Fatal, Family, Album

by Joanna Campbell Slan

  We stared at each other.

  “You aren’t keeping anything from me, are you?”

  “Don’t be silly. You’re my closest friend. I’m telling you this is a shock to me, too.”

  “Did we hear it right? Brawny is, was, is, might have been…Bruce?”

  “How should I know? Maybe it’s a Scottish thing. Like here where girls get a family surname for a first name.”

  “Maybe.”

  Holding the jacket up for her, I watched as she wiggled into it. She whispered, “I’ll expect a full report tomorrow at work, okay?”

  “Of course.”

  I walked my friend to the front door, gave her a hug, told her to drive safely, and locked up behind her.

  Muffled voices came from Detweiler’s office. I tiptoed down the hall and closer to the door so I could eavesdrop. The “office” is actually a space intended as a formal living room. After moving in, we decided there was no reason to invest in fancy furnishings only to spend the next twenty years yelling at the kids to keep off of it. For the most part, our family liked to camp out in the family room and snuggle on its well-worn furniture. The pieces in that room were mismatched, so I redecorated them with cheap navy slipcovers and washable throw pillows. Lord above knew how often everything got washed. In fact, I’d finally invested in a second set of slipcovers because one was always in the dryer.

  Of course originally, the formal living room was entered by walking through an open archway. That meant there’d been no privacy at all for anyone trying to get work done. One Saturday shortly after we moved in, Detweiler and his dad built out the wall and added a door that could be locked, giving Detweiler a real office. Thanks to this ingenuity, he could review files pertaining to investigations without fear of prying eyes. Later we added a combination safe and a gun safe.

  All of us played a part in transforming the space into a cozy office. One Sunday, Detweiler and Anya put together a trio of cheap-o shelves from Target, and these lined the west wall.

  “Power tools are so cool.” Anya held up the electric drill for my inspection. Although I wonder whether it was really the drill or the fact she was bonding with Detweiler, doing a project that the two could stand back and admire.

  Smack-dab in the center of the room an old desk floated like a proud island, anchored in place by a second-hand Oriental rug I’d picked up at a garage sale for $30. The office chair was a cast-off I’d found in a Goodwill store. Directly across from the bookshelves on the east side of the room were two leather club chairs we’d inherited from Leighton Haversham, our former landlord. Leighton had been the previous owner of this, his family home, and he had graciously left the club chairs behind for us to enjoy. Those seats flanked a short wooden file cabinet, a real treasure because the drawers could be locked with a key.

  Even Erik got in on the action. Brawny helped him take photos of the Missouri landscape. These she developed and framed. They took pride of place on the wall.

  Now all those efforts annoyed me, because it made the room a perfect place for a confab. From my place in the hall, I could hear the intensity of the discussion. I resisted the urge to press my ear against Detweiler’s door only because I feared getting caught. If I stayed where I was, I could easily pretend I’d just come from the kitchen, the hall, or the family room. But as it stood, I wasn’t close enough to hear the voices distinctly. Too bad you can’t hit the “CC” or the “Closed Caption” option in real life!

  I shook my head in confusion. Had Brawny lied about her gender so she could enter the British military service? If so, how had she pulled it off? Did she have a twin brother? Had they manufactured a switcheroo? Was her first name really Bruce? Was it a Scottish thing as Clancy had suggested? I mean, hello? Clancy’s real first name was Druscilla. Maybe Brawny’s real first name was Bruce.

  Then came a truly unsettling thought…was it possible Brawny wasn’t really a girl? That she was a he? Or even more unlikely, was Brawny transgender like Caitlyn Jenner?

  Nah. That was totally improbable. Impossible! She would have told us. Wouldn’t she?

  Brawny’s former employer Lorraine Lauber would have told us. Surely she would have! Lorraine inherited Brawny after her brother, Van, died. Van had been Erik’s stepfather. He’d been the one to originally hire Brawny.

  Surely if something was amiss, Van would have told Lorraine, and she would have told us. Surely.

  On the other hand, Lorraine had represented Erik as Detweiler’s biological son, and he wasn’t. Lorraine had also tricked Detweiler into bringing Brawny and Erik home with him from California. So, Lorraine was not above pulling a fast one when it suited her.

  But did it follow that she lied to us about Brawny? Maybe lie was too strong of a word. Had Lorraine simply omitted this key detail of Brawny’s past?

