Jo’s ambition was to do something very splendid; what it was she had no idea, as yet, but left it for time to tell her.
—Little Women
Amy was still babbling about how dying was easy but living well was the real victory, when Andrea caught my eye.
“Do you have a minute?” she asked.
I suggested we chat outside, since the atmosphere in the café was a little stifling from all the emoting.
“Are you involved in the food side of operations?” Andrea asked as I led the way through the kitchen to avoid being waylaid by stray members of my family or random Beths. Hudson followed, either to help or (as I preferred to believe) because he enjoyed my company.
“Not really.” If we were going by the book, Meg should have been the kitchen wench in the family, but unlike Amy with her art mania, my older sister didn’t feel compelled to dabble in food prep just because her fictional alter ego was a happy homemaker.
“Good. Once they get you in the kitchen, you’re trapped.”
“Not a problem at our house,” Hudson joked. “We mostly use the oven for storage.”
Andrea stopped. “Why are you here?”
I watched a bug crawl across the grass, veering off before it reached my shoe. Other people’s family tension was none of my business, so I should probably keep my mouth shut.
“I was just leaving.” He nodded at me in parting, jaw stiff. Even though I couldn’t imagine dealing with that level of maternal harshness on a regular basis—in public or in private—a small part of me envied Hudson the freedom to blow off work.
“We can sit over there.” I pointed to a wooden picnic table under the canopy of an oak tree, on the far side of the driveway.
“This place reminds me of parts of Eastern Europe,” she said as she settled onto the weathered gray slats of the bench. Today’s outfit was a chambray shirt and cargo pants, like she was on a suburban safari. “It’s like stepping into the past.”
“Yeah.” In more ways than one.
Andrea studied me with eyes that were greener than her son’s, even in the dappled light of late afternoon. “I’m not taking you away from anything?”
It was weird to be asked; my family assumed I was available 24/7. The thought of homework crossed my mind, but if someone like Andrea had time to talk to me, what was I going to say? Nope, sorry, I’m busy filling in this worksheet.
“It’s fine.”
“How do you like working with your mother?”
So much for easing into the tough stuff. “I guess . . . it has its moments?”
“You don’t have to make it pretty, Jo. I’m not in the market for platitudes.”
I nodded like I understood. Andrea was a different kind of adult than I was used to. Less stuffy, but more intimidating.
She shifted to rest both elbows on the table, a movement that apparently signaled a change in tack. “Let’s talk about you.”
“Okay.” Compared to discussing my mom, that sounded simple.
The fingers of her left hand lightly drummed the table. “You’re Jo March.”
I winced, which was apparently enough of a yes for Andrea.
“What does that mean to you?”
Spending half my life pretending to be someone else. Living in a constant state of embarrassment. Not even being allowed to cut my freaking hair. I shoved those thoughts down.
“Livin’ the dream.” I meant it as a nonanswer, too much of a cliché to give anything away, but Andrea pounced.
“Whose dream?”
“Everyone who wants to be Jo March. The superfans.” With a stab of dread, I realized I might be talking to one. “Uh, are you like, you know—”
“One of those little girls who grew up with ink-stained fingers, dreaming of scribbling books of her own? I had a Jo March phase, yes. But I got over it. As soon as you dig into Alcott’s life, the attraction fades. As I suspect you know.”
You interest me, her expression said. Maybe because I wasn’t wearing a costume, or saying someone else’s lines, it felt like she was seeing the real me, not Jo March.
“What you do,” she continued, chipping at the edge of the table with her thumbnail, “it’s not really interrogating the book, is it? I don’t sense a lot of critical distance. The quaint home, your idyllic childhood, everyone pitching in. It’s all fairly on the nose.”
“I wouldn’t say we’re that old-fashioned.” We all used our mother’s maiden name, for one thing. That was pretty different by local standards, though I wasn’t sure it would impress Andrea. I could have told her about Mom’s post-Dad dating history, but it seemed childish to brag about the fact that my Mommy once had a girlfriend.
“Not in the sense of being twee.” Reaching across the table, she touched the back of my wrist. “What interests me is how you reconcile the book’s themes with your life as a modern young woman.”
“You mean do I dream of being a happy housewife?”
“Is that the message of Little Women?”
I had no idea if this was her interview mode or the way everyone talked in big cities. “I think that’s part of it.”
“What about the rage?”
“Um.” That definitely wasn’t the first word people usually brought up when they were talking about Little Women.
“Don’t you feel it simmering under the surface every time Jo gets her wings clipped, or has to give up her dreams to help her family?” She held up her hand, fingers wrapped into a fist. “And yet Alcott can’t let herself go there. There’s no scream of defiance, no attempt to escape. She lets them suffocate her flame.”
