FIFTEEN
 

A Sister Act Breaks Up

VINNIE, I’D LIKE TO SPEAK TO YOU.”

“What is it, dear?” I looked up from my writing desk. Minnie was standing in the doorway to my boudoir, a charming little picture in her bustled dress, with her hair done up rather severely, although a few curls could not help but escape. With her matronly hairstyle and sophisticated clothes, she looked like a girl playing dress-up; her solemn face with those incongruously impish eyes still looked so childlike.

“Is this a good time? It’s a bit—serious.”

“Serious?” I couldn’t help but smile. “What’s serious, Pumpkin? Oh, I’m sorry—I mean, Mrs. Newell.”

I still had a difficult time saying those words—Mrs. Newell. It seemed incredible to me that my little sister had actually gone and gotten married. How had that happened? It was almost as if she had done it when I wasn’t looking; as if I’d forgotten myself and gone to take a nap only to awake and find my sister had run off somewhere. And now, almost six months later, I still didn’t know where to find her.

Yet she had gotten married in a perfectly respectable manner, to a man we met through Mr. Barnum, Edward Newell. He was not as small as we were—he was no “perfectly formed miniature man”—but he was not tall, either. He was a performer, originally from England; he started out with a roller-skating act for Mr. Barnum, and when Commodore Nutt decided to retire—and marry a normal-size woman!—Edward took his place in our troupe.

He was also a perfectly nice man who adored Minnie. I hadn’t taken much notice of his affection for her at first. I simply had no expectation of romance for my little sister—even when Nutt had mooned after her, I hadn’t really thought it was a possibility, more like another of his pranks. And what did True Love look like? I did not know myself, so how could I recognize it in others?

Soon after Edward joined the troupe, however, Minnie began to withdraw from me, ever so slightly. No more was it our happy threesome; even when she was with us physically, it was obvious her thoughts were elsewhere. And I had to wonder, then, if all those times when Minnie had played with Charles and peppered me with questions about home hadn’t been deliberate on her part. Had she been homesick—or had she worried that I was? Had she truly enjoyed playing with Charles—or had she seen that he was lonely?

I honestly couldn’t say anymore. My sister was turning into someone I didn’t recognize; she was turning into a woman. A woman with sudden blushes, mysterious silences, longing sighs—a woman who did not want her sister’s protection any longer. For when Edward and I walked into a room together, it wasn’t me to whom Minnie turned. She no longer had any desire to hide behind her older sister; she no longer had any desire to hide, period.

Minnie and Edward had married, quietly, without Astors and Vanderbilts and Presidents, this past summer of 1877; it was now December. While Minnie and Edward made their home with Charles and me in Middleborough, they did not need our presence the way we needed theirs. I watched, both jealous and bewildered, as they took long walks together, immersed in conversation; as they sat quietly in a dark corner after dinner, content simply to be near each other; as they retired to their shared bedroom, to their shared bed, earlier than was strictly necessary. Sighs and smiles and murmurs and glances—they spoke in a language that was more foreign to me than French.

Charles watched them, too. Sometimes, he then turned to look at me, confusion and hurt in his big brown eyes. But he never spoke to me about what he was thinking, to my great relief.

“Vinnie, I have something to tell you,” Minnie repeated, drawing up a stool next to me, her earnestness pulling me out of my reverie.

“Yes, something serious, I know.” I could not prevent a smile from playing upon my lips; goodness, but her manner was full of portent!

“I’m afraid that I won’t be able to go back out on tour, if you were planning anything for this winter. Nor will I be able to go anywhere in the summer, either.”

“I have no plans at the moment, but may I ask, dearest, why?” I brushed the back of her hand—so much smaller, even, than mine!—lightly, possessively; I was always reaching for her these days, clutching her hand, tugging at her skirts—trying, perhaps, to keep her from drifting further and further away?

Still smiling, I expected Minnie to answer something innocuous, something adorable, like “We decided to get a puppy” or “Edward has a terrible cold” or “I don’t like trains, they’re so dreadful.”

Instead, her eyes lit up with a soft glow, a glow that I had seen in her once before. I couldn’t quite remember when; I knew only that I recognized it, and a troubled, vaguely shameful feeling began to stir within my breast. As I struggled to recall the circumstances—as you do when you’re trying to remember a particularly terrible dream in the safe light of day—Minnie said, with a shy duck of her head, “I’m going to have a baby.”

I stared at her for a long moment, the words bouncing around in my brain but refusing to fall into place, making absolutely no sense. Then, with frightening finality, they did click into meaning; my nightmare was recalled to me, that whole horrible, dreadful business of the baby, and the way Minnie had looked when she had held the French child—Cosette, wasn’t it?—in her arms. That same contented, dreamy look was in her eyes now as she raised them, uncertainly, to meet mine.

“No!” I let go of her hands, as if she were contagious, as if having a baby was a disease that I could catch from her touch. “No! Impossible! No!”

“Not impossible,” Minnie said with a brave little laugh. “Entirely possible, I’m quite sure. I’ve just had the doctor, who confirmed it. I haven’t told anyone yet, not even Edward. I wanted you to be the first to know.”

“But how? But, Minnie, you—and Edward?” I was shocked, sickened. Yes, my sister was married. But so was I. I knew she and Edward shared a bed, but—didn’t she know the dangers of allowing a man to touch her, she who was so delicate, so vulnerable—even more vulnerable than me?

“Oh, it would be dreadful, impossible,” I heard my mother’s stricken voice from across the ages. “Don’t you remember the little cow …” Didn’t Minnie know? Didn’t she understand how dangerous it was for her to even consider having a child?

No, she didn’t. Because I had never thought to tell her—not even when she married Edward. For so long, my fears were her fears, her fears were mine, and I thought I could protect us both. But Minnie had changed, Minnie had grown—Minnie had become a real woman. Not simply a woman in miniature, like me.

“But, Vinnie, of course it’s a perfectly natural thing, and I know how sad you’ve always been that you couldn’t have a child. And just think of it—we won’t have to give it back! This will be our child—for, of course, she will be just as much yours as she will be mine, as I’m sure I will need your help. She! Isn’t that funny, Vinnie? I already think of it as a girl!” And Minnie laughed, all seriousness, all gravity gone from her eyes so that they were the impish—innocent—eyes of the sister I thought I knew.

“Minnie, listen to me.” I grabbed her hand again and held it tight; too tight, for she winced. “How far—how far along are you?”

“The doctor said nearly three months, he thought.”

“Three months.” I searched my memory, my vast storehouse of knowledge gleaned from a life so different from hers; the words prevention powders were recalled from some dusty, neglected corner of my brain. Carlotta—Carlotta, that poor girl from Colonel Wood’s boat—she had tried to give me those prior to my first private audience. What were they again? How did one use them?

“He also admitted it’s hard to tell,” Minnie continued, happily unaware of my thoughts. “Of course, Dr. Mills said the child will be tiny—as tiny as me!”

“But, Minnie, you—” I stopped. Minnie looked so unconcerned, so happy—so well. She did not appear to recall that she herself had not been a tiny baby, and neither had I. But the doctor? Surely he knew better?

“Yes, of course,” I told my sister, still holding her hand. I could not prevent myself from searching her, appraising her, top to bottom, as if she were a new broodmare Papa had decided to purchase; she was so very small, so delicate. As if made from wishes and dreams, not flesh and blood. Then I shut my eyes as a cold wave of terror washed over me: She must not have this child. She must not. For her, for me—giving life meant summoning death.

But I did not tell her this now; I simply sat and listened to her talk excitedly about the baby, how happy Charles would be, as he did love children so, how we all would love this child, we would all raise her together, she would be ours forever. And my heart twisted itself about in knots as guilt, recrimination, and fear all fought for possession of it. Neither one winning, but none leaving, either—each parked itself in my heart, setting up housekeeping. I knew they would never leave; I knew I would have to carry them all around forever.

She must not have this baby—the phrase repeated itself over and over, wearing such a sharp groove in my mind, I had to grit my teeth from the pain of it. I needed to talk to someone, I needed to figure this out, for that was what I did—I figured things out. I took action. I made plans. I kept my sister safe. I was all mind, not heart—

And there was only one person who understood that. There was only one person I could turn to.

AS THE TRAIN PULLED INTO BRIDGEPORT, I WONDERED HOW MANY times I had taken this journey. It was hard to keep track, for I had taken so very many journeys by now. Since returning, triumphantly and in a blaze of headlines, from our world tour in 1872, the General Tom Thumb Company had gone back out to revisit this country, telling stories of our travels; this was when Edward joined us. However, after that tour, Charles finally put his foot down; he was tired of mimicking people onstage and now wanted to mimic our Society friends by living a life of leisure.