  Was Brawny a complete sham? A totally fictitious human being? Was she even really a Scot? What exactly did we know about her for certain? We’d been told she was an accredited nanny, a graduate of a prestigious college for nannies, and a former member of the SAS, an elite military group. We knew—or rather thought—that she’d been born in Scotland. My head was spinning. It seemed like the universe was conspiring to make me crazier than a loon. First there was a baby’s abduction and now this. I stood pressed against the wall at the end of the hall. My eyes never left Detweiler’s office door. By golly, as long as it took, I was going to wait for him to come out. Hurry up, Detweiler, I chided him mentally. What in the world is going on, buddy?

  Hadcho must have been thinking the same thoughts. I’d totally forgotten about him after I got up to see Clancy to the door. Now he took a spot next to me at the end of the hall. The two of us stared wistfully at Detweiler’s office door.

  “What gives? Is Brawny really a guy?”

  Although he’d spoken softly, his timing was unfortunate. Right around the corner came my daughter, Anya. She had been lured to the kitchen by the smell of food. But as I watched, she froze in place.

  “Oh, no,” I groaned.

  Kids have this uncanny ability to ignore you when you want their attention, and to hear you very, very clearly when you’d rather they didn’t. I could tell by the expression on Anya’s face that she’d overheard what Hadcho had said. Every. Stinking. Word.

  She went absolutely rigid. Then a slow red stain crept up her neck. That color change was the prelude to an explosion. I grabbed Anya by the elbow to hustle her into the kitchen. Fortunately, she was in such shock that she came along quietly.

  I guided her into one of the kitchen chairs. “Shhh.” I put a finger to my lips.

  “Shhh? That’s all you have to say? Shhh? Hadcho says Brawny is a guy and you want me to shush? Is it true? Is she? A he? A drag queen or whatever? Did you know that? Mom? Did you?” She spoke so fast and so angrily that I was left sputtering.

  “Honey, I’m as surprised as you are. I don’t know anything about Brawny for sure.”

  “But I heard what those men were saying. They called somebody Bruce, and then Brawny started talking. I know her voice, Mom. There’s her accent, too. So Brawny is really a man?”

  “I have no idea. I’ll admit I was eavesdropping, too. How did you hear them?”

  She rolled her eyes and threw up her hands in a “duh” sort of way. “Their voices came through the air vents.”

  “You can hear everything that happens in Detweiler’s office?”

  “Of course, I can. Geez. You didn’t know that?”

  I shook my head and blushed, remembering some racy fun I’d had with my husband and—

  Anya interrupted. “Brawny’s name used to be Bruce, and she was a he when she was in the service.”

  “Oh.” I was dumbfounded. “That’s news to me.”

  I felt like a total fool. Anya knew as much about our nanny as I did, and I was the adult in the room. I thought about chastising her for eavesdropping, but honestly, didn’t we have a bigger problem here? Yes, we did. Who was that person who’d been living under our roof? The per
son I’d trusted with my children?

  I could not go there. “Maybe you misunderstood. Maybe I did, too. Sweetie, let’s not jump to conclusions. I’m sure there’s some reasonable explanation.”

  “Are you nuts? Totally stupid?”

  “Anya, keep a civil tongue in your head.” I itched to reach out and shake her, but I’d never do something so violent.

  “Right, I need to watch my attitude because, hey, Brawny is a man. News flash, my smart tongue is the least of your problems. We’ve been living with a guy, pretending to be a girl. She must be one of those people who dresses like the opposite sex just to fool people.”

  “We don’t know—” I steered Anya into the kitchen.

  “You don’t know what? Who she is? What she is? Geez Louise, Mom. Your job is to protect me. All day long, you and Detweiler harp on being careful and staying safe. Then what, huh? You two bring into our house a man who’s pretending to be a woman? Good job, Mom. Do you know how many times I’ve undressed in front of her? Him? How perverted is that? It’s sick. That’s what it is. Sick! Embarrassing and awful and…” Rather than continue, she burst into tears.

  Before I could collect myself, she threw her arms around my neck and wailed loudly. “M-m-mom. I trusted her. I shared my secrets. Stuff like you only tell your diary. Personal girls-only stuff. And she listened and she never stopped me. She musta had a fun time, laughing inside. How disgusting it that?”

