The Autobiography of Mrs. Tom Thumb - Melanie Benjamin [111]
“I’m always saying goodbye to my girls,” he said gruffly. “I don’t know why that is. I always said I never knew what to do with you, Vinnie, and I have lived to see the truth in it. You never stop surprising me—all the way around the world now! I never imagined I’d leave Middleborough, let alone see my daughters off to Japan!”
“We’ll bring you back glorious presents—would you like a samurai’s sword? That would be handy for cutting hay!” I laughed, kissing my father lightly; he surprised me by hugging me to him so tightly I could hear his faithful heart beating against my cheek, like the faint but reliable ticking of an old pocket watch. Then he released me with the same urgency, and groaningly pushed himself upright.
Blinking up at him through my own tears, I smiled, then gently pulled Minnie out of Mama’s possessive embrace. “Keep her safe,” Mama whispered to me, and I nodded, pulling Minnie toward the train, where Mr. Bleeker was waiting to lift us both up the stairs. The engine was already huffing, steam billowing out from the tall chimney. I hesitated only a moment, searching the platform for a particular gold-tipped walking stick. Mr. Barnum had promised he would try to see us off. I did so want to see him once more; three years seemed like such a long time.
He did not come, however, and I could wait no longer as the conductor made his final cry of “All aboard!” I nodded at Mr. Bleeker to lift me up, and then I made my way down the aisle of the train as it lurched away from the station. Stumbling, I nearly fell, headfirst, into the lap of a woman seated on the aisle. Only Mr. Bleeker’s ready hand upon my head kept me upright.
“Goodness me!” The woman laughed—and then she pulled me to her in a smothering embrace. “I declare, you are the sweetest little thing, aren’t you?”
“Madam, please!” I pushed myself away from her; she smelled strongly of peppermint drops and camphor. “I beg your pardon!”
She didn’t take offense; indeed, she kept beaming at me as if I were a precocious child.
“This is Mrs. Charles Stratton,” Mr. Bleeker informed her. “She is on her way to tour the West.”
“Oh, I knew her right away—I said to my Fred”—she poked the man next to her with her elbow; he grunted and turned away—“I said, ‘Fred, that’s that little Mrs. Tom Thumb, I just know it!’ She looks just like her little picture, yes, she does!” Still the woman beamed, even as she continued to talk above me, as if I wasn’t there. Smiling frostily, I bowed and continued down the aisle, shaking off Mr. Bleeker’s steadying hand upon my shoulder.
I climbed up into my seat next to Minnie; Mrs. Bleeker had already placed a cushion there for me, so that I might see out the window. As New York fell away, I wondered how many days it would be until we reached Omaha. There, we would board the new Union Pacific railroad, some of the first passengers to do so.
I doubted that vile woman was traveling any farther than Albany; certainly she wasn’t going to be shaking the hand of the Emperor of Japan!
Yet for a moment, I couldn’t prevent myself from imagining how it would be to travel—even if it was just to Albany—by myself, to climb upon a train unassisted, to carry my own luggage, to take whichever seat I wanted, no cushion or stool necessary.
I imagined what it would be like to be able to walk around freely, anonymously, nothing about me remarkable in any way. Would I like it? Would I trade my fame if it meant that I never had to suffer fools hugging me to them ever again?
I honestly did not know. And I was more than a little relieved that it was a moot point, after all.
THIS BOOK IS NOT INTENDED TO BE A MERE TRAVELOGUE; MY DEAR Mr. Bleeker wrote a very fine account of our journey in General Tom Thumb’s Three Years Tour Around the World, which I am sure you have read previously, as it