No Such Thing as a Secret: A Brandy Alexander Mystery (No Such Thing As...A Brandy Alexander Mystery)

by Shelly Fredman

  As Johnny and I struggled to an upright position, the car door creaked open. I could feel John’s ragged breath in my ear. He grabbed my hand, ready to bolt. In the next instant, two shriveled up nuns climbed out of the car. They must’ve been about a hundred years old apiece. One had a cane, which she used to poke us with.

  “Are you kids alright?”

  “I think so.” My arm throbbed where I’d landed on it.

  “I’m so sorry,” said the driver. “We just rented this car from Drive a Jalopy. I’m not used to all the modern conveniences.” By the looks of her, a rumble seat would’ve passed for a modern convenience.

  “Forget about it,” John told her, relief etched on his face. “No harm done.”

  “Hey.” The one with the cane peered at me through imitation Ray Bans. “Aren’t you that reporter from the Early Edition News in L.A.? We love you. Don’t we love her, Alice? That piece on sexy lingerie was a real eye- opener.”

  “I’m so glad you like our show,” I replied, slightly dazed.

  “Is it true Brian Murphy wears a toupee?” Brian Murphy is the lead reporter on our show and an incredible narcissist. He once held up a live newscast for five minutes while he flossed.

  “Yes, it’s true,” I said. “Write to him and tell him how natural it looks. He’ll really appreciate that.”

  After extracting my autograph and a promise to “do lunch” when we got back to L.A., Our Ladies of the Death Mobile ambled back to their car. “So,” I said to John as they drove off, “do you think they’re the ones who broke into your apartment?”

  “Shut-uh-up!”

  John swung onto the I-95 and headed south. After assuring him that no, I did not think he was crazy, and yes, I had faith that the Philadelphia police force would keep him out of harm’s way, he relaxed into his leather seat and turned the radio up full blast. I amused myself with the newspaper John had swiped off the sleeping, homeless guy.

  “Oh, this is interesting.” I read aloud.

  Mayor Vows to Clean up City

  Taking a page out of former New York mayor Rudy Guiliani’s book, Philadelphia mayor, Bradley Richardson has pledged “a return to ‘family values’ for the city of brotherly love.” Richardson, an outspoken conservative, has targeted many local establishments that cater to the fringe population. At a recent press conference the mayor stated, “Families deserve a decent place to raise their children. There is no room in our city for drug pushers, prostitutes, or perverts.”

  I stopped reading. “Is this guy for real?”

  “Afraid so. He ran a very successful family values campaign, and he’s not about to get off the gravy train any time soon. Personally, I think the mayor doth protest too much.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Oh, you know those super repressed types are always so conflicted. I wouldn’t be surprised if he went to bed at night with a bible tucked under one arm and a copy of Male Hustler under the other.”

  “All that angst must make for a very crowded bed.”

  Twenty-five minutes later, we were almost home. I swear I could smell the melted Cheez Whiz calling to me from Pat’s Steaks at Ninth and Wharton. Signs of Halloween began springing up on every porch. The closer we got to my old neighborhood, the more festive it became. Skeletons, Jack O’Lanterns and ghosts greeted passersby with macabre cheerfulness. People in these parts take their holidays very seriously.

  We passed Saint Dominic’s church, where my mother had been baptized, and Manny’s Delicatessen, where my father had his own religious experience over lox and bagels—his way of getting in touch with his Jewish roots.

  My dad is what he refers to as a cultural Jew and what my mom calls a Jew of convenience, meaning he’s not big on schlepping to the synagogue on the high holy days, but he has a vested interest in the meals that come afterwards. When my brother and I came along, my mother laid quick claim to our immortal souls, and, before my dad could say “gefelte fish,” we were launched into the world of Roman Catholicism. Well, fair’s fair. Mom did do all the legwork by going to church every Sunday.

  To that end, when I was six I was trundled off to Saint Dom’s for a proper parochial school education. I lasted there about two weeks. At first, I loved all the pomp and circumstance, the uniforms, the statues. But being the curious kid I was, I began to ask questions when things didn’t make sense to me. I didn’t know my questions would throw the teachers into such a tizzy. I just assumed everyone else wanted to know exactly how immaculate conception worked and where Mary’s husband fit into the scheme of things. I hadn’t quite gotten the concept of blind faith yet.

