The Story Collector

by Kristin O'Donnell Tubb

  A murky, disheveled figure stood in the shadows of the hallway. Something about the way the shadow moved seemed unnatural—silent and floating, rather than solid. Even as it got closer, Viviani couldn’t hear any footsteps.

  Another piston popped down the hall, and Eva let out a little shriek.

  Eva clutched Viviani’s hand. Her grip was cold and clammy. The best friends watched as the shadow slipped away without a word.

  Viviani took a deep, quivery breath. “Let’s go.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Ghosts,

  Dewey Decimal 133.1

  SEE ALSO: spirits, hauntings, apparitions

  Viviani and Eva took off from the workshop at a full sprint, the soles of their shoes sliding and slipping and squeaking on the basement floor. They rounded the corner and pounded up a half flight of stairs.

  “Girls!”

  Viviani ran—oof—right into Papa’s chest. Papa!

  Her racing heart leapt into her throat. She and Eva placed hands on knees, panting.

  “Where were you two?” Papa asked, his eyes narrow but shining.

  Viviani swallowed. “Uh … Miss O’Conner. She’s looking for lost picture books.”

  It wasn’t a lie, and so Eva, always-honest Eva, nodded.

  Papa’s eyes slid between the two of them. “Missing picture books? That’s the emergency?”

  Viviani gulped for air. “There are lost stories out there, Papa. Wouldn’t you call that an emergency?”

  Papa stroked his jaw. “Hmmm. Carry on then.” He waved them up the last half flight of stairs.

  When the two friends reached the first floor, Viviani stopped for a moment and placed her cheek against the cool wall to steady herself. Maybe it was the twelve gulps of water, or maybe it was the custodial closet, or maybe it was that strange, floating figure near the workshop, or maybe it was the fact that she knew she shouldn’t have been in the workshop in the first place, but Viviani felt downright ill.

  She wouldn’t get in trouble, though. She’d covered her tracks with Papa.

  Boy, living a life of excitement and adventure sure was full of turmoil!

  * * *

  The next day, Viviani’s papa returned to their apartment following his rounds covered in sawdust and coal dust and dust-dust. He sat at the dinner table. “Today I was a furniture fixer, and a wheel replacer for a book cart, and a radio-antenna repairman, and an untangler of telephone wire.” Viviani thought his might be the best job on earth: fixing things meant every day was different from the last.

  Viv plopped into her place at the dinner table and scowled. “Liver and onions?”

  Oops. Once again, Viviani’s mouth was too fast for her brain. And this time, her words were coated in disgust because, well, liver and onions.

  Mama arched a teasing eyebrow at Viv. “If you help make dinner, Red, you get a say in what gets served.”

  “Fact,” Edouard said around a mouthful. “Your liver functions as a filter for toxins. Without it, you’d slowly poison yourself.” He swallowed.

  All eyes turned to Edouard. He paused, the next forkful of quivering liver halfway to his mouth. “What?”

  “Here’s a fact for ya,” John Jr. said, buttering a slice of bread. “Babe Ruth is the greatest baseball player of all time.”

  “That’s not fact. That’s opinion.”

  “Yeah, well, his sixty home runs last year prove it. There should be a display about him at the library.”

  Mama nodded. “I like that idea, John. Talk to Dr. Anderson and see what he thinks. He’d be the one to approve the funding and rally the librarians. I’d personally love to see a display on jazz. The radio station here could play a little of the Boswell Sisters? Maybe some Jelly Roll Morton?” Mama hummed a few bars and danced a tiny jig while plopping mashed potatoes on everyone’s plate.

  Papa smiled and tapped his toe to the rhythm. “That’s my love! Always shaking things up.”

  “I’d like to see one on airships,” Edouard said, swallowing a mouthful of potatoes. “Fact: Henri Giffard was actually the first person to fly. In 1852, he flew seventeen miles in a dirigible.”

  Papa gulped down a glass of milk, then poured another. “How about you, Red? What kind of display would you like to see?”

  Viviani’s head spun. She didn’t know what she wanted to know. No, that wasn’t it; she wanted to know so much. How radios and telegraphs work and how subways are built and why kittens are born with their eyes closed and how to speak Greek and all about feathers and shells and weather. Everyone else in her family seemed to know exactly what interested them. Everything interested Viviani.

