The Autobiography of Mrs. Tom Thumb (9 page)

I loved my new friend dearly. But try as I might, I could not imagine her passive, lugubrious form on the same stage that dainty Miss Jenny Lind and nimble General Tom Thumb had graced.

Sylvia’s shoulders slumped as if she was endeavoring to disappear within that ungainly body. She was now concealing an entire newspaper behind her gigantic hands, to
ooh
s and
aah
s from the crowd. Colonel Wood was standing onstage, pointing to her and reciting her particulars—height, weight, the color of her eyes—as if she were a slave to be auctioned off.

“Why on earth doesn’t she
do
something, so that he doesn’t have to resort to such a display?” I whispered to Billy as irritation stirred in my veins, irritation at both myself and Sylvia. Myself for believing Colonel Wood; Sylvia for letting him poke and prod her with his walking stick while she merely stood, obviously humiliated.

A brisk slap of applause startled me; Sylvia was now lurching offstage, pushing through the shabby curtain. My stomach fluttered as I rushed to meet her.

“Are you ready, Vinnie?” A fond smile pushed away the anguish on Sylvia’s face.

“Of course.” I nodded calmly, as if I wasn’t suddenly unable to hear over the roaring in my ears. Then we were walking through the curtain together, and Colonel Wood was introducing me as
“a new sensation, a miniature chanteuse, a living doll—Miss Lavinia Warren Bump!”

He was only a lime green blur in the corner of my eye; the footlights in front and the gaslights along the sides of the stage were so brilliant and hot that they blinded me. I relied on Sylvia to nudge me with her knee toward what must be the piano, and then she was lifting me up, up, up, until I felt the solid walnut vibrating beneath my feet as the pianist continued to play a flourish.

Blinking, safely above the glare of the flickering footlights, I tried to make out the scene before me. The upper seats, which I’d been told were for the Negroes, I could not distinguish; all was a dusky blur. But I could discern a few faces in the audience, seated on long, hard benches on the main floor. It was mostly made up of men, I realized: a few women, some children, but mostly men, dressed in rough farm clothes. The women at least had hats on, and Sunday cloaks, but the men did not appear to have donned special clothing for the occasion.

This, alone, caused my heart to slow down, the roaring in my ears to fade; I had no fear of these kinds of people, for they were just like my own folks. Even rougher and less schooled, I imagined from the dirt and the faded quality of some of the clothing, the stained spittoons at the end of every row.

Now I could hear the gasps and whispers, the creaking of the benches as people shifted and stood to get a better look at me. Colonel Wood had stopped speaking and was twirling his walking stick as he gestured to me. With a small nod, I turned to the accompanist, Mr. James, and whispered, “I’ll start with the ballad.”

He smiled and started playing the introduction. I cleared my throat, and the first tremulous notes pushed themselves out of my
mouth.
“I dream of Jeannie with the light brown hair,”
I warbled, and knew that my pitch was off, my tone wobbly. But the audience didn’t seem to mind; I could hear sounds of
“Shh, shhh,”
and one
“Gol’ darn it, shut the hell up!”
as I sensed the individuals lean forward as one, one great, giant ocean wave rushing toward me.

I didn’t recoil from it. Instead, I held my hand up, silencing everyone, including Mr. James.

“Excuse me, I’d like to start again,” I said. And nodded, as Mr. James played the introduction over.

“I dream of Jeannie with the light brown hair.”
The words were clearer now, my tone steady, and I felt my throat relax so that every note wasn’t pinched. With assurance, I lifted my head so that my voice could carry farther, even as Mr. James softened his accompaniment.

“I see her tripping where the bright streams play.”
The audience seemed transfixed by my voice; the creaking had stopped now, as no one moved a muscle. In the first row, there was more than one gentleman whose mouth was hanging open, perfectly enraptured.

“Many were the wild notes her merry voice would pour.”
This was the most difficult part of the song, and I strained a bit to hit the high notes; Mr. Jones, who wore a pained expression as we began that section, relaxed and smiled at me when it was over.

“Oh! I dream of Jeannie with the light brown hair, floating, like a vapor, on the soft summer air.”
I slowed the last notes, caressing them so they would linger. As the last note trailed off, I took a big breath and bowed my head.

