Leaving Home, or an Interlude of Heart-Tugging
Music and Recitation
I’VE GOT YOU IN HERE WITH MISS HARDY. SHE’S A TROUPER; she’ll show you the ropes,” Colonel Wood said as he led me through a narrow, damp passageway. On either side were closed doors to various staterooms. Beneath us was the great engine of the boat, silent for now, as we were still docked. The green carpet in the passageway was dirty and smelled of mildew; the paint on the walls was chipped and dotted with mold. I was perspiring so in the humid, dank air that I could well imagine mold beginning to grow on me; my skin felt plastered to my underclothes and uncomfortable corset that still did not fit properly.
“Oh.”
“She’s simple enough, so don’t let her appearance scare you any.”
“Oh.”
“Now, I know I promised your folks I’d see to you myself, but I run a mighty big outfit here; I’m a very important man, you’ll soon see. So don’t come runnin’ to me with every little thing. You’ll have to stand on your own two feet, as tiny as they are.” The Colonel chortled at this.
“Oh.”
This one word was all that I had uttered for days; weeks, even, it seemed to me. Ever since I bade my family a tearful farewell just as the fields were ready for plowing. It was late April now, and here in Cincinnati the air was already as balmy as summer, and the wide, muddy Ohio River did not look as if it could ever freeze completely over.
“Here you go—shove on in now, your trunk’ll get delivered later.” Without even knocking, Colonel Wood opened the door to a stateroom; he held it open for me in one of the few gentlemanly gestures I had observed from him during our brief acquaintance. I arranged my face into a pleasant, welcoming smile, then stepped with assurance across the threshold to meet my new traveling companion, my hand already thrust out in greeting.
“Hello, my name is Miss Lavini—Oh!” I couldn’t help myself; I stopped dead in my tracks, all sensible notions drained from my being. My hands, my knees, began to quake, and I would have turned around and run back outside, had Colonel Wood not been immediately behind me, barring any escape.
For slowly rising from a bed—no, two beds, pushed together end to end—was a giantess. An actual giantess, such as I had read about in many a fairy tale, the kind of creature that ate little children who got into mischief or otherwise misbehaved.
The giantess continued to unwind herself, rising slowly—oh, so slowly!—until she had reached her full height, which seemed, from my perspective, to be twenty feet, at the very least! She had to stoop so that her head did not brush the sloping stateroom ceiling.
“Hello, Miss Lavini-o,” she said in a basso profundo voice. With a smile, she extended her hand; a hand so massive, so bony, that I fought with every fiber of my being not to recoil from it. As it came near me—again, so excruciatingly slowly—I glanced quickly at the giantess’s feet; they were the size of canoes, and I could easily imagine them squishing me into oblivion. I remembered Mama’s silly terrors about horses’ hooves; how quaint a fear that seemed now!
“M-m-my name is Lavinia,” I corrected the giantess as I placed my hand, my tiny, delicate hand, in her enormous one. I winced in anticipation, but to my relief she did not crush me. In fact, she seemed to be as hesitant to touch me as I was to touch her; her hand did not even close completely about mine, and she withdrew it with as much haste as she could muster.
I must confess, right here and now, to making a dreadful assumption. And that assumption was that a person this tall, who moved this slowly, must be very slow of mind and wit as well. All my life, I must admit, I have always associated quickness of mind with smaller people, quicker people, people like me. Large, clumsy creatures, freaks of nature to me—my initial assumption was always that they possessed inferior minds.
So I corrected the giantess, thinking she was not very bright, forgetting that I myself had mispronounced my own name in my initial consternation.
“And my name is Sylvia. Miss Sylvia Hardy, from Maine.”
“For the love of Pete, just look at the two of you!”
I spun around, startled to find Colonel Wood still standing behind me; I had forgotten all about him. He stood gaping at the tableau before him, his head swiveling up and down as he took the pair of us in; there was an eager gleam in his eye as he appraised the situation.
“Oh, this is going to be rich! The two of you side by side—by God, I’m a genius! Barnum who, I ask you? Eh? Colonel John Wood will be the name on everybody’s lips, I wager!”
