“Have you talked to your mother?” Dad says to Ivan.
“Yes, she’s in Florida. Coming back in a couple of days.”
“And your sister and her family?” Dad says.
“They’re in Corner Brook visiting my brother-in-law’s folks. I talked to Sylvie last night, they’ll be in next week.”
“How’s that adorable niece of yours?” Dad says. “Fiona, right?”
“She’s great. A character. Her ninth birthday is coming up.”
“They’re so great at that age.” Dad smiles down at his hands. Yes, let’s bring up Fiona. And speaking of kids…Wanda receives direct questions about the possibility of children, but they spare Ivan that kind of scrutiny. Maybe because they know Ivan will not perform Wanda’s dance around the subject and he will flatly state he has no interest in children.
“How’s the music going?” Dad says.
“Oh, good,” Ivan says. “Getting the finishing touches on the album.”
“What’s the name now? Rogue something?”
“The Rogue Skaters is the one I’m in with Leo. But I also play bass with Ray Wakeham’s band, Ray and the Autumn People.”
“Oh yes,” Dad says. “Clever name. Sounds like good fun.”
Good fun indeed. A sudden weariness descends over her. She wants to be clean, a shower, a lie-down in a cool place. She wants to be away from Mom and Dad and their tug-of-war nurturing.
“I need to get a wash,” she says. “And I should put on clothes.”
Mom’s voice from the kitchen goes up an octave: “Don’t feel like you have to get done up on our account.”
“Yes, you do whatever you need to do,” Dad says. “Relax.” A tiny drop of tea hangs from his moustache. Maybe his facial hair isn’t brown at all, but stained with years of tea and toast and an assortment of safe, brown foods. She is suddenly irritated; why is she explaining to her parents that she needs a shower? It’s not like they’re invited guests. Mom shutting the cupboard doors too loudly, already frustrated how this kitchen is not laid out in the same format as hers. Dad and his cup of Earl Grey. So proud when she hit Sheldon White, but didn’t say anything to the teacher who gave her detention.
“I need a shower, really,” Wanda says. “I didn’t get one last night.” She hops up, tightening the belt on her robe. She should tell them what else she needs. Who knows who they’ve spoken to already.
“You do what you need to do.”
“Also,” she says, “I don’t want anyone to know what I did. To the shooter.”
“The knockout?”
“Yes. I went through it all with the police. I really don’t want to be asked a pile of questions about it from everyone I know.”
“Well. It’s an understandable reaction,” Dad says. “Especially now. You’re tired.”
“Yes, lovey,” Mom says. “We won’t say anything until you do.”
“I’m not going to say anything.”
“Of course. Not right now.”
“No, not now, not ever. I don’t want this to be a thing.”
“But, um, it will be a thing,” Ivan says. “I mean, the cops said you’d have to give a report in court.”
“And I will. Later. Court won’t happen for months.”
“You know, sweetie,” Mom says, “it’s a horrible thing what’s happened. But you don’t need to act like this is bad news. This is different.”
“How so, Mom?”
“Well, Wanda, whenever you get bad news, you avoid discussing it. I know it’s why you didn’t call back Friday to talk about what’s happening with your job.”
“I don’t like talking about shitty, negative things,” Wanda senses Dad’s moustache grimace-prickling. Whatever, Dad, it’s a shitty little swear word.
“But this isn’t a negative thing.”
“Mass shootings are pretty negative, Mom.”
“Honey. You stopped it,” Dad says. “What your mother is trying to say is this is something good.”
“I don’t even remember doing it.”
“You still did it though,” he says. “And we’re all thankful.”
“Well, I don’t know how anyone can be thankful about any of this,” she says. “I mean, I get it, it happened. It’s on the security footage. And when that man goes to court, I’ll have to tell the story over again, in front of him and everyone else. And I have nothing to say other than it happened so fast I don’t really remember it. So, until then, please keep it to yourselves.”
