The Autobiography of Mrs. Tom Thumb - Melanie Benjamin [65]
“Yes, a trunk and some wooden steps.”
“Give me the ticket, and I’ll fetch them. Come—I hate to ask you after your long trip, but do you mind hurrying up a bit? We don’t want to cause a stir.” Indeed, people were beginning to gather and point at me; I was so accustomed to this that I scarcely noticed it. But this tall man did, and it appeared to cause him great concern; he put his hand upon my head and gave me a little push, even as he apologized for doing so.
It was his kind concern that made me trust him immediately. He was so very solicitous, even as he was obviously anxious to get me to the carriage. So I followed this stranger, so gaunt that his clothes practically hung off him, as if I trusted him with my life. Little did I know that one day, he would repay this trust, abundantly, many times over. But he was no saint, no mythological creature. For in the end, there was one life he would not be able to spare: the life dearest to him, above all others.
At that moment, of course, I could not suspect any of this; I only followed Mr. Bleeker because I had no alternative, and because I trusted Mr. Barnum implicitly. Soon I found myself in a carriage—not as fine as the one back in Bridgeport; this one was coated in dirt, which I immediately discovered was one thing everyone in New York, no matter the class, gender, or heritage, had in common. Dirt. It was the great equalizer.
Dirt covered everything; my white satin slippers were soon coated in it, even before I stepped into the carriage. Dirt covered the buildings, so tall I couldn’t see the tops of some of them—four and five stories tall, imagine! Dirt covered the cobblestoned streets, which were also filled with animal filth, garbage, rats, and humans—who were also covered in dirt. Newsboys, lugging great armfuls of papers, their faces streaked with grime and newsprint; men in black coats and top hats, carrying walking sticks, their white gloves sooty gray; women wrapped in shawls and long aprons, pulling along sickly-looking children spattered with mud; vendors pushing carts filled with things I’d never seen before, fruits and vegetables of unknown names, pickles, fish in jars, trinkets—all coated in dirt.
I’d never seen such a kaleidoscope of people, of things, all of so many different colors yet muted with the same grimy gray.
And high above the buildings, in patches, I could glimpse blue sky. And the occasional oasis of green, pastures for horses and even cows and sheep, so oddly out of place in the shadows of the tall buildings.
I was speechless, content to keep looking out the window, again up on my knees, although I knew it was not dignified. Mr. Bleeker simply grinned, saying, “It sure is good to see this place through someone else’s eyes.”
“I don’t see how you could ever get used to it! It looks as if it’s always changing!” Just then, a man with long black curls on either side of his head, wearing a funny hat and coat, emerged from a building. He carried an impressive-looking scroll under one arm, a huge fish wrapped in newspaper under the other. I was enthralled.
Mr. Bleeker didn’t reply; he seemed to be a man content with silence, much like my father. I liked him already. Although he did say, after I hung my head out the carriage window to get a better look at a man roasting chestnuts in a tin bucket over coals and selling them in paper cones, “Miss Warren, I do wish you’d shut the window, for Mr. Barnum will have my hide if anyone sees you.”
I shut the window, not unwillingly; one other aspect of New York—the stinking, rotting smell of human and animal refuse ripening in the sun and stagnant water—had immediately made my eyes water. I sat back down and turned to Mr. Bleeker.
“Why is that? Why does he want no one to see me?”
“Because that’s the way he works. He needs to build you up himself, present you in the proper way. And if some newspaper writes about a little lady wandering about town, he won’t be able to control the Press. You’ll see—Mr. Barnum