I was too speechless to respond. The giantess, however, was not; she dismissed him with a firmness I could not help but admire as she said, “Goodbye, Colonel Wood. Leave us to get better acquainted, for I imagine Lavinia is tired from her journey.”
And despite the rumbling low pitch of her voice—it tickled my eardrums—and the slowness of her speech, I turned to her with gratitude, blinking back sudden tears. I was weary; the journey was exhausting. The excitement of my very first train trip had long since abandoned me. The exhilarating sense of discovery I had felt as I stared out soot-covered windows while unfamiliar scenery passed so swiftly by; the novelty of eating sandwiches wrapped in paper, bought from enterprising farm boys at various stops; the thrill of rattling over high bridges while far below, unfamiliar rivers ran—all was gone now.
I remembered only the dirt, the barnyard odors of being in such close company with strangers who did not wash regularly, the stiffness of my back from sitting up for so long even in sleep, the impossibility of making myself feel fresh with the dirty water in the lavatory basin. That is, even if I could reach the basin; I couldn’t, unless I dragged my stair steps with me, but there usually wasn’t enough room in those miserable little closets. And often there were no closets at all, just primitive dark corners with buckets full of human waste slopping out with every rattle over a railroad tie.
We changed trains so many times I lost count, always a chaotic affair. I had to submit to countless strangers lifting me up and down, for there was no way to manage the great difference between train and platform myself, and Colonel Wood was always gone somewhere, wrestling with our luggage or arguing with the ticket agent that I should cost him only half a fare because I took up only half a seat.
These dispiriting experiences were all I remembered now; they had left my clothes filthy and stained, my skin covered in a gritty film of dirt, my toes pinched and blistered. My first pair of adult shoes, custom-ordered to fit, had proven to be very uncomfortable for feet used to the soft soles of children’s slippers.
I also remembered, suddenly and overwhelmingly, how sad my parents and Minnie had looked when they said goodbye. I had waved at them for as long as I could as I drove away with Colonel Wood in his wagon, all my clothes and mementos and my beloved stair steps packed in a trunk borrowed from my married sister, Delia, as there had been no time to purchase one of my own. I remembered Mama’s tears, Minnie’s wails, Papa’s stoic face, his emotion betrayed only by the working of his Adam’s apple.
The memories overwhelmed me, and I could not help it; as soon as the Colonel shut the door and I was left alone with the giantess, my tears could no longer be contained. I sat down on the floor, not caring about my dress, and I put my head in my hands and began to cry. Why, oh why, had I ever decided to leave home? My heart—too large for me all of a sudden, too full of pain and longing for family—felt as if it would break into pieces, so lost, so lonely, so dirty, and yes, so very small, did I feel.
Mama had been right all along. The world was too big for me. I would get lost in it, swallowed up or trampled by this giantess—
Who, without a word, without a sound, scooped me up in her arms and carried me to her bed. There she held me on her lap, rocking me as if I were a child, as I turned my head toward her vast, comforting bosom and sobbed my heart out.
A MONTH EARLIER, COLONEL JOHN WOOD HAD SHOWED UP AT our door. It was in March of 1858, during my first vacation from teaching. With a knock, a bow, a presentation of a card, he was ushered inside, where he brought with him the bracing air of a different world. He was dressed not in military clothing, as one might expect (I never did understand how he came by his title), but his costume was no less exciting. He wore a jacket made of red wool; I’d never seen such a thing on a man before! All the men in my life wore sober black, gray, or brown. Complementing his red jacket was an emerald-green vest, which was hung with a bright gold watch fob. His black hat, over graying curls, was shiny and tall, and he carried a polished ebony walking stick. He had a habit, I soon discovered, of pressing two fingers against his mustache—suspiciously black, considering how gray his curls were—whenever he desired to appear thoughtful.
In short, he looked to be quite a man of the world to us Bumps, so insulated in our rural community. I would come to know many men of the world and recognize that the Colonel was not quite the dandy he thought himself to be, but at the time he certainly impressed Mama and me; Papa, however, merely sat and regarded him with a skeptical eye, puffing on his pipe distrustfully.
