When Audrey Met Alice (8 page)

“Audrey!” The aide trailed after me into the hallway. “Hold up!” I kept walking down the hallway, breaking into a run as soon as I turned a corner. I pushed open the first door I saw. It led to the pool.

It was a fantastic space—more like an atrium and less like the basement YMCA pool deck where I had taken swimming lessons in Minnesota. The tiles glittered and plantings lined the walls like it was a greenhouse. The humid air smelled fresh and slightly like eucalyptus, with undertones of chlorine. I paused for a moment and inhaled deeply, closing my eyes. The only sound in the room was the soft echo of the waves hitting the pool’s ledge and the slurp of the drain. The sound of the water reminded me of the ocean and Alice’s comment about standing on the deck and feeling so invigorated.
Why
was
Alice’s life so different from mine?
She lived at a time when women couldn’t
vote
but in some ways she seemed so much freer than me. I couldn’t wear a two-piece swimsuit. I couldn’t pick out my own clothes. I couldn’t go on awesome trips. Alice got to grow up in the White House, but I felt like I was growing back toward the kids on the story-time rug. No—
I
wasn’t growing backward, but the people in charge of my life were trying to freeze me in childhood like a fly in amber. I had to find some way to stop them.

The staffer who’d been chasing after me barged in. “Audrey! What’s going on?”

I turned toward her and away from the pool. “I needed some space.”

She nodded, not unsympathetically. “Are you okay to go back?”

“Sure.”

“The art room is next.”
They
better
not
try
to
make
me
finger paint.

• • •

April 13, 1902

Diary—

Life has been a bore since I returned from Cuba. Yet I must have learned something while I was abroad because I am much more willing now to “fulfill my role” as the First Daughter. My father wrote me, saying, “You were of real service down there because you made those people feel that you liked them and took an interest in them, and your presence was accepted as a great compliment.” I think my stepmother worries a smidgen less about my wild behavior. Thus far, it is making daily life in the White House a little more harmonious.

Adding some heft to the idea of Alice as an asset and not a liability, the
Ladies’ Home Journal
published a most flattering profile of me once I returned. It took up a full page and even featured an illustration of me, which I imagine might be clipped and tacked to the walls of many young girls’ bedrooms. “The typical American girl of good health and sane ideas” was one gushing compliment. Little do they know about my actual degree of sanity. At another point, they called me “gracefully slender.” I chuckle reading that, ruminating both on the gobs of Cuban food I stuffed myself with last month and also those hideous leg braces. After all these years, I swear I still feel them clasping my legs.

I read the article and pored over the illustration—which was beautiful, but really didn’t resemble
me
. It bore my features, for better or worse, but it was some other, more beautiful, more assured Alice. After I put it down, I took my Spanish white lace
mantilla
out of my trunk. At first just to run my fingers over the finery, but then something compelled me to put it on. I locked the door, because I would die of embarrassment if Ethel or one of the boys would barge in and see me playing dress-up like a little girl. But no one saw me. I struggled into my best dress (omitting my usual formal undergarments did not make it any easier) and sat in front of my vanity. I tamed my hair in some approximation of the Cuban styles I’d seen, and framed it with the lace dripping from my head onto my shoulders. Then I paraded in front of my mirror, watching the fabric move and marveling at how I looked wearing it.

I know I must sound beyond vain. But I simply am trying to see what the world finds captivating about me—and even wearing roses and Spanish lace, I can’t see what the fuss is about. My vanity is all bluster. If I were not the president’s daughter, I simply would be another homely girl, even when dressed up in finery.

I wonder, too, what my Edward sees in me. Can I ever trust his affection? In Cuba I would only
just
convince myself that he only had eyes for me when I would catch him admiring Janet or some trollop. Then doubt would creep into the corners of my mind. I put on the dress and wanted to see what Edward saw in me; I wanted to see if it could be true that it really was Alice alone that captivated him.

