Jeremy Fink And The Meaning Of Life Part 9

"An old man's bones need warmth," Mr. Oswald says, following my gaze. "That's why I'm moving to Florida. Let's go into my office and I'll tell you what you will be doing."

A round woman in an ap.r.o.n appears from the other end of the room, and he hands her his pipe. She hands him his mail in return. Mr. Oswald says fondly, "This house would stop running if it weren't for my housekeeper, Mary." Mary smiles at us, and I notice a Hershey's bar sticking out of one of the pockets in her ap.r.o.n. I smile back. She is clearly a kindred spirit. Lizzy is too busy peering inside a large open crate to pay any attention.

Mr. Oswald leads us carefully through the maze of boxes and into a room about half the size of the first. This one has another fireplace, but with no fire. A big oak desk sits in the middle, with big leather chairs in front of it. Shelves line two walls of the room, with objects of every size and color stacked on them. I see sports equipment like baseb.a.l.l.s and bats and footb.a.l.l.s and hockey sticks, but also lamps, clocks, paintings, sculptures, rows of books, a telescope, radios, jewelry boxes, piles of stamps in plastic folders, trays of old coins. Basically anything and everything under the sun. I imagine this would be my parents' vision of heaven. I have to make a concerted effort to close my jaw. I realize I haven't spoken a word since we arrived, so I clear my throat. "Um, Mr. Oswald?"

"Yes, Mr. Fink?" he says, sitting down behind the desk.

I don't know how to respond to that. I'd only heard my dad and Uncle called Mr. Fink. I don't know why it should surprise me that when I grow up people will be calling me by the same name as my father, but it does. "Um, Jeremy is good," I say.

"Jeremy it is, then," Mr. Oswald says.

"Um, would it be all right if I look at your stamp collection? It'll only take a minute."

"Be my guest," he says, waving me over to the shelf. "Are you a longtime philatelist?"

"I'm sorry, what?" I ask.

He smiles. "A stamp collector. They are called philatelists."

"Oh," I say, feeling a bit stupid. "No, my father was. There's this one stamp he was always looking for, so now I, well, you know."

He finishes my sentence for me. "Now you have taken on his quest?"

I nod.

"Wonderful. When you're done, you can both take a seat, and then we can chat."

The stamp is blue with the word "Hawaii" at the top, so it would be easy to spot. I quickly scan through the pages of stamps, but of course it's not there. I put the pile back on the shelf and have to pull on Lizzy's sleeve twice before she tears herself away from an oversized doll with huge blue eyes. I don't know which is scarier-the doll itself, which has a vacant stare and an I-might-come-alive-and-attack-you vibe, or the fact that Lizzy was entranced by a doll in the first place.

We sit down in the large chairs in front of the desk. As tall for my age as I am, I feel very small in the chair.

"So," Mr. Oswald begins, "I bet you'd like to know what you'll be doing here."

"Who cares what we'll be doing," Lizzy says. "This place rocks!"

Mr. Oswald laughs. It's a deep and hearty laugh. "Thank you, I think. I'm glad you like my home; I'll be sorry to leave it. But I a.s.sure you, I do intend to have you work."

My throat always tightens up when I look for my Dad's stamp. I swallow hard and say, "Officer Polansky said you needed us to, um, pack things up? These things I guess?" I gesture around the room at all the stuff.

"Close, but not quite," Mr. Oswald replies, touching the tips of his fingers together. "I need you to make deliveries for me. Nowhere too far, all here in Manhattan. James will accompany you."

I open my mouth to ask what kind of deliveries when Lizzy says, "Woo-hoo! We get to ride in the limo again!"

Mr. Oswald smiles at her like one would a cute child who has just recited the alphabet for the first time. Then he stands up and says, "I'm late for a meeting right now, but I'm going to get you started on your first delivery. We can talk more tomorrow."

I quickly get to my feet, too. "We won't see you any more today?"

He shakes his head. "Don't worry, James knows what to do."

"But aren't you supposed to sign our notebooks at the end of the day?"

He walks around the desk and lays his hand on my shoulder. "Don't worry so much. Just record your observations tonight, and we can go over them tomorrow, all right?"

I nod.

"You'll have to forgive Jeremy," Lizzy says, popping a Starburst into her mouth. "He always reminds the teachers if they forget to give out homework."

Where did she get Starburst and why didn't she offer me any? And I only reminded a teacher once before I came to my senses!

In between chews she adds, "He even reads books during the summer."

