Little Women and Me

by Lauren Baratz-Logsted

  I couldn’t believe it—my story chosen as the best! It was the most excited I’d felt about anything in a long time. One hundred dollars? Around here, I could probably buy my own house for that kind of money!

  “Here,” Amy said as the others gathered around, “let me see that story.”

  She read, moving her lips, as the others read over her shoulder, not moving theirs at all.

  “But this is that story that appeared in The Eagle years ago!” Amy all but shrieked again. “You were Evelina Massachusetts?”

  I nodded modestly.

  “You never should have done this,” Amy said, thrusting the sheets back at me.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Writing about time travel, giving people all sorts of crazy ideas—it’s dangerous.”

  What an odd thing to say. “What are you talking about?” I demanded.

  “Never mind that now,” Jo said, her face solemn as she took a step toward me. “Congratulations, Emily,” she said, thrusting her hand out. “I didn’t even know that you could write, but apparently the best woman won. And that’s as it should be.” Her expression turned to sad puzzlement then. “Funny, though. I was almost certain I would win.”

  That’s because you were supposed to, I was tempted to say, remembering how it went down in the book.

  I took Jo’s hand then and gave it a firm shake, but all the excitement at winning had gone out of my body. Somehow I’d altered the story of Little Women just enough to steal victory from her.

  I should never have won that stupid contest. Jo should have.

  Once the moment had passed and everyone had congratulated me, people wanted to know what I would do with my winnings.

  Everyone had ideas.

  Me, I wasn’t so sure. There were so many possibilities!

  “New things for my wardrobe so that I can be more fashionable like Amy?” I mused aloud, completely forgetting my earlier conclusion that Jo’s attitude was the superior one, that surfaces didn’t matter. Then I grew really excited. “I could buy a lot of new books!”

  “New books would be wonderful,” Jo said, but for once she didn’t sound enthusiastic, even though books were usually her favorite material thing in the world.

  “Well, what would you’ve done with the money if you’d won?” I asked.

  She didn’t even have to think about it, which told me she’d already thought this out in advance. “I’d give the money to Beth and Marmee so that they could go to the seaside for a month or two. It would do them both a world of good.”

  Beth and Marmee immediately made noises about how they couldn’t possibly accept such a thing, even though Jo had no financial power to offer it, but I saw Jo was right. I may have interfered with who won the contest, but the same good stuff could still come from the winnings.

  “Yes,” I said. “That’s exactly the thing to do with the money.”

  “I’m giving up writing,” Jo announced as Beth and Marmee packed the next day. Back home, going on vacation took some real planning, but here, apparently, you could decide you were going away and—poof!—you were gone.

  Too bad it didn’t work that way for time travel.

  “What do you mean, give up writing?” I said in a more scornful voice than I’d intended. “You can’t give up writing. You’re Jo March. It’s who you are! It’s what you do!”

  “It’s who I was and what I did,” Jo said. “But not anymore. Why, if I can’t even win a simple contest against you…”

  Any other time, I would have been offended. But not then. She was serious. And I couldn’t let her give up writing. Jo and her writing—it was one of the best things about the story.

  “It wasn’t a simple contest, Jo,” I said. “It was a stupid contest.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “It was a stupid contest,” I said again. “Why do you think I was able to beat you? I only did because it was a stupid contest, challenging writers to come up with the most outlandish thing they could come up with. And let’s face it, I’m pretty outlandish!”

  “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying that you’re better than that contest, Jo. Someday you’ll write something far superior to your story about romance, despair, an earthquake, and Lisbon—you’ll even write something superior to my story—but only if you don’t quit.”

  When Beth and Marmee returned from the seaside, Beth didn’t look as perfectly healthy as we’d hoped for, but she did look better. As for Marmee, everyone agreed she looked at least ten years younger.

  As everyone else continued to greet and exclaim over them, I turned to Jo.

  “Beth looks good,” I said, “better than she has in a long time.”

