The Autobiography of Mrs. Tom Thumb (43 page)

For the first time in a very long time, I felt
small
.

“I want you to leave now,” I said, recovering some remnant of rational thinking. “Although if you will allow Minnie to continue in the care of Dr. Feinway, I would appreciate it. But as for me, I would prefer not to be under any further obligation to you.”

“You don’t mean that,” Mr. Barnum said, and I could see, across the chasm between us, the flicker of hurt in his eyes even as he bravely set his mouth in that familiar crooked smile.

“I don’t? Why is that—because I’m only a dwarf? A
‘novelty,’
as you put it?”

His smile turned into a grimace. “Vinnie, I didn’t mean that—you’re too tired to know what you’re saying.”

“Then we’re agreed on something.” I shrugged. “I am tired. And I don’t have time for your showmanship anymore, Mr. Barnum. Now, if you’ll excuse me, my sister needs me.”

“Vinnie, wait—” He took a step in my direction, but I spun around and began to walk toward the house, to my sister. Away from him.

“Vinnie, don’t leave like this,” he called, and there was sadness in his voice now, the genuine sadness of an old man, for that was what he was. I didn’t usually think of him that way, and I wished I hadn’t allowed myself to do so now. I did not want to feel sympathy for him.

So I picked up my skirts and began to run; if I could put enough distance between the two of us, I would never be tempted to go back.

My hair came undone from its bun; it streamed down my
back, heavy and tickling as it hadn’t done since I was young. Since Minnie and I were girls, running around the barnyard hand in hand, laughing and searching for hidden treasures, for rocks and eggs and anthills, four-leaf clovers, fairy wings.

Objects that only the two of us, so close together, so close to the ground in a way that no one else was, could see. Objects that Minnie had always found beautiful, and that she had persisted in trying to share with me.

But I never could see them, not then, not now.

I was always too busy looking for the man in the moon, instead.

T
HE TWENTY-THIRD OF
J
ULY STARTED OUT LIKE ANY OTHER SUM
mer day; it dawned bright and warm, with the promise of midafternoon heat in the pale morning sun. The house seemed airless by eight a.m.; after bringing Minnie her breakfast, which she could not eat except for a little nibble of dry toast, I went outside, hoping to cool off.

Papa’s cow pastures were almost all sold off by now, divided up among my brothers, who had built houses of their own. But one pasture remained untouched, just big enough for the small herd he still kept; I headed out there, careful not to step in cow patties or gopher holes. Up ahead, on top of a little hill, was an enormous, leafy tree that was sure to provide nice, cool shade. I was eager to reach that restful spot; I walked faster, as if in a race against time and sun. I knew I could not linger, for Minnie was due any day now. Yet I so wanted to spend a little time sitting against the trunk, maybe even taking off my shoes and stockings to let my feet play in the tall, cool grass; I hadn’t done that since I was a child.

Finally, I reached the shade; pausing to collect my breath, I unbuttoned the top of my bodice so that some of the heat, trapped
within the folds of my dress, could escape. Then I took a closer look at the tree; it had been so long since I had tramped outdoors, but this tree looked familiar.

Creeping closer to the trunk, I pushed away some of the tall grass, and there it was, like a long-forgotten friend—my name. My name, and the line marking my height, which was still just an inch or two below where I stood now. I looked up, seeing all the other familiar names—
James, Benjamin, Delia …

But where was Minnie? For the first time, I realized her name had not been etched in the rough, gnarled bark. I couldn’t remember why that was—had she even been born then? Was she just too timid to romp about that day? Had I abandoned her, as I sometimes did, impatient that she didn’t want to run after the others, annoyed that she was so content to sit in the kitchen with Mama, playing with her dolls? I honestly could not recall. However, it wasn’t right that her name was not here with the rest of us; how could I have not noticed it before? Anyone looking at this tree would think she hadn’t existed at all—

Like a thunderclap, the panic startled me, overcame me; I had to scratch her name right here, right
now
. I had to record my sister’s life on this tree this very instant, capture it somehow. And if I did, surely, like a gypsy’s charm, everything would be all right. I looked about, but of course there was no handy knife or tool nearby; I grabbed a stick, but it snapped against the rough bark. Finally, I tried to use my fingernail, scraping until my finger bled, but it was no use. There wasn’t even a faint outline of her name; I hadn’t made a dent.