To Thine Own Self Be True,

Alice

April 25, 1902

Diary—

Most young ladies ride around town in a carriage. I have long taken to careening down Connecticut Avenue on my bicycle (oftentimes with my legs up on the handlebars to shock the passerby). But as a modern and mature young woman, a bicycle is simply no longer enough. I used some of my generous Lee allowance to purchase a runabout, a bright-red little open automobile. I drive it alone on short jaunts around the city. Ladies aren’t supposed to drive alone, but I won’t have anyone handle my “Red Devil” but me. Try to stop me—you’ll have to run fast. I am ace at driving it. I have already been stopped once for excessive speed (it scares the horses). I tried to talk my way out of the fine, but apparently even the president’s daughter must obey the traffic laws.

I like to take my new friend Maggie Cassini out driving with me. I met Maggie, the niece of the Russian ambassador, at a State Dinner. I came into the room with Emily Spinach wrapped around my neck, and Maggie hurried right over to try her on for herself. I think it goes without saying that we hit it off immediately.

Maggie, despite being young, functions as the ambassadress for her uncle. You can imagine the protests surrounding that—an unmarried woman as ambassadress—but Maggie overcame them. She hosts the liveliest Sunday evening dinner parties at their residence on Rhode Island Avenue. She’s my only real competition for attention in our social circle, but I consider her a worthy opponent.

I taught Maggie how to drive, and in exchange she has promised to teach me some scandalous new dances (like the hootchy-kootchy, but European, and even racier). Maggie is a kindred spirit indeed, a fellow seeker of thrills and experiences. She’s a breath of fresh air—unlike some of my Puritanical girlfriends (cough, cough—Janet Lee). They care about appearances and manners and comportment; Maggie cares about having fun. Nothing shocks her. The only trouble is that she is very beautiful and wealthy, a Russian countess, so I may have to dip more into my Lee funds to keep up with her. She is certainly someone I want to keep up with, though. Every girl needs a dear friend, as much for sharing secrets as for sharing in mischief.

To Thine Own Self Be True,

Alice

One thing I love about 1600: the holidays. I love the greenery—they seriously turn this place into an indoor forest with all the fir and pine and holly. I love doing all of the tree-lighting and school-group-caroling traditions with my parents, even if they are in front of huge audiences and popping flashbulbs. I spend hours down in the chocolate shop, watching (and sometimes assisting) with the construction of the official White House gingerbread house. At my request, the houses had a Victorian theme this year. Debra and I spent hours hand-making candies for them after school. I decorated one of the little marzipan people to be Alice Roosevelt. People kept asking why I painted a green snake over her shoulders, but I didn’t explain.

The best part, though, was that my family escaped back to Minnesota for a full week. Harrison came up from Wisconsin to get our house ready for us, turning on the heat and shoveling and such. Max baked all of my favorite Christmas cookies in advance. When our motorcade pulled up to the long driveway on a frigid Minnesota December evening, tons of twinkling Christmas lights and wreaths welcomed us. Seeing my old house looking so lived-in brought tears to my eyes, which I pretended were from the cold. “We’re home!” I yelled and jumped out of the car, running up the walk. Harrison stood shivering on the front stoop with a cup of cocoa for me, and before we opened the door to rush inside, Kim pulled it open.

“AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!” I screamed.

“AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!” Kim screamed back. We danced around the front hall hugging, me tracking snow and leaving little puddles everywhere. I had
my
Maggie Cassini back.

The visit flew by, and before I knew it, it was our last night at home. I had ignored the reality of going back to D.C. until then, when I fell into a huge funk. I liked being in my old house. I liked the freedom to make a mess in my kitchen and blast my music without worrying that someone would be bothered. I loved being able to walk over to Kim’s house at a moment’s notice, even if an agent followed me there. The thought of going back to rigid, lonely 1600 life bummed me out. Even Kim coming over couldn’t pull me out of my bad mood. We were standing in the kitchen, taking a break from one of our bake-fests, and Kim was licking cookie dough off a mixer. “What’s wrong?” she asked.

“You’re going to get salmonella,” I said.

“Don’t try to distract me, and salmonella is worth this deliciousness.” Kim stuck out her dough-covered tongue, and I cringed.

I sighed. “I’m not ready to go back and face the social Sahara again.”

“How are you not the most popular girl at school? You’re the freaking president’s kid.”

“That’s the thing,” I said, shaking my head. “I can never tell when people actually like me or if they want to suck up to the Fido. It’s superhard to make
real
friends when everybody is faux-nice to you. Except Madeline.” If nothing else, she was consistently bratty.

