The Autobiography of Mrs. Tom Thumb (44 page)

My little wooden steps—now so worn, so distressed, from being bumped, dragged, and dropped across continents and oceans—were still by her bed. I could have climbed them, had I wished, to touch her, kiss her once more. But I did not. I felt almost in awe. This was not my sister; this was a holy shrine, an icon apart from the horror and pain of the earthly world, the deception, the dishonesty—the sin.

And I wondered, in that moment, if the enormity of my guilt was in inverse proportion to my size. Had I been bigger, would my sins on this earth be less significant—just like my hopes and dreams?

“I imagine so,” I whispered, although Minnie could not hear. “I dreamed too big, dearest, for you and me. And you were the one who had to pay. Forgive me, oh, forgive me!”

And then I backed out of the room, unable to look away until I closed the door softly, as if afraid to wake her up. Leaving Mama sobbing quietly in her chair, I ran down the stairs, out the door, and toward the old homestead, pausing in the middle of the road to catch my breath, surprised to feel the night air sweet and refreshing upon my aching brow. Then I gathered up my skirts, as well as my courage, and continued across the road.

I knew I would find Papa in the barn; he didn’t turn around as I came in. He simply continued to work, planing a soft pine log, sanding it to the smoothest surface; smooth enough for a cradle, smooth enough for a coffin.

Tears rolled down his craggy face as he began, for the last time, to craft something beautiful, something practical, something that would ease life’s journey, for one of his two little girls.

INTERMISSION
 

A Song and Chorus dedicated to the worldwide friends and
admirers of Minnie Warren, entitled “Rock Me Sister,” composed
by Horatio C. King (published 1878 for voice and piano)

Summer echoes gently stealing Oe’r the meadow, through the grove, Bore the sighs of loved ones kneeling, By the death bed of their love, There with face of pearly whiteness, Failing pulse and fainting breath, With a gaze of heavenly brightness, Minnie Warren smiled on death (Chorus)

“I am going, rock me, sister,” so the little mother sigh’d,

Then as tearfully they kissed her, Fairy Minnie smiled and died.

Set the chimes of elf land ringing, Let each tiny fairy bell,

On the air sweet music flinging,

Whisper gentle Minnie’s knell.

From
The Popular Science Monthly
, April 1878

O
N
E
DISON’S
T
ALKING-
M
ACHINE, BY
A
LFRED
M. M
AYER

Mr. Thomas A. Edison has recently invented an instrument which is undoubtedly the acoustic marvel of the century. It is called the “Speaking Phonograph,” or, adopting the Indian idiom, one may call it “The Sound-Writer who talks.”

[ SIXTEEN ]
 
The Curtain Falls, Between Acts

A
T FIRST
, I
DID NOT KNOW HOW
I
COULD GO ON WITHOUT
her.

When Minnie died, part of me died with her. For I had lost not only the sister whom I loved more than anyone else in the world; I also lost the one person in my life who had ever looked up to me. She and I had shared things that no one else could imagine; for so much of our lives, we had shared a chair at table, shared a bed, shared a train seat, shared clothing, even. How often had Mama cut up one of her old dresses and made it over into two smaller ones, just for Minnie and me? There was so much in this world that was too big for one of us alone, but that, together, we could just about fill. Except for hearts, that is; Minnie, alone, was big enough to fill up the hearts of everyone she met. And now my own heart was so empty I decided to put it away for good. There
was only one other person who might have had some use for it, but I was no longer speaking to him.

Eventually, however, I did go on, in a fashion, without my sister. For the alternative was to stay home, alone, with my husband.

Edward moved away to New York, although I did not urge him to. Witnessing his grief upon seeing his wife and child lying together in their tiny coffin thoroughly changed my attitude toward him. Perhaps I could not have taken care of Minnie’s child, but I found myself softening toward her husband, allowing that he had truly loved her in a way no sister ever could. I was as in awe of his love as I had been of Minnie’s.

I was also envious, just as Mr. Barnum had so infuriatingly observed. For now that it was just the two of us, I could not help but look at my own husband through skeptical, disappointed eyes.

Oh, Charles was kindness itself, tiptoeing around me as I fiercely gathered the black veils of that first grief and wrapped myself within them. I would not allow anyone to tell me that I must carry on, that I must be strong, that I must remember that Minnie and her daughter would be waiting for me in Heaven. “I don’t care!” I shouted in response. “I want her here! Now!”

Charles did not say such things to me, but it was only because they were not in his repertoire. He had not been taught by Mr. Barnum how to behave with a grieving wife. So he did not recite platitudes and proverbs, and at first I was grateful for that. He was the one person who spoke honestly and plainly about his feelings; possessing none of the stoicism that ran through the male line of my family, he wept along with me. Many nights he crept into my room, climbed into my bed, and slipped his hand in mine as he cried softly into my pillow; I cried into his shoulder. I thought, then, that perhaps we had at last achieved the emotional intimacy
of a married couple; perhaps I even allowed myself to wonder if we could achieve physical intimacy, as well.

