by John Shirley
“I don’t believe any of you suffer as I do,” cried Amy, “for you don’t have to go to school with impertinent girls who plague you if you don’t know your lessons, and laugh at your simple dresses, and label your father as nothing but a poor minister.”
“If you mean libel,” said Jo, laughing, “I'd say so and not talk about labels as if Father were a pickle bottle.”
“I say what I mean, and I mean what I say, and you needn’t be satirical about it,” said Amy, pouting with hurt dignity.
“Using that fine logic,” said Meg, “you may as well say, ‘I see what I eat, so I eat what I see.’ ”
“It’s proper to use good words and improve your vocabulary,” Amy replied with a huff.
“Don’t peck at one another, children,” said Meg, sounding more like Mother—their "Marmee"—than herself. “Don’t you wish we had the money Father had when we were little, Jo? Dear me! How happy we were then, and how good we'd be now if we had no worries!”
“You said the other day that you thought we were a great deal happier than the Patterson children,” Jo said, “for they are forever fighting and fretting in spite of their wealth.”
“So I did.” Beth said, shifting her gaze to the fire, sure she caught a gauzy flutter of motion in the darkest corner. “Well, I think we are happier, and all it will take to complete our happiness is for Father to return to us safely from the war. For though we do have to work, we are a jolly lot, all in all, as Jo would say.”
“Jo does use such slang words,” observed Amy, with a reproving look at the long figure now stretched on the rug. “At least I try to use a vocabulary.”
Jo immediately sat up and, self-conscious of the scarlet splotches on her gloves, put her hands behind her back and began to whistle.
“Don’t whistle like that, Jo. It’s so … boy-ish,” advised Meg. “It irritates me so.,”
“That’s why I do it.”
“Well I, for one, detest rude, unladylike girls,” said Amy.
“And I hate affected, niminy-piminy little chits!” Jo responded, her hands shifting from behind her back and clenching into knotted fists.
“Birds in their little nests should all agree,” said Hannah, their faithful servant, from the kitchen. Although Hannah had been with the family since even Meg could remember, her austere presence impelled both sharp voices to soften to gentle laughs.
“Really, girls, you are both to be blamed,” said Meg, lecturing in her elder-sisterly fashion. “You are old enough to leave off boyish tricks and playing with your pet rat. You should have learned by now how to behave better, Josephine.”
“I don’t like being called Josephine!”
“That’s why I call you that,” Meg replied. “Such manners didn’t matter so much when you were a little girl, but now you are grown. You should remember that you are a young lady.”
“I am not! I’ll wear my hair in pigtails until I’m twenty,” cried Jo, pulling off her hair net and shaking down a lengthy chestnut mane. “I hate to think I’ve got to grow up and be ‘Miss March,' and wear gowns and always look prim and proper. If I must be a girl, I wish I had never been born.”
“Hush … to say such things,” whispered Beth from the darkness, her eyes wide and empty.
Frustrated, Jo picked up her yarn and needles, and shook the blue army sock till the needles rattled like castanets. Then she flung the lot of them to the other side of the room, her ball of yarn bouncing as it unspooled across the floor.
“Poor Jo,” sighed Beth, shifting forward. Her body was translucent against the firelight as she reached out and tried to stroke Jo’s head with a hand that even death could not make ungentle. “It’s too bad, but it can’t be helped. So you must try to be content with making your name sound boyish and playing brother to your sisters.”
“As for you, Amy,” continued Meg, “you are altogether too particular and prim. Such airs are funny when you’re young, but you’ll grow up soon enough to be an affected little goose if you’re not careful. And your absurd use of words is as bad as Jo’s boyish slang.”
“If Jo is a tomboy and Amy a goose, then what am I?” asked Beth, ready to share the discussion. But not one of the sisters heard her or, if they did, not one of them bothered or had the heart to respond. After a lengthy silence, Beth whispered ever so softly, “Can anybody hear me?”