There was a long silence, long enough that I almost looked up to see what was the matter—and then rapturous, thunderous applause! It fell over me like a warm embrace, tingling my skin; it was with some difficulty that I restrained myself from jumping up and down and clapping myself. I was a hit! An immediate success!
Just as Miss Jenny Lind had been when Mr. Barnum first brought her to America. Perhaps, after all, I hadn’t been mistaken about Colonel Wood.

Then I started to hear the murmurs—

“She can’t be real!”

“She’s a doll! A windup toy!”

“I never saw such a thing in my life!”

“Hey, mister, how’d you teach a little
baby
to sing?”

A few people were standing now, making their way toward the stage. Naturally, I recoiled but realized that I was well and truly stuck up on the piano; it was only then that I remembered Billy Birch and Sylvia were backstage, ready in case “something happened.” Now I understood what that “something” was.

“It’s a doll, one of them puppets, ain’t it?” A decidedly rough-looking young man, with a crimson face and boils on his neck, was now at the very foot of the stage, his hands upon it, ready to haul himself up. “Open your mouth, doll baby, and sing me another purty song!”

I was frozen with fear and disgust. I could not move or utter a word. But it didn’t matter, as Colonel Wood now swung into his patter and began to talk for me—just as he had done for Sylvia.

“I assure you, Miss Lavinia Warren Bump is not a doll! She’s a perfectly formed woman! A marvel of Lilliputian splendor!”

There was a gasp, then someone shouted, “My Myrtle’s taller than that, and she’s four years old! Go on up! Put her down on the floor so my Myrtle can stand next to her!”

“Yeah—put her down on the floor!”

“Make her walk! Make her sing!”

“Make her talk!”

To my horror, Colonel Wood was walking toward me with outstretched arms; he was about to pick me up and lift me down off the piano, as if I were indeed a doll. I realized, with a sickening
twist of my stomach, that he was not going to ask my leave; his eyes simply swept over me as if he was trying to calculate how heavy I was. My fear and disgust melted away to anger as he placed his unwelcome, violating hands about my waist and I slapped him, hard, across the cheek.

“You may not touch me!” I cried, which had the instant effect of silencing the crowd just as Colonel Wood stepped back in surprise.

“Excuse me?” He rubbed his cheek, eyes darkening.

“I said you may not touch me! How dare you, picking me up as if I was a child! I am a lady, and I will not allow such behavior!”

As Colonel Wood’s color deepened to a dangerous red, the audience tittered; someone called out, “Hey, Colonel, guess you’d better play nice with your dolly!”

“She ain’t a doll!”

“Sure she is!”

“If you ever slap me again, I’ll throw you across the stage,” Colonel Wood hissed out the corner of his mouth as he faced the voluble audience with a broad smile, raising his hands to calm them. “Don’t just stand there, say something to ’em! I could have found me another dwarf who’d be dumb as a rock, just like that dumb giant, but as soon as you said you were a schoolteacher I thought maybe I had something special. Thought maybe I’d found me a meal ticket just like that Tom Thumb. Thought maybe you were one of them special dwarfs.”

Stunned, I could only stand there as hurt tears filled my eyes and my stomach churned with disgust.
Dwarf?
I had never before been called that word, not by any misbehaving schoolchild or exasperated teacher; certainly not by my own loving family, whom I missed more than I thought I could bear.
Dwarf?
I had read of dwarfs, ancient accounts of comical pets of royalty or grotesque
creatures from fairy tales, like Rumpelstiltskin. The word was repulsive and had nothing to do with who I was.

Was that how he had seen me all along? I resolved to take the next train home, back to my family, who had only tried to protect me from people like him. Contract or no contract, I would—

Don’t shame us
, my father had said; the full weight of his words fell upon my shoulders like a cross to be born.

My body felt icy, separate from my brain. Colonel Wood was openly sneering as he moved again toward me. There were only two things I could do. I could stand there like Sylvia, a thing—a
dwarf
—and let him lift me off the piano—I could almost feel his huge, grasping hands about my waist, my legs dangling helplessly in the air. Or I could take control of the situation and not shame my family.

I will not let my size define me
, I had told myself back in my school days.
I will define it
.

