The Greatest Hits of Wanda Jaynes

by Bridget Canning

“Up on the roof.” He flops onto the couch. “Just to see how many people are out there.” Ivan reaches for the remote. “They interviewed Pascale Aggressive.”

  “What do you think she said about us?”

  “Oh, she’ll be kind.” He flips through the channels. He stops at an image of the store, a headline. “I think it was CTV who interviewed her. We can check later.”

  “I need coffee.” And some food. And a private helicopter to a secret island.

  “I’ll get it.” He bounds up to the kitchen. She moves to the window and peers out. The spiky-haired reporter glances her way. Can he see her eye in the crack in the curtain? Peek-a-boo, Wanda Jaynes! There are logos on the vans and microphones: CBC, CTV. Three people who look like reporters stand about, smoking, sipping from coffee cups. A man walks by, his dog on a leash in one hand, cellphone aimed at the house in the other. People know where she and Ivan live. Google the address, get the street view, takes about five seconds. He—Edward Rumstead—is in police custody. What does that mean? In jail? A mental institution? How many friends does he have? She swabs a hand across the back of her neck. So many people outside and here she is, clammy and hidden, snooping out like a nervous child at the annual middle-school pageant.

  A noise, an exclamation and the coffee-drinking reporters perk up. They scramble into a cluster. From behind the hunched blob of reporters bounces the top of a grey salt-and-pepper cap. Oh shit. The crowd parts and there’s Dad, speaking into a microphone. His face holds the same controlled expression as when he had to talk to Wanda’s teachers or a member of the clergy. Through the swaying bodies, she glimpses Mom, her mouth sealed in a prim line, her arms clutch a large brown paper bag. Again, with the food. What better way to recover than stress eating? Maybe Wanda can gain ten pounds this week.

  Dad nudges his way through, his hand clamped on Mom’s sleeve. Spiky-haired reporter leans in with a question and Wanda sees her father mouth his name: Arnold Jaynes. The reporter does the same with Mom. Wanda’s mother, Jane Jaynes. Spiky Hair gives a wide polite smile to swallow the chuckle. Sure thing, Jane Jaynes. What a winning argument for why women should keep their maiden names.

  Her parents detach themselves and make their way up the walk. They hesitate at the bottom of the step. Mom’s eyes get big and she mouths excited words. Wanda stands on her tiptoes to peer down. The front steps are riddled with envelopes, bouquets of flowers, stuffed toys. How did those get there? Mom says something to Dad and pushes the paper bag into his arms. She bends at the waist and starts gathering up envelopes and gift bags, fully presenting her backside to the media bundle.

  “Here you are, miss.” Ivan holds a tray with a coffee mug, a neat boiled egg in a cup.

  “Ivan. My folks are outside. Get them in here. My mother’s arse will be all over the front page of The Telegram.”

  Ivan places the tray on the coffee table and unlatches the door. “Come in, come in,” he says. Calls arise from the street. “Ivan, can you answer a question? Mr. Medeiros, how is Wanda today?”

  “Oh my. Oh my goodness.” Mom shuffles in, her arms full of envelopes and gift bags. “I thought these should come in. It’s calling for rain.”

  “Mom, don’t worry about that.”

  Mom removes her coat and stands, shaking her head. She wears a forest-green sweatshirt with a picture of a Canada goose on it. “Well, I guess the cat is out of the bag now,” she says.

  “What did the reporters say to you?” Ivan says.

  “Oh, they asked our names,” Mom says. “Asked about Wanda.” She sits on the sofa, smoothing her slacks with both hands. “Strange job, to stand outside someone’s house all day.”

  “Well, she’s the big story now,” Dad says. His voice is tight. He’s sooky about something.

  “Will you speak to any of them?” Mom says. She leans forward with a secretive air. “You want to make sure you talk to the good ones. Ones who won’t do the story…you know,” her hands wave in a flourish, “everything with sound effects and neon letters under your face, that kind of sensational news. Like American TV.”

  Dad enters, brushing his hands on his khakis. “Stick with the CBC,” he says. “They don’t go in for as many theatrics.”