  “Sh.” I stroked her hair, looking over her shoulder at Hadcho, who had walked up behind my daughter. He was shaking his head in disgust. That jet-black hair of his, a link to his Native American heritage, was hanging down on his brow, a sign he was upset, too. Hadcho is a sort of poster boy for good grooming. His haircuts cost more than one week’s groceries.

  “Look, Anya, honey, calm down,” I said. “We’ll get to the bottom of this. We need more information, sweetie, and—

  “Waaaahhhhhhh.”

  My sleeping baby was awake, alert, alive, and hungry.

  “The call of the wild.” Hadcho grinned.

  Anya was still hanging around my neck like a noose.

  “Mama Kiki? Where is Daddy? Where is Brawny? Can I have a cookie? I am hungry.” Erik galloped in, looking adorable in a pair of pajamas printed with happy cowboys riding ponies. “That baby is crying.”

  Erik had a habit of calling Ty “that baby.” He’d regressed a bit since Ty’s birth. Clancy told me that all of this was normal.

  Normal? Considering the conversation about my nanny, life seemed anything but normal.

  “Yes, honey, I know Ty is crying.”

  “I smell cookies. Who had cookies? I want cookies.” Erik pushed past me and climbed onto a chair. Before I could stop him, he had cookies in both hands.

  Anya pushed me away. She threw her arms wide in a gesture of capitulation. “It’s always something these days. The baby. Erik. Detweiler. The store. I miss the old days when it was just you and me.”

  With that, she flounced up the stairs. To her retreating back, I said, “Sometimes, I do too.”

  “You take care the baby, and I’ll tackle the Cookie Monster,” Hadcho said, as he scooped Erik up. “Come here, little rascal.”

  “Thanks. You might see if the stew is ready. Bribe him with cookies as a chaser.”

  “Will do.” For a single guy, Hacho’s pretty good with my kids. Of course, he’s not much use when Ty needs to nurse. Then nobody but Mom or her milk will do. I picked up my infant son and cradled him in one arm. Ty’s eager lips puckered and searched for his dinner. “Hang on there, partner. Let me disrobe. Otherwise, you’ll get a mouth full of cotton.” But all the drama had done a number on me. I couldn’t get my fingers to cooperate. My free hand fumbled with buttons on my blouse.

  Ty made no secret of his frustration. He pulled a face and let out a healthy, “Waaaaahhhha!”

  He was seriously ticked off.

  Frankly, I wanted to cry like a baby myself.

  CHAPTER 3

  After I buttoned myself back up, I burped Ty. Then I checked and discovered that his diaper was soaked. Although I wasn’t supposed to carry him up the stairs, I did it anyway. While I was changing the baby, Erik shyly joined us.

  “Did Uncle Hadcho get you some dinner?”

  Erik nodded. “Stew and cookies.”

  Now that Ty had a full tummy and a clean diaper, he was having trouble keeping his eyes open. I sank down in the rocking chair. Erik came over and stood at my elbow, staring down at his brother.

  “Why don’t you get a book, sweetie, and I’ll read it to you and Ty?”

  His choice was Lyle the Crocodile, a story I can recite by heart. I shifted Ty around so that Erik could climb up on my lap. With one boy cradled in the crook of my arm and the other leaning against me, I read the silly story of a crocodile. Erik turned book pages for me.

  By the time we got to “The End,” Ty was sound asleep.

  “Erik, sweetie, are you ready for your bath? How about if you take it in Ty’s bathroom? Let me go put Ty in his crib.”

  “Where’s Brawny?” Erik asked. She usually gave him his bath.

  “She’s talking to a couple of guests.” I tried to sound nonchalant. “Would you like to play with Ty’s rubber ducks? I don’t think he’ll mind. He’s too little to use them yet.”

  This entailed a thorough discussion of whether ducks were faster than boats or not, with Erik pretty certain that since this particular yellow duck was bigger than his red boat, the duck could go faster. When I went to lift Erik out, he clung to me like a monkey. I was woefully unprepared for him to press his wet self against my dry surface. By the time I got him dried and dressed for bed, I was soaked, shivering, and tired.

  Erik took advantage of the fact the household was in an uproar by asking me to rub his back. Luckily for me, he could only keep his eyes open for five minutes. Usually, I love spending time with the little guys, because their needs are so simple and straightforward.

