“Thank Pearly for us,” I said. “We’ll be in touch.”
“I saw her drivin’ away one night with a guy in a white car,” he said.
“You get a look at him?” asked Red Eye.
“I did but …” Fred’s face went blank, “it was dark.”
I’d already forked out fifty bucks for one set of two-bit memories. I didn’t feel like a repeat performance.
“Let’s get out of here,” I said. Red Eye and I headed for the front door.
We got outside and just stood on the sidewalk contemplating the next step. We hadn’t realized just how stuffy that little office of Pearly Gates’s was. Freddy came out the door.
“Jeffcoat,” he said, “the guy’s name was Jeffcoat. Prudence called him ‘Mr. Moneybags’ but warned me away from him. Said he had a ‘dark side.’ That’s all I know. Hell, we all got dark sides.”
I pulled out a twenty.
“Keep it,” he said, “just send me an invite to Jeffcoat’s funeral.”
“Will do,” said Red Eye.
“And one more thing,” Freddy said to me.
“What’s that?”
“Lose that English accent of yours. Sounds like shit.”
“Appreciate the feedback,” I said. Red Eye and I got in the car.
“Okay, level with me,” I said. “You got ‘no longer racist’ tattooed on your back?”
He turned his back toward me and started to pull up his shirt, then stopped.
“Hell no, but I thought about doin’ it once. This one white dude at Folsom had it done. The Skinheads kicked his ass.”
“You’re a dumb motherfucker.”
“It worked, didn’t it? Nobody wants to look at my hairy-ass back.”
I started the Volvo and we headed back to Oakland only a little worse for the wear. I’d probably end up having a nightmare or two that involved a big Samoan guy’s hands around my throat, but for the moment, my mind drifted back to Prudence.
I’d never dreamed she was running around with the likes of Pearly Gates, Fast Freddy, and big-breasted Darlene. Only a surgeon could have produced boobs like that.
My wife must have been desperate for money or cheap thrills or both. I imagined Pearly had skinny little legs with no hair left. Probably kept his suit coat on in bed. I didn’t want to think about it. Maybe she was knockin’ boots with G too. The thing I couldn’t really understand though was how she could have called me a lowlife when I lived in Carltonville? If she hadn’t been killed on my property I wouldn’t even have bothered to keep this thing going. But Red Eye was right, this was about respect. I had to get to the bottom of this, for my own peace of mind as a man.
CHAPTER 7
The IHOP was on what I knew as E. Fourteenth Street when I was growing up. Sometime in the 1990s they’d changed the name to International Boulevard since so many different people had moved in—Mexicans, Asians, Islanders. Arabs owned most of the stores. In my day, blacks and whites ran the show. Some blacks were still around but there weren’t many whites left. They’d fled to Hayward, Dublin, and suburban points beyond. As I cruised past E. Twentieth Avenue, I realized a white guy in a Volvo would stick out like ten sore thumbs. I should have rented a Taurus, something that would blend in. International wasn’t the spot for a refined Swedish sedan, even if it did have dual exhaust. Plus, I was carrying a full set of fake IDs. At least I decided to be careful this time and stash the papers for Peter Clark inside the driver’s side door panel. Peter was now a fully accredited shopper for the International House of Pancakes.
The usual selection of drug dealers, streetwalkers, and thrill seekers was going about their business. About two blocks from the IHOP a balding white man in a shiny new Buick was negotiating with a young black person in high heels and a fake fur coat. Some things never change. Not that I gave a shit, but I hoped he didn’t think he was buying a woman.
The IHOP parking lot was sparsely populated which suited me just fine. I wasn’t looking for a crowd or scratches in my fenders.
All three waitresses on duty fit my image of Mandisa. I figured she was a large, dark-skinned woman even though no one had ever described her to me. African women were either starving like the famine in Ethiopia or plump and spry. Prudence fit neither of those types though. If she was African, she was special.
The three women were talking at the register as I entered. Though I’d dressed casually, my golf shirt and slacks didn’t blend in with the more bling-oriented clientele. I caught two nametags as I walked past the waitresses: Ginger and Fontella. I eavesdropped on their conversation, hoping to catch a hint of their accent. These women sounded as American as Queen Latifah.
I found an empty booth and ordered silver dollar pancakes. If I was going to be a shopper, might as well compare them with Denny’s. The IHOP had a slightly larger concept of the size of a silver dollar. I appreciated the selection of syrups. I spread the pancakes in a circle, placing a smidgen of syrup of a different flavor on each one. I liked the raspberry the best. I liked it so much I asked Fontella if I could buy a bottle to take home. She promised to bring it with the bill.
“It’ll be $2.95,” she said.
As Fontella ran my bill through the register a short, plain-looking woman walked over to where the waitresses gathered. She was light-skinned with her hair pulled back into some kind of ponytail. I guessed black women called them ponytails too. I didn’t know. She wore a brown suit. Had to be the manager. Except for a little red streak in her hair, she definitely fit Darlene’s idea of a square.
I tried to catch her voice but I always had a hard time hearing clearly if I wasn’t looking at the person speaking. I knew enough about after-hours race dynamics not to stare at these women too long. White man accused of gawking at black women was troubled territory where I didn’t want to venture.
My manager lady was talking to Ginger about her shifts for the rest of the week. I heard her say schedule just like Prudence used to do—without the “k” sound—”shed-yule.” I had my woman. Now I had to find a way to talk to her. I could go through my Peter Clark routine but maybe there was a shortcut. Fontella was busy wrapping up my bottle of raspberry syrup. I’d probably end up giving it to Luisa. These things never tasted as good when I got them home.
The manager abandoned Ginger and started walking my way. I stood up as she got near my booth. Ginger did a double take as if my standing up had an ulterior motive. Her eyes homed in on me. She was ready to pounce if I turned out to be some kind of predator. Too many of them around these days.
The manager stopped a couple of steps away.
“I hope you’re enjoying your food, sir,” she said. The accent was different from Prudence’s, neither American or English. Her nametag said, “Ms. Jack, Manager.” Jack didn’t sound African, didn’t sound like a last name at all. Could it be short for Jackson?
“I’m fine,” I said, sitting back down, “but could I ask you a question?”
If she was a manager, she couldn’t say no. The customer is always right.
“Certainly, sir,” she replied, lacing her fingers together at her waist like a dutiful daughter.
“I hope it doesn’t sound like I’m prying,” I said, “but is your first name by any chance Mandy?”
Her eyes darted left, then right. She looked confused.
“As you can see, my name is Ms. Jack,” she said, pointing to the white tag on her suit coat, “but why are you so curious about my name, sir?”
“A lady friend of mine named Prudence said she knew someone named Mandy who was a manager at IHOP. It’s important that I talk to her.”
Fontella was approaching with my bill and the bright blue bag containing my syrup. She looked annoyed.
“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.
CHAPTER 8
We 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.”
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