Disarray

By Laura Schiller

Based on Little Women by Louisa May Alcott

"Meg?"

Jo knocked on the door to the Brooke family's master bedroom, to be met with silence. They had just returned from the funeral, at which Margaret Brooke had been the perfect picture of a widow – sad, certainly, but demurely resigned to the will of Providence. Jo had half expected it to be a façade; however, she was very sorry to be proven right this time.

"Meg, it's Jo. May I come in?" She pushed open the dor and peered around the frame.

Meg sat on the floor, in complete disregard of her long black skirt, her brown curls torn out of their bun and falling over her face. She was holding one of John's white shirts, which she had always been so careful to iron and fold neatly; now it was crumpled up and stained with tears. Seeing Jo, she scrambled to her feet, waving the shirt around as her hands fluttered in circles.

"Jo! I – I was just, er, sorting his things … "

"Now, Meg." Jo sat down on the bed and gave her older sister a wry, sympathetic look. "You might have fooled the children today, but I'm your sister and I know you better than that."

Meg shook the shirt out remorsefully, trying to fold it in spite of her unsteady hands.

"It's none of your concern, Jo," she muttered.

"Very well. If you won't say it, then I will." Jo's eyes flashed; while she had become much more steady and even-tempered over the years, at certain times she was as blunt and impulsive as ever.

"You're not at all certain that John has gone to a better place. You're angry about his death; you don't see the sense of it, for if God loved us, how could He be so cruel?"

"Josephine!" Meg snapped, her white face flushing, making her look more alive than she had in days. "My husband was a true Christian, and so am I! How dare you suggest - ?"

"Oh, I dare." Jo's voice was loud and firm, but her face was full of sympathy. "Because I've felt it before, when we lost Beth, and I know you did too."

That one sentence disarmed Meg as nothing else could have done, bringing their first shared grief vividly before her eyes. She remembered it all: the hushed silences; Mr. March's even more complete withdrawal to the library; Marmee's tight-lipped expression as she arranged the funeral; Jo's mood swings making everybody nervous; Daisy and Demi's plaintive, puzzled questions about what had happened to their Auntie Beth. And John – oh, John had been there for her all along. Holding her silently as she wept at night; bringing her little gifts of flowers and sweets to cheer her; never speaking a word of his own sorrow in order to lighten hers.

Meg sat down next to Jo and collapsed, all her pent-up tears spilling over like an avalanche. Her shoulders shook. Her nose ran. The loose strands of her hair became soaked. She made sounds Jo had never heard from her before: harsh sobs that shook them both like leaves in the wind as Meg buried her face in her sister's lap. Jo stroked her hair over and over, her work-roughened hands as gentle as they could be.

She cried for all the luxuries they had denied themselves for each other's sake (that dreadful purple silk, which she'd forgotten years ago, came back to haunt her); for every time she had been impatient, selfish or greedy, and also for every time (few as they were) John had shown her that silent, unforgiving anger which was his greatest flaw. She cried for his implacable work ethic, which had deprived her of his company for so many nights, but had also been the saving of her and the children, for if he had left them in debt, how could she possibly have paid it? But if he hadn't driven himself so hard, would he still be with her now?

She cried for the time her John would never again spend with her; the conversations by the fireplace; the gentle banter; the endless little demonstrations of love. She remembered the time he had nearly ruined her rosebud bonnet by ripping it off her face before they made love; moments like that, when her serene and steady husband surrendered all control, had been rare and precious during their life together. Losing John was not one loss, it seemed to her, but a thousand little losses strung together into one long necklace of pain.

"Death is an ugly business, isn't it, Jo dear?" she said, as soon as she could speak again.

"Indeed." Jo, who after many years of spills and accidents had finally gotten into the habit of carrying handkerchiefs, handed one to Meg.

"Will you be all right, Meg?"

It was not the empty question usually asked of widows, Meg knew, but a sincere wish. She squeezed Jo's hands and looked into her warm gray eyes, blinking away the stray tears which still clouded her vision like a veil.

"Not yet," she said, "But eventually."