“Are we playing bandits?” he asks, laughing only for a moment before his nose twitches and his face wrinkles up. It’s a valiant effort but in the end he succumbs.
“You’re the only person I know,” she says as she hands over a spare bandana, watching him tie it over his nose and mouth against the dust as she had, “who always sneezes in sets of three. Do you suppose it might be a witch’s curse?”
“You know, I’ve always had a sneaking suspicion…”
But the teasing light dies from his eyes as he trails off, and the glimpse of Teddy-that-was fades along with it. Before her stands Laurie, My Lord, neither Her Laurie nor Her Lord, if ever he was either. He might be trying to smile, she can’t tell behind the mask.
“What are you doing up here, Jo?” he asks, looking around at the mess of half-emptied trunks and rag bags.
“My fine young troupe of actors have an appointment with the boards,” she tells him, but her voice sounds tired rather than grand. “We begin dress rehearsals tomorrow and I’m short several costumes with no time to sew new ones. Marmee suggested I raid our old treasure trove.”
“I see.” Laurie sits down tailor-fashion across from her and pulls a basket towards himself, looking into it for only a moment before his eyes are drawn back up to the rafters, the window, the writing desk. He shakes his head, his well-ordered curls dancing around his face. “I haven’t been up here since…”
“Yes,” Jo says curtly. “Since.”
He bows his head over his basket but it turns out to contain only several sets of doll clothes and he soon sets it aside, watching her as she shakes out a faded old purple dress with a sound of satisfaction. “This will do for little Sarah, she’s playing a brave young peasant girl who gets lost in the woods and has to survive by her wits. Most of the other parts are fairies and goblins, that sort of thing, at first she’s afraid of them but in the end they all band together to break a powerful enchantment.”
She sneaks a look up at him, sees that his eyes are crinkled over his bandana and looks away again before he asks, “Did you write this one, Jo?”
“I did.” She smooths her palms over the fabric, noting moth holes alone the lacy edge and adds, entirely failing in her efforts not to sound defensive, “We did Shakespeare in the fall.”
“I was there,” he reminds her, and she’s meeting his eyes before she knows if the feeling in her chest is astonishment or dismay as he orates: “‘O, you should not rest between the elements of air and earth, but you should pity me.’”
He has a fine voice and he’s learned to use it to great effect as it has deepened with age but as she stares the gravitas falls from him. The bandana has slipped down around his neck and she watches the blood rise to his cheeks, a peek behind the curtain to remind of the little boy he once was, her boy, and she leans in to tug on a lock of his hair, teasing, “You’d make a fine Viola, you know.”
He scowls and smooths his hair back, the light from her flickering candles playing across the line of his jaw, showing stubble and stubbornness both familiar and alien; lines she has always known and lines that have etched their way into the fabric of him when she wasn’t there to watch.
She stands and begins to fold up the purple dress but he catches hold of the hem, holding it gently between finger and thumb. “Was this Meg’s?” he asks.
“It was.”
He hums, and holds on to it a little tighter. “Was this the one that you…”
And now she feels the heat rise to her own face, feels the twist behind her heart that she used to think was valor and hears the snappishness of her own voice as she fires back, “The one that I what?”
He’s looking up at her, chin tipped back to reveal the long pale column of his throat, as though he’s offering himself up. To what, she cannot imagine.
“Was this the one,” he asks again, voice very soft but steady nonetheless, “that you dressed me in, all those years ago?”
She pulls it from his hands and folds it haphazardly, tucking it into the box she’s taking back to the school. “You know very well that it is.”
His hands are folded in his lap, now, fingers twisting around each other, but he hasn’t tucked his chin.
“I wanted…” he breathes in sharply through his nose, then blinks hastily and turns his head, sneezing three times. She laughs, she can’t help it, and the smile he directs up at her is sweet, so sweet in the dying candlelight, that she takes his hand when he offers it to her along with his confession. “I very much wanted to be one of the March sisters.”
“Well…” She pulls the bandana from her face, immediately regretting the loss of its protection against his gaze, however thin. She covers his hand with hers and says, as though thinking about it for the first time, “I suppose that now, in a way, you are.”
“I suppose I am.” His lips twitch, his fingers twine with hers.
“And I was desperate to be the Laurence boy,” she tells him, when the moment has stretched and left with the choice either to grin or to cry. She stoops to snag his fine hat off the floor and squash it down on top of her own head, spinning away when he loudly protests such rough treatment of his brand-new hat.
“Run along now, Dora,” she calls sweetly over her shoulder, “run along and play dress-up, leave the real work to us menfolk!”
He walks her back to Aunt March’s — to the school — over the moonlit fields, their boots crunching through frosted grass, winter’s last gasp before the her younger sister’s triumphal return. She’d lost her gloves again last week and her hands are stiff with cold but her head is warm beneath his hat. It’s a dusty, rumpled mess when she hands it back at the door, trading it to him for the box of costumes, but he bows over it like a knight over his lady’s favor.
She reaches out, gets her fingers under the bandana that still rests against his throat like a cravat in a child’s play. Tugging it up to cover his eyes she turns him by the shoulders, pushing him gently in the direction of his own home.
“Off with you, silly boy,” she calls after him. “Go home to your wife.”
He pulls his blindfold down, turns his hat in his hands, reshaping it carefully before setting it back in its rightful place. The boy transformed into the lord before her very eyes, and to whatever hidden place her Teddy vanishes, there too go her half-formed thoughts of might-have-been.
He lifts a hand in silent farewell and turns his face to his lonely trek even as she turns to shut the door against the chill, the warmth of her self-made life welcoming her home.
