The Autobiography of Mrs. Tom Thumb

  Minnie’s service had been so small, I remembered, watching the throngs file past Charles’s coffin, the reporters scribbling down every detail. Just in Mama and Papa’s parlor. How Charles had sobbed! As if she were his own sister, and truly, I knew he thought of her that way. Whatever my husband was or wasn’t, there was no denying he was genuinely giving of his love and affection. Charles had no enemies at all; he was the only person I knew of whom I could say that. No, Reader, I take that back. Minnie didn’t, either.

  And there was genuine grief at his funeral, too; I saw it in the faces that passed me. I heard it in the sob coming from several pews back, the sob of an old friend, the man who had taken a five-year-old boy and turned him into a miniature adult—and together, they had conquered the world. There would have been no P.T. Barnum without Charles Stratton, and there would have been no General Tom Thumb without P. T. Barnum.

  I longed to go back there and comfort him, for I alone knew of the genuine affection between the two. Others saw only a business partnership; I saw a friendship. Mr. Barnum’s sobs tore at my heart in a way that my own husband’s death did not; my tears would not fall, and so I appropriated his. He could cry over Charles, for the both of us, just as I had cried over Minnie.

  But I did not go to him. I sat in my pew, upon a cushion so that I would be visible to all, and I adjusted my thick black veil so that it hung with dignity down my back. And I tried to remember the things I loved about Charles. For this day, of all days, I did not want to pretend; I did not want to feel as if my mourning dress was a costume, as my wedding dress had been. I closed my eyes, and I remembered Charles as he was with children: warm, open-hearted, all pretend dignity tossed aside, almost always on his knees, even though he—alone of all adults—did not have to bend down to be on their level.

  I remembered Charles as he was with Minnie: the two of them co-conspirators, impish, playing pranks, sharing confidences, sharing a chair, the back turned to the rest of us, as they whispered together.

  I remembered Charles as he was the last time I saw him: tear-stained, asking for my approval—because he had given up asking for my love. And I had refused him. It seemed to me I spent our entire married life refusing him, he who asked for so little of me. He had died alone, in our bed; even if I had been there with him, he would have died alone. For I had never allowed love to join us there, and without it, the two of us could not begin to fill up all the empty spaces between us.

  His coffin looked so small in this great church, the stained-glass windows looming over it, those tall Knights Templar dwarfing his tiny plumed hat, perched so jauntily upon the top. I thought I should go and stand by him, so he wouldn’t be so lonely, as he had always stood by me—

  And that’s when I realized what I would most miss about him. For I had lost the person who shared my view of the world, the person who had stood by me as I traveled continents, met Queens, shook hands with Presidents. I hadn’t stood alone in over twenty years; always I had someone by my side whose eyes saw the world as I did. Through a maze of legs, of wheels, of barriers large and barriers small.

  Barriers of hearts, and barriers of minds.

  I bowed my head, tears finally trickling down my cheeks. And I found a way to mourn for my husband.

  INTERMISSION

  From The Humbugs of the World, by P. T. Barnum

  And whenever the time shall come when men are kind and just and honest; when they only want what is fair and right, judge only on real and true evidence, and take nothing for granted, then there will be no place left for any humbugs, either harmless or hurtful.

  [ TWENTY ]

  One Last Encore

  AFTER THE FUNERAL, I WENT BACK TO MIDDLEBOROUGH—back to my family. It was unspoken, but I knew they assumed that I would finally settle down, once and for all, within their bosom. Henceforth, I would be “Aunt Vinnie” to my various nieces and nephews, so numerous I honestly could not remember all their names.

  “Aunt Vinnie, who used to be in show business”—I could just imagine how it would be. On Sundays the children would be forced to come into my parlor and visit with me, giving me a dutiful peck on the cheek while I rocked in my widow’s weeds and told them stories they would not believe until they were older. It would only be after I was gone that they would believe me, after someone inherited a trunk full of scrapbooks and costumes and handbills—probably intended to be thrown out, but for some reason, someone thought to open it first. Then, imagine the surprise! Aunt Vinnie had told the truth; she wasn’t just a dotty old lady after all. Who would have believed it?

