“Holy shit,” Wanda says. The cake glues itself to the roof of her mouth.
The right side of the screen shows a ticker feed of tweets, both from and to the website.
Sallysally55:@keepingintouch Joseph Workman is 2 harsh this wk 2 say she’s conceited. But I do feel sorry for her. God’s love’s everywhere & she doesn’t want to feel it. ☹
Conceited? A new video has been posted within the last two hours. She clicks play. It starts with the clip from the CBC interview: Wanda responding to Genevieve’s question about miracles. It shuts off when she finishes. Deep, low booing from the audience. Joseph Nigel Workman paces the stage in a lean, pinstriped suit. “People, I know how you feel. It’s like giving someone a diamond and they respond that they prefer plastic. It’s like cutting down roses to hang paper flowers. It’s sad and it’s the sickness of promotion of the self over God.” He presses his hand to his heart. “This conceited woman, Wanda Jaynes, was given the power of good. Yet, she cannot bring herself to acknowledge it. Shame.”
“Shame, shame!” says the audience.
“Shame on this modern, apathetic, atheistic world,” Joseph Nigel Workman says. “But we know better, don’t we people?” The audience whoops and claps.
Wanda clicks pause with her shaking hand. Why does this man have to focus on her? Why can’t she be left alone? More and more all the time. Her eyes drop to the comments section.
DCleal55: So, let me get this straight. Even though Wanda Jaynes doesn’t take credit for being a hero, she’s conceited because she doesn’t credit God? And no one has any problem with worshipping a conceited God who needs to be credited for all good things in the world? It’s hypocrisy, people.
Thatguy980: I think people can believe whatever they want, but it doesn’t seem rite to just say it’s not possible that it was a miracle. It’s like people who think aliens don’t exist. The universe is huge, who can say we’re the only life in it?
Bobothebo: @DCleal55 God is not conceited! Read your bible, without him you would have nothing! We praise him because he is deserving.
Saborsun7: This woman is a hero and I think it’s great she’s not afraid to speak her beliefs. F&%k Joseph Workman, he’s a right-wing pig.
Iwalkwithhim3: It saddens me that we live in a world so jaded and godless that an obvious glorious act like this can be shrugged off as nothing. Atheists, feminists, and homosexuals are ruining this country.
DCleal: Really, @Iwalkwithhim3? This wasn’t walking on water, this wasn’t transformation. It saddens me we live in world so blind and fearful it’s afraid of scientific explanations.
Iwalkwithhim3: IT IS YOU WHO ARE BLIND!!!!!! HIS JUDGEMENT WILL STRIKE DOWN THE CORRUPT AND THE DOUBTERS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Wiscousinpies: @Iwalkwithhim3 Religious people like you give the rest of us a bad name. I don’t blame people for becoming atheists when religious fanatics spout hate like that.
ShellMcBee: She worships $$ and the CBC paid her for this interview. Get rid of both of them.
Thatguy980: @ShellMCBee The CBC don’t pay anyone, their f%#king commies.
DCleal55: Wow, the remarks towards atheism range from condescending to violent. Real critical thinkers, the lot of you.
Cowboylove1974:@ DCleal55 this is a site 4 Joe Workman what u expect.
A whirlpool churns in Wanda’s belly. She fits as much cake as she can into her mouth and bites down.
9
TREVOR Dowden has said that Wanda can take as much time as she needs, but on Monday morning, she returns to work. Ivan disagrees with her decision and Mom is skeptical, but being at home feels like hiding. She’s drinking like it’s Christmas break: Baileys in her coffee, a beer with lunch, a mid-afternoon cocktail. And if she’s watching something lame on TV or Netflix, she orders from Eddie’s Pizza and lights a dube. And there are so many stupid things to watch. There are so many stupid things.
It’s wet out and she predicts the rain will crank the volume on the “It’s Monday” complaints. Which can make for small-talk filler, and really, it would be nice to hear talk of something else, something boring and benign. She throws on her black trench coat and flicks up the hood. “A Grim Reaper Named Wanda,” Ivan says. He plants a kiss on her cheek, he smells of soap and toothpaste. “Text me when you get to work,” he says. Like she’s headed overseas.
