Prudence Couldn't Swim

Prudence Couldn't Swim

By James Kilgore

Copyright © James Kilgore

This edition © 2012 PM Press

All rights reserved

Published by:

PM Press

PO Box 23912

Oakland, CA 94623

www.pmpress.org

Cover illustration by Mark Maddox
www.maddoxplanet.com

Interior design by Courtney Utt/briandesign

ISBN: 978-1-60486-495-3

Library of Congress Control Number: 2011927952

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Printed in the USA on recycled paper, by the Employee Owners of Thomson-Shore in Dexter, Michigan.

www.thomsonshore.com

Oakland, California
June, 2003

P
rudence couldn't swim. She liked to sit by my pool in a skimpy bikini, her body glowing with creams, lotions, and oils. When I came home that Thursday afternoon, I saw her in the water for the first time. She lay face up under the surface, her legs bent like a frog's.

I kicked off my sandals and jumped in feet-first. My favorite Christian Dior sunglasses floated away as I grabbed her hand. Her fingers were limp but warm. I dragged her to the edge, let go for a second, and scrambled onto the deck. As I knelt down and slid my hands under her armpits, I thought I heard her laughing. No such luck.

Her knees banged against the concrete, then her toes caught on the rim of the pool. I'd never been much good at handling women who were alive and breathing, so I shouldn't have been surprised that this wasn't going well. I gave an extra tug and her body slithered onto the scorching concrete. Her skin seemed to sizzle as I laid her down and began the battle to bring my wife back from the dead.

This woman had cost me a fortune—plane tickets, clothes, entertainment. Prudence longed to live in style. I tried to give her that, though I don't know how much she appreciated my efforts. Our union did have its benefits though. I strutted through crowds while gawkers puzzled at how a hare-lipped, balding white man could hold onto this ebony trophy girl. I would remember those times. Now, soaking wet and frantic, I wasn't sure it was all worth it. People would probably say she played me.

For the first time ever, I put my lips to her mouth. I held her nostrils shut, like what I remembered they said to do on the radio if someone wasn't breathing. This once-forbidden fruit felt so natural.

I breathed in and out three, four, five times. A trickle of water ran from her nose. With the flat of my hand between her still-shining breasts, I pushed quick and hard. The purple polish of her toenails flashed in the corner of my eye as her feet bounced in rhythm to my futile thrusts. She'd spent hours with little balls of cotton between her toes getting that polish just right.

I alternated between lips and chest, my cheek finally collapsing onto those once-glorious tits. I was too out of breath to cry. Prudence was gone. What thrills did life hold for me now?

T
he first issue was getting out of those clothes. I hated wet cotton clinging to my chest. I stripped down to my boxers in the patio, then raced to the bedroom. A pair of black Dockers and a black cashmere sweater helped me regain my composure for a few seconds. But no change of clothes could solve the problem of what to do with this dead body. I rushed back out to the patio and covered Prudence with a green wool blanket. I didn't want to witness whatever changes go on with a dead person. Red Eye would know what to do though he was hard to catch. He hadn't quite gotten the hang of cell phones. He owned one but rarely turned it on and never checked messages. Even his parole officer had a hard time tracking him down. I tried his landline. No reply. He didn't believe in answering machines or voice mail.

“If God intended me to get the call he would have kept my ass at home,” was his explanation. Typical convict logic. After his five years in the pen what could I expect?

When Red Eye wasn't home, he was usually at Leon's Sports Bar, a none-too-fancy place on the fringes of Hayward. Red Eye bet on anything—football, NASCAR, the Olympics. He bet on European soccer, though he didn't know a corner kick from an off side. He solved that problem by always betting on teams with red uniforms. In fact, he always bet on red. I once caught him with $100 riding on a ping pong match. He'd backed the Chinese player against the Malaysian because the Chinese guy wore a red shirt.

“And the guy comes from Red China,” he'd pointed out to make it more convincing.

I could phone Red Eye at Leon's but the conversation might get awkward and Leon loved to eavesdrop. Better to go there. Still, before
I could go anywhere, I had to do better than leave Prudence lying under a blanket. How long did a body take to start stinking? The last thing I needed was the stench of my now-former wife enveloping the neighborhood. I hadn't lived here long and I was trying to keep up a respectable front. It was all disintegrating fast.

The more I thought about it, the worse it seemed. How could this vibrant, beautiful woman suddenly turn into a rotting heap of flesh?

