Trish scurries over for a hug. Her arms are light on Wanda’s shoulders. “Oh honey,” she says. “I’m so sorry. It sucks so hard.”
Wanda’s hand lands on the warm flesh of Trish’s lower back, a spot where her blouse has shifted up. She moves her hand away. Did she jerk her hand away? Trish doesn’t seem to notice.
“Where’s Leo?” Wanda says.
“He’s coming soon,” Trish says. “He’s jamming with Ray.”
“Are you supposed to do that too?” Wanda says to Ivan.
“Not when you just got bad news,” he says.
Trish regards Wanda at arm’s length. She shakes her head. “Let’s get you a drink.”
In the dining room, Trish’s laptop is set up on the table beside two empty beer bottles. Ivan has put out wine, glasses, and an ashtray. A landscape photo is displayed on the screen, rocks, sky, and water. “Will that be it?” Wanda says.
Trish pours Wanda a glass of wine. “No, we decided that one’s too dark. Too much like the EP.”
Guilt jabs Wanda’s core. She still hasn’t given the new recordings a full listen. Not that she hasn’t heard the songs performed buckets of times.
“So, what is happening, exactly?” Trish says. “All I see are people flippin’ out on Facebook.”
“Hold on,” Wanda says. “I’ll get the letter.”
She goes to the porch to get the printed email from her purse. Ivan’s voice reverberates in the dining room. Trish giggles. What did he say? Something short and snappy. She brings the paper to the table, lays it in the middle with flair. “Voila. The centerpiece.”
Ivan lights up a cigarette as Trish reads. Why can’t he wait to do that? Or go outside? She hasn’t eaten yet. Now the dining room will stink. But he likes a smoke when he’s annoyed.
Trish sighs. “Education’s always the first to be slashed and burned. So nasty.”
“No it isn’t,” Ivan says. “Not everywhere. Look at the success of school systems in Scandinavian countries. Look at the influence of Confucian thought in East Asia. We treat education as a frill because we are a culture in de-fuckin’-cline.” He stabs the air with his lit cigarette, his exclamation point. “Western society is breaking down. Everything is hyper polarized.” He holds his hands out, like he’s about to pick up something: a box, a baby. “Look at the way information is presented. How people argue. We must be right-wing or left-wing. Scientific or religious. Masculine or feminine. No grey areas allowed, no mixture. And here’s Wanda, a well-rounded, dedicated educator, who chooses to teach the lost ten percent, the ones who don’t make it through high school for a plethora of reasons. And what do we do? Put a price tag on it. Declare its value with a dollar sign. It’s capitalistic and unrealistic and shameful.”
“Hear, hear,” Trish says.
Wanda sips her wine. The intellectual segregation of society, for reals. It would be nice to just rest her head on the table. On her forearms, like kindergarten naptime. Perhaps the two of them had more to drink than those two empties. She pushes the ashtray a few inches towards Ivan. He taps his cigarette in an empty beer bottle. Ashes dust the side. “Ivan’s just mad ‘cause the government’s ruined our summer,” she says.
“How so?”
“What, you mean the road trip?” Ivan says.
“We wanted to drive down to see my friend Sharon in New Jersey in August,” Wanda says. “But if I don’t know about employment in September, maybe we should save our money.” She glances at Ivan. They haven’t discussed this yet. Maybe she’s jumping the gun.
“Yeah, well, not going to the States doesn’t break my heart,” Ivan says. “That place is a disaster. Back in a sec.” He bounces off to the kitchen for refills.
With Ivan absent, the only sound is Trish’s fingernail scratching at the beer label. Her eyes downcast. Pick, pick, pick. Nothing to say to Wanda, but all kinds of things to say to Ivan. This is a new thing. Wanda has noticed how lately, when Ivan’s around, Trish’s laugh increases in pitch and volume, spills out at tripping speeds. Like last week, that perfect spit-take. Pfft. Omigod. Yer so funny, Ivan.
What would Trish say if Wanda asked her about it, right now? Looked her in the eye and tweaked her head towards Ivan’s back: What’s all this about, Trish? Now that would be unreasonable. Wanda would look like a psycho bitch. Trish and Leo are their best couple friends and regular drinking buddies since she and Ivan started going out. Leo and Ivan have been in at least three bands together. Maybe Trish has a little crush? It can happen in long-term relationships, right? Trish and Leo have been on the go for close to ten years now.