The clock struck six, and after helping Hannah sweep the hearth, Amy placed a pair of slippers on the fender to warm up for Marmee. Somehow the sight of the old shoes had a good effect upon the girls, for they knew that Marmee would be home soon, and everyone brightened to welcome her. Meg stopped lecturing and lighted the lamps while Amy got out of the easy chair without being asked. After recovering and rewinding her ball of blue yarn, Jo forgot how tired she was and held the slippers nearer to the blaze to warm them all the quicker.
“These slippers are quite worn out,” said Jo wistfully. “Marmee must have new ones for Christmas.”
“I thought I'd get her a pair with my dollar,” said Amy.
“I’m the oldest,” began Meg, but Jo cut her off with a decided, “Well, I’m the man of the family while Father is away, and perhaps I shall buy the slippers. Father told me to take special care of Mother while he was gone.”
“I’ll tell you what we'll do,” said Meg. “Let’s each of us get her something for Christmas, and not get anything for ourselves.”
“That’s so like you, dear!” exclaimed Jo. “What shall we get?”
Everyone thought soberly for a minute until Jo announced, as if the idea was suggested by the sight of her own glove-covered hands, “I shall buy her a nice new pair of kid gloves.”
“How nice,” said Meg, “when you are in such need to replace your own, which are so dreadfully stained.”
Jo immediately hid her gloved hands behind her back.
“She wants nothing more than to see Father,” whispered Beth from the darkness, although by their reactions, one would guess that none of her sisters heard her.
“Glad to find you so merry, my darling girls,” said a cheery voice at the door, and the girls all turned to welcome their Marmee. Hannah watched this exchange from the kitchen, silent and as inscrutable as always. Marmee was not elegantly dressed, but she was a noble-looking woman nonetheless, and the girls thought the gray cloak and unfashionable bonnet covered the most splendid mother in the whole world.
“Well, my dears,” Marmee said. “How have you got along today? There was so much to do, getting the boxes ready to ship out tomorrow, that I didn’t come home to dinner. Has anyone come by? How is your cold, Meg? And you, Jo—you look tired to death. Come and kiss me, kiss me, my babies.”
While making these maternal inquiries, Mrs. March got her wet things off, her warm slippers on, and sat down in the easy chair. Amy climbed into her lap, preparing to enjoy the happiest hour of her busy day while the other girls flew about, trying to make things comfortable for Marmee, each in her own way. Meg arranged the tea table, and Jo fetched more firewood from outside. Amy gave directions, as though her two sisters were her hired servants. And Beth reached out longingly to caress her loving mother’s face, but her hands passed like smoke through Marmee.
As they gathered about the table and Hannah served them, Mrs. March said, with a particularly happy face, “I’ve got a treat for all of you.”
A quick, bright smile went round like a streak of sunshine. Jo tossed up her napkin and cried, “A letter from Father! Three cheers!”
“Yes,” said Marmee, “it’s a nice long letter.”
“How is he faring?” asked Meg, her brow creased with dark worry.
Marmee smiled and said, “He fares well, children, and thinks he shall get through the cold season better than we feared. He sends his loving wishes for Christmas, and an especial message to you girls.”
“I think it is so splendid of Father to serve as chaplain even though he was too old to be drafted, and not strong enough to be a soldier,” said Meg warmly.
“Don’t I wish I could go as a soldier,” exclaimed Jo. “Or perhaps a nurse, if I must, just so I could be near Father and help him.”
“It must be very disagreeable, to sleep in a tent and eat all sorts of foul-tasting things and drink out of a tin mug,” sighed Amy.
“When will he come home, Marmee?” asked Beth, with a little quiver in her voice.
Mrs. March paused, her expression falling. The room fairly pulsed with expectation until she said, quite seriously, “Father has been ill.” Small gasps of shock and concern filled the room. “Once he recovered, he wanted to stay and continue his work as long as the war lasts, but he has been discharged and is on his way home.”
Squeals of delight now filled the parlor. Meg clapped her hands daintily while Jo clenched her gloved fist and thundered forth several hearty "Huzzahs!" while Amy fanned her face as though she were about to faint.
From her corner by the fireplace, Beth whispered something, but nobody heard her voice, drowned as it was in the cacophony of excitement at the news.
“Oh, joy!” Meg cried. “Shall we really see him soon?”