  It wasn’t long before I’d worn out my welcome, and the nuns suggested I might be better suited for public school. Paulie, at eight, had fared worse than I did. After going just one day, he’d decided he hated parochial school, and he began showing up for class in a yarmulke he’d found in the back of my father’s drawer, with the words “Coen Bros. Mortuary” stamped on the back. After a week of this, it was suggested that he too would be better suited elsewhere.

  I felt a little disappointed. I’d really looked forward to my first communion. I’d already gotten the dress, a lacy white frock with matching gloves. I decided to go ahead with the communion anyway, and invited all the neighborhood kids to my backyard to “watch me get married to Jesus.” As this was a wedding of sorts, I urged them to bring gifts and enticed them with cake. It was a lovely affair. Being a somewhat enterprising child, I also enjoyed a profitable, if not entirely kosher, Bat Mitzvah.

  “Okay, doll face, you can open your eyes.” We were standing on the porch of my parents’ home, the house I’d grown up in. The houses in my neighborhood are cramped, narrow, brick structures called row homes. They are linked together by common walls, the better to hear your neighbors and be able to keep tabs on them. Many of these houses were built in the nineteen thirties. People were shorter then, I suppose, and didn’t require as much space.

  There’s a trend in some of the more upscale South Philly neighborhoods to buy the house next door and knock down the adjoining wall. This is not the case on my block, where limited income and tradition prevail. My house is at the end of the block, on one of the few streets that have an actual, albeit miniscule lawn.

  When we exited the car, Johnny insisted that I close my eyes as he led me up the three short steps to the front door. Nostalgia washed over me as I breathed in the smell of my neighborhood. Four years is a long time to be gone from a place you love. I heard some shuffling, and then, “Surprise!”

  My eyes flew open, and I was engulfed in a sea of arms. My brother, Paul, scooped me up and hugged me breathless. Over the top of his curly, dark hair I could make out the faces of the twins, Franny and Janine. Franny, definitely not a morning person, was wrapped in a ratty, old, pink robe. On her feet were oversized Homer Simpson slippers. Janine was still in her waitress uniform, having just gotten off the night shift at the “24 Hour Diner.” My favorite uncle, Frankie, was there too and his girlfriend, Carla Marie. It was seven thirty in the morning and they were all there to greet me.

  “Yo, Paulie, let her down so the rest of us can see her,” yelled Uncle Frankie. As Paul lowered me to the ground I gazed around at my friends and family. Emotion beat the life out of any sarcastic cover-up comment I could utter and I burst into tears.

  “You guys…” I gulped. “You didn’t have to…you’re just the best!”

  “Hey, did you really think you could sneak back into town without the Welcome Wagon? Come here, honey.” Uncle Frankie enfolded me in his massive arms and kissed me on the top of my head. “I know you talked to your parents, but they wanted me to tell you again how sorry they are they can’t be here for you. What with your dad’s leg being in a cast, it’s gonna be awhile before he can travel.” My dad joined a bowling team in Boca, last week. Two days later he tripped over his bowling ball and broke his leg. I get my stellar coordination from his side of the family.

  “Okay, my turn.” Carla nudged U
ncle Frankie aside and clasped me to her ample chest. My nose caught in her lacquered hair and I nearly choked on the fumes. Carla’s a hairdresser, and she makes the most out of the discounts she receives on hair products.

  Carla and Uncle Frankie met a few years ago at an AA meeting. She’s thirty-seven, three years younger than my uncle. Until I came along to usurp the position, Frankie was considered the lovable screw up of the family. Twenty years younger than my mother, he grew up with the benevolent disinterest of older parents who loved him, but just didn’t have a lot of energy to devote to their “little surprise package.” By the time my uncle turned thirty, he’d been married and divorced twice, served a little time for B&E and was headed in the general direction of hell in a hand basket. But Carla changed all that. He’s absolutely devoted to her.

  We trooped into the living room, everyone talking at once. Franny flashed me her engagement ring, a Princess cut diamond the size of a grapefruit. Her fiancé, Eddie, is in the jewelry business and obviously does not ascribe to the theory that less is more.