“So fidgety,” Trish says. “I’m dyin’ for a cigarette.”
“Tell Ivan not to smoke in front of you. He knows better.”
“Oh no, it’s fine.”
“Well, even if he’s a weekend smoker, he shouldn’t be doing it in the house.” Wanda gestures to the walls. “He’ll have the whole place painted in tar.”
“It’s such a luxury to smoke inside these days, who am I to stop anybody?”
“I guess.” And pause. “So how’s the album art going?”
“Okay, I think. I mean, it should connect with what we designed for the EP. But this album’s so much lighter, you know? It should be a really positive image.”
Wanda nods. She’s well aware of the theme, thank you. The EP was “dark” because they were exclusively Ivan’s songs about his childhood and losing his father, about their lack of money and opportunities. Stuff he’d worked on for years. Trish may have known Ivan longer, but Wanda’s part of the family. This she knows.
Trish’s eyes dart up as Ivan saunters back. He passes her another beer and straddles the chair beside her. Wanda considers the two of them, side by side. Like a pair of salt and pepper shakers. Here’s Ivan, caramel-coloured from installing gutters all week. Hasn’t shaved since Wednesday because two days gets him the optimal sexy scruff. His hair hangs in black ringlets, glossy and effortless.
And here’s Trish, pale skin, white-blond hair sliced and diced haphazardly to frame her pixie face, her kittenish blue eyes. She and Ivan are candy from the same shelf in the confectionary, both decked out in cool, aloof shirts. Ivan in his faded Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds t-shirt, Trish in some flouncy blouse she found at the Sally Ann, lavender with a bow in the front. Check Trish out, she can even rock frumpy.
Wanda gazes down at her own outfit. Horizontal black-and-white-striped top paired with Friday casual jeans. Her brown Mowgli hair dangles to her collarbone, no-nonsense bookends for her face. Everything about her is parallel lines. Once, back when she was subbing, she had a few days in a grade-eight class. One student, obviously not doing his work, had emptied out all the leads from his mechanical pencil and arranged them into a figure of a woman. “I’m making a picture of you, Miss,” he said. She told him to put it away. That night, she stared in the bathroom mirror and examined the unremarkableness of her face. Wanda Jaynes, you could draw her with dotted lines and get the gist.
In the early days of her and Ivan, they’d go drinking with her cousin Brian and his boyfriend, Max. There was a house party, some themed event where everyone wore glitter and extravagant hats. Ivan smeared streaks of shiny blue face paint on his cheeks, like football eye black. They created a dramatic contrast against his dark skin and glorious cheekbones. “Fucking ridiculous how hot your sexy Portuguese boyfriend is,” Brian said. “I don’t know how you do it. I can handle Max ‘cause he’s my hot equal. If he looked like Ivan, I’d feel like crap all the time.” And then he backtracked: “Not that you’re not gorgeous yourself. You’re so pretty.”
The front door opens with a jangle of brown bottles. Leo lays the beer case on the table. He kisses Trish and gives Wanda’s shoulder a squeeze. He points to the letter on the table. Wanda nods and he holds it with both hands to read it, like it’s an ancient scroll in danger of crumbling.
“The needs
of the budgetary shortfall?” he says. “Who came up with that? Someone’s gotta hard-on for jargon.”
“Good name for a band,” Ivan says. “Leo McLean and the Budgetary Shortfall.”
“Ivan Medeiros and the Shortfall Needs,” Trish says.
“I’m sorry, Jaynes,” Leo says. “This fucking sucks.” He pulls a small bag of weed out of his shirt pocket. Wanda’s shoulders relax. Leo’s presence brings equilibrium. Leo, the good listener, the insightful commentator. Next to Trish, he could be her sibling with their delicate features, Leo’s eyes round and soulful, full lips that buckle together in thought.
“Smells like you guys are making chili,” Leo says.
“Yeah, you want some?” Wanda says. He nods. She goes to the kitchen and ladles chili into two bowls. What else. Maybe some cheese. Maybe some sour cream. Maybe a couple of minutes to herself.