Breathing heavily, hot and perspiring even under the shade, I sat down for a moment to think. I could run over to Mama’s—their house was closer. I needn’t tell her why I required a knife; it would only upset her. I could just take one from the rack in the kitchen, slip back outside and run back here before—

“Vinnie! Vinnie!” There was a figure far down the hill, jumping up and down, waving its arms. Standing, I shaded my eyes from the sun with my hand, and recognized it as Charles. “Come quick—Edward sent me to fetch you. Minnie needs you, Vinnie—do you s’pose it’s about the baby?”

There was uncertainty in his voice. Uncertainty as well as fear. My legs began to propel me down the hill before I could fully realize what they were doing; I shot past Charles in a blur. I was much faster than he was, as I ran just as I used to as a girl, forgetting about my corset, my train, my straw hat, which flew off my head at some point. Charles must have retrieved it, for later I found it on my bed, crumpled but not torn.

I also forgot about the tree; I remembered only when Dr. Feinway asked me why my fingernails were torn. By then, all the men were banished from the house, sent across to Mama and Papa’s; Edward did not want to leave, but Minnie, between gasping and writhing, insisted.

How do I write of what happened next? I’ve never been able to speak of it: not to Charles, not to Mama, not to anyone. Yet Minnie’s story cannot be told without describing the hell of that day, beginning with the sweltering July heat that soon turned the room into a sauna. It was captured in the sheets, in the curtains, within the folds of my clothing, rivulets flowing into rivers of sweat plastering my undergarments to my skin, turning my cotton dress into a velvet shroud, stifling my pores until I felt as if I were being boiled in a covered pot.

When the pains started, Minnie was so hot that she kept tugging at her nightgown, complaining that it was too heavy; by the end, she had lost so much blood that she was shivering uncontrollably, her skin icy to the touch.

The blood! Oh, so much blood, such a defiant crimson, soaking the sheets, sticking to her legs, covering Dr. Feinway’s arms,
stringing, like ropy spiderwebs, between his fine, tapered fingers. The child simply could not emerge, although nature tried to take over, tearing my sister, wracking her with pain. Her piteous cries pierced the air, pierced my ears so that they still ring with them, all these years later. She started out whimpering, smiling apologetically between the pains; as they came closer and closer, more furious, unrelenting, she stopped apologizing. Her pupils dilated like a wounded animal’s as she waited for the next, and then the next, and then the next. Soon her entire body was being wrung with the force of the infant desperate to be born; her limbs flailed, her back arched off the mattress, as the doctor tensely held her legs down. Even as she was in the primitive throes of her torture, he was still able to overpower my diminutive sister. Minnie was helpless against everything, everyone, in that room—except me.

“Can’t you give her some ether?” I pleaded with Dr. Feinway, as her eyes glazed over and she bit her lip so hard that now there was blood there, as well.

“Not yet, not while there’s still a chance she can expel the child,” he barked. He had lost his kind, professional demeanor and was now in his shirtsleeves, spattered with blood, looking more like a butcher than a doctor. He grunted and groaned nearly as much as Minnie, and ran to the window to spit outside and curse his frustration before returning to the bed and the nurse he had brought with him. She was a woman so methodical, so practiced, as to be an automaton. She did not react to Minnie’s cries; she did not blanch at all the blood. She merely stood, silent and efficient, waiting to do whatever Dr. Feinway needed.

I hovered near the top of the bed, near the only part of her that was not being torn apart. I mopped her brow but could not do it easily; she had been moved to a guest room, placed upon a regular-size bed so that the doctor could better attend to her. I had
to use my wooden steps, standing awkwardly, but by the end I simply crawled into bed with her, holding her to me as she begged me, in the most heartbreaking whisper, to “Rock me, Sister, rock me.” And I tried to do just that; I maneuvered my body around hers as best I could, and cradled her shoulders in my arms.

“Little drops of water, little grains of sand,”
I began, unable to recall any song but the ones I used to teach in school. All the popular songs I had sung onstage to Kings and Queens escaped my mind at that moment; only the simplest ones, the ones I had taught to children, remained.

But it didn’t matter; no angelic smile, no whisper of relief, greeted my singing. I don’t think she heard me, and I wondered, later, if she asked only because she knew I needed to do something at that moment.

