The Autobiography of Mrs. Tom Thumb - Melanie Benjamin [117]
“You’ve got to admire him. He loses his museum, he builds another. He sends you all off to see the world—”
“And he replaces us with someone else.” Crumpling the newspaper, I tossed it on the floor. But Mr. Bleeker didn’t notice, as he finally had gotten his pipe burning to his satisfaction, and was stretching his long legs out in front of him.
“He just keeps on going. ‘Admiral Dot.’ He has a genius for naming things, don’t you think?”
“Absolutely. Almost God-like, naming all the animals.”
Mr. Bleeker must have finally noticed the sarcasm in my voice, for he peered at me through the pipe smoke, eyebrows raised. Then he saw the newspaper on the ground.
“What’s wrong, Vinnie? I thought you’d be happy to know that he’s carrying on, as usual.”
“Oh, I suppose I am, it’s just—never mind.” I picked up my book and tried to find my place, but suddenly Mr. Bleeker plucked it out of my hands.
“You’re not jealous of that Dot fellow, are you?”
“I have no need to be jealous of another performer—especially one so unproven—thank you very much. Now, will you please return my book?”
“But that’s just Barnum’s way! You know that! He knows what the public wants, and he gives it to them. Truth is, he usually tells them what they want, before they know it. So the public wants to see another little man. So? That has nothing to do with you. It’s not personal with him like that.”
“Nothing ever is personal with him.” I sniffed, then held my hand out for my book. Mr. Bleeker gave it back to me, but I still felt him staring at me. He even scratched his head, so deep was his puzzlement.
Suddenly, however, he snapped his fingers and smiled; like an eager pupil, he tugged on my sleeve. Not in the mood to hide my impatience, I closed my book with a sigh and looked up.
“But Vinnie, listen! I never did tell you what he told me after your wedding. All that day, he was proud as could be, but I tell you, Vinnie, after the reception was over, he asked me to drive back home with him. And he was sad, Vinnie—the saddest I’d ever seen him.”
“He was?”
“He sure was! You know he’s sometimes a crier—remember how he sobbed when the Emancipation Proclamation was announced?”
“Yes.” And despite myself, I smiled; that was one of my most cherished memories, the January day when we all sat in his office and he read aloud Mr. Lincoln’s Proclamation from the newspaper, tears running unchecked down his pink face.
“Well, that day in the carriage, he had tears in his eyes. Sad tears. And he said, ‘Bleeker, this has been the happiest day of my life. And the saddest.’ And I asked him why, and he said, ‘Because I’ll never have this great a success again. Those two little people, they’ve spoiled me. How will I ever top this?’ And you know, Vinnie, I don’t think he’ll ever stop trying, even though he knows, deep in his heart, that he won’t. But it’s just in him to keep going, that’s the thing you have to admire about him. You two, though—Charles and you—you brought him the greatest success he’s ever known, and he won’t ever forget that. Or you. The two of you, well—you’re special.”
I stared at Mr. Bleeker for a long moment; he stared back, that anxious, eager smile upon his face. And I couldn’t help but nod, as his intentions were so obviously good.
“Yes, of course. I know that. I’m just tired from this heat, that’s all.”
“I’d give my favorite pipe for a cold bath tonight, but the manager said there isn’t any fresh water.” Mr. Bleeker nodded in agreement, and he settled back down with his pipe, content to watch an enormous moth that was determined to hurl itself, over and over, toward the oil lamp.
I opened my book again, but I found myself staring at the same page for the longest time, before finally giving up and going upstairs to bed.
AS OUR TRAVELS CONTINUED, OUR CLOTHING NEVER SEEMED TO be clean; the dust and dampness of travel was trapped forever within the folds of cotton, silk, and satin. We mended and remended