Unbirthday

by Liz Braswell

  Thoughts for another time, Alice told herself. It was indeed something to consider, but not when there was a world to save and a mystery to solve.

  The last photograph was a nightmare that Alice almost dropped in revulsion.

  It was a trio. The Caterpillar, a Scottie dog, and the March Hare.

  Who was a corpse.

  The Caterpillar looked terrified, as if something was about to hit him in the face. The Scottie was screaming, looking at a golden watch at the end of a fob made of beetles. And the March Hare…was stiff, and white, with unseeing dull eyes and his arms crossed over his chest.

  Alice let out a wail before she could silence herself.

  She knew the poor thing was dead. The Hatter had told her that. But that was very different from seeing such ghastly proof.

  This was the photograph of Aunt Vivian and the two lawyers. Ivy was the Scottie dog, Alexandros was the March Hare.

  Alice wiped the tears that were spilling silently out of her eyes, trying to keep that last thing in mind. The March Hare might have been dead over there, but here he was alive and well. Some part of him remained.

  “I must get back,” she whispered. “I must avenge him.”

  Reluctantly she pushed this photo aside.

  There was still the mystery of what Coney wanted from her camera. There was nothing incriminating in any of the portraits. She shuffled through all the photographs again and again, trying to see something new.

  “How goes it, dear?” Vivian asked, popping her head into the spare room where Alice was investigating her negatives. She had been as good as her word; a three-tiered tea set of sandwiches had already been delivered to and utterly demolished by her niece, not a crumb remaining, as well as two small pots of tea.

  “Please tell me what you see here,” Alice said tiredly. She held the up the old image of the Queen of Clubs posed with her clubs, now raised high above her head in a warrior’s pose.

  “Oh my goodness, that’s Mrs. Yao and her broken window,” Vivian said, putting on her pince-nez. “She is holding up the offending brick—is she not? Oh no, it’s a stone. And a note? What does it say? It’s too small for these old eyes, and too backward.”

  “I can’t remember precisely. Some rubbish about ‘go back home.’ I’m taking it to the newspaper. I want everyone to know about it. They’ve already taken away several children—who I think cannot even write in English—for the crime, falsely and with no evidence. I think if I had the photo enlarged enough, the handwriting might give away the identity of the perpetrator. Oh…”

  Alice suddenly realized the truth.

  “This is the image the thief wanted to steal! He thought it might incriminate him! And he’s so stupid he thought it was still in my camera somehow!”

  “Brilliant! You’re a regular Dupin!” Aunt Vivian cried. “But…who knew that you had taken that photograph? Besides Mrs. Yao and yourself, I mean?”

  “Only my sister and Headstrewth and…” And big sheepy Headstrewth had a big sheepy mouth, though he never really meant any harm with it. “Anyone Headstrewth told, which is probably everyone. Honestly, Aunt Vivian, I’m pretty sure the thief was Richard Coney. He appeared shockingly quickly after I came to—with a policeman in tow, no less—and seemed to already know about the theft.”

  “Ooooh, lovely,” Vivian said with a hard, toothy smile. “Put that photo in the paper and everyone will figure it out for him or herself. Whether or not Coney is convicted of the crime, I would say his time in Kexford is over. And maybe Ramsbottom’s, too!

  “Are you going to the paper now? I could do with a walk. And so could you, by the looks of it. You’re as pale as a mushroom from being in the darkroom so long. Let me fetch my hat and walking stick.”

  One couldn’t say no to Aunt Viv; she was a force of nature when she cared to be. What Alice really wanted to do was lie down and sleep for a thousand hours—and hopefully reawaken in Wonderland.

  But she rose and tidied her work, and finally summoned up the energy to meet her aunt at the front door—when it burst open and Mr. Willard exploded inside.

  “I have done it!” he announced grandly, his pale blue eyes blazing and a shocking grin revealing a set of very square, very even yellow teeth.

  “Done what, Mr. Willard?” Aunt Vivian asked, coming in with her hat—one of his creations; there were several birds on it—and a walking stick with a silver wolf’s head for the grip.

