The Autobiography of Mrs. Tom Thumb - Melanie Benjamin [164]
And just as I had, so long ago when I heard Mama weeping softly over my lonely fate—how prescient she had been!—I lay in my virginal bed, and tossed and turned, longing for something else, something more. And just like then, I didn’t know what it was.
I knew only that at age forty-two, after almost twenty-five years of running—running to catch trains, running to make performances, running to the next city, the next country, the next continent—
Running away, from my husband, from my family, from my name scratched in a tree, destined always to be smaller than everyone else’s—
I still hadn’t found what I was looking for.
Why was I, alone of everyone I knew, always still seeking? Still searching? Why did everyone else seem content enough, brave enough, simply to—live? Minnie, for all her timid ways, her shyness, was braver than I had ever been. She had been brave enough to live the life that I had only pretended to, the life that I had done my best to avoid yet somehow had ended up impersonating all over the world. That of the perfect wife and mother, the embodiment of the feminine ideal—in miniature. Always, in miniature.
There was only one other person I knew who never seemed satisfied. There was only one other person I knew whose dreams were as immense as the ones I had dreamed so long ago. There was only one other person who, though larger than me, had never allowed his shadow to completely obscure my own.
I picked up my pen and wrote another letter. I even walked into town to the post office myself, as I had done all those years ago; I even worried, just a little, about his reply.
But I didn’t worry too much. For I knew I had found my way back from the Egress, after all.
* * *
“I WAS GOING TO COME ANYWAY, WHETHER YOU WANTED ME TO OR not,” he said grumpily—although he couldn’t completely prevent a crooked smile from spreading across his face.
Those lips were thinner now, the bushy eyebrows completely white, along with his curls. He did not use his gold-tipped walking stick as an accessory—punctuating sentences with it, outlining imaginary train routes, twirling it like a magician. Now he leaned heavily upon it, especially when going up stairs.
His voice, so much higher than one would think it should be, was still the same, as was his mind; closing my eyes, I could almost hear it whirring and turning, just as before. And, of course—that barely checked glimmer behind the gray eyes; I knew it was still there, just waiting for the perfect opportunity to mesmerize, beckon, delight.
“You were not, for you are afraid of me,” I told him, just as grumpily. I had received him in Mama’s parlor, now updated with gaslights instead of oil lamps, although there was a rumor that in the next few years, electricity would be run to all in Middleborough. My sister-in-law had redecorated everything, so that the plain, homespun braided rugs and simply carved furniture were gone, replaced by more ornate, heavy chairs, plush carpets. It looked like every hotel parlor I’d ever visited, but I didn’t tell Mary that. She was very proud of this room.
“Afraid? I don’t know what you mean,” Mr. Barnum replied. “I am afraid of no one.”
“You are afraid of women, and you always have been. You were terrified of Jenny Lind, you know. Why else would you let her slip away so soon and go back to Europe? And you’re afraid of your wife now. Why else did you leave her in London while you came back home?”
“Why, that—” He began to stir; it had been such a long time since we had sparred, and I don’t believe he quite remembered how. I almost apologized, for I did not want to spoil the visit—but then he relaxed and allowed that glimmer in his eyes to wink at me. “Well, Vinnie, I see your tongue has not dulled with time. No one ever has spoken to me the way you do.”
I smiled, pleased. But then an awkwardness fell over us. There was still so much left unsaid,