When Audrey Met Alice (15 page)

November 16, 1902

Diary—

Well, lo and behold: Alice is in big trouble again. Maggie and I, along with some other friends, did head to Benning track last Saturday. After checking for reporters, I proudly stepped up to a bookie and placed several bets. I won plenty, Diary! I shrieked and jumped up and down, clicking my heels, letting out unladylike war whoops. One less dress I have to worry about refashioning for the holiday season.

However, some sneaky camera-fiend at the track managed to snap pictures of me placing that bet, and now hell hath broken loose. My father’s advisers are wringing their hands, crying that this will ruin him politically, because “he has permitted me to become a ‘scarlet woman.’” The words of the WCTU biddies, again. Oh, and apparently they have also taken issue with my public gum chewing—the advisers were moaning about that too. Would they rather my breath reeked of tobacco?

Anyway, although the papers reported my bet, they did so as a rumor, and some of my father’s friends managed to stop the sale of the photographs and retrieve the images. I asked Edith if I might frame the snapshots and hang them in my bedroom. She frowned and ripped them to shreds. I am a bit disappointed. Betting becomes me.

Also disappointed is my father. After the interest I took in the coal strike and the good work I’ve done charming Prince Henry, the French delegation, and all those people down in Cuba—he thought I was growing into a real asset for his political career. But now he says he’s not so sure if
I’m
not another publicity fiend taking advantage of his important position. Diary, that stung. His own daughter out to take advantage of him! I profess, some of my greatest memories since we became the family in the White House were those I spent helping my father out. When he said we were both “Toughs” and could host the French together—well, moments like that are when I think that maybe I do belong in this family after all.

He remains highly annoyed about the whole betting debacle and although I’ve tried to stop by his office and inquire about politics or philosophy, he’s brushed me off. Have I really crossed the final line? I know I’ve said that I want to escape my federal prison, but I wish to do so on my own terms. Not get sent off in shame once again. Did I make my fears of another abandonment by my father come true? Please let that not be so.

TTOSBT,

Alice

December 12, 1902

Diary—

What a mess I’ve made of things lately. I’ve alienated my father after working so hard to get into his good graces; I’ve let my heart be broken by Arthur Iselin; and I’ve even bet a bit too much in poker. The holiday season should be merry, but I feel bleak. No one has been paying much attention to poor me lately at all of the holiday parties and dinners. I have been bringing Emily Spinach out to play when I can get away with it, so I don’t completely fade into the wallpaper. I also started eating asparagus with my fingers, while wearing my elbow-length gloves, until my stepmother noticed and made a huge fuss. That detail made the newspaper gossip, which seems stupid. Shouldn’t there be more important things for reporters to write about than my asparagus-eating habits? The East Coast isn’t freezing this winter thanks to my father’s Square Deal—maybe that’s why the press has so much free time to report on my table manners.

Today I went to Bye’s house, my sanctuary, and visited with her and Cowles until evening. We had a nice fireside chat, during which she urged me to repair my relationship with my father. She suggested, in a gentle way, that it was time for me to find ways to be rebellious while being a lady. She also said, “Perhaps, my darling, you need to stop focusing so much on how you are separate from our clan and more on the ways in which you can integrate yourself with your family—even Edith.” Loneliness and sadness and self-pity are like vines, according to Bye, and they have ways of overtaking whomever they are growing on. One must cut them off lest they grow unchecked. It reminded me of what the preacher likes to say, “God helps those who help themselves.” Maybe they’re both right.

To Thine Own Self Be True,

Alice

February 6, 1903

Diary—

Since I last wrote, we celebrated Christmas and I have been to New York and back. Christmas was jolly enough—I slept in until noon and then went shopping on the eve. On Christmas Day, my father gave me a fascinating baby pistol, and I skipped out on church to practice target shooting on the glass garden houses on the South Lawn (they will be removed as part of the renovations, lest you think I was committing a federal offense by riddling them with bullet holes). Like my father, I am quite the shot. I also received an etiquette manual as a gift, which I have grudgingly studied.

I left for New York after the holiday, thinking I needed a change of pace to pick up my spirits. Despite a civil holiday, my parents and I were still at odds. Yet social rounds in New York only made me feel homesick. In the midst of one dull dinner, I meditated on my last conversation with Bye. Then I had an epiphany—that I must work to find a home within my family. So I sent a telegram to my parents, telling them I would be home to them earlier than expected. I added, “Father: will make self useful as well as ornamental.” I hopped the next train to Washington. When I walked in, my family was waiting for me in the reception room. “My darling daughter, my little Tough is home!” my father cried as I entered the room. The little ones ran up to hug me. I said something barbed but witty, to distract everyone from the fact that their welcome brought tears to my eyes.