The sound of rain peppering her hood reminds her of childhood camping, some memory of lying in a tent, knowing she’s not supposed to touch the edges when it rains, but pressing one fingertip to the canvas wall, receiving a drop of water, like an offering. Today, she’ll get back into productivity, into comfortable, nourishing habits. Today is a fresh start.
Pascale Aggressive sets blue recycling bags by the curb. Her yellow rain slicker is zipped over her chin and her dark eyes expand at the sight of Wanda. Pascale raises her hand and opens it in a slow wave. Here is my open palm. I come in peace. “Good morning, Pascale,” Wanda gives her a wide, empty grin. Pascale nods, waggles her fingers, and scurries back to her house. Thanks, Pascale. Way to make someone feel like the neighbourhood sex offender.
She starts the car and pulls out into the street. A woman walks by with an umbrella and a golden retriever. A guy in full rain gear jogs along. No sign that last week a man’s mind turned on itself and convinced him the most sensible thing to do was gun down strangers in a grocery store. She turns up the radio. There will be piles of things to do at work, assignments to mark, exams to prepare. Distractions like a tray of appetizers offered at chin level.
The campus is on the outskirts of town and although the drive goes against traffic, it’s still busy. Suburbia fans out over this tiny peninsula. She read somewhere that, currently, there are more people in Conception Bay South than Corner Brook. A new sprawling housing division on the way, named after a former premier’s mommy. Her lane has low traffic, but the opposite side is full, a moving wall of bumper to bumper vehicles on the other side of the yellow line.
Even though she has the right of way, she finds herself braking for a red pick-up truck merging into her lane. He zooms his way in. How easy it is for someone to run her off the road, especially with so many people driving big, aggressive trucks and SUVs. Bully- mobiles. They say these large vehicles will save them in an accident, but they probably just want to look menacing. Oil money and oily influence.
The red pick-up’s brake lights jolt her into awareness—was she daydreaming? What’s going on? People in hard hats along the highway, construction signs. She slows, 60 km/hour, 50 km/hour. A figure in an orange vest takes long slow steps in the distance ahead. A hood hides their face and they carry something long and black in both hands. She grips the steering wheel. The figure pushes the hood back with one hand—a young face, a woman’s face. She adjusts the shovel in her hands. Wanda exhales and loosens her fingers on the wheel.
A black SUV monopolizes her rear-view mirror. Right up her ass. Hey mister, there’s no room in front. She stares at the back of the red pick-up. The pan is down and it’s pristine inside. Why do you have a pick-up truck if you don’t use it? She feels like taking a photo. #trophytruck #wasteofspace. But if she posted it on Facebook, guaranteed some acquaintance will have to defend their tastes, preach the virtues of their favourite brand. She could just send it to Sharon and Nikki. They could have their own private snark fest.
A blaring horn behind her. The red pick-up truck has dashed on ahead leaving an expanse of emptiness. She presses the gas, but must cram the brakes as the SUV swings out around her with aggressive impatience. Asshole. She only paused for a second. Or five seconds. The time lapse is fuzzy. That pick-up must be floating.
The traffic on the other side of the lane has lessened and there is room to pass. A transport truck ploughs by, submerging her windshield with a wave of rainwater. She is blind. She switches the windshield wipers to top speed and they sweep rivers of water away with frantic little swipes. A high-pitched beep fr
om inside the car makes her jump. Her eyes scan the dashboard for warning lights—is it the engine? Is she out of gas? Then she remembers: her phone, it’s an email notification. She changed it last night so work emails would come straight to her cell. Scared by her own phone, the little frigger.
She shudders. Breathe, Wanda, just breathe. Check mirror. Breathe. Check side mirror. Breathe. Check passenger-side mirror. Breathe. 10 km under the speed limit. Breathe. Just let them pass. Breathe. By the time she reaches work, she is sweating. Her hands gloss the steering wheel. She parks her car in the first available spot.
