The Greatest Hits of Wanda Jaynes

by Bridget Canning

  A loud cracking sound booms through the store. She jumps. If she didn’t know better, she’d say it was a gunshot. Maybe someone dropped something heavy, from a height, the top of a shelf. Maybe something fell from the ceiling.

  But that would mean a scream of surprise and then quiet. Not screams and screams and more screams.

  And the woman, Purple Coat Lady, appears in Wanda’s view of the end of the aisle. She runs across the entrance. The horrible boom comes again and her purple shape falls and Wanda can just see her legs and her shoes at the end, her white sneakers on her blue denim legs, twisted in mid-run. There’s blood.

  “He has a gun! He has a gun!”

  Another huge cracking sound. It is a gunshot. Someone is shooting. Someone is shooting people in the store.

  People run and scream, there are echoes of screams. Someone flies past her. “Run!” Wanda moves towards the start of the aisle, by the main entrance. The doors are clogged. People everywhere, piles of them, shoving, falling down. Wanda’s knees buckle and she leans on a shelf. Which way to go. Have to get out. Where is her phone? She runs back to the cart. She grabs her purse with her left hand, still holding the coconut milk in her right. There is yelling. Another shot. Screams. How many of them are there? There is nowhere to go. Fire exit. Wanda starts up the aisle towards the back of the store, towards the deli. She can get into the back, there must be a way out.

  At the end of the aisle, she looks both ways, like she’s about to cross the street. People scramble behind the meat counter. She looks to the right, towards Produce. There is a fire exit in the corner. She can just run, run as fast as she can. No signs of danger to the right.

  She looks left and there he is. She knows it’s him before she sees the gun. He’s the only calm person in the store. He takes deliberate steps, holding the handgun in his left hand, scanning the area. Short hair, pale face, black jacket, the sporty-looking winter kind, faded jeans. A fine spray of acne scars on his cheek. A backpack. He has supplies. He is prepared.

  She stands inside the aisle. She cannot run, she cannot move. His eyes meet hers. They are dead and black and leaking tears, old batteries she found in the basement once, wet and poisonous. His gaze lands on her and he starts to turn, his hand with the gun sways towards her, like a crane with a load, it’s coming, please, fuck, no. But his battery-eyes flicker and he hesitates and she sees his decision. He has spotted someone else, someone beside her in the next aisle. He raises his arm to point at the something, the someone to her right. First this one, then the next one. She hears a sob and a thud to her right, someone behind her in the next aisle. There is begging and sobbing in some other language. She does not understand the words, but their urgency gauges her insides. She sees his blank need, so obvious in the fluorescent light. He takes aim and she just wants to stop the aim, just wants to stop, and when her elbow jerks back, there is a thunk, a bottle knocked off the shelf, some kind of heavy liquid, and there it is, the back of her hand, straight out from her face, her fingers flared open, and there is the can of coconut milk on a rotation through space as it strikes, right there, his forehead, thwack, and he crumples and lies scattered on the tiles like a condemned building.

  3

  THE people in the bedroom speak with top-notch enunciation: “A nightmare came to life in one of St. John’s largest grocery stores today…”

  “Ivan.” Her voice has a crust. Bed sheets tucked up to her chin. The air is stuffy and contains flickering lights. Those people need to stop flashing lights at her.

  “Can you please tell us what happened today?”

  Wanda looks around the bedroom. She is alone, but voices blare around her. The clock radio on Ivan’s side reads 10:02pm. The door is open to the computer glow from Ivan’s office across the hall.

  “I was in the produce section when I heard the shot.”

  “Ivan!”

  “I’m here.”

  “Turn down the volume.”

  “Oh Jesus, sorry.” The volume drops, but just a smidge. That man is half deaf. She tears the blankets down, pulls the sheet over her head. Air fans in. She closes her eyes. No matter. The witnesses might as well be reporting from the foot of the bed.

  “Everyone was running for the doors…people dropped everything and took off…food all over the floor, everybody runnin’, slippin’ in it.”

  The sound stops and starts. Ivan is hunting and seeking, clicking on different news sites, CTV, CBC.

