The Autobiography of Mrs. Tom Thumb (41 page)

“How?”

“Because she is very considerate about when she kicks. A boy would not be so thoughtful.”

“What—what does it feel like?” I was hesitant to ask; I talked about the child in theory, allowing her to dream of it. But I did not like to discuss any of the practical—physical—aspects of what my
sister was going through. It was almost as if I could wish them away by not giving them voice.

But by the look of relief—of happiness—in Minnie’s gaze as she considered my question, I had to wonder who I was protecting in this way. Her? Or me?

“Do you remember the time I swallowed a grasshopper?” she asked me.

“Yes.” I laughed; I hadn’t thought of that in years. “You said you could feel it hopping about inside you, and then you started to hop, too; you hopped all through dinnertime, until Mama didn’t know what to do and was about to send for the doctor.”

“Well, it’s like that. Only this time, it’s real; I do feel something hopping about inside me. As if I’ve swallowed a very large, very heavy, grasshopper. Oh!” She gasped, and her hand flew to her stomach.

“What is it? Are you all right? Shall I send for the doctor?” I jumped out of my chair, my knitting falling to the floor. I was halfway out the door when I heard my sister’s happy laugh beckoning me back inside.

“Vinnie—come, quick! She’s kicking right now! Come feel!”

“Oh!” I turned back to her but remained where I was, in the doorway. My hands flew behind my back almost of their own accord.

“Come!” Minnie patted the mattress, one hand still upon her stomach, which twitched, ever so faintly, beneath the sheets. I stared at it in horror.

“No, I don’t want to hurt you, dearest—”

“You won’t hurt me! I promise—come feel her, Vinnie! Come say hello to your niece!”

“No, can’t you listen to me? I said no!” I couldn’t help it—my voice was rough with anger, and I flinched at the startled look on Minnie’s face. “I mean, I will another time. Oh, will you look at
that! My yarn rolled beneath the bed!” And I fell to my knees to avoid her hurtful, reproachful gaze; I was grateful for the exertion it took for me to wiggle under the bed and retrieve my knitting.

When I resumed my seat, I felt shyness and guilt, both, envelop me; I concentrated on my knitting with such intensity, the needles came close to poking out my eyes. My sister was a stranger to me now in so many ways; she had outpaced me, she who had always held docilely on to my hand while I led. Suddenly, our roles were reversed. And I knew Minnie wanted only to share her joy; I knew she wanted only to
teach
me the things she was learning with every passing day, every evidence of the child growing within.

But I was as reluctant a pupil now as she once had been. For the lessons my sister wanted to teach me were lessons not of the mind but of the heart.

“So no boys’ names, then? Not even one, just in case?” I returned to a safe subject.

Minnie was silent for a moment; she turned her head away from me, staring out her window, but finally, after a soft little sigh, she replied, “No. But I do have an idea for a girl’s name. A perfectly lovely girl’s name.”

“What?”

“Pauline,” my sister said quietly.

I dropped my knitting again, tears filling my eyes once more—oh, there was not even ten minutes a day, it seemed lately, that I did not cry!

“Oh, Minnie, that’s too—too sweet of you. Mr. Barnum will be so touched.”

“Indeed, he will,” said a familiar hearty voice. Minnie and I both looked up, startled; there, in the doorway, stood Mr. Barnum himself. A beautiful cradle, adorned with an enormous pink silk bow, was in his arms.

“Mr. Barnum!” Minnie exclaimed; with a very feminine gesture she patted at her hair and smoothed the ribbons on her bed jacket. I ran to her and tried to prop her up a bit upon her pillows, but she was too cumbersome; she smiled and raised her hands helplessly.

I glanced at Mr. Barnum; he was trying, unsuccessfully, to hide his shock at her appearance. His hands shook as he set the cradle down, and his gray eyes were misty with tears.

“We didn’t expect you,” I told him, rushing over to take his hat, placing my hand upon his arm to steady him. He smiled and kissed me on the cheek; one of his tears fell upon my face, and I pressed my hand to it, absorbing it into my own flesh. Then I turned away, hoping he hadn’t seen.

“Would you really like it if I named her Pauline?” Minnie asked him.

“It would mean the world to me. I can think of no greater tribute.” Recovering himself, Mr. Barnum pulled up a chair next to Minnie’s bed and plopped himself upon it; in his shock, he must not have seen that it was a small chair, made for us. So he sat with his knees up to his chin, his fleshy body spilling over the arms; Minnie and I burst into laughter, and he had no idea why.

