“Come on,” Viv said, grabbing her best friend’s hand. “Let’s go. My treat.”
Viviani picked a purple stallion with a pink mane, rearing up on two legs. Because it had stopped high up on its pole, Viviani had to scramble to mount the horse. The silly drop-waist dresses her mama insisted she wear (“So stylish!”) made all climbing—carousel horses, trees, flagpoles, bookstacks—that much more difficult. Eva picked a sensible cream-colored horse with flowers in its mane.
The calliope music twanged from the center of the carousel, and the horses lurched forward. “Once upon a time,” Viviani began. Eva smiled, for even if she didn’t care for Viv’s pranks, she did indeed love Viv’s stories.
“Once upon a time, there was a brilliant team of circus performers. Viviani the Magnificent…” She paused to gesture at herself, then swept her hand to Eva. “And Amazing Eva, the Horse Whisperer.”
Eva sat up straighter.
“These two performers were the stars of the Big Top, adored by fans nationwide. But then … tragedy struck!” Viviani pretended to tumble off her horse. The whole merry-go-round wobbled.
“My leg!” she wailed, gripping her knee. “However will I perform again?”
The carousel operator was not amused. “Hey, hey, hey! Take a seat, kid!” he said in a thick Brooklyn accent. He jabbed the end of his lit cigar at Viviani.
“I shall never ride again!” Viviani cried dramatically. She stood and began walking against the spin of the carousel, ducking and weaving through the bobbing horses, across the wooden planks of the ride. The carousel swayed with her steps, and Viviani garnered scowls and frowns from the other riders. Eva laughed and clutched the brass pole that held her horse.
“I said, get on a horse, kid!” the operator yelled.
Viviani grinned and climbed aboard a horse just in front of Eva, on the outer edge of the carousel. She leaned back, shouting the story over her shoulder: “The circus went broke because one half of their star equestrian team had been so gravely injured. Hundreds of clowns and acrobats and performers out of a job! But worst of all, Amazing Eva needed to keep working, so she joined a different circus.”
“Amazing Eva wouldn’t do that. She wouldn’t leave Viviani the Magnificent,” Eva protested.
“She would if she needed to feed her beloved hungry horses.” Viviani smiled back at her friend. Eva considered this and hugged the neck of her carousel horse.
“So Viviani the Magnificent trained and trained and trained and became more magnificent than ever. Magnificenter.”
“That’s not a word.”
“It is now.”
Eva cocked an eyebrow at her.
Viv said, “Words get made up all the time, Eva! How else do you think they get created?”
Eva shrugged.
Viviani stood up on her horse slowly, carefully. She placed one foot atop her horse, the other on a different horse, so that she was straddling two ponies bobbing at different times. Eva gasped and giggled.
“Introducing Viviani the Magnificenter!” Viviani cried, flinging her arms open.
“KID, DON’T MAKE ME STOP THIS RIDE!”
Viviani slid back down to her original horse, just as the gleaming brass ring came into view. She leaned far, far to the right, practically riding the ribs of the pony. She clung to the brass pole of the horse with just the tippy-tippy top of her fingertips, as she had done off the back of the trolley. Viv angled herself and grabbed the prize brass ring off the hook as they circled by.
Eva squealed and clapped. The brass ring! She did it! Viviani would get a free repeat ride thanks to that little gem.
Viviani turned back to Eva. “And when she snagged the top prize, the Golden Ring, Viviani the Magnificenter gave the valuable prize to the Big Top Circus so they could sell it and stay in business. She and her best friend could keep performing together. Forever.”
Eva beamed. Grabbing the brass ring off the carousel was rare enough, but Viviani’s storytelling made it downright magical. Viviani tried to hand the brass ring back to Eva, but it slipped from her grip, and flip! It slid right underneath the carousel.
“The ring!” Eva wailed. “Our circus will go bust without it! Our friendship ruined!”
The carousel horses slowed, and the spinning and the music stopped. Eva scrambled off her horse and grabbed Viviani’s hand. “Let’s go find that ring!”
