The Greatest Hits of Wanda Jaynes

by Bridget Canning

  “You’re an educated person who educates. People will listen to you. This shit happens for a reason.”

  “Since when? I thought believing in a plan was part of the problem.”

  “Ugh, I don’t know how else to say it. You know what I mean,” he says. He bites into his piece of cheese.

  “Why is it so important I do this?” she says. And then, carefully, “What else is there to get out of it?”

  “Well, the money of course.”

  “Of course.”

  “Wanda, you’re laid off in a month. We’re doing okay, but I go contract to contract too. We’re not much more than hand to mouth here.”

  “So, I should do this to survive?” She pushes the chair away from the computer. “I mean, I can’t even drive. Or sleep.”

  He leans forward to touch her and his arm brushes the plate, knocking the cracker off the edge. It lands on the hardwood and shatters. “I understand,” he says. He squats and starts sweeping the pieces into his hand, head down.

  “Do you?”

  “I do.” He keeps sweeping. “And what you’re feeling, it’s natural. Fuck, I wouldn’t want to be pressured into being a role model or something.” He looks up at her, his face frank and composed. “I know you’re stressed and everything is hard right now. But you know, you’re handling it all beautifully.”

  Wanda looks down at him. “Thank you.” She strokes his hair. The thickness of it always feels heavy and satisfying in her hands. His eyes are dark and pleading. “I’m sorry,” she says into them.

  “Don’t be sorry.” Ivan lays the plate on the floor. His hands clasp her knees and run up her thighs. “You’re the most impressive person I’ve ever known.”

  Wanda leans down and kisses his mouth. He returns her kiss, his hands spreading over her hips. Their lips break and he rests his head in her lap. “I would never suggest you do something you can’t handle.”

  “But you understand I can’t.”

  “Of course.” He squeezes her around the waist. “Right now. I understand the big picture is hard to visualize.”

  Her hands freeze in mid-stroke along his back. She straightens and starts to stand.

  “What? Oh, come on,” he says.

  She pushes herself out of the chair and steps around him, inadvertently kicking the plate as she goes. Crackers skitter across the floor.

  She shuts the bedroom door and sprawls sideways across the bed. For the first couple of minutes, she listens. But the knob doesn’t turn; there is no click and whisper of the door opening. She realizes she is holding her breath. He’s not coming. The small embroidered flowers on the comforter start to embed themselves into the flesh of her cheek. She tucks her arm under her head and lies on her side, making sure to face away from the door. If he does come in, he won’t get to read her expression right away.

  She stares at the wall-hanging installed over the bed, a souvenir from their trip to Nepal. From a distance, it looks like a quilt, but close up, the details come out, the beading and stitching, an abstract painting done in textiles with patches of silk and satin. They were together for a little over a year when they decided to go on the trip. And it was so cool they had that in common, that Nepal was on both their bucket lists. For months, her parents fretted about it. Mom forwarded articles on disasters and depressing Nepalese statistics. One of the eighth poorest countries in the world. One of the only places where men outlive women. But they were going.

  They decided on a trek through the Annapurna mountain range and found a group called Three Sisters who train women to be guides, as a way to create independent female workers. They hired two women, a guide and a porter. Each night, she and Ivan had their own guesthouse room where the power shut off at eight o’clock. They took quick showers and lay together in candlelit darkness. He would massage her tired legs, long strokes from hip to ankle. Even after hiking all day, she couldn’t control herself, looking up at him looking down at her, the pleasure in his eyes from touching her, his smooth warm hands, his fingers long enough to wrap around the base of her calf, the pale tan line from his wristwatch shining in the dark.

  She shifts into her regular side of the bed. She closes her eyes and listens. There is a distant, faint sound of tapping and clicking, the keyboard, the mouse.

  Around eight, Ivan leaves to “jam with Leo.” Which means he’ll be back late. Leo and Trish and Ivan, up ‘til three, J-A-M-M-I-N-G. What will they talk about? Will they dissect her lame dismissal of celebrity? She finds distractions around the house, she reorganizes the pile of Tupperware containers so they match up with lids, she wipes down the inside of the fridge. She stops several times to reread Holdenshat’s emails. What students write this way? What about coworkers? She considers other instructors on campus, people she passes every day in the hallways. People she’s never interacted with beyond polite greetings. That wiry woman in the chemistry lab who never smiles. The maintenance guy with bulging eyes who smokes by the parking lot. Andrea, so very aware of Wanda’s proclamation of non-belief, the way she makes a point to skirt around it.