“Sit down, sit down, and let us figure out our relation,” Mama exclaimed as she ushered Colonel Wood into our parlor; he had introduced himself as a cousin, which was all the calling card one needed in Middleborough, Massachusetts.
“Don’t mind if I do,” Colonel Wood replied, taking the best chair before he was asked. While he addressed Mama, I felt his curious gaze still upon me, as it had been since his arrival. Minnie was off hiding in her room—she always vanished whenever we had visitors—and my three brothers who were still at home, while politely greeted, were given no further notice by our visitor. Colonel Wood seemed fascinated solely with me. His attention was different than what I usually encountered from the few strangers who happened through Middleborough; he did not look as if he was about to ask me if fairies had forgotten to give me my wings (one of the many fanciful sentiments that strangers were inspired to utter when first making my acquaintance).
Instead, I felt his gaze to be more calculated, more appraising, but for what purpose I could not begin to guess.
As Mama and he attempted to sort out their relation—I never did figure it out and later wondered if there really was such a connection—he still managed to throw glances my way, as if he was sizing me up. Whenever I ventured to speak, he listened carefully, and I could sense first his approval and then his excitement as I displayed my usual intelligence in my typical forthright way.
Finally, he admitted he had come here with a specific purpose in mind.
“Have you all ever heard of a fellow named Barnum?”
“Well, yes, Cousin, of course we read the newspaper. Do you think we’re so ill informed, just because we’re farmers?” Mama answered softly, chidingly; despite our humble abode and plain living, she was very conscious of her heritage as a descendent of one of the Mayflower Compact signers.
“Of course not, of course not,” Colonel Wood replied hastily. “Forgive me, I’ve been so long in the West that I sometimes forget how civilized we are here in New England.”
“What does that Barnum have to do with us?” my brother Benjamin asked, regarding Colonel Wood with barely concealed hostility.
“Well, he’s had a great deal of success, you know. First with that Tom Thumb fellow, the one that visited England and had tea with the Queen and all. Then with Miss Jenny Lind, the Swedish Nightingale.”
At the mention of Tom Thumb, Mama and Papa exchanged glances, careful not to look my way.
“Can’t say as I approve of that man,” Papa grumbled. “It seems wrong, somehow.”
“Wrong? Why, both Jenny Lind and the little man are famous! Millionaires, they say! Living it up, meeting royalty—what’s wrong with that? Sounds like a mighty fine life to me!” Colonel Wood was unable to keep up his careful nonchalance; he was now leaning forward, his dark eyes snapping.
“I’d wager it’s that Barnum who’s getting rich,” Papa retorted. “Showing people about like they’re things, not humans. Humbugging the public, like he did with that Joice Heth, claiming she was a hundred and sixty-one years old! George Washington’s nurse, he said she was! George Washington’s nurse, my eye. Anyone could tell she was just some old slave woman.”
“Oh, but Papa—Miss Jenny Lind is not a thing! She’s an artist! And what was the humbug there?” I couldn’t help myself; I did not like to contradict my father, but on the subject of Jenny Lind, I could not keep quiet.
I was just a child when Jenny Lind came to America, back in 1850. I never heard her sing; she never came anywhere near Middleborough. But I followed her every move in the newspaper, drinking in every detail of the Swedish Nightingale—what she wore, how she did her hair, what her favorite foods were. And, of course, how she sang: like an angel, the newspapers said. With a voice of such incomparable beauty it made grown men weep, particularly when she ended her concerts with her signature song, “Home Sweet Home.” There were Jenny Lind waltzes performed in her honor, Jenny Lind polkas, ballads, clothes, dolls, figurines. I had a china likeness of her that Papa and Mama had given me on my tenth birthday; I kept it on the windowsill in my bedroom.