  Wanda perches on the armrest of the sofa. Mom looks her up and down. “You look tired,” she says. “But better than yesterday.”

  “I guess.”

  Dad settles on the couch, eyes down, picking his hands. What’s his problem? Oh, she wouldn’t let him tell and now everyone knows and he has no one to tell. Fuck sakes.

  “Well, Ivan and your father can bring the rest of those gifts in. You relax. I’ll make lunch and supper. Whatever you need.”

  “Oh, Mom, you know, we’re fine.” What if her parents don’t leave? She fills with a panicky claustrophobia. “I’m fine, I just need to rest. Still feeling out of it.”

  “I’ll prepare a few meals to tide you over,” Mom says. “You won’t have to worry about anything.”

  “Ivan and I both cook. Really, this isn’t necessary.” Mom will cook way too much for the two of them. The Jiggs-dinner, cured-meat cure-all.

  “It’s no bother. Let’s see what you have in the freezer.” Mom pops off the couch and strides to the kitchen.

  “Just let her do it,” Dad says. “She’s nervous. All this, all over the news…she needs to help.” He settles on the couch. “Pass over some of that stuff.” He gestures to Ivan.

  Ivan passes Dad a handful of envelopes and he starts opening them, prying a nail under each flap. Ivan takes a few as well. Like two old men, whittling on a porch. Men who speak only when necessary. In some grunting man-code they believe is sacred.

  “Gift certificate in this one,” Ivan says.

  Pots clink against each other as Mom moves about in the kitchen. Everyone has something to do. What should she do? She could go upstairs, haul on her track pants and sneakers, and run wordlessly out the door. If she charges, the media will clear out of the way. Photos of her back, disappearing down the stretch of sidewalk. Catch all of ye later.

  “Nice note,” Dad says. He stands a card on the coffee table: white cardboard with a picture of yellow roses on the front, Thank You in gold letters.

  “Another gift certificate, a yoga place.”

  “People are so generous.”

  Wanda’s eyes turn to the gift bags. Sharp peaks of tissue paper. A white teddy bear holds a red satin heart. “How did they all get here?”

  “They were dropped off this morning.”

  “By who? Can random people figure out where we live?”

  “No, honey,” Ivan says. “Most are from the vigil. One of the organizers dropped them off, a minister.”

  “How does he know where we live?”

  “Pascale goes to his church. She called him.” Ivan’s voice even. Okay then.

  “These guys say you are entitled to free pizza forever,” Dad says.

  “Really?” Ivan takes the note from Dad, a blue flyer bearing the words Eddie’s Pizza.

  “Their mom was in the store,” Dad says. “They say they will feed you forever.”

  “She…she made it right?” Dr. Collier. Purple coat, red smear.

  “Yes, honey, she made it,” Ivan says. “It’s their way of thanking you.” He lays the paper on top of the yoga certificate.

  In the kitchen, Mom has begun chopping. The house is open from the living room to the small dining area into the kitchen, but she pitches her voice for everyone to hear. “It’s something to think all those people know where you live.” The fridge door opens with a light smack. “We saw a video the other day of how easy it is to break into a house. Do you two have insurance for that kind of thing?”

  Dad peers into a gift bag. “Some soaps and things in here. Fancy bath stuff.”

  “Did I tell you two about Delphine’s daughter?” Mom calls. The faint sound of scraping,
a carrot peeler. “She got married last summer. Put a notice in the paper about the time and place of the wedding. Then she posted on Facebook that people could drop off wedding gifts at her house. Puts up the address and everything. So, during the ceremony, someone broke into the house and stole all the gifts. Cause they knew no one would be there.” Furious scraping. “They should have got someone to stay in the house with the gifts. I mean, you’re paying for the wedding anyway, just hire a babysitter for the gifts.”

  “A gift-sitter,” Dad says. He unfolds a piece of paper stuck in a card and ponders it. “Someone wrote you a poem.”

  “A gift-sitter as a kind of insurance,” Mom calls. The freezer door opens with a smack. “You too should really think about getting theft insurance if you don’t have it. Especially as time goes by. Making a life together and everything.” Dull thuds of frozen objects being moved around. “Nothing in here is labelled.”