Eva and Viviani fought their way through the thorny bushes and scrubby weeds lining the side of the carousel. Viviani smiled.
“Admit it, Eva: you felt like a real circus performer back there. Sometimes stories feel true. Even if they’re nonsense, they aren’t lies. Not really.”
Eva paused.
“When the feelings are real, the stories are real. Help me show Merit a ghost, Eva. I truly think she wants to see a ghost. She wants a photograph of one.”
Eva looked up at the carousel tottering nearby, almost overhead. “But, Viv, it’s still just a story. Those are still just fake horses trotting in a silly circle.”
At that moment, the carousel operator stomped his foot on the wooden platform above. The music started up, and the carousel horses slowly began to spin and bob.
Viviani grinned and pointed underneath the merry-go-round. There, in the shadows below the wooden slats of the ride, was a real horse and a real donkey. The pair marched in a dusty circle, shafts of sunlight streaking through from above. The bits in their mouths were attached to the underside of the ride, driving the carousel.
“See, Eva?” Viviani said. “That’s real horsepower. Real donkeys and horses down here make the fake horses up there trot.”
Viv scooped up Eva’s hands.
“Every story is true underneath it all.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
Haunted Places,
Dewey Decimal 133.12
SEE ALSO: ghosts—United States; apparitions
“So Edouard will stand here…,” Viviani muttered to herself. She stood in the windowless stairwell, on the landing one floor down from their apartment. From this perch, she could see into the basement one floor below. “Yes, that’ll work.”
Once Eva had agreed to help, the plan had gone full steam ahead. Now Viviani was mapping everything out one last time before Merit’s arrival tomorrow.
Viviani took several more steps down into the basement, down the cold, red tile stairs, toward Mr. Green’s custodial closet at the bottom. The one that was always locked. The one that had only a single key. The graveyard of bones.
This was the part of the basement where she was not allowed to go.
She shivered.
Drip, drip, drip.
The brass handrail suddenly turned ice cold beneath her touch. She jerked her hand back.
The lights overhead flickered. They always did that, though. Didn’t they?
The furnace whooshed up the stairs, sending a blast of heat, drying out her eyes.
The air around Viviani chilled suddenly. Did she imagine that?
Crrrreeeeeeaaaaakkkkk!
Below, the custodial closet door eased open. On its own?
No, wait.
Mr. Green slid out, silent as a ghost. From where she was above, Viviani could see a small balding spot on the top of his head. Mr. Green turned and locked the door behind him with his special key, the only key to his terrible closet.
Viviani felt nauseated. She thought she might faint. What a terrible place to pass out, so close to the closet where her skin could be stripped from her very bones!
Mr. Green didn’t see her, though. He turned and ran his fingers over the letters of the sign hanging on the door.
“Terry Green,” he whispered as he did. Terry? That was his first name? He nodded once. “Terry Green.”
He picked up his bucket and mop and lumbered down the hallway.
Viviani leaned as far as she could over the railing to glance at the door. It had once been painted black, but it was now peeling from the humidity in that drippy moist basement.
The sig
n didn’t say Terry Green at all. It read Custodial Closet.
Dear Friend,
Mama says imagination has wings. Like John Jr.’s pigeons. And most of the time I agree—it feels like I’m flying when I’m reading and telling stories. Swooping through the sky, bouncing on clouds. All feathers and wind and whoosh.
But I sometimes feel like imagination is the birdcage instead. Once I imagine something—like a ghost—it’s hard for my brain to break free and see things any other way.
I hope this plan works.
Oh, and speaking of plans, this was John Jr.’s latest: the library is fully decorated for the holidays—poinsettias, menorahs, a tree covered in shiny foil ribbons—all so pretty! And today, Santa was in the children’s room for story time. John Jr. paid Edouard a quarter to sit on Santa’s lap with a Boy Scout flask—open!—in his pocket. Ed sat, the water inside spilled out, and that poor Santa thought “the young tyke” had an accident all over him! When the flask was discovered, boy, were those librarians mad—at John Jr.! Edouard of course managed to convince them all that he never knew John Jr. had slipped the flask into his pocket.