Mr. P. T. Barnum, the famous promoter, brought her here from Europe; he arranged her concerts and made her a household name, although they parted ways in 1852 and she had since returned to Europe. He told of all this in his recent autobiography, which had caused an uproar, for in it he admitted to several humbugs he had perpetrated upon the public, including the one involving Joice Heth, as well as the one involving General Tom Thumb. Born Charles S. Stratton, the latter had been a lad of only five when Mr. Barnum had first presented him, back in 1843, as “General Tom Thumb, a marvel of miniature perfection, eleven years of age!”
Since then, the tiny general had traveled to Europe and met with Queen Victoria herself. I admit to my curiosity being aroused by the few newspaper illustrations I had seen of him, now a young man, three years my senior. So far in my life, the only other little person I knew was my sister Minnie. The evidence that there were others incited my curiosity and made me feel slightly less alone. Knowing that General Tom Thumb had sung and danced for huge crowds and become celebrated the world over gave me a peculiar sense of pride, I must confess. Also, he was a handsome fellow in the illustrations; boasting large, mischievous eyes and a winning smile, he looked very smart in his various miniature uniforms.
He was no Miss Jenny Lind, of course, but reading about either of them was like reading about royalty, or Presidents; their lives were special, remarkable, not at all like my own or my family’s.
“Oh, Papa, you know how I longed to hear Jenny Lind sing! She’s the reason I practice so very much on my own music,” I reminded my father, who looked at me with a suddenly clenched jaw and narrowing eyes, as if he was trying silently to warn me not to speak further. But I did not heed his warning. “Do you know Mr. Barnum?” I asked Colonel Wood, unable to contain my excitement.
“Why, sure, sure,” he answered smoothly, addressing me for the first time. “Naturally! We showmen all know each other.”
“Really?” I couldn’t help but be impressed. “Did you ever see Miss Jenny Lind?”
“Certainly! Many a time did she sing for me privately, when I was in New York working for Mr. Barnum himself. I take it you sing, Miss Lavinia?”
“Oh, I’m a schoolteacher, but I do love to sing.” I returned Mama’s fond smile; my songs were much loved not only within the family circle but also in the schoolroom. From an early age, I had enjoyed soothing my classmates with ballads. Mr. Dunbar used to pick me up and place me atop his desk, so that all could hear.
“A schoolteacher?” Colonel Wood seemed momentarily stunned; his face, which had been as smooth as his talk, suddenly creased in thought. “Hmmm. I didn’t know that. I thought that you were just—well, just … at home. But I guess it don’t really matter, at that.”
“What doesn’t matter?” Mama asked anxiously. Papa remained silent, but I could feel his whole body tense, even though I wasn’t seated near him. He appeared as if he was steeling himself for bad news.
“My boat. My floating palace of entertainment. We sail up and down the rivers out west, bringing amusement to the poor, hardworking folks who have no other kind. I have minstrels, jugglers, dancers, and some curiosities—a man who can swallow nails, a tattooed man, a giantess. But what I don’t have is a—I mean, as soon as I heard of Miss Lavinia here—and, of course, our cousinly connection—and now that I know she’s a true artist, as well—I thought she might be interested in joining me. Singing, of course—just like a certain Miss Jenny Lind? A certain General Tom Thumb?” Colonel Wood winked at me.
You could have heard the proverbial pin drop in that parlor: Nobody moved; everyone looked stunned. Mama could not shut her mouth; had I not been as astonished as she, I would have teased her about catching flies. My three brothers likewise did not say a word. Papa’s face turned a dangerous red.
My own heart beat fast. No, no, I couldn’t possibly do what the Colonel suggested. An entertainer? On the stage—like Miss Jenny Lind? It was shocking, it was unheard of, it was—
Enticing.
Never before had I imagined leaving home, but that wasn’t because of lack of desire, only lack of possibility. All those nights of yearning, of hearing my mother weep for my lonely fate! For a woman in a small town in Massachusetts, naturally, marriage was the only possible way out of anything. It was the only possible way to anything, as well; it was the only possibility, period. And I would never marry any of the men here in Middleborough; how could I? The idea seemed grotesque to me, for reasons I could not quite explain. I remembered my mother’s and sister’s horror that day I had eavesdropped, the lack of a hope chest, the relief my parents had felt when I had been offered the primary classes. This was my fate—to be a spinster schoolteacher. I knew I was supposed to be grateful for it.
