Her face was arresting; it made you feel instantly sorry for her husband. It was not a face that would likely launch a thousand ships, but, more likely, sink any that, by chance, crossed its path. Her presence was formidable, as opposed to nondescript — for she didn’t lack interesting features. Her eyes, more than her bulk or her manner of walking, told you not to greet her, not even to nod in her direction. She was unapproachable, and meant to remain so.
In the supermarket, her personality took up the entire aisle, making it difficult, if not impossible, for others to pass her going in the opposite direction. Her bearing gave you the impression that she was distinctly in your path, on your side of the aisle, and a head-on collision was in the realm of possibilities. Passing her, going the same way, was not an option. By her manner — the slight swagger in her gait, her way of lifting items off the shelves, placing them in her cart, replacing those that did not meet her approval — told you to wait for her, or to turn around and proceed down an adjacent aisle.
She must have stood close to six feet, and weighed at least two hundred pounds. For her height, she was solid, but not obese by any means. She usually wore a long, enveloping black coat resembling a cape, hiding her bulk and at the same time creating a formidable mass — like a billowing sail as she made her way down the aisles. The color of her hair was a washed-out straw-blond, worn long in a loose form of pageboy — a style better suited to a woman twenty years younger.
She was Prudence Jones, and she lived with her husband, Clyde, and a younger half-sister, April Melville, in Edenville, a town where I had made my home some thirty years before, when I had received an appointment as a professor of literature and creative writing at the local university.
Over the years, we hadn't had much contact with each other, except for the occasional encounter in the local supermarket or at the post office. Her friends and acquaintances — at least those of whom I had a knowledge — were not among my friends.
One day, when I was speaking with the wife of a friend of mine — about the benefit for the local arts center — Prudence's name was mentioned, as one of the committee members who had worked on the dinner and silent auction.
"Haven't you heard?" she asked. "Prudence was rushed to the hospital yesterday. A heart attack, apparently."
I said that I hadn't heard, but I hardly knew Prudence, so I wouldn't be likely to hear of her comings and goings. I asked whether her condition was serious.
"Very. They say she's in a coma — on life support — and may not recover."
Prudence didn't recover, dying shortly after being admitted to the local hospital.
A month later, the local newspaper headlined:
Local Residents — Clyde Jones and April Melville — On Trial for Murder
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