So he bought a yacht, and a matching captain’s jacket and hat, recommended to him by Mr. Belmont; he bought horses—fast, expensive horses—and built fine stables for them; he bought me jewels, just as his friends Mr. Vanderbilt and Mr. Astor did for their wives; he ordered the finest cigars from Mr. Barnum’s man in New York. He built us our grand house in Middleborough, just across from Mama and Papa’s old homestead, and furnished it with the most exquisite furniture and carpets and draperies, much of it built specially for us. The stair steps were not steep, the windows were lower to the ground so that we might easily see out of them; there was even a special kitchen built with sinks and a stove only two feet off the ground.

It was all grand; it was all impressive. Middleborough twittered and preened whenever dear Caroline Astor came to visit, and even erected a sign at the town border proclaiming this the Home of Mr. and Mrs. Charles Stratton, or General and Mrs. Tom Thumb.

It was also less real to me than the flimsy scenery we carted around whenever we toured. I wasn’t the mimic that my husband was; while I could do a fair representation of a satisfied lady of the manor, I had yet to learn how to successfully impersonate a wife offstage. While my sister looked for ways to steal even more time with her husband, I made up excuses to spend less time with mine. A quick weekend up in New York, a jaunt over to Bridgeport; my blood always stirred with excitement even as my nerves relaxed in relief each time I boarded the train out of Middleborough.

Even today; even as I still felt—physically, as if I had been clubbed repeatedly—the blow of Minnie’s news. Yet I looked forward to traveling; even more did I look forward to seeing Mr. Barnum. I reached inside my reticule and took out a piece of pink chamois, rubbing it all over my face to take the shine and dirt off, just as we pulled into the station in Bridgeport.

As I stood on the top of the stairs, my favorite porter beamed in recognition and bustled over to lift me down to the platform. “Good morning, Mrs. General! Here to see Mr. Barnum?”

“Yes.” I handed him a nickel.

“I thought so—he’s outside in his carriage, waiting for you.”

“He is?” Mr. Barnum never came to the station himself. How odd that he had done so today of all days—but then again, perhaps it wasn’t. Tears filled my eyes; I had not yet cried, so determined was I to fix Minnie’s “problem.” But the relief of being able to share this with someone who possessed sense and determination; the relief of being able to share my burden, period, with the one person I desired to share my burdens with—it was so unexpectedly sweet. I reached into my reticule again, this time removing a handkerchief; dabbing my eyes, I blinked away the rest of my tears.

Then I followed the porter outside to the curb, where Mr. Barnum’s enclosed carriage was waiting. He was standing next to it, bundled up in a heavy coat with a white fur collar that reached to the bottom of his ears even as his white curls brushed the tops, so that his face—pink as a baby’s in the cold—stood out vividly. He was heavier now, more wrinkled, a bit round-shouldered, with a tendency to lean more decidedly upon his walking stick. But his gray eyes were just as lively, just as perceptive, as ever.

“What’s wrong?” he barked as soon as he saw me. He threw his cigar upon the pavement, crushed it with his walking stick, and lifted me up into the carriage with such haste that I swallowed my words of greeting before they could reach my lips. And then we were inside, Mr. Barnum rapping his hand upon the outside of the carriage, signaling for the driver to go. “Take the long way,” he shouted, sticking his head out the door before he shut it quickly against the cold. We lurched away, the horses soon settling into a smooth, slow trot that caused the carriage to sway gently, the lanterns—lit in the gloom of this depressing January day—to swing to and fro, casting ominous shadows upon us.

“It’s Minnie,” I said breathlessly, shivering, although there were heated bricks on the floor and hidden in the corners of the seat. Mr. Barnum leaned forward and tucked a buffalo robe about me; it was so heavy that I felt pinned to the seat, unable to move. But I was warm, anyway.

“What is it? Is there trouble with her husband? I always wondered about him; he seemed too darn polite, even for an Englishman.”

“No, not that. She’s—she’s with child.” I whispered this, feeling for the first time the indelicacy of the subject.

“She is? Why, that’s wonderful!” A great, crooked grin pushed across his face, and he clapped his gloved hands in delight. “How happy you all must be!”

“No!” I shouted it, frustrated that he did not immediately understand the situation. “No, it’s not wonderful. It’s terrible. Don’t you see? She’s—we must do something about it. Minnie was not—I was not—we were both normal-size babies. Mama always told us this, don’t you remember? I weighed six pounds when I was born. Do you know how much Minnie weighs now? Thirty pounds, at the most. Can you imagine—well, you were born on a farm, you must know! I remember Mama and Delia saying, long ago, how I must never—and now Minnie is, and she can’t, she can’t, it will kill her, and we must stop it!” Somehow I had flung that oppressive robe off me, kicking it to the floor, and now I was rocking back and forth, my arms clutching my shoulders. I knew I sounded wild, unhinged, but I did not care.

Comprehension dawned upon Mr. Barnum’s face; he paled, then colored, then his eyes narrowed, as if he was squinting at some faraway point, and I took a big, crackling breath and wiped my face with the sleeve of my coat. He was thinking; the wheels in that great, perpetual-motion brain of his were turning, and I was weak with relief. I knew I could depend on him.

“Excuse me, Vinnie, for being so forward, but we must dispense with modesty. How far along is she?”

“She thinks almost three months, but the idiot doctor apparently can’t tell. He told her the baby would be tiny, like her—I don’t know if he’s totally ignorant, or if he told her that so she wouldn’t worry. I suspect the former.”

“Country doctors.” Mr. Barnum snorted. “I’ll find the finest New York doctor and send him to Middleborough.”

“Yes, that would be a relief.” I nodded, hesitating—but then I decided to plunge forward, as time was of the essence. “However, would he be willing to—I know there are things you can do, if the health of the mother is in question. It’s probably past the stage of any prevention powders, but—”

“What? Prevention powders?” Mr. Barnum stared at me, aghast; then he blushed. He actually blushed; I had never seen him do that, not even when the wild Circassian girl asked if she could dance bare-bodiced at the Museum. “What on earth do you know about such things?”

I met his gaze levelly. “When I was on the river. A girl—a dancer—once thought I might need something of the kind. She was quite mistaken, I’m glad to say. However, it was the first time I had heard of these things, and now I’m happy that I did, for I can think clearly about Minnie’s situation.”

“Vinnie, you never cease to amaze me,” Mr. Barnum said, grasping my hand. “You are the most remarkable woman I have ever met.”

I smiled at him, happy to hear this; it filled my soul with gratitude and yearning and other unfamiliar emotions that I usually did not have time to miss—except when I was with him. But now was not the time to reflect upon such things.

“We need to consider the option of doing—something—so that Minnie does not carry the child to term.”

“But do you think there’s the possibility that the child might be tiny, as the doctor says?”

“I don’t know. All I know is that Minnie and I were not. Nor was Charles, remember? That’s three of us who were born normal-size that I know of—and that’s enough for me. I have no idea how we’ll be able to convince her, for she is over the moon with happiness—she said she’s doing this for me, too.” And now I was face-to-face with the hard, unpleasant truth of the matter, the factor I had tried my best to ignore but which would not go away. I looked at him and took a big breath. “All that baby business, back in the sixties. It broke her heart to say goodbye to those infants. She keeps saying how glad she’ll be not to have to say goodbye to her child, how happy Charles will be, how happy I must be. She thought I mourned those children just as she did, but I did not. She says she’s so glad she can do this for me! So it’s all my fault!”

“The one thing you cannot do is blame yourself.” Mr. Barnum shook his head. “Believe me, I know. When I lost Pauline last year, I couldn’t stop blaming myself, wondering if I could have seen the symptoms earlier.”

“But this is different! Pauline died of fever! I have pushed Minnie into making a decision that will cost her her life.”

“You don’t know that, Vinnie. You don’t know if she wouldn’t have done this anyway.”

“She never would have met Edward if it wasn’t for me!”

Mr. Barnum pressed his crooked lips together, as if trying to prevent himself from saying anything further. He did not; I think he understood that I needed to say these things. Instead, he pushed himself off his seat and lurched over to my side of the carriage; he put his arm about me and gathered me close so that I could lean my head against his broad chest. He had never touched me in this way before; always he had been proper, respectful. A kiss upon the cheek in greeting, a fond handshake when embarking upon a new venture, a pat on the back in farewell.

But never had he held me; never had any man held me like this, so completely, as if he had a right to do so. Not even my husband, who would not have attempted to unless I first instructed him how. But I would never have done so; it was not in my nature, so accustomed was I to cringing from a man’s touch, fearing the intent behind it, fearing my own helplessness in the face of it. I had never before missed being held.

Until now.

