The Autobiography of Mrs. Tom Thumb (40 page)

But I did not need them right now; I was content to give them away. I was content to simply
be
—with another. With Mr. Barnum.

We sat like that for a long while, as the carriage indeed took the long way around Bridgeport, swaying rhythmically, hypnotically. The clap of the horses’ hooves against the hard, frozen streets was muffled by the sound of my own heartbeat, Mr. Barnum’s breathing, the faint tick of his pocket watch hidden beneath layers of fur, wool, and understanding. It would be all right, I thought
drowsily; Minnie would be all right. I had someone to help me, someone who understood.

Someone who didn’t need me to be strong. This was such a novel sensation, I didn’t quite know what to do with it. But given time, I thought, as I nestled farther into Mr. Barnum’s welcoming arms, I could learn.

I
WAITED OUTSIDE
M
INNIE’S ROOM;
D
R
. F
EINWAY WAS THROUGH
examining her and had stepped out onto one of the balconies with a cigar. I had held Minnie’s hand as she bravely allowed him to measure her abdomen, her hips; as he listened to her heart, felt her pulse, put a strange tubelike contraption against her stomach, which had distended alarmingly in just the last couple of weeks, since my return from Bridgeport.

In that short time she had changed from a slender, delicate reed to a puffy, swollen
thing
. Her ankles and wrists were no longer separate, defined entities but rather ugly extensions of her arms and legs. Her body was already stretching to absorb this child, and to my unpracticed yet worried eyes, it looked as if it couldn’t stretch much more.

But she was happy, despite her obvious physical discomfort. She smiled all the time, when she wasn’t retching over a chamber pot or falling into a deep, exhausted sleep in the middle of the day.

“Mrs. Stratton.” Dr. Feinway beckoned to me from the other end of the hall; I slid off my chair and followed him.

Charles suddenly popped out of his room, blocking my path. He held a stick of wood in one hand, a miniature carving tool in another. “Vinnie, I’m making a spinning top for the baby, do you want to see? Your father showed me how to carve it!”

“Later, dear.” I patted his arm. “I’ll look at it later. Right now I need to discuss something with the doctor.”

“Oh.” His face, which had been smooth and happy with his accomplishment, clouded over just a bit, which wasn’t much. A lifetime of pleasing the public had ironed out most of the muscles necessary to frown. “Minnie is all right, isn’t she?”

“Yes, of course. I’ll tell you all about it later.” I gently nudged him aside and joined the doctor, leading him down the stairs and into the library, which Charles had designed in almost perfect imitation of Mr. Barnum’s own. Once the doors were closed, Dr. Feinway refused my offer of a seat; he was obviously agitated, so I could do nothing but remain standing, looking up at him with my neck at an uncomfortable angle. But he did not appear to notice how awkward this was for me.

“Where is Mr. Newell?” he asked abruptly.

Evading his piercing gaze, I busied myself with straightening a doily upon a table. “He is up in Boston for the day, on business.” I did not reveal that I had sent him there; I fully intended to discuss the situation with him after I had all the facts from the doctor. But Edward believed everything Minnie told him—if she had said the sky was yellow, he would have accepted it as fact; his head, not to mention his heart, was not steady enough to hear or speak plainly.

“Well, I would have preferred to have him here. But there is no time, not even for delicacy, so forgive me, Mrs. Stratton. Your sister appears to me to be carrying a normal-size child; according to her calculations, it’s still early, but she’s already retaining fluid, and her pulse is rapid. There is really only one reason for this. The baby is straining her system.”

“Are you sure her—calculations—are correct?” I still could not help thinking of Minnie as that shy shadow that trailed me
wherever I went, except to school; surely she had made a mistake.

“It appears she kept a very detailed diary of her—womanly days. She was obviously planning this child, keeping track. So yes, I believe her calculations. She’s a little over four months along.”

Minnie had been
planning
this? It wasn’t just one—singular—unfortunate accident? Unwanted images filled my head, of Edward and Minnie in bed night after night, clinging together, sweating, panting, loving each other as man and woman were supposed to do, but as I had never experienced, never wanted to experience—I was dizzy, nauseated, desperate to sit down so that I would not collapse. But the doctor remained standing. He was a tall, aristocratic man with impeccably shaped, buffed nails. For some reason I could not take my eyes off them; they were obviously a source of pride for him. Could a man be a good doctor and have such vanity? But obviously Mr. Barnum thought he was; I must accept him.

