Etiquette for the End of the World

chapter Six





Tess always felt a deep reverence when walking past the majestic stone lions—dubbed “Patience” and “Fortitude” by Mayor Fiorello La Guardia during the Depression (names which Tess found apropos now more than ever)—and into the cavernous entrance hall of the hundred-year-old Main Research Library on Fifth Avenue. The iron chandeliers, the immense marble staircases along the sides, the intricately designed ceilings and moldings, and the colorful historic murals were awe-inspiring. In fact, it seemed to Tess not a library at all but a fabulous palace that just happened to have a lot of books in it.

Once on the third floor, after walking under her favorite ceiling painting of baby angels, she settled herself in the main reading room—on the right side, the side without the computers. (Of course, a research library had to have computers, and it was great that there was free internet, but it did tend to ruin the ambience.) It was a huge, quietly humming space, walled on all sides with several balcony levels of (mostly old) books. The weight of all these volumes—the history of them, the sheer number of them—made Tess feel as if nothing she did would really make much difference, good or bad. It was like looking at the stars at night—both scary and comforting. This was the only branch of the library that relaxed Tess rather than stressed her out. The reading room was so large you could be invisible, anonymous. Time passed slowly. People talked softly. Every now and then the sound of a book hitting a wooden table echoed solemnly throughout the room.

Ginny had surprised her when Tess asked for advice about Peter’s proposition. She had expected her to be disapproving. Instead, Ginny just laughed and said, “Oh, go ahead and dig a few things up for him. Make him happy. It’s a relief to know he’s merely unscrupulous, not unsafe. Have fun. All the books say he’s just your transitional, anyhow, after Matt.”

“Maybe Matt was my transitional,” Tess laughed. “Just a really, really long one.” The truth was, Tess did not want to think too much about where the thing with Peter was going. She was having a good time. She also found she did not really mind the extra work she was doing for Peter.

In fact, the more she found out about 2012, the more fascinated she was—by both the theories and the people who believed in them. The comet hitting Earth and the deadly worldwide virus seemed to be the most popular scenarios; in addition, there were lots of proponents of the magnetic-pole shift and global warming-related disasters, as well as plenty of terrorist/international-implosion enthusiasts. Of course, Peter was looking for something completely new. But in the meantime it was all good fodder for her etiquette guide. This is what she told herself, anyway, as she made her way over to the reference desk to confer with a librarian about the best way to research post-apocalyptic scenarios.

It was a slow Friday morning and the only librarian in sight, standing in front of a computer monitor, was a striking-looking woman with what Tess thought of as Botticelli hair. Her copper-red corkscrew curls were so thick they could barely be restrained beneath two large hairclips; the face they were surrounding was flawless, pink and angelic.

Tess approached her and, faltering a bit, began to inquire about the best place to find information on Mayan artifacts, and on the December 21, 2012, prophecy and other similar “end myths.” She explained she was also hoping to locate, among the library’s vast collection of archives, any out-of-print materials that might have been written about post-apocalyptic survival and behavior.

“Ah, you are interested in eschatological studies?” The librarian had unusual green eyes—eyes the color of fresh baby peas, or spring grass—behind rimless glasses. She had a sweet, melodic voice, with a trace of a southern accent.

“What?” Tess looked blank.

“Es-cha-to-log-i-cal studies,” the woman repeated in patient slow syllables. “From the Greek eschatos, meaning ‘last.’” She smiled a wise, kind smile, and Tess imagined she could feel her spirit, solid as a rock, comforting as a cold waterfall on a hot day. “Why don’t you tell me what you are working on, so I can better help you?” Indeed, she looked at Tess as if helping her was her life’s sole mission. She radiated warmth and good will. Who is this amazing person? Tess thought. She’s like a dream librarian. They should use her for the New York Public Library ads.

“Um, well, I am trying to learn about …” Tess hesitated. How was she going to ask for assistance without seeming like a nut? Or a charlatan? She looked down at the worn counter, thinking, and then looked back up again. The best thing to do was just focus on her so-called legitimate job, the guidebook. “I have read that … I mean, I was curious about … The thing is, I am involved in a project where I have to imagine exactly what the world might be like, should the predictions about December 21, 2012, come true. You know, the end-of-the-world predictions? Have you … um, heard about the whole Mayan calendar thing?” Tess felt sheepish and idiotic.

The woman’s laugh was pure as flute music—a cool, welcome, rippling sound. “Of course I know about the Mesoamerican Long Count Calendar,” she said. “But I’m sure you have probably already read enough to know that the Maya never predicted anything of the sort. This end-times myth is the result of a completely erroneous analysis of the Mayan culture and artifacts.”

Hallelujah. It was so good to talk to someone about this who didn’t buy into all the hysteria. She smiled and nodded in agreement, to show that she, Tess, was a rational being also. “And the whole magnetic-pole thing, right? And the New Testament stuff, and the solar sun-spot theory …”

The Botticelli woman shook her head with a soft little chuckle. “People love scary stories, don’t they?”