  Oh, this was but one of many elaborate scenarios I envisioned for myself as I sat, brooding, in the house of my childhood. Sometimes the trunk was opened by an eager niece who wanted to go into the theater herself; she had always believed me, even though her brothers taunted her. Sometimes the trunk was sold, unopened, only to be discovered at an estate sale a year or two later.

  And sometimes the trunk was simply thrown out. And no one remembered me at all, until I died and my will was read, stipulating I was to be buried next to my husband. That little man, that General Something-or-other; hadn’t he been famous first?

  Yes, he had. And now, without him, with only his name, who was I, anyway? Who would want to come see the widow of General Tom Thumb, all alone? What could she do on her own, other than tell stories that nobody believed anymore? Stories of Kings and Queens and Mormons and old Civil War generals? Who would pay money for that? I wouldn’t, I thought to myself as I tried, unsuccessfully, to fall asleep in the room I had shared with Minnie as a girl.

  Only I was all alone now; Minnie was gone, and even though at times my chest still ached with the memory of her head nestled against it, it had been five years since I had rocked her, finally, to sleep.

  And Charles—I had never imagined that I would miss my husband as much as I did. I even missed his solid warmth in bed next to me, even though we never touched. But still, his snoring, his movement in the night, for he was a restless sleeper—I missed it now as I lie, once and for all, alone. Alone in my little bed, the one I used as a girl. The elaborate carved bed I had shared with Charles was gone; I put it in storage, for I could not bear the reminder of my failure as a wife.

  And just as I had, so long ago when I heard Mama weeping softly over my lonely fate—how prescient she had been!—I lay in my virginal bed, and tossed and turned, longing for something else, something more. And just like then, I didn’t know what it was.

  I knew only that at age forty-two, after almost twenty-five years of running—running to catch trains, running to make performances, running to the next city, the next country, the next continent—

  Running away, from my husband, from my family, from my name scratched in a tree, destined always to be smaller than everyone else’s—

  I still hadn’t found what I was looking for.

  Why was I, alone of everyone I knew, always still seeking? Still searching? Why did everyone else seem content enough, brave enough, simply to—live? Minnie, for all her timid ways, her shyness, was braver than I had ever been. She had been brave enough to live the life that I had only pretended to, the life that I had done my best to avoid yet somehow had ended up impersonating all over the world. That of the perfect wife and mother, the embodiment of the feminine ideal—in miniature. Always, in miniature.

  There was only one other person I knew who never seemed satisfied. There was only one other person I knew whose dreams were as immense as the ones I had dreamed so long ago. There was only one other person who, though larger than me, had never allowed his shadow to completely obscure my own.

  I picked up my pen and wrote another letter. I even walked into town to the post office myself, as I had done all those years ago; I even worried, just a little, about his reply.

  But I didn’t worry too much. For I knew I had found my way back from the Egress, after all.

  * * *

  “I WAS GOING TO COME ANYWAY, WHETHER YOU WANTED ME TO OR not,” he said
grumpily—although he couldn’t completely prevent a crooked smile from spreading across his face.

  Those lips were thinner now, the bushy eyebrows completely white, along with his curls. He did not use his gold-tipped walking stick as an accessory—punctuating sentences with it, outlining imaginary train routes, twirling it like a magician. Now he leaned heavily upon it, especially when going up stairs.

  His voice, so much higher than one would think it should be, was still the same, as was his mind; closing my eyes, I could almost hear it whirring and turning, just as before. And, of course—that barely checked glimmer behind the gray eyes; I knew it was still there, just waiting for the perfect opportunity to mesmerize, beckon, delight.

  “You were not, for you are afraid of me,” I told him, just as grumpily. I had received him in Mama’s parlor, now updated with gaslights instead of oil lamps, although there was a rumor that in the next few years, electricity would be run to all in Middleborough. My sister-in-law had redecorated everything, so that the plain, homespun braided rugs and simply carved furniture were gone, replaced by more ornate, heavy chairs, plush carpets. It looked like every hotel parlor I’d ever visited, but I didn’t tell Mary that. She was very proud of this room.

