The Autobiography of Mrs. Tom Thumb (42 page)

“That would be good of you. I know Charles would enjoy it, for he’s been somewhat lost in all this. He’s beside himself with worry for Minnie—he spends some time with her each day, reading stories, but mainly he’s been left to his own devices.”

“I imagine this might lessen your own load a little, too. Charles is my good friend, but I know he requires a fair amount of handling.”

“Yes,” I admitted, again feeling the blessed relief of plain speaking; it was as if my stays had been loosened, as well as my tongue. I hadn’t been able to indulge myself like this in such a long time; for months, we all tiptoed about, not talking about the one thing that was on all our minds. It hovered in the air, unspoken, like smoke lingering from a burnt pot on a stove. And none of us made a move to clear it.

I was so grateful to Mr. Barnum for allowing me to speak what was in my heart; it was the desire to prolong this moment that caused me to blurt out, “She’s going to die, you know. It’s so obvious, I want to scream, but we all pretend and pretend not to see what we see. This child is not a tiny little fairy sprite. It’s a normal flesh-and-blood baby, and Minnie will not be able to survive its birth. We can’t
pretend
anymore.”

Mr. Barnum, to my everlasting gratitude, did not try to persuade me otherwise. “What will you do if the child lives?”

“I—I don’t know,” I sputtered, stunned. I had not thought of this possibility. I had not given the thing within my sister any identity or thought beyond its destructive nature. That was the only way I could see it: as the likely cause of Minnie’s death. It wasn’t a baby to me; it was a poison or a tumor or a fatal condition.

“You should prepare yourself, Vinnie. It’s a possible outcome,
you know. I don’t imagine Edward will be in any position to care for a child alone. You must talk to Minnie and determine what she would wish. Most mothers,” he continued gently, seeing the horror upon my face, “give some thought to this, you know, regardless of their condition.”

“I can’t!” I shook my head; it felt as if the sun had just disappeared behind a cloud, so chilly was my soul. But the sun still shone brightly; I could see our shadows spilling across the lawn at our feet, one long and one short but so close together there was no space between.

“You must try. She might even be hoping that you do. It is my experience that the dying wish us to speak more plainly with them than we think—you heard what she said to me when I left. She’s trying to prepare us—she’s trying to prepare you.”

“No, you’re wrong. She’s hopeful—” I faltered, remembering the time—
times
, if I was being truthful—I had overheard her crying. But I shook my head, erasing them from my memory. She was not afraid, for the simple reason that I couldn’t bear for her to be. “What she said back there, she just meant for the present. She’s been knitting for the child,
naming
it—you heard! And you know Minnie. She’s always been so simple. She doesn’t understand what’s truly happening.”

“Vinnie, if you’ve ever done your sister a disservice—and I believe you think you have—it’s only in this: that you have persisted in thinking of her as younger and simpler than she really is.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I shifted uncomfortably on the hard bench; suddenly our shadows appeared to me to be too close.

“Your sister is a woman, Vinnie. A woman who has chosen her own fate. You haven’t done it for her, no matter what you think. She was more than capable of doing it for herself.”

“What do you know of fate? Of choices? You’re just a man—and
men never have to pay for their choices like women do.” I started to rise, as did my voice, but Mr. Barnum reached for my arm. He continued to speak in a low, soothing tone, which maddened me; I was not a child.

“Vinnie, you can’t possibly mean that. We all have to pay for the choices we make—but come, let’s not quarrel. There’s no need for anger, especially on such a beautiful day.”

“Oh, beautiful day be damned.” I kicked at a daffodil, to make my point.

“Vinnie!”

“Do I shock you? Well, good. I want to. I want to shock God, too. Can’t you see I
am
angry? I’m angry with God—I’m angry with myself,” I muttered, still kicking at innocent daffodils, so mocking in their vivid, irrepressible cheer.

“Why on earth? It’s simply God’s—”

“
Will?
Oh, how sick I am of hearing God talked about in this house! I’m glad He gives Minnie comfort, but I’m not so easily tricked.”

“Call it Providence, then—but you’re still not responsible.”

“Oh, yes, I am! Do you know why? Let me tell you—let me finally tell someone!” Jumping to my feet, my hands clenched, I stood before him as honest as I had ever been with anyone—and as vulnerable. His hand was still upon my arm, but I felt it loosen its grip, recoiling as my confession spilled out of me.

