inside with levers and pulleys and—”

  “We know,” Lizzy interrupts, and then recites Harold’s letter, “and each keyhole needs a different type of key. And an internal latch will prevent the box from being pried open.”

  “Not just that,” Larry says, “but under the wood is a layer of metal. That means no one is getting through this without destroying the contents. A saw or an axe would crush the whole thing. You can see the edge of the metal layer if you look closely in the gap.”

  We lean into the counter and peer under the light. He’s right. I hadn’t noticed the thin sliver of metal visible along the opening. Why couldn’t my dad have bought a normal box like anyone else would have? With only one keyhole?

  He switches off the lamp and pushes the box across to us. “Sorry to disappoint you, but the only way anyone is getting into this box is with the keys.”

  Lizzy points to the rows of keys behind the man. “What about those? Will any of those fit?”

  Larry doesn’t even turn around. “Nope. Those are blank keys that we use to make copies of existing ones. But I do have a box of spares that I’ve collected over the years. You’re welcome to ’em.”

  He bends down and fishes around under the counter for a minute. Lizzy and I stand on our toes, eagerly peering over. He finally stands up and hands me a cigar box. It doesn’t even feel full. I try not to show my disappointment. I had pictured a huge box with hundreds of keys.

  “Thanks,” Lizzy says gamely. “And if none of these fit, what do you think our chances are of finding keys that will? I mean, somewhere else in the city?”

  “I’d say slim to nil, but slim ain’t left town yet, if you know what I mean.”

  We stare at him blankly.

  He chuckles. “That means it’s doubtful, but anything’s possible. After all, you’ve got a mighty good cause. Trying to find out the meaning of life, and all.”

  “Thanks,” I say with more enthusiasm than I feel. “We’ll bring these right back.”

  “No rush,” he says, waving his hand in the air. “How long you got till your thirteenth birthday anyway? I’m assuming you’re the Jeremy Fink on the box?”

  “A little under a month,” I reply as we head toward the door. It’s hard to keep the disappointment out of my voice.

  “A lot can happen in a month,” he calls after us. “Keep the faith.”

  “You bet,” Lizzy says. “Amen.”

  When we make it outside I tell her, “I don’t think you’re supposed to say ‘Amen’ when someone says ‘Keep the faith.’ ”

  She shrugs. “How am I supposed to know? All I know about religion is that dog spelled backwards is god, and I learned that on a Saturday morning cartoon. Let’s go sit in the park and try the keys.”

  We head around the corner to the park where we’ve played since we were little. It has a different feel to it now that we’re on a mission. I wonder if the men reading the newspaper on the benches, or the women watching their kids in the sandbox, can sense that we’re up to something important. We settle under a tree near the playground where the grass has been worn smooth. I dump the keys onto the ground in a pile. It’s not a very big pile. Thirty keys, at most. We agree to try each key in each keyhole, and then if it doesn’t fit, return it to the cigar box. That way we won’t try the same key twice by mistake.

  Lizzy takes the first one and, before she puts it in a hole, covers it with both hands and whispers something to it.

  “What are you doing?” I ask.

  “I’m saying a little prayer for good luck,” she answers. “I might not know anything about religion, but that doesn’t mean we can’t pray. You know, to the powers of the universe or something. Come on, do it with me.”

  “What am I supposed to say?”

  She thinks for a minute and says, “How about: O Master of All Things Locked, please allow this key to open Jeremy Fink’s box.” After a short pause she adds, “Amen.”

  I glance around to make sure no one sitting nearby heard that. “Why don’t just you say it? We don’t want to confuse the Master of All Things Locked with two different voices.”

  “Suit yourself,” she says, and prays to the key louder than I would have liked. She then tries it in all four holes, to no avail. We go through each key that way. None fit. Most of them won’t even enter the keyholes at all. About a handful of them actually slide in a notch, but don’t go any farther. By the time we’re down to our last key, Lizzy’s prayer has become a mumble of MasterkeyboxAmen. This time I add my own little silent Amen, but it does no good. Larry’s box is now full again, and I have to go on the subway. Ugh.

  Chapter 4: The Flea Market

  Lizzy goes in to return the keys while I wait outside, gathering my nerve. I’m not proud of the fact that I’ve never taken public transportation without an adult, but everything I need is usually within walking distance.

  The bells jingle as Lizzy comes back out and begins marching down the street toward the subway. The closest stop is a few blocks away, and I find myself trailing behind. I have a lot on my mind. I can’t be expected to walk so quickly. She waits for me at the next corner, tapping her foot impatiently.

  “I have an idea,” I tell her, trying to sound enthusiastic. “We can go to some garage sales right here in the neighborhood.”

  “You know our best bet is the flea market,” she says firmly, taking off again. “We’d have a much better chance there than at some little garage sale.”

  I know she’s right. The 26th Street Market in Chelsea is the biggest in the city. My parents and I spent many weekends there. After Dad died, Mom and I went on our own, but it wasn’t the same. In the last year or two, we haven’t gone at all.

  “How do you know which train we should take?” I ask as we descend into the muggy darkness of the subway station.

  “There’s a map right here on the wall.” Two older boys are standing in