Suddenly, however, another possibility had just been revealed; a way out presented itself to me. I could leave; I could see the world, that great big world Mama had unknowingly tempted me with for so long. I could see the Mississippi, that Queen of Rivers! I might even see bad men and women, and I admit to an unladylike thrill as I contemplated this, for there were no bad men and women in Middleborough, except for the peddler who sometimes stole chicken eggs. My yearning, seeking heart began to swell; it was as if a hidden dam of pent-up frustration had burst inside it, flooding me with desire and action. Oh, what else might I find, that I had not even known had been missing? What else might I see, that I had never before suspected was hidden from me?
I looked around at my family; they were beginning to regain their senses. Not one of them glanced my way; they seemed acutely embarrassed by me at that moment. Embarrassed that I had brought such a man into their home and submitted them to such dreadful talk, talk that was not fit for descendents of one of the Mayflower signers. Benjamin was already shaking his head, ready to answer for me.
“I want to do it!” The words flew out of my mouth before I had even decided on them.
“You most certainly do not!” my father thundered, rising in anger, his face so dark the veins on his forehead pulsed. He had never before spoken one harsh word to me; now, he seemed perilously close to an apoplectic attack.
“Pa’s right,” Benjamin cried. “If Vinnie goes with this man, I’ll leave this house forever! I won’t be able to bear the shame!”
“What shame?” Colonel Wood asked the company at large, his demeanor suddenly calm in the face of our collected agitation. “What shame is there in bringing joy to people? Becoming rich and famous?”
“The shame of the theater! Of being around actors and dancers and who knows what else! The shame of being displayed before the public like a—it’s bad enough with the school, you know, the way people talk, but if she goes out like that, like that Tom Thumb freak who—” Benjamin suddenly realized what he had said and sat back down, rumpling his hair until it stood on end. “Sorry, Vinnie! I didn’t mean that, not really. But if you parade yourself about on the stage—I just don’t see how you can even think about it, the way you are. That’s all.”
My face was burning, my breast heaving at being the center of such an uproar. I’d never seen my family in such a state; Mama was rocking back and forth in her chair, her arms crossed tight against her chest, making keening sounds as if someone had just died.
“It’s my life, it’s my future—you needn’t be embarrassed by it any longer, Benjamin! You all may be content to stay here on the farm, that’s all well and good because you’re just like everyone else, but I’m not! I’m different, and you all know it, so why not allow me to consider a different fate? And I’m not content—I don’t think I ever have been!”
“What do you mean?” Mama had stopped rocking; she was staring at me, her gentle brown eyes full of tears and pain. “What do you mean you never have been? Why, Vinnie, my little chick—aren’t you happy with us? Don’t we take good care of you?”
“Oh, Mama, I didn’t mean that, but—we can’t continue this way forever! Someday you’ll—someday you and Papa won’t be able to look out for me. And what will happen then? What will happen to Minnie and me, stuck here on the farm?”
“You’ll always have a home with one of us, Vinnie,” my brother James, who had been quiet until now, said. “We’ll always take care of you, you know that. We don’t mind.”
“But that’s just it!” I leaped off my chair, carried away by my passion. Colonel Wood discreetly rose and left the room; the front door creaked open, and he took a seat on the porch. He had the decency to understand this was a family matter. “That’s just it, don’t you see? I don’t want to be taken care of! I don’t want to be hidden away, a burden! I want to make my own way! To have a greater purpose!”
“But you do, you have your school,” Benjamin pointed out. Of all of them, even Papa, he was the most distressed, and I was reminded of that day when I was seven, and the teacher had threatened to shut me up in his overshoe. How ashamed Benjamin had been of me then; I knew, now, that he had never really gotten over it.
