Alice I Have Been: A Novel Page 6

  Yet I couldn’t let Mr. Dodgson down. So I resolved to do it myself; I reached behind my shoulder, feeling for the top button; I felt and felt but never did find it, although my shoulder began to ache and little drops of perspiration dribbled down my back. I relaxed, took a deep breath, and tried once more.

  Finally I felt the top button, cold and hard, and managed to push it through its hole. But there were so many buttons still to go! My eyes filled with tears, for I didn’t know what to do, and I didn’t want to bother Mr. Dodgson. Oh, what did little gypsy girls do when they had to get undressed? Suddenly that thin layer of clothing made sense; at least they weren’t so dependent upon adults. I hadn’t realized how helpless I myself was, really—no better than the new baby—until this moment.

  Blinking my eyes—I resolved not to cry, as I knew my nose would get red and ruin the photograph—I tried once more. Reaching down the middle of my back, I groped and groped for a button, until I thought I heard the telltale rip of fabric splitting. I dropped my arm, panicked. How would I explain a torn dress to Mamma?

  “Here, allow me to help,” a kind, soft voice said. I didn’t turn around; I squeezed my eyes shut, letting out my breath in a ragged, soggy burst; not quite tears, though. Then I felt hands—Mr. Dodgson’s hands—upon my back. First one button. Then the next. He carefully—awkwardly—undid all my buttons from the top down, and as the bodice of my dress fell away, I felt the cool breeze tickle my shoulders, working its way down to my waist. Mixed with that breeze was warm, steady breath, and the combination made me shiver.

  “Are you cold?” He sounded worried.

  “N-no,” I lied.

  “You’ll be in the sun soon enough.”

  “I know.”

  My dress was unbuttoned; I started to wriggle out of it but somehow became tangled up in the hem. Mr. Dodgson steadied me, his hands upon my shoulders; his hands felt both warm and cold at the same time. They felt different; they felt—

  Bare. He had removed his gloves.

  My mouth was dry, for some reason. I wished I had some lemonade. Or tea.

  “Here, let’s get you out of the rest,” Mr. Dodgson said, his voice still very soft and patient. His hands, though, were not. They trembled, and twisting around I saw, as he unfastened my top petticoat, that they were stained, black on the fingertips; I hoped they wouldn’t stain my petticoats as well.

  “Is that why you always wear gloves?” I tried to ignore whatever it was that was worrying me; it was too vague, at any rate, to name. I did want to know the answer to my question, though, even as I realized, too late, that it might not be polite to ask.

  “N-no, not really. It’s from the chemicals,” he explained, turning me around so that I faced him. And now that I could see him, see his kind, sad face with the soft cheeks, long eyelashes, as long as any girl’s, I forgot the worry that had sat, uneasily, in the pit of my stomach. I was eager to help; we got my petticoats off in a flash, and it didn’t appear to me that he had left his dirty fingerprints upon them. I pulled my chemise over my head.

  He did look away then, passing his hand over his eyes as if he had a headache. Quickly, I tugged the gypsy dress down over my shoulders; its folds were thin and worn, soft as a caress against my skin.

  “It’s so torn!” It was; it hung over my shoulder in strips; most of my arm was bare. It was also quite short, scarcely covering my knees.

  “Let’s fix it,” Mr. Dodgson said, starting to pull at the fabric with his clumsy, stained fingers. Suddenly, however, he dropped his hands, stood up, and told me, quite sharply, to rumple it myself. Then he went back round the front of the tent, to the camera.

  I followed, tugging on the dress, but something did not feel quite right. Should I tear the dress further? Rub dirt in it? I didn’t feel as unkempt as I had hoped; I still felt like myself. Like Alice.

  “Oh, my shoes!” I realized. I sat down upon the grass, for once not mindful of stains; the ground was cool and damp against the back of my thighs, as the dress did not offer much protection. I removed my stockings and shoes, tossing them away in a heap. Then I jumped up, and I felt the dirt, the tickling grass, the hard little pebbles digging into the bottoms of my tender feet, and I wiggled my toes.

