I cannot say that in the long run it made much of a
difference, however.
The library, with its walls and tables of books, is
not one of the forgotten rooms of the Manor. Master
Bruce frequents it in his rare personal time,
sometimes to peruse the heavy volumes of literature or
of scientific essays, but more often for a rather more
melancholy pursuit. All of us who spend significant
time in this house have learned not to bother him at
those times.
So it is a considerable surprise to enter the library,
duster and polish in hand (a useful cover to get in
some uninterrupted time with Thackeray), and find
Master Dick standing there, hands in his pockets,
staring thoughtfully up. At the enormous portrait of
Thomas and Martha Wayne that hangs over the fireplace.
For a moment I mistake him for Bruce and am about to
back out, but Dick turns when I enter and smiles at
me. "Hey, Alfred," he says. "Doing some dusting?" He
gestures rhetorically at the feather duster, swiveling
his whole body to face in my direction. Dick has
always been like that. You get his full attention or
nothing at all.
"Hmm." I straighten myself slightly. "If you'd like
some time to yourself, Master Dick —"
"No, no, no." He shakes his head in emphasis, then
heaves a sigh, the smile becoming a touch more
wistful. "In fact...if there's anybody I could ask
what I wanna know, it'd be you."
"Oh?" I must admit I'm curious. When he was a child,
Dick was full of the normal questions about his new
home and the people in it, and I had become adept at
diverting his more sharp inquiries. But one area I'd
never had to gloss over was the Waynes. Young Master
Grayson understood all too well the sanctity of those
memories, and he'd been quite careful never to prod
when it came to Bruce's life before Crime Alley.
Finding him here under the portrait, blue eyes
gathering courage as he took a deep breath, I knew the
time to break the silence was finally here.
The question, when it did come, was almost painful for
both of us.
"Alfred, d'you think they would have..." A pause, a
hitch, then he determinedly continues. "Do you think
they would've liked me?"
My years of dealing with any and every situation with
the utmost aplomb serve me well as I consider, but
Dick is already barrelling ahead, becoming more
agitated and animated with every new sentence.
"I mean, I've asked Bruce if they would," he tells me.
"And he said 'Of course,' just like that, like
there's no question about it. But you know
Bruce — even if he knew his parents would hate me, he
still would've said that they'd like me, because
that's just the way he thinks about them, y'know,
never anything bad. Well, not bad bad, because I'm
sure they weren't, but Bruce —"
"Master Dick," I interrupt, and then again, louder,
because he's still prattling on. "Dick." He stops
and focuses on me, about to say something else. I can
tell from the quickness of his breathing that he's
going to tell me to never mind, to forget it, it isn't
really important. I hear that enough from the other
Bat-person in this household without hearing it from
Dick, so I hastily tell him what he wants to hear.
The truth.
"Probably not, Master Dick."
He almost...deflates when I say it, eyes clouding
over as he returns his hands to the depths of his
pockets. "Oh," he says, trying to think of more to
say, some way to make it hurt less, and finding
nothing. "Oh."
I put the duster and polish down and take his
shoulders firmly. This needs to be said. There are
too many things that have been half-said in this
house, begun and then abandoned because of pain or
fear or guilt. I don't intend that this be one of
them. "Richard, they might not have liked you at the
start. But I scarcely believe that anybody could get
to know you and still dislike you." I can tell I'm
not getting through to him; his eyes have that same
faraway look that Bruce's do when he's feeling
particularly disheartened. My fingers tighten
slightly and I shake him, once. I need all of his
attention right now.
"Dr. and Mrs. Wayne were members of a very different
society and mindset," I say, speaking loudly and
enunciating clearly. At least he's looking at me now.
"They had extremely set ideals and were not likely
to adjust those ideals for people who fell outside of
them. And you, dear boy, for all your admirable
qualities, would still fall outside of their ideals."
He's puzzled now, but calmer. "Okay," he says. I can
see the wheels turning. "Okay," he starts up again,
obviously having thought of something new, "so what
would they have thought of Bruce? About how he's
grown up?"
I let go, smoothing the wrinkles left by my fingers
before clasping my hands behind my back. The
implacable butler returns. "That, young man, is none
of your concern."
Dick turns his head slightly, narrowing his eyes at
me. Now that he's a grown man and as tall as I am, he
can no longer turn that winsome look on me that he'd
perfected within a month of living here.
"Wellllll..." he wheedles, "I guess it isn't
reeeeeeally...."
Knowing perfectly well what he's trying to do, I pick
up the duster and begin giving the table a cursory
once-over. Dick persists in looming over me for a few
moments more before giving up with a resigned chuckle.
"Okay, all right. I'll stop bugging you." Dick heads
for the door, but stops short of it to add, voice
softened, "And thanks for the honest answer, Alfred."
He shuts the door behind him, and I am left with the
portrait, Thomas and Martha's lifeless eyes staring
down at me. It's no use to continue dusting and even
less to attempt some quiet reading.
After all, what could they possibly think about the
person to whom their orphaned son was entrusted and
who fulfilled that trust by raising the Batman?
Thomas and Martha Wayne were rich, white, upper-class
people who entertained and did charity work and led a
rich, white, upper-class life. There is hardly a
square mile of Gotham City that hasn't been improved
or beautified in some way by the Wayne millions, but
one might say that charity work is merely something
that is "done" among the philanthropic elite. They
were certainly not bad people, but it would not be
slandering their memories to say that they were
oftentimes rigid and set in their ways and beliefs.
No, they would not take kindly to having an orphaned
circus Gypsy running about the house. They would not
approve of it in the least— certainly there must be
some sort of...home for such children? They would
not be pleased to find their son's handsome, guileless
face gracing the society pages every fortnight and his
name linked to a dozen women each month. They would
be horrified at his nighttime activities.
I can't count the number of times Master Bruce has
pleaded with me — aloud or simply through his
silence — to tell him what his parents would think of
what he's become, what they would think of the
self-imposed crusade that drives him to the streets at
the expense of his body and his mind. And each time I
tell him what he needs to hear. I tell him, "Your
parents would be proud of the man you are, Master
Bruce."
It is a boldfaced lie, and one I am not sorry to tell.
If I told him that his fears are valid, and that his
parents would be mortified and overwhelmed by what
their deaths had done to their son, it would destroy
him. If I told him that I spend long nights
attempting to discern where exactly in his
upbringing I went wrong, at what point I allowed his
mind to believe that ridding Gotham of crime should be
his special province, he would not be able to live
with the guilt. It would strip his life of meaning
and denigrate his ongoing fight against injustice. I
can't be the one who does that to him.
Someday, he will hear what I say every time I tell him
those words. He will hear it, and he will believe it.
I am proud of him.
August 2001
There are a great many rooms in Stately Wayne Manor
that see a human face only twice yearly — once during
the spring cleaning, and another time when the heavy
draperies are put up in the fall. In Bruce's
childhood, there was a staff of twelve who lived here,
including myself — always twelve. Martha Wayne was a
somewhat superstitious woman, and her husband Thomas
indulged her whenever possible. We never had thirteen
on the staff. We never had thirteen of anything.