She opens the fridge and stares at the shelves. How shitty of her to feel this way. She knows it’s partly because her closest friends have left. Sharon’s job at Montclair is working out well. She might never leave New Jersey. And Nikki, in Montreal, how she complained about it at first: “Everyone is obsessed with how you dress up here, it’s so shallow.” Sharon and Wanda rolled their eyes. Nikki, who makes a point of counting all the ball caps on male heads in a bar, who tweets about the depressing state of men’s fashion.
Besides them, everyone on Facebook has a baby and no spare time. Or freshly divorced and on the prowl. Brian and Max broke up last year. Now he has a new fleet of single drinking buddies.
Perhaps loneliness is a feeling unrealized until considered. She’s always around people. Weekends with Ivan and their friends, in their echo chamber of shared opinions. All week in class, answering questions, making sure to be on. Maybe this busy little life keeps her from dwelling on the possibility of loneliness. And suddenly, here it is, and it’s been gathering quietly, like dust bunnies and mold. Waiting for action. She closes her eyes. The refrigerator air prickles her skin.
Ivan’s arm encircles her waist. “Look at this,” he says. He holds out his smartphone. The title of a recipe: Green Thai Curry.
“Leo says it’s deadly,” he says. He kisses the back of her ear. “I want to make it for you tomorrow night.”
“Yeah?”
His hand presses against her stomach, the edge of this thumb against her breast. “Do we have all that stuff?” His thumb makes a slow circle. It’s hard to read the list on his phone.
“We need coconut milk,” she says. “But I can get some tomorrow after the gym.”
“You’re going to the gym?”
“Have to,” she says. “I haven’t done anything in two days.” The gym membership—another possible cutback. She should sit down with a sharpie and a clean piece of paper. Write out the track listing for The Budgetary Shortfalls.
“So dedicated,” Ivan says. “Tomorrow night. I’ll cook, you relax.” She cranes her neck so he can kiss it.
Back in the dining room, she stares at the paper, the email, in the middle of the table. The sweat from their drinks have left damp spots on its edges. She crumples the page and tosses it underhand to the wastepaper basket in the corner. It lands over a foot away.
“Fail!” Ivan, Trish, and Leo sing in unison. A flush of petulant defensiveness runs through her. Little brats. Maybe it’s some residual feeling from childhood: striking out at the pitch, missing the shot. She never had good aim. The act of squinting and lining up the projection—softball, darts, pool—and always off. She ignores their jeers, picks up the paper ball and drops it in the bin.
2
THERE are too many damned people in the grocery store. Wanda figured if she arrived early enough, it wouldn’t be this maggoty. But no. Saturday morning and the vast store hums with humanity. With her gym right next door, she’s in it with the rest of them, fresh from her workout, pink-faced and ravenous. And a good chance she will bump into Someone She Knows. Someone She Knows never manifests when she’s dressed up, having a good hair day. But grocery shopping in her yoga pants? Guaranteed.
She checks the time on her phone: 10:07am. As she was leaving, Ivan reminded her the chimney inspector will be by the house at 11:00 and he won’t be home. So, groceries, get out, get home, deal with Chimney Dude, and finally, finally eat. What’s that word Leo uses for feeling irritated due to hunger? Hangry. They joked about it as a band name: The Hangry Fits. Ivan Medeiros and his Hangry Feelings. Low Blood Sugar Hangry Magic.
She taps the Our Groceries app on her phone. The items are arranged in order of the actual grocery aisles, so she doesn’t backtrack, no returning to the dairy section from produce. What does she need? Two-percent milk. A birthday card for Fiona. Ivan should get his niece the friggin’ birthday card himself, but whatever. He also wants to make that green curry, so coconut milk and fresh ginger. There’s an abandoned cart in the middle of the entrance. She grabs it and heads to the card section.
Children’s Birthday Cards are divided into Cards for Boys and Cards for Girls. A boy card with a picture of Yoda: Clever and strong you are. One of my Jedis you will be. A girl card which comes with shiny nail stickers, a picture of a cartoon cat in high heels: You sparkle and shine. You’re cute. Happy Day! Is the juxtaposition on purpose? Boys, you’re smart, stay cool. Girls, put some shiny crap on your nails and smile. Toys, too—were they this gender specific when she was little? What did she play with as a child? Legos. Barbie had adventures with her teddy bears. Sharon said she used to play with He-Man figures. Nikki had a train set. Ivan is right, things are extra polarized. Blue for boys. Pink for girls. Pink for breast cancer, the girl cancer.
