The Autobiography of Mrs. Tom Thumb - Melanie Benjamin [134]
“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