“It’s not as if I
couldn’t
have children—the truth is I didn’t
want
to. I told Charles, I told you, I even told Minnie that I couldn’t, when the truth was, I was too terrified to try. So I never explained to Minnie about the dangers of childbirth for the two of us. And now look what’s happened!”

“But you—afraid? I don’t understand.”

“Of course you don’t—you never have.” I rushed on, desperate to unburden myself—even more desperate, for some reason,
to burden
him
. “If you had, you never would have thought up that whole baby business. I’m angry with you, too!” I finally wriggled out of his grasp—or, rather, he let go.

“Me?” Mr. Barnum’s expression suddenly became alert and watchful; before my eyes, his soft, uneven features began to harden.

“Yes, you! Oh, if I’d only been honest with you about Colonel Wood! That was my fault, but then you—you
forced
me to bring Minnie along to pay my debt. And then that ridiculous
humbug
about the baby!”

“That baby business made us both a small fortune, if you’ll recall. All those
cartes de visites
sold! We made thousands. And you accepted the money, if my memory is to be trusted, without any hair tearing or breast beating.” The gray in his eyes turned to steel, and he clutched his walking stick as if he was trying not to use it as a weapon.

“I—well, we needed the money, the way Charles spends, but that’s not the point. It hurt people—it hurt Mama, because I’d told her I’d never let you do anything in my name that I didn’t approve.”

“Then why are you scolding me?”

“Because! Mama feared I’d lose my soul if I went with you, and I told her I wouldn’t, but now I have. But I don’t care about myself. I’m willing to accept my punishment, but, oh, that it has to be Minnie who pays! That’s what I can never forget or forgive, either of us.”

“Lavinia Warren Stratton, the conceit in you! I knew you had an ego, m’dear, but I had no idea you thought so much of yourself that you could buy and sell souls.” He barked a hard, withering laugh that set my teeth on edge.

“Talk about ego—is there anything in New York or Bridgeport that you haven’t plastered your name all over?” My eyes narrowed,
considering him. We glared at each other for a long moment; everything else—the flowers, the bees, the lazy neighing of a horse in a nearby pasture—faded away until I was aware of only the rasp of his breathing, the pounding of my wrathful heart.

“Let’s not continue this line of discussion,” Mr. Barnum said with maddening calm. “Minnie would not be happy to know we were quarreling.”

“Oh, you have no idea what Minnie would like,” I snapped. I would not be soothed. “You don’t know her at all. You only want to make money off her, just like you do with everything and everyone. You know frauds and hokum and cheats and scoundrels—and I include myself in all that!—but you do not know goodness! So don’t try to tell me what to do or how to think about my sister. She’s mine, she’s me—the very best and only true part of me! The only true part I have left! You’re a sham, and you expect everyone else to be a sham, too!”

“I don’t know
goodness
?” He threw his stick down in disgust. “Or truth? What do you know? Have you ever asked me—I watched my wife suffer all her life, saw two of my daughters die. I know truth from lies, Vinnie, and I see the truth in Minnie and I see the truth in you, although right now you don’t want me to—and maybe you never did, at that! For if we’re speaking of friendship and goodness, let me ask you this: Why do you only come to me when you need something—money or advice or even, yes, my
name
when it suits your needs? Why do you never visit me, just because? It’s always under the pretense of some piece of business. And furthermore, I would like to know something else.” He pushed himself off the bench with determination, turning away from me so that I could not see his face. “Why, in all the years we have known each other, have you never once called me by my given name?”

“I—what?” Stunned, I stopped my wild pacing; so unexpected
was his question, his obvious hurt, that for a moment I forgot my anger.

“I have called you Vinnie almost since the first day I met you. Charles calls me Phineas, Bleeker does, all my friends do. But you persist in calling me ‘Mr. Barnum.’ You always keep me at arm’s length, and I would like to know why. Do you only think of me in terms of business, then? Do you have no room for true friendship or affection in your life?”

“ ‘True friendship’? Oh, don’t talk to me about what’s true!” I resumed my pacing, disgusted by his blatant attempt at manipulation. I’d heard him put that quaver in his voice many times before, usually when he was trying to negotiate the terms of a new contract. “We’ve only ever been a meal ticket for you. Just like all your other toys and curiosities
—your
giant,
your
elephant,
your
dwarfs. That’s all we’ve ever been to you, and you know it!”

