The Autobiography of Mrs. Tom Thumb - Melanie Benjamin [49]
Finally the ticket agent relented, and, with tickets in hand, Sylvia and I went back to the dock, where we spent the night beneath the stars and burning torches, the gunshots and firecrackers only diminishing once the sun came up. The steamer arrived early the next morning, and soon we all—including Colonel Wood, whom I could not simply leave behind, no matter how tempting the thought—were on our way to Louisville. There we disbanded with tearful goodbyes.
Except for Colonel Wood; he slunk off in the confusion of sorting out our baggage, crying out, “You all still have contracts with me! This ain’t no act of God—it’s an act of war, and I’m tacking that time onto your contracts!”
“Let ’im try,” Billy Birch muttered. “Let ’im try to find me. I’m enlisting first chance I get—do you think that bastard will?” We all laughed at the notion.
Sylvia and I journeyed together as far as Boston. From there, she took one train north, and I another south. When we disembarked from the train, snow was beginning to fall; big, gentle flakes, welcoming me back home.
Sylvia bent to hug me tearfully; she actually fell upon her knees, even though I knew how much that must have hurt her. I asked her what she was going to do.
“I don’t know,” she said as tears fell, slowly as ever, upon her mammoth cheeks. For once she did not notice the strange looks and whispers we attracted. Her sorrow and uncertainty were too apparent, even though I knew she was relieved to be headed home. “I thought my mother might tell me in a dream, but I haven’t slept well these last few nights.”
“Who has?” I smiled, patting her on the back. Then a thought occurred to me; I didn’t know why I hadn’t figured it out sooner. “Sylvia!” I exclaimed, so excitedly that she nearly knocked me over in her surprise. “That’s it—I know what you can do and still stay at home in Wilton! You talk so often of seeing your mother in dreams. Why don’t you become a spiritualist? You’re so sympathetic, I know you’ll help any number of people who have lost dear ones.”
“A spiritualist? I don’t know, Vinnie.…”
“Sylvia, you’re lonely. This would be good for you, and you’d never have to leave home again. Why, people will come to see you from everywhere! And I promise I’ll help, in any way I can. I’ll write to all my friends and tell everyone I meet.” Little did either of us realize how many, many people I would meet in the coming years—and how happy I would be to learn that Sylvia was able to make a decent living because of them, because of me.
The stationmaster called out that the train to Maine was about to leave.
“Vinnie, you’ve helped me so much already. You’re the only friend I’ve ever had. Write me, won’t you?”
“Of course.” Sylvia got up, tears still rolling down those granite cheekbones, but before she walked away, I called out to her.
“Wait! Sylvia, will you do—will you do one thing for me?”
“Anything, Vinnie. Anything you want.”
“Will you—will you pick me up and hold me high? I always wanted to see the world the way you see it. I want to see how different your view is from mine.”
Sylvia smiled, then picked me up carefully, holding me in her arms so that my feet did not dangle. She lifted me up so that my face was level with hers. And then we turned to look at the world.
I could see roads leading away from the station, snow-blanketed, peaceful ribbons of roads, leading to places unknown. I could see the tops of buildings, the rooflines, the chimneys. I could see over people’s heads, so that I was looking down upon them; how insignificant they all looked, how ordinary! The tops of hats were flat and round; the tops of bonnets were thin and worn, catching snowflakes in the creases.
I could see all the way to the end of the train platforms, my view unobstructed by legs and skirts and trunks and poles. From here, the distance between train and platform appeared small and manageable—not the wide, terrifying chasm that I experienced, fearful of missing the platform altogether