Prudence Couldn't Swim (7 page)

“Is everything all right, sir?” Fontella asked.

“The gentleman is doing fine, Fontella,” Ms. Jack said. “He's complimenting your service. Please bring us a comment card. There aren't any in the booth.”

A smiling Fontella walked back to the register to find the comment cards.

“How is Prudence?” Ms. Jack asked. “I haven't seen her for some time. She used to come by often. I was a little bit worried.”

“I'm afraid she's not too well,” I said, not knowing the next step. If I told her the truth, she might turn hysterical, even attack the messenger. If I tried to make an arrangement to see her later, she might doubt my motives. Predators come up with all kinds of funny stories.

“Please visit me in my office when you've finished eating,” she said. “I want to hear the news. I'll ask Fontella to take you back there.”

“Thank you,” I said. The woman was a mind reader.

I stared at the three remaining pancakes: blueberry, banana, and
peach. None of the flavors would solve the problem of how to break the news.

I put the three pancakes into a stack and attacked them in one gigantic bite. Blending three syrups together doesn't create a new, exciting flavor. I was glad I bought the raspberry.

As I chewed I visualized the scenario in Ms. Jack's office. How much did she know about Prudence? Maybe they weren't even good friends. It might not even bother this Ms. Jack that my wife was dead. I washed down my apprehension with another cup of coffee. I wouldn't sleep a wink with all that caffeine, but then ever since Prudence died, I wasn't sleeping anyway. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw that hollowed-out corpse from the bathroom staring at me. Wild Turkey helped blur the image but didn't make it go away. I was thinking of sleeping pills but I didn't want to get hooked. My Wild Turkey addiction was enough.

Ms. Jack's office was more substantial than Johnston-with-a-t's. She even had a small green sofa opposite her desk. I sat on one end. She got up from her desk and parked on the arm at the other end.

“I'm Mandisa Jack,” she said, extending a hand over the cushions. She paid lots of attention to her silver nails, not so much to her hastily arranged straight hair.

“Calvin Winter,” I replied. “I'm sorry to be the bearer of bad news.”

She looked away but didn't respond.

“I'm not sure how well you know Prudence,” I said, carefully avoiding the past tense, “but she speaks of you often.” A small but necessary lie. She'd only mentioned “Mandy” to me once. I tried to think of more positive things to say to soften the coming blow. I drew a blank.

“Prudence drowned in my swimming pool last Thursday,” I said. “I found her lying in the pool face up. I tried to revive her but it was too late. She was my wife.”

“So she's gone?”

“Yes.”

“Nkosi yam. My God.” Her hands went over her face. I heard her whispering a short prayer. I couldn't tell if it was English or not. After a minute she took her hands down, kissed her fingers and made the sign of the cross.

“How did she end up in the pool?” asked Mandisa. “She couldn't
swim. We once went shopping for swimming costumes and we laughed as we tried them on. Neither of us could swim.”

“Still trying to find out. The police came by but they didn't do much. No autopsy or anything. I have my suspicions. Like you said, she couldn't swim.”

Mandisa went quiet. It was a lot to take in.

“Has there been a funeral?” she asked. “What about the body?”

“We're planning a small service.”

“I would like to be there.”

“Definitely. As to the body, I'm not sure. Cremation I guess.”

“Oh no,” said Mandisa, “we don't do that in Africa.”

“She told me she was from London.”

Her hands slipped back over her face. Now she was crying. I needed more information from her but sometimes silence is the only way to communicate. I didn't know her well enough to offer a hug. Maybe Africans don't hug. Prudence didn't, at least not much. But then I still wasn't exactly sure where she came from.

Someone knocked on the window. Fontella's face pressed against the glass as she tried to see inside. She was chewing a big wad of gum.

“Just a minute,” said Mandisa, “we're almost finished here.”

“I brought the comment cards,” said Fontella, sliding a stack of about five under the door. “I've got a party of four on 5B. Drunken assholes.”

“Thank you,” Mandisa replied.

“I must get back to work,” she told me, wiping her cheeks with her hands. “I need to clean up a little.”