  “She does,” Jo agreed.

  “This is all your doing.”

  “My doing? But you won. It was your money.”

  “Maybe. But it was your idea.”

  First encouraging her to keep writing and now this, giving her credit for a good idea—Jo looked at me as though seeing me for the first time. Well, maybe she was.

  Jo didn’t stop writing.

  In fact, she’d gone back to her manuscript right after Beth and Marmee left for the seaside. She’d copied it out four times until she had it the way she wanted it—oh, what these Victorian writers had to go through for their art!—and then she’d submitted it to three publishers. And now that Beth and Marmee were back? Jo had gotten a positive response from one publisher, saying that yes, they would publish her book, but only if she trimmed it by a third and cut all her favorite parts.

  The house was divided on what Jo should do, with opinions varying from Beth’s, that not a single word should be changed, to Amy’s practical advice to cut it up and sell it, further saying that when Jo made her fame and fortune, then she could “afford to digress, and have philosophical and metaphysical people in your novels.”

  It was easy enough for any of us to imagine Amy using the word philosophical because it was a word Papa used with some regularity. But metaphysical? Jo shrugged it off, even joking that Amy must have meant to say mysterious or some other word but had stumbled over metaphysical first. But I wasn’t so sure. I knew that metaphysical meant something to do with a reality beyond what is perceptible to the senses—or, to put it shortly, the supernatural.

  What was Amy doing with such a word in her vocabulary?

  “That’s what I’ll do!” Jo announced, cutting off my train of thought. “I’ll hack my book to shreds and then I’ll sell it!”

  Which is exactly what she did.

  She cut the book. Then she sold it to one Mr. Allen for the sum of three hundred dollars and he published it to equal parts praise and scorn from the general public.

  Jo was on her way to where she was always meant to be.

  Twenty-Eight

  “Where’s everyone going?” I shouted.

  First Jo had raced by me, followed by Amy, Marmee, Papa, Hannah, and finally Beth.

  Beth turned, already half out of breath, and stopped long enough to answer.

  “Didn’t you hear Lotty?” She paused to breathe again and then gasped out with, “Meg’s had her baby!”

  “Her baby? When was Meg even pregnant?”

  “Silly Emily. Always playing fun games with me. Everyone knew Meg was pregnant.” She laughed. “Where have you been the last nine months?”

  Here we go again …

  Yes, theoretically, I knew at least a few more months had passed since Meg got married, what with the contest, Beth and Marmee going away to the seaside, and Jo selling and publishing a book and all. But nine of them?

  And it had to be at least nine, since Meg and John would never have done anything, er, baby-producing before they got married.

  But how had this happened to me again? First I’d lost three years between their engagement and wedding, and now I’d gone and basically lost another nine months?

  I shook my fist at the ceiling.

  Darn you, book!

  “Emily, w
hy did you just do that?” Beth wondered.

  “Hmm …?”

  “Shake your hand at the ceiling like that.”

  “Oh. Sorry.” Suddenly I had to know how much time I’d lost. “How old am I, Beth?”

  “Silly Emily.” She laughed what had become my favorite laugh in the world; she was so sweet. “Once again you pay me the favor of asking me a question to which I know the answer. You are eighteen. You have been eighteen since the day before Meg and John’s wedding, it is now ten months later, so you will be nineteen in a few more months.”

  Nineteen in a few more months? At this rate, I’d be old and dead in another few chapters!

  “Excuse me,” Beth said, visibly struggling to control her impatience, “but do you think we might join the others at Dovecote now? You know, to see the babies?”

  “Babies? But you said ‘baby’ before. I would swear on my life that you did.”

  Babies? Had another nine months or more already passed just in the time I’d been speaking with Beth, and Meg had already had a second child?

  Oh dear. If that was the case I was going to need some smelling salts and a fainting couch over here.