“What? What is it?”

“Nothing.” I signaled Minnie to keep quiet, and she did, with a look of such delight upon her swollen face that my heart lightened enough so that I was not, for one blessed, fleeting moment, aware of it.

“Well, Miss Minnie, it’s good to see you so cheerful, anyway.”

“I have our Vinnie to thank for that. She never lets me get bored or anxious. And she tells me wonderful stories every day about all the things she’s seen.”

“You’ve accompanied her on all her travels; surely there’s not much she can tell you?”

“Oh, but there is! It’s almost as if I haven’t been in the same places she has, for she remembers things I didn’t even know happened! Like the time the Maharaja tried to give her a purse of rubies—I had no idea!”

“You were too shy, Pumpkin. You wanted to remain behind in our rooms and have your dinner with Mrs. Bleeker, remember?”

“I know. That’s why I love hearing your stories; I get to live my life all over again, through different eyes!” Minnie smiled at me, and I had to look away; I didn’t like to recall how long she had been in my shadow. I didn’t like to hear her talk of living her life again, as if she had a premonition about the future.

“Well, I may not be as good a storyteller as your sister, but I’m no slouch,” Mr. Barnum said hastily, catching a glimpse of my face as I busied myself with arranging a bowl of forget-me-nots on the windowsill; it was spring now in Middleborough. Life was bursting out all around us: flowers and tender grass and birds singing, newborn calves, foals, the first sprouts of Mama’s kitchen garden. Sometimes I felt hopeful; with all the vigor and optimism of the season, how could Minnie not survive her upcoming ordeal? Surely the same pulse, the same spirit that carried the scent of new-mown hay through her window, always open now so that she might hear the birds, would see her through, safe and sound?

Other times, when I heard her moan softly as she sought a comfortable position, as I watched Dr. Feinway’s increasingly grave countenance when he left her room (he came every two weeks, arranged by Mr. Barnum), I felt the cruelty of the season. It wasn’t fair! Life should not come so easily to the dumb creatures of nature, when my own sister did not have the same chance.

“Have I told you about my elephant?” Mr. Barnum asked Minnie. She shook her head, her curls—dull now, changed like the rest of her—ruffling her pillow. I pulled up a chair on the other
side of her; both of our faces turned, like flowers to the sun, to Mr. Barnum as he began his tale.

“Jumbo is his name,” he said, shifting about uncomfortably in his tiny chair, still unaware of its proportions. “Well, he’s not mine yet—but he will be! He’s in a zoo in London now; he was found as a baby in the deepest, darkest jungles of Africa. He’s the biggest animal of his kind, I’d swear it! Well, between you and me, I wouldn’t exactly swear it in a court of law, but I’m confident the public won’t hold me to that. He’s really a stunner—his legs are ten feet high! One of my giants could easily pass under him! Yet he’s the gentlest animal soul I’ve ever seen; right smart he is, they say. He can count to three by stomping his foot, and when he does, the whole earth quakes! Minnie, I would love to see you curled up in his trunk; he loves to cradle things. One time at the zoo, one of the monkeys was missing, and finally they found him sleeping in Jumbo’s trunk, that elephant rocking him back and forth just like a baby!”

“No!” Minnie exclaimed breathlessly. “Didn’t he hurt the poor monkey?”

“Not a bit! Gentlest animal ever—they even let children ride him! Some of those elephants can get pretty ornery, but not Jumbo. Shh, don’t tell anyone yet, but I’m planning on buying him and bringing him over here. I can build an entire circus around him. I’ll put him in a special train car, bright red with his name in big yellow letters, so that when we come to town he’s the first thing folks want to see!”

“Oh, I’d love to see him. Can I? Can we, Vinnie?”

I believe, at that moment, Minnie had forgotten her condition; she was a girl again, about to embark upon a new adventure with me. I was so grateful to Mr. Barnum for giving her that moment of respite, for I knew, despite her cheerfulness, she was worried about her confinement. If I couldn’t talk to her about it,
Mama could, at least a little; I overheard Minnie asking her once how much it would hurt. Mama told her only about as much as it hurt to have a tooth out, but that she’d forget about it the moment it was over and she held her baby for the first time. Yet when Mama left the room, she broke down sobbing in my arms, and I heard Minnie crying softly in her bed.

Mr. Barnum proceeded to tell her more stories about Jumbo; he had that same light in his eyes he used to have when he spoke of Jenny Lind, and I smiled to think of how jealous I had once been of her! Now I knew that Mr. Barnum was like a child in his affections: The newest toy was always his favorite. And Jenny Lind was across the ocean, matronly and married; Jumbo was in his zoo. I was right here, and I always had been. As I always would be.