“I do not, and I’m offended you’d even think such a thing!”

“Really?” I spun around. “You’re saying we’d be friends even if I wasn’t what you persist in calling, in all my advertising and even in your latest autobiography, a
dwarf
?”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Vinnie! Remember,
you’re
the one who first contacted me. You sent that note calling my attention to a certain Miss Lavinia Warren Bump, whose dainty height and symmetrical proportions were much admired along the Mississippi. When I sent that first telegram, you answered so fast the wires were still singing! You yourself know that no one would pay a dime to see you, otherwise. And I always admired you for knowing that—I always admired you for your honesty and good sense. But lately, I’m not so sure—”

“
You’re
lecturing
me
on honesty? And as far as good sense—”

“Yes, good sense. Look at all your Society friends, all your lavish spending, all the airs—it’s almost as if you’ve forgotten how it all began. But these people, Vinnie—they don’t see you! Not
really, not beyond being a novelty, and you’re going to get hurt if you don’t watch yourself. And the thing is,
I
see you—I see beyond the perfect little woman in miniature; I see the real person, but you don’t want me to. That’s why you always keep me at arm’s length—you’re afraid of me. You’re terrified of what I might see.”

“I’m not terrified of anything,” I said hotly, even as I knew it wasn’t true.

“Yes, you are.” Mr. Barnum was reading me, reading my face, as he so avidly read an audience before a show, predicting exactly where they would applaud. I looked about, desperate suddenly for a place to hide, but there was nowhere to go.

“That’s it,” he continued, circling me, peering at me,
trapping
me, even as I tried to squirm and duck. His eyes were gleaming with an interest that was almost scientific. At that moment, I was more intriguing to him than the biggest elephant in the world; once more, I was his newest discovery. “That’s what all this is! You’re afraid of what you see in the mirror every day, aren’t you? Afraid, and ashamed. And so you’ve hidden behind it, hidden behind your size, even as you’ve tried to convince yourself no one sees it but you.”

I gasped; it was as if all my clothing had just been torn from me and now I stood, naked and defenseless, beneath his perceptive gaze. Oh, how did he know? How did he always see straight to the heart of me?

“And Minnie—she’s different than you, no matter how much you try to convince yourself otherwise. She isn’t you, because she’s happy. And you’re not.”

“ ‘Happy’?” Finally, I found my tongue, and it felt strong and supple in my mouth, a weapon I could expertly use against him. “What do you know about happiness? You’re just as miserable as you think I am, marrying the wrong woman over and over!”

“By God, if you were a man—” He wheeled and strode away
from me, reaching down to grab his walking stick, swinging it like a scythe as he lopped off the heads of dandelions and daffodils, both. “You are the most extraordinary female I’ve ever—I knew this day would come. We have usually been on the same side of an issue, but I always knew that there would be trouble between us if ever we were not.”

“Trouble? Is that all you think this is? My sister is dying and it’s my fault and your fault both, and you call it
trouble
? I can never forgive you for this!”

“If that is what you believe, then you are not the person I thought you were!” He turned. We stood like two warriors at the end of a battle; carnage lay at our feet, but it wasn’t bodies we had slain. It was our history.

“No, I’m not. I’m not the person
I
thought I was,” I said through a clenched jaw. “No, I’m not brave—not like Minnie. But then, neither are you. The only chance you ever take is with your bank account. The only chance I ever take is with a train schedule. Neither one of us has ever been brave enough to take a chance with his heart.”

“And back we come, to the crux of the matter. Because Minnie took risks. Minnie fell in love. Minnie didn’t need you, after all.”

I opened my mouth to deny it but could think of nothing more to say. He was right. But so was I—oh, none of it mattered. Not now, not with Minnie—

Suddenly, I began to shiver; I was aware of a creeping, numbing chill threatening to overcome me, confusing my thoughts. I realized that I hadn’t slept in days, that the back of my neck was gray with dirt and sweat, that my stomach was empty. And I ached all over, not just within my heart. A lifetime of looking up, of climbing stairs too steep for me, of using doorknobs and pens and brushes and utensils, even water glasses, that were too large for
my hands—it was just this summer, this summer of dread, that it was beginning to take its toll on my once-elastic body. My right hip was cold and stiff in the mornings; my neck had a permanent kink to it, even while I lay down. The knuckles on my hands were beginning to knot up.