How Alice Lost Her Way

         “Do not bother this court with mere trifles, my boy.  Just answer the question.  Did you or did you not say the mirror broke from falling off the dresser?”  A fat, bespectacled lawyer with a thick Alabama accent asked the shy boy sitting in the creaky witness stand.

         The lawyer was Barnabus K. Jackson, ‘Bama’s finest lawyer.  Sure, he had some pretty unorthodox methods, but nobody could get a feller off better than ol’ Barnabus.  This was not just any case, however.  This was bigger than Alice.

         “Funny, ain’t it?” An old woman sitting beside me in the back row leaned over and asked, gesturing towards the Defendant.  “Her name is Alice, too.  I wonder if they’re related.”

         “I don’t think so, Ma’am.”  I politely replied though I was a tad annoyed at her intrusion.

         “Do you think the original Alice did drugs like her?”

         I was absolutely shocked by this woman’s appalling lack of tact and replied, “No, Ma’am, the original Alice did no drugs at all, and I daresay there’s not been any accusation that this one has, either.”

         “Well, look at her!”  The old woman’s bony finger gestured towards the Defendant once more.  “She looks like a drug user.  She’s so skinny and her clothes don’t look like they’re in good shape and her eyes!  Her eyes look so sunken.  What else could it be from?”

         “Ma’am, do you suppose it could simply be that she’s too poor to feed herself as well as her son?”

         “Well, if she stopped spending all her money on drugs, she just might be able to get somewhere.”  The old woman thrust her hands into her lap as if to close the conversation and I was more than willing.

         I looked once more at Alice (no relation) and watched her forlorn expression.  She surely was most definitely not the original Alice, nor was she much like her.  Sure, everyone in the country’s heard of Alice and her little traipse through a mirror.  And sure enough, everyone knows about all the fuss that was caused.  This was why the Looking Glass Statutes were passed, forbidding the passage through mirrors to alternate dimensions permanently.  You’ve heard it’s seven years worth of bad luck for breaking a mirror?  You’ve got none other than Alice to thank for that.  This Alice?  She’s on trial for breaking a mirror.  That’s about all they’ve got in common.

         “Yes, Sir, the mirror fell from the dresser and broke.”  Little Bobby Porter’s hands fidgeted with themselves while ol’ Barnabus dug his heels in and went for more.

         “And who placed the mirror on top of the dresser?”  I was getting irritated by this lawyer and it seemed that Alice (no relation) might be getting a little irritated, too.  She shot ol’ Barnabus a look that could’ve curdled milk two days too soon.  Her eyes narrowed and her arms shot up, crossed in front of her with those sunken eyes fixed on the fat lawyer.  Then again, who could blame her?  The boy was only six and ol’ Barnabus was going after him like he was a murderer.  It just didn’t seem right.  Then again, I guess there ain’t been nothin’ right in these parts for quite some time.

         “Well, I did, Sir.”  The boy’s hands wrung themselves more as his cheeks turned a similar shade of red to his hair.  His freckles had practically popped out of his face and when he looked away from his momma you couldn’t help but read the apology on his face.  This kid was practically cherubic.  He didn’t deserve this.

         “Did it never occur to you, Son, that your very own momma has bumped into that dresser several times in the last months?”

         “Well, no, I forgot.”  The little boy was beginning to stammer as his lower lip quivered.

         “You forgot that your momma had become clumsy?  Would you have put the mirror elsewhere if you’d remembered?”

         “Yes, Sir.  I’m sorry.  Momma, I’m sorry!  Please don’t be mad at me!” The young boy was crying now, his red cheeks wet and sticky from tears pouring out of sad, brown eyes.

         “Yes, Boy, go and give your momma a big hug.  The Defense has no more questions for the boy.”  So without hesitation, the little freckle-faced boy ran straight to his mother and gave her a big hug, letting loose with a monsoon of tears.

