The Autobiography of Mrs. Tom Thumb (13 page)

I joined in the congratulations without the slightest twinge of jealousy, and promised to contribute a cotton nightgown.

*   *   *

G
ALENA WAS A PRETTY LITTLE RIVER TOWN, LIKE ALL THE
others—hilly, with a main thoroughfare lined with shops. I followed Colonel Wood through the bustling street to a handsome building called the DeSoto House; I had never stepped foot in a hotel before and was excited at the prospect. I had no inkling that in the years to come, I would stay in the finest of them all, with the most luxurious accommodations. I would even return to this hotel, occupying the largest suite!

But at the time, I managed not to betray my astonishment at the elegance of this establishment; indeed, I sailed through the door, clad in my most respectable gown, not one I would ever wear onstage but rather one of my church dresses, with matching bonnet, from home. It was a modest blue satin, with a high collar and black-velvet scallops along the hem and sleeves. With my head held high, I managed to give the appearance that I was quite at home in the ornate lobby, wallpapered and carpeted to a fault. Colonel Wood, however, could not maintain his composure. He stopped and gaped, forgetting to remove his hat. He looked cheap and gaudy, totally out of place, and I stared at him through new eyes, secure in my matchless deportment and bearing. Away from the boat, in such genteel surroundings, the unease he stirred in me melted away. He looked exactly what he was—a posturing, insignificant little man. And I felt exactly what I was—an elegant gentlewoman with superior breeding and appearance. A much larger personality, in every way.

Yet as soon as we were led to a little side parlor, where the Colonel left me with an admonition to “Remember, no hoity-toity airs—I’m not paying you to disappoint the customers,” that unease crept back. Nervously I paced around, trying to admire the ornately carved woodwork and plush carpeting. The furniture was
all large and overstuffed, and I remembered, with a pang of despair, that my stair steps were back on the boat. Locating a footstool, I dragged it over to a chair so that I might be able to climb onto it with some dignity.

Anxious and unsettled, my composure having deserted me, I could not help but recall what Mrs. Billy Birch and Carlotta each had said to me before I left the boat.

Mrs. Billy had tucked a large stone in my hand. “Put this in your reticule,” she whispered, as Colonel Wood was hovering nearby. “Don’t be afraid to swing it at that Mr. Grant’s head if you need to!” I had accepted the unusual gift with gratitude, and tucked it into my reticule, thankful for its sudden heft.

Carlotta had summoned me to her room earlier. I did not usually visit her here; when we females gathered for our nightly gossip, it was generally in Mrs. Billy Birch’s room, which was neat and homey, with a spirit lamp for making tea.

Carlotta’s room, by contrast, was slovenly, her stockings and petticoats draped over every surface, all in need of repair or washing. I tried not to notice them; obviously she wasn’t bothered by the chaos, as she had no blush or apology as she handed me a small envelope. Opening it, I saw that it contained a grayish powdery substance.

“Prevention powders,” she said matter-of-factly. “You’re so little, Vinnie, I don’t know what to tell you to do so that it don’t hurt. But you oughtn’t to be havin’ babies, so use these. Mix ’em with water and then douse yourself with them down there.” And she pointed to her—I still blush to recall—womanly parts.

“ ‘It’? What do you mean ‘it’? What might hurt?”

“It. Screwin’. I don’t know what the Colonel thinks these men are going to want to do to you in private, and God knows I hope it ain’t what I’m thinkin’, but just in case. You don’t want to have a baby, do you?”

“I—I—I have no earthly idea what to say!” And I didn’t; I sat down upon the floor, my legs suddenly giving out, and I stared up at the girl who, I saw, thought she was only being kind.

“I know your ma probably never told you these things. My own ma didn’t. But you’re such a little thing, and I feel like someone ought. You do know what screwin’ is, don’t you?” She frowned in concern, her crow’s-feet crinkling up; against her sallow skin, bare of the cheap paint she used onstage, her yellow hair appeared even more artificial.

“I, well, yes, I believe so. Copulating, you mean?”

“Listen to you, Vinnie!” She grinned, her pale blue eyes round with admiration. “Always coming up with such fancy words—I plum forget you were a schoolmarm sometimes, and then you go and remind me.
Copulating
—I swear!” And she repeated it again, as if learning a new word in a new language.

