Alice Unbound

by Colleen Anderson

  The expression on Bunni’s face revealed her exact feeling about that statement.

  “I know, I know,” said Alice, “but you hafta trust me on this!”

  “Listen,” she said, “I know people tend to experiment a little when they come to places like this, but honey, what did you take?”

  “I didn’t take, well, okay, yeah, but, you don’t get it. Bong Guy said—”

  “Bong Guy. Said what?”

  “The signal! And then the sprinklers. So I ate the tart, and then there they were. Everywhere. Purple and green and orange and I think their Queen has a Sixties bouffant, so—”

  “Alice—”

  “Wait! The phone!” Alice grabbed their cell and shoved one earbud into Bunni’s ear and the other into their own.

  “Tell her, app!” they shouted.

  As creepy smiley metalhead app began to explain, Bunni’s understanding didn’t seem to deepen one bit. She quickly removed the earbud.

  “Where did you get this phone?”

  “Some guy online. Got a deal second-hand. Mint condition.”

  “Alice, you’re losing it.”

  “There they are!” screamed Cwen as she charged ahead of her guard toward Alice and Bunni. “That’s the thief who cheated me out of my money. And after I’d been so generous, too! Grab them!”

  “Run, Bunni!”

  “Wait, what? What money – HEY!” An alien reached out and pulled Bunni away. “HEY! ALICE!”

  With Bunni dragged off and Cwen barrelling toward them, Alice turned left and right and left and right like someone with no sense of direction.

  “The pink flamingo!” shouted the app.

  “What flipping flamingo?” cried Alice.

  The flashlight of the phone pointed toward a plastic pink flamingo standing upright beside one of the columns just ahead.

  “Get it, now!”

  “AAAALICE!” screamed Bunni.

  Alice bolted for the pink flamingo.

  “Pick it up,” said the app.

  They did and clutched it in their arms. Cwen and her troops were closing in.

  “Point and shoot!” shouted the app.

  “Point what and shoot where?”

  “The feet. Aim the feet at the aliens and squeeze the beak!”

  “Arrest this person at once, and all their accomplices!” ordered Cwen.

  As stupid as they felt doing this, Alice aimed the flamingo and fired. The blast emitted a pulse that disintegrated Cwen and a few guards, but had no effect on the human bystanders.

  “Good shot,” said Bong Guy, arriving at the scene with his own flamingo. “Between the two of us, we’ll make quick work of these douchecanoes!”

  Alice and Bong Guy waved plastic birds at random patrons like lunatics. Onlookers could not perceive the blasts coming from the weapons. They could, however, see the patrons disappear, and must have wondered how Alice and Bong Guy pulled that off without any smoke and mirrors. A few people applauded, thinking it a wonderful illusion. Others stopped drinking, fearing someone had spiked the punch.

  Just as Bong Guy had predicted, the Rabbit Hole was clear in no time. Alice also satisfied a particular bloodlust by vaporizing the purple-people-snatcher who’d tried to abduct Bunni.

  Alice rushed to Bunni and held her tightly. She wrapped her arms around them.

  “All right, all right, I like you, too,” she said. “I’ve no idea how you frightened away that loser with only a lawn ornament, but thanks.”

  Alice pulled away and touched her cheek. “I need to kiss you now, okay?”

  Bunni smiled. “Sure.” She pressed her lips against theirs.

  Remarkably, Gryfünn hadn’t stop playing throughout the alien extermination. Alice inwardly cringed at how their first kiss with Bunni would forever be immortalized in one of these inane songs. Oh well, they thought with a shrug, and kept kissing her.

  “You want me to explain why all of this happened in the first place?” asked the app through the bud still lodged in Alice’s ear. “You see, this race had been studying Earth for decades. They felt The Garden would be the perfect neighbourhood to blend in while they gained further intelligence to help plan the coup of this planet. We of the resistance decided—”

  Alice pulled away again. “Maybe tell me more…later.” They tucked their earbud into their pocket and offered their hands to Bunni. She took them and pressed her body against theirs. The couple caressed and kissed without any worries of purple poker-playing aliens, as they slow-danced to Gryfünn’s syrupy ballad, Don’t Wake Me Up If This Is a Dream.