  “The second shot happened, I wanted out, but the doors were blocked with people. I ran, hid behind the counter in the bakery. There were others ducked down with me, we were all just frozen there. I prayed and prayed, Lord Jesus, save us.”

  “When I saw his gun pointed at me, I just thought, ‘get down.’ And I dove for the floor. The bullet hit a cereal box. Rice Krispies rained down on me. And he went on, he must have thought I was dead. When I think about it, I believe God told me to get down. Get down and don’t move.”

  Wanda opens her eyes. The light from the doorway makes the bed sheets resemble snowdrifts at night. She and Ivan arrived home shortly after eight. There was a note on the front door, something written in a frustrated scrawl—the chimney inspector was by. She staggered to the bedroom, stripped off, and got into bed.

  The police station took hours. The same questions asked over and over—gently, but with thorough deliberation. She watched her own hands tremble as she drank tea out of a small Styrofoam cup. Over and over, she told the story. The man, the gun, the can, his head, he fell. There was a main cop, her name slipped out of Wanda’s mind instantly, but she took care of her and the other witnesses. She had kind and serious eyes and was good at her job. There was another cop, a young guy, talking to Ivan in hushed tones. Ivan was handed a card, a pamphlet of some kind. That’s for when I go crazy, she thought and marvelled at that idea. Do the police know it will happen? Maybe they’re just being proactive.

  She exhales and the sheet parachutes out slightly. Coming in for a landing. Her legs ache in a weary, empty way, like they were squeezed and wrung out. How fast did she run? When he fell, she turned and ran, straight down the aisle. The automatic doors were open and there was a clear exit. Her feet hit something wet and she skidded but kept going.

  Wanda jams her knuckle in her mouth and bites. The purple coat woman and her silver hair and the red streak on the floor. She ran until she was outside and caught up in the police officer’s arms, a wall of blue uniforms and she heard a high-pitched wheezing sound, like the slow release of air from a balloon and she realized it was her.

  “I saw him. He was…his face was…dead, no expression and he just…he was like a robot. Robot eyes. Nothin’ in them.”

  Wanda flings the sheet off and sits up. “Ivan! Turn it down!” Silence. Ivan appears in the doorway.

  “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. You okay?”

  She rubs her face. “I need to sleep.”

  “I’ll come to bed. Do you need anything?”

  “Water, please.”

  “Be right back.” He closes the door. She lies back down and chews her lip. A glass of water would be fantastic. And a long, solid cry. She closes her eyes. The backs of her eyelids are tinged with a muddy glow. Maybe all those fluorescent lights have stained them, like a sunburn. She’s looking at the residue of some kind of radiation. The red smear on the floor tiles. She flinches. Shake that image off.

  The swish of the door: Ivan with a tall glass of water and an outstretched palm. He holds out a little blue pill.

  “Remember when we came back from BC and I complained to Mom about jetlag? She left half a bottle of Valium here.”

  “God love her pill-poppin’ socks,” Wanda says.

  Ivan laughs sudden and sharp. She takes the pill and a sip of cool, cool water. “What’s on the news?”

  “Shock. And theories,” he says. “Some think he’s a crazed anti-consumer activist. S
ome think it’s like a Montreal Massacre thing. Some say he’s ISIS.”

  “He’s a white guy.”

  “Yes. So the retort is that he’s a Christian fundamentalist. And the retort to that is that he could be a convert to Islam and then ISIS again. And so on.” Ivan brushes her hair from the side of her face. He was pale when he showed up at the police station and a hint of it remains, like a thin coat of primer.

  “How are you?” she says.

  “Don’t worry about me.”

  “How are you?”

  “Relieved. Never been so relieved in my life.”

  “Me too. I think. I’m so tired.”

  “Who do you…who do you think he was?”

  “Dunno. He just looked like some guy to me.” She reaches and he passes her the water. It’s rare to be parched enough to actually sense liquid enter the bloodstream. Her veins can feel how cold the water is. “He looked…consumed.”

  “Consumed by what?”

  “I don’t know. He looked sad.”

  “Oh, baby. I’m sorry this happened to you.” His eyes shine down on her. “And I’m sorry the news was so loud. I can’t turn my brain off.”

  “Take a Valium sure.” It’s already starting to work. Or maybe that’s a placebo effect. There’s a warm thickening in her empty legs.