"It wouldn't kill you to pick up a book sometime, Lizzy," I say through gritted teeth, not wanting to argue in front of Mr. Oswald.

Mr. Oswald picks up his briefcase and straightens his tie. "What are you reading currently, Jeremy?" He glances over at my bulging backpack.

Lizzy rolls her eyes, but I open it and root around. I hand him my latest book, Time Travel and the Movies.

"Are you a fan of time travel films?" he asks, opening the book to the table of contents.

I nod. "I've seen them all," I say, hoping I don't sound like I'm bragging.

"What was your favorite?" he asks.

I have to think for a minute. "It depends on how realistic they are. Like if they could really happen. You know, scientifically."

He doesn't answer, so I keep rambling. "I mean, like, there's this one where all the guy does is lie down on his bed and then he concentrates really, really hard, and eventually he winds up in the past. Now that can't really happen."

"I would suspect not," he agrees, and hands me back the book. I pull Dad's box out for a second while I stick the book back in my bag.

"What an interesting box," Mr. Oswald says. "May I see it?"

For a second I'm torn. I'd decided not to show anyone else. But I can't be rude, so I hand it to him. I look at Lizzy, who mouths the words, You brought it with you?

I shrug. I couldn't leave it home alone. Mr. Oswald hands it back to me and says, "Lovely. I can give you some bubble wrap if you want to wrap this up. It will help protect it."

"Okay, sure," I say, surprised and slightly insulted that he hadn't said more about it, or about the words on it. I guess he sees so much stuff that one wooden box doesn't impress him.

"Help yourself on the way out," he says. "All the packing supplies are in the next room. But now let me give you your a.s.signment." He turns to his left and slowly strolls along one of the walls of shelves. I can't imagine what he's going to pull off. He walks past the oversized doll, past an old metal typewriter, and then runs his fingers along the spines of the books. He pulls out one of them, opens the front cover, then sticks it back on the shelf and pulls out another. He keeps doing this until he opens a small book with a light blue cover, and an envelope slips out and onto the floor.

"I'll get it," I say, bending over to pick it up. The envelope is yellowed and thin, and there's a name written on the front in black ink. Mabel Parsons. Mr. Oswald takes it from my hand and sticks it back in the book. The cover is so faded that I can't see the t.i.tle.

"Even a reader like you probably won't be very interested in the topic of this book," he says, placing it gently into a cardboard box lying open on his desk. "It's about woodland animals."

"Woodland animals?" I repeat.

He nods as he tapes up the box with a thick packing tape. "Owls, bears, rabbits. That sort of thing."

It does sound pretty boring. "Are you donating it to a library?" I ask.

"Oh, no," he says, but doesn't explain further. He pulls a yellow Post-it note off a pad and sticks it on top of the box. He writes an address neatly on it, and I can see his hand shake a bit with the effort. I wonder how old he is. He's definitely older than any of my grandparents. He presses an intercom on his desk, and I hear a low buzz a few rooms away. James appears a minute later, and Mr. Oswald hands him the package. "The address is on here," he says. "I'd like you to accompany the children to the door, but then they're on their own."

"Yessir," James says.

I'm about to follow the men out of the room when I turn to find Lizzy holding the blue-eyed doll in her arms. When she sees me looking, she quickly sticks it back on the shelf. I raise my brows, and she glares in return. We wind our way back to the front door, stopping once so I can pick up a sheet of the bubble wrap.

"Good luck," Mr. Oswald says warmly, swinging the door shut behind us.

"Wait," Lizzy says from the top stair. "Why do we need luck? What are we actually doing?"

"Don't worry, we'll talk tomorrow." With that, the thick door shuts. We turn to James.

"Don't look at me," he says. "I just work here."

Chapter 9: The Book.

James opens the back door for us again, even though I tell him I can open it. He has the package in the front with him, so once again we have no idea where we are going, or what we're supposed to do when we get there. I search my backpack for any stray candy to bring me comfort, but I'm all out.

I hold out my hand to Lizzy, palm up. "Starburst, please."

"Flavor?" Lizzy asks, digging the pack out of her pocket.

"Red," I reply. I want to ask why she didn't offer earlier, but I don't. Pick your battles, Dad always said.