  “Janine thinks I should have chosen something more subtle.” She made a face at her sister. “What the hell do I want subtle for? I’ve waited my entire life for this sucker.”

  I smiled and hugged her. It was quite a stretch. Twin auburn haired goddesses, Franny and Janine stand 5’ 9” in their stocking feet. I’m 5’ 4” in two-inch heels.

  “The ring is perfect,” I said. “So when do I get to meet Eddie?”

  “Tomorrow night. We’re having a little blowout at Paul’s club. It’s Oldies Night.”

  My brother is part owner of a small dance club in downtown Philly, off Market Street. He plays a mix of live local bands and canned music. Paul plays the saxophone. When he was twelve my parents had started him on lessons, thinking it would help boost his self-confidence. Growing up, my brother had a royal stutter. As a kid he was the butt of merciless jokes, (made mostly by me) but he kept it under control with the overuse of certain illegal substances (you know those wacky musicians!). It’s pretty much gone now and only reappears when he’s super tired or stressed.

  “Frankie, Paul, take Brandy’s bags upstairs. Janine and John, come help me in the kitchen.” Franny disappeared into the other room as Paul and Frankie carted my bags up the narrow staircase to my old bedroom. Franny is an organizational freak. She manages a small law office in Center City. Before Fran started working there, the place was “going under,” but Franny whipped the office into shape in no time, and now they run a thriving business. Of course, everyone’s deathly afraid of Fran, which is exactly how she likes it.

  I plopped down on the couch, exhausted, and began to survey the room. Everything looked exactly the same, not a plastic flower arrangement out of place. My mother prides herself on two things, good cooking and good taste. While it is a well known fact among family members that she has neither, no one would ever dream of letting her in on the general consensus.

  She makes two meals, dry chicken and overcooked pasta, and she has the decorating sense of Martha Stewart on Acid. Colors clash, knick knacks abound and shag carpeting reigns supreme. As far as my mother is concerned, if God had meant for her to put fresh flowers on the table, He never would have invented plastic.

  The house used to belong to my grandparents. My grandfather died when I was four, and my grandmother couldn’t bear to stay here without him. So my family moved in and she moved into a duplex, a few blocks away. That’s how I met Johnny. His family lived on the other half of the property. I have vivid memories of our first encounter. I was sitting outside on the little porch swing, kicking my feet high out in front of me. Johnny emerged from his apartment and sat down next to me, uninvited. Neither of us said a word for several minutes. We just sat there, swinging our legs. Finally John spoke up.

  “You’re ugly.”

  “So are you.” Ah, trading insults, the universal language of love. And that was the start of a lifelong friendship.

  I leaned back and closed my eyes. Carla arranged herself on the couch, next to me.

  “I ran into Bobby at the Italian Market,” she said, without preamble. My head shot up so fast I thought it would fly right off my neck.

  “Oh?” Breathe, Brandy. Keep it light. “I thought he was on vacation.”

  Carla shrugged. “He’s back. He asked about you.”

  “That’s nice.” Oh my god, he asked about me! “What did he say?” A perfectly reasonable question.

  “He said, ‘How’s Brandy?’”

  “Hmm…” Nice touch. This “faux casual” is really fooling Carla. “And what did you say?”

  “When?”

  “When he asked about me. What did you say back?”

  “I said you went on safari and were eaten by a gazelle, and then he said, ‘Oh, that’s too bad, Zimbabwe’s lovely this time of year.’” I think she’s on to me.

  “Brandy, I love you, sweetheart, but this phony nonchalance isn’t fooling anyone. It’s been four years. You’ve got to come to terms with your feelings for that man.”

  “I’m working on it,” I sighed, slumping forward on the couch. “So, really, how is he?”

  Carla shrugged. “Truthfully, I don’t know. For a guy who just got back from a vacation he didn’t look too well rested.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Carla shifted in her seat and began picking at her left pinky nail. A bit of bright orange nail polish chipped off and fell onto her blouse. She flicked it away. “Damn. That’s what I get for using the store brand.”

  “Carla!”

  “Oh, sorry, honey. I don’t know--he just didn’t seem himself. When I think about it, he’s been real distant lately, and I get the sense that he’s not real happy. Personally, I didn’t think his marriage was going too well, but then he announced that he and his wife and the baby were going on vacation.” She looked up at me with compassionate, mascara- laden eyes. “Are you sure you want to hear about him, honey?”

