The Autobiography of Mrs. Tom Thumb - Melanie Benjamin [106]
“Oh, Mama, no. You don’t know him, not like I do. You don’t—” But I broke off.
Mama did not reply, but she did look at me with a sudden sharpness. I had seen her look at my brothers and sisters like this, as if she could see right through to their hearts—and all the secrets they thought they carried within them. But she had never before looked at me in this piercing, knowing way, as I had always confounded her so.
I attacked my knitting with such dedication, sparks must have flown from my needles; at least I assumed that was what made my face burn with such surprising heat. No more was spoken of Mr. Barnum that day.
Not long after that, however, I was ready to pack my trunk again. Left too long to my own devices, to muse and ponder and dream, left to be truly a wife to my husband in the dull, flickering glow of lantern light instead of footlights, I felt as if I was suffocating. Over and over, I returned to that tree trunk in Papa’s cow pasture to pull up the weeds that continued to grow over my name.
What did I fear so, in the warm bosom of those who only loved me? I could not say, as at the time I did not recognize it for the fear it was. I simply felt driven to see, to experience—to give of myself to those whose approval should have meant less than my own husband’s but instead meant so much more. I simply knew that I could relax and sleep only on a rocking train or a bobbing boat. I simply realized I needed the warmth of an audience like a plant needs sun.
And I simply understood that the most satisfying moments in my life were spent poring over maps and train routes, discovering new towns that were popping up all over this great country of ours. I could not bear to think that there was somewhere I had never been, someone who might not know my name.
So in late autumn of 1866—after remaining in Middleborough for a suitable period of mourning for our “child”—Mr. Barnum and I decided that the Tom Thumb Company should once again set out, this time to the Deep South, where we had not been able to go during the four bloody years of the War Between the States.
“It will be lonely without a baby,” Minnie said softly as we settled into the train for our first leg of the trip. Eastern trains were becoming much more commodious for the traveler; some, like this one, even had upholstered seats if you paid extra to travel in what was called the “first class” section. There were also separate, private water closets for ladies and gentlemen! The modern world was astounding!
Commodore Nutt was once again with us, completing the perfect miniature foursome; across the aisle, he and Charles soon had a lively game of cards going with Mr. Bleeker and the other men of our troupe. While I did not approve of cards, at least the game kept Nutt out of more serious trouble. How a man could have such an appealing, impish presence onstage and be so completely unpleasant off, I could not fathom! Perhaps it was because of our earlier history, or perhaps it was because he sensed my disapproval now—either way, he kept as far away from me as possible. Although Charles, of course, held no grudge; Charles would not recognize a grudge if it came up and bit him on his pug little nose.
“It won’t be lonely, dear—think of how many people we will meet!” I patted Minnie’s arm excitedly; I had a pleasant, bubbly feeling in my stomach, as if I had swallowed a giggle. I always felt this way at the beginning of a journey.
“But we always have to say goodbye to them.” My sister sighed, leaning her curly head against my shoulder. “And that’s dreadful.”
I smiled and kissed her forehead. “Remember how you used to call everyone ‘dreadful’?”
“Did I?” She laughed, shaking her head so that her hair tickled my chin. “I don’t remember.”
“You did. You even thought Mr. Barnum was dreadful at first.”
“How silly of me! I was so little then! I don’t think anyone is dreadful now.”
“You don’t? Not anyone?” I couldn’t help myself; I inclined my