  “I might.”

  Her blinking slows. Ivan strokes wisps of hair from her forehead. “I’m so amazed by you,” he says. “You are amazing.” His breath escapes in a snagging sigh that quivers his bottom lip.

  “Mazing,” Wanda says. The muddy-eyelid glow fades to black.

  She is immersed in a thick, stuffy shroud. The comforter bunches around her head like a wreath. When she shifts, the synthetic fibers scrunch inside it. She thinks of the times she played hide and seek with her cousins—when was that? The summer before grade five. Once, she hid in the unfinished extension they were building on the house and she climbed behind a roll of pink insulation. All that summer, she’d been curious to touch the insulation, thinking it would feel fluffy and soft. Instead, it was starchy and dry and made her skin feel powdered with some kind of crystallized, chemical dust.

  Hide and seek. Run and hide.

  An exclamation muffles through the pulp. It is Mom’s voice. Wanda pushes back the comforter. The day peeks through the cracks in the blinds. Mom’s voice is downstairs now, was downstairs all along. She can hear Ivan too, speaking in appreciative and polite tones. Then Dad, offering something light and jovial. Ivan laughs. Mom and Dad, up early for the two-hour drive into town from Trepassey. The clink of silverware on plates. They came in because of the shooting. Ivan was on the phone yesterday, calling to let people know.

  Did Ivan put the pot away? Yes. He would do that, he’s not stunned. Mom and Dad fear “all those downtown drugs.” Like no one in Trepassey has a draw. Like she and Ivan aren’t in their thirties. But they both know if there was pot evidence around the house, Mom and Dad would inflate with disappointed silence. And then, some slow intro into a “concerned discussion.” Which could probe Ivan into impassioned statements on legalization and her mother’s response climbing to its limit of shrill. So shag that. When parents visit, it means scour the place for green crumbs and roaches. And in Ivan’s mother’s case, no evidence of cigarettes either, even though they are just weekend smokers, really. Because Mrs. Medeiros does not debate her feelings. Last spring, she spotted a couple of butts on the ground. Wanda said they were left by friends. “Ivan’s father was a gasping rake at the end,” Mrs. Medeiros said. “Don’t even let your friends smoke. They think it’s a choice, but they’re pawns to those bastard cigarette companies.”

  No, if Ivan called Mom and Dad, he would straighten up the place. And now they are here, doing what they do in a tragedy: arriving armed with worried eyes and more food than necessary. Casserole dishes filled with meatloaf, scalloped potatoes, and condolences.

  Actually, scalloped potatoes sound deadly right now. She slides herself to the edge of the bed and stands. A sour briny taste has formed in the back of her throat. Her legs are rubbery and newborn. Valium is an effective drug, yessir. She shrugs on her robe and wipes the tightness from her eyes. The pressure of yesterday tweaks in her hips, but she needs to go downstairs. Show that she is okay, put something clean in her mouth.

  Ivan and her parents mill around the dining room, laying plates on the table, opening Tupperware containers. They pause when she enters. Mom comes over first for a hug. She’s all soft-cotton shirt and bread-baking smells.

  “Oh lovey,” Mom says. “What a thing to happen. What a terrible thing.” Her voice vibrates with exhausted concern. If Mom slept, it was brief, jerked into consciousness by fretful thoughts, finally getting up to putter and bake until they took to the road. “We’re so happy you’re okay,” Mom says. Her fingertips sink into the terrycloth on Wanda’s back.

  “Of course she’s okay,” Dad says. When he hugs her, he holds her so tight she can feel his words reverberating on her ribs. The lines from his corduroy shirt press into her cheek. “More than okay,” he says. “She’s a hero.”

  Ivan told them. Obviously, they should know. Dad hasn’t shaven; a few strands of her hair stick to his cheek like Velcro.

  “Let her eat,” Mom says. “She must be starved.” The table is laden with easy-to-grab items: buttered toast, green grapes in a bowl. Long slices of cantaloupe like orange smiles lie on a wooden cutting board. Wanda takes one and on the first bite the sweet juice floods out the bitterness in her mouth and throat. She almost groans with the relief. She eats it without pausing and takes another. She could do this all day, fill the cracks and crevices of her insides with cure-all cantaloupe juice.