  “Afraid? I don’t know what you mean,” Mr. Barnum replied. “I am afraid of no one.”

  “You are afraid of women, and you always have been. You were terrified of Jenny Lind, you know. Why else would you let her slip away so soon and go back to Europe? And you’re afraid of your wife now. Why else did you leave her in London while you came back home?”

  “Why, that—” He began to stir; it had been such a long time since we had sparred, and I don’t believe he quite remembered how. I almost apologized, for I did not want to spoil the visit—but then he relaxed and allowed that glimmer in his eyes to wink at me. “Well, Vinnie, I see your tongue has not dulled with time. No one ever has spoken to me the way you do.”

  I smiled, pleased. But then an awkwardness fell over us. There was still so much left unsaid, so much I wanted to tell him—too much, in fact. For I didn’t know where to begin.

  “So why did you ask me here?” Mr. Barnum finally said, pulling his spectacles out of his pocket, putting them on, as he always did when he was preparing to talk business. “I heard—well, dash it, Vinnie, I heard that Charles left you in the lurch and that you’re practically destitute. Is that true?”

  I hesitated; it felt disloyal to talk about Charles in this way so soon after his death. But finally I nodded. “It’s not so bad, though, as you see. I have a home, a roof over my head.”

  “Not fitting for you,” he answered, shaking his head. “I know your family is dear, but Vinnie, you can’t be happy living here, can you?”

  “No, but that’s not why—oh, I don’t know. Yes, that’s it—that’s why I asked you here, to see what you advise for the future. For you always know what to do.”

  “Oh.” Now his eyes hardened. “That’s the only reason you asked, then? Because you needed something? I should have known. That’s the only reason anyone ever calls for Mr. Barnum.”

  I looked away. I did not know how to apologize to anyone, let alone him. I was quite sure he didn’t, either. The room was so silent, of a sudden, only the sound of his breathing, my sigh; his foot jostling, my skirt rustling. Our hearts, too rusty, both of them, from disuse—but suddenly now I could hear them both pounding, roaring in my ears.

  Or was it just mine, alone?

  “Minnie,” I finally said in a whisper, not looking at him. “Minnie.”

  “I know,” he replied, so gently. I was reminded of his gentleness at other times in my life: when he found out about Colonel Wood, for instance. When he heard of Minnie’s plans to name her child after Pauline.

  When he said my name, as I left him outside on the lawn, before Minnie died.

  “We both—that is, I don’t blame you, anymore. We both were equally responsible, for it all—the baby hoax, taking Minnie out, away from here. I wanted her with me, just as much as you wanted her in the troupe. I could have said no—I knew that, for you always listened to me. But I didn’t. I can’t blame you anymore.”

  “You shouldn’t blame anyone. Vinnie, I’ve never in my life apologized for anything—not for Joice Heth, not for taking one nickel from the public, not even for the Feejee mermaid. I never made a person do anything he didn’t want to. I’m not going to start apologizing now, either. But I am—I do regret—the thing is, Vinnie, dash it, Minnie was happy, you know! She could find the beauty in quiet things in a way I never could, and she should be envied for that, not mourned. She was happier than you and I will ever be and ever were, God bless her soul. We just don’t have it in us to be content like that—but your sister did.” He was excited now; he had inched his chair closer and closer to mine, until, before either of us could fully register it, we were sitting knee to knee.

  I looked away, still loyal to Minnie’s memory; it was hard to forgive him. It was harder still to forgive myself. I missed her so much, missed her joy, her trust, her touch—

  Suddenly I felt my hands being picked up and clasped with warmth and understanding. I couldn’t help it; a quick sob escaped my burdened heart and a tear rolled down my cheek. I tried to brush it away, but my hands were held captive.

