Jo and Laurie: A Re-telling of the Re-telling

The Oak Tree

Jo watched her book stacked behind its duplicates, the window presentation was clean. She watched the gold-flecked title Little Women shine as the sunlight beamed off of it. Jo had completed her one life goal: to write a book and to become a published authoress. She looked down at her left hand and thought about her made-up Professor Bhaer; how it would be nice to have a companion. Jo wished her writing was enough to satisfy her, but as she wrote in her book. She wished to be loved. She wanted to be wanted.

Jo's eyes started to dribble and she quickly thought of Laurie.

Where was he now?

In her book, she had written that he had married Amy, hah! As if Laurie would ever marry her little sister. Jo chuckled at the thought, then realized how much she had missed her old friend. It had been half a year since she had talked with him last, he stopped responding to her letters. Jo sat realizing that in a way her book's reality of Laurie was somewhat true. Although Laurie wasn't truly married to her sister, he was gone. He wasn't her dearest old boy anymore, she missed him. She picked up her skirt and walked home.

Marmee was sitting by the door with Mr. March when Jo walked in.

"My dear, how are you? Did you see it?" Marmee asked curiously.

"Yes, I did. The book looked fine." Jo replied promptly.

Mr. March, her father, seeing that Jo was saddened, lovingly remarked, "We are proud of you, Josephine."

"Thank you both. I could not have done it without you."

"Beth would be proud too." Marmee choked up as the words left her mouth.

"I would hope so, Marmee. I would hope so." Jo tenderly embraced her mother wishing everything was back to normal. She missed everything.

After releasing her mother, Jo met the eyes of her doting parents and ran up the stairs to her attic.

Jo looked around the room and remembered The Pickwick Club. She laughed as she reminisced on their terrible British accents, Laurie's was the worst. Now Jo was here, isolated in the attic with nothing but her quill.

Meg was at Dovecote with 'her John', one of the two endings in her story that she did not fabricate. The other, of course, was Beth and her passing. Jo couldn't write anything else besides the truth about her. Beth deserved much more than what was dealt to her, she was the best of them.

Jo had changed her and Amy's endings so Jo's readers (and her loved ones) would be satisfied. After rejecting Laurie in real life, she felt sorry for the lad so she gave him Amy. He would still be involved with the Marches while living with a devoted proper wife. This, in turn, would fulfill Amy's life desire to be a rich woman with a rich husband. Amy, in actuality, was in Paris with Aunt March. She had grown a lot, from what her letters suggested. Yet, she had not found any love. She had been enjoying her art so much that she had no time to focus on boys. Jo and Amy were very different, and she never thought Amy's craft would impede upon her search for romance. Nevertheless, it did. It made Jo feel as if they were not so different after all.

Laurie, on the other hand, was in Cambridge attending Harvard per his grandfather's request. Laurie would write Marmee quite frequently, but stopped writing to Jo— it pained him to write the name assigned to the horrid ache branded on his heart. At first when he received her letters he was elated, he hoped that she had changed her mind. However, when he realized that he was writing to her about things other than her emotions towards him— he stopped caring about what she had to say, even though he missed her dearly.

Christmas was up ahead, Jo looked out the window looking at the singular barren oak tree. Jo thought of her old life and how everything was different. It was no longer summertime visits to the beach with her sisters, Laurie, and the Vaughns. It was sitting in her room by a single-lit candle, attempting to keep warm. Alone, just like this barren tree.

There was a knock at the door, Jo turned her head. Meg walked in with some bread she had made that morning, "Hello, my favorite author." Meg handed her a slice.

Jo dug her teeth into the crusty bread, Meg must have warmed it up before coming upstairs. Jo didn't realize how hungry she was, or how ravenously she was eating.

"I didn't know being a writer could make one so famished," Meg looked at her sister in shock.

"Sorry, just thinking." Jo apologized.

"About what in particular?"

"Meg— I feel unsatisfied."

"Unsatisfied? Don't you remember that you just published a novel? As a woman? From Concord?!"

"No, no my novel's spectacular. I am beyond happy about that."

"Fine then, what is there to be dissatisfied about?"

"Meg, I thought I would never say this—I am lonely."

"What do you mean? Are you not content with me, Marmee, Father, and John?"

"Of course I love you all, so dearly. It's just—everyone has someone, and I don't."

"Amy doesn't have someone."

"Yes, but she's Amy and she's in Paris. Of course she will find someone. What about me? I am awkward, stubborn, brash, and boyish. No one will ever want me."

"Laurie wanted you." Meg instantly looked at her sister with regret, she realized that was probably the last thing her isolated sister needed to hear.

"Well, I didn't want him,' Jo looked away from her sister, 'Besides, it's not like we would have ever worked out. I don't regret what I did or said, not one bit."

Meg lifted one side of her mouth, "Why are you not satisfied then?"

Jo knew Meg was right, she had gotten herself to this place of solitude all by her own doing. She was not lady-like enough to go with Aunt March to Europe, she was not romantic enough to accept Laurie's proposal, she was awkward in social situations because she wasn't fond of people, she knew it had all been because of her— no one else.

Jo stayed silent.

Meg broke the quietude, "Jo, you could always apologize to him."

"Apologize for what? Wanting to be independent? Free from the bonds of marriage?"

"What is it that you want exactly? Someone to want you, or—as you say— freedom? You can either be married to a man, your writing, or nothing, Jo. No one is stopping you from being happy. If you are unsatisfied, do something about it. Betroth yourself to your books, a man, or whatever you please. Stop feeling sorry for yourself!"

Jo was taken back, she had never heard her sister proclaim the truth in such a sharp manner.

"Can't help it."

"You're impossible, Jo March."

Jo exhaled as she breathed in the air of her reality, she was forever alone. She, for all eternity, would be a maid married to her writings and their profits, alone like the barren oak tree.