The Greatest Hits of Wanda Jaynes

by Bridget Canning

  The kid stares wide-eyed at her. He looks about six years old, mussy hair, the stain of something pink and punchy on his lips. Then he strolls across the road like nothing happened. Wanda leans forward and rests her forehead on the top of the steering wheel. “You stupid, stupid little bastard,” she says. She could park the car, stride down the sidewalk, find the child, and bend him over her knee, right out in the open. Hopefully within sight of his house. She’ll utter a word with every spank: Didn’t. Your. Goddamn. Parents. Teach. You. How. To. Cross. The. Fucking. Road. How many is that? Twelve. An even dozen is a good number for spanks.

  The blare of a horn jolts her spine straight. The driver in the car behind her waves his hands around his head. He mouths words. Something like, “What’s wrong with you?” And, by the way he bares his teeth, something with bitch in it. She releases the brake and presses the gas gently.

  By the time Wanda arrives home, a new knot has fastened itself onto the back of her neck. She checks her phone. One new text message.

  “Give me a fucking break,” she says to her phone.

  She fumbles out the contents of the mailbox. Takeout menus, flyers, a bank statement. A postcard from Sharon in New Jersey with a picture of a brewery: The Cape May Brewing Company. “Thinking of you.” Wanda smiles at Sharon’s round handwriting, her loopy Os. She unlocks the door and lays the contents of the mailbox down to remove her shoes. A pamphlet slides out of the pile. Yellow lettering, a photo of a man in a suit, cheesy smile, but familiar. She squints at the words while she loosens her laces. Workers for Modern Christianity. That religious group. She scoops up the pile of papers and moves to the recycling bin. The pamphlet lands face down. Markings. Her name scrawled on the back.

  Wanda picks up the brochure. The cheesy guy in the photo is Joseph Nigel Workman. He beams at the camera from under his sculpted, limber hair. On the back, someone has written her name in black ink: For Wanda Jaynes. Inside is a bible passage with several lines highlighted:

  “Lord, if it’s you,” Peter replied, “tell me to come to you on the water.”

  “Come,” he said.

  Then Peter got down out of the boat, walked on the water and came toward Jesus. But when he saw the wind, he was afraid and, beginning to sink, cried out, “Lord, save me!”

  Immediately Jesus reached out his hand and caught him. “You of little faith,” he said, “why did you doubt?”

  She rips the brochure in half. Then rips it again and tosses it back into the recycling bin. Good luck with your promotional flyers, Workers for Modern Nagging or whatever the fuck. Maybe you should print some coupons. Get saved and save 50%.

  The knot at the back of her neck twists and hitches. Shag this. She’ll lie down and smoke up until Ivan comes home. She’ll text an apology. Although, what does he expect? It’s her first day back at work. She’ll watch something mindless. Maybe they’ll order a pizza. The bong and baggie are on the coffee table. She stuffs the bowl, sparks it, and inhales. The water bubbles and the puffs of smoke are a salve.

  What was it Leo said? The doctors give it a month before they diagnose PTSD. What’s a month, really? It will be summer soon. Work will be done, and although future employment is bleak, there will be a break from its obligation. There will be time to relax and get on with things.

  It was this time of year when she finished her Bachelor of Arts degree, and that was a pile of stress. She had no job or idea of what to do. She had applied to study Education and hadn’t made the cut; the letter said she was on the waiting list. She kicked herself over that for weeks. Why hadn’t she worked harder? Why hadn’t she done an Honours Degree? She could have handled it if she had her shit together. She had tried volunteering in different places to pad her résumé, but nothing stuck: the university paper, the art club, the different societies. Each one had its respective clique, people who knew each other for years and monopolized the interesting stuff. She remembers going to a party, a mixer for English or Anthropology or something. Having a great chat with a classmate, Jean something, who invited her to a house party. But she was the only one who was new and Jean’s friends sat around listening to Roxy Music and telling stories from their summers together. Some guy mocked her because she didn’t know who Bryan Ferry was.