  “Jane, do you want me to put these on?” Ivan gestures to a Tupperware container of small pink bundles. Scallops, wrapped in bacon.

  “If Wanda wants them.”

  Wanda nods while she chews.

  “Did you sleep well?”

  Nods.

  “I just can’t believe it,” Mom says. “You see this kind of horror show down in the States, but you don’t imagine it happening here.”

  “People lose their minds all the time,” Ivan says.

  “Is that what it was?” Dad says. “Are they sure he didn’t have some kind of agenda?”

  “I think we would know by now. Other shooters had notes. YouTube manifestos, like that creep in California who blamed all women for his virginity.”

  “So, this guy had nothing?” Mom says. “What makes someone go off like that?” She lays wrapped scallops in rows on a baking sheet, making a platoon of pink snails.

  “What makes people do all the awful things they do?” Ivan says. He glances at Wanda. “I’m going to put more coffee on.”

  Wanda selects another slice of cantaloupe and sinks her teeth in. So good. Her eyelids flutter involuntarily. From now on, she’ll use her nose for breathing and mouth for fruit only.

  “Have you talked to Sharon or Nikki?” Mom says.

  “No, Mom, I just woke up.”

  “I just want to make sure you have supports, dear. Your friends should know.”

  “So, what happened?” Dad says. He drops a tea bag into his mug. Earl Grey, with the string and little tab. “You knocked the guy out?”

  “Yes.”

  “You hit him in the face?”

  “No. Well, maybe. His forehead, I think.”

  “With something from the shelves?”

  “A can of coconut milk.”

  “Let her eat,” Mom says. “You should eat too.”

  “And it knocked him out,” Dad says. He exhales with a whistle, jigging the string of the tea bag vigorously. “Wow. That close to him. You must have really whipped it.”

  “Why do you have to fixate on that?” Mom says. “Let her collect herself.”

  “If she doesn’t want to discuss it,
she’ll tell me,” he says. “And when my daughter does something brave, I want to know about it.” He pulls out the tea bag and dumps it on the edge of his plate. “She saved the people in that store yesterday. It’s natural to have questions.”

  “Honestly, I don’t remember throwing it,” Wanda says. “I remember being terrified. Then he fell down. And I ran.”

  “Good for you. Smart, smart girl,” Dad says.

  She grins in spite of herself. A memory pops up, some incident in junior high. She got detention for smacking some boy. Who was that? Sheldon White. He called her a whore and she hit him, open-palmed across his jaw, just as the teacher walked in. Dad picking her up late from school, asking what happened: He called you what? Next time, make sure no one is around when you clock the little bastard.

  Mom bites into a slice of cantaloupe and frowns. “There’s a taste of onion on this. Is that knife clean?”

  “It should be.”

  “Probably from the cutting board,” she says. “Wooden cutting boards, they hold flavours, even when they’re clean. You know what your Aunt Sheila does? She has different coloured cutting boards for different items: green for vegetables, red for meat. Cuts down on germs.”

  Ivan’s eyes meet Wanda’s over Mom’s shoulder and he nods too enthusiastically. Yes, let’s go out and get a rainbow selection of cutting boards. Wanda bites into another slice. It’s there, faintly, the taint of onions. Maybe garlic too. She forces herself to swallow.

  “I’ll just stick to grapes,” Dad says, plucking one from the bowl. “Who said peel me a grape? Marilyn Monroe?” His moustache ripples as he chews, like a flexing caterpillar, mouse-brown with specks of grey. That’s how she used to think of his moustache, some furry creature trained to hide his facial expressions. What does he look like without it? It dates him now. 80s dad. She remembers being stuck at a neighbour’s house during a winter storm—Carly Bennett—she went over after school to watch Much Music. The weather got bad and Carly’s parents didn’t want her to walk home alone. She wanted to stay, have a slumber party. But Dad came to get her in the blizzard, bustling into the Bennett’s porch chased by a flourish of snowflakes, grinning at them all, crusts of frozen snot dangling from his moustache. The next day, Carly pointing to a picture of cave stalactites in their science textbook: Your dad’s moustache boogers.