The Magic Belt

by Donna Poole

Jo trudged through deep snow the half-mile home, tears freezing to her eyelashes, head lowered against the bitter wind. The foothills of the Adirondacks Mountains laughed at the calendar. They didn’t care if it was almost Easter; snowbanks still piled almost as high as the telephone poles lining the rural road.

Jo and Peggy, her younger sister, giggled whenever they heard the song:

“In your Easter bonnet
With all the frills upon it
You’ll be the grandest lady
In the Easter parade.”

Hadn’t Irving Berlin, who’d published the song in 1933, known people still wore winter hats and snowsuits at Easter? Liberace made “Easter Parade” popular again in 1954, and he’d been born in Wisconsin. Surely, he’d known not everyone wore Easter bonnets. Some people still shivered in snow boots in late March and April.

Jo’s one freezing cold bare hand reminded her of why she was crying, and she stubbornly forced herself to stop. She wouldn’t cry at home; she never had, and she never would.

“I’ll give you something to cry about,” she muttered sarcastically to herself. “I didn’t cry at my own mother’s funeral.” That’s what Mom always said if one of Jo’s siblings cried. Jo didn’t cry. It was her only claim to fame.

Mom was going to be so mad about that lost glove. The minute the bus drove off, Jo realized her glove was missing. She stared after the departing bus, sighed, and began the long walk home. Maybe she’d find the glove on the bus tomorrow, but tomorrow would be too late to stop the magic belt.

To take her mind off what was coming Jo did what she often did; she slipped effortlessly into the lives of the characters in her favorite books where parents cuddled their children and little girls put their heads on their mother’s laps. Jo had never done that. Sometimes she hugged Mom’s apron, though, when she took it off the clothesline, and it smelled like sunshine and outdoors. She’d pretend Mom was in it, hugging her back.

Once, after a really bad time with the magic belt, Dad had snuck into their room. “Jo, Peggy, are you alright?”

Peggy had just cried quietly.

“No, we are not alright,” Jo had said angrily. “One of these days she’s going to kill us. Why don’t you stop her?”

Jo knew she was being melodramatic. Mom wasn’t going to kill her. Probably not.

Dad had sighed. “If I say anything, it will just make it worse.”

Dad had gone back to the paper he’d always hid behind, but Jo a had loved him anyway. She’d loved Mom too. Even as a little girl she’d intuitively known something, Mom loved her children.

Jo knew something else too; she wasn’t afraid of Mom. She was afraid of something, but it wasn’t Mom. And it wasn’t the magic belt.

Jo kept switching the glove from hand to hand trying to keep from frostbite. Finally, she opened the door to the warmth of home. Maybe at least supper will be good; Mom’s a great cook.

Jo didn’t smell Mom’s mouth-watering homemade spaghetti sauce or the wonderful garlicy scent of pastavazoola. She almost gagged at what she did smell. Just her luck. Lentil soup.

Too bad Mom wouldn’t send her kids to bed with no supper, but she never did that. She couldn’t bear to have her kids hungry.

Might as well get this over with.

Jo put on her most defiant face, the one Peggy always warned her not to wear, and marched up to Mom. “I lost my glove again.”

“How many times have I told you…?” The yelling went on until suddenly it appeared out of nowhere, the way it always did. Mom didn’t go get the belt, or take it off her clothing, or remove it from a hook. Suddenly, like magic, the belt appeared in her hand. Mom always said a belt was nothing compared to the razor strap she’d been beaten with as a child.

Jo took it stoically, staring at Mom unflinchingly until Mom’s arm got tired. Jo ate the cursed lentil soup. It tasted worse than it ever had. Finally, it was bedtime, 7:30 p.m. and time for the Great Escape.

Jo squeezed her eyes shut to close out the world. They stung as a salty tear escaped. When even breathing let her know her sisters were asleep, Jo scooted over in her bed and patted the edge to make room for Jesus. She knew He wasn’t physically there, but He was there. She wished she could put her head in His lap.

“Do you know what it feels like? The magic belt?”

He pointed into the distance. She saw Him there on the cross. She’d forgotten that part of the story, the part where the soldiers had beaten Him, probably with thirty-nine lashes. Jo shuddered when she saw the whip, a horrible thing with pieces of bone and metal attached to leather strands.

Jo whispered. “Was it magic?” she whispered. “Was your whip magic too?”

Jesus threw His head back and laughed so loudly she thought He’d wake her sisters. “There’s nothing magic about belts, or whips, or tears, or sorrow, or suffering. Only love and joy are magic. They are the only things that get to live forever. Look! Look where my whip is.”

Jo squinted through her tears. The whip was nailed securely to the cross, but Jesus wasn’t there. Of course, He wasn’t there. He’d risen again, and He was right here with her, and with all who loved Him.

She was getting sleepy. She heard Jesus murmur, “Why don’t you tell me what you’re really afraid of?”

Jo opened her eyes, startled. He knew that too? Her secret fear?

She whispered, “I’m afraid of me. I’m just like Mom, stubborn and angry. I don’t want to scream at my children someday. I don’t want to hurt them with the magic belt.”

“You won’t.”

“How do you know?”

“You won’t because you don’t want to. And I will help you. Now go to sleep, and dream of the real magic. Love.”

And she did. It was warm and sunny in that land of love. She didn’t need gloves; she wore a beautiful Easter bonnet, and Mom hugged her. She’d always known Mom had those hugs in her. They’d just needed to find a way out, and someday they would.