Free Prudence Couldn't Swim by James Kilgore Page B

going on here?” I asked. “Why were all of Prudence’s things at your place?”
    â€œShe wanted to move out but was afraid to tell you,” she said. “She was looking for an apartment. Half of this furniture belongs to her and most of the kitchen things.”
    â€œI see.”
    Mandisa had filled five garbage bags with Prudence’s clothes. The closet was empty except for a pair of silver lamé flip-flops.
    â€œWhat are you going to do with all this stuff?” I asked. Mandisa was about six inches shorter than Prudence and much rounder. No alterations would have made those dresses look good on her.
    â€œI don’t know,” she said, “sell them I guess. Have a yard sale. Isn’t that what they do here? I don’t know anyone her size, at least not someone who wears these kinds of things.”
    â€œLet me have one last look through them before you let them go,” I said.
    â€œNo problem,” she replied, but she looked annoyed.
    She started tying the tops of the bags together and promised to leave them there in the closet until I was ready. There was no garage sale in Mandisa’s plans. I was sure she knew places in Africa wherepeople would pay big bucks for these high-class threads of Prudence’s. An arranged-marriage husband could only get in the way.
    Mandisa went into the kitchen for a couple of minutes. I looked under the mattress. No photos, only an old newspaper with an article about Zimbabwe. A picture showed some soldiers escorting an old white man, a Mr. McGuinn, and his wife out the front door of a farmhouse. The date was July 22, 2002.
    â€œEvicted white farmers flee Zimbabwe,” read the headline, “Mugabe tightens the screws.”
    As I read on I figured out that this Mugabe was the president of the country and he was taking farms away from whites. Crazy business, but what did it have to do with Prudence? I stuffed the article in my jacket pocket. Maybe if I read it later it would make more sense.
    I smelled coffee and cinnamon. I peeked out into the kitchen.
    â€œCome and have a coffee,” she said. “There’s an apple tart there,” Sounded even better than silver dollar pancakes.
    Mandisa had laid out her small kitchen table with two white cups and saucers, a matching little milk pitcher and a blue sugar bowl. The coffee plunger stood in the middle. She’d sliced the apple tart into eight precisely equal pieces and fanned them around on a yellow serving tray.
    â€œHow do you take your coffee?” she asked.
    â€œA Cadillac. Two sugars.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œCream and two sugars.”
    She pushed the plunger down, picked up my cup and saucer and poured slowly. She added my sugar, shaking off the excess each time to give me a level teaspoon.
    â€œIt’s Italian blend,” she said. “I hope it’s all right.”
    â€œAs long as it’s black and hot,” I told her, “I’m happy.” I took a sip, then realized she might think I was referring to something other than coffee when I said “black and hot.”
    â€œIt tastes fine,” I said. She didn’t look offended.
    She reached over and scooped a piece of apple tart onto my plate and set it down next to my saucer.
    â€œHave more if you like,” she said. “I’ll never eat all that.”
    The apple tart, as she called it, was really a pie with a laced crust top. The apples were too sour, the bottom crust thick and soggy. I didn’t ask if she made it. I heard my lips smack as I calculated how to break the silence.
    â€œPrudence liked you a lot,” said Mandisa, “but she had so many things going on. She didn’t want to cause trouble for you.”
    â€œI can handle trouble,” I said.
    â€œI was just trying to explain how her things got here, why she was moving out.”
    â€œI understand. I appreciate that.”
    I reached for a second piece of pie, just to make