All this to say: I can’t imagine how my plan could fail with these two hooligans on my side.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Secrets,
Dewey Decimal 155.4
SEE ALSO: mysteries, riddles
It’s unfortunate that stone has become associated with unfeeling: “heart of stone” and “cold as stone.” Secrets seep deep into stone, and there they stay; Leo Lenox the library lion was no exception. He was a top-notch secret keeper. Folks told him all sorts of secrets, confidences from people who visited the library from all over the world:
“I cheated on my math test.”
“I’m scared to ask her for a date.”
“My family doesn’t know I’m in New York.”
Viviani often sprawled across Lenox’s back, hugging his neck, telling him stories and small secrets. She’d climb atop the small wall to his left and drape herself over him. Today, she whispered:
“Merit will be here in five minutes. I’m so nervous. Lenox, lend me some of your courage, will you? I just don’t want to be called a liar.”
Were Lenox able to speak, he’d likely remind Viviani that courage is simply fear stuffed with hope. But she’d likely not hear it at this moment, even if he could share his thoughts on the matter. Nervous people make poor listeners.
Behind Viviani, the Doughnut Sisters were back yet again, peddling for-charity wares by telling library visitors that “those stamps inside are a—” “—tragedy of society.” “So wasteful that a person—” “—would spend that much money on buying stamps.” “Buy doughnuts instead.” And behind them, a group of kids from a choir were gathered on the wide library steps, singing hymns and carols from prim and proper songbooks. Their choir director flicked her wrists and twiddled her fingers, and the kids’ choir robes swung while their songs lifted into the cold New York sky in puffs.
“There she is!” Eva yelled from the back of Leo Astor. Viviani and Eva hopped off their respective lions and scrambled down the steps.
Merit approached with her father, her camera swinging about her neck. Her father handed Papa an overnight bag, and the two began to chat. Merit blinked at the Doughnut Sisters, the choir.
“There are people fund-raising. And singing,” she said. The children’s choir started the “Hallelujah” chorus while the Doughnut Sisters brandished their pastries at visitors.
“That? Oh, there’s always something like that going on here.” Viviani realized that even though she’d heard the choir singing while she’d been chatting with Lenox, she hadn’t actually listened to them. They were quite good. And the church bells surrounding the library were coordinated with their song—it was downright magical.
Merit grinned. She pulled her camera to her eye, squinted into the eyepiece, and snapped a photograph. “It’s just—well, not everyone has a choir singing in front of their house, Viviani.”
Viviani blinked, then grinned as Eva and Merit shared a smile. “I guess not.”
The choir director, a behemoth of a woman in a massive fur coat with the fox head still attached to the collar, approached them. She shoved a pamphlet into each of their hands.
“We’re always looking for new talent, girls.”
Merit smiled at her. “Your choir is very good.”
“Yes, it is,” the furry woman sniffed. “And the city needs it. The children need it. I always say: fill the air with lovely children’s voices. So innocent! So beautiful and harmonious! Replace the sound of that vulgar jazzy noise.”
“Jazz music?” Viviani asked. “Oh, my mother loves jazz!”
The woman looked down her nose at Viviani, and from Viv’s point of view, it appeared as though the fox fur lolling about her neck was doing the same. Two sets of beady, judging eyes. She heard Merit snap a photo of this interaction.
“Well, then,” the woman said. “You are a lost cause.”
Viviani grinned. “Oh, you’re not the first to tell me that. The librarians have been saying it for years.”
The trio of girls burst into laughter. Viviani thought this sleepover might just turn out okay after all. They went back to the fathers to get Merit’s bag.
“Let’s go, then,” Merit said, folding the camera back inside its box. “Let’s see this ghost.”
Viviani gulped down a quick-rising bubble of fear. “We can’t go right now,” she stammered. “We, uh, we have to wait until the dead of night. It’s actually pretty scary.”
Merit’s eye roll spoke volumes. “Viviani, nothing can scare me.”
Papa turned toward the girls at that, clapping a hand over Merit’s shoulder. “Nothing, huh? ‘Though she be but little, she is fierce!’ I do believe my own fearless daughter may have just met her match!”