  REFLECTIONS OF ALICE

  Christine Daigle

  The Duchess holds her breath, waiting for Richard to answer the phone.

  …four rings…five…

  How long since they’ve talked? Two months? Three? Not that it matters. They’ll continue right where they left off. They’ve always been like that.

  …six rings…seven…

  When she’s about to asphyxiate, he finally picks up. She heaves out his name. “Richard!”

  “Celia?” His voice echoes over background noise; chairs slide across hard floors, glasses clink. And there’s another sound among the commotion. The laughter of a young woman.

  “Sorry about the racket,” Richard says. “Setting up for tonight’s gala.”

  Even with the distortion, his voice is so warm she wants to cry. He must have seen videos of her vomiting. Everyone has since the clip went viral. But it doesn’t matter. She and Richard share an unbreakable bond. He’s that little black dress you can count on. The one that always flatters you (not like Jean-Archer – another name on her list of fleeting love affairs). As her business partner in the fashion world – and the only person she’s ever truly counted on – the Duchess expects Richard to look after her interests.

  “The signal’s terrible, but I’d really love to talk to you. Will you come?” he asks.

  Of course she will. It’s the only place she wants to go. Running to Richard. Like always.

  As she meticulously dresses, she almost feels better. With spirits slightly lifted, she glides into the limo and sinks into buttery seats. For a moment, a translucent ghost haunts the window, city lights adding platinum sparkles to her hair. The phantom image submerges her in the depths of its ichor.

  Nineteen years old, she wears a chiton-style dress on her date with Richard. The resulting photos of her with the scion propel her into the spotlight. Dubbed the Duchess by the media, she’s suddenly an object of scrutiny. Their relationship intensifies – fame, fortune, a thriving business…then marriage.

  On the night of their wedding, she shares a memory…

  When she was fifteen, a friend signed her up for an art class. It was supposed to be fun. On her canvas, she attempted to paint a flower-filled vase. While her friend showed promise, the Duchess got the proportions all wrong. Frustrated, she gave up. The open window let in a city breeze, rust and sausage, and air currents tickled the white roses and foxgloves. She noticed where the light was harsh, the petals looked severe. Where the light diffused, the bouquet looked beautiful. Anything can look beautiful in the right light.

  The instructor approached. His fingertips brushed hers. Like this. Confident, masterful sweeps: his lines were gorgeous.

  Class after class she tried. He stayed close, leaned over, pressed his chest against her back. I can’t do it, she said. He showed her again. The brush began to flow. When he took his hand away, she made clumsy marks. He offered comfort. Maybe you won’t make beautiful paintings, but you are beautiful. Flawless. Surely that’s enough.

  Once she realized she’d never be an artist, it took little to convince her to model. You have to be my masterpiece. Sit for me.

  In his private studio, a darkened bedroom in his apartment, no bigger than a closet, he told her to hold still as he went about his work. It will take many months to complete. We must go slowly, meticulously. I have a perfectionist streak.

  Unopened tubes of paint lined the easel’s
ledge, waiting to serve their purpose. In that room, where a satin robe hung on the back of the door, she didn’t like his strokes, different than those from class: stretching, reaching. She had a lingering sense to bolt. The way a wrong smell hovers and warns you off. The way she was back to smelling city rust and sausage.

  As the portrait took shape, she studied the light, shifted this way and that, finding the perfect position to catch the lamp’s glow. Like the flowers in his studio, certain angles made her look flawless. That feeling, the euphoria of immortal beauty, lodged deep.

  And then the tubes of paint knocked to the floor, red and ochre, honey and grey, stroke, stroke. Eventually, he said it was a mistake.

  I’ve done everything you asked for nothing? she shouted over ripping seams, the satin robe stretched between them. I can’t carry on, he said. Go home! So, she let it go, knowing she wouldn’t get what she wanted. She let it all go; the canvas, the masterpiece, the immortality. All but the words he shouted as she left. Can life imitate art?

  She tells Richard maybe it meant she was too beautiful to paint. That the painting instructor hoped she’d stay untouched by the ephemeral. It was all very profound.