“So take advantage of their fake niceness. You’ll never have to worry about not having someone to go to a dance with.”

I laughed, thinking of the one dance I went to, right after I started at Friends. “Imagine going to a dance and being shadowed by a Secret Service agent the whole time. Everyone ran away from me like I was Pepé Le Pew!”

“Are you sure you’re not like, projecting or something? Maybe that dance you went to last spring was awkward because you were new.”

“Kim, I spent ninety percent of it slouching by the snack table with my agents. I danced once with Chris Whitman, and that’s probably another reason why Madeline hates me so much.”

“So what about your friend Quint? You talk to him and stuff.”

Hearing his name made me blush. “Yeah, we’re cool. I was really hoping we could hang out together on the New York trip…” I trailed off, thinking about Quint picking out excursions with me in mind. I got so distracted that I slammed a mixing bowl on the counter a little too heavily and made Kim jump. “Sorry. Uh, anyway…tell me more about you and Taylor.”

Kim happily launched into talking about her recently acquired boyfriend and the gifts they’d gotten each other for Christmas. I gazed out the window as Kim chattered away, watching the snow falling on my backyard. I pictured myself running around in it, making snow sculptures like I used to as a kid, but instead of picturing Kim making them with me I thought of Quint. I could imagine snowflakes getting caught on his thick eyelashes and covering his curly mop of hair, in stark contrast to its rich brown color. My first kiss, with Paul, actually had been in the middle of a snowball fight.
What
would
it
be
like
to
kiss
Quint…

“Audrey?” My father was standing in the kitchen doorway, and I hadn’t even noticed.

“Want a cookie?” I asked, and Kim offered him the plate.

“Thanks,” he said, popping one in his mouth. “
Mmm
, delicious. Did Max give you the recipe for these?” I nodded. “I’m heading to bed, and I’m sure your mom will be soon too. You girls can stay up as late as you like, but keep in mind you’re going to be up at the crack—we leave at six tomorrow morning.”

“Okay. We’ll be quiet,” I said.

“Good girls. It was wonderful to see you, Kimmy,” my dad said, giving Kim a quick hug before heading upstairs.

“I guess I should let you get some sleep, huh?” Kim smiled sadly.

“No!” I exclaimed, louder than I’d meant to. “I mean, I don’t want you to go.” I felt my eyes welling with tears.
Ugh, don’t start crying. Toughen up.

“Aw, Audrey.” Kim stopped shrugging into her coat and leaned over to give me a hug. “You just have to come back more to visit.”

“Or you need to visit D.C.!”

“I’ll try. I’m training for track in the spring, so I’ll be superbusy then, though.” Kim shoved a knit hat on her head and slipped her feet into thick boots. “Walk me out?” I nodded and threw on some boots too, and we headed out to the stoop. We said good night to the agent posted at the front door, who looked on as I walked Kim down to the sidewalk and hugged her tightly. “I’ll miss you, K!” Tears rolled down my face as I watched Kim trudge off through the swirling snow.

I ran back up to my real bedroom and zipped open the hidden compartment in my suitcase, pulling out Alice’s diary. So what if I’d have to be up in a few short hours? I needed her voice to keep me company. I was in the storm of a dark mood, as she’d describe it.

May 12, 1902

Diary—

I’m afraid I’ve had a foolish temper fit with my stepmother. I acted more like little Ethel would, stomping my feet and storming out of the room. Then Edith snidely remarked that I should thank her for the use of my legs—referring to how she helped me stretch them every night when I wore the braces. I would moan and cry and resist, but Edith wouldn’t take no for an answer, telling me that if I endured the discomfort, I’d have normal, ladylike legs one day. Stepmother loves to take credit for the fact that I am graceful now, and I hate to admit that she deserves it.

Our scuffle today wasn’t my fault, though! Edith got absolutely livid about a newspaper story concerning me. It said two different men were in love with me and that I was “toying” with both. The story was full of downright lies, of course—the only man I have eyes for right now is my Edward, whom the papers have never written about. What the reporters write about me is primarily fiction, and I can’t be bothered with it. (Frankly, the falsehoods are a lot more entertaining to read than the truth of my life.) My fuss-box father and stepmother, on the other hand—they are horrified by what the papers say.