  “Why, what you suggested: I put my name in for mayorship of our fair town!” He gave an extended, exquisite bow.

  “Oh! Good show, Mr. Willard, good show indeed!” Aunt Vivian said in surprise. She reached out and pumped his hand vigorously. “I am very, very happy about this turn of events.”

  “To be sure,” Mr. Willard said with a put-on, aristocratic smile. “We need to plan, to politicize, to figure out what our next steps are. Posters, pamphlets, pro-Willard advertisements!”

  “Oh, and pins,” Aunt Vivian said sagely. “People love the pins.”

  “Precisely!” Willard agreed, cackling.

  “Well, by lovely coincidence it is definitely teatime, so let us away to Hendrick’s for a bit of artemisia and some political planning! Dear, do you mind if we walk you to the café and you go the rest of the way yourself?”

  “I’ll be fine, Aunt Vivian,” Alice said with a smile. “I fear no further camera thieves.”

  “Let us proceed thence,” Willard said with a bow, gesturing to the open door. “After you, my lady. May I count on your support in the election?”

  “If I could vote, you would absolutely have my vote,” Alice said, a little archly. “But you may have my support, only if you would promise to help out the children of the Square—in a thoughtful, reasonable fashion.”

  “But of course!” Willard said indignantly. “And because you asked, it shall go to the top of my list. Along with democratizing the local textile mills and turning over the means of production to the workers.”

  “Ah, yes, you may need to put a bit of your socialism on the back burner if you want to win,” Aunt Vivian said bluntly. “We can discuss this further over drinks.”

  The three walked out onto the road full of goodwill and some hilarity. Even exhausted and sick about the March Hare, Alice found her mood a trifle lifted.

  I shall just go to the newspaper with the photograph, inform Mr. Katz of poor incarcerated Joshua and his friends, and then I can finally concentrate on going back to Wonderland, she told herself. Just like that!

  As they approached what passed for the high street in their small town, the three saw what appeared to be something of a festival going on near the large fountain. A table was set up and clustered around by a crowd of all sorts of people: young, old, children, adults, mill workers, farmers and townspeople. There were brightly colored toy balloons and ribbons and bunting strung about.

  Birds, for some reason Alice suddenly thought they resembled.

  Ramsbottom sat behind the table. His beaming, jocular visage seemed to light on each and every person’s face, and his right hand moved faster than a magician’s to shake a hearty hello. During this he also somehow managed a quick—and hatefully smug—look over at Alice and her party. Coney was right beside him, handing out pins, looking harried—and a little pale when he saw Alice.

  “Mr. Willard,” Ramsbottom called out in cheerful aggression. “I heard that you have declared against me. Best of luck.”

  Mr. Willard started to roll his eyes, but Aunt Vivian hit him on the arm.

  “And to you,” the hatter added quickly.

  “I’m running, too,” said a quiet man at a small and lonely table all his own. Alice thought she recognized him from around town—the post office, perhaps.

  “I am Mallory Griffle Frundus. My platform is primarily predicated upon a complete and long-overdue overhaul of the metropolitan sewer system and imposing some regulation on the out-of-control growth of factories along the river—all while encouraging progress and creating jobs for those now
squeezed out of agriculture. Pin?” He held out a blue-and-red rosette with FRUNDUS—FOR US! written on it.

  Alice smiled sympathetically. “I’m afraid I am supporting Mr. Willard here, but I will wear your pin, too, if you think it will help.”

  “Oh, anything would at this point,” the man said with good humor. “I’m also having a little breakfast gathering Tuesday, a forum where people can come and discuss the issues important to them. Mostly as it pertains to urban improvements, of course. Sewers, schools, and the like.”

  “We’re having a big rally that day, too!” Ramsbottom announced. “A Pride for England parade. All citizens from good families are welcome. And by ‘good’ I don’t mean wealthy. Solid men of the earth, as you people like to say, are invited—anyone is, as long as they have hearts shaped by centuries of generational love in the nurturing warmth of English soil.”