  “It’s wonderful!” I looked up at Mr. Dodgson. He was leaning on his camera, gazing at me, one of his sad, serious smiles on his lips. I felt my skin—my naked, vulnerable skin—warm under his gaze. “How do I look?”

  “Like a gypsy girl. Like a wild little beggar girl. Go on—run about, run all you want, roll if you want. I know you want to!”

  “Oh, I do, I do!” And I did; I jumped about, kicking at branches on the ground—they slapped at my toes, stinging a little; holding on to the trunk, I ran around a tree, rubbing against it, feeling it rough against my arms, tearing at my dress. I ran and ran, round and round, delighting in the freedom—I could lift my legs as high as I wished, for there were no petticoats holding them down; I could run as fast as I desired, too, because my dress was not tight against my waist. I could breathe freely, deeply.

  Finally, I rolled. I rolled in the grass, like a wild creature. I rolled, every leaf, every twig sticking to my dress, my hair, and when I stood up I was so dizzy I fell right back down again. I did not care. Best of all, no one was there to tell me, “Alice, don’t get dirty.” “Alice, don’t tear your dress.” “Alice, don’t lose your gloves.”

  Only Mr. Dodgson was there, watching me, always watching me, looking quite as if he wished he could roll on the ground with me, but that was too silly to contemplate. He smiled, and asked nothing of me other than that I enjoy this moment. And that he be allowed to share it with me.

  “Do I look wild enough?” I shouted, digging up a handful of dirt and crumbling it between my fingers.

  “Quite. Almost too wild—we’ll have to get those leaves out of your hair.”

  “Oh!” I jumped up again, and started shaking my head. I was grateful, for once, that it was short and simple. I could scarcely imagine how difficult it would be to comb leaves and twigs out of Edith’s mass of hair; it would take days, even using one of the stableboy’s hay forks as a comb.

  “You missed one.” Mr. Dodgson pulled me close, bending down, brushing at my wispy hair. His hand—his dry, bare hand—lingered at my temple, and I closed my eyes and leaned into it. I was out of breath and content to rest in the palm of his hand. I believe he was content, too, for when I opened my eyes he was smiling, and while it was dreamy, it wasn’t sad. His eyes, deep blue, brighter than usual, turned up at the edges for once. We stayed that way; somehow our breaths started to match until a bird flew overhead, throwing a shadow across us.

  “The light will be going soon,” Mr. Dodgson said then, looking up at the sky. “Are you ready, gypsy girl?”

  “Yes, kind gentleman. The gypsy girl will pose for you now.”

  “Excellent. Why don’t you stand in the corner, then—up on that ledge, see? Can you balance on it?”

  “Yes.” I did so, although the ledge was cold and a bit slippery, and I had to curl my toes around it.

  “Now. Why don’t you hold your hands out, in front of you—both of them?”

  “Like this?” I turned my palms up and out, just like the poor urchins I’d seen in the streets, the last time we’d been up to London. There had been so many of them, so pale and thin and dirty, but Mamma had said we weren’t to feel sorry for them. They knew their place.

  I could not understand her meaning. Perhaps they knew their place, but they obviously weren’t very content with it. Why else did some of them beg to be taken home with us?

  “Yes, that’s good. Can you hold that?”

  I nodded.

  “I’ll just prepare the plate.” He disappeared inside the tent once more; I stifled a yawn. Rolling on the ground was awfully tiring; so, too, was posing.

  Mr. Dodgson returned, forcing the plate holder into the camera. Instead of hurrying to expose it, however, he walked over to me, moving my hands up, pulling one si
de of the dress down. He smoothed my hair, plucked another leaf out of it, then walked backward—very slowly—toward the camera. He did not take his eyes off me.

  “Lower your head a trifle, Alice, then look up. Look up at me.”

  I did so.

  “No, only your eyes—look at me with your eyes, Alice. Look only at me.”

  His voice sounded strange, thick and unsure. I looked up, keeping my head lowered, using only my eyes, waiting for him to remove the lens cover and count.

  Only he did not.

  “I dr-dreamed of you, Alice,” he said, standing next to the camera, his arms hanging stiffly by his sides, his white shirt rumpled, his face flushed with strange emotion. “I dreamed of you this way. Do you dream, Alice?”