Dad’s mouth opens to speak, but she turns on her heel and bounds upstairs to the bathroom. She locks the door and sits on the edge of the tub. Exhales. The peace of a secure door. How is it these people can maintain such a weak understanding of her? A bit of space. A bit of empathy. Not that hard, people.
She turns on the hot water and adds small suggestions of cold. She pulls the lever on the faucet and watches the water rain out of the shower head. The mist rising, the patter on the tile. The mirror fogs up and the room becomes a blur of steam before she removes her robe and stands under the nozzle. The impact of the water both causes and soothes goose bumps on her flesh.
All this will pass. It will be okay. It’s early May. Time cures and all that. Soon it will be summer. Sharon and Nikki will be here for concerts and cabin times. A cabin party, somewhere far away, near water, that would be nice. Sharon’s parents have a great spot out in Salmon Cove.
She met Ivan at that cabin. It was supposed to be a small get- together, but Nikki kept inviting people: her roommates, her cousin, a bunch of guys in a band. Ivan striding across the lawn carrying an orange cooler, a quick “hi” on introductions and his eyes bouncing over to Nikki. Little Nikki, training for the Tely Ten, tiny, tan and tight all over, a little package of herself in blue shorts. Ray Wakeham unveiling the bag of shrooms after supper, the earthy taste in the back of her throat. Later, Ivan pointing to a plastic grocery bag, Foodland, snagged in the branches of a tree: “Look at that. Way out here and there’s still litter.” And Wanda was too euphoric to go there. “How special is that?” she said. “There’s isn’t a Foodland for twenty miles. It made it all the way here. That’s a bag of dedication.”
And Ivan’s peel of laughter from a deep warm pocket in his belly, genuine with a note of surprise. And then he ended up next to her when they all walked the quad trail around the barrens and the dusk light in her dilated pupils made everything look like TV static and when she said this, he held his hands in front of his face: “Everything has thickened.”
Later, in the kitchen, Nikki referred to doing hot knives as hash tags and Wanda and Ivan made sure no one let her forget it. And the next day, when they were leaving, he said to her, “You should come see us play. We’re at The Levee on Thursday.” He found her eyes and waved from the side window of the car as they drove away.
This summer, they can go back there. Reconnections. Making new fun. The shower sloughs off what feels like a thousand layers of grime and sweat. When her fingertips are puckered, she gets out. She returns to bed. Cool air tender on clean flesh.
Her parents are gone when she wakes up. 3:52 in the afternoon. Jesus, the time. Ivan sits in the living room with the TV low and crackling. The bowl of fruit remains on the table along with today’s Telegram. Wanda chews a grape and examines the front page. A colour photo of the Dominion-store parking lot, yellow tape, people huddled together, hands over their mouths.
Grocery Store Massacre Shocks City
In a year when international news of mass shootings has reached an all-time high, it seems the city of St. John’s is not immune. Citizens express shock and grief over yesterday’s incident which resulted in three fatalities.
The shootings occurred in one of the city’s largest Dominion stores on Saturday morning. According to police and witness reports, the shooter, Edward Rumstead, 42, entered the store shortly before 10:30am. He
produced a handgun from inside his jacket and began shooting. He moved throughout the store, shooting four times, killing one staff member and two customers. He shot at and missed Mrs. Geraldine Harvey. Mrs. Harvey stated that she lay on the floor and pretended to be dead after Rumstead shot and missed.
The names of the victims have been released. Michael Snow, 22, a third-year university student and part-time cashier at the Dominion branch. D’arcy Fadden, 37, a chemical engineer and father of four-year-old twins. Dr. Ella Collier, 59, a professor of economics at Memorial University.
According to police reports, Rumstead was knocked unconscious by a customer in the store. The customer then exited the store and alerted police that Rumstead had been struck on the head and fell down. Police surrounded the area and entered the store, where they found Rumstead lying unconscious.
Rumstead carried a backpack which contained a second loaded handgun and boxes of ammunition. No other details have been released on the identity of the customer or the nature of how Rumstead was incapacitated. Currently, Rumstead is in police custody and undergoing psychiatric evaluation.
