Alice I Have Been: A Novel (25 page)

“I won’t tell, Mamma,” Rex said with a conspiratorial grin. “I understand perfectly. After all, there are a great many things I don’t
tell you.”

“Thank you—what? What kinds of things?”

Rex’s answer was to reach past me and knock on the door; I fixed him with a glare, then tried to plaster down his cowlicks, but the parlor maid opened the door before I could do anything but pat him, rather vigorously, on the head.

I had sent round a note the day before, so Mr. Dodgson was right behind her, very flustered as he led us to the parlor. Dressed in black as always—in the old-fashioned frock coat of his youth—he had white hair now; his voice was quite high-pitched, and I thought that he seemed much deafer than before.

“Well, well, this is a wo-wo-wonderful thing, to see you again. Do-do make yourself at home. Oh—and what a treat to make the acquaintance of your chi-chi-children!”

I stepped into his rooms once more as an adult, my sons—not my sisters—following behind. It seemed like a lifetime ago, yet if I closed my eyes I could still see us, Ina, Edith, and me, dressed exactly alike in those short, wide skirts—how absurd they seemed now!—lace pantalets, quaint, old-fashioned parasols.

If I closed my eyes I could still see
him
, as he was—but no. I did not need further remembrances of my childhood with this man, for I did not know what to do with the ones I already had. So I kept my eyes open and observed him now.

Instead of bending down to shake hands with my boys, he stood stock-still, his gloved hands behind his back, and nodded warily at each one as I introduced him. Caryl bowed formally when he was presented, as if at court.

“So, you’re the man who put Mamma in a book,” Rex said pleasantly; Mr. Dodgson nodded but didn’t elaborate.

“I imagine it’s quite a good book, even though I don’t usually like to read,” Alan said as he put his hands in his pockets and thrust his nose in the air—in perfect imitation of his father. “There weren’t really any games in it, other than croquet. You might have put a polo match in; that might have helped.”

“I—that is, polo?” Mr. Dodgson looked at me, blinking his eyes, obviously confused; was he no longer used to the frank conversation of children?

“Alan,” I said sharply. “That’s not very polite.”

“Well, I did say it was a good book.” He colored as he realized what he had said. “I’m very sorry, sir. Please accept my apology.”

Mr. Dodgson did not reply; he simply stood there, staring at my son until Alan turned away, still bright red, and pretended to be interested in a jade plant perched upon a table. Mr. Dodgson then walked over to the window, fumbling to pull up the shade. (The room was exceedingly dark and dusty; I had a good mind to talk to the parlor maid on my way out.) Motioning for the boys to take a seat, I walked over to him and placed my hand upon his arm as he struggled with the cord; I was surprised to find he was trembling, and in that moment I knew that he was afraid. As afraid as I had been that day in the library with Rex.

What were we so fearful of discovering, the two of us?

“Please,” I said impatiently, as he continued to fumble with the cord. “Do not trouble yourself so for us. We can’t stay long. Sit down.” I’m afraid I rather commanded him to do so, but he seemed happy to obey; he plopped down in a high-backed chair with a sigh.

“We can’t stay because Grandmamma doesn’t know we’re here,” Rex explained. Mr. Dodgson looked at me, a question in those uneven, watery eyes; I decided not to answer it, choosing instead to congratulate him on the 100,000 copies
of Alice
sold.

“Does that mean you’re very rich?” Caryl asked.

“Caryl,” I said, but Mr. Dodgson did not appear to have heard; he cocked his head and put his hand up to his right ear. One look from me convinced Caryl not to repeat his question.

Mr. Dodgson looked from boy to boy, shaking his head as if he was quite unable—or unwilling—to acknowledge that I could be a mother. “No, it will not register. My Alice with children of her own? How strange the world has grown! Oh—they simply won’t sit still, will they?”

“Neither did I, when I was a child.” I smiled but felt myself growing irritated as he continued to gape at my sons, shaking his head; it wasn’t as if he’d never been around children before. Why was he behaving so strangely with mine?

“No, you little girls were very well behaved, always sitting together so pleasantly, I have such fond memories of those afternoons—oh dear! The boisterous one is going to upset that table!”

Rex wasn’t even close to the table, but I grabbed him by the arm anyway; this gesture seemed to placate Mr. Dodgson. “Do tell me what you’ve been up to lately,” I said, determined to have a pleasant conversation.

“Not very much, except of course for your adventures. As I mentioned in my letter, they keep me tolerably busy, which is a blessing, for I’m so alone otherwise.”