As the limo heads into parts unknown, we amuse ourselves by pressing the b.u.t.ton to open and close the window part.i.tion. Then we look outside to count how many people turn their heads as the limo pa.s.ses them. Once that gets old, I wrap the box in the bubble wrap, and I can't help popping the bubbles. Lizzy jumps every time. I then polish off one and a half peanut b.u.t.ter sandwiches while Lizzy eats a soy cheese-and-spinach wrap that her dad made for her. I can't even watch. We're about to turn on the TV when the car comes to a halt, and the window divider lowers.

"We're here," James says over his shoulder. "Are you ready?"

"What should we be ready for?" Lizzy asks. "I'm not getting out of the car until you tell us."

I take my hand away from the door handle and sit back in my seat.

James twists around till he is facing us. "You will be delivering a package, that's all."

I lean forward. "Why does Mr. Oswald need us to do this? Not to be rude, but why couldn't you, or someone else who already works for him do it?"

James smiles. His teeth are very white. "Because I don't have a debt to society to pay."

"Oh, please," Lizzy says with a wave of her hand. "That was a big misunderstanding."

James raises the window divider, and we hear him get out of the car. I'm about to open my door when Lizzy puts her hand on my arm. Her mouth opens to say something, but then she closes it again.

"What is it?" I ask.

"Nothing," she says as James opens her door. She turns away and steps out. I slide over the seat and follow. I know she's nervous about what we're going to find here, but she'd never admit it. I have no problem admitting it.

"You can leave your bag in the car," James instructs me. "You won't be needing it."

I hesitate. If Dad's box got stolen I would never forgive myself.

"It will be safe, I promise," James says.

Not wanting to make a big deal out of it, I shrug the bag off my shoulder and leave it on the seat. Then I quickly move it from the seat to the floor, thinking it's less likely to be seen there. I close the door tightly behind me and find Lizzy leaning against the car, tapping her finger on the tinted windows. Okay, so I guess my bag will be safe. James makes a big show of clicking on the alarm.

We follow James a few doors down and find ourselves in front of a tall apartment building, the kind with a doorman. James hands me the package. I hand it to Lizzy, who promptly hands it back to me. The doorman tips his hat at us, and we follow James into the building and up to the desk, where a security guard is reading the newspaper. James clears his throat and says, "We are here to see Mrs. Mabel Billingsly. She is expecting us."

The guard lazily lays his paper down on the counter and picks up a phone. He presses three numbers. "And you all are?"

James says, "You may tell Mrs. Billingsly that we are representatives of Mr. Oswald."

The guard mumbles, "Oh, may I?" and presses one more number. James pretends not to hear the guard's comment, but I'm sure he did. The guard relays the message and then hangs up. "Okay, you can go up."

We step into the elevator and James presses 14.

Lizzy says, "It would have to be the fourteenth floor again!"

"What's wrong with the fourteenth floor?" James asks.

"You don't want to know," Lizzy says with a s.h.i.+ver.

I ask, "Why would anyone want an old book on woodland animals anyway?"

Lizzy shrugs. "Maybe it's an antique. James here, although a man of few words, did say Mr. Oswald sold antiques." Suddenly her eyes widen, and she adds, "Unless it's not really a book at all!"

"Interesting," I say, considering this theory. Mr. Oswald did shut the book pretty quickly, so I couldn't get a good look at it. "You're right! It could be a hollowed-out book with money or jewels or a treasure map hidden inside!"

"Yes!" Lizzy says, grabbing my arm. "That's why Mr. Oswald wants us to deliver it! As minors, we wouldn't get into as much trouble as an adult would. Maybe he's connected with the mob!"

We stare accusingly at James. Lizzy does her best hands-on-hips glare. James shakes his head and rolls his eyes. "It's a book," he says firmly. The elevator opens, and James steps out. Lizzy and I don't move. "It's a book," he says, even more firmly. The doors start to close, and he has to stick his foot in to get them to bounce back open.

"We might as well go with him," I say to Lizzy. "Mr. Oswald doesn't really seem like the kinda guy who would set us up."

"I guess not," she admits.

We step out of the elevator, and James walks down the hushed hallway a few steps ahead of us. This sure is different from our apartment building. Air conditioning in the halls, for one. And carpet that doesn't have any stains on it. I run my hand along the patterned wallpaper. No dust. There are chairs and a little table every few feet. So neighbors can chat, I guess?

"Here we are," James says, stopping in front of 14G. "You're on your own. I'll be waiting out here."

"Sure, so we can deliver the contraband," Lizzy mumbles, "while you keep a safe distance."

"It's a BOOK," James insists, heading toward a chair a few doors down.