“That’s not what I mean,” I said; I ran to him, clasped his big, rough hands in mine, and tried to get him to meet my gaze, but he would not. “Even with the school, I’ll always be one of the little Bump girls, the spinster teacher who lives at home, who can expect nothing more than to be invited to the occasional Sunday dinner by those who pity her. If I stay here, don’t you see—there’s no escaping that fate. But if I leave—why, just think! I’ll see things we can only imagine here! I’ll experience not just books but life! I’ll be remembered.”
“Why, whatever do you mean, Vinnie?” Mama exclaimed, her face so open and honest and agonized; I hated the pain I was causing her—but hadn’t I always caused her distress, just by being? She had always worried and agonized over me. “What do you mean you’ll be remembered? How could we ever forget you?”
I shook my head. “I mean something more, Mama. I can’t explain it, but I’ve felt, for a while now, that if I stay here, I’ll just be forgotten somehow. Or worse—never even known in the first place. If I go with Colonel Wood, I’ll meet so many people. Why, maybe I’ll even meet Miss Jenny Lind! And General Tom Thumb! Wouldn’t that be nice, meeting someone like me? Someone else, that is.” For I could not forget Minnie, even in my excitement.
And during the lengthy emotional discussion that ensued, my father and my brothers trying desperately to change my mind, which grew more determined with every plea, while my mother wept piteously, I did not forget my sister. Minnie’s face was before me always, even as I argued passionately to be allowed to go with Colonel Wood, who remained outside, calmly puffing away on his pipe.
Finally, Papa held his hand up, silencing us all; with a resigned shake of his head, he said, “I’ve never known what to do with you, Vinnie. I’ve never understood why God made you the way He did. I can’t pretend to know what to do with you now. I’m just a simple man, but you’re anything but. So if you’re truly set on doing this, I don’t see as how I can stop you. For all I know, it might be the very best thing for you. Just don’t bring shame to us, daughter. You have the best head on your shoulders of us all—use it.”
Benjamin stormed out of the room. Mama burst into a renewed torrent of tears as she ran after him. But all I wanted to do was hurry upstairs and find Minnie.
She was in the room that we shared; sitting on the low bed, made for us by Papa, she cradled her favorite doll in her lap, looking very much like a doll herself. She was so delicate, so winsome; she came up only to my shoulder. Her big dark eyes grew even bigger when she saw me; with a breathless little gasp she asked, “Is that dreadful man gone, Vinnie?”
“No, he’s not.” I sat down upon the bed next to her; the two of us together hardly made a dent in the feather tick.
“I wish he would go. I don’t like him.”
“You don’t even know him.”
“I don’t care. I don’t like him.”
“You don’t like anyone.” I had to smile, remembering the other day when she had declared the man who bought Mama’s eggs and butter “Simply dreadful!”
“No, I don’t like anyone but you. And Mama and Papa. And James and Benjamin and everyone.” Minnie looked up at me—she was the only person in my life who looked up at me—and smiled, that one dimple showing. She was so trusting, my sister. She smiled innocently at me as if she expected me to tell her a pretty story, a wonderful surprise. She always looked at me like that; my heart, which had been so light at the prospect of my adventure, began to flutter and flail about in my breast, and I had to turn away.
Even though she was now nine, Minnie was still as timid as she had always been; she had not followed the path I had tried to blaze for her. She had no eagerness to go to school; she trembled and clutched at Mama’s skirts the first time I broached the subject, even after I assured her that I would be her teacher. So she remained at home, and I had to admit that Mama’s limited education was more than enough to school our Minnie. She did not have the curiosity of mind and spirit that I possessed.
School was the only place she would not follow me, however; even when I performed my chores around the farm, she clung to me, holding my skirt or my hand. I reached under the chickens for the eggs; she carried the eggs in a basket. I snipped the lavender from Mama’s garden; she tied it up in fragrant little bundles.
Nearly eight years separated us, so that at times it almost felt as if she was my child, not my little sister, so trusting, so dependent she was upon me. When I left the farm in the morning to go to school, she took her seat on a little stool by the kitchen hearth; when I returned in the evening, she was always where I had left her. I had the oddest sensation that her very breath was suspended until I came home.
