Free The Autobiography of Mrs. Tom Thumb by Melanie Benjamin Page B

how he had seen me all along? I resolved to take the next train home, back to my family, who had only tried to protect me from people like him. Contract or no contract, I would—
    Don’t shame us
, my father had said; the full weight of his words fell upon my shoulders like a cross to be born.
    My body felt icy, separate from my brain. Colonel Wood was openly sneering as he moved again toward me. There were only two things I could do. I could stand there like Sylvia, a thing—a
dwarf
—and let him lift me off the piano—I could almost feel his huge, grasping hands about my waist, my legs dangling helplessly in the air. Or I could take control of the situation and not shame my family.
    I will not let my size define me
, I had told myself back in my school days.
I will define it
.
    “Stop!” I held up my hand, surprising all, including myself. “Stop!” I had to repeat this several times, but after a moment the audience quieted down, although those standing did not return to their seats, and the ugly young man remained ominously close to the stage.
    My training as a teacher now came to my rescue. I felt myself expand, perched atop that grand piano; my spine stiffened, my chin tilted, and I willed every molecule, every bit of muscle and flesh and bone and even the hair on my head, to exude
dignity
. I imagined it exploding from the very core of my being; I closed my eyes, picturing myself showering sparks and stars and diamonds of dignity. Then I opened my eyes to survey the audience as an eerie calm fell upon me.
    I began to speak, and I was careful to overenunciate my words, as I had often found myself doing when trying to help aconfused pupil. The audience was that pupil. So was Colonel Wood. They needed to be educated; they needed to be taught—about me, Mercy Lavinia Warren Bump, descendent of William the Conqueror and Richard Warren of the Mayflower Company.
    “I assure you, I am neither a doll nor a windup toy. As Colonel Wood said, my name is Miss Bump, and I hope you enjoyed my song. Now, if you’ll permit me, I’d—”
    “How tall are you?” the sweaty young man at the footlights interrupted, quite rudely. I had a good mind to ignore him, except that he was echoed by several others repeating the same question.
    “Miss Bump is—” Colonel Wood began, but I cut him off with a glare; he returned it but did back away from the piano.
    “My height is two feet, eight inches; thank you for inquiring.”
    “How old are you? Why, you can’t be more’n four or five!” another voice rang out.
    “While I do not believe it is polite to ask a lady her age, I am not yet eighteen.” To my surprise, this was received with a hoot of laughter.
    “Almost eighteen, you say? Why, you must have a little fairy beau, then!” someone else exclaimed.
    “Unfortunately, Miss Bump has yet to find anyone who measures up,” Colonel Wood replied quickly; the audience roared with laughter, while I could do nothing but stand there, the butt of their joke.
    “Are those doll clothes you’re wearing?” This was from a female voice.
    “No, I had them made, just as you do,” I replied before Colonel Wood could say something boorish. “Now, I would like to sing another song. Would you allow me?” For I was suddenly weary, unsteady on my feet, although I would not allow myself to show it; my body felt as battered as if I’d been run through a butter churn. I don’t know how long I’d been onstage, but it felt like a lifetime.
    “You bet, little lady!” someone shouted, and there was a general stirring and creaking as people took their seats. It was a sound I would grow to recognize, the contented sound of an audience settling in, ready to be entertained. But at that moment, I noted it with only exquisite relief, for soon my humiliation would be over.
    I nodded at Mr. James, who began the lively military introduction for “The Soldier’s Wedding.” With clenched fists, I held on to my skirts in an effort to keep myself