  And Simon Moriarty, four months of sleeping together and he went back to his ex-girlfriend. “I can’t stop thinking about her,” he said. “I like you, but this has never gotten more than casual, right?” Her sleeping patterns erupted. She lost seven pounds by the end of May. When it reached three months with no periods, she went to the doctor. The pregnancy test was negative. “Any stresses in your life right now?” the doctor asked. Wanda listed them off. As her voice cracked on “waiting list,” she pulled a Kleenex from the offered box. “My dear,” the doctor said, she was blond and chipper, “you have enough going on for three women to miss their periods. Just relax. Be nice to yourself.” And a week later, she got into Education. And her period returned and hung around twice as long as usual.

  So wait it out. Once the term ends, it will only take a couple of weeks to feel sane. She can sleep in. She can get out of town for a few days. She and Ivan can have more sex.

  She takes another puff from the bong. Maybe some music. Ivan left his iPod in the stereo. She presses play. Wax Mannequin pours out: You’ve got to tell the doctor to believe me. The record shelf is white with dust. Has she ever seen Ivan wipe the place down? He doesn’t seem to ever notice. The oblivion of the Y-chromosome: can’t see dust or grime, can’t clean a toilet. The face of the little boy on the street, with his fruit-punch mouth. Can’t wash off their sticky faces.

  She goes to the kitchen cupboard for the Pledge spray. Small, black specks at the bottom of the cupboard. Goddamn mouse turds. How long have they been there? If they’re in the cleaning supplies, they’re everywhere. Her skin crawls. Why is it so hard to have a clean, vermin-free house? She brings the spray and a cloth to the living room. Wax Mannequin continues:

  He’s got a gun

  bang bang bang bang

  gun gun gun gun gun

  She is panting. Her heart is a swinging door in a windstorm. Go to the stereo. Change song. Something else, now. Her thumb fumbles through the menu and presses random. The intro to a Wilco song plays, acoustic guitars, a cheerful build. There. She goes to the couch and lies down. It’s okay. It’s like in high school and she and Paul Strowbridge broke up and she couldn’t handle hearing Pearl Jam for months because that’s all he listened to in his car. This is to be expected. “War on War” plays:

  It’s a war on war

  There’s a war on

  You’re gonna lose

  You have to lose

  You have to learn how to die

  She swallows. She cannot hear anything but different kinds of endings. She closes her eyes, but cannot will her mind to stop. The supermarket lights, the screams, shots, streaming eyes, the red truck blazing in from the merge lane, sentences in all-caps—I’M GLAD I KNOW YOU. CHECK YOUR PHONE SOMETIMES, MISSUS. HE’S GOT A GUN.

  The couch lowers itself into the floor. It sinks into the dusty rug, into the hardwood, into the nests of mice and whatever else is beneath the surface. Is this how it feels to go crazy? When you lose your mind, can you sense it happening, like watching a ball of string unravel? Can she sense actual synaptic snaps and the deterioration of grey matter right now? This is it, she will be terrified for the rest of her life, crouched in whatever dark corners she can find or invent. Dusty corners full of fear and mouse shit. This is it.

  “You at?”

  Ivan stands over the end of the couch. He peers at her, holding his phone flat down in his palm, like a waiter with a tray. “You look like you’re having a hard time.”

  Thank fuck. “I need you to sit down and talk to me.”

  “Got right baked, did ya?”

  “Please. Tell me a story. I need to keep my brain together.” />
  “You’re just really high. It’ll pass.”

  “No. It’s not. I’m losing it.”

  “This happened before. Remember the time in Outer Cove, you got all trippy about the ocean. ‘It’s all vast and unknown, man. We don’t know what’s in there.’” His fingers waggle in the air. “I’ll get you a snack. You can eat your stone.”

  “This is different.” She sits up and rocks back and forth. “I don’t think I can drive to work tomorrow.”

  “Okay. Carpooling is better anyway.”

  “How long do you think it would take me to get a bus out there? Fucking hell.”

  “You’d have to get up at six, I’d say. Call Andrea, she doesn’t live that far away. She’ll drive ya.” He smiles at his double meaning.

  Wanda rubs her forearms. “She was checking for germs. The Professor. Ella Collier. She was checking the chicken. She loved her life and her health so much she took the time to inspect raw meat for germs.” She scrapes her fingers through her hair. “She knew about the inadequacy of humanity, she wasn’t going to take any chances with dodgy poultry kept at the wrong temperature, wrapped with dirty fingers.” The speed of the words makes her gasp. “And then she’s gunned down by a complete chemical disaster, by an unclean mind. If that means anything. What’s a clean mind? Mine isn’t. Hooooo fuck, it won’t stop.”