And at night we slept in the same bed, her little arms encircled about my waist, her head resting upon my shoulder. “Rock me, Sister,” she always implored, her curls already tangled around her neck, her eyes already drooping. I would rock her gently, singing some sweet song, often one I made up; before I could finish, Minnie would be fast asleep, a contented smile on her pretty face.
Now, as I began to wonder how she would sleep once I was gone, I realized my heart was not strong enough to withstand such questioning, and so I made myself think of something else.
“Guess what?” I asked my sister.
“What?”
“I’m going to ride on a train!”
“A train? How dreadful! Aren’t you scared? I’d be scared, even if you were with me, Vinnie!” Minnie’s eyes shone anxiously, reflecting stars that were not there.
“No, I’m not a bit scared. And anyway, Colonel Wood will be with me.”
“He will? But why? He’s so dreadful! Where will you go—to town? And you’ll be home by dinner?”
“No, not to town.” I stifled a smile; in Minnie’s experience, there was nowhere else to go but to town. That big world that beckoned so brightly to me did not even exist for my sister.
“Then where?”
“To a boat, an enormous boat. On a very famous river. I’m going to take a holiday of sorts, and see some sights, and I promise I’ll write to you every day and tell you all about them!” I tried to make it sound like a lark, but my voice did catch in my throat.
“You mean, away? From here—from home?”
“Yes.”
“But you’ll be back by dinner?” She frowned, struggling to understand; one of her curls escaped its pins and hung down upon her forehead in a perfect question mark, as if to underscore her confusion. In Minnie’s entire life, never had I not been home by dinner.
“No, Pumpkin, not by dinner. I will be gone for a long time—I don’t exactly know how long, but many months. It’s a difficult journey, and I won’t be able to come home very often.”
“I don’t understand, Vinnie! Why do you want to go away?” Tears filled her eyes as she flung her arms about me. The bodice of my dress was soon wet with my sister’s tears, and I had a moment of regret and panic; what on earth was I doing? How could I leave her? How selfish was I?
But then I looked around our room, with its gentle, sloping ceiling, and I realized that everything here was gentle, everything here was peaceful and safe and designed to protect me and Minnie from—what, exactly? From life; that’s what I believed at that moment. My family wanted to protect me from life. But it was life that I wanted to experience: a rich, full life, one I could call my own. And there was no possibility I would ever find it on the farm or in Middleborough, with its handful of streets, two general stores, and the occasional wayward peddler.
Maybe the world was too big for me; I expected that I would soon find out. But I also knew with certainty that if I remained in Middleborough, I would grow even smaller than I already was … until one day, like my name overgrown with weeds, I would cease to exist altogether.
“Minnie, darling, shhh. Look,” I whispered to my little sister, still sobbing on my breast. With a gentle nudge, I pushed her away so that I could cross the room to retrieve something from the windowsill—my beloved figurine of Jenny Lind in a pink dress, with her hands crossed upon her breast, her mouth open in glorious song. I returned to the bed and presented the precious object to Minnie, who had often admired it.
“Here. You keep this for me—you know how much it means to me, don’t you?”
Tears still streaming down her face, Minnie took it and nodded anxiously.
“You keep it for me, Pumpkin, until I come back. Because I promise I will—and then I’ll take you with me, so you can see the things that I do. I won’t leave you all alone here forever. I promise.”
“You do?” Sniffling, she turned her wet little heart-shaped face up to me. “You promise, Vinnie?”
“I promise!” And I vowed at that very moment to keep my promise; to do so was the only way I could tell Minnie goodbye. I would not be there to rock her to sleep, but she could, at least, comfort herself at night with the warmth of her sister’s promise.
“Then I will take very good care of Miss Jenny Lind until you come back. You can count on me, Vinnie!”
She looked so earnest, her eyes suddenly dry even though her eyelashes were still dewy, her previously trembling mouth set in a firm little line. This was the first thing I had ever asked of her, and she startled me with her eagerness, her readiness to comply. I hugged her to me once more, and smiled as she tried to conceal one last sniff with a very forced hiccup.