“Then what are we to do?” I asked, tearing my gaze away from his hands. Finally, he appeared to notice the disparity in our heights; his eyes, behind gleaming spectacles, softened, and he looked about for a chair. I gestured to one, and he took it. I had never been so glad to sit down in all my life; once relieved of their duty, my legs began to tremble. I had to press my hands upon my thighs to keep my silk skirt from rustling like aspen leaves in the wind.

“I think the only humane thing is to convince your sister to abort her child. There’s no question it will be a normal-size baby if it’s taxing her so early on.”

“She thinks it will be a tiny, like she is. She doesn’t seem to recall that she and I were both normal-size at birth, and so far I haven’t had the heart to tell her. I’m afraid—if we tell her, and she refuses to abort the child, then she has to spend the next months
in fear, dreadful fear. But if we don’t, she won’t understand the severity of the situation. I don’t know what to do—oh, I don’t know what to do!” And I wanted, so desperately, for Mr. Barnum to be here now; I trusted no one else to make this decision for me.

The doctor looked at me in sympathy. Then he removed his spectacles and rubbed the bridge of his nose. Placing those glasses, with his fine, manicured hands, deliberately back upon his face, he said, “There is nothing for you to do. We must tell your sister the facts as we know them, and she must decide.”

“But you don’t understand, I’ve looked after her all our lives; she’s not as—as—” But I broke off, ashamed of what I was saying. Minnie wasn’t as—what? Smart as me? As quick? As perceptive?

As
cowardly
?

“I think your sister is of perfectly sound mind,” Dr. Feinway said gently. “But I do hope you can persuade her to see the medical facts. Even the soundest of minds grow soft at the idea of a child.”

“If she were to—abort—the child, how is it done?” I was sick, sick to my stomach, sick to my spirit; I had already killed one child, and now I would soon have another on my hands. This irony fell upon me like a particularly ugly, ungainly costume; it turned me into someone else, someone I couldn’t recognize in the mirror.

“There is risk in the procedure, I won’t lie. The usual way is a flushing out of the uterus with special waters, although I’ve read about a newer practice involving scraping.”

I flinched at the words; my own abdomen tightened, and I felt bile rise up in my throat.

“But if she carries the child to term?”

Dr. Feinway hesitated. “I have been present when a large child was born to a small woman; it’s an impossible situation, but sometimes Providence provides a way. But I’ve never before seen a fully
mature woman as small as your sister. There are instruments that can assist—forceps, primarily—but those would be of no use in this case. There are instances when the child can be cut from the womb, but only after—after all hope is gone for the mother.”

“She must not be allowed to carry this child!” I balled up my fists, pressing them even harder against my legs. My entire body was filled with a cold, heavy liquid; it had replaced my blood, and I knew, from the bitter taste of it in my mouth, that it was terror. I had never experienced terror before, not even when Colonel Wood had tried to attack me.

Only Minnie could make me feel it; only Minnie could make me feel so many things, love and affection, and now, finally, cold, debilitating terror.

“Do your best to explain the facts, then. And don’t neglect to engage her husband,” Dr. Feinway said, rising. “Do you happen to have anything to drink? I could use a brandy about now.”

I nodded and rose; ringing for the maid, I asked her to show the doctor to the dining room, where we had a small stock of fine whiskey in decanters. Neither Charles nor I drank spirits, but we had some on hand for guests. Although, at the moment, I had a longing to join Dr. Feinway; I had to go to Minnie now, and the temptation to have something strong in me for courage was great.

But I did not; I walked back upstairs, down the hall, past Charles, who asked me, again, to look at his carving. I didn’t answer him. Instead I knocked on my sister’s door and let myself inside.

“A
NNABELLE
?”

“No, too silly.”

“Amelia?”

“Too serious.”

“Sarah?”

“Too plain.”

“Guinevere?”

“Too fancy!” Minnie laughed merrily, the shining tinkle of her laugh—like delicate bells—filling the air.