The main hallway has the Monday smell of lemon floor polish and coffee. Her shoes squeak the tiles. Students stand chatting around open lockers. Some do a double-take as she passes. She focuses on her posture. This is where she works, this is what she does. She’s a grown-up college instructor, walking to her office. She says hello if there’s eye contact.
The staff room is empty except for Mona who sits at a lunch table. Mona’s head is down and she mutters to herself. She’s armed with a stack of papers and a highlighter. The seniority list. Still looking to secure a spot.
Mona looks up. Her papers and highlighter lower to the table in unison and she rises to hug Wanda: “Wan-da, my-god, it’s so good to see you. I didn’t think you’d be back already. My-god, my-god, I can’t imagine what you’ve been going through at-all.” She steps back to regard Wanda and her hand rises to her string of pearls. When she plucks at them, they leave a slight indentation in the folds of her neck.
“Well,” Wanda says, “I was told I could take all the time I need, but I think it’s best if I get out of the house.” A patch of sweat taps her just below her bra strap and begins a slow trail down her back.
“I can understand that. Oh Wanda. What a nightmare. We were going to go visit you this week, but we figured you needed time.” Mona nods at her own comment. The curls of her white hair sway in agreement.
Wanda also nods. Lots of nodding, let’s all nod. There is a shuffling behind her—Andrea and her loping steps. Wanda feels a hand on her shoulder and turns with a prepared smile.
Andrea gazes down at her with grinning scrutiny. “You’re a sight for sore eyes.” She clamps her hands on Wanda’s shoulders and yanks her forward. Wanda gets the full brush of the blond frosted tips along her face. Andrea’s head smells like some kind of fruity candy. Skittles? Jolly Ranchers.
“Yes,” Mona says. “I’m surprised she’s back already. Some good to see her though.”
“Sure, Trevor emailed everyone to say she was coming back,” Andrea says. “We’ve all been dying to see you.”
Trevor Dowden emailed them. Gotta prepare the masses. What directives did he give? Sensitivity and decorum, people. Put on your kid gloves.
“Such a terrible thing,” Andrea says. “Stuff like this makes you think about the big picture.” A frozen look floods her face. “And here, everybody’s still bitching and moaning about the cutbacks. Same old, same old. Guess you can’t take it too seriously, right? Not going to get out of it alive.” What platitude will she utter next? You win some, you lose some, my dear.
Andrea flops on to the couch and stretches out her long legs. The cuffs of her brown slacks rise up to reveal white sport socks and clunky black sneakers. The woman has a permanent job, is married to a successful engineer, lives in a big house on Forest Road, and her wardrobe originates from the bargain bin.
“So,” Mona says, “how are you doing? My God, it’s been all over the news.”
“Yes, students have been asking about you,” Andrea says. “Will you have to go to court?”
“You didn’t have to identify him did you? My God, the picture of him on the news. He’s terrifying.”
“Court, yes,” Wanda says. “Eventually. Depends on how he pleads. No identifying, no.”
“Whew!” says Andrea, “Well, I guess we can all thank G— I guess we can all be relieved about that.”
Andrea saw the interview. Whatever. Wanda gestures at the seniority list on the coffee table. “How are you doing with that, Mona? Any changes?”
“I’m done like dinner. The only way I can keep my job is if I move and start over at a rural campus.”
“Terrible.” What to say? How many kids does Mona have? Grandkids? Does she support them? Wanda should know this.
Mona gestures to a name on the top page, highlighted in yellow. “That one? She won’t leave. I can’t see her wanting to bump and move in here. There’s enough work at that campus for her to switch. All the ones at the top will have the option to stay or go.” Mona looks up at Wanda. “Have you checked the list yet? You might be able to bump.”
Wanda shrugs. “That’s for permanent staff.” They’ve already been over this. They never remember she isn’t like them. “I don’t expect they’ll know if there’s anything left for months.”