  He sits beside her. “This will pass. You smoked up alone when you’re not in the right mindset.”

  “What if it’s not? What if I’m losing my mind?”

  “Let’s go outside. Change of scenery. C’mon.” He guides her up.

  “What the fuck am I going to do, Ivan?”

  “You’re going to go outside and breathe fresh air. You’re going to admire the trees in the backyard.”

  They go out the back door in the kitchen and sit on the step. He pulls her onto his lap and nuzzles the back of her neck. “I’ll call Andrea. You can get a ride with her. For tomorrow, anyway. Or not. You can still tell Trevor you need time off.”

  She closes her eyes. Gettin’ drove by Andrea. What a way to die. She can see it—Andrea driving and jabbering on, turning to make sure Wanda’s listening, careening into a transport truck. Wanda sucks air through her teeth.

  “It will get better.” He pulls her to him. “You’ll see. You’re an Amazon.”

  “I’m a monster.”

  “You’re my Amazon goddess.”

  She stares at the maple tree. What if the wind picks up, snaps one of those thick branches at the top? It could come through the bedroom window. The wind sways the branches towards her, like weak grasping fingers. There is a gentle patter in her pocket and she pulls out her phone. An email. A distraction. She taps the screen.

  To: JaynesWanda@nlil.ca From: Holdenshat@mail.com Subject: today That blue jacket u wore in the grocery stores nice but I like the black one u wore today too.

  10

  ON Tuesday morning, Andrea’s white Rav 4 rolls up to the house at seven sharp, about thirty minutes earlier than Wanda usually goes to work. The horn honks merrily. Wanda locks the door behind her and slogs up the path. She can hear the music emanating from the vehicle. “Su-su-sussido.” Andrea is blasting Phil Collins. No Jacket Required. Here we go.

  “Good morning!” Andrea says. She flicks down the volume as Wanda puts on her seatbelt. “I picked up coffee and bagels. I wasn’t sure how you like your coffee, so I got double-doubles.” Andrea’s short hair is swept back, helmet style. She wears aviator-style sunglasses and a polyester tracksuit in industrial pink. The sleeve rasps as she passes Wanda the cup.

  “Um, black, but this is fine. Thank you.” Wanda takes a sip. Holy sweet. Andrea’s half-eaten bagel rests on a napkin in her cup holder. Wanda gets a whiff of onion. An “everything” bagel first thing in the morning. With sickly-sweet coffee. Gross toast.

  “How are you doing? You sleep well?” Andrea bites her bagel and lays it back in the cup holder. She licks her fingers and pulls out into the street, her wet fingertips daintily raised off the steering wheel. “You look tired.”

  You look like the 80s version of Anne Murray on her way to coach basketball. “I’ve been having broken sleep,” she says. “I might try melatonin tonight. I hear it works.” Or pop another of Mrs. Medeiros’s Valium, a handful of which was wordlessly left in a dish in the spare bedroom. The pot knocked her out last night, so she didn’t take one, but she didn’t stay asleep. Instead, she woke at 2:47, 4:06, 4:53, the digital clock branding numbers into the darkness. She focused on relaxing separate body parts, pictured herself in calm places—North West Brook in Trepassey, a waterfall, a beach. Sleep crept in, but tripped up on thoughts.

  Andrea clucks her tongue. “You have to watch some of those supplements. They can mix badly with your body chemistry. I like warm milk before bedtime. And sometimes a turkey sandwich.” She chortles. “I’m terrible, I am.” She looks down to retrieve her coffee. Wanda sucks in her breath. Stay relaxed, stay chatty.

  “Yeah,” she says, “you might become a tryptophan addict.”

  “Trip what now?”

  “Tryptophan, it’s the chemical in turkey that makes you sleepy. You know, like after Thanksgiving and everyone’s tired.”

  Andrea frowns. “Yeah, but that’s from eating a lot. My family always does a ham.”

