Classics Mutilated (5 page)

Little Women in Black

By Louisa May Alcott and Rick Hautala

Christmas won't be Christmas without any presents," grumbled Jo, sitting on the rug before the fire. She had a ball of yarn in her lap and, like her sisters, was busily knitting socks to send to the soldiers. Her hands moved somewhat clumsily because of the linen gloves she wore to cover up the scars, scabs, and open wounds on her hands. Even now, a few of them were bleeding through the thin fabric, making random blossoms of bright scarlet.

"It's so dreadful to be poor," sighed Meg, looking down with frustration at her old dress. 

"It's not fair for some girls to have pretty things, and other girls nothing at all," added little Amy, with an injured sniff. 

"We've still got Father and Mother … and each other," whispered Beth from her dark corner by the fireplace.

The three young faces on which the firelight shone brightened at the cheerful words so faint they could have been a thought in each one's mind, but their expressions darkened again when Meg said sadly, "But we
haven't
got Father … and the other dear one we lost and miss so much."

"We haven't lost Father," remarked Jo. "He's just away at the war."

"But we shan't have him for a very long time," added Amy, staring at the fire wistfully.

She didn't have to add the phrase "perhaps never," but each girl silently did as they paused to think of Father, far away down South. He was serving as a chaplain in Mr. Lincoln's Army, so he wouldn't see battle directly, but there were many other dangers of war he must face daily. How, each of them wondered, would all of that have changed him when he returned? How could it not help but change him from the kind, loving father they all knew and loved so much? 

Nobody spoke for several minutes, the only sound the rhythmic clicking of knitting needles. Then Meg said, "You know the reason Mother proposed us not having any Christmas presents this year is because it is going to be a dreadfully hard winter for everyone, not just our troops. She thinks we ought not to spend any money for trinkets or silly pleasures when our soldiers are suffering so." 

"We can't do much," added Jo, "but we can make little sacrifices and ought to do so gladly, I suppose." She paused, and then added sullenly, "But I'm afraid I don't do it gladly. I miss Father so." 

Meg shook her head as she thought regretfully of all the pretty things she wanted and might never have. 

"I don't think the little we would spend would do any good for the soldiers," said Amy. "We've each got a dollar, and the army wouldn't be much helped by our giving that away." 

"I agree not to expect anything from Mother or you this season, but I so much want to buy Mr. Hawthorne's newest novel," Jo said. 

"I had hoped to spend mine on some new sheet music," said Beth with a low, wistful sigh that no one heard but the hearth brush and kettle holder. Her pale face floated in the darkness like the moon, obscured by clouds, wavering and dimming. Meg cast a glance in Beth's direction and shivered as though she had caught a draft. 

"Well, I shall get a nice new box of Faber's drawing pencils," declared Amy. "I really do need them." 

"Mother didn't say anything about
our
money," cried Jo, "and she won't wish us to give up everything. Let us each buy what we want for ourselves and have a little fun. I'm sure we work hard enough to earn it." 

"I know I certainly do, teaching those tiresome children all day when I'm longing to enjoy myself at home," said Meg. 

"You don't have half such a hard time as I do," said Jo. "How would you like to be cooped up for hours on end with a fussy old lady like Aunt March, who keeps me trotting back and forth, is never satisfied, and worries me till I'm ready to fly out the window or break down and cry?" 

"Don't fret," said Beth with a deep sigh that, when it ended, filled the room with a hush. 

"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?"