The Autobiography of Mrs. Tom Thumb (28 page)

“No,” I said, baldly. “I’m afraid I don’t.”

“It’s just that—it’s not that we don’t believe we won’t grow to like Charles, and look at him as our own. It’s not that we don’t truly believe you know what is best for you, for you always have, and you’ve never let us down. But this is all so grand—my heavens, Astors and Vanderbilts, you say!—and we’re so simple. We’re not comfortable with all this, not the way you are, and, well—”

“It’s not as if this is just a
performance
, Mama.” Finally I turned away from the window, anger doing its best to smother the hurt. “It’s not as if Mr. Barnum is selling tickets to my
wedding.
” (I did not reveal that at one point, I was afraid that he was—and had to ask him, flat out, not to. He claimed that it never crossed his mind, but I was not so sure.) “We’re getting married in a church, you know, Grace Church, and Reverend Putnam from home is even
going to assist.
Mrs
. Putnam will be there, for heaven’s sake!” I shuddered, remembering how rude that woman had been to me back home. Now she was swanning about Manhattan, telling all who would listen that she was “the wife of the minister who will be uniting those adorable little sweethearts in Holy Matrimony.”

“I know, dearest, and we don’t want to hurt you. That’s the last thing we want to do.”

“But you have, you have, and I don’t know
why
!”

To my horror, I began to cry, and Minnie, alarmed, placed her doll carefully down on a chair and ran over to me to pat my hand; she soon had tears running down her own rosy cheeks, although she had no idea why I was crying.

“Vinnie.” Papa was suddenly kneeling next to me, carefully pulling up his new trousers so as not to tear them. “Blame this all on me. I’m the one who’s a country fool, not your mother. I’m the one who asked to go right back home. Don’t blame her—blame me.”

“Oh, Papa!” I looked into his sweet, simple brown eyes, those eyes that had never understood me, never known what to do with me—but had never gazed upon me with anything other than pure, unselfish love. And I knew that he was not telling the truth. I knew that it was my mother who had made this decision. A lifetime of worrying about me, about all her children, had made its mark upon her so that now her handsome face was falling, as if under the weight of it all—me, Minnie, my brothers off fighting in a war. She was dear, she was sweet—but she was also far more knowledgeable about the world than Papa was. She had never trusted Mr. Barnum, and now some of that distrust was throwing its shadow across me as well. I did not know what I had to do to win back her trust, and at that moment, frankly, I did not much care to learn. I was simply stunned, my heart pierced by the sting of her rejection.

“It’s all right, Papa,” I said, stroking his large, weathered hand; my small white one looking like a delicate glove against it. “I understand. I don’t want you to be uncomfortable.”

“Good,” Mama said, clearly relieved that I appeared to believe him. “Now, Vinnie, after the honeymoon I want you and your Charles to come home for a nice long visit. I mean it. Delia and I are planning for it; you’re going to get the boys’ room, we’ll spruce it up, we’re already sewing some new curtains, and I’m going to have a lovely at-home to introduce you all to our neighbors. I’m sure that you have plans with Mr. Barnum, but he’ll allow you that time with your family, won’t he?” Mama looked anxious; I knew she was apologizing in the most meaningful way she knew how—by diving into a cooking and cleaning extravaganza. I had seen her attack a floor with a brush and a bucket of soap as if she were scrubbing the deviltry from Lucifer himself; I suspected she needed to scrub away some of her own demons right now.

“Of course, Mama.” I wiped away my tears and smiled at her. “I can’t wait. And I’m sure Charles will be pleased as well.”

“I’m so glad.” Mama nodded, reassuring us both. “Now, you’ll take good care of Minnie, won’t you? You know we’d never think of leaving her with anyone but you. You’re the only one we trust—and you’re the only one she trusts, as well!” Mama smoothed Minnie’s curls and planted a kiss atop her head.

“Of course! I won’t let her out of my sight for a moment! I have so much planned for the two of us, Charles will get very jealous, indeed!” I seized upon this request, fell upon it as a soldier might fall upon his own sword. This was how I could recapture Mama’s trust: by caring for Minnie as if she was my daughter, too. Nothing bad would come to her, no harm, no disappointment, no pain or sorrow. Not as long as she was with me.

“And I’ll take care of you, too, Vinnie,” Minnie assured me solemnly. “So Mama won’t have to worry at all!”