I felt my limbs loosen; no longer did I feel responsible for holding them together within my skin, assembled correctly, upright and proper. At that moment, all my bones and muscles and tissue melted together, melted away, melted into someone else, someone strong and caring, someone just as capable as I. Someone who would keep my bones and muscles and tissue from draining away altogether, who would give them back to me, intact, when I needed them again.

But I did not need them right now; I was content to give them away. I was content to simply be—with another. With Mr. Barnum.

We sat like that for a long while, as the carriage indeed took the long way around Bridgeport, swaying rhythmically, hypnotically. The clap of the horses’ hooves against the hard, frozen streets was muffled by the sound of my own heartbeat, Mr. Barnum’s breathing, the faint tick of his pocket watch hidden beneath layers of fur, wool, and understanding. It would be all right, I thought drowsily; Minnie would be all right. I had someone to help me, someone who understood.

Someone who didn’t need me to be strong. This was such a novel sensation, I didn’t quite know what to do with it. But given time, I thought, as I nestled farther into Mr. Barnum’s welcoming arms, I could learn.

I WAITED OUTSIDE MINNIE’S ROOM; DR. FEINWAY WAS THROUGH examining her and had stepped out onto one of the balconies with a cigar. I had held Minnie’s hand as she bravely allowed him to measure her abdomen, her hips; as he listened to her heart, felt her pulse, put a strange tubelike contraption against her stomach, which had distended alarmingly in just the last couple of weeks, since my return from Bridgeport.

In that short time she had changed from a slender, delicate reed to a puffy, swollen thing. Her ankles and wrists were no longer separate, defined entities but rather ugly extensions of her arms and legs. Her body was already stretching to absorb this child, and to my unpracticed yet worried eyes, it looked as if it couldn’t stretch much more.

But she was happy, despite her obvious physical discomfort. She smiled all the time, when she wasn’t retching over a chamber pot or falling into a deep, exhausted sleep in the middle of the day.

“Mrs. Stratton.” Dr. Feinway beckoned to me from the other end of the hall; I slid off my chair and followed him.

Charles suddenly popped out of his room, blocking my path. He held a stick of wood in one hand, a miniature carving tool in another. “Vinnie, I’m making a spinning top for the baby, do you want to see? Your father showed me how to carve it!”

“Later, dear.” I patted his arm. “I’ll look at it later. Right now I need to discuss something with the doctor.”

“Oh.” His face, which had been smooth and happy with his accomplishment, clouded over just a bit, which wasn’t much. A lifetime of pleasing the public had ironed out most of the muscles necessary to frown. “Minnie is all right, isn’t she?”

“Yes, of course. I’ll tell you all about it later.” I gently nudged him aside and joined the doctor, leading him down the stairs and into the library, which Charles had designed in almost perfect imitation of Mr. Barnum’s own. Once the doors were closed, Dr. Feinway refused my offer of a seat; he was obviously agitated, so I could do nothing but remain standing, looking up at him with my neck at an uncomfortable angle. But he did not appear to notice how awkward this was for me.

“Where is Mr. Newell?” he asked abruptly.

Evading his piercing gaze, I busied myself with straightening a doily upon a table. “He is up in Boston for the day, on business.” I did not reveal that I had sent him there; I fully intended to discuss the situation with him after I had all the facts from the doctor. But Edward believed everything Minnie told him—if she had said the sky was yellow, he would have accepted it as fact; his head, not to mention his heart, was not steady enough to hear or speak plainly.

“Well, I would have preferred to have him here. But there is no time, not even for delicacy, so forgive me, Mrs. Stratton. Your sister appears to me to be carrying a normal-size child; according to her calculations, it’s still early, but she’s already retaining fluid, and her pulse is rapid. There is really only one reason for this. The baby is straining her system.”

“Are you sure her—calculations—are correct?” I still could not help thinking of Minnie as that shy shadow that trailed me wherever I went, except to school; surely she had made a mistake.

“It appears she kept a very detailed diary of her—womanly days. She was obviously planning this child, keeping track. So yes, I believe her calculations. She’s a little over four months along.”

Minnie had been planning this? It wasn’t just one—singular—unfortunate accident? Unwanted images filled my head, of Edward and Minnie in bed night after night, clinging together, sweating, panting, loving each other as man and woman were supposed to do, but as I had never experienced, never wanted to experience—I was dizzy, nauseated, desperate to sit down so that I would not collapse. But the doctor remained standing. He was a tall, aristocratic man with impeccably shaped, buffed nails. For some reason I could not take my eyes off them; they were obviously a source of pride for him. Could a man be a good doctor and have such vanity? But obviously Mr. Barnum thought he was; I must accept him.

“Then what are we to do?” I asked, tearing my gaze away from his hands. Finally, he appeared to notice the disparity in our heights; his eyes, behind gleaming spectacles, softened, and he looked about for a chair. I gestured to one, and he took it. I had never been so glad to sit down in all my life; once relieved of their duty, my legs began to tremble. I had to press my hands upon my thighs to keep my silk skirt from rustling like aspen leaves in the wind.

“I think the only humane thing is to convince your sister to abort her child. There’s no question it will be a normal-size baby if it’s taxing her so early on.”

“She thinks it will be a tiny, like she is. She doesn’t seem to recall that she and I were both normal-size at birth, and so far I haven’t had the heart to tell her. I’m afraid—if we tell her, and she refuses to abort the child, then she has to spend the next months in fear, dreadful fear. But if we don’t, she won’t understand the severity of the situation. I don’t know what to do—oh, I don’t know what to do!” And I wanted, so desperately, for Mr. Barnum to be here now; I trusted no one else to make this decision for me.

The doctor looked at me in sympathy. Then he removed his spectacles and rubbed the bridge of his nose. Placing those glasses, with his fine, manicured hands, deliberately back upon his face, he said, “There is nothing for you to do. We must tell your sister the facts as we know them, and she must decide.”

“But you don’t understand, I’ve looked after her all our lives; she’s not as—as—” But I broke off, ashamed of what I was saying. Minnie wasn’t as—what? Smart as me? As quick? As perceptive?

As cowardly?

“I think your sister is of perfectly sound mind,” Dr. Feinway said gently. “But I do hope you can persuade her to see the medical facts. Even the soundest of minds grow soft at the idea of a child.”

“If she were to—abort—the child, how is it done?” I was sick, sick to my stomach, sick to my spirit; I had already killed one child, and now I would soon have another on my hands. This irony fell upon me like a particularly ugly, ungainly costume; it turned me into someone else, someone I couldn’t recognize in the mirror.

“There is risk in the procedure, I won’t lie. The usual way is a flushing out of the uterus with special waters, although I’ve read about a newer practice involving scraping.”

I flinched at the words; my own abdomen tightened, and I felt bile rise up in my throat.

“But if she carries the child to term?”

Dr. Feinway hesitated. “I have been present when a large child was born to a small woman; it’s an impossible situation, but sometimes Providence provides a way. But I’ve never before seen a fully mature woman as small as your sister. There are instruments that can assist—forceps, primarily—but those would be of no use in this case. There are instances when the child can be cut from the womb, but only after—after all hope is gone for the mother.”

“She must not be allowed to carry this child!” I balled up my fists, pressing them even harder against my legs. My entire body was filled with a cold, heavy liquid; it had replaced my blood, and I knew, from the bitter taste of it in my mouth, that it was terror. I had never experienced terror before, not even when Colonel Wood had tried to attack me.

Only Minnie could make me feel it; only Minnie could make me feel so many things, love and affection, and now, finally, cold, debilitating terror.

“Do your best to explain the facts, then. And don’t neglect to engage her husband,” Dr. Feinway said, rising. “Do you happen to have anything to drink? I could use a brandy about now.”

I nodded and rose; ringing for the maid, I asked her to show the doctor to the dining room, where we had a small stock of fine whiskey in decanters. Neither Charles nor I drank spirits, but we had some on hand for guests. Although, at the moment, I had a longing to join Dr. Feinway; I had to go to Minnie now, and the temptation to have something strong in me for courage was great.

But I did not; I walked back upstairs, down the hall, past Charles, who asked me, again, to look at his carving. I didn’t answer him. Instead I knocked on my sister’s door and let myself inside.

“ANNABELLE?”

“No, too silly.”

“Amelia?”

“Too serious.”

“Sarah?”

“Too plain.”

“Guinevere?”

“Too fancy!” Minnie laughed merrily, the shining tinkle of her laugh—like delicate bells—filling the air.

It was the only recognizable thing about her now. Her laugh, the sound of her voice—those things had not changed. Nor had her temperament: by turns serious and trusting, patience itself, always hopeful. She had borne her penance with a peacefulness I knew I could not have, were I in her place. But I could never be in her place; I had made my choice long ago.