  “Really, not a bad poem at all,” Ivan says.

  “I’m going to lie down,” Wanda says.

  “If you want.” Dad continues to tear open envelopes. If he could sit around in his underwear and do a repetitive activity all day, he’d be content.

  Upstairs then. Wanda closes the bedroom door, turning the knob slowly, with the softest click. She picks up her phone and presses On. Notifications light up like a Christmas tree. She goes through her email accounts. Trevor Dowden, her supervisor, has written an email. “We’re all thinking of you. Take as much time off as you need. I can get a substitute in for you, no problem.” A substitute. Probably someone on a part-time contract, looking to gobble up as many hours as possible. Her thoughts take Dad’s voice: these instructor positions are so cutthroat. Even when there are layoffs, they start new programs all the time and recall people. Every drop of seniority matters.

  She checks other notifications: thirty-seven text messages. Does she even have that many contacts?

  Missed calls: her parents, Ivan’s mother, Ivan’s sister, numbers from work—probably Trevor Dowden, more likely Andrea. Several unknown numbers. She stares at the phone. It would be nice to hear Sharon’s voice, but their phone calls always take at least an hour. Sharon and her tales of working at Montclair, her research position with the Institute for Advancement of Philosophy for Children, her animated impressions of New Jersey accents. Sharon’s balance of gentle questions and ferocious loyalty.

  Or Nikki in Montreal, the way she sinks in when she listens. “I want to hear the whole story,” she’d say. “Hold on.” And the fizz of a beer opening and the shift of her body settling in the chair. Nikki, always serious about giving you her attention, even though she’s definitely been up to something cool, a client at the spa, a night out with friends. Sometimes Wanda thinks about how they all met through their Education degree and all ended up in different places. Nikki doesn’t give a shit about teaching now and Sharon still loves picking it apart. She presses reply to Sharon’s text.

  Wanda turns off her phone. She lays her head on the cool pillow and shuts her eyes. They can call her when lunch is ready. Supper too. The occasional sound of pans banging downstairs and movement outside makes her jolt, but she succumbs to sleep.

  Mom cooks an early supper and she and Dad leave right after eating: “Rest and eat, keep your strength up.” They hug her before they haul on their coats and she wonders if she smells like cigarettes. Wanda peeks out the window as they scurry down the path. A camera flashes and they’re gone. Dad will call in a couple of hours to let her know they made it back to Trepassey, something they do without being asked, as if to point out that she should ask.

  Ivan makes a pot of mint tea and brings it to the living room. The coffee table is clear except for the two piles of cards and gift certificates. “So,” he says, “you know they want interviews, right?”

  “Do we have to talk about this now?”

  “No,” he says. He fills her cup with amber liquid. The mint steam tingles the air. “But if you step out the door, they’ll want a statement. Maybe you should think of what you want to say, or who you want to talk to.”

  She warms her palms around the tea cup. Should she do research? Find out everyone’s angle? “Let’s go with the CBC. Just the single interview.”

  “Okay,” Ivan says. “Their PR person contacted me; I’ll call her back.”

  “When you talk to others, can you tell them that? One interview only.”

  “I will.”

  “Thank you for doing this.”

  “It’s nothing.” His hand on her back. “You just take care of you. I’ve been going through the messages. I’ll let you know anything important.”

  Later that evening, she checks his list. He has gone through the phone calls, the emails, and produced a list of options. Her eyes flick through the names. Look at all those acronyms. Their logos pop into her head as she reads. She imagines their jingles, her name being announced.

  Before bed, she checks Facebook. One hundred and sixty-six notifications. Messages and posts and tags, many from people she hasn’t seen in years, not since high school or even elementary. People she shared spaces with. God bless you, Wanda! From Melanie Ruxton, she taught biology two semesters ago. She liked to joke that Wanda had “resting bitchy face.” And Reg Mitchen: Wow, Wanda, didn’t know ya had it inya! He sat across from her in grade ten. He would make preparing-to-hawk phlegmy sounds in his throat. Once, he got a hold of her math notebook and drew penises all over it.