  Beth laughed again. “I’m sorry if I confused you. Meg had twins. But I was so surprised at that news myself, I keep saying ‘baby’ when I mean to say ‘babies.’ “

  Thank God for that, I thought, feeling some small relief as I rose to join her on the walk to Dovecote. At least I wasn’t totally losing my mind. Or sense of time.

  “Meg had a boy and a girl,” Beth chattered happily as we strolled together. “Lotty said they are to be called John and Margaret, after their parents, which I do think might get awfully confusing.”

  There were three words I hadn’t spoken aloud together in years, not since before I came to this strange new world. In fact, the last time I said them, it had probably been to my parents back home, but I felt moved for some reason to say them now.

  “I love you, Beth,” I said impulsively.

  Beth stopped in her tracks, turned to look at me in surprise.

  “Why, what a lovely thing to say, Emily! I’m sure it’s something we all feel for one another and yet, oddly, we never speak the words out loud.” She paused before adding shyly, “And I love you, too.”

  It felt good to hear that. I hadn’t realized until that moment how much I’d missed hearing someone, anyone, say those words to me.

  Upon arriving at Dovecote and meeting the new additions to the family, I learned that baby Margaret was to be nicknamed Daisy, while baby John, at Laurie’s suggestion, was to be named Demijohn. Or Demi for short.

  Demijohn?

  Were these people for real?

  Twenty-Nine

  Jo, Amy, and I were at Aunt March’s visiting with Aunt March and Aunt Carrol.

  Aunt Carrol.

  It reminded me of that Miss Crocker woman, the one who was supposed to be such a close family friend when she appeared for dinner the night Pip died, only to turn up again much later to have Jo escort her to that People’s Course on the Pyramids. Similarly, I’d never heard of Aunt Carrol until she showed up at Meg’s wedding, and now here she was again at Aunt March’s.

  If I didn’t know any better I’d swear these barely seen women were some sort of literary contrivance.

  And how had we gotten here—Jo, Amy, and me—visiting Aunt March and Aunt Carrol?

  It had started a few hours earlier …

  “But, Jo, you promised!” Amy all but whined. “You said that if I did that picture of Beth for you, you’d go on six calls with me today!”

  Okay, she actually did whine.

  “I’m sure I said nothing of the sort,” Jo said. “I hate going on calls.”

  Calls, apparently, were visits paid to friends in the neighborhood. Certainly it had nothing to do with having a telephone.

  I missed having my own phone.

  Gee, I wondered if I’d still be stuck here in 1876 when Alexander Graham Bell invented his.

  “You did so promise,” Amy said.

  Apparently calls were something people regularly did in the 1800s and yet this was the first I heard of anyone in our family going on a round of them since being here.

  “You promised, you promised, you promised,” Amy insisted.

  “Fine,” Jo said irritably. “I’ll go with you on your stupid calls …” She paused dramatically before adding, “But only if Emily goes with us.”

  “Emily?” Amy was clearly both shocked and displeased at this.

  Emily? Me, I was just shocked.

  “Yes,” Jo said coolly. “If Emily comes along, I might find the idea of paying calls on people I couldn’t care a fig about just barely bearable.”

  Since when had I become Jo’s go-to person for companionship?

  Wow, when I talked her back into being a writer again, it must have made quite an impression.

  “It’s important we make a good impression on people,” said Amy, adjusting her gloves so that the bows were in the exact same position on each hand as she strolled along. “You never know who might be someone who can do you a favor later.”

  “Oh, absolutely,” Jo and I said simultaneously, breaking into simultaneous giggles as we trailed along behind Amy.

  “It’s bad enough she made us change into better clothes,” Jo whispered to me, although Jo’s voice was always so loud regularly, her idea of whispering could probably be overheard by the object of our discussion.

  “I know, right?” I agreed. “And now she expects us to behave properly on top of that?”

  We broke into peals of laughter.

  “What is so funny?” Amy spoke sternly, wheeling on us.

  “Emily said something uproarious,” Jo said, punching me in the shoulder in a friendly way as she tried to stop laughing.

