The Autobiography of Mrs. Tom Thumb - Melanie Benjamin [136]
So I picked up my skirts and began to run; if I could put enough distance between the two of us, I would never be tempted to go back.
My hair came undone from its bun; it streamed down my back, heavy and tickling as it hadn’t done since I was young. Since Minnie and I were girls, running around the barnyard hand in hand, laughing and searching for hidden treasures, for rocks and eggs and anthills, four-leaf clovers, fairy wings.
Objects that only the two of us, so close together, so close to the ground in a way that no one else was, could see. Objects that Minnie had always found beautiful, and that she had persisted in trying to share with me.
But I never could see them, not then, not now.
I was always too busy looking for the man in the moon, instead.
THE TWENTY-THIRD OF JULY STARTED OUT LIKE ANY OTHER SUMmer day; it dawned bright and warm, with the promise of midafternoon heat in the pale morning sun. The house seemed airless by eight a.m.; after bringing Minnie her breakfast, which she could not eat except for a little nibble of dry toast, I went outside, hoping to cool off.
Papa’s cow pastures were almost all sold off by now, divided up among my brothers, who had built houses of their own. But one pasture remained untouched, just big enough for the small herd he still kept; I headed out there, careful not to step in cow patties or gopher holes. Up ahead, on top of a little hill, was an enormous, leafy tree that was sure to provide nice, cool shade. I was eager to reach that restful spot; I walked faster, as if in a race against time and sun. I knew I could not linger, for Minnie was due any day now. Yet I so wanted to spend a little time sitting against the trunk, maybe even taking off my shoes and stockings to let my feet play in the tall, cool grass; I hadn’t done that since I was a child.
Finally, I reached the shade; pausing to collect my breath, I unbuttoned the top of my bodice so that some of the heat, trapped within the folds of my dress, could escape. Then I took a closer look at the tree; it had been so long since I had tramped outdoors, but this tree looked familiar.
Creeping closer to the trunk, I pushed away some of the tall grass, and there it was, like a long-forgotten friend—my name. My name, and the line marking my height, which was still just an inch or two below where I stood now. I looked up, seeing all the other familiar names—James, Benjamin, Delia …
But where was Minnie? For the first time, I realized her name had not been etched in the rough, gnarled bark. I couldn’t remember why that was—had she even been born then? Was she just too timid to romp about that day? Had I abandoned her, as I sometimes did, impatient that she didn’t want to run after the others, annoyed that she was so content to sit in the kitchen with Mama, playing with her dolls? I honestly could not recall. However, it wasn’t right that her name was not here with the rest of us; how could I have not noticed it before? Anyone looking at this tree would think she hadn’t existed at all—
Like a thunderclap, the panic startled me, overcame me; I had to scratch her name right here, right now. I had to record my sister’s life on this tree this very instant, capture it somehow. And if I did, surely, like a gypsy’s charm, everything would be all right. I looked about, but of course there was no handy knife or tool nearby; I grabbed a stick, but it snapped against the rough bark. Finally, I tried to use my fingernail, scraping until my finger bled, but it was no use. There wasn’t even a faint outline of her name; I hadn’t made a dent.
Breathing heavily, hot and perspiring even under the shade, I sat down for a moment to think. I could run over to Mama’s—their house was closer. I needn’t tell her why I required a knife; it would only upset her. I could just take one from the rack in the kitchen, slip back outside and run back here before