  Alice sighed. Really understanding Ramsbottom was like deciphering a riddle. And what she saw at the end of it was more broken windows, hate and fury in the guise of patriotism. How much did those signing his petitions and taking his balloons understand and willfully join in on? How much did they not quite understand, but went along with anyway?

  “Everyone loves a rally,” Coney added half-heartedly.

  “I don’t think I shall be able to make it,” Willard said. “Loving our fellow man can take many different forms, but this is not one of them.”

  “Alice, will you come?” Coney asked nervously.

  She gave him a look, but before a real answer came out of her mouth, Ramsbottom’s grin went even wider.

  “I’m afraid it’s men only to march, anyway. Women may watch and then clean up, with a bit of punch, of course, provided by my campaign. As it should be in politics in England.”

  Whether he was referring to women in politics or free punch in politics it was hard to say, but the would-be mayor raised his voice for the last bit and looked to the crowd with an am I right? wave of his arms. The crowd responded immediately with cheers; who knew which thing they were cheering, but he had them in the palms of his oily hands.

  Alice, Vivian, and the hatter left the square melancholy and disturbed.

  “This is bad,” Willard said darkly. “Not just for my campaign—but for Kexford in general. It’s like he’s whipping the masses into some sort of beast of hate. Mrs. Yao will not be the last of the victims of this state-sponsored xenophobia.”

  “I don’t disagree,” Aunt Vivian said with worry. “I don’t know what to do—even if you don’t win as a mayor, there has to be something.”

  “Auntie,” Alice said slowly, thinking about what Ramsbottom had said, especially about women. “Do you think the newspaper will listen to me at all? Will it print the photo and story if it’s given to them by a woman?”

  “Alice,” Aunt Vivian said sternly, “it is your photo, and it is Mrs. Yao’s story. You’re her friend. You must stand up for women everywhere by insisting they listen to you.”

  “But if the point is to get notice and justice for Mrs. Yao, isn’t the most important thing that the photograph just gets printed, however it gets there? Isn’t that what really matters here?”

  “Both are good points. In the end, however, you can and must only do what you feel is right,” Willard said kindly. “Welcome to the world of politics, Alice. In the end, it is all stuff and nonsense.”

  “Stuff and Nonsense.”

  What a strange—and particular—choice of words, Alice said to herself.

  She considered all the twins of the two worlds: herself and Mary Ann, the Dodo and her sister, the March Hare and Alexandros…. Was there more to it than that? Were events, geographies, all of life mirrored as well? Did the mayoral race and Ramsbottom’s rally somehow have something to do with events or goings-on in Wonderland? Was the Queen of Hearts’ insane, murderous game somehow fueling events in Kexford, investing the upcoming election with otherwise dismissible emotions and meaning? If Ramsbottom won, if the children in the Square continued to be hassled and locked up for crimes they never committed, and Mrs. Yao never received justice…was this all because of their doubles?

  Or was this just the madness of England?

  Or was there an in-between answer: did each world have some sort of effect on the other?

  What if the mad goings-on in England somehow polluted Wonderland? Alice suddenly wondered.

  What if the Queen of Hearts was bitten by whatever bug that made her decide to win the silliest and last of all games—because of what was happening in Kexford?

  Also, the Hatter knew about things from this world because the Cheshire Cat had told him—presumably because the Cheshire had been here himself at some point. And the Knave had said some people could go back and forth! Not just Alice. There was some sort of fluidity between the two places; ideas and personalities and even people could sometimes pass through whatever walls normally kept them separated.

  Then…possibly…whatever she did to solve the problems of one world would help the other. Or the reverse: if she failed, it would destroy both.

  It seems terribly unfair, she thought. It seems like I’ve been given a hopeless task, or pieces for a game with no rules at all and a shifting number of opponents, and told that everything depends on my figuring it out and winning.

  How very Wonderland.