“Stop!” I held up my hand, surprising all, including myself. “Stop!” I had to repeat this several times, but after a moment the audience quieted down, although those standing did not return to their seats, and the ugly young man remained ominously close to the stage.

My training as a teacher now came to my rescue. I felt myself expand, perched atop that grand piano; my spine stiffened, my chin tilted, and I willed every molecule, every bit of muscle and flesh and bone and even the hair on my head, to exude
dignity
. I imagined it exploding from the very core of my being; I closed my eyes, picturing myself showering sparks and stars and diamonds of dignity. Then I opened my eyes to survey the audience as an eerie calm fell upon me.

I began to speak, and I was careful to overenunciate my words, as I had often found myself doing when trying to help a
confused pupil. The audience was that pupil. So was Colonel Wood. They needed to be educated; they needed to be taught—about me, Mercy Lavinia Warren Bump, descendent of William the Conqueror and Richard Warren of the Mayflower Company.

“I assure you, I am neither a doll nor a windup toy. As Colonel Wood said, my name is Miss Bump, and I hope you enjoyed my song. Now, if you’ll permit me, I’d—”

“How tall are you?” the sweaty young man at the footlights interrupted, quite rudely. I had a good mind to ignore him, except that he was echoed by several others repeating the same question.

“Miss Bump is—” Colonel Wood began, but I cut him off with a glare; he returned it but did back away from the piano.

“My height is two feet, eight inches; thank you for inquiring.”

“How old are you? Why, you can’t be more’n four or five!” another voice rang out.

“While I do not believe it is polite to ask a lady her age, I am not yet eighteen.” To my surprise, this was received with a hoot of laughter.

“Almost eighteen, you say? Why, you must have a little fairy beau, then!” someone else exclaimed.

“Unfortunately, Miss Bump has yet to find anyone who measures up,” Colonel Wood replied quickly; the audience roared with laughter, while I could do nothing but stand there, the butt of their joke.

“Are those doll clothes you’re wearing?” This was from a female voice.

“No, I had them made, just as you do,” I replied before Colonel Wood could say something boorish. “Now, I would like to sing another song. Would you allow me?” For I was suddenly weary, unsteady on my feet, although I would not allow myself to show it; my body felt as battered as if I’d been run through a butter churn. I don’t know how long I’d been onstage, but it felt like a lifetime.

“You bet, little lady!” someone shouted, and there was a general stirring and creaking as people took their seats. It was a sound I would grow to recognize, the contented sound of an audience settling in, ready to be entertained. But at that moment, I noted it with only exquisite relief, for soon my humiliation would be over.

I nodded at Mr. James, who began the lively military introduction for “The Soldier’s Wedding.” With clenched fists, I held on to my skirts in an effort to keep myself from toppling over.

“Give me your hand, my own Jeanette …”
I sang with determined force, and soon the audience was clapping along. Somehow I got through the song, I know not how, although Mr. James told me later that I had smiled the entire time. As soon as I was finished, I smoothed my skirts, took a deep breath, and stepped onto the keyboard, then the piano bench, then finally the floor; I couldn’t wait to leave that stage.

The roar started; from the back of the audience it came, a deafening sound that made me clasp my hands over my ears. It was applause, my first ovation, and it was a sound I would never forget. Utterly astounded, I somehow found the presence of mind to curtsy, my hand over my heart, as if I was, indeed, Miss Jenny Lind.

A little smile tickled my lips as I turned around to go back through the curtains, passing Colonel Wood. But that dastardly man actually kicked at me as I walked by, laughing to see me jump in fright.

“That’s not the last you’ve heard from me about that slap, little missy. I won’t be made a fool of on my own stage, especially not by a dwarf,” he hissed, before turning back around to quiet the still roaring audience.

I didn’t think I would make it through the curtains; my stomach suddenly seized, and I knew I had to find a chamber pot so I
could purge myself of all the humiliation and disgust inside me. I ran, as fast as I could, backstage, past Sylvia and Billy Birch and the Tattooed Man who was preparing to go on, out the door to the deck, where I scooted under the leg of the dancing girl as she practiced her high kicks. I ran and ran, stumbling on the slick boards, but I didn’t make it; I turned suddenly and would have hung my head over the side of the boat, but, of course, I couldn’t reach the rail.