  Now, the limo pulls up to the hotel. When the driver opens the door, the reflection distorts, and the looking glass evaporates. The Duchess steps out; well-toned legs between slits of a rippling dress. She moves through the faux marble lobby, then down the hall, until she emerges between the ballroom’s post-modern columns. Busy floral carpet matches cheap crown-moulding. The stage curtains are heavy velvet.

  In the center of the room, Richard’s encircled by charity benefactors from their favourite charity, the Jonas Institute. Research pioneers, exploring the foundations of life, cutting-edge cures in neuroscience, genetics, and immunology, the non-profit helps find new treatments for cancer, Alzheimer’s, childhood diabetes, and ridding animal organs of harmful viruses, practically eliminating the need for organ donors. Nothing looks better than supporting life-saving science. Richard’s new fascination, a recent branch of the Jonas Institute, makes bionic assistive technology and robotic prostheses.

  As she enters, the buzz of conversation quiets. She’s warm from her brisk walk; skin luminescent with moisture, figure slim, smile bright. She takes another step. Richard breaks into a grin. And then, the Duchess is enveloped with applause and adoration. She savours it. Why not? She’s earned it.

  It’s not long before a socialite she knows, Hugh Mayer, takes her arm. “You’re here!” His tone encourages. “Have some Champagne.”

  “I don’t see any servers.”

  “Well, I’m sure they’ll be along shortly. I hope they haven’t run out.” Hugh glances at his watch. “I’m glad you’re not hiding,” he adds. “So much talk. Best to face it head on.”

  Then she’s pulled away by someone else, then someone else, and they discuss wealth, privilege, giving back.

  Eventually, she spots a blonde at the bar. One she hasn’t seen before. And maybe Richard’s youngest yet. The Duchess can pass for thirty. A great thirty. But it’s no match for youth; for a blushed nineteen-year-old face.

  They’re always young, blonde, stunning, well mannered. They only speak when spoken to. So, the Duchess doesn’t speak to them. She has more important people to impress. Other donors come up and squeeze her, and talk, talk.

  A spokeswoman from the Jonas Institute takes the stage, steps up to the microphone. The Duchess loses sight of the blonde as everyone shuffles for a better view. The spokeswoman is saying, “…the innovations you’re about to see wouldn’t be possible without the generous contributions of our donors. A special thanks to our top supporter, the wonderful Richard, for hosting…”

  Everyone applauds, and Richard gives a dignified nod, practiced humble acceptance of others’ admiration.

  “To express their deep gratitude,” the spokeswoman calls over the clapping, “please welcome those whose lives have changed because of your benevolence.”

  The parade starts. The cured limp and roll across the stage on motor-powered arms and legs, exoskeletons with clunky Velcro straps; a grotesque display of crude anatomy. The miracles wear broad grins, some lopsided. She maintains a serene smile, but her eyes feel too wide, and she can’t do anything about it, can’t look away.

  And then, Richard and the chief engineer, Jack, are next to her.

  “What wonderful work,” the Duchess says.

  “Maybe they could model in our shows,” Richard says. “A new definition of beauty. Cutting edge. Never done before.”

  “Splendid idea.” She uses a cadence of genuine interest. Then, as Jack turns to receive congratulations, she leans in close to Richard and whispers, “Don’t be gross.”

  He laughs.

  “Can you imagine what the media would say? They’d think we’re mad.”

  “Same old Celia. As you get older, your perceptions change.”

  “But standards of beauty don’t.”

  “I know it’s hard to grow old.” Sympathy seeps into his voice. “How are you managing?”

  “Better now that I’m here. I needed to escape for a while.”

  He takes her hand. “Is Jean-Archer on his way out?”

  She shrugs. “I don’t love him.”

  “I know.” He releases her, then gives a raw smile.

  She wonders if he pictures her as she was when they first met, whether he superimposes her teenage self over what his eyes see. Smitten. The real thing. He sees her in the best possible light.

  “I still love you,” he says. “Always have. Always will.”

  “I love you, too.”

  “It doesn’t matter though, does it?”