Alice (no relation) squeezed tightly, crinkling the threadbare fabric of the young boy’s clothes as she did so.  She let loose with a few tears of her own and replied, “It’s not your fault, Baby.  It’s not your fault.”

“Aw, that’s so beautiful!”  The old woman sitting beside me chimed in.  Instantly I began to defend myself from the comment she would inevitably bestow upon me in an attempt to ruin this tender moment.  Most thankfully, she offered no such comment.

         “Your Honor, the Defense has proven that it was the boy’s own carelessness that led to the mirror being placed in such a position that my client would have no other option but to disturb the mirror and cause its breakage.  As such, I respectfully request the charges against my client be dropped.”

         “This is outrageous!”  The prosecuting attorney was livid, jumping up from his chair so quickly his hair was mussed.  This was to be the case that brought him into the state’s attention and was going to lead him straight to the governor’s mansion, or so the local scuttlebutt said.

         “I’d vote for him even if he were married.”  A quite forgettable nugget of information that the petite prune sitting beside me offered completely unsolicited.  If she kept this up, I’d have enough words of wisdom to sell a book as well as my soul.

         “What is outrageous here-” ol’ Barnabus interrupted, “-is that you are prosecuting my client with a law to prevent the heinous teleportation between realms that my client has no desire to do, especially when faced with certain incarceration.  My client is innocent of this dated and outmoded law!  Must justice be blinded for the sake of your own ugliness?”  Ol’ Barnabus was pushing his advantage while the crowd seemed behind him.

         “No!  I object!  This woman broke a mirror!  Whether by accident or with intent, breaking a mirror is a crime!  She must be found guilty otherwise we risk opening floodgates we will never be able to shut.  Give her the Seven Years!”  The incredibly dull and average District Attorney kept popping his fist on the table for emphasis.

         Ah, yes.  The Seven Years is what it was called in the system.  Seven Years of Bad Luck was a standard sentence for breaking a mirror.  See, back in the day, the portals just opened.  How, why, and all those other questions went unanswered.  Finally, after enough studying, we figured out how to shut down the portals.  But someone figured out how to open a portal simply by shattering a mirror.

         “You know, I hear the portals have something to do with luck.  It just so happens I have a cousin whose daughter is married to a scientist who studies those portals.  Well, it’s complicated, but they figured out how to make people luckier and unluckier.  That’s how they enforce that Seven Years Sentence or whatever it’s called.  Cute, isn’t it?  I wonder when they’ll start selling luck improvements.  Do you think they’ll be expensive?”

         What honestly hurts more than listening to this babbling old woman assail all that is good and right in this world is when her insane ramblings actually seem to be the honest truth.  Sure enough, that’s how it happened.  Even gave it all a scale, they did.  Seven over to seven under, just like litmus.  Seven over and the worst news you’d probably get was you’d only won twenty million dollars in the lottery instead of thirty.  Go to seven under and dying felt like a good day.

         “Mister Prosecutor, the Defense has adequately shown to this court that it was the carelessness of a young child that brought about the breakage of this mirror, not any criminal act by either party.  Therefore, I have no recourse but to-,” The Honorable Judge William P. Winston was interrupted by the nasally, high pitched whine of the Assistant District Attorney.

         “Your Honor!  I object to the motion of dismissal.  The child was obviously not raised properly enough to accurately remember his mother’s condition as well as gauge potential problems.  I believe this is because of negligence on the part of the Defendant, directly causing the child’s carelessness and directly causing the breaking of the mirror.”

         This young assistant managed to survive the volley of evil glares wishing ill intent of an entire room with the utterance of those few words.  You can well imagine those sunken eyes glaring from the Defendant, burning holes in the short man’s balding head.  The District Attorney whom he served, however, was shaking his head and rolling his eyes for a completely different reason.  The young assistant may have kept the case going, but now the gentle comfort of the governor’s mansion seemed to grow more and more distant.