Relaxing, feeling as if she had unexpectedly met up with a friend in the wilderness, Tess leaned forward against the old wooden counter. She saw the woman’s name tag on her lapel: Betty Phoenix. “Ms. Phoenix, okay, here’s the thing: I have this writing project, which I can’t really talk about, but for it, I have to try to imagine the world after a supposed 2012 disaster, so I can know how to help people, in theory anyway,” Tess rolled her eyes and grinned. “Which I know is ridiculous, because of course, like with Y2K, it’s all fear-mongering.” She had thrown in the Y2K thing to further impress on the librarian that she, Tess, was no dummy about this kind of mass hysteria phenomenon.

“Hmm. Yes, well. I wouldn’t put it quite like that,” said Ms. Phoenix.

“What do you mean?” Tess asked her.

“Did you say your writing project was supposed to help folks after the alleged ‘big event’?”

“Well, yeah, but like I said, I don’t believe it, so don’t worry.”

The librarian was strangely silent for a moment. She checked around to see if anyone was within earshot. She examined Tess carefully with her clear green eyes, and then closed them for a brief moment, as if trying to decide something. When she opened them again, she said in her mellifluous voice, “I think I may be able to be of some assistance. Will you please follow me?” She swung open the hinged door from inside the staff area and moved gracefully across the large room to the main hallway. Intrigued, and somewhat wary, Tess followed her. When they got to a closed office at the end of the hall near the ladies’ room—one of the private and mysterious literary enclaves with thick metal grates over them—Betty Phoenix took a key from her skirt pocket, opened the door, and putting a finger to her lips, ushered Tess inside.



***



The pneumatic tube containing the paper slip went thwacking down through its chute. “Did you know we have approximately three million books in this building alone?” Ms. Phoenix said, closing up the little round door of the chute. She picked up a pencil and slid it behind her ear, under her curls. Tess had not known there were that many items, but she nodded anyway. “I don’t really know why I am showing you this,” the librarian continued, studying Tess’s face intently as if for clues, “but it’s been weighing on my mind … and I haven’t really known who to tell.”

The little office was, as Tess might have expected, completely lined with books. It was dim and airless, yet cozy, with one wooden chair behind the cluttered desk, and one on the other side. While she was thrilled to find herself in this inner sanctum of the library, Tess felt out of her element. Obviously Betty Phoenix had mistaken her for an academic, or some other kind of expert who was qualified to view special archival material.

“May I see some ID?” Ms. Phoenix asked her abruptly.

Tess riffled through her purse and pulled her library card out of her wallet. “Is this okay?”

“It’s fine, but … I’m sorry to ask … but might you have, also, a picture ID—a license or passport?”

Somewhat flustered, Tess handed the woman her license. “It’s a horrible picture, I look like a mental patient.”

“Don’t we all? Thank you.” As the librarian studied it, Tess began to feel even more nervous. What was she doing in here? When she had to show her ID, she liked to know what she was showing it for. “Tess Eliot … ” Ms. Phoenix frowned. “I recognize that name. Are you a journalist?”

“No. That is, I used to have a column in the News—‘Tess Knows Best’—but I was … I mean, not anymore. I don’t anymore.”

Betty Phoenix peered into Tess’s face once more, then sighed, handing back her license. “Do you want to know what it is that I just requested?” Tess nodded and held her breath. The librarian clasped her hands together on the desk and then raised her two index fingers up, like the steeple in a church.

“It’s is a document that should have been filed safely away in the federal patent office, or maybe even a government intelligence office, but by the random and absentminded mistake of someone, it got left here. I found it about two years ago. It contains some … potentially alarming, confidential information.” Ms. Phoenix unfolded her hands and sat back in her chair. “After I read it, absorbed it, and understood it fully, I had it hidden among our 128 miles of shelves.” She smiled patiently at Tess’s look of astonishment. “Yes, that’s right, I said 128 miles. There are seven levels of closed stacks under us in this building—and a basement—and two more floors extend under Bryant Park.” Tess looked down at the carpet as though she expected to see a beehive of stacks below her feet.

“I hid this astounding document inside a rare book,” the librarian continued, “a book no one has requested for the last sixty-five years. I don’t know why I am trusting you. I don’t really know who you are or what you are working on. But it feels right to me. Just recently I made up my mind I can’t keep this to myself any longer … . I admit I did not put it together before … .”

Tess’s mind reeled. Here she was again, down the rabbit hole. What was wrong with everyone? Wasn’t there anyone left who believed December 21, 2012, was just going to be a normal high-stress holiday shopping day, like every other December 21? Tess glanced nervously at the grated door. She could not dispel the feeling that everyone she knew was playing some elaborate practical joke on her. “What’s the book?” Tess asked.

At first Ms. Phoenix smiled at her as if to say, “Nothing could make me tell you that,” but then she sighed in resignation. She lowered her voice to a whisper. “It’s a book called Fix Your Silk Stockings with a Wyoming Walking Beetle. An obscure ladies’ home repair and sewing book. It was last requested in 1946.”

At that moment there was a loud buzz from the old-fashioned intercom on the desk, causing Tess to jump.

“Ms. Phoenix?” said a man’s nasal voice.

“Yes?” Betty Phoenix replied, her finger pressing down on a button on the black box.

“You sent a request for item Vos29,843F?”

“Yes.?” Tess could almost feel the librarian’s heart rate go up.

“It seems to be missing.”



***