The Fifth Sister

I love little hideaways. By their very name, they are peaceful, solitary places, intimate, safe, womblike. I guess that’s why I decided to spend some time in a cabin in New England. You see, I’m a writer and I am in the middle of my worst writer’s block ever. I’ve tried everything, and cannot manage to break the hold this silence has on me. In desperation, I’ve come here to see if I can dissolve the distractions and pull myself together.

There is no electricity in this place, and of course no phone or internet service. I could use my laptop, but that won’t stay charged indefinitely. However, I have a solid supply of paper - reams of it, in fact - and writing instruments. As for light, we’ll just have to see how to manage that. For one thing, my night-owl habits may need to be altered. No wasting daylight while I’m tucked away in this cabin.

The door creaked as I pushed it open - loudly. It made me jump, sounded eerie, but it didn’t deter me. Here I am, inside, looking around the space that was supposed to be quite small, but apparently isn’t. That’s a real surprise. There’s room enough in here for six, seven people and a couple of animals to boot. If I step outside again, for sure there will be four wooden walls and a chimney, looking like an enclosure measuring less than twenty feet by twenty feet. That’s about the size of a tiny house, what they call a tiny house these days. Inside? That’s a whole other story.

Inside again, I am setting out my utensils for my stay. I feel momentary panic at being here by myself, unable to contact the world in any of the usual ways. This sojourn surely can’t last more than a couple of days, but perhaps that’ll be enough to kickstart the inspiration that I so desperately need. After all, I have a deadline coming up soon. A contract to meet. So stressful. We’ve all been in similar situations.

So strange. Instead of plugging in my computer and turning it on, I am obliged to reach for a notebook and a pen. This feels like something out of the nineteenth century. The difference is that my metal-ringed notebook with thin blue lines is definitely twentieth century and my pen is also more modern. I do have ink and a nice fountain pen, though, and might try using those. It’s just for fun, to keep with the rustic idea. 

I brought a few books, but they’re just some that I grabbed off the shelf as I was leaving my house earlier. Not even sure what they are. Hmmm... not the best choices. Maybe there’s one here I could read. Not that people generally have a lot of books around when they live in a cabin... Ahhh... look at this: Little Women, by Louisa May Alcott. Now that’s a classic. Usually only girls read it, and often in the abridged version. Come to think of it, I never read the complete edition. Maybe I can give it a try by candlelight.

The March family is here now, and all the members fit in the cabin, just like I said. Marmee and Father, Hannah Mullet (the lovely servant), and the girls: Meg, Jo, Beth, Amy. All quite famous, you’ll agree. With a little luck, that boy Laurie (Theodore Laurence) and his grandfather will appear. There’s room for them, too, surprisingly. Everybody is busy doing something: cleaning, mending, cooking, drawing, singing, caring for dolls or pets. A regular little gathering of children and adults. 

I am watching as the girls go about their tasks, rarely squabbling or grumbling, except Meg is concerned about her apparel for some upcoming event. Jo is my favorite, because she wants to be - is - a writer. How does she do it, with that old-fashioned pen and its fragile nibs, the lack of light? She must have really wanted to write, because her life is pretty dismal. She goes few places, has no money for adventures or trips, and certainly has no idea of what’s going on in the world. Except, of course, for what she reads about in books. It seems she has access to some in Aunt March’s house as well as Mr. Laurence’s. Still, she hasn’t had much of a life herself.

This is rather odd: the girls seem to be putting on a play. Jo plays both the hero and the villain. She’s so mannish. Is there a reason why she likes cross-dressing? She also seems to be in charge of the P.C., as they call their group: the Pickwick Club. They put out a bulletin or a newsletter or something, as if anybody would ever read what they write. (I hear Amy gets her words mixed up, trying to sound sophisticated.) Well, I’ll be darned. There’s one of their newsletters here on the table. It’s actually quite funny, despite having little literary merit. Oh well, they lived in the nineteenth century and one can’t expect much more of them.

Now they’re looking concerned. Beth is unwell, but the doctor calls twice a day. He doesn’t seem to do much, but he’s kindly and maybe has some skills that aren’t obvious. The family is calm, at least. I’d be happy to help, and have some herb tea of my own to offer. Antibiotics can cure many ills, but not all of them. At least the fire here on the hearth is warm. Beth has a lot of people looking out for her in this house and in the neighborhood. Interesting. Nowadays, neighbors often don’t know who lives next door, nor do they care. They’re more worried about their lawns and taxes.

It looks like Amy needs a lot of work with her lessons. She’s not strong in either French or German, and prefers to sketch ferns or kittens. I can help her with the atrocious English mistakes, though. She seems capable of learning. Hopefully she will outgrow her tendency to be vain. Mrs. March will see to that, most likely.

I’m beginning to feel quite intrigued by the way the members of the family talk to one another. Assuming from their words that they are Christian, I feel a bit put off by the discussion of being humble, hard-working, generous, and the like. Nobody really does that any more, of course. People want what they want, and will stop at nothing to get it. Nobody will sacrifice themselves for others, nobody goes out of the way to help, except on rare occasions. To put it bluntly, in this day and age, we put ourselves first. I think at some point that was called rugged individualism, but that’s so out of place here.