Confined to her bed since the day that Dr. Feinway examined her, she had not complained. She had accepted it, not as her fate but rather as her privilege, almost as if receiving a benediction or blessing. So willing was she to obey the doctor’s orders, she scarcely moved from her back at all, as if for fear of dislodging the life that was so obviously overtaking hers.

For of course she refused to abort her child. I knew she would, but that hadn’t stopped me from dropping to my knees beside her bed and grasping her little hand, my tears punctuating my words.

“Minnie, darling, you don’t understand,” I began, faltering; I had never wanted to mention Uncle’s little cow to my sister, as that was my own personal Gethsemane. I never wanted it to be hers. But then I took a deep breath, squeezed her hand, and looked straight into her eyes.

“The child is not tiny, not like you think,” I made myself continue. “The child is most likely normal-size, just as I was—just as you were when you were born. The doctor was very certain that is the case.”

Minnie’s eyes widened, but she did not flinch. She absorbed the news gravely, her hand going to her abdomen, stroking it, caressing it. She remained silent for so long that I feared she hadn’t understood me completely.

“You do—you do understand the way babies are born,” I began, blushing. “You do understand how—how—”

“Of course I understand.” Minnie’s eyes blazed at me. “Honestly, Vinnie, how young do you think I am? I’m a married woman, just like you!”

I bit my lip and looked away. She was right, of course. I could have prevented this by treating her as I had always wanted to be treated myself—as a sensible adult, regardless of my size. But no, I had always wanted to protect her. And I had done my job too well.

Or had I? For after all, I had willingly snatched baby after baby out of her hands, causing her poor, tender heart to break over and over again. I had allowed her to respond to all those condolence letters. I still had them somewhere; I hadn’t been able to throw them away, and I hadn’t known just why. But now I did; they were portents, weren’t they? Harbingers of what lay ahead.

Concentrating on a worn patch of wallpaper next to the headboard, I somehow continued. “Minnie, I—I should have told you, oh, so much! It’s all my fault, and I—”

I felt a hand upon my shoulder. Steeling myself against the accusation I knew I would find in her eyes, I took a trembling breath and turned to my sister.

But there was only that now-familiar soft, hopeful light in Minnie’s eyes as she smiled and hugged me to her.

“It doesn’t matter, Vinnie. I’m glad you told me, but—it doesn’t matter. You don’t understand, you can never understand, what it is to have life within you! I’m so sorry that you haven’t had this chance, but I’m so grateful that I am able to! Even if—but I know that God will find a way. I know that He will see me through this. And I promise, this baby will be yours as well as mine. You’re always looking out for me—still! You’re always doing things for me. Well, this is the one thing I can do for you, and I would not wish it any other way.”

I had to leave the room then, coward that I was, that I now knew I always had been. I couldn’t bring myself to witness the bravery in those still incongruously impish eyes, the nobility in that dimple and faint, determined scowl.

All were gone now; she lay, still so patiently, but her body was no longer her own. It was a puffy, stretched, swollen, throbbing vessel for the life within, the life that continued to grow and grow, so obviously not the “fairy child” that we all continued to talk hopefully about, regardless of the facts. Through eyes that were slits, a face too swollen to display a dimple; with hands that were so awkward and puffy, she could barely hold her knitting needles, but still she tried; over an abdomen that stretched her skin as tight as a drum and made it impossible for her to do more than allow an extra pillow beneath her head—my sister prepared for the new life expected.

“What if it’s a boy?” I asked her, as I knitted an absurdly tiny cap out of the softest wool; it was all for show, the tiny layette that Mama, Delia, and I were preparing for her, to ease her mind—as well as Edward’s. He refused to consider the possibility that the child would be normal-size, and forbade us from discussing it.

“She is not a boy, I know it.” Minnie struggled with small knitting needles, trying to maneuver them upon her swollen belly.

“How?”

“Because she is very considerate about when she kicks. A boy would not be so thoughtful.”

“What—what does it feel like?” I was hesitant to ask; I talked about the child in theory, allowing her to dream of it. But I did not like to discuss any of the practical—physical—aspects of what my sister was going through. It was almost as if I could wish them away by not giving them voice.

But by the look of relief—of happiness—in Minnie’s gaze as she considered my question, I had to wonder who I was protecting in this way. Her? Or me?

“Do you remember the time I swallowed a grasshopper?” she asked me.

“Yes.” I laughed; I hadn’t thought of that in years. “You said you could feel it hopping about inside you, and then you started to hop, too; you hopped all through dinnertime, until Mama didn’t know what to do and was about to send for the doctor.”

“Well, it’s like that. Only this time, it’s real; I do feel something hopping about inside me. As if I’ve swallowed a very large, very heavy, grasshopper. Oh!” She gasped, and her hand flew to her stomach.

“What is it? Are you all right? Shall I send for the doctor?” I jumped out of my chair, my knitting falling to the floor. I was halfway out the door when I heard my sister’s happy laugh beckoning me back inside.

“Vinnie—come, quick! She’s kicking right now! Come feel!”

“Oh!” I turned back to her but remained where I was, in the doorway. My hands flew behind my back almost of their own accord.

“Come!” Minnie patted the mattress, one hand still upon her stomach, which twitched, ever so faintly, beneath the sheets. I stared at it in horror.

“No, I don’t want to hurt you, dearest—”

“You won’t hurt me! I promise—come feel her, Vinnie! Come say hello to your niece!”

“No, can’t you listen to me? I said no!” I couldn’t help it—my voice was rough with anger, and I flinched at the startled look on Minnie’s face. “I mean, I will another time. Oh, will you look at that! My yarn rolled beneath the bed!” And I fell to my knees to avoid her hurtful, reproachful gaze; I was grateful for the exertion it took for me to wiggle under the bed and retrieve my knitting.

When I resumed my seat, I felt shyness and guilt, both, envelop me; I concentrated on my knitting with such intensity, the needles came close to poking out my eyes. My sister was a stranger to me now in so many ways; she had outpaced me, she who had always held docilely on to my hand while I led. Suddenly, our roles were reversed. And I knew Minnie wanted only to share her joy; I knew she wanted only to teach me the things she was learning with every passing day, every evidence of the child growing within.

But I was as reluctant a pupil now as she once had been. For the lessons my sister wanted to teach me were lessons not of the mind but of the heart.

“So no boys’ names, then? Not even one, just in case?” I returned to a safe subject.

Minnie was silent for a moment; she turned her head away from me, staring out her window, but finally, after a soft little sigh, she replied, “No. But I do have an idea for a girl’s name. A perfectly lovely girl’s name.”

“What?”

“Pauline,” my sister said quietly.

I dropped my knitting again, tears filling my eyes once more—oh, there was not even ten minutes a day, it seemed lately, that I did not cry!

“Oh, Minnie, that’s too—too sweet of you. Mr. Barnum will be so touched.”

“Indeed, he will,” said a familiar hearty voice. Minnie and I both looked up, startled; there, in the doorway, stood Mr. Barnum himself. A beautiful cradle, adorned with an enormous pink silk bow, was in his arms.

“Mr. Barnum!” Minnie exclaimed; with a very feminine gesture she patted at her hair and smoothed the ribbons on her bed jacket. I ran to her and tried to prop her up a bit upon her pillows, but she was too cumbersome; she smiled and raised her hands helplessly.

I glanced at Mr. Barnum; he was trying, unsuccessfully, to hide his shock at her appearance. His hands shook as he set the cradle down, and his gray eyes were misty with tears.

“We didn’t expect you,” I told him, rushing over to take his hat, placing my hand upon his arm to steady him. He smiled and kissed me on the cheek; one of his tears fell upon my face, and I pressed my hand to it, absorbing it into my own flesh. Then I turned away, hoping he hadn’t seen.

“Would you really like it if I named her Pauline?” Minnie asked him.

“It would mean the world to me. I can think of no greater tribute.” Recovering himself, Mr. Barnum pulled up a chair next to Minnie’s bed and plopped himself upon it; in his shock, he must not have seen that it was a small chair, made for us. So he sat with his knees up to his chin, his fleshy body spilling over the arms; Minnie and I burst into laughter, and he had no idea why.

“What? What is it?”

“Nothing.” I signaled Minnie to keep quiet, and she did, with a look of such delight upon her swollen face that my heart lightened enough so that I was not, for one blessed, fleeting moment, aware of it.

“Well, Miss Minnie, it’s good to see you so cheerful, anyway.”

“I have our Vinnie to thank for that. She never lets me get bored or anxious. And she tells me wonderful stories every day about all the things she’s seen.”

“You’ve accompanied her on all her travels; surely there’s not much she can tell you?”