  “No, but, if you’re having a turkey sandwich before bed- time—”

  “Oh, I love this song.” Andrea twists the volume knob. The tinkling synthesizer in the opening of Phil Collin’s “Take Me Home” flows from the speakers. “Take that look of worry, I’m an ordinary man,” Andrea sings along.

  Wanda takes a big sip of her coffee and stares out the window. Ivan called Andrea last night and lied, told her they were having car trouble. Andrea insisted she could give Wanda a ride every day, no problem. It’s very kind of her. And it’s most unfortunate the woman makes her feel like a cat having its fur stroked backwards. Three minutes in the Rav 4 and she’s already mussed and indignant.

  Andrea belts along with Phil and stops hard at every light. “How are things going anyway?” she says.

  “Oh, not bad. Gets better all the time.” There’s an itch in her chest to discuss the email, to verbalize it: Can you believe this shit? But the fewer people who know, the better. She showed the messages to Ivan yesterday evening and they called Constable Lance. He came by the house, all concerned forehead, lots of product in his hair. “It is alarming for someone to comment on seeing you,” he said. “But it’s not an overt threat to your safety.” Not a threat at this point, you saucy youngster. He asked her to list all the places she went yesterday. Outside of going back and forth to work, she hadn’t been anywhere—limiting it to the twelve hundred-odd people who occupy campus every day, plus anyone who saw her en route. He gave her his email address and instructed her to forward any new messages to him. Don’t delete anything or block anyone for now.

  “Overt threat to your safety, my hole,” Ivan said once Constable Lance had left. “Cops, I don’t trust their priorities. Leo knows about tracing emails. There’s nothing to stop us from checking ourselves.” Wanda was too tired to argue. If Ivan and Leo want to pretend to be private investigators, they can fill their boots. Ivan Medeiros and the Internet Detectives.

  But what if they trace it to work? It’s probably a student. Or, one of them took a picture of her, walking in or out in her black coat. They could have shared it on Snapchat or whatever the fuck. Anyone could have seen it.

  Who else might have written her? Wanda thinks of Pascale Aggressive, her startled eyes and hidden mouth in her yellow rain slicker. She may resent them. Maybe she gets off on spooking people. Pascale, peering out her front window, watching her get in with Andrea, making note of the car, the time. From now on, Wanda will keep track of her interactions, note who’s around, who can see her.

  The day passes uneventfully. Linda, a twenty-two-year-old si
ngle mother of twins, brings her a latte for their one-on-one lesson and speaks softly to her. But then she gets flustered when Wanda points out that she didn’t reference her sources in-text.

  In her regular classes, attendance is high, higher than before the shooting. Maybe this is a positive outcome. Her notoriety will result in higher GPAs all around.

  At lunch break, she sits with Mona, Andrea, and Samantha, one of the French instructors. Andrea leans in to examine what Wanda’s eating. “What’s that? Looks like curry.”

  “Butter chicken.”

  “Where’d ya get that?”

  “Ivan made it.”

  “You can get that sauce in jars at Sobeys,” Samantha says.

  “He made this from scratch,” Wanda says. Samantha raises her eyebrows. It’s a fact, not a brag, Wanda feels like saying.

  “She’s always got something different,” Andrea says. Her eyes shine in approval at the novelty of Wanda’s lunch. Mona wrinkles her nose.

  She takes long slow chews to fight a sarcastic response. Look everyone, look what Wanda brought to school today. Holy fuck, that’s not ham and cheese. She stirs her food while Andrea takes gummy bites from her sandwich and talks and talks. Three times, she brings up how she drove Wanda to work this morning. Someone wants a sticker.

  At the end of the day, they meet in the parking lot. “I have to run a quick errand on the way home,” Andrea says. “Just have to stop by a pharmacy.” Wanda nods. She should get some melatonin. Good idea to not rely on Valium. It will run out way too fast.

  In Shoppers Drug Mart, Andrea grabs a cart and pushes it up the first aisle. She scrutinizes a display of reduced-price Pringles. Quick errand, indeed. The pharmacy stereo plays Tina Turner’s “Simply the Best.” Maybe adult-contemporary music trails Andrea like a will-o’-the-wisp. Wanda scans the aisle signs for vitamins and supplements. You’d think the woman would be a little sensitive about bringing her into a store after what happened last week, but you know, gotta buy chips.