I wrapped the blanket all the way around her and dragged it across the patio, a little like a husky pulling a sled. Her once-mesmerizing bumps and curves thudded over the sliding glass door frame. At least hers was a bloodless death. I didn't have to worry about stains. Still, dead people did empty their bodily fluids at some point. I hoped that moment wouldn't come too soon. I'd spent over $4,000 recarpeting the living room just a few weeks before. Cream color. I didn't want anyone's emissions, not even Prudence's, to scar my investment. Just for insurance I rolled the body, still in the blanket, onto a little throw rug. Hard to hide blemishes on cream-colored carpet.

I slid this odd-looking parcel across the living room, down the shining hardwood hallway to the guest bathroom. There wasn't much space in there. I had to bend her a little and wrap her around the toilet so I could close the door. As I twisted her ankle to get the required angle, her face popped out of the blanket. A few minutes of death had hollowed her eyes and caved in her cheeks. That tiny scar on her cheek, her only blemish, had somehow grown. I threw a towel over her head before that image got too deeply etched in my memory. I retreated quickly and shut the door, hoping she wouldn't flop into some ungainly position. She deserved better than that.

I rushed to the liquor cabinet and downed two shots of Wild Turkey. The burning liquid temporarily purged her sunken eyes from my mind. I couldn't recall why I'd brought her inside. Oh yes. I didn't want to leave her by the pool while I went to find Red Eye at Leon's.

As I searched for my car keys, another little light went on inside my head—the one that said “you could be in a world of trouble here.”

Prudence didn't leap into the heated pool in a suicidal fit. She had help. Someone pushed her. Maybe they were trying to set me up. Running to Leon's looked a little less appealing. If I was going to
run, I'd have to run farther than that. Whoever did this had probably phoned the police the minute I walked through the front door. I had to cover some tracks. Fast.

I exchanged the Wild Turkey for Chivas Regal and weighed my options. Two shots of the Chivas halted the tremor in my hands. Scotch was more powerful than bourbon in such situations. I'd save the Wild Turkey for later.

I phoned Leon's and asked for Red Eye.

“He just stepped out,” the bartender told me.

“Is he coming back?”

“Hard to say,” he replied. “He usually does but you never know.”

“Can you give him a message?”

“We don't do messages,” he responded. “We're a sports bar, not an answering service. Besides, too many people shoot the messenger, if you get what I mean.”

“There's been a death in the family. I need to get him urgently.”

“Sorry, Bud,” he answered, “we've heard that one. Try Philly Joe's on E. Twelfth and Fifth. It's his other haunt. 651-4893.”

“Thanks”

I dialed as far as the four when I heard the sirens coming. I put down the phone and grabbed the broom. Time to hide the evidence, though I wasn't sure why. I went outside and swept away all the little pieces of green wool I'd trailed across the patio, then hosed down the pool deck for good measure. A quick run of the vacuum cleaner over the living room carpet restored some order. It's hard to weigh your options in a messy house.

If the cops came I was sure I could convince them I was no thug. I had my Volvo 740 parked in the driveway to prove it. Mint condition. I had to give up the Caprice Bubble when I moved to the hills. Hopefully my new image would pay off and they didn't run ID checks on gentlemen sipping scotch and soda in this neck of the woods. As I added some soda to the Chivas I realized I had another problem. My point was that I had nothing to hide. Moving the body didn't fit in with that image. I ran down the hall to the bathroom, opened the door and yanked on her left leg. She slid out into the hallway. I was holding a coldish foot, trying not to look at her face. I closed my eyes and
wrapped the blanket around her again. Her once-firm breasts flopped like a pair of socks with golf balls inside.

She ended up next to the pool under the blanket. I folded her hands on her stomach. She was resting in peace. I vacuumed again. I probably should have just left her in the pool.

The sirens had stopped. False alarm. Probably just the EMT rescuing some old man from a heart attack. I hosed down the pool deck one more time just to make sure. Suddenly I realized I needed to call 911, at least get a call on record.

I poured another shot of Chivas as I dialed.

“Emergency services, how may I help you?”

“I want to report a drowning at 12 Lancaster Road, Carltonville.”

“Is the person breathing, sir?”

“I said it was a drowning. Do drowned people breathe?”

“Have you tried CPR?”

“What?”

“Artificial respiration.”

“I banged on her heart and breathed in her mouth quite a few times. I held her nose while I did it.”

“And she didn't respond?”