“Oh, but there is! It’s almost as if I haven’t been in the same places she has, for she remembers things I didn’t even know happened! Like the time the Maharaja tried to give her a purse of rubies—I had no idea!”

“You were too shy, Pumpkin. You wanted to remain behind in our rooms and have your dinner with Mrs. Bleeker, remember?”

“I know. That’s why I love hearing your stories; I get to live my life all over again, through different eyes!” Minnie smiled at me, and I had to look away; I didn’t like to recall how long she had been in my shadow. I didn’t like to hear her talk of living her life again, as if she had a premonition about the future.

“Well, I may not be as good a storyteller as your sister, but I’m no slouch,” Mr. Barnum said hastily, catching a glimpse of my face as I busied myself with arranging a bowl of forget-me-nots on the windowsill; it was spring now in Middleborough. Life was bursting out all around us: flowers and tender grass and birds singing, newborn calves, foals, the first sprouts of Mama’s kitchen garden. Sometimes I felt hopeful; with all the vigor and optimism of the season, how could Minnie not survive her upcoming ordeal? Surely the same pulse, the same spirit that carried the scent of new-mown hay through her window, always open now so that she might hear the birds, would see her through, safe and sound?

Other times, when I heard her moan softly as she sought a comfortable position, as I watched Dr. Feinway’s increasingly grave countenance when he left her room (he came every two weeks, arranged by Mr. Barnum), I felt the cruelty of the season. It wasn’t fair! Life should not come so easily to the dumb creatures of nature, when my own sister did not have the same chance.

“Have I told you about my elephant?” Mr. Barnum asked Minnie. She shook her head, her curls—dull now, changed like the rest of her—ruffling her pillow. I pulled up a chair on the other side of her; both of our faces turned, like flowers to the sun, to Mr. Barnum as he began his tale.

“Jumbo is his name,” he said, shifting about uncomfortably in his tiny chair, still unaware of its proportions. “Well, he’s not mine yet—but he will be! He’s in a zoo in London now; he was found as a baby in the deepest, darkest jungles of Africa. He’s the biggest animal of his kind, I’d swear it! Well, between you and me, I wouldn’t exactly swear it in a court of law, but I’m confident the public won’t hold me to that. He’s really a stunner—his legs are ten feet high! One of my giants could easily pass under him! Yet he’s the gentlest animal soul I’ve ever seen; right smart he is, they say. He can count to three by stomping his foot, and when he does, the whole earth quakes! Minnie, I would love to see you curled up in his trunk; he loves to cradle things. One time at the zoo, one of the monkeys was missing, and finally they found him sleeping in Jumbo’s trunk, that elephant rocking him back and forth just like a baby!”

“No!” Minnie exclaimed breathlessly. “Didn’t he hurt the poor monkey?”

“Not a bit! Gentlest animal ever—they even let children ride him! Some of those elephants can get pretty ornery, but not Jumbo. Shh, don’t tell anyone yet, but I’m planning on buying him and bringing him over here. I can build an entire circus around him. I’ll put him in a special train car, bright red with his name in big yellow letters, so that when we come to town he’s the first thing folks want to see!”

“Oh, I’d love to see him. Can I? Can we, Vinnie?”

I believe, at that moment, Minnie had forgotten her condition; she was a girl again, about to embark upon a new adventure with me. I was so grateful to Mr. Barnum for giving her that moment of respite, for I knew, despite her cheerfulness, she was worried about her confinement. If I couldn’t talk to her about it, Mama could, at least a little; I overheard Minnie asking her once how much it would hurt. Mama told her only about as much as it hurt to have a tooth out, but that she’d forget about it the moment it was over and she held her baby for the first time. Yet when Mama left the room, she broke down sobbing in my arms, and I heard Minnie crying softly in her bed.

Mr. Barnum proceeded to tell her more stories about Jumbo; he had that same light in his eyes he used to have when he spoke of Jenny Lind, and I smiled to think of how jealous I had once been of her! Now I knew that Mr. Barnum was like a child in his affections: The newest toy was always his favorite. And Jenny Lind was across the ocean, matronly and married; Jumbo was in his zoo. I was right here, and I always had been. As I always would be.

Minnie was growing weary. She slept a lot now; it was painful to recall how she used to move, like quicksilver, such a sprite of a thing. Even when she left her bed to use the chamber pot, she moved so heavily, she reminded me of Sylvia.

I noticed her trying to stifle a yawn.

“Mr. Barnum, it’s time for Minnie to rest now,” I interposed gently but firmly, for he was not used to having his stories interrupted.

“Oh! Well, listen to me going on and on. I’m sorry, Miss Minnie. You must store up your energy, for when that baby comes, you will surely need it!” He spoke lightly, looking directly at her as he said this. Then he tried to rise from his chair and became stuck; standing, the chair clung to his behind like a burr, and Minnie giggled at the sight.

Finally, after much turning about, he managed to remove it, and so it was with cheerfulness and humor that he and Minnie said their farewells. Just as he bent over her bed to shake her hand, however, Minnie’s face grew serious; she tugged upon his sleeve, pulling him closer to her. She tried to whisper, but I could hear her, anyway; didn’t she know that I could always hear her? Her voice was ever in my thoughts, ever in my memories.

“Mr. Barnum, please look after Vinnie for me, won’t you? Sister worries too much, and I know that you’re the only person she’ll listen to. Try to amuse her—and just—take care of her, please? She’s always taken care of me, but nobody ever takes care of her.”

Mr. Barnum’s forced smile froze. He looked into my sister’s eyes and I suddenly feared what he would say.

“Come, let Minnie get her rest,” I said briskly from the doorway, pretending not to have heard—although my voice was suddenly unpredictable; I couldn’t quite stop it from quavering. “I’ll be back soon, dearest.”

Minnie turned her head away from me, but I saw her lips tremble as she nodded.

Resolutely, I led Mr. Barnum out into the hall, as Delia curtsied shyly to him and took my place by Minnie’s bed. Together we walked down the stairs; as always, he slowed his pace to match mine, without seeming to think about it.

Still not speaking, we walked through the front door; he didn’t have to ask if I wanted some air. We walked until we were far from the house, with all its open windows, and could speak freely. An iron bench, nestled among a patch of daffodils, beckoned, and we sat down upon it. I took in as much air as I could, breathing in greedy gulps, as if I were suffocating. Despite her open windows, Minnie’s room was growing unbearably stuffy, the air stagnant, full of sickbed smells; sweat and urine and vomit, and, most pervasive of all, fear.

“You look like something the cat dragged in, chewed up, and then spit back out again,” Mr. Barnum finally remarked, and I had to laugh. I had no idea how I looked—me, the perfectly groomed little Queen of Beauty! But it had been ages since I had spent any time dressing my hair, and I couldn’t remember the last time I looked in a mirror. I rose every morning, donned whatever dress was handy, did my hair up in a simple knot, and went to Minnie’s room. Edward always greeted me with a quick update—usually, she had spent a restless night, unable to lie comfortably, and now bedsores were becoming a worry—before stumbling off to Charles’s sitting room, where he might shave and bathe, but more often than not, collapsed on a settee and slept like a dead man. Edward was suffering, too; a good soul, so devoted to Minnie that he appeared unable to think ahead to the outcome of this ordeal. But I could not like him. I was jealous, jealous of his right to spend the nights with her, angry for his inability to keep himself away from her, for giving in to his animalistic urges and putting her in this situation. I knew it wasn’t fair to think of him that way—as a heathen who couldn’t control himself, just like a polygamist—but I did. He was a man, after all. And I knew what men were like.

I patted my hair, knowing that it was in a lifeless knot at the back of my neck, and agreed with Mr. Barnum. “I’m sure I look a fright.”

“You should think of yourself some, and take rest whenever you can.”

“I’ve spent my entire life thinking of myself. It’s a privilege to spend this time thinking of her,” I replied, speaking the truth.

“If you won’t think of yourself, then I will—shall I ask Charles to return to Bridgeport with me? I haven’t seen him nearly enough, and would enjoy a little bachelor vacation myself. Nancy will be in England visiting her family.” Nancy was his second wife; he had remarried following Charity’s death in 1873. I was no more fond of his second wife than I was of his first. Nancy was younger than I, vain and cold, interested only in the many material benefits of being Mrs. Phineas Taylor Barnum, for she spent no time with him.

“That would be good of you. I know Charles would enjoy it, for he’s been somewhat lost in all this. He’s beside himself with worry for Minnie—he spends some time with her each day, reading stories, but mainly he’s been left to his own devices.”

“I imagine this might lessen your own load a little, too. Charles is my good friend, but I know he requires a fair amount of handling.”