  “I can’t pick just one,” Viv said. “I want to know it all.”

  Papa tossed his head back and laughed.

  John Jr. said, “Good news. I think you’re already a know-it-all,” and lightly punched her arm. Viviani laughed and pretended to fling back a spoonful of liver.

  But the conversation niggled at the back of her mind: How come everyone else knew exactly what they wanted to know and say? And how come she didn’t?

  After dinner, Papa settled into his great armchair with his slippers and a mug of coffee.

  “Kids!” he called out. Papa’s large, lanky frame far exceeded what was likely considered comfortable for the size of his armchair, but it was his favorite nonetheless.

  Viviani and her siblings scrambled to gather around Papa’s chair. It was story time!

  Edouard snagged the patch of carpet just in front of Papa. “Papa! Tell us a story of when you worked for Thomas Edison.”

  “Who cares about some boring inventor?” John Jr. whacked Edouard with a needlepoint pillow. “What a wet blanket. Let’s hear one of your sailing tales, Papa!”

  Viviani slid down the walnut-paneled wall. “I want to hear the story of how I was given my name! That’s my favorite.” Viv’s brothers groaned.

  “No, no, kids,” Papa waved off their suggestions. “Tonight, I want to tell you about the Red-Whiskered Ghost.”

  “Yes!” Edouard hugged the pillow that had whacked him.

  John Jr. rolled his eyes, but Viviani grabbed a pillow to clutch as well. Ghost? Instantly, she thought of the shadowy figure she had seen near Papa’s workshop.

  “This library, these walls!” Papa boomed, swooping his arms wide across their wood-paneled apartment. “They took a decade to build, you know. And over the course of those ten long years, ten men unfortunately lost their lives. Ten men!”

  At that precise moment, Mama turned off the electric light from the kitchen. The sudden darkness caused a collective gasp from the Fedeler children. Mama chuckled. She loved Papa’s stories as much as her kids did.

  Papa took a sip of his coffee. “To this day, the spirits of those fallen men wander these very halls, demanding to know: Is the vast knowledge contained within these walls worth their very lives?”

  “Of course it is,” Edouard said. “Knowledge is a noble cause!”

  Papa winked at his middle child. “But the angriest ghost of the whole gang is an old red-whiskered fellow.”

  “Of course he has a beard,” John Jr. said with a chuckle. “How would a ghost shave?”

  Papa winked at his eldest child as well. A two-winker tale, this one was. “This particular apparition,” he continued, “was a red-haired, red-whiskered bulk of a man, whose job it was to hang the ornate plaster on the ceiling of the Main Reading Room.”

  Viviani pictured the famous room: the carved plaster ceiling looked like it was covered in curly icicles. Ornate borders painted to look like wood framed a mural of blue skies and sunshine-rimmed clouds. Massive bronze chandeliers, each with dozens of glowing globes of light, plunged from the great height. The ceiling was several stories high, hovering far, far above the marble floors below. Viviani shuddered, thinking of those workers clinging to flimsy metal scaffolding, lying on their backs and hoisting those heavy chunks of plaster overhead while hammering them into place.

  “Yes indeedy, it was this fell
a’s job to secure those carvings with large, long spikes. He was good at it, too. The best, according to him. He’d brag and he’d boast and he’d drive his coworkers to distraction with it all. One day, he waged a bet against another worker that he’d finish the ceiling before that worker finished tiling a floor. Faster and faster he worked, securing those plaster carvings.

  “But one day, after hammering home the next-to-last spike on the very last carving, this guy rose up in a celebratory yalp. He was just about to win that bet, you see—a whole month’s salary, and he wanted everyone to see him drive home the last nail. But instead, the old fella lost his balance and fell off the scaffolding to his untimely death.”

  The Fedeler kids sat in silence, for this was the protocol after stories of untimely death.

  “It was his own boastfulness that did that fella in. He never got to pocket that money, and he never got to finish that ceiling. And so you should know: the Red-Whiskered Ghost still wanders these very halls, hammer in hand. He was gambling and showboating, you see. Killed by his own mischief. And now he seeks to destroy mischief whenever it is near.”