“They’re not—they’re not really my adventures, of course. They’re yours, now. I’m simply a country wife and mother, with no time to chase after rabbits—although chasing after boys is rather the same thing!”

“You don’t chase after us—you never! You’re much too old,” Rex said with a resigned shake of his head. “Although if you did, I’d most likely let you catch me, just to be nice.”

“That’s very gentlemanly of you,” I replied, smiling wryly at Mr. Dodgson, trying to draw him into my world. But he continued to stare at my sons as if they were noisy apparitions, and when he looked at me, his eyes clouded over, his mouth slightly open, I knew he was seeing a ghost as well; the ghost of a little brown-haired girl in a crisp white dress. A little gypsy girl. A long-forgotten dream.

Stirring in my seat—he was quite mistaken, for I was rather a squirmy child, I suddenly recalled, remembering how tight and itchy all those layers of clothing had felt upon my tender skin—I was unable to meet his gaze as I once had been able to. So I looked around the room, instead. It even smelled like a haunted place: stale, musty, airless,
old
. Even the toys were ancient; Caryl picked up a threadbare stuffed animal and tossed it aside with a sigh; Rex shook an old china doll, and dust filled the air as her head nearly came off her unfashionable body. I had told them of all the treasures Mr. Dodgson used to keep in his room for children, but now I saw that these were no treasures. Not for modern children, anyway.

Not for little boys used to cast-iron soldiers and merry-go-rounds and fire pumpers.

Mr. Dodson suddenly snapped at Rex to put the doll down, and while this angered me—had he ever told me or my sisters to stop playing with a toy?—at least he had stopped staring at me so mournfully. As I watched him fuss and flutter about, I tried very hard to keep a pleasant smile upon my face but could not succeed. When had he become such a nervous old man? He implored Caryl to pick up the stuffed animal, and continued to fret over the passage of time. “What a sad, sad thing it is to grow old! I’ve grown too old, too old for my friends now. Too old even for you, I’m afraid—or am I? No, don’t tell me! Instead, let’s remember more pleasant times. Don’t you recall when you—”

“And how are your sisters? Well, I hope?”

“As well as can be expected, for we’ve all become such a feeble lot. Alice, my dear, do you remember how nice and neat you and your sisters used to be? Do you remember?”

I did not want to remember; that was not why I had come. Because if I were to remember, there were other things that might come to mind.

So, why had I come back to these rooms, then, if I did not wish to reminisce? If I couldn’t even read the book, why had I brought my sons to meet the author?

I could not say. I knew only, as I watched Mr. Dodgson rush to straighten a lampshade that Caryl had scarcely even touched, that it had been a mistake. I was angry at him; angry at myself, for coming here in the first place, for tempting the past.

I was not, for once, angry at my sons; they were behaving admirably, and I was proud of them. That was why I had come here, I suddenly realized: to show off my boys. To show Mr. Dodgson—and perhaps, remind myself—that my life was full, that I had moved on. But he refused to see, and worse—he was determined that I see that he had not.

“I don’t wish to detain you any longer,” I said, rising. Far from looking relieved, as I had expected, Mr. Dodgson’s face fell.

“Oh, but do you have to go so soon?”

“I’m afraid we do.”

“But—all my child friends grow up and leave. You were the first to do so, and I despise it. Bu-but we’re different, aren’t we?” He leaned down to look at me—he was not nearly as tall as he once was, nor was I so small; our eyes were almost level. Still, I had to look up—as I had done when I was a child.

“Different?”

“We’ll always have your story. You’ll never have to grow up, then.”

“I’m afraid that’s not entirely true.” I wished he could see me, truly see me, as he had once been able to do better than anyone else—or so I had thought. Now, however, I wasn’t sure; had he ever seen me as I was? Or had he always been this blind?

“Oh, but it is. We’ll always have Wonderland.” His dark blue eyes were dreamy now, almost filmy, as he gazed down some distant path I had no desire to follow. I wanted to shake him, shake the cobwebs out of his mind, the dust from his shoulders, the clouds from his eyes. I had no patience for such a man; it was a wonder that I ever had.

For so long, all my dreams had begun and ended with him; even my dreams of Leo. I could not imagine these feeble, trembling hands—still clad in gray gloves—holding anything so precious of mine, now.