“Do you know anything about her family,” I asked, “like how we can contact them?”

“We met here in Oakland. Single African women are few here. I will miss her. She had problems though.”

“So she wasn't from London?”

“Never. She was from Zimbabwe. Have you heard of it?”

“Not really.”

“It's a small country just next to South Africa, where I come from.”

“Can you inform the family?” I asked.

“I don't know them at all.” She stood up, trying to resume her
composure. Even with her face soaked in tears, she looked much more the manager than Johnston-with-a-t.

“Ring me when you know about the funeral,” she said. “We can talk more then. Thank you for informing me. I'm sorry, sir. But please, no cremation.”

“I'll think about that,” I said. I thanked her and we shook hands again. The moment was gone.

The room filled with the smell of pancakes and bacon as she opened the door. I put the blue bag in my pocket and walked out. I was home in twenty minutes. The next day, I'd go to a bookstore and buy a world atlas. I had to find out where the hell this Zimbabwe was.

W
e had a small service for Prudence at the Medley Funeral Home in North Oakland. I paid for everything, not that the Medley was the Hyatt Regency of the funeral world. They did spruce up their dismal little storefront chapel with Easter Lilies, Chrysanthemums, and a few roses, all on my nickel. I opted for a closed casket, gray with black trim, a dignified departure. Though a cemetery burial would cost an extra $200, I followed Mandisa's advice. If Prudence was an African, I didn't want evil spirits chasing after me because I opted for cremation.

Red Eye came for the service, along with Pearly, G, Linda, Darlene, and several other girls from the King and Queens. Mandisa wore the appropriate black, including a broad-brimmed hat with a veil. Darlene and Linda made vain attempts at propriety. Darlene's black jacket strategically covered her white chiffon blouse. She'd even included a bra in her outfit. Only the stiletto platform sandals and the three gold toe rings gave her away. Linda also managed some black, a tight-fitting fake mohair sweater with an enormous gold cross pendant hanging down in front. Her mother probably gave that cross to her twenty years ago.

The Reverend P. Stokes led the service. He came with Medley's “Deluxe Burial Package.”

“The Reverend always has the right words to honor your loved one,” the brochure said.

“Everything happens for a reason,” the Reverend told us. “One day we will all be together with Mrs. Winter and our maker.”

I'd never heard anyone call Prudence “Mrs. Winter.” I wasn't sure what to make of it. I doubt that's how Prudence would have wanted to be remembered.

The Reverend continued. His hands had a little tremor, either early Parkinson's or he needed a drink. I bet on the latter.

He reminded us that eternal happiness awaited if we stayed on the “path of righteousness.” I heard a snicker from one of the girls. The Reverend took off his glasses and surveyed the group. He couldn't detect the guilty party. The multiple layers of grease on his hair did nothing to slicken the remainder of his eulogy. I decided to try to avoid him once it was over. I knew he'd have a funny smell.

As he turned over the last page of his yellowed script, he peeked at his watch.

“Does anyone want to say anything on behalf of the deceased?” the Reverend asked.

I had lots to say but standing in front of people and baring my soul wasn't my style. Besides, after three sleepless nights in a row I wasn't sure I could make sense. I'd just talk to Red Eye later, when there wasn't a game on the TV.

“We'd like to sing a song,” said Linda. She and Darlene scooted past Pearly and took their place in front of the coffin. Now I could see Linda's micro miniskirt. At least she'd worn dark tights. Neither had spared the mascara or eyeliner to rise to the occasion.

Darlene snapped her fingers to warm them up.

“Prudence told me once that this was her favorite song by the Beatles,” said Linda. “We dedicate it to her memory.”

Linda counted the first beats under her breath, then started her attempt at singing lead. She had the volume but Darlene's harmony overwhelmed her. Their version of “Let It Be” wasn't John and Paul or even Ray Charles, but it brought tears from my eyes for the first time in eleven years. That's how long ago Blanda, my prize bulldog, got run over by some drunken 49er fan. I thought I saw Red Eye rubbing his nose during the girls' final chorus. I hoped Prudence would find her Mother Mary, whoever she may be.