Of course, I barely see my father these days. I know whom I can blame at present—the petulant coal workers finally went on strike today, and now both the unions and the mine owners are clamoring for my father to intervene. The bottom line for me is that he will be unable to intervene in his own family’s lives for the time being, as he lives and breathes this crisis. My father abandoned me once before when there was too much in his life for him to pay attention to me, so I suppose it’s not unreasonable for me to fear that he might again.

Bye tells me that I push boundaries because otherwise I fear nobody will notice me. (She’s an astute judge of character.) I always have to fight for my father’s attention, if not his love. This adoration and admiration from the public and the press—I don’t need to battle for it. I simply have to step out the front door and wave. Toss them a smile, and they love me for life. Tell me, if you were me, which would you choose? A life spent quietly inside the White House or one played out on the world’s stage? See, I am not so rotten and scandalous. I always say, “Fill what’s empty, empty what’s full, and scratch where it itches.” I’m full up of disapproval at home and empty of sufficient love. Morever, I itch for experience.

To Thine Own Self Be True,

Alice

May 16, 1902

Diary—

A quick dispatch for you on the subject of: cigarettes. My marvelous friend Maggie recently has taught me the art of smoking. It took some instruction—the first breaths I took of tobacco smoke were shaky, leading to coughing fits as soon as I expelled the cloud from my otherwise hardy lungs. Honestly, the experience of cajoling smoke into one’s mouth and throat conjures little pleasure in me. It’s harsh, sticky, and acrid; it coats your mouth and throat in a very disagreeable way. Maggie is such an expert that she can blow the smoke out of her mouth in distinct lines and shapes. I’m not sure I’ll become the aficionado she is, but I’m looking forward to the next time the men at a dinner party gather in a den or library for smoking and political discourse—I suppose I will join in, blow a smoke ring or two, and shock the lot of them. No woman has ever smoked in public in Washington. But I’d shock those men with my ideas too.

To Thine,

Alice

May 24, 1902

Diary—

So many things to tell! A few days ago, as I moped around the house because I hadn’t a letter from Carpenter in ages, I wandered into a spat my father and stepmother were having about a French delegation’s visit. Edith hasn’t been well lately, and she didn’t want to attend all of the tiresome engagements. As I loped into the room, my father stood up and said, “All right! Alice and I will go! Alice and I are Toughs!” I was secretly very pleased, although I tried to act nonchalant in front of my parents. My father knows how much the French adore me, and how I return that feeling, and that in all honesty the delegation would probably rather dine with me than with Edith.

Early in the day we headed out to Annapolis with our French friends to see the ship
Gaulois
. It was a beautiful day, with a bright blue sky and hints of summer carried in the warm breeze, and getting out of Washington was refreshing and rejuvenating. Seeing the ship wasn’t as thrilling as christening the Kaiser’s yacht, but it was still fun to get on board. It reminded me of Cuba. I was a bit of a ham between photographs, but Father didn’t seem to mind as I charmed the French with my antics.

We returned to Washington and went straight to the French Embassy for a formal dinner. And that, Diary, was delicious (perhaps my brother Archie is right to tease me about how much I eat—we’ve had quite a few brushes due to that topic). The cuisine wasn’t really what piqued my interest, though. Sitting next to me was the most dashing, debonair Frenchman: Charles de Chambrun. He slyly flirted with me during the whole meal, and I shamelessly did the same. When I sneaked Emily out of my purse as a test for him, he giggled delightfully and seemed intrigued that I would carry a snake around with me. Our hands “accidentally” brushed on more than one occasion while we buttered our bread. Being in Charles’s charming company wiped my mind clean of any traces of Carpenter, from whom I received a very angry, inflammatory letter recently. Seems he was mad that I danced a cotillion with some other boy. Well, he wasn’t there for me to dance with, correct? He can’t expect “Princess Alice” to stand alone at a ball.

Of course, I will see Edward again in only days. He will visit the White House on the twenty-seventh. Days ago I anticipated his arrival with such eagerness that I could barely sleep, but now I don’t feel excited. My cousin Helen wrote me once joking, “How many little heartlets have you broken since I last heard from you?” I suppose I’ve learned the hard way that it’s better to be the one who leaves first. Poor Carpenter, he will have to learn that bitter lesson on his own too.

To Thine Own Self Be True,

Alice