“Yes, well, that’s a nice thought, isn’t it? Wonderland? I’m glad it gives you comfort, at least. Now we really must go.” I reached out to shake his hand in farewell, although I did not want to touch him; his grip was weak, and I could feel the clamminess of his skin through the fabric of his glove. I quickly withdrew my hand, fighting a childish impulse to wipe it on the back of my skirt.

As I turned to go, I heard him ask, in a voice I remembered, a soft voice thick with longing, “Will you remember me, Alice?”

“Pardon?”

“Will you? Do you?”

“Oh, Mr. Dodgson, I—”

“Come, Mamma,” Rex said impatiently, tugging on my hand.

“Just a moment, Rex.”

“My name is Leopold! Leopold Reginald!” he shouted, stamping his foot; I stared at him, for he disliked his given name, and never before had I heard him claim it.

Mr. Dodgson gasped when he heard the name; I could not meet his gaze. My cheeks grew hot, and I felt as if my most secret thoughts were suddenly on display for all—the boys included—to see.

“Oh, Alice—I—I’ve never been able to f-f-forgive myself, all those years ago, you must understand why I—”

“Don’t,” I said, warning him. My head snapped up, and I met his gaze full-on. “Don’t try to rewrite the past. Leave it be. My life is very full now, as I wish you were able to see.” Once I had questions—so many questions! Now all I wanted was to get on with my life; we were expected back at the Deanery for a faculty tea, and we hadn’t yet been to Edith’s grave. “We must be going. Thank you very much for your hospitality.”

“You see why I’m not so fond of little boys, my Alice?”

“I am not—” I struggled to control my voice, my anger; I was not his. “Whatever do you mean?”

“Because they have to grow up to be men. Men like me,” he said with that sad, sad smile that used to tug so at my heart. Now, however, it only enraged me. He was older than I was. Why, then, did I always feel as if his happiness was my responsibility? It wasn’t fair for him to burden me with that. It had never been fair.

“No, they don’t. Not all of them,” I snapped, my voice low, for I did not want the boys to hear. “Not mine.”

Three small, sticky pairs of hands clutched at my skirts, eager to drag me out of the past, into fresh air, into my life. I was eager to follow them. I turned to go before he could say anything further; I never saw him again.

Charles Lutwidge Dodgson died in 1898; I could not attend his funeral, for my father was dying as well. He passed away four days later. And with their passing, I had no reason ever to return to Oxford.

“
MAMMA?
”

I looked up; for a moment I was startled to see a tall man with brown hair—still sporting those twin cowlicks—and a mustache. So caught up in my memories, I had expected to see the little boy with the dirty face, instead.

“Yes, Rex?”

“We thought we’d find you here.” Caryl and Alan were standing behind him. I allowed my son to reach down and help me rise; I’m afraid I did not
bend
quite as well as I used to.

I straightened my narrow skirt, ending just above my ankles, as was the fashion these days. I smoothed my hair, patted the brooch—Leo’s brooch—fastened at my throat, and looked at my sons. Not one of them could meet my gaze, and in that moment I knew.

“So. You’re enlisting, then, are you not? Caryl and Rex?”

“Yes, Mamma.” Alan, the leader, spoke for them all, even though his future in uniform was not in question.

“I thought as much. I assumed that was what you were sneaking off to the billiard room to discuss. Really, the impertinence of you men! As if I were too delicate for the conversation?”

“I’d never think you were too delicate for anything, Mamma,” Caryl was quick to say.

“Nor would any of us. It was Father—he wanted to talk some things over, and he didn’t want you to have to worry yourself,” Rex explained.

I surveyed my sons, all standing tall and sturdy; in that moment I wished Mr. Dodgson could see for himself what fine men they were, how brave. Alan was more assured—for he had the military experience, after all; Rex more eager, for he was the most adventurous; Caryl more unconcerned, as if it was simply another jolly party or prank cooked up by one of his friends.

They were not asking my permission to go; they were far too British for that. Yet they did appear to be seeking my blessing, and I knew I had to bestow it in the only way that would allow them to do what they had to do without regret. I would not burden my sons, as I had been burdened myself.

“Worry?” Frowning, I shook my head, as if they had been caught in a minor infraction, such as raiding the biscuit tin. “That was sweet, if misguided, of your father. I’m perfectly capable of talking about all this—I suppose you were going over wills and such? Entirely sensible; it’s something we should all do now and then. I would hope you’d do it even if there wasn’t any war. I should go over my own, now that I think of it. Well, do you have any idea what regiment you’ll join, Caryl, Rex? Not the Rifles?”