No motives have been revealed as to why Rumstead decided to open fire in the Dominion store. Sources state he lived at home with his widowed mother in the West End of St. John’s. For several years, he worked as a custodian in industrial warehouses, but he had been unemployed since 2011. Neighbours describe him as a quiet man without much to say. Neighbour Clifford Pomeroy: “You’d see him outside, working in the yard or cleaning his mother’s car. He might nod or wave at you. Honestly, I’m completely shocked, but it goes to show, you never really knows anybody.”
Oliver Loblaw, CEO of the Loblaw/Dominion chain, has released a public statement expressing condolences: “It is with deep sadness that we at Loblaw/Dominion received the news of the tragic shootings in St. John’s, Newfoundland. Our Newfoundland and Labrador customers are dear to our hearts. We offer them our sympathy and support during this difficult time.”
Outpourings of sympathy for the victims and their families are already appearing at the scene of the crime: people have left flowers, notes, and gifts along the north edge of the Dominion parking lot. A candlelight vigil for the three victims will be held there tonight at 7:00pm. The store remains closed to the public at this time.
In the living room, Ivan flicks between the weather channel and the news. Rain, drizzle, and fog all day and for the next three days. There are enough bright lights on screens and in minds right now. RDF solidarity.
The news spins panic circles. This here happened, this happened here! Everyone has an angle and a point: Soon security guards at school, metal detectors at the mall, criminal profilers, neighbourhood watch. Well, that’s unnecessary—overall, St. John’s has the lowest rate of murder in North America. This is knee-jerk paranoia. No it isn’t, and if there was security with guns, there would have been only two shots fired, him shooting and him being shot. If there were more guns, this would happen more often. #grocerystoryshootingNL #EdwardRumstead #NLmassshooting #RNC #thoughtsandprayers.
Wanda imagines their radius of neighbours. Who knows what the people around you are like, really? Like Pascale next door, with her glum face and streely hair, her furtive glances and quick nods. Last winter, Pascale left a note tucked under their windshield wiper: I didn’t spend hours in the snow, shovelling out a spot in front of MY house for YOUR car. Ivan ranted about how ridiculous it was for a neighbour to leave a note and not just ask them to move the car. “It’s all street parking, what does it matter?” They call her Pascale Aggressive behind her back. And what kind of person is Pascale, really? Maybe she’s hoarding weapons. Maybe she cooks meth. Maybe there are missing girls tied up in her basement, concealed by soundproof walls.
Leo calls. He tells Ivan how spooky it is downtown. Bars and restaurants empty, no one walking. People want to cluster in well-lit homes with their curtains drawn. Friends and family have called all day, sent emails and text messages. All day, Ivan has answered the phone, texted one-handed, repeated the same combinations of words: Wanda was there, but she’s fine. Just shocked and exhausted. We’re dealing.
On the couch, he rubs her knee under her robe. “That candlelight vigil tonight. You want to go?”
“When is it?”
“Seven o’clock.”
Wanda takes the remote and changes the channel. There must be an episode of The Simpsons on somewhere. Why do they even have cable? Something else to cut back.
“If you want, we can all go,” he says. “You, me, Trish, Leo. Up to you.”
Some commercial, an elderly woman on the ground. She can’t get up, her face in anguish. The announcer is saying something. Wanda’s mouth dries. The woman in the purple coat, how did that feel, those seconds she ran before he shot. Did she feel her purple coat get heavy on her back, blood pooling out. She swallows, a scrape in her throat.
The ad is for some medic-alert product. A remote control with a large button. Seniors can wear it like a necklace.
“Look at that thing,” Ivan says. “Does it come in different colours and patterns? Panic button fashion.”
“I’ll go,” Wanda says. “We can all go. I’m okay with that.”
“Alright,” he says. “I’ll text them.”
4
SHE and Ivan bundle into the back of Leo’s Tercel. Trish smiles at them from the passenger seat. She hasn’t been able to hug Wanda yet, but she reaches back and pats her knee. Both she and Leo are mellow, but wide-eyed. They make blithe comments and offer her things—gum, a cigarette, a bottle of water.