Later that day, I marched into my father’s office. I told him I was ready to be of service to him, to help his political career and stop hindering it. His eyes twinkled in a way that suggested he didn’t believe me, but he said, “Go on. Tell me how you’d like to help.” Very seriously, I said that I am a real asset when I travel and that I can charm a crowd like few other women can. I wanted him to use “Princess Alice” as an ambassador. As a child, I begged him, “let me loose in your library.” Now I begged him to let me loose in the world, and let me spread goodwill for his administration.

And then he gave me permission to go down to New Orleans for Mardi Gras! I can’t imagine anything more enthralling than a real New Orleans Mardi Gras—parties, parades, masquerades, balls, and the like. It will be bully fun. I will be staying in luxury at the McIlhenny home on Avery Island, right where they make the famous Tabasco pepper sauce. I expect I will get to indulge in spicy food again!

The best part is, my father said that this is a test—if I behave myself in the midst of Mardi Gras, he will send me on more trips abroad. Sometime soon, a delegation must go to meet the emperors of China and Japan. If I prove myself reliable and worthy, like I did in Cuba, I will travel to the Orient. I am so happy, Diary—happy that I will be getting a chance to eat up the world, and happy that my father’s trust in me is coming back at long last.

To Thine Own Self Be True,

Alice

February 12, 1903

Diary—

I think I may have fallen in love again.

Today was my birthday. The whole clan ate breakfast together, and I received some presents—a new dress (Alice blue, of course), a new purse (large enough for my four essentials), and some needlepoint materials from Edith. She said she will teach me how to make new pillows for my room. I know what I will embroider on one—“If you can’t say something good about someone, sit right here by me.”

My father took an hour on my birthday morning to sit in his library and talk with me—talk about great ideas, about great thinkers (whose books he gave me, including more Mark Twain). Someone stopped in while we were speaking, to ask him about some union issue, but Father actually told him he must wait until he was done conversing with me—and that he was busy teaching me to be an ambassador to his presidency. Father said I am the brightest young lady he’s ever encountered and how proud of that he is. I had to struggle not to cry (again!), but I succeeded. The sadness I’ve been carrying around due to all of our scuffles the past few years—it just lifted a little more. He did say that while he knows I will always be high-spirited, if I want to help him I will have to choose wisely how I let my spirits carry me in public. I suppose I can be distinctive without shocking people for the heck of it. Well, most of the time.

I spent the afternoon at Bye’s, preparing for a dinner I would hold there for some friends in my social circle. Lila and Maggie attended, and a few Knickerbocker boys. But the most interesting (to my girlish heart) attendee was Nick Longworth. Nick is a Harvard fellow, and like my father, he was a member of the Porcellian Club there. That’s why Nick attended my party—my father thought we might enjoy each other’s company. I doubt it crossed his mind that I might be less interested in Nick’s tales of Harvard life and more in his dashing figure and slick mustache. He’s quite a bit older than I am but one of the most eligible bachelors in Washington.

Although I could be a ninny and wax philosophic on Nick’s dapper clothing or his sparkling and smart eyes, I won’t. Instead, I will tell you that I have met a chap who likes to tell a joke as much as I do, who is known to be an excellent gambler (and he admitted to hearing tales of my impressive winning streaks and begged to see the photographs from the day at Benning), who loves travel and adventure, and who is as passionate about politics as my father. It’s not often that I meet someone as tough, smart, brash, and lively as a Roosevelt. Nick is the sort of person who wouldn’t be intimidated from a hunting trip with Father or a night debating politics with Bye.

And, you know, unlike most people I come across, he never once asked a question about my father. Instead, he wanted to know my opinions, why I loved Twain so, what my tales of Cuba were, and my secrets to gambling success. Me, Diary. He took an interest in me.

I always dream about finding a suitor who has a compatible spirit, someone who likes to be a little conspicuous and a bit renegade. But most of all, someone who will see me outside my father’s formidable shadow. Dare I think that I may have found someone like that? I know I have cried “wolf” with matters of the heart before, but I think I might’ve found a person who can free me from fears of being “poor Alice,” who won’t help me escape the White House but will escape with me into the greater world, so I can really start living my life. We shall see, Diary.

