The Autobiography of Mrs. Tom Thumb - Melanie Benjamin [17]
Benjamin stormed out of the room. Mama burst into a renewed torrent of tears as she ran after him. But all I wanted to do was hurry upstairs and find Minnie.
She was in the room that we shared; sitting on the low bed, made for us by Papa, she cradled her favorite doll in her lap, looking very much like a doll herself. She was so delicate, so winsome; she came up only to my shoulder. Her big dark eyes grew even bigger when she saw me; with a breathless little gasp she asked, “Is that dreadful man gone, Vinnie?”
“No, he’s not.” I sat down upon the bed next to her; the two of us together hardly made a dent in the feather tick.
“I wish he would go. I don’t like him.”
“You don’t even know him.”
“I don’t care. I don’t like him.”
“You don’t like anyone.” I had to smile, remembering the other day when she had declared the man who bought Mama’s eggs and butter “Simply dreadful!”
“No, I don’t like anyone but you. And Mama and Papa. And James and Benjamin and everyone.” Minnie looked up at me—she was the only person in my life who looked up at me—and smiled, that one dimple showing. She was so trusting, my sister. She smiled innocently at me as if she expected me to tell her a pretty story, a wonderful surprise. She always looked at me like that; my heart, which had been so light at the prospect of my adventure, began to flutter and flail about in my breast, and I had to turn away.
Even though she was now nine, Minnie was still as timid as she had always been; she had not followed the path I had tried to blaze for her. She had no eagerness to go to school; she trembled and clutched at Mama’s skirts the first time I broached the subject, even after I assured her that I would be her teacher. So she remained at home, and I had to admit that Mama’s limited education was more than enough to school our Minnie. She did not have the curiosity of mind and spirit that I possessed.
School was the only place she would not follow me, however; even when I performed my chores around the farm, she clung to me, holding my skirt or my hand. I reached under the chickens for the eggs; she carried the eggs in a basket. I snipped the lavender from Mama’s garden; she tied it up in fragrant little bundles.
Nearly eight years separated us, so that at times it almost felt as if she was my child, not my little sister, so trusting, so dependent she was upon me. When I left the farm in the morning to go to school, she took her seat on a little stool by the kitchen hearth; when I returned in the evening, she was always where I had left her. I had the oddest sensation that her very breath was suspended until I came home.
And at night we slept in the same bed, her little arms encircled about my waist, her head resting upon my shoulder. “Rock me, Sister,” she always implored, her curls already tangled around her neck, her eyes already drooping. I would rock her gently, singing some sweet song, often one I made up; before I could finish, Minnie would be fast asleep, a contented smile on her pretty face.
Now, as I began to wonder how she would sleep once I was gone, I realized my heart was not strong enough to withstand such questioning, and so I made myself think of something else.
“Guess what?” I asked my sister.
“What?”
“I’m going to ride on a train!”
“A train? How dreadful! Aren’t you scared? I’d be scared, even if you were with me, Vinnie!” Minnie’s eyes shone anxiously, reflecting stars that were not there.
“No, I’m not a bit scared. And anyway, Colonel Wood will be with me.”
“He will? But why? He’s so dreadful! Where will you go—to town? And you’ll be home by dinner?”
“No, not to town.” I stifled a smile; in Minnie’s experience, there was nowhere else to go but to town. That