  Goose bumps arose on Viviani’s skin. She thought back to the figure she and Eva had seen in the workshop, where, all right, perhaps a little bit of mischief was involved. Had she heard a clanging sound? One like a hammer might make? She covered her arms before anyone saw and teased her for being a scaredy-cat.

  “So, kids”—Papa’s eyes narrowed but twinkled, and his voice dropped to a teasing whisper—“no hijinks, or—”

  WHAM! Papa stamped his foot, and all three Fedeler kids jumped. But only two laughed.

  Could everyone hear Viviani’s heart thrumming? Surely they could. Just like in “The Tell-Tale Heart.”

  Edouard shivered with the deliciousness of the tale. “What was his name? The guy?”

  Papa downed the rest of his coffee. “His name? Why, you know what they call our library ghost?”

  The Fedeler kids shook their heads.

  “They call him … Big Red!” Papa’s eyes widened. Viviani’s fingers flew to her flaming hair.

  “Hey, just like your nickname, Viv!” Edouard grinned.

  “Big Red! And you’re Little Red! Like me and Papa—John Junior and Senior. Ha!” John Jr. reached over to tug a lock of her hair.

  Viviani did not like that, no sir. She didn’t care for that one bit.

  “There is no ghost, and he is most certainly not named Red.” She shook her head. She harrumphed. She crossed her arms. “It’s not true.” Sometimes stating things aloud was the way to convince yourself to believe it.

  Papa ruffled his daughter’s fiery curls. “Ah, but watch where you go and what you do in this place! Big Red seeks out mischief, and he could be out there with his hammer right now!”

  Viviani gulped, as if she were swallowing the story whole. Because as all story collectors know, could was as good as probably, and probably was as good as definitely.

  “So what you’re saying is,” John Jr. said, rising off the floor, “stop messing around in the off-limits spots in the library.”

  Papa chuckled, then gave Viviani a long, thoughtful look.

  Viviani squeezed the pillow tighter. She didn’t want to admit to being a tiny bit petrified. Her brothers seemed both unaffected and unastounded at finding out their home was haunted. She guessed one must be at least twelve years old to be so brave in the face of a grim ghost tale. In that case, she’d look forward to being brave next year.

  Viviani decided she needed to talk to Eva and get her thoughts on this ghostly matter. Eva was as reliable as the five-fifteen commuter ferry out of the city, as steady and concrete as the Brooklyn Bridge. If anyone could help Viviani turn this could into an impossible, it would be Eva.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Biographies,

  Dewey Decimal 937.09

  SEE ALSO: women—biographies; American history—biographies

  Screeeee!

  The sound woke Viviani from a thin and restless sleep. She bolted upright at the sound just outside her window, clutching her sheet beneath her chin. It sounded like the hooked edge of a hammer clawing across the glass: screeeeeee!

  Viviani screeeeeeed as well.

  The radiator banged to life, and she whimpered.

  “Viviani?” Mama rushed into her room, tying her robe around her waist. “Is everything all right?”

  Papa ran in after her, wielding a baseball bat, eyes wide. When Viviani saw him, her own eyes filled with tears.

  She pointed at her dark window. “I thought I heard something out there!”

  Mama flicked on the light and crossed to look out the glass. The late-autumn wind stirred, and a tree in the adjacent courtyard reached toward Viviani’s window and scratched the glass: screeeeeee.

  Viviani choked on a sob. “It’s okay, Mama, Papa. I just … got scared, is all.”

  Mama cleared her throat and shot Papa a look. Papa sighed and laid the bat next to her bed with a clunk. “About Big Red?”

  Viviani looked at her quilt and nodded. It swam underneath her gaze.

  Mama rubbed her back.

  “That’s a story, Viviani.” Papa’s voice was gentle but firm. “I didn’t mean to scare you, and I’m sorry I did. But I’m certain you’re familiar with mischief. You cannot play in the workshop. Understand?”

  A tear toppled over the rim of her eye at last.

  He knew? How? She thought he’d been too busy with library business to tinker in his workshop lately.

  Viviani nodded and took a deep, wavery breath. It was meant to hold back more tears. It didn’t work.