Mona nods. “Well, you can join me down at the harbour, teaching the sailors a thing or two. Gotta have a fallback career, you know.” Mona laughs and Andrea joins in. Their chugging laughter like a cold engine, turning over. The perspiration on Wanda’s back makes another move south.
Wanda rises. “Really gotta get back at it,” she says. Yep, yep, so much to do. If she gets out of the staff room quickly, she won’t catch their voices lowering as they speak whatever’s truly on their minds.
Inside her office, she fires up her computer and wipes dust from the monitor. There’s an envelope on the floor. Inside is a card with a picture of a seaside scene. No inscription, but it’s been passed around and signed. How does one pick out a card for this occasion? “You survived! Congratulations!” Her co-workers have written things like Thinking of you. Be well. You are amazing. I’m glad I know you. It’s heartfelt. She tears up a little. Then she checks the back of the card, to make sure it’s not from Dominion. Does Dominion even make cards? She hiccups in laughter at the absurdity—what if it was? What would that mean? Why is she looking for a moment of possible tactlessness?
She filters through her inbox. It’s calming to delete old, irrelevant messages, to set her mind back into prioritizing what needs to be done or remembered. There’s a request from a student for a make-up test. A session on insurance from the union. Reminder for the monthly staff meeting. Corny jokes forwarded to her from Dad in the form of a list of misspelled and/or poorly thought out announcements from church bulletins: A bean supper will be held in the church hall on Tuesday. Music will follow.
And one email from an unfamiliar address. Holdenshat@ mail.com. The subject header says “last week’s lessons.” Maybe one of her students. They often use a different email address than the one the institute assigns them. She clicks on it.
To: [email protected] From: [email protected] Subject: last week’s lessons
U r both brave and bold.
One line, no signature. People are creeps. Creeps who can’t spell. She aims the cursor at the delete button, but reconsiders. They can trace these things if there’s a record. That’s what the cop said last year at the Cyber-Bullying Information Session. Up yours, Holdenshat. Holden Shat? Blech.
Her stomach fluctuates with unease. Calm down. It’s not difficult to get her work email address—she gives it freely to her students. This is to be expected, she’s all over the news. When you’re on the Internet, the forecast calls for trolls. She closes her email and retrieves her lesson planner. Today is English 3201, Student Development, and one-on-one work with ABE students in the Learning Centre. Enough variety to keep her busy, enough individual students with issues to absorb her.
Her ABE classes are slightly behind. Throughout the day, students give her closed-mouthed smiles and raise their hands instead of calling out. It feels like the first day of school. She hopes it doesn’t stick— it’s hard to have open discussions this way. They need to work on their final projects: comparison essays, oral presentations. The principles of descriptive writing: subject
ive and objective approaches. How to organize an essay—they’ll need to write one in their final exam. She clicks through Power Point slides, draws out suggestions for visual organizers on the board. Look, a Venn diagram, good for compare and contrast. Look, a fishbone timeline, good for cause and effect. Questions? Just trying to cause an effect on you, you silent mouthed motherfuckers.
She reminds herself to be patient. The ABE students come from a spectrum of need. Some are here voluntarily, some are forced, and most are funded through social assistance. They need to finish the program with an average above 60, get through the high-school equivalency, get into a program where they can take real post- secondary courses. That gets said a lot, real courses, where they can learn something technical or money-focused and never need to write an essay again.
She stays busy and on task. The day flies and she’s back in the car. The highway is clear on her ride home. She turns up the radio, presses the gas. This is how her commute usually goes, this is her normal. The sun fights its way through a slice in the clouds.
The trees close to her house carry the fresh-lime tint of new buds. Arguably, the best shade of green. Maybe after supper she and Ivan can go for a walk. Rennie’s River Trail would be nice. Or around Quidi Vidi.
The kid appears in front of her like he dropped from the sky; he must have dashed out from between the parked cars. Her foot drills into the brake. The car lurches and screeches to a halt.
The Greatest Hits of Wanda Jaynes Page 9