Fearless? Viviani glanced back at Lenox in a last silent plea: Oh, Lenox, lend me some of your courage, will you?
* * *
A sleepover in the library is no ordinary sleepover. That goes without saying, but there it is nonetheless. First, the three girls raced elevators; then they pitted the elevators versus the stairs. They played telephone in the wooden phone booths: “Hello? Yes! President Coolidge on the line for you, Miss Mubarak.” They pushed one another on wheeled book carts, suppressing their squeals as much as possible so they wouldn’t get caught. Luckily, the damage they did ramming one into a doorframe was minimal, thanks to the brass edgings placed there to prevent just such nicks in the marble. Although it’s likely the architects of this fine building never foresaw three girls freewheeling about on a book cart during a sleepover.
They snuck into the stacks and climbed up the heavy iron bookshelves, fancying themselves scaling Mount Kilimanjaro. Merit pointed to the tip-top of the stacks and shouted, “To the summit, friends!” Viviani smiled down at Eva, then over at Merit, and thought, With an imagination like hers, everything will be all right. Maybe. I think.
And all the while, all the while, Merit took photographs. Careful, meticulous photographs.
“Can I see the Inverted Jenny?” Merit asked, snapping the camera closed.
“Absolutely! Follow me!” Viviani took off at a full sprint, the other two scrambling behind her.
When they got to the Stuart Room, they crept in silently. A soft glow illuminated the room, thanks to the dusky sky melting through the skylight. It seemed to Viviani that a single beam of sunlight shone down on the case that held the Inverted Jenny. It was almost closing time, so most of the patrons were gone.
Except for one. Mr. Hill was there, as usual. “Hello, Viviani. Hello, Viviani’s friends!”
Viviani smiled. “Hi, Mr. Hill.” She started to tell him that she’d been writing in her captain’s log, but stopped. Suddenly that seemed like something she wanted to keep to herself.
“Wow,” Merit breathed, circling the case, studying the stamp. “It really is upside down.”
Viviani could see the admiration de
ep in Merit’s eyes. “It really is.”
Merit snapped a photograph of the stamp while Viviani, Eva, and Mr. Hill looked on.
A long, low, teeth-rattling gong sounded. The noise resembled a tumbling, roiling thundercloud. “That’s us,” Viviani said, dashing for the door. “Come on.”
The confusion on Merit’s face made her laugh.
“My mom rings a gong when it’s dinnertime,” Viviani said. “The building is too big for a bell.”
Merit shook her head and suppressed a grin. “A gong for a dinner bell in a library. Now I’ve seen it all.”
Viviani beamed. This girl, this mysterious, brave, stubborn girl who came from the other side of the world, had seen it all here, in Viv’s home, in the library.
But then Merit slid to a stop. She whirled about. “I take that back. I haven’t yet seen it all. One ghost to go.”
Another low, ominous gong sounded. Viviani felt it in her very bones.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Clocks,
Dewey Decimal 749.3
SEE ALSO: timepieces, watches, chronometers
In the Main Reading Room, there is a clock embedded in the fine, scrolling woodwork above the librarian’s desk. If you’re inclined to those noisy, showy, cuckooing clocks, you won’t find them here, for this one does not bing or bong, as this is a library clock. Instead, the seconds whisk softly away like page turns.
So at the stroke of midnight, when the hands aligned at the top of the clock in the pale slant of moonlight, they did so in silence. Like the whisper of a passing black cat or the sigh of a ghost. Midnight is far creepier when it arrives in this way: a new day slicing in to cut away the last, the passing of yesterday, and the fragile first moments of a new day taking shaky, unsure steps.
Viviani eased the heavy oak door of their eight-room apartment shut behind their group of three, and the small click of the brass doorknob echoed in the cavernous, cold library like a bone snapping. Eva jumped. Goose bumps raced up the arms of the girls as they slid in slippered feet across the wide marble expanses, the chill of the floor seeping into their soles and increasing their shivers. It was like walking through a tomb.
The Story Collector--A New York Public Library Book Page 9