CHAPTER ONE
Medicine,
Dewey Decimal 610
SEE ALSO: health, diseases
What’s the value of a story? Certainly you can look at the price tagged to a book, see how many dollars it takes to add that book to your collection. But surely a story has far more worth than that? Perhaps a story’s value should be measured in pleasantries, not pennies. Knowledge, not nickels. Delights, not dollars.
A story’s value isn’t determined by money but moments. Moments that take your breath away, that make you giggle, that make you cry. Does a story overwhelm you with grief, flood you with joy, or fill you with dread?
Dread. Sorry to begin our tale with such gloom and doom, Dear Friend, but dread is exactly where this story begins.
* * *
Viviani Joffre Fedeler sprawled across her quilted bed, clicking her fountain pen against her teeth, pondering her sprawled-open captain’s log. (She refused to call it a diary, thank you, even if that’s exactly the purpose it served.) Viviani’s bedroom looked like any other kid’s bedroom in the whole of New York City: messy dresser drawers, peeling wallpaper, discarded candy wrappers, piles of clothes. It was all very normal indeed. Oh, except that Viviani’s bedroom was part of an eight-room apartment on the second story of the New York Public Library. Yep, the famous one. With the lions out front.
She tapped her pen nib against the paper to start the flow of ink: February 21, 1929, she wrote inside her captain’s log. Dear Friend,…
Things That Are Worse Than Going to the Doctor’s Office:
—getting mauled by a tiger (probably)
—subway rats with red eyes that hiss at you
—tight knickers—Strike that. Going to the doctor is worse.
—That’s it. Everything else awful involves going to the doctor.
“Viv, let’s go!”
Viviani groaned at the sound of her mother’s voice and rolled off her bed. Maybe she could hide in the large book return bin on the main floor. Sure, it’d hurt, getting pelted with all those books sliding through the return slot. But it couldn’t hurt more than getting a shot. She hated needles. Needles were the worst. She plodded into the living room, where her older brothers, John Jr. and Edouard, were waiting with Mama.
Mama pulled a woolen cloche hat over Viviani’s ears. She tugged the knot of Edouard’s scarf tighter—so tight he pretended to wheeze. Mama smiled and turned her attention to John Jr., the eldest of the Fedeler kids.
“Wet hair?” she asked with a smile, cocking an eyebrow. “In this weather?”
“I’ll be fine.” John Jr. pounded on his chest. “Healthy as an ox. I’m looking forward to the doc telling me what a fine specimen of a human I am. Unlike these two.” He jerked his thumb at Viviani and Edouard. “I’m certain they’ll have to stay behind for further medical testing.”
Testing. Just the word made Viviani’s mouth sour. Why is every form of the word test so positively awful?
Mama stood on tiptoe to cram a knitted woolen cap on John Jr.’s head. “You won’t be as healthy as an ox when you catch pneumonia.”
John scowled. “Aw, Ma!”
Mama clucked him silent. “It might be almost spring, but it’s still chilly. Come on. Let’s get to Dr. Monroe’s office.”
The four Fedelers—Mama, John Jr., Edouard, and Viviani—walked out of their cozy apartment, through the empty marble corridors of the New York Public Library, and down the winding staircase.
“Morning, Mr. Green!” Viviani shouted to the custodian mopping in Astor Hall. “Those floors look clean enough to eat off!”
“Don’t you dare eat off my floors,” Mr. Green grumbled, mop sloshing. Viviani chuckled despite her nerves, and the Fedelers wound their way through the building, toward the delivery docks.
“Hullo, Jack!” Viviani called to the fellow loading boxes of books onto one of the bookmobiles. Her voice echoed in the cavernous tunnel, hullooo! Jack straightened and mumbled hello in return, the cigarette in his lips bouncing.
“No smoking in the library, Jack,” Mrs. Fedeler yelled over her shoulder. “You know, books and whatnot.”
Jack grunted again. Viviani would’ve laughed except for the impending doom that awaited her at the doctor’s office.
The Fedelers walked outdoors and blinked in the sunlight on Fortieth Street before turning right toward the Times Square subway station. On the way down the narrow staircase, Viviani thought she saw a long, disgusting tail.
“Subway rat,” she muttered. “Now all I need is to be mauled by a tiger, and this day is officially as bad as it gets.” She shivered and continued following her family into the roaring tunnels burrowed beneath the city.