  “She did find beauty here, in this home, and she always tried to open my eyes to it,” I whispered. “But I can’t be content with it, even now, because you were right. Being content with home would mean being content with myself, just as I am, and I’ve never been able to be that. Yet I’ve lived such a little life, compared to my sister.”

  “Who said such a thing? I’ll thrash ’im within an inch of his life!”

  “Nobody—just me.”

  “Well, I’ll thrash you, then!”

  I looked up and smiled. “No, you won’t.”

  “No, I won’t,” he said agreeably. Still holding my hands, he gave them a stern little shake. “But I won’t hear such talk. Mercy Lavinia Warren Bump Stratton—even that name isn’t as big as you are! You’ve traveled the world, met everyone worth knowing! Whatever I said—and who can remember, anymore?—the plain truth is that you were never meant to stay at home on a farm, and it has nothing to do with your size. Imagine you, selling eggs at the kitchen door, or getting excited about baking pies for the church bazaar!”

  “I’ll have you know, my pies are exceedingly light and delicious,” I replied primly.

  “Who cares if they are? I can have any kind of pie I want, anytime I want. But if you had decided you were content with that accomplishment only, I would never have had the privilege of your friendship. And that, my dear, would be a tragedy.”

  “No, it wouldn’t. You’d still have Jenny Lind, and Charles, and Jumbo, and your circus. You wouldn’t miss me at all.”

  “Then why am I here, then? Why’d I come all the way from Bridgeport to godforsaken Middleborough, at the first sight of a letter from you? I hardly even opened it before I was packing my bag!”

  “I don’t know,” I mumbled, my tongue tied, for once. I felt as if I were on the edge of a grand discovery, something that would change the world—or, at least, my life.

  “Because I missed you, you fool! I was wrong about something just now. I have been content, you know. Would you like me to tell you when?” Mr. Barnum’s voice was softer—shy, almost.

  I nodded, unable to meet his gaze.

  “Remember when you first came to New York? And we used to sit together in Caroline’s parlor and talk? Then I thought I was happy. I wasn’t used to talking over my plans and schemes with anyone else, but somehow—I just found myself talking them over with you. And I was happy.”

  “So was I,” I whispered.

  “And I’ve missed that, I’ve missed that so much. So don’t go talking about not living a big enough life, for you were big enough for me to miss, terribly. And that’s saying a lot, as I own an elephant. Several of them, in fact.”

  “Me, too—oh, I’ve mis
sed you, too!”

  I couldn’t say more; he didn’t try. He acted, for the first time in his life, as if words truly were no longer necessary. I simply felt his understanding in the way he continued to hold my hands; the warmth of his grasp made its way somehow to my heart—which filled with satisfaction. Looking up, gazing into his eyes, I thought I recognized his heart, too; it was the light that I always saw there, finally revealed, fully, to me. I smiled in its illuminating glow, and the name that I had carried within me, for so long, finally found its way out of my suddenly open heart, and rushed toward that light.

  “Phineas,” I whispered.

  His eyes grew wide; a great, satisfied grin broke crooked across his face. And in that moment, I found what I had been searching for all my life. I saw happiness; I saw respect.

  I saw love.

  “So,” he said after a moment; he released my hands, and we settled into our respective chairs, knee to knee, eye to eye.

  Heart to heart.

  “Let me tell you about my latest idea.” He took out a cigar from his breast pocket. I reached for the matchbox on the table beside me, struck a match, and lit it for him. He leaned back in the chair and puffed away, satisfied.

  “Is there a role in it for me?”

  “It’s all about you. Opera, that’s the thing. Hear me out. A perfect, miniature opera company—what do you think about that?”

  “Opera? That would take a lot of people, wouldn’t it?”

  “It would, indeed. Have you heard of the little women over in New Hampshire? Sisters, they are; genteel, ladylike, although they can’t hold a candle to you. But they sing—that’s what I hear.”

  “Opera,” I mused, mulling it over. Opera was all the rage now—and, of course, I could sing. I had always been told I had a lovely voice. “Tell me more.”