To Thine Own Self Be True,

Alice

And like that, the diary was over. I had to set it on my desk as soon as I turned the last page because I couldn’t stop the tears rolling down my face, and I didn’t want to mess up the ink on any of the pages.
How
am
I
going
to
survive
without
any
more
of
Alice’s stories?
I could research her life, and I definitely would, now that it wouldn’t spoil the diary’s secrets. But it wouldn’t be the same. It was weird, but I missed Alice already.

I sat up in bed, sniffling and thinking. The combination of Alice’s diary and my heart-to-heart with Harrison the night before gave me an amazing idea—how I could use my situation in the White House for good
and
make myself feel “useful as well as ornamental,” like Alice wrote. Maybe my actions weren’t going to be as free as I’d like while I lived in 1600, but that didn’t mean I had to stifle my words. Step one: get back my Internet access.

“Harrison, I need the Internet to do some homework,” I whined the next morning over scrambled eggs and bacon in the Solarium.

He peered over his
Washington
Post
at me. “I didn’t just fall off a turnip truck, Audi.” He snapped the paper back open, mumbling from behind it, “I don’t want to face your mom’s wrath for letting you break the rules.”

“You mean breaking
more
rules,” I corrected him. “I swear it’s for research. I need to write an essay on civil rights. Please let me get a little Wikipedia action in?” I pleaded. “I’ll even use your laptop so you can check the history.”

Harrison sighed and set the paper down. “Okay, but I will check it—if you stray from homework-y sites, you are in deep crap.” I grinned and clapped my hands. “I never thought I’d see a teenage girl clap about getting to do research,” Harrison said, shaking his head. “Much less on something history-related. I need to tweet this to my cronies.”

I had already jumped up and cleared my dishes to a bussing tray. “I’m gonna go get started if you don’t mind.”

“Go right ahead. Laptop’s logged in and sitting on the desk.”

“Thanks!” I took off for the Lincoln Bedroom, taking the stairs two at a time.

The first thing I searched for was “same-sex marriage,” which turned up a ton of articles, so I narrowed down what I wanted to focus on: states that allowed it, arguments in support of it, and anything related to human and civil rights. I scribbled useful facts in one of my school journals as I clicked from site to site. The more I read, the more riled up I got. I even downloaded a copy of the Constitution and read it. By the time lunch was ready, I had a bunch of notes in my journal. Enough info for me to write a persuasive essay.

Harrison and I spent the rest of the weekend having a movie marathon in 1600’s theater. We couldn’t agree on any choices, so we alternated picks—Harrison kept selecting the classics, but it was okay because one was
Roman
Holiday
. Not only did it give me some ideas for sneaking off to New York, but Princess Anne reminded me of Alice, and maybe also me. When she talked about her “duty,” it gave me the chills. I had responsibilities I didn’t ask for, so maybe I had a duty too. I thought more about my essay. Maybe I should revisit the idea of making marriage equality my First Daughter platform.

After we’d already watched four films, Harrison bolted upright in his seat. “My goodness, you’re not supposed to be watching
movies
!” He clapped his hand over his mouth in horror. “That was part of the house arrest!”

I laughed hysterically. “I can’t believe you let me watch
four
before you remembered!”

“Look at you, taking advantage of me in a senior moment,” Harrison
tsked
.

“Um, you’re forty-four. That’s too young for that excuse, and you know it,” I shot back.

“Please, please,
please
don’t tell your mom and dad, though. Seriously.” He sighed. “I am the worst prison guard.”

“I pinkie swear I won’t tell,” I said solemnly, holding out my pinkie. Harrison rolled his eyes but presented his, and we linked and shook our hands.

• • •

On Monday Harrison flew back to Madison and I went back to Friends. I kept trying to explain myself to Quint—staking out his locker and stalking his class schedule, but he proved strangely adept at making himself unfindable. I sent him long apology e-mails from the computer lab. I even shoved an apology letter through the vents in his locker, but got no response. It was eating me up inside. I e-mailed Debra and begged her for advice.

After school, I curled up in bed with my laptop, Internet privileges newly restored. Which was actually a terrible thing, because Facebook was full of pictures of my classmates having fun at Madeline’s party—including Quint. He’d even changed his relationship status to “It’s Complicated.”
As
in
something
complicated
with
Madeline, maybe?
I guess he’d written me off completely after I got him into trouble last week, and I couldn’t really blame him.
I
know
how
Alice
felt
now
when
she
lost
Arthur. And it’s horrible. Unbearable.
I collapsed into a wailing heap; this felt as bad as when I had to move away from my crush Paul. Or maybe even worse—I felt like Paul was my Edward, and Quint was my Arthur. I knew which one haunted Alice’s broken heart in entry after entry.
Is
Quint
going
to
haunt
mine
now too?