They purchased their subway nickels at the wooden operator booth and went through the turnstile. The subway cars whooshed to a stop before them, and the Fedelers ran to board the train as if they were on a grand adventure, instead of hurtling toward needles and knives. Ads were posted at each stop—“Twenty-Eighth Street!” “Prince!” “Canal!”—and one was for Chicken Dinner, a popular candy bar from the Sperry Candy Company. The thought made Viviani’s stomach churn even harder. The car swayed and jerked, lights flickering, all the way south to their stop at the domed City Hall station.
“Mama, why do I have to go to the doctor? I feel perfectly fine,” Viviani said as she dragged her feet, reluctantly following her family up and out of the dark tunnels, back into the blinding sunlight.
“You look like a very healthy eleven-year-old, even with that glum face,” Mama said, laughing. “But I want a clean bill of health for all three of you, especially with so many illnesses cropping up. Now come along and stop scuffing your shoes, Viviani. They’re brand-new.”
Mama led them to a building at the corner of Broadway and Fourteenth, up three flights of stairs, and through a door with DR. MONROE, PEDIATRICS stenciled in gold lettering on the window.
The office was long, narrow, and lined with thick, musty, leather-bound books. Also crammed along the walls were desks and metal tables with sharp objects (so sharp!). It smelled like strong chemicals, potent enough to make Viv’s nostrils tingle. Her stomach flopped again. She and her siblings drooped into chairs.
“You’ll probably have to get a shot, you know,” John Jr. whispered to her.
Viv gulped and said with a glare, “You don’t know that.”
At the waver in her voice, John Jr. leaned over, studying Viviani’s face. “Hey, Red! I was just teasing.” He put her in a gentle headlock and mussed her curls. “Tell you what. I’ll put on a disguise, a red-haired wig and a dress, and I’ll take the shot for ya.”
Viviani laughed. Edouard offered John Jr. his glasses. “Take mine, too, then?”
Dr. Monroe burst into the room, high heels clacking on the wooden floor. She was about fifty, Viviani guessed, and her lipstick always fanned out in a way that made her seem spidery and stern. Viviani pictured her cooking potions over a large black cauldron in the back room, cackling and singing, “Double, double toil and trouble…”
A young man, who didn’t appear much older than John Jr., shuffled in behind her. He toted an armful of books, and his crooked glasses framed red, tired eyes. He looked like he needed about three solid days of sleep.
“Benjamin,” Dr. Monroe barked at him.
He dropped the books onto one of the tables with a flump, then turned to her. “Ma’am?”
“It’s good to see you again, ah, John Jr.,” Dr. Monroe said, nodding at Edouard. “Eddie,” she said, pointing at John. “And Vivian.”
“Viviani,” Viv corrected, but Dr. Monroe had already clacked farther into the room and was pumping Mama’s hand in a vigorous handshake. “Mrs. Fedeler. Tell me what’s on your mind.”
“Well, Doctor, the warmer months are approaching, and I have some questions about the possibility of a polio epidemic in the city.”
“Oh, well, what you should be worried about is tuberculosis. Much, much worse…”
Viviani felt light-headed at the word epidemic, and her thoughts began racing. All she knew of tuberculosis was that her favorite author, Edgar Allan Poe, lost two loved ones to TB, and he wrote the super-creepy “Masque of the Red Death” because of it. In the story, a character named Prince Prospero tries to hide from a plague known as the Red Death. But his greed gets the best of him, and he hosts a lavish masquerade ball as others perish outside his castle. The prince ultimately realizes you can’t hide from death, no matter your wealth. Viviani shuddered.
The young apprentice, Benjamin, approached the kids with a clipboard. He donned a head mirror to reflect light into mouths, ears, and eyes. Benjamin snatched a tongue depressor off a metal table filled with sharp objects (so very sharp!) and positioned the mirror to bounce bright light at John Jr.’s face, seeming distracted even as he poked and prodded.
“So, Edouard,” Benjamin said.
“I’m Viviani, actually,” John said.
Benjamin sat up, flipped his head mirror aside, and blinked behind his thick glasses. His expression was so bug-like and silly that it actually made Viv’s mouth tug upward.
John Jr. gave Benjamin a light punch on the arm. “Just joshing, of course. I’m John. That’s Viviani,” he said, thrusting his thumb toward Edouard.
Edouard waved.
Benjamin tapped his clipboard with his pencil. “It says here John Jr. is the eldest child.”
John Jr. nodded.
“So that is you, correct?”
“Two for two, Doc.”
“Not a doctor yet, John Jr., just a medical student.” Benjamin continued his poking and prodding. “How have you been feeling?”