But my sister’s death—the blood, the suffering—was too fresh, too horrible, for me to reach out to my husband in that way. And Charles, ever the devoted pupil, trained first by Mr. Barnum and then by me, had long stopped reaching out to me. My husband fell asleep on my pillow but not in my arms.

Soon, however, I began to be irritated by his tears; it was almost as if he was imitating my grief, although not in a malicious way. I finally acknowledged that my husband had no personality of his own; he was merely an imprint of everyone around him. As soon as I stopped crying, he did; the only time I ever saw him read a book was when I had one in my hands; the only time he went for a stroll was when I proposed one. He went to bed at the same time that I did every night; his favorite foods were mine. The only things he did that I did not were smoke cigars and drink an occasional glass of brandy—the two vices Mr. Barnum enjoyed.

He was so very good at imitation, at mimicry, that I suspected he did have a quick mind. But by now—he was forty—it was rusted over, for the most part unused.

He was also very portly. New clothes were required constantly, and he came to me one day with a tailor’s bill in his hand and a worried shadow crossing his usually cloudless eyes.

“Vinnie, dear, do you remember that necklace of yours, the one with the sapphires and diamonds that you hardly ever wear?”

“Yes.” I was kneeling next to a trunk, folding some of Minnie’s dresses away into it. I hugged one particularly dear white frock to me, remembering how sweet she had looked in it, just like a painting I had seen in France of a little girl carrying flowers in her apron.

“Where is it?”

“The necklace? With the rest of my jewels, in the safe, of
course. Why?” I turned my best schoolteacher’s gaze upon my husband; he reddened and hung his head, just like a naughty student.

“I suppose you wouldn’t mind selling some of them? It seems that we’re a little out of money, at least this month.”

“ ‘A
little
out of money’?” I rose, shaking out my skirts. “Be more specific, please.”

“Well, the yacht, you know … and then the interest on the cottage’s mortgage increased, and some of my buildings in Bridgeport are no longer quite as desirable as they once were, and of course I do need some new clothes, you yourself said so the other day.”

“You wouldn’t need new clothes if you pushed yourself away from the table now and then,” I scolded. “I wouldn’t mind selling some of my jewels, I suppose—I have so many. But, Charles, you can’t let this happen again.”

“I know, I won’t!” He smiled, so grateful to be let off the hook; he ran back down the hallway to his study, and I went back to my packing. Two weeks later, when the clothes arrived, he showed off the two new top hats he couldn’t help himself from adding to the order, and made me a present of a silver fox muff, “to take the place of the jewels!”

Mollified, I did not inquire further into our finances. But I did suggest we consider touring again, not only to bring in more money but because I simply could not bear to be in this house, so empty without Minnie and Edward. I couldn’t bear to remain in Middleborough, with all the memories. And I could not bear to be alone with him any longer.

To get back out on the road, with Mr. and Mrs. Bleeker in their old familiar roles, with trains to catch and performances to make, new people to meet, distance to cover every single day—I almost wept at the thought of it! Then I gathered up my train schedules and hotel listings and repaired to my room.

“What about Phineas?” Charles asked me one evening, as I pored over my maps. How easy it was, these days, to plan a tour! So many train routes were now connected, and there were books that listed hotels by city—imagine! I could telegram reservations ahead of time, not take my chance on a letter getting lost or delayed. There were even rumors and rumblings about a new “standardized time” that would organize the country by geographical region; no longer would each individual village or town set its own clock by the sun. How much easier it would be, then, to arrange train schedules!

“What about Mr. Barnum?” I asked, bewildered. I licked the tip of my pencil and raised my arm, hovering over the map before me, ready to draw out a route. “He’s no longer our partner—heavens, Charles, don’t you remember? He resigned his partnership ages ago, after the world tour.”

“I know. I just thought that he could come for a visit and help us plan things. You know how much he enjoys that.”

“I’m quite capable of planning it myself. He’s very busy with his circus, you know, and that new Madison Square Garden, where he puts on those ridiculous shows. He has no time to visit.”

“But he does! He says so in his latest letter!” And Charles’s face lit up as he produced this letter; he had obviously been carrying it around in his pocket for all of five minutes. The paper was hardly creased.

“I don’t need to read it,” I murmured, looking down at my map, wondering if it was up to date. So many new states had joined the Union lately! So many new cities were still sprouting up, cities that had never before greeted General and Mrs. Tom Thumb.

“Vinnie, but he says to tell you, especially, that he could do with a good chat in front of the fire, just like old times.”

“How nice for him.”

“He said you’d say that! He wrote it, see here? He calls you Mrs. Stratton—why is that, Vinnie? He never did before! But he writes, ‘And if Mrs. Stratton says something along the lines of “how interesting” or “how pleasant,” tell her that her
old friend
’—and he underlined that, Vinnie; why, do you think?—‘says, “Hogwash,” and that she needs to forgive some people, starting with herself.’ ” Charles looked up from his letter, flush with the success of his reading. “What does he mean by all that, Vinnie?”