         The proclamation also brought about a sigh from the Honorable Judge William P. Winston.  His Honor had been fidgeting about and it wasn’t until a small fan had been brought in and focused on him that his fidgeting ended.  It was also no secret that the Honorable Judge William P. Winston wanted to ban everyone from the courtroom, ever vigilant against the corruptive effect of the media.

         “Alright, I’ll hear your case for the negligent parenting of the Defendant as the direct cause for the misplacement of the mirror.  You may call any witness, save the Defendant.”  Judge Winston’s voice carried a somber, exhausted tone to it.

         “The prosecution recalls Robert Porter to the stand.”

         Again, little Bobby Porter stood up, a bit shaky and irresolute, and softly chose his steps toward the witness stand.  As the freckle-faced redhead with mussed hair sat down, the chair creaked once more.  I was personally annoyed by the sound of the chair, though it was the voice that persevered on my left that was most annoying.

         “It’s about time they start throwing bad parents in jail.  If parents just started raising their kids instead of insisting the television do it for them, we’d see a lot less crime like this.  It’s so scandalous.”  The old woman beside me chimed in.  She seemed to be the only one here who appreciated the prosecution’s persistence.

         “Bobby, how many times did your momma take you out for ice cream?”  The Assistant asked, and continued with his questions one after another.

         “Bobby, how many times did your momma help you with your homework?”

         “Bobby, how many times did your momma hug you?”

         Soon, to the relief of much of the crowd in the courtroom, the prosecution was done asking young Bobby questions concerning the number of times his mother did this or that or did not do this or that.  Now was the time for ‘Ol Barnabus to start talking. 

         “Bobby, what kind of ice cream did you and your momma get the last time you went to get ice cream?”  ‘Ol Barnabus was standing next to Alice (no relation) gesturing towards little Bobby Porter and Alice (no relation) as he mentioned them.  Alice smiled weakly when her son responded, the heat beginning to take its toll on everyone.

         “She got her favorite, Napoleon.  I’ve never liked it, though, ‘cause the strawberry part always has those weird specks in it.  I like Rocky Road.  It kinda tastes like cold s’mores if you put it in a sugar cone.”

         Barnabus chuckled softly at the boy’s description of Neapolitan ice cream and quickly asked him another question as quickly as the laughter died down.

         “Bobby, can you tell us about the last time you asked your momma for help with your homework?”

         “I don’t have homework, yet.  I told Mr. Hanson the same thing.  I sure can’t wait until I’m old enough for homework, though!”  Bobby’s excitement was genuine if a bit odd.  Even Mr. Hanson, the aforementioned District Attorney, smiled a little as the boy answered, though he did his best to hide his face by looking at the papers in front of him.

         “What do you mean, you can’t wait for homework?  Why’s that?”  ‘Ol Barnabus had meandered to the jury box, standing with his back to the jury and both arms stretched out as wide as he could reach, resting them on the railing of the front row.

         “Well, momma’s always workin’ and she seems happy, so if I’m always working, too, I can be happy like momma.”

         “Ain’t that something.”  Ol’ Barnabus turned quickly to address the jury.  “The boy sees his momma always workin’ and always happy, so he’s gonna grow up to be a good, fine worker.  So he can be happy like his momma.”  With the last word, ‘Ol Barnabus jabbed towards Alice (no relation) with his right index finger. 

“Well, one more question, please.  Bobby, other than today, do you remember the last hug you got from your momma?”

         “Yes, Sir.”  Bobby’s tepidity was shining all over his rouged face.  The freckles were bright as Ol’ Barnabus pushed forward for the boy’s account of the last hug.

         “Well, last night we were at home and I was scared.  I don’t want momma to get in trouble ‘cause of me.  I started crying and momma came and gave me a hug and told me-.”  Bobby’s lips started to quiver slightly as light glinted off the tears streaking down his wet cheeks.