  I looked at him, unsure what to do. Did he desire me to move or answer? If I did, I’d spoil the photograph. Yet he looked so strange, so lost, as if he had forgotten the camera was even there.

  “Y-yes, I do,” I answered slowly, trying to keep my head from moving.

  “What do you dream?”

  “I don’t remember, not usually. Sometimes I dream of animals, or birthdays. I don’t really remember.”

  “I dream when I’m awake sometimes,” he continued, still not moving toward the camera; holding me upright through the power of his gaze. “I rarely dream at night. But during the day, sometimes—I get headaches, Alice. I d-don’t tell people that. But I do.”

  “I’m terribly sorry.”

  “Don’t be. I’m not, because of the dreams I get, beforehand. Do you know what I dream of?”

  “No,” I whispered. I was afraid to move; I was afraid not to.

  “I dream of you,” Mr. Dodgson whispered back. “Of Alice. Wild and charming and ever young, yet also old. I dream of you as you are—and you as you would like to be. As I would like you to be.”

  “Which am I now?” I tried very hard to understand what he meant, but his words would turn and twist, allowing me no clear path to follow.

  “You’re who you want to be. You always are.”

  “Mayn’t I just be the gypsy girl now, please?” My legs were on the verge of trembling from holding the same position for so long; my shoulders wanted to twitch; every part of me desired to move. It was getting colder by the minute, and there was nothing between me and the brisk autumn air.

  Finally Mr. Dodgson remembered the camera. He gave a little start, shook his head—which worried me, because I didn’t want him to get one of his headaches—and looked at me again, but he only looked at the outside me. The position of my hands, the turn of my head. He did not, this time, see something else; someone else.

  “Good, good. Look at me.”

  I did, and was relieved to see that he looked as usual. He removed the lens cover, made an amusing face at me, daring me not to laugh, and began to count, although just in the regular way.

  “Forty-three, forty-four, forty-five. There!” He replaced the cover, removed the holder, and darted back under the tent without even a backward glance.

  I slid off the ledge—the arch of my foot ached—and looked around. After the strange closeness of the last few minutes—it was almost as if Mr. Dodgson and I had been the only two people alive in the entire world—I felt abandoned. A sad little gypsy girl, left behind to fend for herself—how tragic! How unfair life was to wretched little girls forced to beg in the streets, at the mercy of gentlemen, kind gentlemen, but perhaps not so kind ones; for the first time, I wondered if some gentlemen might not be as understanding as Mr. Dodgson, which only made me miss him more. Even though he was merely a few feet away, I felt something gigantic, like an ocean or a universe, separated us. I wondered if we’d ever be that close again.

  So bereft did I feel that when he emerged with the plate holder in his hand to pose me once more, I laughed out loud, a laugh of pure happiness. It must have been contagious, for he began to giggle as well; he threw his head back and laughed at the sky, a hearty laugh I’d never heard from him before. It sounded full and satisfied, as if it originated from someplace deep inside. We were both laughing, although neither of us could have voiced just why, when all of a sudden Ina was before us. Face pinched, hands trembling, eyes ablaze.

  “Where have you been, Alice?” Her voice was high and strained; it sounded as if she was trying not to cry. “I’ve been looking all over for you.”

  “I stole her,” Mr. Dodgson said with a smile for Ina, a conspiratorial wink for me. “I kidnapped her.”

  “You?” Now I believed she was going to cry; she blinked her eyes, over and over, and took a step back, just as Mr. Dodgson turned to greet her.

  “I’m afraid so. It was such a lovely day, I sent round a note this morning.”

  “Just for Alice?” Ina managed to smooth her face, turning a deceptively placid gaze toward him.

  “Yes, you see—I knew you would be such a help to your mother today, so I couldn’t possibly have been so selfish as to send for you. How is she, may I ask?” He smiled at her, so unruffled; I had to admire him. I knew I couldn’t have manufactured such a smashing lie on such short notice. I hadn’t imagined him to be capable of deception; today had been a revelation, in so many ways.

  “She—she’s doing well, and we have a baby sister named Rhoda, which is why I was looking for Alice.”