  “Yes.” No, not sure at all. “Carla, when Bobby and I broke up, it almost killed me. But I always knew he never meant to hurt me. You said it yourself, I’ve got to come to terms with my feelings for him and move on. I’ve run away long enough.”

  “Since when did you become so emotionally mature?”

  “Since I started watching Dr. Phil. What? It gets really slow at work in the afternoons.”

  I wanted to pursue my questioning about Bobby, find out more about his shift in personality, but Paul and Uncle Frankie chose that moment to reappear back down the stairs.

  “I see Mom and Dad haven’t touched your room since you moved out,” Paul observed. They’ve still got your Julio Inglasias poster hanging on the wall.”

  “That is not my poster. I think Mom put it up when she was going through ‘the change.’”

  An hour and a half later, the various members of my Welcome Wagon had taken off, either for home or work. We had stuffed ourselves with lox and bagels and homemade cannoli. Now, I just wanted to curl up in my own little bed and take a nice long nap.

  I was being chased by a herd of man-eating gazelles. They were bearing down on me, and I couldn’t outrun them. Just as I was about to be devoured by a particularly aggressive one, Julio Inglasias appeared and began singing to them in Spanish. That seemed to calm them, and they all went to sleep and began to snore.

  The snoring became louder, more insistent. I sat up and looked around, groggily. Julio winked at me from the wall on the other side of the room. The phone on the bed-stand continued to ring.

  “Hello?”

  “Hey, sweetheart. How’s my girl?”

  “Dad! I’m fine. How’s your leg?”

  “Not so bad. Everyone in the complex thinks I broke it water skiing.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because it sounds a hell of a lot better than tripping over a bowling ball.” He let out a hearty guffaw, and I laughed along with him. My dad has a knack for adjusting reality to suit the image he has of himself. It’s one of his m
ost endearing traits.

  “Lou, let me talk to her.” My mother grabbed at the phone.

  “Just a minute Lorraine, I just got on.” A five- minute discussion ensued about whose idea it was to call in the first place, during which time I climbed out of bed, brushed my teeth and washed my face. My mother won.

  “Honey, how was the flight? Did you meditate, like I told you?”

  “Yeah, mom. Worked like a charm.”

  “I knew it would. It’s supposed to be very calming. I heard it on ‘Oprah’”. My mother worships at the Oprah Altar.

  “I miss you, honey.”

  “I miss you too,” I said, automatically.

  “So, what are your plans for the day?”

  I checked the clock on the bed-stand. Ten thirty a.m. Great. That brings my total hours of sleep in the last two days up to “one.” I eyed my bed, not bothering to suppress a yawn.

  “I don’t know yet, Mom. The meditation was great and all, very refreshing, but I’m still a little tired. I thought maybe I’d go back to sleep.” Take the hint. Please, take the hint.

  “Oh, honey, you really should get out and see what they’ve done to the neighborhood, since you’ve been gone. The Costellos got an awning, it’s so garish, and the new neighbors in the Lipskys’ old house just remodeled. Oh, and I hear St. Dom’s is having a Halloween Carnival. I wish I could be there with you now,” she ended wistfully. Somewhere in the back of my throat a lump was forming, and I began to miss my mommy in earnest.

  We talked for another fifteen minutes, about Franny’s wedding and the psychological effects it will have on Janine. My mother thought she recalled an “Oprah” about twins and “wedding sibling rivalry.” Then, with great reluctance, she said her goodbyes.

  “Mom, I love you. Kiss Daddy for me.”

  I tried to get back to my nap, but it was a fruitless effort. Maybe I was having a delayed reaction to all the chocolate, but suddenly I was wide-awake. As I lay in bed, I stared at the ceiling at the Kurt Cobain poster I’d stuck up there when I was fifteen. I can’t say I was a huge fan, I just thought he was cute. That started me thinking about people I didn’t like but thought were cute, and those thoughts segued into people I like and think are cute but I wouldn’t want to sleep with, which made me think about Johnny, who is very cute in an Italian elf sort of way but not exactly the stuff female fantasies are made of.