Minnie was growing weary. She slept a lot now; it was painful to recall how she used to move, like quicksilver, such a sprite of a thing. Even when she left her bed to use the chamber pot, she moved so heavily, she reminded me of Sylvia.

I noticed her trying to stifle a yawn.

“Mr. Barnum, it’s time for Minnie to rest now,” I interposed gently but firmly, for he was not used to having his stories interrupted.

“Oh! Well, listen to me going on and on. I’m sorry, Miss Minnie. You must store up your energy, for when that baby comes, you will surely need it!” He spoke lightly, looking directly at her as he said this. Then he tried to rise from his chair and became stuck; standing, the chair clung to his behind like a burr, and Minnie giggled at the sight.

Finally, after much turning about, he managed to remove it, and so it was with cheerfulness and humor that he and Minnie said their farewells. Just as he bent over her bed to shake her hand, however, Minnie’s face grew serious; she tugged upon his sleeve, pulling him closer to her. She tried to whisper, but I could hear
her, anyway; didn’t she know that I could always hear her? Her voice was ever in my thoughts, ever in my memories.

“Mr. Barnum, please look after Vinnie for me, won’t you? Sister worries too much, and I know that you’re the only person she’ll listen to. Try to amuse her—and just—take care of her, please? She’s always taken care of me, but nobody ever takes care of her.”

Mr. Barnum’s forced smile froze. He looked into my sister’s eyes and I suddenly feared what he would say.

“Come, let Minnie get her rest,” I said briskly from the doorway, pretending not to have heard—although my voice was suddenly unpredictable; I couldn’t quite stop it from quavering. “I’ll be back soon, dearest.”

Minnie turned her head away from me, but I saw her lips tremble as she nodded.

Resolutely, I led Mr. Barnum out into the hall, as Delia curtsied shyly to him and took my place by Minnie’s bed. Together we walked down the stairs; as always, he slowed his pace to match mine, without seeming to think about it.

Still not speaking, we walked through the front door; he didn’t have to ask if I wanted some air. We walked until we were far from the house, with all its open windows, and could speak freely. An iron bench, nestled among a patch of daffodils, beckoned, and we sat down upon it. I took in as much air as I could, breathing in greedy gulps, as if I were suffocating. Despite her open windows, Minnie’s room was growing unbearably stuffy, the air stagnant, full of sickbed smells; sweat and urine and vomit, and, most pervasive of all, fear.

“You look like something the cat dragged in, chewed up, and then spit back out again,” Mr. Barnum finally remarked, and I had to laugh. I had no idea how I looked—me, the perfectly
groomed little Queen of Beauty! But it had been ages since I had spent any time dressing my hair, and I couldn’t remember the last time I looked in a mirror. I rose every morning, donned whatever dress was handy, did my hair up in a simple knot, and went to Minnie’s room. Edward always greeted me with a quick update—usually, she had spent a restless night, unable to lie comfortably, and now bedsores were becoming a worry—before stumbling off to Charles’s sitting room, where he might shave and bathe, but more often than not, collapsed on a settee and slept like a dead man. Edward was suffering, too; a good soul, so devoted to Minnie that he appeared unable to think ahead to the outcome of this ordeal. But I could not like him. I was jealous, jealous of his right to spend the nights with her, angry for his inability to keep himself away from her, for giving in to his animalistic urges and putting her in this situation. I knew it wasn’t fair to think of him that way—as a heathen who couldn’t control himself, just like a
polygamist
—but I did. He was a man, after all. And I knew what men were like.

I patted my hair, knowing that it was in a lifeless knot at the back of my neck, and agreed with Mr. Barnum. “I’m sure I look a fright.”

“You should think of yourself some, and take rest whenever you can.”

“I’ve spent my entire life thinking of myself. It’s a privilege to spend this time thinking of her,” I replied, speaking the truth.

“If you won’t think of yourself, then I will—shall I ask Charles to return to Bridgeport with me? I haven’t seen him nearly enough, and would enjoy a little bachelor vacation myself. Nancy will be in England visiting her family.” Nancy was his second wife; he had remarried following Charity’s death in 1873. I was no more fond of his second wife than I was of his first. Nancy was
younger than I, vain and cold, interested only in the many material benefits of being Mrs. Phineas Taylor Barnum, for she spent no time with him.