Archive of Our Own ^beta

Dusk, just before the sun’s fall. The kitchen bathed in the warmth of its golden light. The fire burned at a low hum, embers glowing in the hearth. Jo tried to keep her mind on the task at hand—scoop, scrape, ladle—but every detail of the grated against the last of her nerves, throbbing behind her eyelids. She tried to keep the exhaustion at bay, but she could not. A knot in her stomach made her feel as if she could not sit still. The smell of crushed herbs and butter brought solace, but only so much. The household was alive with preparation for another one of Marmee’s gatherings, warm food for the hungry families and veterans still left shaking from the war.

Marmee and Hannah have been at work all day. Scatterings of local produce lay across the counter: folds of spinach, carrots speckled with dirt, jars of quince jam and honey. They had made dozens and dozens casseroles. Hannah had rushed off somewhere to keep order in the parlor and the living room. For now, in the settling calm of twilight, the kitchen was a warm little cove for only Amy and Jo. Amy hummed a sweet, jovial little tune as she moved gracefully around the kitchen. Jo, for all her inability to hold her moods beneath her skin, was brooding and sullen as she perched momentarily upon the chair behind the kitchen counter. She could hear Beth and Marmee speaking and greeting each passing guest at the front door, the metallic scrape of Amy's ladle scooping the last of the casserole from the pan.

“Oh, this one’s foiled anyways.” Amy winced. Her neat fingers flew over the baking pan. “Jo, come help me with this.” She brought her thumb sharply towards her mouth, sucking a spot of burnt skin. “Jo—”

“You ought to leave such work to a warrior with the gloves.”

“Some warrior you turn out to be.” Amy glanced up, her eyes narrowing. “You look awful pale. Have you eaten?”

“An apple at breakfast.”

“Jo, you’ll make yourself sick.” Amy reached for a serving spoon and scooped out what remained of the casserole in the pan. “Have the rest of this. It’s the leftovers anyhow.”

Jo opened her mouth to protest, but the words shriveled in her mouth as quickly as they formed. A thick dollop of spinach and lobster casserole sat on a plate before her. The cheese on top has dried and crusted over, a rich, golden-brown crispness that tugged at the empty space in her stomach.

“Amy—”

“Eat. I’ll finish up.”

The first mouthful of food was warm, and its flavors so startlingly soothing that she made a surprised sound in her throat. Warm, salted cream melted on her tongue. She bit into a small chunk of lobster, her teeth nibbling at its thin shreds. The milky richness and the tangy, herbal touch of spinach was delicately balanced, just right. Digging a fork into the small mound of spinach and cream in front of her, she told her mind to focus only on the warmth of the next mouthful, and then the next. The cheese tainted a creamy orange from tomato pulp, the ribbons of lobster meat seasoned with parsley and baked to a crisp.

“Mmm.” She swallowed the flaky bite, the fork in one hand. “It’s good. It’s delicious.”

“You oughtn’t underestimate Hannah even when she cooks for the masses.”

“I never do.”

“So what’s the matter?"

Jo took another bite of the casserole, shaking her head.

“You’ve been gnawing at your cuticles and drumming your fingertips all day.”

She swallowed, savoring the buttered richness of spinach in her mouth. “Don’t—”

“It’s Laurie, isn’t it.”

The kitchen fell silent.

“Let me guess,” Amy said. The only source of tension was in her fingers, wrapped—clenched, for a moment—around the pitcher’s handle. “He asked for you to be his.”

Jo raised the final bite of the casserole to her lips. The crust of cheese crunched, gently.

Amy laughed, a soft chuckle of mirth. “God’s teeth. Who knew Laurie could be such a fool.”

“I do not want him,” said Jo at last. The words seemed to stick in her throat. This was the world, the injustice, as she knew it. The boys fought their wars and the girls would be trapped in the kitchen making messes. Jo wished that she was a boy, that there were wars for her to fight. Her palms were not made for this tender work. She had never known how to be gentle. She did not want feel the soft stickiness of someone’s heart in her hands—its weighty shape, its peel gluey and pliable as a chunk of dough. She wanted nothing more than to place it on the counter and run.

“I see,” said Amy. “Yet he gave all of himself to you.”

“He must’ve known. He must’ve known that I couldn’t—that this—is not for me.”

“I’m sure he did,” said Amy, a wry touch in her voice now. “Wild Jo. What’s the difference to him? He’s in love.”

Jo pushed the plate away. The porcelain gave a small, scraping squeak along the oaken surface.

“I wish things were different,” she said. It was getting warm in the kitchen, and she was flustered. She tugged her fingers along the brunt of her collar. “I wish I could tear this scabby thing out of my chest and offer it to him without the rest of my person, if it’d make him feel a little less—humiliated. I haven’t no other use for it anyway.”

“His loss is a greater one than humiliation, Jo,” said Amy. There was a quietness in her voice, now, that cut sharper than anger. “You ought to be kinder even if you don’t understand the brunt of the injury.”

Behind the counter, Jo shrunk a little more down into her chair. “I thought it were only—passing fancy.”

“Laurie wears his insides out, Jo. He couldn’t hide a single passion. You’re only the fool for not having noticed.”

Here it was now: the last of autumn’s leaves in her lap, the streaks of dirt in her skirt. The fork with cold scraps of cheese still clinging to its four tongs. Summer, gone. Her Teddy. The ruin she’d made.

“I do. Feel like a fool.”

“Oh, Jo.”

A few pots clattered, here and there. With her head in her hands Jo registered only a blur of color, the gently hissing stove, the clank of a metal pot. The kitchen felt too bright. Her temples throbbed with each murmur of noise. When she looked up at last, bleary-eyed, she saw the kind face of her youngest sister, whose smile was touched with roguish affection as she held out a weathered-looking bowl. The bowl was full to the brim with hot milk. Amy’s hands cupped around her own: delicate knuckles, small knobs of bone a fortress.

The scalding sting on her tongue was a relief, a momentary distraction. Jo held the milk with both hands and took a sip. The warmth travelled down to her stomach before its aftertaste soured in her throat. She brought a wrist up to her mouth to wipe away at the froth at her lip.

“He loathes me, Amy", she said. "He thinks I’ve failed him.”

“He doesn’t loathe you, Jo. I reckon he loathes himself all the more.”

For loss of speech, Jo held the bowl up once more and drank until the milk was drained. She put the bowl down on the counter with steadier hands, and knew that childhood was almost over.

“Well,” Amy said. “When do you leave for New York?”

“As soon as Marmee fixes my passage and board.”

She did not know why, but she felt as if she could not quiet look her sister in the eye.

Amy turned back towards the unwashed pots and the trays of casserole. The light caught and glimmered in the paler strands of her hair as thick locks swiveled around her shoulders. 

“Fast runner,” she said. Her voice was quiet once more. “Someday there will be matters of the heart you can’t outrun, Jo.”

“Are you angry with me, too?”

“Never.”

Silhouetted against the window, Amy’s face was awash for a moment in the kitchen lamplight. Head tilted to one side, she seemed to reached the conclusion of a contemplation in a cool, brisk manner, the lines of her contour strangely dignified.

“Now go find yourself a breath of air,” said Amy. “I’ll take care of it in here.”

Wild girl. Her fingers, curled into the creases of her sleeves. Her hair let loose from its knot. Jo slipped out of the kitchen and into the parlor’s darkness, breathing in the smell of potpourri and oak as she savored the cool air of the hallway on the warmth of her face, hoping that when she emerged beyond the door of the patio that the breeze would lift away the flush on her skin—shed her shame like a tree relieved of its puckered leaves, leave her unencumbered, made new.