The Autobiography of Mrs. Tom Thumb - Melanie Benjamin [19]
“Vinnie, my little chick, don’t forget us all!” Mama knelt down to my level, her skirt sopping up mud, but she did not notice. “Pray every night and trust in God, and don’t talk to bad people if you can help it. Colonel Wood has promised to care for you with a cousinly concern and affection, but, oh! This is still hard!” With a sob, she covered her face with a handkerchief.
Minnie was already crying, her surprising resolve of the night before chased away by the sight of my trunk in the back of the wagon. She was holding on to my hand so tightly I could feel her nails through my gloves. “Vinnie, Vinnie, oh, why must you leave? Why?”
She was nine, but with her tear-stained face and her uncomprehending eyes, I thought she more closely resembled a child of five. My sister, my poor little sister! But I had to go; by now I had convinced myself that the only way I could make a good life for her was by making one first for myself. Then, I could come back and shower her with riches and show her the world, release her from her lonely cell, hidden away by well-meaning family.
This was what I told myself as finally I pried her small hand from mine and let Papa lift me up on the seat next to Colonel Wood. The Colonel was obviously impatient to start; we were traveling to his parents’ home in Weedsport, New York—he had a note of welcome from his mother, which he showed Mama and Papa when I signed the contract, helping to ease their minds significantly. There, we would outfit me with an appropriate wardrobe before journeying on to Cincinnati, where his boat had wintered.
Papa settled me in, tucking a bearskin all about me even though it was not cold. But I let him fuss, knowing this was his way of saying goodbye, and that he would sorely miss me.
“Got your money hidden away?” he asked, suddenly very concerned with one corner of the skin that would not stay put.
“Yes, Papa.”
“Keep it in case of an emergency. You never know what might come up.”
“Yes, Papa.”
“Don’t let strangers pay for anything, you understand? That’s the way to ruin; you pay your own way, if Colonel Wood can’t.”
“Yes, Papa.”
“And don’t forget to write. Your mother will surely look forward to a letter now and then.”
“I won’t forget, Papa, oh, I won’t!” And I could not help but throw my arms around his rough and weathered neck; I heard him sniff just once, then he patted my arm and gently pushed me away, muttering something about checking the back wheel of the wagon, as it didn’t look “put on right.”
Of course it was put on right; Colonel Wood abruptly slapped the reins, and the horses started forward. I twisted around and waved at my family, memorizing their faces, until we rounded the bend in the road and I could see them no longer.
“Not going to cry, are you?” Colonel Wood asked just as I reached for my handkerchief. “I can’t stand sniveling females.”
“No, not a bit!” I replied, blinking furiously.
“Good. Now, let me tell you about my boat.” And he began to spin a yarn of assorted colors and shapes, of minstrel singers and gamblers and cotton bales stacked up at southern docks by slaves dark as night; about the high bluffs of Minnesota, where eagles soared above the river, card games got up after midnight shows, the huge calliope that sang out merry tunes at every port of call; even a man who could spin two dozen plates at once without dropping a one!
And my heart, which had felt as heavy as a roof smothered in January snow, began to thaw, began to soar like the sun that was just beginning to peek through the trees. I felt as big as the sun; no, as big as the sky! The sky was a vast, endless sea in which the sun was just a small orb, the size of a coin. I held my thumb up to it; I blocked it neatly out.
So it was true;