It was the only recognizable thing about her now. Her laugh, the sound of her voice—those things had not changed. Nor had her temperament: by turns serious and trusting, patience itself, always hopeful. She had borne her penance with a peacefulness I knew I could not have, were I in her place. But I could never be in her place; I had made my choice long ago.

Confined to her bed since the day that Dr. Feinway examined her, she had not complained. She had accepted it, not as her fate but rather as her privilege, almost as if receiving a benediction or blessing. So willing was she to obey the doctor’s orders, she scarcely moved from her back at all, as if for fear of dislodging the life that was so obviously overtaking hers.

For of course she refused to abort her child. I knew she would, but that hadn’t stopped me from dropping to my knees beside her bed and grasping her little hand, my tears punctuating my words.

“Minnie, darling, you don’t understand,” I began, faltering; I had never wanted to mention Uncle’s little cow to my sister, as that was my own personal Gethsemane. I never wanted it to be hers. But then I took a deep breath, squeezed her hand, and looked straight into her eyes.

“The child is not tiny, not like you think,” I made myself continue. “The child is most likely normal-size, just as I was—just as you were when you were born. The doctor was very certain that is the case.”

Minnie’s eyes widened, but she did not flinch. She absorbed the news gravely, her hand going to her abdomen, stroking it,
caressing it. She remained silent for so long that I feared she hadn’t understood me completely.

“You do—you do understand the way babies are born,” I began, blushing. “You do understand how—how—”

“Of course I understand.” Minnie’s eyes blazed at me. “Honestly, Vinnie, how young do you think I am? I’m a married woman, just like you!”

I bit my lip and looked away. She was right, of course. I could have prevented this by treating her as I had always wanted to be treated myself—as a sensible adult, regardless of my size. But no, I had always wanted to protect her. And I had done my job too well.

Or had I? For after all, I had willingly snatched baby after baby out of her hands, causing her poor, tender heart to break over and over again. I had allowed her to respond to all those condolence letters. I still had them somewhere; I hadn’t been able to throw them away, and I hadn’t known just why. But now I did; they were portents, weren’t they? Harbingers of what lay ahead.

Concentrating on a worn patch of wallpaper next to the headboard, I somehow continued. “Minnie, I—I should have told you, oh, so much! It’s all my fault, and I—”

I felt a hand upon my shoulder. Steeling myself against the accusation I knew I would find in her eyes, I took a trembling breath and turned to my sister.

But there was only that now-familiar soft, hopeful light in Minnie’s eyes as she smiled and hugged me to her.

“It doesn’t matter, Vinnie. I’m glad you told me, but—it doesn’t matter. You don’t understand, you can never understand, what it is to have life within you! I’m so sorry that you haven’t had this chance, but I’m so grateful that I am able to! Even if—but I know that God will find a way. I know that He will see me through this. And I promise, this baby will be yours as well as mine. You’re
always looking out for me—still! You’re always doing things for me. Well, this is the one thing I can do for you, and I would not wish it any other way.”

I had to leave the room then, coward that I was, that I now knew I always had been. I couldn’t bring myself to witness the bravery in those still incongruously impish eyes, the nobility in that dimple and faint, determined scowl.

All were gone now; she lay, still so patiently, but her body was no longer her own. It was a puffy, stretched, swollen, throbbing vessel for the life within, the life that continued to grow and grow, so obviously not the “fairy child” that we all continued to talk hopefully about, regardless of the facts. Through eyes that were slits, a face too swollen to display a dimple; with hands that were so awkward and puffy, she could barely hold her knitting needles, but still she tried; over an abdomen that stretched her skin as tight as a drum and made it impossible for her to do more than allow an extra pillow beneath her head—my sister prepared for the new life expected.

“What if it’s a boy?” I asked her, as I knitted an absurdly tiny cap out of the softest wool; it was all for show, the tiny layette that Mama, Delia, and I were preparing for her, to ease her mind—as well as Edward’s. He refused to consider the possibility that the child would be normal-size, and forbade us from discussing it.

“She is not a boy, I know it.” Minnie struggled with small knitting needles, trying to maneuver them upon her swollen belly.