“But why would you give me this?” I held out the envelope, away from my person, as if it might taint me by proximity. I struggled to understand what she was implying.

“So you don’t have a baby.” She repeated herself patiently, as if I were a child. “Don’t you understand? Screwin’ is how babies get made.”

“I understand that, Carlotta, but what I don’t quite see is why I would have need for this kind of—of
prevention
?”

“Oh, Vinnie! You’re such a smart little thing that I forget you don’t know much of the world! Why do you think men want to meet you alone? There’s only one reason for that, although I have to say it’s not right, not for someone your size, but Lord, I’ve learned it takes all kinds in this world. You have no idea some of the things these river men want—animals, sisters, even other men—”

“Stop!” I was sickened, horrified, by her meaning. Scrambling up from the floor, I felt my face burn, and I couldn’t look her in
the eyes. “Stop—I don’t want to hear this! I have no intention of engaging in—in—what it was you just said. Even Colonel Wood would not—these are respectable people, he said! There is no need for this!” And I thrust the envelope into her hands.

“But, Vinnie, I’m just looking out for you—you have to be prepared!”

“No, I thank you, but—no. There is no need, no need at all!” I hurried out of Carlotta’s room, still unable to look her in the face. How did she know of these things? I felt sorry for her, for her life; I felt even sorrier for her fiancé, who must not have any idea of her past. I knew she was only trying to be kind, but I could not help but feel sickened and insulted, all the same.

I refused even to consider the scenario she had so easily conjured up; still, I felt grateful, as I waited nervously in the parlor for Mr. Grant, that Mrs. Billy Birch’s rock was securely in my reticule, which was attached to my wrist.

There was a knock on the parlor door; my stomach plummeted to my feet, and I clasped my reticule to my breast. “C-come in,” I barely managed to say, through cold, trembling lips.

“Miss Bump?” A short, stocky man with a beard opened the door, hat in hand. His gaze swept the room at his own height; it took him a moment to remember to look down. Finally, he saw me; his eyes widened, and his face creased into a slow grin. “Oh, goodness! Just a moment—” He ducked his head back outside the door, and I heard him say, “Julia! Children! She’s in here!”

At the mention of a female name, my entire body, which I had been holding stiff as a corpse, perhaps in anticipation of my imminent doom, relaxed. I reached up to place my reticule upon an end table and turned to receive my visitors.

Mr. Grant ushered in his family: his wife and four children, the youngest a little boy still in skirts, carried by Mrs. Grant. The children shyly hung back while their parents approached me,
somewhat timidly, as if I might suddenly attack
them
. They were, I was astonished to realize, almost as frightened of me as I had been of them! This realization made me relax even further; I stepped forward and held my hand out to Mr. Grant, hoping to put him at ease.

“Allow me to introduce myself. I am Miss Bump.”

“Thank you for meeting with us, Miss Bump. I am Mr. Grant. This is my wife, Mrs. Grant, and our children. Freddie, Buck, Nellie, and little Jesse.”

Mr. Grant bowed stiffly, while Mrs. Grant, a plain woman with small, crossed eyes, shook my hand very timidly and shifted the child in her arms.

“Please, let us sit,” I said, and holding my skirts, I stepped upon the stool and climbed, as gracefully as possible, upon the chair I had chosen.

The children could not prevent themselves from giggling at my exertions; I pretended not to notice, and arranged myself and my skirts in my chair, my legs dangling above the stool.

“I thank you much for agreeing to meet us here,” Mr. Grant said pleasantly. “But the children did so want to see you, after we saw your photograph in the paper, and I couldn’t take them on a boat, you see—you understand.”

“Indeed,” I said coolly, as if there were no reason to take offense. Then I fell silent, as I could not begin to think what to say. I did not know them, after all. And I was not onstage, I could not break out into song. I had never been bashful in my life, but then nothing had ever prepared me for this; I had a wild impulse to shout that they were all “simply dreadful” and run out of the room. Only the thought of Colonel Wood, who must be hovering outside the door, prevented me from doing so.

“How tall is she, Papa?” one of the boys asked, and while his
parents exchanged anxious looks, I was happy to hear his question. At least I could answer that.

“Thirty-two inches, which is how many feet, young man?” I could not help it; my teacher’s training came to the fore, and I looked at him sternly—although I had to smile when I saw his face pale and his eyes bulge.