  Tonight, I was torn because I wanted to know what was going on with Brawny. That push-pull from trying to balance my needs took a lot of energy. After leaving Erik’s room, I checked in on Ty again. He was fine. From there, I went to Anya’s room. I had hoped to talk with her a little more, but her light was out and her bedroom door was locked.

  Defeated, I went back downstairs only to find that Hadcho had left for the evening. Before going, he’d put all the dishes in the dishwasher and cleared the table. He’d scribbled THANKS! on the wipe board we keep in the kitchen. While I appreciated his thoughtfulness and good manners, I gnashed my teeth because I hadn’t gotten the chance to ask him what he’d overheard. If he’d overheard anything. Gracie paced the hallway outside Detweiler’s office and whimpered. She, too, knew things were in turmoil. Or maybe she wanted to know what the scoop was on Brawny. Who could say?

  My default move in times of trouble is to bake a pan of brownies. I don’t care how much shortbread and spice bread we have in the house. When tough times hit, a person needs a good dose of chocolate to survive, and I desperately needed a chocolate fix right now.

  We only had one box of the mix left, but one box was enough to keep me busy. In short order, I mixed the ingredients and popped a pan into the oven. I was standing there, staring at the mostly empty bowl, and debating how far to stick my head inside so I could better lick the leftover batter, when I heard the door to Detweiler’s office open. Low voices continued in the hallway. A metallic click of the deadbolt and yet another blast of frigid air suggested the front door had been opened. The tone of the voices had changed, and although the words were muffled, it was clear from the texture that everyone was saying goodbye.

  Seconds later, Detweiler and Brawny joined me in the kitchen. She looked like ten miles of bad road, and Detweiler didn’t look much better. As a matter of self-preservation, I kept a firm grip on the mixing bowl. With a spatula from the utensil drawer, I quickly cleaned up the last gooey streaks of liquid brownies. I did not offer to share. No way. They would
need to wait until the timer went off and the brownies were out of the oven.

  Besides seeming uninterested in the chocolate treats, neither Detweiler nor Brawny seemed eager to chat. I opened my mouth to demand an explanation, but their sullen postures tied my tongue. What on earth had happened? What had they been discussing in Detweiler’s office? Was nobody talking because Detweiler needed to speak to me alone?

  This was totally weird. At some point or another, it irritated me and aroused a streak of stubbornness. Okay, I thought. Be that way! Don’t include me.

  Yes, it was childish and petulant, but I was tired and badly in need of sugar.

  The three of us puttered around doing chores much longer than strictly necessary. Once we’d washed, dried, and stowed every item that came to hand, we moved in a slow dance, circling each other, warily. Detweiler and Brawny both avoided my gaze. Somehow they kept an arm’s length from each other, even though all three of us were occupying a comparatively small space.

  Finally, the oven timer dinged. I took the brownies out of the oven and set them aside to cool. My ears were cocked and primed, listening for the sound of a stirring child or a whimpering baby or a chatty iPad that should have been turned off. Instead, nada. This night, of all nights, I would have been happy for an interruption. Any distraction to postpone the hard conversation ahead.

  But none came.

  Detweiler leaned against the counter, appreciatively sniffing the air that was now chocolatized. He swept his eyes over the unusually tidy kitchen, and then he turned to me with a quizzical look on his face. I shrugged and glanced away. My mind had busied itself with a number of imagined conversations, and not one of them had ended happily. Could it possibly be true that Brawny was a man? How could I forgive Brawny for lying to us? Or at the very least, misleading us?

  Okay, you could parse the details. You could suggest she hadn’t lied, and we’d assumed she was a woman, but geez, wasn’t that splitting hairs? If it walks like a duck and it quacks like a duck and it looks like a duck, why wouldn’t you put your faith on it being…a duck? Wasn’t that what we’d done? We’d accepted her—him—as she presented herself to us. Bronwyn was a woman’s name. The person we’d brought into our house as a nanny wore a skirt. Sure, you could call it a kilt. You could argue that the garb was gender neutral, but wasn’t that beside the point? She looked like a woman. She used a woman’s name. She never left the toilet seat up, and she always replaced empty toilet paper rolls with fresh ones. I’d overheard her ask for directions on more than one occasion. Short of asking her to drop her drawers, what were we to think except that she was, indeed, who she seemed to be?