The Autobiography of Mrs. Tom Thumb - Melanie Benjamin [47]
But he easily—oh, God, how easily!—trapped my legs with one knee, gathered both my wrists in one hand and held them over my head. His hot, whiskey-soured breath curdled my skin, moving lower and lower until I felt his mustache tickle my neck. The back of my spine began to quiver, turning to liquid; I felt as if I was going to be sick.
“You’re perfect, you know. Tiny, but perfectly formed—why, just look at the way you fill out that dress. I’ve always wanted to touch ’em, feel ’em, see what they looked like.” His breath came in rapid pants, like a dog’s, as he placed his huge, grasping hand against the curve of my bodice. He spread his fingers out; his little finger reached the top of my waist, the rest of his hand caressed, so delicately I thought I was imagining it, the swell of my breast. His breath grew ragged then, and I shut my eyes, my ears, and willed my mind to take me somewhere else. Desperately, I tried to summon up images from home, of sweetly babbling brooks and the comforting creak of Mama’s rocking chair and Papa’s workbench in the barn, where he loved to make things for me and Minnie, little toys and chairs and my stair steps. And then I saw Minnie, her sweet, angelic face with the black curls drooping over her forehead, her innocent, deep blue eyes, and I began to sob and laugh, both. For I was suddenly glad, glad that it was I who had to endure this, instead of her. If this was the price I had to pay to protect her from men like Colonel Wood, from men like that nameless, faceless ogre in New Orleans who wanted to force themselves upon women like me, like Minnie—I began to imagine the size of him, what it would do to me, it would probably split me in two, and then I wasn’t glad. I was terrified, and I began to sob even harder as I felt the fragile cloth of my bodice tear beneath his ugly hands, the soft ripping sound it made a scolding, hushed betrayal.
And then I heard a moan. A soft moan, a bleat, like a little lamb. “Oh,” Wood said in quiet surprise, and he fell off me, his eyes first open, then closing with a flutter as weak as the cry he had just uttered.
I looked up. Sylvia was standing before me, my reticule in her hand, an expression of utter amazement on her suddenly beautiful face as she gazed down at Colonel Wood, who was grasping his head, eyes still closed. Then she looked at me.
“You forgot this,” she said in that deep rumble of hers that always tickled my eardrums. “You forgot your reticule, and I brought it to you. Also, they’re taking the boat. Some men.”
“Oh.” It was all I could say. I felt for my bodice, fingered the torn cloth, and sought to cover it up; my cheeks were hot and sticky with tears, and in that moment I felt as helpless as a baby. Sylvia reached down to scoop me up, and it would have been bliss to allow her to do so, to carry me back to the boat in her arms, and tuck me into my bed, and sing me songs.
But something inside my soul would not allow it; I struggled to hold on to that feeling, that hot little burst of feeling deep within a place that no Colonel Wood could ever touch. I coaxed it, and finally it propelled me out of my stupor. I stepped over Colonel Wood, who still lay upon the carpet, clutching his head, beginning to curse so that I knew he would recover. I tidied myself up, buttoned my cloak, and patted my hair. Then I turned to Sylvia.
“They’re taking the boat?”
“Yes, they say we have to leave, we only have an hour to get our things. How will we get home, Vinnie?”
“Don’t worry, I’ll think of something. Grab him and drag him back with us.” I didn’t even glance at Colonel Wood, but I did register Sylvia’s deep smile of satisfaction as she reached down and hauled him up by his arm, ignoring his curses and moans. It was the happiest I had seen her in a very long time; we looked at each other and almost burst into laughter before mutually deciding against it.
Then I led us out of the parlor,