“Yes,” I admitted, again feeling the blessed relief of plain speaking; it was as if my stays had been loosened, as well as my tongue. I hadn’t been able to indulge myself like this in such a long time; for months, we all tiptoed about, not talking about the one thing that was on all our minds. It hovered in the air, unspoken, like smoke lingering from a burnt pot on a stove. And none of us made a move to clear it.

I was so grateful to Mr. Barnum for allowing me to speak what was in my heart; it was the desire to prolong this moment that caused me to blurt out, “She’s going to die, you know. It’s so obvious, I want to scream, but we all pretend and pretend not to see what we see. This child is not a tiny little fairy sprite. It’s a normal flesh-and-blood baby, and Minnie will not be able to survive its birth. We can’t pretend anymore.”

Mr. Barnum, to my everlasting gratitude, did not try to persuade me otherwise. “What will you do if the child lives?”

“I—I don’t know,” I sputtered, stunned. I had not thought of this possibility. I had not given the thing within my sister any identity or thought beyond its destructive nature. That was the only way I could see it: as the likely cause of Minnie’s death. It wasn’t a baby to me; it was a poison or a tumor or a fatal condition.

“You should prepare yourself, Vinnie. It’s a possible outcome, you know. I don’t imagine Edward will be in any position to care for a child alone. You must talk to Minnie and determine what she would wish. Most mothers,” he continued gently, seeing the horror upon my face, “give some thought to this, you know, regardless of their condition.”

“I can’t!” I shook my head; it felt as if the sun had just disappeared behind a cloud, so chilly was my soul. But the sun still shone brightly; I could see our shadows spilling across the lawn at our feet, one long and one short but so close together there was no space between.

“You must try. She might even be hoping that you do. It is my experience that the dying wish us to speak more plainly with them than we think—you heard what she said to me when I left. She’s trying to prepare us—she’s trying to prepare you.”

“No, you’re wrong. She’s hopeful—” I faltered, remembering the time—times, if I was being truthful—I had overheard her crying. But I shook my head, erasing them from my memory. She was not afraid, for the simple reason that I couldn’t bear for her to be. “What she said back there, she just meant for the present. She’s been knitting for the child, naming it—you heard! And you know Minnie. She’s always been so simple. She doesn’t understand what’s truly happening.”

“Vinnie, if you’ve ever done your sister a disservice—and I believe you think you have—it’s only in this: that you have persisted in thinking of her as younger and simpler than she really is.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I shifted uncomfortably on the hard bench; suddenly our shadows appeared to me to be too close.

“Your sister is a woman, Vinnie. A woman who has chosen her own fate. You haven’t done it for her, no matter what you think. She was more than capable of doing it for herself.”

“What do you know of fate? Of choices? You’re just a man—and men never have to pay for their choices like women do.” I started to rise, as did my voice, but Mr. Barnum reached for my arm. He continued to speak in a low, soothing tone, which maddened me; I was not a child.

“Vinnie, you can’t possibly mean that. We all have to pay for the choices we make—but come, let’s not quarrel. There’s no need for anger, especially on such a beautiful day.”

“Oh, beautiful day be damned.” I kicked at a daffodil, to make my point.

“Vinnie!”

“Do I shock you? Well, good. I want to. I want to shock God, too. Can’t you see I am angry? I’m angry with God—I’m angry with myself,” I muttered, still kicking at innocent daffodils, so mocking in their vivid, irrepressible cheer.

“Why on earth? It’s simply God’s—”

“Will? Oh, how sick I am of hearing God talked about in this house! I’m glad He gives Minnie comfort, but I’m not so easily tricked.”

“Call it Providence, then—but you’re still not responsible.”

“Oh, yes, I am! Do you know why? Let me tell you—let me finally tell someone!” Jumping to my feet, my hands clenched, I stood before him as honest as I had ever been with anyone—and as vulnerable. His hand was still upon my arm, but I felt it loosen its grip, recoiling as my confession spilled out of me.

“It’s not as if I couldn’t have children—the truth is I didn’t want to. I told Charles, I told you, I even told Minnie that I couldn’t, when the truth was, I was too terrified to try. So I never explained to Minnie about the dangers of childbirth for the two of us. And now look what’s happened!”

“But you—afraid? I don’t understand.”

“Of course you don’t—you never have.” I rushed on, desperate to unburden myself—even more desperate, for some reason, to burden him. “If you had, you never would have thought up that whole baby business. I’m angry with you, too!” I finally wriggled out of his grasp—or, rather, he let go.

“Me?” Mr. Barnum’s expression suddenly became alert and watchful; before my eyes, his soft, uneven features began to harden.

“Yes, you! Oh, if I’d only been honest with you about Colonel Wood! That was my fault, but then you—you forced me to bring Minnie along to pay my debt. And then that ridiculous humbug about the baby!”

“That baby business made us both a small fortune, if you’ll recall. All those cartes de visites sold! We made thousands. And you accepted the money, if my memory is to be trusted, without any hair tearing or breast beating.” The gray in his eyes turned to steel, and he clutched his walking stick as if he was trying not to use it as a weapon.

“I—well, we needed the money, the way Charles spends, but that’s not the point. It hurt people—it hurt Mama, because I’d told her I’d never let you do anything in my name that I didn’t approve.”

“Then why are you scolding me?”

“Because! Mama feared I’d lose my soul if I went with you, and I told her I wouldn’t, but now I have. But I don’t care about myself. I’m willing to accept my punishment, but, oh, that it has to be Minnie who pays! That’s what I can never forget or forgive, either of us.”

“Lavinia Warren Stratton, the conceit in you! I knew you had an ego, m’dear, but I had no idea you thought so much of yourself that you could buy and sell souls.” He barked a hard, withering laugh that set my teeth on edge.

“Talk about ego—is there anything in New York or Bridgeport that you haven’t plastered your name all over?” My eyes narrowed, considering him. We glared at each other for a long moment; everything else—the flowers, the bees, the lazy neighing of a horse in a nearby pasture—faded away until I was aware of only the rasp of his breathing, the pounding of my wrathful heart.

“Let’s not continue this line of discussion,” Mr. Barnum said with maddening calm. “Minnie would not be happy to know we were quarreling.”

“Oh, you have no idea what Minnie would like,” I snapped. I would not be soothed. “You don’t know her at all. You only want to make money off her, just like you do with everything and everyone. You know frauds and hokum and cheats and scoundrels—and I include myself in all that!—but you do not know goodness! So don’t try to tell me what to do or how to think about my sister. She’s mine, she’s me—the very best and only true part of me! The only true part I have left! You’re a sham, and you expect everyone else to be a sham, too!”

“I don’t know goodness?” He threw his stick down in disgust. “Or truth? What do you know? Have you ever asked me—I watched my wife suffer all her life, saw two of my daughters die. I know truth from lies, Vinnie, and I see the truth in Minnie and I see the truth in you, although right now you don’t want me to—and maybe you never did, at that! For if we’re speaking of friendship and goodness, let me ask you this: Why do you only come to me when you need something—money or advice or even, yes, my name when it suits your needs? Why do you never visit me, just because? It’s always under the pretense of some piece of business. And furthermore, I would like to know something else.” He pushed himself off the bench with determination, turning away from me so that I could not see his face. “Why, in all the years we have known each other, have you never once called me by my given name?”

“I—what?” Stunned, I stopped my wild pacing; so unexpected was his question, his obvious hurt, that for a moment I forgot my anger.

“I have called you Vinnie almost since the first day I met you. Charles calls me Phineas, Bleeker does, all my friends do. But you persist in calling me ‘Mr. Barnum.’ You always keep me at arm’s length, and I would like to know why. Do you only think of me in terms of business, then? Do you have no room for true friendship or affection in your life?”

“ ‘True friendship’? Oh, don’t talk to me about what’s true!” I resumed my pacing, disgusted by his blatant attempt at manipulation. I’d heard him put that quaver in his voice many times before, usually when he was trying to negotiate the terms of a new contract. “We’ve only ever been a meal ticket for you. Just like all your other toys and curiosities—your giant, your elephant, your dwarfs. That’s all we’ve ever been to you, and you know it!”

“I do not, and I’m offended you’d even think such a thing!”

“Really?” I spun around. “You’re saying we’d be friends even if I wasn’t what you persist in calling, in all my advertising and even in your latest autobiography, a dwarf?”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Vinnie! Remember, you’re the one who first contacted me. You sent that note calling my attention to a certain Miss Lavinia Warren Bump, whose dainty height and symmetrical proportions were much admired along the Mississippi. When I sent that first telegram, you answered so fast the wires were still singing! You yourself know that no one would pay a dime to see you, otherwise. And I always admired you for knowing that—I always admired you for your honesty and good sense. But lately, I’m not so sure—”

“You’re lecturing me on honesty? And as far as good sense—”

“Yes, good sense. Look at all your Society friends, all your lavish spending, all the airs—it’s almost as if you’ve forgotten how it all began. But these people, Vinnie—they don’t see you! Not really, not beyond being a novelty, and you’re going to get hurt if you don’t watch yourself. And the thing is, I see you—I see beyond the perfect little woman in miniature; I see the real person, but you don’t want me to. That’s why you always keep me at arm’s length—you’re afraid of me. You’re terrified of what I might see.”