         “Go on now, little Bobby Porter.  You tell this court exactly what your momma told you.”  ‘Ol Barnabus let go of a sniffle as Bobby finished.

         “Momma said everything would be alright.”  Not a cheek, not an eye, and definitely not a handkerchief in the entire courtroom was dry.  From the little old women in the back row, to the families and housewives in the middle rows, and all the way to the businessmen and “pillars-of-society” types that were sitting in the front.  Not one of them could claim innocence on the charge of shedding a tear for little Bobby Porter.  Even the Honorable Judge William P. Winston had to choke back a tear or two.

         Cries of “Let him be!” and “They’re innocent!” rang throughout the courtroom, persuading the Honorable Judge William P. Winston to threaten certain spectators with possible incarceration if their “contempt” continued.  I would even wager I heard a hushed voice threaten to move his very successful business out of Alabama by the end of the year if the court didn’t “wise up.”

This might seem a bit odd, I understand, and it may even seem a tad trivial, but there is good reason I tell you that everyone except the District Attorney and his assistant was crying for this boy, and there is incredibly good reason that you believe it.  You see, the fact the room was so enamored with this young boy makes what the Assistant District Attorney (whose name I honestly cannot remember, though I am certain the County’s Clerk of Courts has this information) said next incredibly brave and/or foolhardy.

         “Bobby, are you saying your momma lied to you?”

         The court erupted in vicious anger as the mob collectively demanded this callous young man’s head.  It was, if I may be so bold to suggest, quite poetic that this relatively unimportant case would cause a group of people so determined to stop travels like those a young girl named Alice once enjoyed to stand united in the same rousing chants that poor young girl named Alice once endured at the behest of the Queen of Hearts.

         Alas, the irony of the situation was the only poeticism on display here.  The angry mob was quickly becoming an angry, violent mob until the soft, twittering voice spoke up.  When little Bobby Porter next spoke, all ears were trained on his words.

         “No.  Momma didn’t lie to me.”

         “I object, Your Honor, the boy’s still my witness and the Prosecution can ask more questions when I’m done.”

         “Objection sustained.  Please continue, Mr. Jackson.”

         “Bobby, when your sweet momma told you everything was gonna be okay, how did you feel?”

         “Happy!  Momma doesn’t lie.  Everything’s going to be okay.”  Little Bobby Porter’s tears were gone as he smiled the biggest smile the great state of Alabama’s ever seen.  Even I was beginning to see the genius of ‘Bama’s finest lawyer, Barnabus K. Jackson.

         Soon, however, the Prosecution had their chance again and that assistant couldn’t wait to pounce on the poor child.  He coldly maneuvered around a chair to come straight to Bobby as he sat on the witness stand.  “Bobby, you just told this court that your momma doesn’t lie.  Bobby, how do you know your momma doesn’t lie?”

         The little freckle-faced boy with the brown, tear-filled eyes and fidgety hands constantly clenching the sides of his pants looked at the Assistant District Attorney as if he’d just proclaimed himself Emperor of the World.  Frightened and confused as he may have been, little Bobby Porter composed himself more finely than any adult I’d ever known.  Calmly drawing a deep breath, Bobby looked at the Assistant District Attorney and stated quite plainly and obviously, “’Cause she’s Momma.”

         The courtroom exploded with laughter and guffaws.  A businessman in the front row exclaimed “How precocious!”

“Too sweet!” exclaimed a housewife as she clutched her young son into her. 

“Maybe we should vote the boy for governor!”  Several young men had recently congregated by the back door and was taking a small amount of joy from the flustered look on the District Attorney’s face. 

Even the Assistant District Attorney looked away slightly flustered.  To his credit, even he managed a slight chuckle.  As the laughter died down, however, his face grew grim and serious.  He looked at little Bobby Porter and narrowed his eyes.  His voice grew in volume but sank in pitch and tone.  An anger came to his face that few in a courtroom would ever expect, save from the most heinous of murderers and torturers.  The Assistant District Attorney then spit out the following, each word more venomous than the last, in a barrage meant to cripple and terrify all but the most incredible six year old minds.