  And then he’s off, slipping through the crowd. The Duchess accepts Champagne from a server and takes a long drink. Engaged in pleasantries and small talk, she feels worn out. As the sparkling beverage imparts warmth, her attention drifts into the fluted glass. Light curves and she tumbles into its distortions.

  The Duchess wants to be remembered by the iconic, black and white photograph that appears in the media nearly every time she’s mentioned: she’s leaning against a balcony’s wrought-iron railing overlooking Paris. Tailored jacket. Wingtip Mary Janes. A below-the-knee-dress belted at the waist. The light hits her perfectly.

  A man bumps her arm, shifting her attention from the Champagne flute. She quickly smooths her irritation away. The last thing she needs is more bad press. The fashion industry has many expectations. Stay fit. Don’t look your age. Her thoughts turn to the vomit video. People are fascinated by images that produce a visceral reaction. Vomit. Sneezing. Rage. Visions of ugliness are the ones that inhabit memory. She drains the glass, but refuses to look into its depths. The Champagne tickles her insides until she nearly laughs at her foolishness. Public drunkenness is a terrible idea. Maybe she’s starting a new trend, adding more items to her list of latest concepts. Before she knows it, she’s at the bar. She’d only meant to find a seat until the tipsy feeling passes. But here’s the blonde right beside her. Hauntingly beautiful, the girl looks the way the Duchess would have if her features were perfectly symmetrical; a lovelier version of her.

  “I recognize you.” The girl’s voice is timid.

  “Undoubtedly. And who might you be?”

  “Alice,” the girl says politely, but her stare says she’s not fooled by the Duchess’ feigned ignorance. Hands folded in her lap, she lowers her eyes. “Although Richard says I’m still young and figuring out who I am.”

  “And who do you want to be?” the Duchess asks with practiced interest.

  “I hardly know,” Alice says.

  Briefly, there are muted sounds of a band warming up. The prosthesis recipients have changed into formal wear. Floor-length gowns. Tuxedos. They crowd the dance floor. She tracks their movements, noting the fake limbs, the real. No amount of fabric can cover that up.

  “Ahem.” Alice clears her throat.

  The Duchess doesn’t know why she’s still sitting here. More stable now
, she could get up, move on. But conversing with this girl makes her feel like she’s mentoring herself. Or maybe it’s the reverse. Maybe Alice reminds her what it’s like to be a lost girl finding her place in the world.

  Alice says, “By the way, don’t eat the oysters, they’re spoiled …oh, how silly of me. I’m very sorry I mentioned shellfish. I’m sure you wouldn’t have touched them, anyway.”

  “Do you think sitting next to each other makes us friends?”

  The girl blinks innocently. “I didn’t mean to overstep. You’re so well known to me that I feel I’ve made your acquaintance before.”

  And then Richard appears. “Let’s get some coffee.” He takes her arm and helps her up. He doesn’t say a word to the girl and, as they leave, she doesn’t follow. The girl must have read about their relationship, seen their passionate wedding day photographs. She wonders how the girl sees her, whether it’s much the same way Richard does; an ageless face from a magazine. How can the girl compete?

  Richard seats her at a quiet table, and puts coffee in front of her. “I’m glad you came.”

  “You don’t have to placate me.” The Duchess wears a wisp of a smile because she’s used to holding her face that way. Everyone else is far enough away, she’s not afraid to speak candidly. No one pays them much attention, except Alice. She watches from across the room.

  “Really, I am. I’ve wanted to see you.”

  “Don’t start down that path again.”

  “Let’s talk later. When I’m done wrapping things up.”

  It’s almost eleven o’clock. It will be hours until the last guest stumbles out.

  “Shall I sit here quietly until then?”

  “You’ll keep occupied.”

  “I usually do.” The Duchess considers taking his hand. Instead, she takes a small sip of coffee.

  Hugh Mayer plops down next to her. “I hope you don’t mind, darling, I need to rest my feet.”

  The Duchess smiles her prettiest smile. “Looks like I’m planning to stay awhile. Always a pleasure to have your company. Perhaps we can discuss recent dining experiences. The hottest chefs. The trendiest restaurants.”