“We’ll take care of each other,” I agreed. “I’ll begin by moving you into my suite right away. You can’t stay down here by yourself.” I rose, happy to begin my rehabilitation. “Come, Pumpkin, and help me! Be careful with your doll—she’s made of china, not wax!”

“Vinnie, for goodness’ sake! You forget how old I am now! I know how to carry a doll!” Minnie’s little nose stuck up in the air as she sighed with disdain; I shared a smile with Mama and Papa. I could do this; I could keep my sister safe and innocent. I could preserve her childlike ways.

If only it had been that easy! For the one thing that I did not realize—and I don’t believe my parents did, either—was that my sister was really no longer a child. She was a young woman, despite the fact that none of us was willing to see it. And young women have passions and yearnings that even the most vigilant sister cannot always anticipate or even acknowledge.

Particularly when she hasn’t yet experienced them herself.

A
ND SO WE WERE MARRIED
. T
HERE HAVE BEEN SO MANY ACCOUNTS
of that day; I’ll simply enclose the following report, which was printed in the Manitou, Wisconsin,
Daily Bugle
.

This account is accurate for what it relates. It is also glaring for what it does not.

It makes no mention, for example, of how slowly, almost reluctantly, I walked down the aisle toward my groom, who was very handsome and dignified in full black dress suit. Minnie, in the sweetest white silk, a crown of rosebuds in her hair, smiled so happily at me. I remember blinking at her in surprise; she was so poised, she had so eagerly participated in all the festivities, that I almost didn’t recognize her.

The article also does not relate how mechanical, how tinny, my voice sounded to me, despite having rehearsed the responses
until I no longer had to think of them, until they were like lines in a play.

It does not describe how proud Mr. Barnum was, like the grandest, most successful parent of them all—like Adam himself. The father of us all. He beamed, he shook hands, he poured champagne at the reception; he slapped Charles on the back and gave me a paternal kiss, the only time he had ever kissed me, and it felt wrong. Awkward, forced—unlike anything that had ever passed between the two of us.

The biggest omission of all, however, is what took place after the reporters left to file their stories, after Charles and I retired to our honeymoon suite. There, we encountered an enormous bed the size of a boat, sprinkled with rose petals. I almost laughed at the absurdity of it; did the Metropolitan not realize whose wedding reception it had hosted? Although a set of velvet steps had been thoughtfully placed beside it—a very nice touch, indeed.

A table had been laid for us, with two slices of our wedding cake, a bottle of champagne, and a lovely roast quail. But the bottle was simply too big and unwieldy for Charles; he tried to pop the cork, huffing and grunting; he suffered not a little loss of pride upon not being able to manage it, and I felt for him. Discreetly, I turned away from him during his exertions but finally summoned a porter to do this chore, reassuring my husband, “A groom should not do anything as ordinary as open a bottle of champagne on his wedding night.”

I believe Charles was mollified, for he relaxed over dinner, and we managed to chat about the odd little details that stood out to us after this very long, endlessly ceremonial day—the comical things, such as when the minister called him “Charlie” instead of “Charles”; how Mrs. Astor, in all her diamond-encrusted finery, actually elbowed Mrs. Belmont out of the way in her excitement to greet us first.

As we began to talk, I realized we hadn’t truly spoken to each other at all until that moment. How odd, on our wedding day!

Eventually we exhausted trivial conversation, and we both simply stared at each other. Mr. Barnum was not here to wink and cajole and suggest; it was up to us now—alone. Finally my mind—which had been clenched all day, as if holding a line of defense against some onslaught of memory or feeling—relaxed. And a memory did assault me, paralyzing me, leaving me to stare at my new husband in horror.

“Oh, it would be dreadful, impossible,”
I heard my mother’s stricken voice, from long ago.
“Don’t you remember the little cow on Uncle’s farm who …”

I felt my stomach lurch, my skin turn clammy, beads of moisture pop out along my forehead. The room started to sway, and I had to run to the lavatory, reaching a chamber pot just in time. Wedding cake, quail, it all came up—along with the fear that I had carried with me ever since that day I had eavesdropped upon Mama and Delia, talking about the birds and the bees and the perils of childbirth for little cows. And little women.

A fear that was now terrifyingly real, as was my life; no longer was I playacting. The curtain had fallen at last; the crowds, for the moment, dispersed. Suddenly, I had real decisions to make, decisions that would have consequences not just for me but for the person pounding on the door as I hovered over the pot, my stomach still heaving, asking me what was wrong. The person I must now, and forever more, call my husband.