The perimeter around the store is fenced off with yellow tape and traffic is backed up. Cops direct vehicles to parking spaces. Cops everywhere. Are there reasons to be afraid? What about copycat stuff? Maybe public gatherings are not such a good idea. Maybe this is how people develop a fear of crowds. Get your agoraphobia on the go.
Leo parks by the furniture store across the street. Streams of people descend on the vigil area, some carry bouquets of flowers and gift bags. Trish wanders ahead with her camera, tuning it for the low light. They follow her through crowds and around parked cars, the length of her back clad in a smart-looking raincoat, tomato red. Ivan walks with Wanda, his fingers interlocked with hers.
The crowd has gathered by the back of the parking lot. A long awning is set up over a portable wall sheltering three large portrait photos, hung high enough to be visible over the crowd. Wanda stops when she’s close enough to focus. The first photo is a dark-haired man, mid-thirties, holding a fishing rod. His hand is propped on his hip in a jokey pose. The father, D’arcy. Next, a smiling young man with cropped reddish hair, the cashier, Michael Snow. His arm dangles casually on the shoulders of a petite blond girl. Probably his Facebook profile picture, probably his girlfriend. A youngster, like he just turned old enough to drink. The third photo is Purple Coat Lady, the professor, Dr. Collier. Her hair sways over her forehead in a polished wave. She wears black with a simple silver necklace. Dr. Collier gazes into the camera with accomplished wisdom, probably a photo from her professional profile, her biography of achievements. Wanda swallows back the swell in her chest.
Short wooden steps have been constructed underneath the pictures to hold offerings. They are staggered with bouquets, homemade signs, wreathes of flowers, teddy bears. A Boston Bruins hockey jersey is propped up under the photo of D’arcy Fadden. Someone has strung white Christmas lights along the top of the awning. The display radiates through the murk and sadness. People stand hunched over, many hold candles—special ones in jars to stay lit in the damp. Two women with university logos on their backs stand near the photo of Dr. Collier, they wipe their eyes and shudder. The parking-lot grey mixes with the mist, smudging everything but the candlelight and the myriad of jewel-toned Gortex jackets.
“Were you there?”
An elderly woman stands at Wanda’s shoulder. Her eyes are swollen and tight. She wears a navy-blue rain
coat with long yellow buttons, like Paddington Bear’s jacket. A red canvas bucket hat is clamped down over her head. She holds a Mason jar containing a glowing white candle.
“Yes, I was there.” Wanda is aware of her hands in her pockets. She should have a candle too, out of respect. Where does she get one? Was she supposed to bring one from home?
“I can tell,” the woman says. “The ones who were there are the ones not crying. You all look like you had the juice shaken out of you.”
“Well…we did,” Wanda says. “I’m pretty dehydrated.” Nice one. Fuck sakes.
“I would feel the same,” the woman says. “I’d also be drunk. Or at the edge of temptation, anyway.” She rolls her small wet eyes to the sky. “Had to give that up a long time ago. I’m Dallas Cleal, by the way.”
“Wanda Jaynes.” She offers Dallas her hand. Dallas takes it, but holds it still instead of shaking it. Her hand feels brittle, but warm and soft. She looks into Wanda’s face with quivering lips.
“I should be sad, but I’m so angry,” Dallas says. Her voice is flat and cracked, the tenor of old cement. “Ella. Poor Ella.”
“You knew her?” Wanda says. Purple Coat Lady. “Dr. Collier, right?”
“Oh yes. For years. We taught together at the university. Philosophy for me, economics for her. But we did cross-discipline courses with the Women’s Studies department.” She sighs. “Ella did so much good. She did research. She wanted to find ways to get away from financial dependence on oil. Wind, recycling. Manure even. She found a guy down near Codroy, a dairy farmer. He knows how to make energy from cowshit. ‘We could feed it back into the grid’ she said.”
The Greatest Hits of Wanda Jaynes Page 4