  “I only did that because Jo did it first,” I said, giving Jo a friendly shoulder jab right back.

  “Yes, I can see something is funny,” Amy said in exasperation, “but what exactly?” Before either of us could answer, she shook her head.

  “Never mind that now. We are at our first stop, the Chesters’. And do please refrain from punching each other when we are inside. It is so unladylike.”

  Amy may have made a good impression at our first stop, what with her ability to make lame small talk, but Jo and I didn’t. The need to behave had been so ingrained in us by Amy that we remained stiff the whole time. I’m sure the Chesters thought we were totally boring.

  The second stop, the Lambs’, was even worse, but in reverse. We were too chatty there, with Jo telling embarrassing stories about Amy as a young girl, and me adding embellishments, leaving the Lambs to conclude we were “great fun,” while Amy just glared at us.

  At the third stop—I didn’t catch the people’s name, which made it very difficult to speak politely to them—Jo had yet more fun, and I had fun with her, talking to a bunch of guys our age. With the exception of that time Laurie had taken us picnicking with his English friends, had I spoken with any guys close to my own age? Funny, I couldn’t remember. While we talked to the group of guys, Amy focused her attention on just one: a Mr. Tudor, whose uncle had married an English lady who was third cousin to a real live lord. I couldn’t see anything great about him, but Amy, being in love with the idea of royalty however far removed, did. Well, Amy would.

  At the fourth stop, the Kings’, no one was home so we left a card.

  At the fifth stop, the young ladies of the house were home but otherwise engaged—too busy to see us? But we were so cool! So again we left more cards.

  Finally, we arrived at the last stop, Aunt March’s.

  Which was how we had arrived at Aunt March’s to visit with her and Aunt Carrol.

  Aunt Carrol: who was this mysterious new relative, really?

  She looked like a troublemaker to me.

  Jo hadn’t even wanted to go inside, claiming she’d rather risk her life for someone else than be pleasant to people when she didn’t feel like it. Remembering
the rude parrot, Polly, I’d agreed, but Amy shot us down.

  And now we were here.

  Jo and I, restless with all these visits, kept popping up from our seats to look at books in the bookcases or pace the room like caged animals. While we did that, Amy sat on the sofa with her back ramrod straight, close to this Aunt Carrol person.

  Suck-up came the uncharitable thought.

  Even though I was enjoying looking at books and stretching my legs with Jo, far more than I would have sitting with Amy and the aunts, after a while I began to develop a strange sensation of something going on beneath the surface. I turned just in time to see Aunt March and Aunt Carrol exchange a series of meaningful glances: first at Jo, then to each other, to Amy, and to each other again.

  What was going on here?

  It was immediately obvious that whatever the aunts were trying to figure out, Jo was suffering from the comparison. Well, of course they would prefer Amy, with her perfect clothes and her suck-up manners.

  Blech.

  “Do you speak French?” Aunt Carrol asked Amy, out of the blue.

  “Oh yes,” Amy replied enthusiastically. “I speak it quite well. Ever since the time I stayed here when Beth was ill, and during my subsequent visits since Aunt March arranged for art lessons for me, I have been able to practice with Esther, her maid. Esther is French, you know.”

  “And how about you, Josephine?” Aunt Carrol turned her attention to my restlessly strolling sister. “How are you getting on with languages?”

  A chill went up my spine at her words. I don’t know what came over me then. I only knew I had to stop Jo from answering. The aunts were testing Jo and Amy, and I suddenly knew that whatever impulsive, brash thing Jo said next would cause her to flunk that test.

  “Isn’t it lovely out this time of year?” I began chattering just as Jo opened her mouth to speak. “I love everything about”—what month and season was this? my mind screamed—“whatever month this is. Why, whenever I hear the birds or see the”—what kind of flowers would be out now?—“general flowers blooming, I am always reminded of”—gosh, what could they remind me of? I spied a book on the shelves—“the part in Shakespeare where—”