“Honestly, Doc? Not great. I got a pain right here,” John Jr. motioned to his whole person. Viviani and Edouard mashed their lips to keep from laughing.
“I see, I see!” Benjamin said, noting this on his clipboard dutifully.
“And, Doc…” John Jr. leaned in and whispered, “It kinda hurts when I … you know.”
Benjamin looked at him earnestly, then nodded. “Yes, I believe I do.”
Appearing concerned, the apprentice rolled his stool over to Edouard. “And you, son? How are you feeling?”
“My tongue hurts,” Edouard said, sticking it out. “Eee? Et awl geen oh sohugh.”
“Do you mean your throat hurts?”
Edouard shook his head. “No, my tongue. Oh, and my toenails. They hurt, too.”
“Your toenails?” Benjamin was furiously scribbling this down.
“Yes, sir. All ten.”
Benjamin continued poking the boys, and Viviani tried not to giggle as her brothers rattled off symptoms like their eyelashes falling out and their bones popping when they flexed their fingers just so, see, Doc?
Finally, Benjamin rolled up to Viviani, who was feeling better, thanks to her brothers’ antics. “It’s the tip of my nose, sir,” she said as earnestly as she could. “It feels numb.”
“You mean when you walk in the cold?” Benjamin scrawled on his clipboard.
“No, then it feels like it’s on fire!”
Viv’s brothers shook with held-in laughter. Benjamin pursed his lips, clearly concerned about this growing list of ailments plaguing the Fedeler children.
“Dr. Monroe!” he shouted over his shoulder, with a rising level of panic in his voice. “You need to come see this!”
Dr. Monroe clackclackclacked toward them, mouth pursed, with Mama following close behind. The doctor looked over the rim of her tiny spectacles and scanned the list of symptoms Benjamin had dutifully recorded.
“Oh,” she said. “Hmmm.” She touched her fingers to her chest. “Oh, my!”
“This situation seems dire,” Benjamin said, but Viviani noticed a twinkle in his eye. Was he playing along? Or was that just a trick of the light? “How should we diagnose this?”
Dr. Monroe nodded, eyeing the Fedeler kids. “I think what we have here is a case of OutdoMySibling-itis. It is extremely contagious, and quite dangerous if left unchecked.”
John Jr., Edouard, and Viv suddenly became very interested in the patterned rug running the length of the room.
“I usually prescribe shots for that,” Dr. Monroe said, peering sternly over her spectacles. Viviani could juuust hear the beginning of a witchy cackle. Her stomach somersaulted.
“Oh, I don’t think we need a shot, Doctor, do we?” Benjamin interjected, seeing the look on Viviani’s face.
Dr. Monroe leaned closer to the Fedeler trio. “Well, this time I’ll let your mother decide if a solid dose of castor oil might do the trick instead.”
Castor oil—ick! Viviani thought castor oil tasted like motor oil. Probably—she’d never drunk motor oil, of course, but it looked just like the thick, goopy medicine.
Mama crossed her arms, her toe tapping as she read the list of symptoms over Dr. Monroe’s shoulder. She furrowed her brow, but Viv could see Mama was trying not to laugh.
“Oh, I think I know just the cure,” Mama said. “Let’s head back to the library, kids. I have a feeling there are some chores I suddenly need done today. Now.”
“Chores? At the library?” Benjamin asked, blinking behind his thick glasses.
“We live there,” Viviani said. “My papa’s the superintendent.” She always ballooned with pride when she told people that. It made her very happy to talk about her library home.
“Really? The big library? With the lions out front?”
“That’s the one,” Mama said. “The Central Building.”
“I do all my research there,” Benjamin said, and for the first time, he grinned and lost a bit of his seriousness. “I read constantly to keep up with my classes.” He gestured at the table full of medical books. “It’s such a beautiful building.”
“Well, please do stop by our home and say hello the next time you’re there,” Mama said, gathering scarves and hats and coats. “Viviani has learned to make a wonderful basbousa. And if you’re done with these books, the kids here would be happy to help you transport some of them back to the library.” Mama thumped the huge books Benjamin had dropped onto the table next to her.
Benjamin’s smile flickered. “That would be—uh—yeah. That would be great.” He sorted through the texts and handed over five huge books. “Thank you, Mrs. Fedeler.”
“That’s Mr. Fedeler,” John Jr. said, and Viviani lightly kicked his shin.
Text copyright © 2020 by the New York Public Library, Astor, Lenox, and Tilden Foundations
Illustrations copyright © 2020 by Iacopo Bruno
