Jeremy Fink And The Meaning Of Life Part 10

Neither of us makes a move to knock. Finally, I shift the package under my arm and ring the buzzer. A few seconds later, the door creaks open, and an elderly woman in a light pink dress stands before us. She is wearing a thin gold necklace with two entwined hearts hanging from it. Her watery blue eyes are almost see-through. She stands very straight.

Addressing me, she says, "I didn't expect Mr. Oswald to be so young." Then she steps aside to let us enter. She closes the door behind us, unknowingly leaving James out in the hall. We're on our own now.

The apartment is smaller than I would have thought, but has a big window with a wide view. We must be on the Upper East Side because I can see the East River. I've got to start paying more attention in the limo.

"I'm not Mr. Oswald," I tell her. "My name is Jeremy Fink, and this is Lizzy Muldoun."

"Mabel Billingsly," she says, holding out her hand.

In the sunlight that streams in through the window, she seems even older. Her skin looks paper-thin. I'm afraid to shake her hand too hard, but she has a surprisingly strong grip.

"So, what brings you to my humble abode?"

Lizzy and I exchange worried glances. "Er, don't you know?" asks Lizzy.

Mrs. Billingsly shakes her head.

I hold out the package. "Didn't you order this from Mr. Oswald? The antique dealer?"

"Antiques?" she repeats. "No. I haven't bought an antique in years." She leans in like she's going to tell us a secret. "Truth be told, they give me the creeps."

I like that she's not talking to us like we're little kids. "So you don't know what this is?" I ask, and hand her the package.

She shakes her head again and says, "Why don't we find out?" She leads us through the living room and into the small kitchen. Resting the box on the kitchen table, she pulls a knife out of the drawer. She neatly slices through the tape, then pushes back the sides of the box. The whole thing is very reminiscent of us opening the package with my dad's box in it. Except this time, I know what's inside, even if Mrs. Billingsly doesn't.

She reaches in and pulls out the small book. She turns it around in her hands, and tentatively opens the front cover. She reads something written there, then closes it again, hugging it tight to her chest. When she looks up, her eyes are full of tears. But they are shining, too.

"Where did you get this?" she whispers.

"We told you," Lizzy says. "Mr. Oswald asked us to deliver it. We sort of work for him."

She stares at us blankly, and then her eyes focus abruptly and she backs up a step. "Old Ozzy? No, that's not possible. Why, he'd have to be a hundred and twenty years old by now!"

I may not be great at figuring how old adults are, but I'm pretty sure Mr. Oswald isn't any older than seventy or seventy-five. Definitely younger than Mrs. Billingsly.

I shake my head. "I think he's only in his seventies. And I can't imagine anyone calling him Ozzy."

Lizzy nods in agreement.

Mrs. Billingsly looks down at the book and says in a shaky voice, "How much do I owe you for this?"

Lizzy and I look at each other, alarmed. Mr. Oswald never said anything about collecting payment.

"Um, nothing?" I reply uncertainly.

But Mrs. Billingsly no longer seems to be paying attention to us. She keeps rubbing her hand across the cover of the book. Abruptly she walks out of the kitchen and sits down on the couch in the living room. Lizzy leans close and whispers, "Should we leave now?"

"I don't know," I whisper back. "I'm not sure what's going on."

"Me either. She sure seems to like that book though."

I nod. "But why doesn't she remember ordering it?"

"She's really, really old?" Lizzy suggests.

"I don't think that's it."

"Let's go find out," Lizzy says. We slip into the living room and each take a chair opposite the woman.

"Um, Mrs. Billingsly?" Lizzy asks. "Are you okay?"

Mrs. Billingsly looks up from the book lying open on her lap. I notice the envelope that I had picked up from Mr. Oswald's office floor is on the cushion at her side. She smiles and asks, "Would you like to hear my favorite part?"

I find it hard to believe someone has a favorite part in a book on woodland animals. Without waiting for our answer, she starts to read: Later on, when they had all said "Good-by" and "Thank-you" to Christopher Robin, Pooh and Piglet walked home thoughtfully together in the golden evening, and for a long time they were silent.

Lizzy jumps up from her chair. "Woodland animals!" she snorts. "That's Winnie-the-Pooh!"

"Shh!" I tell her, pulling her back down. "Let her finish."

Mrs. Billingsly continues: "When you wake up in the morning, Pooh," said Piglet at last, "what's the first thing you say to yourself?"

"What's for breakfast?" said Pooh. "What do you say, Piglet?"

"I say, I wonder what's going to happen exciting today?" said Piglet.

Pooh nodded thoughtfully. "It's the same thing," he said.

