He suspected Levi’s hand in that, but the boy admitted nothing, and the mermaid just looked at Barnum with that grave stare no matter what he said.
That look, he thought. It made him want to twist away, to hide his eyes so she couldn’t see inside him.
He had a strange idea that if she looked at him for too long, she would know all of his secrets, everything that had ever made him ashamed, every humbug he perpetuated, every sin he committed.
The girl had missed her calling. She should have been a preacher’s wife. That look would have compelled even the most wayward sinner into church every Sunday.
And on the long list of problems to be solved . . . she wasn’t eating enough. Levi said the girl liked sweets, and Barnum himself had seen the girl putting more lumps of sugar in her tea than strictly necessary. But she didn’t seem interested in any of the bakery treats that appeared with regularity around the breakfast table.
Charity gobbled up all the goodies in the mermaid’s stead. She was full to bursting with his child and seemed determined to make herself even bigger, if possible. He didn’t think all that was good for the baby, especially not if it was a boy. Boys needed red meat, and lots of it.
He surely did hope for a boy this time. Daughters were fine; Caroline was about the age when she was starting to become interesting, though little Helen was still a chubby squeaking ball of ruffles and curls.
But a boy! A boy could carry on the Barnum name. A son could learn everything there was to know about the American Museum and that would carry on, too. Barnum could pass the museum on to his children and they to their children and so Barnum would live on and on, his name etched forever in the annals of New York history.
However, none of that would happen if Charity had another girl. He’d have to make it clear she wasn’t to eat the fancy cakes and breads any longer. Red meat, that would make Barnum’s boy.
Still, he could give orders to Charity, but the mermaid was another matter. He told her many, many times to eat more, but it was clear that she wouldn’t force down a single bite just to please him.
Couching it in terms of the exhibition didn’t help, either.
“It’s just that folks like to see a nice healthy girl,” Barnum said over the breakfast table one morning.
The girl had ignored the bacon and taken only a mouthful of eggs and dry toast.
“I am perfectly healthy,” Amelia said.
“Yes, but you need to be . . .” He gestured with his hands, making the shape of a curvy figure in the air. “Rounder.”
“Why?” she asked, giving him that disconcerting stare that made him want to squirm in his seat.
Charity and Caroline were looking on in curiosity, too, and that made him bluster.
“Well, because, as I said, folks like to see a healthy girl.”
“And as I said, I am healthy even if I am not round, so I am certain the folks will be pleased.” She gave him a half smile (a mocking half smile, he thought) and returned to her toast.
Barnum thought he caught a glimpse of satisfaction in Charity’s eyes before she, too, dropped her gaze to her plate and continued eating.
The hell of it was that damned mermaid always seemed to get the better of him. And everyone was on her side—Levi, Caroline, even his own wife. Didn’t they see he was the one being wronged by the girl at every turn? He was the one bearing the brunt of the expense. He was the one who had to solve all the problems. Who was going to figure out how to get seawater into the tank if not him?
And he was the one who had to try to make a show out of a girl who didn’t seem to want to be one. Barnum sat back in his chair, thinking. He always did his best thinking at night in the museum, when the building was silent but he could still imagine the murmur of voices or squeals of delight as the throngs moved through.
It comforted him to think of them—all the people who had paid to come into his museum, and all the people who would pay in the future.
Barnum could hardly remember a time when his primary thought wasn’t of making money. His own grandfather, a great old humbug artist if there ever was one, had promised him when he was young a tract of land near their hometown of Bethel called “Ivy Island.” This, he was assured, would be the makings of his fortune.
This prize of real estate was to come into young Taylor’s possession when he was of age. Throughout his life his entire family referred to him as the richest child in Bethel, and his parents extracted frequent promises that he would not forget them once he became wealthy.
He’d spent many a long hour dreaming of the day this wonderful present would come into his possession. He imagined there was treasure to be found, gold and silver to be mined in mountain-sized quantities.
Later he considered the matter more practically. There might be forests of trees to be sold for lumber or arable farmland to be turned into parcels for rent. Yes, young Taylor built marvelous plans for his inheritance.
Then, when he was ten years old, his grandfather took him to see Ivy Island. It was a wreck, covered in brambles and swamp, and there were snakes everywhere. The land was hardly worth the paper the deed was printed on.
It was then that Barnum realized how thoroughly he’d been humbugged. His family had laughed at him his whole life. Of course they’d known Ivy Island was completely worthless, but they’d all enjoyed watching him dream of the day it would come into his hands.
He learned two lessons that day. First, it was better to be the humbugger than the humbugged. Barnum enjoyed a good joke just as much as anyone else, but he didn’t enjoy being the butt of one.
The second was that no one was going to give his fortune to him. He’d have to earn it himself, and he had tried. He’d run a shop, sold lottery tickets, invested in bear grease, and spent two years as a traveling showman. He’d even started his own newspaper and was prosecuted three times (and once convicted of libel) for the privilege.
Early on, he’d made lots of money but had been a little too open-handed with the spending of it—once it was in his pocket, it dashed right out again. Lately he’d been the victim of both the Panic and the credit system implemented by that swindler Proler, purveyor of bootblack and bear grease who’d taken Barnum’s money and fleeced him in return.
But the museum . . . the museum, he felt, was his chance to make his mark and his fortune for good. The mermaid was the key to that. She was his stairway to the cream and the velvet and the life he’d always wanted.
Nobody’s fortune would be made if the girl contradicted him at every turn. Still, he supposed he would have to work within the limits of her personality—and there were limits. The girl simply couldn’t be convinced to put on a show in the sense that he wanted—something with flair.
Then there was the staging of the change itself. He was convinced that she must walk onstage, not simply appear already in the tank when the curtain rose. It was necessary for everyone to see what she was before to believe what came after.
But she couldn’t simply shed her clothes onstage as she had on the beach under the moonlight. Every newspaper in the city would come down on him—or rather, Dr. Griffin—for indecency. Women in the audience would probably faint. The whole show would be tainted. No, that wouldn’t work at all.
He sat and wondered and listened to the ghostly whispers of the museum and finally came up with a plan. It was simple and elegant and wouldn’t require much of the girl. It was perfect, and he was certain she’d go along with it.