“I expect him before Christmas morning,” Marmee replied as she eased herself back into her chair and, closing her eyes, soon fell asleep in the warmth of the fire and her loving family.
"Jo! Jo! Where are you?” cried Meg at the foot of the garret stairs.
“Up here!” Jo answered from above. This was followed by the sound of running feet on the narrow stairs. Jo was wrapped in a comforter on an old sofa by the window, eating an apple and reading a novel, The Heir of Radclyffe. Outside, the sky was overcast and threatening more snow before Christmas, which was now three days away.
The garret was Jo’s favorite refuge, especially on glowering days. She loved to retire here with an apron full of apples or a piece of cheese, when the family could afford it, and a nice book, to enjoy the quiet and the society of her pet rat, Scrabble, who lived inside the attic walls. Only for Scrabble would Jo remove the linen gloves from her hands and allow him to nip her flesh with tiny, stinging bites and then lap up the trickles of blood that flowed.
When Meg appeared, breathless, in the doorway, Jo lowered her book, irritated by the interruption. Scrabble whisked back into his rat hole, his small, beady eyes glaring at Meg from the safety of the den.
Jo waited to hear the news.
“Such fun! Only see! A regular note of invitation from Mrs. Gardiner for tomorrow night!” cried Meg, waving a thin piece of parchment, and then proceeding to read from it with girlish delight. “ ‘Mrs. Gardiner would be happy to see Miss March and Miss Josephine at a little soirée tomorrow evening.' A soirée, Jo! Just imagine! Marmee has already agreed we can go. Now, what shall we wear?”
“What’s the use of asking when you know we shall wear our poplins because we haven’t got anything else?” answered Jo with her mouth full of apple. A fresh spot of blood ran from the back of her left hand to her wrist.
“If I only had a silk dress,” sighed Meg.
“I’m sure our poplins look like silk, and they are nice enough. Yours is as good as new, but—Oh, dear! I just remembered the burn and the tear in mine. Whatever shall I do? The burn shows badly, and I can’t let any more fabric out.”
“Then you must sit still all evening and keep your back to the wall. The front is all right. I shall have a new ribbon for my hair, and I’m sure Marmee will lend me her little pearl pin. My new slippers are lovely, and my gloves will have to do.”
“Mine are spoiled with—” but here Jo stopped and put her hands behind her back so Meg would not see the fresh wounds. “I can’t afford to buy any new ones, but I dare not go without.”
“You can’t ask Mother for new gloves,” Meg said, frowning. “They are so expensive, and you are so careless. You have spoiled your new ones already, and she said she shouldn’t get you any more this winter. Can you make do with what you have?”
“I can hold my hands behind my back so no one will know how stained my gloves are,” Jo said. “That’s the best I can do.” She glanced at the fine white lines of scars and fresh scabs on her hands. The fresh cut tingled and was still oozing blood.
“Then I’ll go without. I don’t care what people say or think!” cried Jo, taking up her book again. “Now go and answer the note, and let me finish this splendid story.”
So Meg went away to "accept with thanks,” look over her dress, and sing blithely as she did up her one real lace frill while Jo finished her novel, her apple, and allowed Scrabble one final sip of fresh blood.
“Now is my sash right, Jo? And does my hair look nice?” asked Meg, as she turned from the mirror in Mrs. Gardiner’s dressing room after a prolonged prink.
“I know I shall forget to behave myself,” Jo replied. “If you see me doing anything wrong, just remind me by a wink, will you?” returned Jo, giving her collar a twitch and her head a hasty brush.
“Winking isn’t ladylike. I’ll lift my eyebrows if anything is wrong, and nod if you are all right. Now hold your shoulders straight, and take short steps, and don’t shake hands if you are introduced to anyone.” She needn’t add that anyone Jo might shake hands with would notice the spots of blood on her gloves but was too polite to mention them.
“How do you learn all the proper ways? I never can.”