Eventually, I stopped crying. I washed my face and sat back down to check my e-mail, resolving to stop torturing myself and stay off Facebook indefinitely. A response from Debra was waiting in my inbox. I clicked it open immediately.

To: ‘Audrey Rhodes’ [email protected]

From: ‘Debra Amesquita’ [email protected]

Re: Hello!

Hi Audrey,

I can’t tell you how nice it was to get your e-mail. Thanks for your kind words and thoughts about my daughter. We had good news from her doctor this week and are very hopeful! I’ll keep you posted.

I’m sorry you’re having a tough time with Quint. I know you didn’t mean to hurt his feelings. If you’ve already apologized and told him how you feel, sometimes you simply need to give people space. If I have any advice for when you feel like things are going poorly, Audrey, it’s that focusing on helping others almost always makes you feel better about yourself and your problems. It’s a good way of taking your mind off things and staying patient. A good book helps too.

Oh, and you
did
inspire my e-mail address. Isn’t it great? My grandkids love it. So thank you!

Keep in touch, and take care. I hope I’ll be seeing you soon.

Love,

Debra

P.S. I told Maurice that he needs to master my cookie recipes and keep the kitchen stocked with them AT ALL TIMES.

I sat silently at my desk for a few minutes after reading it, absorbing Debra’s words.
“Focusing on helping others almost always makes you feel better about yourself and your problems.”
It was time for step two of my plan to be a Fido force of good. I pulled out my notes on civil rights and marriage equality, and started to write. When my essay was polished and exactly how I wanted it, I printed out a copy and ran down to the West Wing, to Denise’s office. She was bent over her desk, working. I knocked and startled her. She motioned for me to come in.

“Your parents are en route,” she said, still glancing down at the papers on her desk. I took a seat in front of her, clutching my essay.

“Actually, I was hoping to talk to you.” A framed diploma from Georgetown Law School caught my eye. “You went to Georgetown? Tell me all about it!” It was time to try the elbow-in-the-soup treatment one more time.

Denise looked up, surprised. I noticed at that point that the coffee mug on her desk had a Georgetown seal.
She
must
adore
her
alma
mater.
Jackpot.
Denise actually grinned at me. “I did. I absolutely loved my time there. Undergrad and law school.”

“You must’ve always wanted to be near the capital, I suppose.”

Another rare Denise smile. “You got it.”

“What was your
favorite
part of being a student there?” I leaned forward, resting my elbow on her desk.

“Hmm. I don’t know if I could pick one thing. I had wanted to come to Washington, D.C., since I was your age, when I first got interested in politics and government—” Denise went on to tell me about the Model UN club she founded at her high school and how she was student-council president, and how she started reading the
Washington
Post
at age nine. Back then, she drew her own political cartoons as a hobby. I nodded and
oohed
and
ahhed
and channeled Alice and her Aunt Corinne as best I could. Denise ate it up.

After fifteen minutes of the treatment, I felt like it was time to make my request. “I’m getting interested in politics too, Denise. The nut doesn’t fall too far from the tree!” I grinned. “Do you think I could work on creating a platform?”

“I certainly think so!”

I held out my essay. “I wrote an opinion piece, actually, on civil rights.”

Denise glanced at the papers I held out. “Like a school essay?”

“Basically,” I said. “But I want other people to read it.”

“Let me—” The phone buzzed, interrupting her. I could see her interest in me fading.

“Can I put it online?” I asked quickly.

“For school? I don’t see why not.” I couldn’t believe how cool she was being about it.

“Well, more than school. Do you want to read it first?”

“Mmm-hmm.” Denise was typing something into her phone. “Leave a copy, and I’ll try to.” She motioned to a stack of memos and file folders on her desk. “Sorry, Audrey. Now I need to return that call. Nice chatting.”

“Yeah, it was.” I meant it too. The elbow-in-the-soup treatment, when it worked, was amazing. I’d never seen Denise act that human before.

I went back upstairs and started figuring out how to get my essay out in the world. I figured after the talking-to from the press secretary, the big papers would never run a letter from me. Better to think of a blog. I knew from hearing all of the staff talk about it that
Squawker
had a huge readership.
Perfect
. It only took a few minutes on their site to find a submissions e-mail address, and shortly after I clicked Send. I smiled and sunk back onto my pillows.
Debra’s right. It feels good, trying to help out other people.
Perhaps my parents would see me taking an interest in political causes for once and feel proud of me, like Teddy Roosevelt did of Alice when she talked to him about that miners’ strike. Maybe I could be an asset for my mom too.