The Autobiography of Mrs. Tom Thumb - Melanie Benjamin [51]
“What are you sorry about, my chick?” Mama was placing platters of stewed meat, covered in bubbling gravy and topped with airy dumplings, upon the linen tablecloth; my stomach growled in anticipation. I had been home for nearly a year, yet I had not tired of Mama’s delicious cooking.
It was December of 1861, and the War that had started so vividly and personally for me was being fought in bloody earnest all across the South. I had spent so much time there, seeing it only as a place where simple people were eager to be entertained, just like their brethren up north, that I had a difficult time thinking of them as the enemy.
But two of my brothers were now in Yankee blue, so I could not be neutral. Benjamin had been the first to enlist, joining up with the Massachusetts Volunteer Militia even before I came home. I missed his presence keenly; I still felt pain at the way we had parted. I needed to know that he was not ashamed of me.
Both he and James, who joined up as soon as the first bullets were fired on Fort Sumter in April, were now in Virginia, so very far away to Mama and Papa—a foreign country, almost! But not to me. I could mentally calculate how quickly I could get there; I knew by heart the train timetables, where you had to get off and take a ferry across the Chesapeake, then get back on the train again. I had spent a good amount of time at the station in Middleborough, poring over the schedules and maps of trains leaving for all destinations. I couldn’t help myself. I was drawn to the train station like a fly to a cow patty. I became obsessed in my need to study every method of travel available, to follow the debate in the newspaper about the possibility of building a train clear across our great nation, from Atlantic to Pacific. I had no plans to leave home again, as of yet; I simply hungered to know how easily I could do so. This knowledge gave me peace, where my parents’ clucking and soothing did not.
“I’m sorry that I almost made Vinnie show me the letter she was writing,” Minnie said with a shy, apologetic smile as she took her seat, piled high with cushions, one more than mine. “Now, Papa, take the best piece for yourself, as you work the hardest!” And Minnie tucked her napkin into her collar and waited patiently to be served.
“Thank you, Miss, I certainly will,” Papa said with a serious nod, although his eyes twinkled. “Do you want me to post that letter for you, Vinnie?” he asked as he began to pass around the plates. “I have to go into town tomorrow.”
“No—I, that is, thank you. But I thought I might get some exercise and walk into town myself. I can post it then.” I took my own seat, across from Minnie.
“I would never walk to town by myself!” She shook her head decidedly. “Think of all those houses and buildings you have to walk past—how dreadful! And people do talk so. You’re so brave, Vinnie!”
I wanted to laugh, given what I had endured upon the river. But my sister’s admiration was pure and heartfelt, and I never wished to hurt her feelings.
“Minnie’s right, it is a long walk for you, Vinnie, and you know how those wagon ruts can trip you up,” Mama began, automatically. But when she caught my eye, she stopped.
“You sure you want to go all that way by yourself?” Papa asked, but he did not meet my gaze. Unlike Mama, he asked out of courtesy alone; he knew too well I would make my own mind up and do as I pleased. He did not enjoy knowing this, he did not approve of it, but he allowed it. As he had ever since I returned home.
“Yes, Papa, I do want to go alone. Anyway, I can use the