Little Women and Me - By Lauren Baratz-Logsted Page 0,10
hand on my forehead.
“Would you stop doing that all the time?” I said, annoyed, as I swatted her hand away. “I just don’t see any point in giving away a perfectly good breakfast.”
The others gaped at me.
“What?” I said, feeling self-conscious and indignant at the same time. So what if the others thought me selfish—I was hungry! “Honestly, what difference does it make?” I went on. “So we make the big gesture of giving them our breakfast now, but what next? Do we give them our dinner too? Our breakfast again in the morning? Of course not! We can’t do that, or eventually we starve. So, please tell me, what is the point in doing something that will only help these poor people for a few hours but, in the long run, the larger problem will still be there?”
Beth stepped forward and stood in front of me. For a strange moment, I thought she might say something harsh, the sort of thing I expected from Jo. But when she did speak, her words were gentle, her expression sad.
“It is Christmas morning,” Beth said, taking my hand in hers. “I admit, it is hard to give away our feast, and I shall be hungry all day. But think of how much harder it is to go daily without, as the Hummels do.”
The Hummels—that must be the name of the German family.
“Yes,” Beth went on, “tomorrow the Hummels will have to go back to starving to death, but should we not give them this one happy moment, on Christmas morning of all days? I, for one, should be happy to go hungry all day. Indeed, I wish we could do this for them every day.”
Oh God, I groaned inwardly at her sincerity. How had I landed myself here? And who did Beth think she was—Oprah?
Still, the combination of sincerity and serenity in her expression got to me. Somehow, I could stand to have the others think I was selfish, but not Beth.
“Oh, whatever,” I conceded sourly. “Let’s go give our breakfast away.”
The Hummels turned out to be exactly as described: a poor mother with a newborn and six children freezing in one bed with no fire and nothing to eat.
Now they had fire, at least for the morning, because Jo had hauled some of our own firewood over. And they had food, at least for the morning, because we’d brought our Christmas breakfast.
In spite of the grumbles in my stomach, as I looked around at those six little faces, happily eating the fresh muffins and pudding I wished I were eating, I was glad I’d been a part of this, this giving. But then I saw Beth seated in front of the fireplace, the Hummel woman’s baby cradled in her lap, and I felt a chill go up my spine. I didn’t know where it came from, but I knew there was something I should be remembering right now and yet couldn’t.
“Hey, Beth,” I tried to urge her. “Give the baby back to its mother and come over here.”
But she was so caught up in that baby, it was as though she never heard me.
The bread we had for our breakfast was the warmest, most awesome-smelling bread I’d ever eaten—even better than Panera! “Are you going to sniff that bread or eat it?” Jo said at one point. Well, I guess I did have my nose pressed a little too closely. As for the strangely yellowish milk, it didn’t necessarily look bad, just different. “Aren’t you going to pour the cream off the top and then shake yours?” Jo said at another point as I raised the glass toward my lips. Oh. Right. I poured. I shook. Then I raised the glass again hoping to drink a bit before any more nasty comments were flung my way, but as the glass got nearer, I wrinkled my nose as it struck me: yuck! Unpasteurized. Still, in spite of the wonderful newness of the one and the strange newness of the other, bread and milk for breakfast wasn’t exactly exciting. But as I went through the rest of the day, feeling hunger grow in my stomach, I felt good about that hunger, virtuous even. We had done a good thing and, as the others pointed out, it was just for one day. Tomorrow we’d be back on regular rations.
As it got dark, Meg announced that it was time for the Christmas play I’d seen the others rehearsing. I watched carefully to see if I