After the service I saw Mandisa shaking Darlene's hand.

“You have a lovely voice,” Mandisa told the suddenly gangly-looking Darlene. Linda moved in to take over the conversation. I beat a retreat for some solitude. I didn't want anyone asking me about the redness in my eyes and I definitely didn't want Reverend Stokes to corner me. If
he wasn't preaching to me about the glory of God, I had a feeling he'd be asking me to line him up with Darlene or Linda.

As I walked toward my car, Mandisa called me back.

“Thanks for inviting me,” she said. “We had to do something for her. Dying so far from home is difficult.”

“I guess so,” I said. I'd never given the location of my death much thought. My string of foster parents and my counselors at juvie never talked to me about old age. When you're “state-raised,” you take it as it comes. As long as I didn't die in prison, anywhere was all right with me.

“At home hundreds of people would come to bury someone like Prudence,” Mandisa told me, “so young, so clever, so beautiful.”

“We did the best we could, and no cremation.”

“You are to be commended. I'd love to see the tombstone.” I didn't bother to tell her we hadn't ordered a stone. The funeral was as far as a lowlife husband could go.

Mandisa paused for a second, gazing at the passing traffic. No one's death stopped the street life of Oakland. I should have done more for Prudence than the Medley and that pathetic excuse for a preacher. A funeral isn't something where you can promise to do better next time. You only get one shot.

“I have some things of Prudence's” said Mandisa. “Maybe you need to see them. After all, legally you are her husband. I don't think she had a will.”

“If they can help me get an idea of how this happened, I'd like to come and take a look.”

“Come by tomorrow morning,” she said. “I won't touch a thing until you get there. I'll do what I can to help. Like I said, single African women here are few.”

She reached into her black leather handbag and found a tiny spiral notebook. She wrote her address on one of the pages, tore it out, and passed it to me.

“You can come about ten, if that's convenient,” she said.

“I'll be there,” I promised.

Red Eye was waiting for me in the Volvo. I asked him to drive. I wasn't in the mood.

“They're cremating the body now,” he said. “I couldn't stay for that part.”

“What? I told them no cremation. That it wasn't African.”

“Maybe I got it wrong,” said Red Eye, “but that Minister told me they'd already slid the body into the whaddyacallit, the oven I guess.”

I tore out of the car and ran back to the storefront. As I got to the door, I stopped. I couldn't face it. I'd already had to play around with her body once. I couldn't do it again. What if they pulled it out half-baked? Then what? I turned around and headed back to the car.

“Let's go to my place for a drink,” I said. Red Eye pulled the car out into the traffic. He didn't ask me at all about the cremation. He needed that drink as bad as I did.

Why hadn't I done better for Prudence? She was the only one of my wives who left me with at least a few fond memories, a lot better than Jenny, my number two. She left a three-inch gash in my neck when she stabbed me with a kitchen knife. We had a few irreconcilable differences. Marriage and Calvin Winter just didn't mix. I was beginning to think seriously about that tombstone.

M
andisa's apartment was in Alameda, a quiet town just North of Berkeley. She lived in one of those areas where apartment buildings seemed to clone themselves, then sprout variations in paint, landscaping, and shingle color. Her building was three stories in yellow stucco, sheltered by a few trees. She lived on the third floor, in the front.

Her kitchen looked like a closeout sale at Circuit City. Two microwaves, three food processors, rows of blenders and juicers. The sandy-colored carpet in the living room supported enough sofas and chairs to accommodate at least twenty people if they could squeeze between the furniture to reach their seats. Maybe her church held Sunday services there. More welcoming ones than the Medley.

“Prudence used the second bedroom,” she told me. “She paid me $200 a month.”

“You've got a lot of furniture,” I said.

“Some of it belonged to her. I don't know what to do with it.”

“Just keep it,” I said. “But where the hell did it all come from?”

“Prudence had a lot of funny connections. I think one of them owned a furniture store. I never asked.”