  Another sister! I already had two; I couldn’t begin to think what I would do with another one. I didn’t mind brothers so much; I hardly ever saw Harry anymore, but when he was home, Mamma and Papa were always so happy it was like having a holiday every day. Another sister was tremendously disappointing; I couldn’t suppress a sigh.

  “That’s wonderful,” Mr. Dodgson said. Ina simply shrugged, then turned back to me, snub little nose in the air, as if I smelled as distasteful as I must have looked to her.

  “Alice, what on earth are you wearing?”

  “Doesn’t she look marvelous?” Mr. Dodgson said, before I could open my mouth. “I had an idea for an unusual photograph, as you can see, and Alice has been most cooperative.”

  They stood side by side, close but not together, and looked at me. Almost naked in my torn dress, I felt exposed, betrayed—and then, suddenly, alarmingly, powerful. It was I they were looking for; it was I they were looking at; it was I, clad in nothing but rags, whom Mr. Dodgson had dreamed of.

  Not Ina.

  Suddenly I was proud, I was defiant, I was sure. Sure that it was I who drew Mr. Dodgson to our house, time and time again, causing people to gossip, Mamma to fret, Pricks to sigh and be ridiculous—Ina to pale and quiver and act so maddeningly.

  Ina was sure, too. Perhaps I should have been afraid of that, but right then, wild and powerful and victorious, I was not. I placed my hand on my hip, held my hand out—the little gypsy girl who wasn’t to be pitied, after all.

  “Hold it,” Mr. Dodgson breathed, as he ran to the camera and shoved in the plate holder. “Don’t move—that’s perfect!”

  I wouldn’t; I couldn’t. For I was looking right at Ina, standing next to Mr. Dodgson. Looking at her face, mouth open, face pale, eyes red-rimmed, entire body quivering. She stared at him; she stared at me. Storing it all away, she didn’t utter a word.

  Neither did I. I didn’t have to. I had won.

  “Forty-five,” Mr. Dodgson said, and replaced the lens cover with a loud snap—happily unaware that he was the prize.

  “I won’t forget this, Alice,” Ina hissed, blinking her eyes furiously, as he disappeared inside the dark tent. “I’m still older than you. You’re only a child, after all. I’ll make him see.”

  “He already does see,” I shot back, understanding more than Ina, for once.

  I held my breath as Mr. Dodgson packed away the glass plates, for they were fragile; I did not want the evidence of this day to crack or break or vanish in any way. I wanted to live on, always, as the beggar girl, his gypsy child, wild and knowing and triumphant.

  What I did not understand, despite all my newly acquired wisdom, was that others might not see me—m
ight not want to see me—that way, too.

  Chapter 4

  • • •

  AS WISE AS I WAS AT AGE SEVEN, IT WAS NOTHING COMPARED to how very much I knew as I passed eight, then nine; ten, then eleven.

  At eight, I began dancing lessons, organized by Mamma with a few other Oxford children whom we weren’t encouraged to otherwise befriend. However, learning to dance a quadrille would have been impossible with just the three of us.

  At that age I also realized that even though spinsters were supposed to be treated kindly, in actuality everyone talked about them behind their backs and complained about how much money it cost to support them.

  At nine, I began to learn French, courtesy of a plump don of languages who favored mauve vests and insisted upon kissing us on both cheeks, even though he always reeked of sardines.

  It was around this age, too, when I discovered that it was useless to try to convince governesses that even if “little girls can catch more flies with honey than with vinegar,” the truth is one can catch the most flies with horse manure. Governesses, I was learning, were not concerned with practicalities.

  At ten, I was started on Latin, taught by a don who was as musty and ancient as the language he taught; when he opened his mouth, I always expected to see cobwebs and dust come flying out.

  I also realized, at ten, that somehow there was always a “servant problem.” If only to provide ladies of a certain class a topic of conversation on which to agree.

  At eleven—the age at which I started to learn domestic arts so that someday I might have a “servant problem” of my very own—I finally understood what Mr. Ruskin had meant that day in Mamma’s parlor, when he said “perception is reality.”

  For Ina’s perception became my reality. The one thing I had still to learn was that it could become other people’s as well.