Wanda finds a card with a puppy and a kitten on the front, blank inside. Ivan will just have to write something nice to Fiona. One of the back wheels on the cart jars and refuses to co-operate. No wonder it was left there. Good judgment, Wanda.
She shoves the cart hard to turn into the meat/poultry section. An elderly woman in an itchy-looking purple coat, the shade of artificial grape food colouring, has planted her cart in the middle of the thoroughfare. The woman bends over the display, examining a package of chicken thighs with a tiny magnifying glass. She gives the package a whiff and lays it down. She picks up another and scrutinizes the surface, sniffing and peering. A warm, damp spot forms on the back of Wanda’s neck. She shoves the cart hard to get around the purple coat lady. She grunts a little. Purple Coat Lady doesn’t notice. Go ahead, missus, keep breathing over all the raw chicken. Beneath the purple coat, she wears brand-new white sneakers and blue jeans. How Seinfeldesque. Hey lady, why don’t you scrutinize how you’re monopolizing that space? Or some shoes from the new millennium? Wanda hisses “fuck” under her breath as she angles her cart past her. No acknowledgement. She officially hates Purple Coat Lady.
Wanda reaches the World Foods section and scans the shelves. Jars of curry sauce, ramen noodles, basmati rice, canned lychees—no coconut milk. Which means it could be in three other sections: Baking, Health/Organic, or with the pop, lined up with bottles of bar mix and grenadine, for the piña-colada shoppers. It would be nice to ask someone. She glances around; no staff in sight. The coconut-milk search now means backtracking into the Bad Aisles, with the Doritos and Pepsi. How is she supposed to stick to the outside perimeter of grocery stores, like all the healthy shopping tips suggest, if they don’t put the goddamn products in logical places? She could just walk out. Leave the cart right here. Let the two-percent milk sour. Let some wage-monkey teenager on staff restock it.
The Baking Supplies aisle is one back. No staff here either. She goes slowly. White sugar, brown sugar, white flour, whole wheat flour, shredded coconut. No coconut milk. Her eyes dart over the bags of chocolate chips. She could rip the corner off a package, make a spout, fill her mouth with perfect chocolate nibs, turn them into shrapnel between her molars. A blond woman with a baby in a carrier looks up from the packs of artificial colouring and regards her o
ddly. Have to get out of this aisle.
Here’s a guy in a Dominion apron. Shaved head, neck tattoo. Wanda practically shoves the cart in front of him to get his attention: “Excuse me?” He stops. A flicker of impatience shadows his face.
“Do you know where I can find coconut milk?”
“Milk?” He blinks at her. The neck tattoo reads “infinity” in what appears to be the Aristocrat font.
“No, coconut milk.”
“Ummm…”
“You know, cans of coconut milk. For making curry? Sometimes it’s with the Thai food, but I couldn’t find it in the imported section.”
“I don’t know. I work in the deli.”
“Do you know anyone who would know?” Her tongue feels eel-like, forked at the tip. She is the most sarcastic snake in the world.
“Yeah, yeah, hold on now. Ummm…,” infinity’s hand touches the outline of a smartphone in his apron pocket. “I don’t see anyone around right now. Does it come in a carton?”
“No, it comes in a can.”
“Maybe with the canned vegetables?”
“I think they’re fruit.”
“Maybe with canned peaches and stuff. Aisle three,” infinity points and disappears in a puff of apathy before she can object.
Wanda pushes the cart towards the beverage aisle, the back wheel twisting out as it turns, like a palsy. There they are. Cans of coconut milk next to the pineapple juice, each with a picture of the brown husk sliced in half to expose their fresh white inners. Wanda takes a can. $1.99. She has definitely spent $1.99 of her time trying to locate this product. The little bastard would fit nicely in her purse. When she was in high school, she shoplifted a few times, gum, cheap perfume, make-up. An appealing act right now. Is anyone looking? Are there cameras? Plain-clothes security? She looks down the aisle. Purple Coat Lady pushes her cart out the end, turns right, and disappears. She’s alone. She eyes her purse. It’s oversized and puffs out a little, an extra shirt for the gym is inside. It would dull any clinking sounds, like keys on metal. It would disguise the can’s shape. She looks down the aisle again.
The Greatest Hits of Wanda Jaynes Page 2