“I—I—I don’t know?” He looked desperately at his father, who had an amused glint in his dark eyes.

“Two feet, eight inches,” I replied briskly. “You look old enough to know your mathematics!”

“For sure, for sure, son Frederick is lax with his schoolwork,” Mr. Grant chortled, slapping his knee. “Well done, Miss Bump! That you should know such a thing yourself!”

I swallowed my anger, continuing to smile politely. “Naturally I know such a thing, as I was a schoolteacher before coming west.”

“A schoolteacher!” Mrs. Grant almost dropped her child from her knee. “How can that be?”

“I was an excellent scholar and was asked to take over a classroom.”

“Extraordinary! Can you imagine your teacher being smaller than you, Nellie?” Mr. Grant addressed his daughter, for whom he obviously had a great fondness; he had sat with his arm about her shoulders from the moment they took their seats. She was a pretty thing, with long blond curls.

“No, Papa! I can’t! You’re really old enough to be a schoolteacher? How old are you?”

“Nellie, that’s not polite,” her mother scolded, and I exchanged a knowing look with her.

“Tell us more about yourself, Miss Bump, for that is why we wanted to meet you, after all.” Mr. Grant leaned back and removed a cigar from his pocket; I wrinkled my nose, for I found the
smell of cigars distasteful—at home, Papa had smoked a pipe, which I much preferred—but I did not say anything. Instead, I gave a quick recitation of my life thus far; soon we were discussing the weather, the town of Galena, which was as new to the Grants as it was to me. They had recently moved there from St. Louis, I discovered, so that Mr. Grant could take over management of his father’s store.

Politics, naturally, were discussed. The presidential election of 1860 was only a few months away.

“I don’t really think too much of politics,” Mr. Grant admitted, his cigar spattering ash upon his trousers, which he did not notice, although Mrs. Grant did. “But I suppose I have to vote Republican. I can’t abide slavery, and I guess that Lincoln’s the best man to put an end to it, although at what cost, I don’t know.”

“Do you think there will be war?” I asked, just to be polite; the increasingly fierce tensions between the North and South did not trouble me and seemed not to affect our troupe as, of course, we moved freely up and down the Mississippi, crossing the Mason-Dixon Line without thought. Even so, I had noticed that more and more, lately, Billy Birch and his minstrels discussed the situation at mealtimes; they were, after all, men.

“If there is war, will you go, like you did before, Papa?” the oldest son said, scratching his nose.

“We won’t talk of this now,” his mother said hastily, before Mr. Grant could answer.

“Were you in the military?” I asked him.

“Yes, but that was long ago,” he replied evasively, stroking his beard. “Don’t know that anyone would want me back, anyway. Well, if this fellow Lincoln is elected, there very well may be a war. I don’t think the South will stand for him.”

“Well, then I hope he won’t win!” And with this mutually happy thought, we continued to converse pleasantly. The boys
fidgeted and poked at each other but with obvious good nature; Mrs. Grant kept the babe upon her knee the entire time, jostling him gently, while Mr. Grant sat with his arm about his daughter’s shoulders. In short, I felt it was a most pleasant afternoon spent with a family similar to my own. My earlier fears and unease were forgotten.

Finally conversation lagged, and we all rose and walked toward the door, the children giggling and asking if they could stand next to me and measure my height, which I agreed to without hesitation. Mrs. Grant once again expressed her surprise that I had ever been a schoolmarm. I imagined my youthful appearance made it very difficult for her to fully comprehend it.

“It’s been such a pleasure meeting you all,” I said, extending my hand graciously and feeling it clasped with warmth and affection. “I hope we see one another again soon.”

“As do we,” Mr. Grant said with a smile that crinkled his eyes. And as the Grants left the room, I heard Mrs. Grant remark to her husband, “What a dear little lady! Her manners could not have been nicer.”

I smiled, refreshed from this interlude away from the boat, and collected my cloak and reticule. As I walked toward the lobby, where Colonel Wood was saying goodbye to the Grants, they all looked my way, waving; I waved back. They really were very lovely people, such a pleasant family, obviously of good breeding; I did hope we would meet again soon, perhaps for a picnic, or dinner, or—

Mr. Grant reached into his breast pocket and took out a fistful of bills; he handed them to Colonel Wood, who bowed and pocketed the money quickly. The Grants left, and Colonel Wood turned toward me, grinning in almost a friendly way.