The Autobiography of Mrs. Tom Thumb - Melanie Benjamin [52]
“Oh, no, Vinnie! You’re much more beautiful than that plain Mrs. Lincoln. She has the most awful way of doing her hair, not fashionable at all.” Minnie spoke with such disdain that the rest of us couldn’t help but laugh. Since when did Minnie concern herself with fashionable coiffures? I tried to imagine my little sister poring over Godey’s Lady’s Book, and failed.
We continued our meal without further inquiries into my letter-writing habits. Although twice I caught Papa looking my way with his eyes scrunched up, as if he was trying to get a good read on me.
He was still trying to figure me out.
THE NEXT MORNING I BUNDLED UP IN A CLOAK AND MITTENS and stout boots. It had been a mild December for Massachusetts; the lanes were not piled high with snow. The sun was shining, and I soon warmed up as I walked the short distance toward town. I enjoyed being alone; ever since I had returned home, I had found myself craving such solitude.
Everything had changed since my return. My family treated me differently, gingerly, as if I might break, or worse—as if I might leave them again. At first they had peppered me with questions, but soon they realized they didn’t really know what to ask; they had no comprehension of the details of my life those three eventful years. They knew only that it was very different from theirs. I produced my clippings and told of meeting people like the Grants. I spoke lovingly of Sylvia, and the rest of the troupe. (Carlotta I decided not to mention.)
I did not speak of Colonel Wood. At first they asked all about him, but soon they picked up on my reluctance to mention his name and ceased their questioning.
My family loved me, welcomed me, yet frequently I felt like a guest in my own home. I caught Papa looking at me at times with something close to shyness, as if he did not quite recognize me. And I felt the strangeness myself; the farm was so quiet, my family so loving and good, it all seemed dreamlike, almost. As if I would wake up and find myself back on the river, the hard, pulsing life of the river; that felt, now, like the most real time of my life. The bad things that had happened soon receded from memory. I remembered only the excitement, the ever-changing scenery, the cheerful camaraderie of my fellow performers, the elegance of the hotels contrasted with the wildness of the audience—oh, to think of it all made me want to throw my clothes in a valise, grab my cloak, and run out of the house! It made me long to cast off all possessions so that I might always be ready to leave at a moment’s notice.
Recalling that life also made me pick up my pen and compose the letter I was determined to post today. The letter was bulky; I had included a number of my press clippings and, of course, my carte de visite, which I had inscribed. The address on the outside, which I had copied so carefully from a newspaper article, read as follows:
MR. PHINEAS TAYLOR BARNUM
The American Museum, corner of Ann Street and Broadway
New York, New York
The letter was sealed with a dollop of wax, hard and cold as a button against my thumb. Despite my eagerness to post it, I took my time on this walk; I was in no hurry to get back home, where nothing ever changed. I had no purpose, no task, but to rise early with the family; help Mama with sewing, cleaning, cooking; keep Minnie company and try to improve her mind with reading and conversation; rock her to sleep at night before rolling over to my side of our little bed, where I tried, unsuccessfully, to sleep. But these days sleep did not come easily to me. Try as I might to tire myself with long walks and endless turns at the spinning wheel, I was never as physically exhausted—every joint throbbing, the arches of my feet aching, even my tongue worn out from constant