The Autobiography of Mrs. Tom Thumb - Melanie Benjamin [64]
“Even grander!” I promised. “And I will bring home beautiful presents for you—dolls and gowns and necklaces, and we’ll put them on and have balls right here at home, right in the parlor, just the two of us!” I dropped the frock I was folding and began to waltz my little sister around the floor; she giggled and followed my lead surprisingly well, her tangle of black curls tumbling down over her face.
But when that fateful day arrived and my family drove me to the station, she sobbed as uncontrollably as she had the first time I left. I, however, had no tears. I bowed regally to some of my fellow townspeople who just happened to be at the station that day; to Mrs. Putnam, the minister’s wife, I gave a special farewell. I extended my hand to her and said that I hoped that God would be with her and that I wouldn’t stop praying for her, not even all the way in New York City, and then Europe. Why, I might even enlist the Queen in my efforts!
She sputtered in horror, but Papa was already lifting me up on the train before she could think of something to retort. Then I was waving to my family, but only for a moment; soon enough I turned around and looked ahead, at the familiar, peaceful buildings and houses and farms that soon fell away as I sped west, toward New York.
The scenery changed, from farmland to coastland; we passed cranberry bogs and fishing villages, and then we found ourselves back in rolling farmland again. Eventually the houses and buildings grew closer and closer together as we went south. Even with the train windows shut tightly, I soon detected a noise, a pulse, I’d never heard before, and I knew we were in New York City. Automatically I clutched my reticule to my bosom, my mother’s lastminute warnings still in my ear, but I also couldn’t refrain from kneeling up on the seat to see more easily. The train was chugging past what seemed to be a maze of buildings, all perilously close to the track, right on the same level; there were so many people on the sidewalks that I was quite fearful someone would step right into the path of the onrushing train and be killed.
To my great relief, no one did. We continued to chug, slowing down by increments, until we reached a yard full of tracks branching out in every direction. The train stopped, and I waited for everyone else to disembark before I finally ventured forth, looking for a porter to lift me down.
“Where is the station house?” I inquired, after finding myself on the ground, in the middle of all those tracks.
“Are you lost, little girl?” He squinted down at me.
I sighed but decided not to correct him. “No, I’m not lost, I simply want to get to the station, where I’m being met.”
“Over there.” The porter pointed, across several tracks, to a large wooden building.
“How do I get there?”
“You walk. Across the tracks. Can you do that? I must say, you’re a mite of a thing, traveling all alone.”
“I’m not—that is—would you mind carrying me?” For despite my eagerness to correct his impression, I heard trains approaching from other directions and I had a momentary fear of being caught on one of the tracks, unable to scramble out of the way in time.
“Sure thing, little lady.” And so I found myself being carried across the tracks, much like a sack of potatoes, and deposited unceremoniously upon the station platform. Hastily, I brushed off my skirt and smoothed my shawl. Perhaps it was not the most dignified way to make my entrance into this great metropolis, but it was certainly the safest.
“You must be Miss Warren?” A tall man with a drooping gray mustache and beard approached me.
“No, I’m—Oh, yes! That is, yes, I’m Miss Warren.” So flustered was I, I had quite forgotten my new name. Mr. Barnum and I had disposed, once and for all, of the ugly “Bump,” and settled on Mama’s family name.
“I’m Mr. Bleeker. Mr. Barnum sent me to greet you and get