Written with the 2019 Gerwig adaptation in mind
“Are we playing bandits?” he asks, laughing only for a moment before his nose twitches and his face wrinkles up. It’s a valiant effort but in the end he succumbs.
“You’re the only person I know,” she says as she hands over a spare bandana, watching him tie it over his nose and mouth against the dust as she had, “who always sneezes in sets of three. Do you suppose it might be a witch’s curse?”
“You know, I’ve always had a sneaking suspicion…”
But the teasing light dies from his eyes as he trails off, and the glimpse of Teddy-that-was fades along with it. Before her stands Laurie, My Lord, neither Her Laurie nor Her Lord, if ever he was either. He might be trying to smile, she can’t tell behind the mask.
“What are you doing up here, Jo?” he asks, looking around at the mess of half-emptied trunks and rag bags.
“My fine young troupe of actors have an appointment with the boards,” she tells him, but her voice sounds tired rather than grand. “We begin dress rehearsals tomorrow and I’m short several costumes with no time to sew new ones. Marmee suggested I raid our old treasure trove.”
“I see.” Laurie sits down tailor-fashion across from her and pulls a basket towards himself, looking into it for only a moment before his eyes are drawn back up to the rafters, the window, the writing desk. He shakes his head, his well-ordered curls dancing around his face. “I haven’t been up here since…”
“Yes,” Jo says curtly. “Since.”
He bows his head over his basket but it turns out to contain only several sets of doll clothes and he soon sets it aside, watching her as she shakes out a faded old purple dress with a sound of satisfaction. “This will do for little Sarah, she’s playing a brave young peasant girl who gets lost in the woods and has to survive by her wits. Most of the other parts are fairies and goblins, that sort of thing, at first she’s afraid of them but in the end they all band together to break a powerful enchantment.”
She sneaks a look up at him, sees that his eyes are crinkled over his bandana and looks away again before he asks, “Did you write this one, Jo?”
“I did.” She smooths her palms over the fabric, noting moth holes alone the lacy edge and adds, entirely failing in her efforts not to sound defensive, “We did Shakespeare in the fall.”
“I was there,” he reminds her, and she’s meeting his eyes before she knows if the feeling in her chest is astonishment or dismay as he orates: “‘O, you should not rest between the elements of air and earth, but you should pity me.’”
He has a fine voice and he’s learned to use it to great effect as it has deepened with age but as she stares the gravitas falls from him. The bandana has slipped down around his neck and she watches the blood rise to his cheeks, a peek behind the curtain to remind of the little boy he once was, her boy, and she leans in to tug on a lock of his hair, teasing, “You’d make a fine Viola, you know.”
He scowls and smooths his hair back, the light from her flickering candles playing across the line of his jaw, showing stubble and stubbornness both familiar and alien; lines she has always known and lines that have etched their way into the fabric of him when she wasn’t there to watch.
She stands and begins to fold up the purple dress but he catches hold of the hem, holding it gently between finger and thumb. “Was this Meg’s?” he asks.
“It was.”
He hums, and holds on to it a little tighter. “Was this the one that you…”
And now she feels the heat rise to her own face, feels the twist behind her heart that she used to think was valor and hears the snappishness of her own voice as she fires back, “The one that I what?”
He’s looking up at her, chin tipped back to reveal the long pale column of his throat, as though he’s offering himself up. To what, she cannot imagine.
“Was this the one,” he asks again, voice very soft but steady nonetheless, “that you dressed me in, all those years ago?”
She pulls it from his hands and folds it haphazardly, tucking it into the box she’s taking back to the school. “You know very well that it is.”
His hands are folded in his lap, now, fingers twisting around each other, but he hasn’t tucked his chin.
“I wanted…” he breathes in sharply through his nose, then blinks hastily and turns his head, sneezing three times. She laughs, she can’t help it, and the smile he directs up at her is sweet, so sweet in the dying candlelight, that she takes his hand when he offers it to her along with his confession. “I very much wanted to be one of the March sisters.”
“Well…” She pulls the bandana from her face, immediately regretting the loss of its protection against his gaze, however thin. She covers his hand with hers and says, as though thinking about it for the first time, “I suppose that now, in a way, you are.”
“I suppose I am.” His lips twitch, his fingers twine with hers.
“And I was desperate to be the Laurence boy,” she tells him, when the moment has stretched and left with the choice either to grin or to cry. She stoops to snag his fine hat off the floor and squash it down on top of her own head, spinning away when he loudly protests such rough treatment of his brand-new hat.
“Run along now, Dora,” she calls sweetly over her shoulder, “run along and play dress-up, leave the real work to us menfolk!”
He walks her back to Aunt March’s — to the school — over the moonlit fields, their boots crunching through frosted grass, winter’s last gasp before the her younger sister’s triumphal return. She’d lost her gloves again last week and her hands are stiff with cold but her head is warm beneath his hat. It’s a dusty, rumpled mess when she hands it back at the door, trading it to him for the box of costumes, but he bows over it like a knight over his lady’s favor.
She reaches out, gets her fingers under the bandana that still rests against his throat like a cravat in a child’s play. Tugging it up to cover his eyes she turns him by the shoulders, pushing him gently in the direction of his own home.
“Off with you, silly boy,” she calls after him. “Go home to your wife.”
He pulls his blindfold down, turns his hat in his hands, reshaping it carefully before setting it back in its rightful place. The boy transformed into the lord before her very eyes, and to whatever hidden place her Teddy vanishes, there too go her half-formed thoughts of might-have-been.
He lifts a hand in silent farewell and turns his face to his lonely trek even as she turns to shut the door against the chill, the warmth of her self-made life welcoming her home.