I remained there, half sitting, half reclining, rocking my sister for the longest time, crooning softly into her tangled mat of hair for hours, it seemed. I was still rocking, still crooning, my voice hoarse and dry, when I felt a hand upon my shoulder. Looking up, it took me a long moment to recognize Dr. Feinway; I was almost surprised to see him there, so fiercely had I tried to block out everything but the blessed weight of my sister in my arms.

But now that weight was motionless, cold. Minnie was no longer moaning or thrashing. Her eyes were shut, her long lashes coal-black against the marble white of her cheeks.

“Vinnie, she’s gone,” Dr. Feinway said gently but urgently. “The child still might have a chance, but we have to cut it from her. You need to leave now.”

“Leave?” I looked at Minnie, lying limply against my arms, peaceful for the first time in such a long while. “Rock me, Sister,” she had whispered, and I had. I had rocked her, finally, to sleep.

“Leave,” the doctor said, lifting me roughly off the bed so that
I had to release my sister. She fell back, like a marionette whose strings had been cut, against the pillow that was soiled and drenched from her sweat, her blood.

I allowed Dr. Feinway to push me out of the room—until I caught a glimpse of the instruments the impassive nurse was laying out upon a table; there was a knife, with gleaming, sawlike teeth.

“No!” I wailed, wanting to run back in and warn Minnie. But Minnie wasn’t there anymore, and Dr. Feinway shut the door in my face; the handle turned until it locked. Then I heard a soft moan behind me. Spinning around, I saw Mama, who had been sitting sentry in the hall the whole time, slide off her chair and onto the floor, where I dropped to my knees just in time to catch her. Not a muscle moved on her kind, careworn face as she uttered only one cry, but it had all the love and worry of a lifetime in it.

“My baby,” she moaned, burying her face in my chest—only those two words, but there was no need for more. Then she started to weep, softly, as she clung to me. And I held my mother; I rocked her, too; I sang softly, scraps of songs that Minnie loved. Songs that I knew I would never sing again.

I had no sense of how much time passed, but when Dr. Feinway opened the door and said, “We could not save her daughter,” the windows were dark and someone had turned on the gaslights in the hall. I was surprised to see a tear roll down his patrician face; I had imagined him to be above emotion. That my sister had touched him so, in the short time he had known her, moved me beyond words.

“Do you want to see the child?” he asked.

“No! I don’t want to see that—that
thing
that killed my sister! Take it away! Take it away from here—”

“Vinnie, please.” Mama clutched at my sleeve with trembling hands, her face irrevocably old; I knew that from this moment on,
she would look forward only to death, not life. “Please, for me, because I’m not strong enough. But you are.”

I hadn’t the heart to tell my mother she was wrong. So I gently nudged her off my lap, and rose on unsteady legs, and followed Dr. Feinway into the darkened room, still stuffy, but now a chill wind was blowing in from the window; the heat had broken and the air was cool, fresh, like spring. The nurse was methodically folding bloodstained linens and stuffing them in a wicker basket, the crimson faded to rust; despite the wind, the metallic smell of blood was everywhere. I thought, oddly, that I must replace the carpet and wallpaper in here; the smell would never come out otherwise.

The only light in the room was from two oil lamps on either side of the bed upon which Minnie was lying, her eyes closed, her skin already turning waxen.

“I’ve never known such courage,” Dr. Feinway said softly.

Someone had brushed her curls so that they were no longer tangled and damp; miraculously, they looked like they used to, silky black, no longer that dull, coarse texture of these last months. She almost appeared as if she were sleeping, and perhaps she would to someone who did not know her. But I—who had slept with her so many nights, held her close, watched her dream—knew she was not. I knew it because her red rosebud lips, usually slightly parted, the tip of her pink tongue between them, were blue. Her chest, which always rose and fell so trustingly, was still. Everything about her was so still, so empty; there was no life in this room.

And in her arms was a doll, just as there had been so many times. But it wasn’t a doll; it was her child, her daughter—“Pauline,” I said, christening her. She was cleaned up, bathed by the nurse, I presumed, but there were bruises and cuts about her pale, lifeless face; no rosy cheeks and lips, only scrunched-up eyes that
had never opened, making her look angry, frustrated. But she had black hair, just like Minnie’s.