  Most of her memories of school interactions are similar. She had friends, but wasn’t popular. To be popular, she needed big toys, a skidoo, a truck, something to go racing down the road in. No way Arnold and Jane Jaynes would buy something dangerous for their only child. When she thinks of high school, she sees herself as a floating apparition everyone was accustomed to seeing, but occasionally they remembered they didn’t approve of ghosts. Like seeing dust in a sunbeam and realizing the place needs a good wipe-down.

  And now, this is it. Her name highlighted for everyone out there, all the vicious people, all the stupid people, and all the vicious, stupid people. They ick her out so much and it’s so hard to fight the ick. Wanda Jaynes and the Kneejerk Disdain. That would be her band name.

  It’s so hypocritical of her. Seven years a teacher and when asked why she chose education, she offers a cliché: a love of learning, a desire to help. Saying it’s because she hates ignorance and stupidity is admittance of misanthropy. Sometimes, at the beginning of the school year when she’s settling into the rhythm of classes and schedules, she wakes in the middle of the night frozen in fear of the possible random, idiotic acts that could be her demise. A drunk surgeon with dirty hands. A stack of 2x4s in the unlocked pan of a truck. A city council-neglected snowdrift-covered sidewalk in the middle of February, sliding off into traffic during a walk to the store.

  And now, beaning someone with a tin can is the most she’s done to combat stupidity—if stupidity is defined as senseless destruction. Or the result of overlooked, undiagnosed mental-health issues. Or a lifetime of abuse. Or the glorification of violence. There are so many flavours of stupid.

  She writes a general status update: “Hi, I’m okay. Thanks everyone, for your kind words.” She responds to an email from Ivan’s sister, Sylvie, who writes she’s “sending love from Alex, Fiona, and I.” Fiona’s birthday’s coming up. She never got that card.

  Wanda reads the words “I love you” and writes the same. She types the words “thank you,” she returns compliments. Pat statements, but she doesn’t have the energy to edit them. Ivan left half a Valium on the side table. That’s a relief. He’s good to her that way.

  6

  THE boom is a giant, dangling pussy willow, looming in the living room.

  “I didn’t expect the equipment to be so big,” Wanda says.

  “That’s what she said.”

  “Oh, shut up, Ivan.” Wanda rolls her eyes apologetically. Genevieve Dave
y smiles. Her presence in their house is surreal. Even with the CBC cameras and the microphones set up, Wanda is most intrigued by Genevieve’s hair. It is a perfect, glossy blond bob that fills her with questions. What products does Genevieve use? Does the CBC tell her how to get it cut? Does she get her hair done every day at the station? Imagine, never having to do your own hair. Imagine being coiffed and presentable on a daily basis, in professional makeup and good clothes. Ivan can go on and on about how no one really needs to use shampoo because it’s all chemicals, and natural oils give hair all the health and lift it needs. But check out this woman’s goddamn dreamy hair. And really, all Ivan has to do is rinse and add a bit of conditioner once in a while, lucky frigger.

  The CBC people want to interview her in the house, so she spent most of the morning tidying up. The place seemed pretty presentable, but now, compared with Genevieve Davey’s immaculate self, everything they own looks slapped together: their wrinkled paisley-print IKEA curtains, the ancient coffee table peppered with scratches, Ivan’s old guitars mounted on the wall. Ancient water stains tinge the ceiling by the doorway and the screen door croaked and whined when the crew entered. But Genevieve is all gracious poise. She wears all black with colourful accents: sleek pants and a long-sleeved shirt set off by a vibrant sea-green silk scarf tousled around her neck. All crisp and impeccable against the chipped paint of the kitchen chair. Ivan sits to the side, legs spread, slouching in a faded plaid shirt. And plain Wanda Jaynes, in her business-casual khakis and sky-blue cowl-neck top. Dirty hippy Ivan and Sears Days Special Wanda.

  “So, Wanda,” Genevieve says, “as I said in the email, I’m going to first ask you a few questions about that day and what happened leading up to the incident with Edward Rumstead. We’ll do it conversationally, so just speak openly and comfortably. This isn’t a live interview, we’re under no major time restraints. I also have a few questions about how things have been going for you over the past few days.”

  “You mean, since she became the new Chewbacca Mom?” Ivan says.