  Papa rubbed the stubble on his jaw and began:

  “The month was May, the year 1917, and at the entrance to the library, the lions Leo Astor and Leo Lenox wore wreaths of lilies and roses to welcome visiting dignitaries from France. The United States had just entered the Great War, you see, and France was our friend. Inside, a glittering celebration with rich food and bubbly drinks took place on the third floor. On the second floor, a child born only two days prior wailed. I mean, really wailed. She had flaming-red hair and an impressive set of lungs, that one. But what she didn’t have was a name.”

  Mama smiled and smoothed her daughter’s red hair. Viviani let out a small sob and laughed at the same time.

  “The fact that the child had no name troubled her father greatly.” Here, Papa pointed to himself. “Oh, how my shoes clacked as I paced the wide marble floors of the library.”

  Papa leapt up and began acting out the story, the story that had taken place in this very library eleven years prior. He continued:

  “‘No name!’ I said,” Papa muttered to himself, scratching his head. “‘No name! Why, a child might as well not have a head as have no name.’”

  Viviani was laughing deeply now. This was her favorite story of all.

  “‘Naming sons is pie!’ I said to Mr. Green.” Papa must’ve seen Viviani flinch at the mention of Mr. Green’s name, for he added: “Ah, but we cannot forget Mr. Green, you see. If it weren’t for him, the rest of the story would not follow, and you’d likely still be nameless.”

  Mama chuckled and Papa continued: “I said to him, ‘Why, it was easy enough to name my firstborn: John Junior—no imagination needed there! And number two, Edouard. Named for my best friend, a sailor like none other. Done and done!’

  “At that, Mr. Green, as always, grunted.” Papa pointed at Viviani now, who played her part by grunting with gusto.

  Papa smiled and began pacing again, the conundrum of his nameless daughter written on his face.

  “But a girl! I had no idea what to name a girl!

  “I had taken to calling you Red, of course—that glorious head of hair. But Red isn’t a name. And this wasn’t just any girl—it was a girl born in this very library! Between the stacks! Among the pages of the finest words ever written! I knew a name for a child like that required brilliance!”

  Papa jabbed a finger skyward. Viviani laughed and blushed as red as h
er hair.

  “The sound of tinkling glasses and delicate laughter drifted down the wide hallway from the Main Reading Room.” Papa cocked his ear toward the world-renowned room now, and Viviani could almost hear the festivities.

  “It was then I realized I was spinning an electric lightbulb in my hand. My errand of changing out a bulb had been forgotten.

  “‘A name can wait, I suppose,’ I declared. ‘But that dimmed lamp cannot. Let there be lamplight!’ And so I climbed to the top of a tall ladder, all the while muttering, ‘a name, a name.’”

  “And then the railroad man appeared!” Viviani burst out.

  “Yes, that’s right. The railroad tycoon James Stillman strutted into the hallway with two guests of honor trailing behind.”

  Viviani closed her eyes and imagined the dapper trio with their gleaming brass buttons marching up each chest, bow ties blossoming at their throats, and their hair slicked into place with thick, fruity-smelling pomade.

  “Mr. Stillman, being an astute businessman and therefore a reader of people, noticed the distraught look on my face.

  “‘What’s wrong, sir?’ he asked.

  “I spun and teetered on the ladder.” Here, Papa pretended to falter, arms and legs flailing, and Viviani and Mama giggled. “‘Ah, it’s nothing, sir!’ I said, for I know better than to muddle in library affairs. ‘Thank you for asking. Enjoy your event.’

  “Mr. Stillman narrowed his gaze on me, his thin mustache twitching.

  “That’s the moment Mr. Green coughed up my troubles. ‘Aye, it’s his newborn, sir. The child is two days old, and still it doesn’t have a name.’

  “Stillman chuckled, and his eyes glinted as bright as the gold watch chain that draped across his chest. ‘If it’s a girl,’ he told me, ‘name her Viviani after this fine Frenchman here.’ He slapped his hand on the shoulder of the gentleman to his right. That man was René Viviani, the former prime minister of France. Mr. Viviani guffawed, and his big belly heaved.” Papa gave a belly-busting laugh and puffed out his stomach.

  “‘And if it’s a boy, why, you can name him Joffre, after the honorable marshal.’ Mr. Stillman winked at the gentleman on his left.