“I’m not terrified of anything,” I said hotly, even as I knew it wasn’t true.

“Yes, you are.” Mr. Barnum was reading me, reading my face, as he so avidly read an audience before a show, predicting exactly where they would applaud. I looked about, desperate suddenly for a place to hide, but there was nowhere to go.

“That’s it,” he continued, circling me, peering at me, trapping me, even as I tried to squirm and duck. His eyes were gleaming with an interest that was almost scientific. At that moment, I was more intriguing to him than the biggest elephant in the world; once more, I was his newest discovery. “That’s what all this is! You’re afraid of what you see in the mirror every day, aren’t you? Afraid, and ashamed. And so you’ve hidden behind it, hidden behind your size, even as you’ve tried to convince yourself no one sees it but you.”

I gasped; it was as if all my clothing had just been torn from me and now I stood, naked and defenseless, beneath his perceptive gaze. Oh, how did he know? How did he always see straight to the heart of me?

“And Minnie—she’s different than you, no matter how much you try to convince yourself otherwise. She isn’t you, because she’s happy. And you’re not.”

“ ‘Happy’?” Finally, I found my tongue, and it felt strong and supple in my mouth, a weapon I could expertly use against him. “What do you know about happiness? You’re just as miserable as you think I am, marrying the wrong woman over and over!”

“By God, if you were a man—” He wheeled and strode away from me, reaching down to grab his walking stick, swinging it like a scythe as he lopped off the heads of dandelions and daffodils, both. “You are the most extraordinary female I’ve ever—I knew this day would come. We have usually been on the same side of an issue, but I always knew that there would be trouble between us if ever we were not.”

“Trouble? Is that all you think this is? My sister is dying and it’s my fault and your fault both, and you call it trouble? I can never forgive you for this!”

“If that is what you believe, then you are not the person I thought you were!” He turned. We stood like two warriors at the end of a battle; carnage lay at our feet, but it wasn’t bodies we had slain. It was our history.

“No, I’m not. I’m not the person I thought I was,” I said through a clenched jaw. “No, I’m not brave—not like Minnie. But then, neither are you. The only chance you ever take is with your bank account. The only chance I ever take is with a train schedule. Neither one of us has ever been brave enough to take a chance with his heart.”

“And back we come, to the crux of the matter. Because Minnie took risks. Minnie fell in love. Minnie didn’t need you, after all.”

I opened my mouth to deny it but could think of nothing more to say. He was right. But so was I—oh, none of it mattered. Not now, not with Minnie—

Suddenly, I began to shiver; I was aware of a creeping, numbing chill threatening to overcome me, confusing my thoughts. I realized that I hadn’t slept in days, that the back of my neck was gray with dirt and sweat, that my stomach was empty. And I ached all over, not just within my heart. A lifetime of looking up, of climbing stairs too steep for me, of using doorknobs and pens and brushes and utensils, even water glasses, that were too large for my hands—it was just this summer, this summer of dread, that it was beginning to take its toll on my once-elastic body. My right hip was cold and stiff in the mornings; my neck had a permanent kink to it, even while I lay down. The knuckles on my hands were beginning to knot up.

For the first time in a very long time, I felt small.

“I want you to leave now,” I said, recovering some remnant of rational thinking. “Although if you will allow Minnie to continue in the care of Dr. Feinway, I would appreciate it. But as for me, I would prefer not to be under any further obligation to you.”

“You don’t mean that,” Mr. Barnum said, and I could see, across the chasm between us, the flicker of hurt in his eyes even as he bravely set his mouth in that familiar crooked smile.

“I don’t? Why is that—because I’m only a dwarf? A ‘novelty,’ as you put it?”

His smile turned into a grimace. “Vinnie, I didn’t mean that—you’re too tired to know what you’re saying.”

“Then we’re agreed on something.” I shrugged. “I am tired. And I don’t have time for your showmanship anymore, Mr. Barnum. Now, if you’ll excuse me, my sister needs me.”

“Vinnie, wait—” He took a step in my direction, but I spun around and began to walk toward the house, to my sister. Away from him.

“Vinnie, don’t leave like this,” he called, and there was sadness in his voice now, the genuine sadness of an old man, for that was what he was. I didn’t usually think of him that way, and I wished I hadn’t allowed myself to do so now. I did not want to feel sympathy for him.

So I picked up my skirts and began to run; if I could put enough distance between the two of us, I would never be tempted to go back.

My hair came undone from its bun; it streamed down my back, heavy and tickling as it hadn’t done since I was young. Since Minnie and I were girls, running around the barnyard hand in hand, laughing and searching for hidden treasures, for rocks and eggs and anthills, four-leaf clovers, fairy wings.

Objects that only the two of us, so close together, so close to the ground in a way that no one else was, could see. Objects that Minnie had always found beautiful, and that she had persisted in trying to share with me.

But I never could see them, not then, not now.

I was always too busy looking for the man in the moon, instead.

THE TWENTY-THIRD OF JULY STARTED OUT LIKE ANY OTHER SUMmer day; it dawned bright and warm, with the promise of midafternoon heat in the pale morning sun. The house seemed airless by eight a.m.; after bringing Minnie her breakfast, which she could not eat except for a little nibble of dry toast, I went outside, hoping to cool off.

Papa’s cow pastures were almost all sold off by now, divided up among my brothers, who had built houses of their own. But one pasture remained untouched, just big enough for the small herd he still kept; I headed out there, careful not to step in cow patties or gopher holes. Up ahead, on top of a little hill, was an enormous, leafy tree that was sure to provide nice, cool shade. I was eager to reach that restful spot; I walked faster, as if in a race against time and sun. I knew I could not linger, for Minnie was due any day now. Yet I so wanted to spend a little time sitting against the trunk, maybe even taking off my shoes and stockings to let my feet play in the tall, cool grass; I hadn’t done that since I was a child.

Finally, I reached the shade; pausing to collect my breath, I unbuttoned the top of my bodice so that some of the heat, trapped within the folds of my dress, could escape. Then I took a closer look at the tree; it had been so long since I had tramped outdoors, but this tree looked familiar.

Creeping closer to the trunk, I pushed away some of the tall grass, and there it was, like a long-forgotten friend—my name. My name, and the line marking my height, which was still just an inch or two below where I stood now. I looked up, seeing all the other familiar names—James, Benjamin, Delia …

But where was Minnie? For the first time, I realized her name had not been etched in the rough, gnarled bark. I couldn’t remember why that was—had she even been born then? Was she just too timid to romp about that day? Had I abandoned her, as I sometimes did, impatient that she didn’t want to run after the others, annoyed that she was so content to sit in the kitchen with Mama, playing with her dolls? I honestly could not recall. However, it wasn’t right that her name was not here with the rest of us; how could I have not noticed it before? Anyone looking at this tree would think she hadn’t existed at all—

Like a thunderclap, the panic startled me, overcame me; I had to scratch her name right here, right now. I had to record my sister’s life on this tree this very instant, capture it somehow. And if I did, surely, like a gypsy’s charm, everything would be all right. I looked about, but of course there was no handy knife or tool nearby; I grabbed a stick, but it snapped against the rough bark. Finally, I tried to use my fingernail, scraping until my finger bled, but it was no use. There wasn’t even a faint outline of her name; I hadn’t made a dent.

Breathing heavily, hot and perspiring even under the shade, I sat down for a moment to think. I could run over to Mama’s—their house was closer. I needn’t tell her why I required a knife; it would only upset her. I could just take one from the rack in the kitchen, slip back outside and run back here before—

“Vinnie! Vinnie!” There was a figure far down the hill, jumping up and down, waving its arms. Standing, I shaded my eyes from the sun with my hand, and recognized it as Charles. “Come quick—Edward sent me to fetch you. Minnie needs you, Vinnie—do you s’pose it’s about the baby?”

There was uncertainty in his voice. Uncertainty as well as fear. My legs began to propel me down the hill before I could fully realize what they were doing; I shot past Charles in a blur. I was much faster than he was, as I ran just as I used to as a girl, forgetting about my corset, my train, my straw hat, which flew off my head at some point. Charles must have retrieved it, for later I found it on my bed, crumpled but not torn.

I also forgot about the tree; I remembered only when Dr. Feinway asked me why my fingernails were torn. By then, all the men were banished from the house, sent across to Mama and Papa’s; Edward did not want to leave, but Minnie, between gasping and writhing, insisted.