Downstairs they went, feeling a trifle timid, for they seldom went to parties, and informal as this little gathering was, it was an event to them. Mrs. Gardiner, a stately old lady, greeted them kindly and handed them over to Sallie, the eldest of six daughters. Meg knew Sallie and was at her ease very soon, but Jo, who didn’t care much for girls or silly gossip, stood about with her hands behind her back and her back carefully against the wall. She felt about as much out of place as a colt in a flower garden. Half a dozen lads were talking about skates in another part of the room, and she longed to join them, for skating was one of the joys of her life. She telegraphed her wish to Meg, but her sister’s eyebrows shot up so alarmingly that she dared not stir. No one came to talk to her, and one by one, the group dwindled away until she was left quite alone.
She could not roam about and amuse herself, for the burned breadth of cloth and the stains on her gloves would show, so she stared at people rather forlornly until the dancing began. Meg was asked to dance at once, and she tripped about so briskly that none would have guessed the pain her shoes were causing her. A big red-headed youth approached Jo’s corner and, fearing he meant to engage her in conversation, she slipped into a curtained recess, intending to peep out like Scrabble and enjoy herself in peace.
Unfortunately, another bashful person had chosen that same refuge. As the curtain fell behind her, she found herself face to face with the "Laurence boy.”
“I didn’t know anyone else was here,” stammered Jo, preparing to back out as speedily as she had bounced in.
“Don’t mind me,” the boy said pleasantly enough, though he looked as startled as a rabbit. In the dim light of the alcove, his eyes held a curious golden glow, as if filled with flecks of metal, and his skin was unusually pale, even for mid-winter. “Stay if you like.”
“Shan’t I disturb you?”
“Not a bit.” His teeth were wide and flat, and they glistened wetly when he smiled. Jo sensed an uncanniness about him that was both off-putting and attractive. “I don’t know many people here and felt rather strange at first.”
“So did I,” replied Jo. “Don’t go away, please, unless you’d rather.”
The boy sat down again and looked at his shoes until Jo said, trying to be polite and easy, “I believe I’ve had the pleasure of seeing you before. You live next door to us, don’t you?”
“I do,” he replied as he looked at her and laughed outright, for Jo’s prim manner struck him as rather funny.
That put Jo at her ease, and she laughed, too, as she said, in her heartiest way, “You arrived in town not long ago.”
“Three weeks, to be exact,” said the boy. “But I have already learned some thing
s. For instance, I know you have a pet rat. Tell me, Miss March—how is he?” The boy’s pale eyes shone with a peculiar intensity as if he were attempting to probe her thoughts.
“My—How do you know about my rat?” she asked, quickly shifting her blood-stained gloved hands behind her back.
The Laurence boy deigned not to reply to that, but after the awkward silence that followed, Jo continued, “He’s getting along quite nicely, thank you, Mr. Laurence. But I am not Miss March. I’m only Jo.”
“And I am not Mr. Laurence. I’m only Laurie.”
“Laurie … Laurie Laurence. Such an odd name.”
His eyes took on an amber tone which was impossible for Jo to read. Had she inadvertently insulted him?
“My first name is Theodore, but I don’t like it, so I ask everyone to call me Laurie instead.”
“I hate my name, too. It’s so sentimental. I wish every one would say Jo instead of Josephine.”
“I suspect if they don’t, you could soundly thrash them,” he said, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. Jo was suddenly sure that, although Laurie’s shoulders were thin and slightly stooped, he had a look about him that communicated he could handily take care of himself.
“I can’t thrash Aunt March, so I suppose I shall have to bear it when she calls me Josephine,” said Jo with a resigned sigh.
“Do you like to dance, Jo?” asked Laurie, looking as if he thought the name suited her quite aptly.
“I like it well enough if there is plenty of room, and everyone is lively. In a place this small, I’m sure to upset something or tread on people’s feet or do something positively dreadful, so I keep to myself and let Meg sail about. Do you dance?”
“Never. I recently arrived here and haven’t been in people’s company enough yet to know how you do things.”
“Where have you been, then?” inquired Jo.
After some hesitation, Laurie said, “Abroad,” but this seemed to be laden with more meaning than he was letting on.
“Abroad!” cried Jo. “Oh, do tell me about it! I love to hear people describe their travels abroad.”