The Autobiography of Mrs. Tom Thumb - Melanie Benjamin [140]
When Minnie died, part of me died with her. For I had lost not only the sister whom I loved more than anyone else in the world; I also lost the one person in my life who had ever looked up to me. She and I had shared things that no one else could imagine; for so much of our lives, we had shared a chair at table, shared a bed, shared a train seat, shared clothing, even. How often had Mama cut up one of her old dresses and made it over into two smaller ones, just for Minnie and me? There was so much in this world that was too big for one of us alone, but that, together, we could just about fill. Except for hearts, that is; Minnie, alone, was big enough to fill up the hearts of everyone she met. And now my own heart was so empty I decided to put it away for good. There was only one other person who might have had some use for it, but I was no longer speaking to him.
Eventually, however, I did go on, in a fashion, without my sister. For the alternative was to stay home, alone, with my husband.
Edward moved away to New York, although I did not urge him to. Witnessing his grief upon seeing his wife and child lying together in their tiny coffin thoroughly changed my attitude toward him. Perhaps I could not have taken care of Minnie’s child, but I found myself softening toward her husband, allowing that he had truly loved her in a way no sister ever could. I was as in awe of his love as I had been of Minnie’s.
I was also envious, just as Mr. Barnum had so infuriatingly observed. For now that it was just the two of us, I could not help but look at my own husband through skeptical, disappointed eyes.
Oh, Charles was kindness itself, tiptoeing around me as I fiercely gathered the black veils of that first grief and wrapped myself within them. I would not allow anyone to tell me that I must carry on, that I must be strong, that I must remember that Minnie and her daughter would be waiting for me in Heaven. “I don’t care!” I shouted in response. “I want her here! Now!”
Charles did not say such things to me, but it was only because they were not in his repertoire. He had not been taught by Mr. Barnum how to behave with a grieving wife. So he did not recite platitudes and proverbs, and at first I was grateful for that. He was the one person who spoke honestly and plainly about his feelings; possessing none of the stoicism that ran through the male line of my family, he wept along with me. Many nights he crept into my room, climbed into my bed, and slipped his hand in mine as he cried softly into my pillow; I cried into his shoulder. I thought, then, that perhaps we had at last achieved the emotional intimacy of a married couple; perhaps I even allowed myself to wonder if we could achieve physical intimacy, as well.
But my sister’s death—the blood, the suffering—was too fresh, too horrible, for me to reach out to my husband in that way. And Charles, ever the devoted pupil, trained first by Mr. Barnum and then by me, had long stopped reaching out to me. My husband fell asleep on my pillow but not in my arms.
Soon, however, I began to be irritated by his tears; it was almost as if he was imitating my grief, although not in a malicious way. I finally acknowledged that my husband had no personality of his own; he was merely an imprint of everyone around him. As soon as I stopped crying, he did; the only time I ever saw him read a book was when I had one in my hands; the only time he went for a stroll was when I proposed one. He went to bed at the same time that I did every night; his favorite foods were mine. The only things he did that I did not were smoke cigars and drink an occasional glass of brandy—the two vices Mr. Barnum enjoyed.
He was so very good at imitation, at mimicry, that I suspected he did have a quick mind. But by now—he was forty—it was rusted over, for the most part unused.
He was also very portly. New clothes were required constantly, and he came to me one day with a tailor’s bill in his hand and a worried shadow crossing his usually cloudless eyes.
“Vinnie, dear, do you remember