My heart stuttered. Who were we really talking about—Louisa May? Jo March? Andrea? Or was this about me? I tried the word rage on for size, shaping it on my tongue.
“It must chafe,” Andrea prompted.
I’d only ever thought of that word in the context of friction rashes on my inner thighs from running. This didn’t sound like a problem Vaseline could solve. “I guess?”
She waited, like I might rise to the occasion. “What about your sisters?”
“For sure. They make me feel extremely ragey.”
Her mouth quirked. “I meant how do they relate to all of this—the source material?”
“Oh. Right. Um.” I hoped my blush wasn’t visible. “Amy can’t get enough. She’ll probably be doing this when she’s sixty. And Meg is barely here even when she’s here. Like you have to hold a mirror to her face to make sure she’s breathing. She won’t make any waves.”
“They don’t long for more?”
The words were like a swing, lifting me up and away from my family. Amazing how Andrea had seen what was going on with me in minutes, when my own mother didn’t have a clue. “Definitely not.”
“How much do you know about Margaret Fuller?”
I shook my head, not wanting to admit I knew diddly about Margaret Whatsit.
“She was a trailblazer. Scholar, journalist, world traveler—an independent woman in an era when that was almost impossible to achieve. A neglected feminist icon.” She studied me, as if to gauge my reaction. “Alcott knew her.”
“Were they . . . friends?” That was probably a stupid thing to ask, but it was too late to come up with a less juvenile question.
“I imagine Louisa admired her. Possibly more. They were all a little in love with her.”
“‘They’?”
“The New England literati. Hawthorne, Emerson, Thoreau. Rumor has it several of them based fictional characters on Margaret Fuller. She was something of a muse—though never just that. Meanwhile Alcott was stuck at home, slaving away to support her family.”
I waited for her to go on, drive home the comparison, but Andrea seemed to expect me to fill in the blanks on my own. What was I supposed to say? You’re right—her life sucked. Or maybe: This Margaret chick sure sounds a lot like you!
“I’ll be honest with you, Jo.” Andrea paused, and I braced myself. It hadn’t seemed like she was holding back before. “I expected more of the transcendentalism to come through.”
Even though I sort of knew what she was talking about—the nature freaks who ran in the same circles as Louisa May Alcott—I felt the same stab of paralyzing doubt that hit every time someone brought up an ism. Communism, socialism, capitalism: each one was like a lake with hidden rocks. You get it on a surface level, but underneath, it’s hella complicated.
“What a wasted opportunity to focus on environmental issues,” she continued. “It’s a bit naïve to pretend we’re still living in a pastoral paradise.”
“Um.” I definitely agreed about the not-a-paradise part but wasn’t sure what else to say. We totally recycle, yo. It wasn’t like Andrea had rolled up in a Tesla, wearing hemp shoes. “I guess we could do more.”
She threaded her fingers together, gazing at me over her linked hands. “What about you? Is Jo Porter an aspiring writer, like her namesake?”
“No way.” Writing was the last career I could ever choose, even if I wanted to do it. It would be like telling my mom, You win! I am a carbon copy of Jo March.
The problem was that I didn’t have an alternative. I want to be cross-country captain was such a high school answer. Andrea wouldn’t care about youth sports. “Um, I’d like to go to college.”
She shrugged this off like it was obvious, barely worth mentioning. “And then?”
“I don’t know.” Was I really supposed to have all the answers when most of my life was a chorus of not this?
Andrea leaned across the table. “Go on. Make your point.”
“I just want room to breathe. So I can figure it out.” It as in everything.
“You know I grew up in a small town?”
I shook my head.
“Couldn’t wait to get out.” Her lips curved at the memory, though it wasn’t a happy smile. “Filled my first passport before I was twenty-three.”
“That’s incredible.” Six years from now, what would I have accomplished? Somehow I doubted the list would include traveling around the world.
“It was what I wanted, so I made it happen.” She tucked her barely there hair behind her ears. No long, horsey ponytail to get in the way of Andrea’s globe-trotting adventures. “I suspect it’s the same for you. Everyone wants you to play the role they’ve written, instead of choosing your own path.”
My mouth opened, but something held me back. It was one thing to make pissy comments, but straight-up admitting I hate it here? I wasn’t sure I could come back from that.
“She didn’t want to write it, you know.” Andrea’s expression softened, as if she sensed my struggle. “It was her publisher’s idea—an inspirational story for young girls. Do you know what Alcott called Little Women?”
“Wasn’t it the four girls’ names?”
“No. Her working title was The Pathetic Family.”
“Oh.” Mom had never mentioned that fun fact.
Andrea watched the branches of a redbud tree sway. “In my experience, Jo, the world is as big—or as small—as you make it.”