Free The Autobiography of Mrs. Tom Thumb by Melanie Benjamin

whispered to Billy as irritation stirred in my veins, irritation at both myself and Sylvia. Myself for believing Colonel Wood; Sylvia for letting him poke and prod her with his walking stick while she merely stood, obviously humiliated.
    A brisk slap of applause startled me; Sylvia was now lurching offstage, pushing through the shabby curtain. My stomach fluttered as I rushed to meet her.
    “Are you ready, Vinnie?” A fond smile pushed away the anguish on Sylvia’s face.
    “Of course.” I nodded calmly, as if I wasn’t suddenly unable to hear over the roaring in my ears. Then we were walking through the curtain together, and Colonel Wood was introducing me as
“a new sensation, a miniature chanteuse, a living doll—Miss Lavinia Warren Bump!”
    He was only a lime green blur in the corner of my eye; the footlights in front and the gaslights along the sides of the stage were so brilliant and hot that they blinded me. I relied on Sylvia to nudge me with her knee toward what must be the piano, and then she was lifting me up, up, up, until I felt the solid walnut vibrating beneath my feet as the pianist continued to play a flourish.
    Blinking, safely above the glare of the flickering footlights, I tried to make out the scene before me. The upper seats, which I’d been told were for the Negroes, I could not distinguish; all was a dusky blur. But I could discern a few faces in the audience, seated on long, hard benches on the main floor. It was mostly made up of men, I realized: a few women, some children, but mostly men, dressed in rough farm clothes. The women at least had hats on, and Sunday cloaks, but the men did not appear to have donned special clothing for the occasion.
    This, alone, caused my heart to slow down, the roaring in my ears to fade; I had no fear of these kinds of people, for they were just like my own folks. Even rougher and less schooled, I imagined from the dirt and the faded quality of some of the clothing, the stained spittoons at the end of every row.
    Now I could hear the gasps and whispers, the creaking of the benches as people shifted and stood to get a better look at me. Colonel Wood had stopped speaking and was twirling his walking stick as he gestured to me. With a small nod, I turned to the accompanist, Mr. James, and whispered, “I’ll start with the ballad.”
    He smiled and started playing the introduction. I cleared my throat, and the first tremulous notes pushed themselves out of mymouth.
“I dream of Jeannie with the light brown hair,”
I warbled, and knew that my pitch was off, my tone wobbly. But the audience didn’t seem to mind; I could hear sounds of
“Shh, shhh,”
and one
“Gol’ darn it, shut the hell up!”
as I sensed the individuals lean forward as one, one great, giant ocean wave rushing toward me.
    I didn’t recoil from it. Instead, I held my hand up, silencing everyone, including Mr. James.
    “Excuse me, I’d like to start again,” I said. And nodded, as Mr. James played the introduction over.
    “I dream of Jeannie with the light brown hair.”
The words were clearer now, my tone steady, and I felt my throat relax so that every note wasn’t pinched. With assurance, I lifted my head so that my voice could carry farther, even as Mr. James softened his accompaniment.
    “I see her tripping where the bright streams play.”
The audience seemed transfixed by my voice; the creaking had stopped now, as no one moved a muscle. In the first row, there was more than one gentleman whose mouth was hanging open, perfectly enraptured.
    “Many were the wild notes her merry voice would pour.”
This was the most difficult part of the song, and I strained a bit to hit the high notes; Mr. Jones, who wore a pained expression as we began that section, relaxed and smiled at me when it was over.
    “Oh! I dream of Jeannie with the light brown hair, floating, like a vapor, on the soft summer air.”
I slowed the last notes, caressing them so they would linger. As the last note