Clearly the Marches are experts at making do with what they have. They aren’t starving, they have clothes on their backs, they help out the dirt-poor Hummels. The mother is responsible for the latter. How does she get her daughters to do those things, to respect her? None of the girls swears at her or rushes out, slamming the door. Nobody is doing drugs, they have no fancy contraptions to entertain themselves. Basically, they don’t have much of anything.

Having nothing means having to improvise. They do this with their clothes constantly. They rarely go shopping, except when they actually need something. To ‘go shopping’ probably isn’t in their vocabulary, I imagine. What does it mean to go out, knowing you will purchase specific items like eggs, flour, and sugar, but will not come home with five new flavors of hot sauces and three types of makeup? 

Still, I am more and more fascinated at how the girls collaborate around the house, how they go places together, how they keep trying to do the right thing. That can be rather unrealistic. The mother doesn’t seem aware that what she’s accomplishing is not what happens in normal families. Maybe I could have a word with her, ask her how she does it and what will happen when one of her daughters breaks free of the nest. It’s really limiting. 

No, Marmee probably wouldn’t listen. She appears to have everything worked out just fine. She has been fortunate to have a good husband - one who’s so good he too seems unreal. Well, this is a story, a novel, and as such is merely fiction. It was probably impossible even back then, in 1868 when Little Women was published. Nobody was ever this nice, this poor, this successful. Somebody had to fall off the rails, as they say. In fact, this whole household is beginning to get on my nerves. I need to get on with my writing...

The murderer had no reason for his actions. He chose the home he wanted to invade completely at random. He didn’t care who was there, because he was simply angry and wanted others to suffer the way he was. He was determined to sneak in and destroy the lives of the people in the house. He would use his physical strength, his knife and gun, his rage, to end their lives. Then he would feel better, he was sure of it. That would show his rotten parents! That would prove how strong, important, and capable he was. He would be famous.

He entered the house and had killed the little dog who yapped too much, then strangled the youngest daughter. He was heading for the next bedroom when the police cars pulled up, sirens blasting, lights flashing, loudspeakers yelling at him to come out with his hands up. Not a chance. This was do or die. He was going to kill the entire family or perish in the attempt.

The police took him down without a second thought. The bullets slammed into him and he was stretched out on the second floor landing outside the bathroom. Blood began to drizzle down the hardwood stairs to where the little dog was, bathed in red as well. The effort was a partial success. The rest of the family had been saved, although they would have to live with having lost the dog and one of their four daughters. People read about it in the newspapers and saw the news on the internet. They devoured the gore, although nobody wanted to admit that.

Finally! My murder mystery was starting to break through the writer’s block. I could see it was coming together nicely, and now merely had to include the factors that had made the man into a heartless monster. It was thrilling to finally see some progress, even though the backstory and the details weren’t quite in place. It had been a very good idea to come to the little cabin to shake the cobwebs out of my imagination. It looked like I was going to meet my deadline. Then I looked back.

Jo was standing, quill pen pressed to her lips, a sheaf of ruffly pages in the other hand, a quizzical expression on her face. She seemed to be trying out words and scenes of great emotional impact, although nothing would compare to what I had just written, I was sure. Her writing was limited by her world of reading, and she had never read anything so violent. Her villains were parodies of evil beings, the fear they provoked wasn’t real fear. I kind of felt sorry for Jo, because she was never going to make it as an author, never going to achieve fame and fortune through her pen. 

Having written what I’d come to write, I began to think about packing up and leaving. For one thing, I was missing the internet and working by candlelight was proving hard on my eyes. First, however, I wanted to take a last look around the cabin that had not been a cabin but rather something entirely different. The girls were there, their parents were there, old Hannah was there. Plans had been made for the coming week, both as far as entertainment and chores. There had been a great deal of conversation, and all four girls had had serious yet kind discussions with both father and mother.

Such a conservative, limited view of the world, I told myself. This is a story that, once told, need not be told again. (In contrast, think of all the murder stories that are told and retold.) It is out of date, and nobody is entertained by four young women being brought up as they were. Their values may have worked for them, but are long gone now.

As I leave, taking one last look at Jo, my favorite for more than one reason, I was suddenly grabbed by a sense of impending doom. Like somebody lurking outside the creaky door, waiting to pounce on me and stab me in the heart. After all, it was dark and the cabin was in a very isolated area, so danger was possible. Right! I laughed, and stepped out, glad that soon I would be back in the world of electricity and the internet. A world in which my astounding murder mystery would soon be published and lots of people would swarm around me, seeking autographs. Oh, I felt so full, so satisfied, so important.

Then I looked down at my hands and saw that I’d inadvertently clutched the ragged copy of Alcott’s little novel, her fictional world with girls who were good, very, very good, and criminals did not exist. A world where time passed slowly, meaningfully, and people were reminded on a daily basis what it meant to be people. The characters created by the author may or may not have existed, but the thoughts that bound them had forced them out of the pages of the novel into... into... a place I would never again see. 

I am on the doorstep, shivering slightly with the evening chill, and the decision is mine. I can leave, and all will be right with the world. Or, I can open the door, return the book, and never leave.