How do I write of what happened next? I’ve never been able to speak of it: not to Charles, not to Mama, not to anyone. Yet Minnie’s story cannot be told without describing the hell of that day, beginning with the sweltering July heat that soon turned the room into a sauna. It was captured in the sheets, in the curtains, within the folds of my clothing, rivulets flowing into rivers of sweat plastering my undergarments to my skin, turning my cotton dress into a velvet shroud, stifling my pores until I felt as if I were being boiled in a covered pot.

When the pains started, Minnie was so hot that she kept tugging at her nightgown, complaining that it was too heavy; by the end, she had lost so much blood that she was shivering uncontrollably, her skin icy to the touch.

The blood! Oh, so much blood, such a defiant crimson, soaking the sheets, sticking to her legs, covering Dr. Feinway’s arms, stringing, like ropy spiderwebs, between his fine, tapered fingers. The child simply could not emerge, although nature tried to take over, tearing my sister, wracking her with pain. Her piteous cries pierced the air, pierced my ears so that they still ring with them, all these years later. She started out whimpering, smiling apologetically between the pains; as they came closer and closer, more furious, unrelenting, she stopped apologizing. Her pupils dilated like a wounded animal’s as she waited for the next, and then the next, and then the next. Soon her entire body was being wrung with the force of the infant desperate to be born; her limbs flailed, her back arched off the mattress, as the doctor tensely held her legs down. Even as she was in the primitive throes of her torture, he was still able to overpower my diminutive sister. Minnie was helpless against everything, everyone, in that room—except me.

“Can’t you give her some ether?” I pleaded with Dr. Feinway, as her eyes glazed over and she bit her lip so hard that now there was blood there, as well.

“Not yet, not while there’s still a chance she can expel the child,” he barked. He had lost his kind, professional demeanor and was now in his shirtsleeves, spattered with blood, looking more like a butcher than a doctor. He grunted and groaned nearly as much as Minnie, and ran to the window to spit outside and curse his frustration before returning to the bed and the nurse he had brought with him. She was a woman so methodical, so practiced, as to be an automaton. She did not react to Minnie’s cries; she did not blanch at all the blood. She merely stood, silent and efficient, waiting to do whatever Dr. Feinway needed.

I hovered near the top of the bed, near the only part of her that was not being torn apart. I mopped her brow but could not do it easily; she had been moved to a guest room, placed upon a regular-size bed so that the doctor could better attend to her. I had to use my wooden steps, standing awkwardly, but by the end I simply crawled into bed with her, holding her to me as she begged me, in the most heartbreaking whisper, to “Rock me, Sister, rock me.” And I tried to do just that; I maneuvered my body around hers as best I could, and cradled her shoulders in my arms.

“Little drops of water, little grains of sand,” I began, unable to recall any song but the ones I used to teach in school. All the popular songs I had sung onstage to Kings and Queens escaped my mind at that moment; only the simplest ones, the ones I had taught to children, remained.

But it didn’t matter; no angelic smile, no whisper of relief, greeted my singing. I don’t think she heard me, and I wondered, later, if she asked only because she knew I needed to do something at that moment.

I remained there, half sitting, half reclining, rocking my sister for the longest time, crooning softly into her tangled mat of hair for hours, it seemed. I was still rocking, still crooning, my voice hoarse and dry, when I felt a hand upon my shoulder. Looking up, it took me a long moment to recognize Dr. Feinway; I was almost surprised to see him there, so fiercely had I tried to block out everything but the blessed weight of my sister in my arms.

But now that weight was motionless, cold. Minnie was no longer moaning or thrashing. Her eyes were shut, her long lashes coal-black against the marble white of her cheeks.

“Vinnie, she’s gone,” Dr. Feinway said gently but urgently. “The child still might have a chance, but we have to cut it from her. You need to leave now.”

“Leave?” I looked at Minnie, lying limply against my arms, peaceful for the first time in such a long while. “Rock me, Sister,” she had whispered, and I had. I had rocked her, finally, to sleep.

“Leave,” the doctor said, lifting me roughly off the bed so that I had to release my sister. She fell back, like a marionette whose strings had been cut, against the pillow that was soiled and drenched from her sweat, her blood.

I allowed Dr. Feinway to push me out of the room—until I caught a glimpse of the instruments the impassive nurse was laying out upon a table; there was a knife, with gleaming, sawlike teeth.

“No!” I wailed, wanting to run back in and warn Minnie. But Minnie wasn’t there anymore, and Dr. Feinway shut the door in my face; the handle turned until it locked. Then I heard a soft moan behind me. Spinning around, I saw Mama, who had been sitting sentry in the hall the whole time, slide off her chair and onto the floor, where I dropped to my knees just in time to catch her. Not a muscle moved on her kind, careworn face as she uttered only one cry, but it had all the love and worry of a lifetime in it.

“My baby,” she moaned, burying her face in my chest—only those two words, but there was no need for more. Then she started to weep, softly, as she clung to me. And I held my mother; I rocked her, too; I sang softly, scraps of songs that Minnie loved. Songs that I knew I would never sing again.

I had no sense of how much time passed, but when Dr. Feinway opened the door and said, “We could not save her daughter,” the windows were dark and someone had turned on the gaslights in the hall. I was surprised to see a tear roll down his patrician face; I had imagined him to be above emotion. That my sister had touched him so, in the short time he had known her, moved me beyond words.

“Do you want to see the child?” he asked.

“No! I don’t want to see that—that thing that killed my sister! Take it away! Take it away from here—”

“Vinnie, please.” Mama clutched at my sleeve with trembling hands, her face irrevocably old; I knew that from this moment on, she would look forward only to death, not life. “Please, for me, because I’m not strong enough. But you are.”

I hadn’t the heart to tell my mother she was wrong. So I gently nudged her off my lap, and rose on unsteady legs, and followed Dr. Feinway into the darkened room, still stuffy, but now a chill wind was blowing in from the window; the heat had broken and the air was cool, fresh, like spring. The nurse was methodically folding bloodstained linens and stuffing them in a wicker basket, the crimson faded to rust; despite the wind, the metallic smell of blood was everywhere. I thought, oddly, that I must replace the carpet and wallpaper in here; the smell would never come out otherwise.

The only light in the room was from two oil lamps on either side of the bed upon which Minnie was lying, her eyes closed, her skin already turning waxen.

“I’ve never known such courage,” Dr. Feinway said softly.

Someone had brushed her curls so that they were no longer tangled and damp; miraculously, they looked like they used to, silky black, no longer that dull, coarse texture of these last months. She almost appeared as if she were sleeping, and perhaps she would to someone who did not know her. But I—who had slept with her so many nights, held her close, watched her dream—knew she was not. I knew it because her red rosebud lips, usually slightly parted, the tip of her pink tongue between them, were blue. Her chest, which always rose and fell so trustingly, was still. Everything about her was so still, so empty; there was no life in this room.

And in her arms was a doll, just as there had been so many times. But it wasn’t a doll; it was her child, her daughter—“Pauline,” I said, christening her. She was cleaned up, bathed by the nurse, I presumed, but there were bruises and cuts about her pale, lifeless face; no rosy cheeks and lips, only scrunched-up eyes that had never opened, making her look angry, frustrated. But she had black hair, just like Minnie’s.

My little wooden steps—now so worn, so distressed, from being bumped, dragged, and dropped across continents and oceans—were still by her bed. I could have climbed them, had I wished, to touch her, kiss her once more. But I did not. I felt almost in awe. This was not my sister; this was a holy shrine, an icon apart from the horror and pain of the earthly world, the deception, the dishonesty—the sin.

And I wondered, in that moment, if the enormity of my guilt was in inverse proportion to my size. Had I been bigger, would my sins on this earth be less significant—just like my hopes and dreams?

“I imagine so,” I whispered, although Minnie could not hear. “I dreamed too big, dearest, for you and me. And you were the one who had to pay. Forgive me, oh, forgive me!”

And then I backed out of the room, unable to look away until I closed the door softly, as if afraid to wake her up. Leaving Mama sobbing quietly in her chair, I ran down the stairs, out the door, and toward the old homestead, pausing in the middle of the road to catch my breath, surprised to feel the night air sweet and refreshing upon my aching brow. Then I gathered up my skirts, as well as my courage, and continued across the road.

I knew I would find Papa in the barn; he didn’t turn around as I came in. He simply continued to work, planing a soft pine log, sanding it to the smoothest surface; smooth enough for a cradle, smooth enough for a coffin.

Tears rolled down his craggy face as he began, for the last time, to craft something beautiful, something practical, something that would ease life’s journey, for one of his two little girls.