         “Well, allow me to expose to you the truth, little Bobby Porter!  There is no Santa Claus!  It is your mother that leaves the quarter under your pillow when you lose a tooth, not some fairy!  Bunnies don’t lay eggs, and there’s no such thing as the Easter Bunny!  No scientific evidence exists to support the belief that kisses make cuts and scrapes heal better, and everything in your life is not okay because your mother is about to suffer Seven Years of the worst luck she’s ever had!”

         The Assistant District Attorney’s hair was extremely mussed from the violent jabbing and gesturing he’d done as he went through his tirade.  It was obvious to all gathered what his intentions were.  He was trying to obliterate little Bobby Porter’s psychological well-being.

         The courtroom sat in stunned silence while the Assistant District Attorney caught his breath.  His face redder than little Bobby Porter’s had ever gotten.  Many in the courtroom began to cry, so horrible was the man’s tantrum.  Some spectators came to their senses fairly quickly and one voice in particular called for some rope, though nobody fetched any.  Nobody fetched any, however, for fear of missing what came next.

         Remember, I said the barrage was meant to terrify and cripple all but the most incredible six year-old minds, and trust me, little Bobby Porter had the most incredible six year-old mind, and he was not deterred from his train of thought.

         “I know Santa Claus is not a real person, he’s an idea meant to keep the spirit of giving alive in everyone.  I’ve never lost a tooth, but momma’s already discussed the tooth fairy and how I don’t need a quarter or a dollar to realize that I’m growing up.  My cousin Sally has bunnies and I already know they don’t lay eggs.  As many babies as they make, I reckon we’d be eating them instead of chicken eggs, if they did make eggs.  I know the huge bunnies in the mall are people wearing costumes.  Momma doesn’t kiss my cuts to make them heal faster, she kisses them to make them feel better.  And even if you give momma bad luck, everything’s still gonna be okay, ‘cause we’ll be together.”

         “What have I been eating on Easter morning all these years?!”  The old woman beside me began to cry and I gave her a comforting hug, holding back a chuckle.  It seemed as if the happy ending I was sure was coming had restored my patience.

         “Ma’am, I’m sure it’s quite alright.”  I patted her twice as her crying subsided.

         Well, after that, you can well imagine what happened next. ‘Bama’s finest lawyer, Barnabus K. Jackson allowed the trial to go to verdict knowing full well his client, Alice (no relation),  would not serve a single day of bad luck.  She leapt for joy as the verdict came down, exonerating her.  The Honorable Judge William P. Winston was satisfied that justice had been served and ended the day early so he could go play croquet.

The District Attorney, Mr. Hanson, decided the governor’s mansion was a bit too large for him, anyway.  He stayed on as District Attorney for another year and then disappeared.  People lost touch with him and even I don’t know what happened to him, though I’m sure he’s alright.  As for the Assistant District Attorney whose name eludes me, I’m afraid when news of his antics reached the good folk of Alabama he was no longer welcome south of the Mason-Dixon Line.  Sadly, I heard there weren’t many places north of the Mason-Dixon Line he was welcome, either.

The old woman next to me continued to strike up conversations with me the rest of the day, and she’s not quite as annoying or irritating as I once thought.  She and I would meet a few more times over the next years and though her mouth spoke without consent from her brain more often than it should, we maintained a wonderful friendship for many years.

Alice (no relation) went home with her sweet, little Bobby Porter in tow.  I’d love to be able to tell you that they lived out the rest of their lives in peace and love and comfort, but that would be an incredible fallacy.  What really happened when they left the courtroom that fantastic day was--.  Oh dear, that story will have to wait for another time.  I’m terribly sorry, but I must be off, now.  You see I’m running late for a most important date.