That evening passed in a frenzy of packing and organizing; Papa had to sell a milk cow to a neighbor in order to provide me with traveling money. At dawn the next morning, after I had eagerly signed a contract stipulating my employment with Colonel Wood and his exclusive right to exhibit me for three years in exchange for providing me with twenty dollars a week—a fortune!—my family gathered around his wagon. Benjamin was not there; he was too furious to say goodbye. My other brothers heaved my borrowed trunk into the back, and I embraced Mama, who looked suddenly older to me; her forehead was checkered with lines that must have appeared overnight, and her hair was more gray than brown. How long had it been this way? I felt a pang of guilt for not having noticed before, and for the first time I realized she was not the young woman I assumed her to always be.
“Vinnie, my little chick, don’t forget us all!” Mama knelt down to my level, her skirt sopping up mud, but she did not notice. “Pray every night and trust in God, and don’t talk to bad people if you can help it. Colonel Wood has promised to care for you with a cousinly concern and affection, but, oh! This is still hard!” With a sob, she covered her face with a handkerchief.
Minnie was already crying, her surprising resolve of the night before chased away by the sight of my trunk in the back of the wagon. She was holding on to my hand so tightly I could feel her nails through my gloves. “Vinnie, Vinnie, oh, why must you leave? Why?”
She was nine, but with her tear-stained face and her uncomprehending eyes, I thought she more closely resembled a child of five. My sister, my poor little sister! But I had to go; by now I had convinced myself that the only way I could make a good life for her was by making one first for myself. Then, I could come back and shower her with riches and show her the world, release her from her lonely cell, hidden away by well-meaning family.
This was what I told myself as finally I pried her small hand from mine and let Papa lift me up on the seat next to Colonel Wood. The Colonel was obviously impatient to start; we were traveling to his parents’ home in Weedsport, New York—he had a note of welcome from his mother, which he showed Mama and Papa when I signed the contract, helping to ease their minds significantly. There, we would outfit me with an appropriate wardrobe before journeying on to Cincinnati, where his boat had wintered.
Papa settled me in, tucking a bearskin all about me even though it was not cold. But I let him fuss, knowing this was his way of saying goodbye, and that he would sorely miss me.
“Got your money hidden away?” he asked, suddenly very concerned with one corner of the skin that would not stay put.
“Yes, Papa.”
“Keep it in case of an emergency. You never know what might come up.”
“Yes, Papa.”
“Don’t let strangers pay for anything, you understand? That’s the way to ruin; you pay your own way, if Colonel Wood can’t.”
“Yes, Papa.”
“And don’t forget to write. Your mother will surely look forward to a letter now and then.”
“I won’t forget, Papa, oh, I won’t!” And I could not help but throw my arms around his rough and weathered neck; I heard him sniff just once, then he patted my arm and gently pushed me away, muttering something about checking the back wheel of the wagon, as it didn’t look “put on right.”
Of course it was put on right; Colonel Wood abruptly slapped the reins, and the horses started forward. I twisted around and waved at my family, memorizing their faces, until we rounded the bend in the road and I could see them no longer.
“Not going to cry, are you?” Colonel Wood asked just as I reached for my handkerchief. “I can’t stand sniveling females.”
“No, not a bit!” I replied, blinking furiously.
“Good. Now, let me tell you about my boat.” And he began to spin a yarn of assorted colors and shapes, of minstrel singers and gamblers and cotton bales stacked up at southern docks by slaves dark as night; about the high bluffs of Minnesota, where eagles soared above the river, card games got up after midnight shows, the huge calliope that sang out merry tunes at every port of call; even a man who could spin two dozen plates at once without dropping a one!
And my heart, which had felt as heavy as a roof smothered in January snow, began to thaw, began to soar like the sun that was just beginning to peek through the trees. I felt as big as the sun; no, as big as the sky! The sky was a vast, endless sea in which the sun was just a small orb, the size of a coin. I held my thumb up to it; I blocked it neatly out.
So it was true; the sun was no larger than the tip of my thumb. The notion tickled me, tickled my rib cage until I had to laugh out loud.
I, Mercy Lavinia Warren Bump, was bigger than the sun.