Mrs. Billingsly stops reading, but doesn't lift her head. Why hadn't Mr. Oswald told us the book was Winnie-the-Pooh? This whole thing doesn't make sense. Suddenly I realize something that should have been obvious from the minute she took out the book.

"Mrs. Billingsly," I say, "did this book once belong to you?"

She doesn't answer at first, only runs her hand over the page. Then she says, "It was only half mine. The other half belonged to my best friend, Bitsy."

"You mean Betsy?" Lizzy suggests.

Mrs. Billingsly shakes her head. "Bitsy. Bitsy Solomon."

"People had funny names back then," Lizzy comments.

I glare at Lizzy. "Go on," I urge Mrs. Billingsly.

She sighs gently and says, "I haven't spoken to Bitsy in over sixty-five years."

"But you said she's your best friend," Lizzy says.

"I misspoke," Mrs. Billingsly replies calmly.

I notice her left hand is shaking slightly. She sees me looking, and quickly puts her other hand on top of it. Just as quickly, I look away, sorry that I saw it in the first place. Sixty-five years is like an eternity. The longest Lizzy and I ever went without speaking was a week, and that was because she said the things on Star Trek couldn't really happen.

"Bitsy used to be my best friend," Mrs. Billingsly explains. "Until I sold this book for a fancy dress. She confronted me, but I told her I hadn't taken it. I knew she knew I had. Best friends always know when the other's lying. For years I wanted to apologize, but I was too embarra.s.sed."

"I don't get it," Lizzy says. "How could you buy a whole dress for the cost of that book?"

Mrs. Billingsly opens the front cover and turns it around to face us. We lean closer to read the faded handwriting.

To Bitsy and Mabel, Pooh's biggest American fans Best regards, A. A. Milne "Oh," Lizzy says.

"Wow," I say.

"Old Ozzy gave me twenty dollars for it. Back then, in the thirties, that was near a fortune for a child."

I still think she must be confused about Mr. Oswald, since there's no way our Mr. Oswald could have bought this book from her. I don't have the nerve to tell her she's wrong though. Lizzy, as usual, has no problem coming up with something to say.

"Why'd you need this dress so badly?" she asks.

Mrs. Billingsly closes her eyes. For a few minutes she doesn't answer. I'm starting to squirm. Did she fall asleep? Lizzy pinches me on the arm and mouths, "What should we do?" I'm about to answer that maybe we should go, when Mrs. Billingsly opens her eyes and reaches for the old envelope. "It's all in here," she says, pushing the letter back into the envelope and holding it out to me. "Will you do me a favor and read it later? I'd like to be alone."

I stick the envelope in the back pocket of my shorts and, for the first time in my life, wish I had worn something less sloppy.

"Will your husband be home soon?" Lizzy asks. I hear something unusual in her voice-genuine concern.

She shakes her head and looks over at a faded wedding photo on the coffee table. "No, Richard isn't around anymore."

"How did you two meet?" Lizzy asks.

My first thought is that I wish Lizzy would stop pressing her to answer these questions. But I quickly realize what she's doing. She's keeping Mrs. Billingsly talking in the hopes that when we leave, it won't feel so abrupt.

"I met him the night I wore that dress," she says wistfully. "I was sixteen." She raises her hand to her throat and rubs the little hearts hanging from her necklace. It's a totally unconscious thing. I think she'd be surprised to know she was doing it. She continues, "Bitsy never even met him. She would have been my maid of honor."

"That's so sad," Lizzy says.

Her comment snaps Mrs. Billingsly out of her reverie, and she pushes herself up from the couch. "Now I'm sure you two have better things to do then spend a summer afternoon with an old lady." Without actually pushing us, she nevertheless herds us toward the door. "You tell Ozzy that I thank him from the bottom of my heart."

"But Mr. Oswald isn't-," Lizzy begins.

I interrupt her and say, "We will."

She closes the door behind us, and we're back in the fancy hallway. Neither of us says anything for a moment. James comes up behind us and asks, "So how did it go?"

I can't think of a word that would be a suitable reply. Lizzy just says, "Mr. Oswald has a lot of explaining to do tomorrow!" and storms off for the elevator.

"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 ap.r.o.ns. "How was it?"

"I hear you were whisked away in a limo!" Aunt Judi says.

My rehea.r.s.ed 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 p.a.w.n Emporium Date: March 31, 1935 Name: Mabel Parsons Age: 15 3/4 Location: Brooklyn Item to p.a.w.n: 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 a.s.sumed 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 p.a.w.nbrokers 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 b.u.t.ter 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.