  As she walked, the street grew busier and more cluttered with shops and offices in what passed for the downtown section of Kexford. Alice watched all the businessmen and servants and people shopping and chatting and waving hello to one another and wished she had someone she could talk to. About everything. Someone both logical and a little mad. And perhaps not quite as close and concerned as Aunt Vivian (bless her, though).

  Her subconscious already knew what she was thinking and Alice laughed a little at her false naivete. She paused, debating the pros and cons, at a literal crossroads. Then she took a left turn, knowing her mind had been made up a long time ago.

  There it was: ALEXANDROS & IVY, BARRISTERS-AT-LAW. Gilt on richly stained wood.

  She hesitated just a moment—was anyone looking? Was there going to be a rumor about young, single Alice approaching a law firm by herself? This particular law firm?

  She went in.

  (And what would Mary Ann have done? Just stood, helplessly, assuming England would take her to wherever she was needed next?)

  The interior was cool and dark with heavily stained wood. Everything smelled of ink and paper and musty books and fresh polish. A secretary, seated at a secretary, leapt up upon her entrance. He was ageless, skinny, perhaps needed to wash his hair, and gave her a look of such dismissal that she very much wanted to pull him by the ear and yell into it the way her neighbor sometimes did with her grandchildren.

  “May I help you?” he asked, looking like he had no desire to do any such thing.

  “I’m looking for Mr. Katz,” she said politely. “I have some business with him.”

  “Do you have an appointment?”

  “I don’t,” Alice admitted. “But I’m sure he’ll see me.”

  And she was. There might be a veritable hurricane of nonsense flying around, but he had stayed by her at the park and covered her with his jacket. He had given her a riddle. He would see her, as definitely as she would smile upon seeing his rosy cheeks.

  “I will check to see if he wishes to be disturbed,” the secretary said in such a tone that Alice immediately knew he would most likely go upstairs, pretend to confer, then come back down and tell her sadly that the barrister was busy.

  “I’ll go myself. It’s no problem,” Alice said serenely, heading up the stairs with one delicate, gloved hand on the banister.

  “No, I must insist—he mustn’t be disturbed….” The clerk went to stop her, putting his hand out.

  Alice just widened her eyes and paused: that was all. Her meaning was clear enough. You dare lay a hand on a lady? And expect to keep your job?

  He would not dare.

  The man crumpled as visibly as a b
achelor’s button when the sun goes in.

  Alice gave him a frosty nod and continued upstairs. Any incipient panic she had about looking like an idiot once at the top was quickly dispelled: unlike in Wonderland, the doors here were labeled clearly with neat little plaques. She knocked on the one that said MR. A. JOSEPH KATZ, ESQ.

  A voice from inside: “Drat it, Brigsby, I said I would go over to Mrs. Bickler’s later and…”

  The door opened.

  “Oh, it’s you.”

  He was startled.

  Alice found she had held her breath.

  They stood there alone in the upstairs, him on one side of the door, her on the other, this situation arising only because she had decided to come see him. This moment only existed because she had sought him out, and that fact hung in the air very palpably. His brown eyes seemed extra wide and deep. She felt her own cheeks start to go as red as his were. The moment dragged on. Neither one of them said anything.

  “I have solved your riddle,” she finally said. “It’s perspective.”

  “Indeed!” His eyes crinkled in relief and merriment. “And have you found that answer helpful? For other things in your life?”

  “Yes, but not entirely helpful, and not for all things. There are some problems riddles cannot fix, I’m afraid,” she said with a sigh. “And I have such a problem. Not a legal matter—a personal quandary, if you will, and I would dearly love an outsider’s perspective, if you have a moment.”

  “For you, I have every single moment, all of them,” Katz said frankly. “I’ll clear my appointments for the day—for the next week, if you like.”

  Alice smiled.

  “I hope it doesn’t take that much time,” she said, stepping in.

  “I do,” Katz said with feeling. Then he grinned. “This is delightful!”

  His office was small and well-appointed and full of books. His desk was mostly neat—tidy blotter, expensive but simple pens and inkwells, stacks of papers in neat little piles; the only off thing was the Kexford Weekly in an untidy heap in the middle as if it had been thrown there.