  She opens her Facebook account. Thirteen friendship requests. She fixed the privacy settings so she can’t be found in an Internet search, but it doesn’t stop friends of friends from adding her. There have been at least a hundred friend requests since the shooting and she has dismissed most of them. Who’s on the list today? Morris Jaynes, her great-uncle. Just joined Facebook. Sure, why not. Eight students from the college. Not a chance. Andrea’s husband, Boyd. Ugh. She can add and unfollow him, perhaps.

  Geraldine Harvey. The lady who was shot at, who played dead. Her cover photo is the Workers for Modern Christianity banner. Wanda squints at her profile picture. She is the red-haired woman who passed out brochures at the vigil. Nope, not connecting with this one. Although maybe her feverish faith is new, a result of surviving that moment. Everyone’s having a lot of feelings these days.

  Another one. Karl Prendergast. She stares at the name until it comes to her. The cootie machine from the pharmacy. How did he find her? She checks their mutual friends. There are two: Rose Mahon, a local photographer who adds everyone in hopes of building business, and a woman named Helen Marsh, who she can’t remember meeting. She clicks on Karl Prendergast’s profile. The cover photo is a sunset. The profile picture shows him holding some kind of placard. She clicks on it for a closer look. It’s a giant novelty cheque—he raised money for the local children’s hospital. Good for you Karl, you’re the besh. She clicks through his profile pictures. Karl holding a tiny Pomeranian, the dog looks deliriously happy: “Me and my adopted baby.” Karl on a beach, sprawled underneath palm trees, brandishing a tall, fruity drink: “Life is good in Jamaica!” Karl wearing a red-and-black-checkered deer-hunting hat, staring at the camera with unsmiling intensity: “This is a people shooting hat. I shoot people in this hat.” She recognizes the quotation immediately. Photo posted January 27th, 2010.

  There are a number of comments. A Jay Simms says, “Dude, that’s creepy.”

  Karl’s response: “J.D. Salinger died today. He was the author of my favourite book, ‘The Catcher in the Rye.’ I wanted to do a tribute to him.”

  Jay Simms: “Still, dude, pretty creepy.”

  She knows, but for some reason still needs to confirm it. She copies and pastes the quote into a Google search. Spoken by Holden Caulfield, protagonist of The Catcher in the Rye, to his roommate Ackley in a discussion about his red-peaked hunting cap. Ackley calls it a deer shooting hat:

  “‘Like hell it is.’ I took it off and looked at it. I sort of closed one eye, like I was taking aim at it. ‘This is a people shooting hat,’ I said. ‘I shoot people in this hat.’”

  Holden’s hat.

  She’s taught the novel in ABE courses as a high-school English credit and she’s had class discussions about the shooting of John Lennon, of Mark David Chapman’s obsession with the book. Holdenshat@mail.
com, of course. It’s lamely obvious. Naive of her to not pick up on it earlier. And here is Karl in his stupid hat, the gawky vehemence in his eyes, and she feels like she did when she was eight years old and found all the Christmas presents “from Santa” hidden away under her parents’ bed. Of course. Of course it’s you.

  But this is just one thing and it’s weak and flimsy. Circumstantial. There are lots of Salinger fans out there. She clicks through the rest of Karl’s profile pictures: Karl with an elderly woman: “I love my Nan!” A blue Nissan Versa: “Fresh from the dealership!” Karl in a Santa hat. Nothing else screams stalker. Whatever that means.

  She goes to the “About” section of his profile. Male. Single. Works at Memorial University. Those first emails came from the university. She scrolls through his timeline. He keeps a lot open to the public. His last status was this morning: “Nothing like a fresh cup of coffee and a carrot muffin!” Earlier in the week: “Hope I don’t get this flu. Everyone at work has the sniffs!” Last week: “TGIF!” Holy boring status updates. There are a few “likes” and comments. Boring social-media poster + being kinda gross = unfollowed by most “friends.” But maybe deep down, he thinks they’re phonies.

  She continues scrolling. Karl shared Darryl Pike’s video the day it went viral. On the post, he wrote, “The victims of the shootings and their families are in my prayers. And thank god this Wanda Jaynes was there!” Thirty likes. Six comments, one from Helen Marsh, one of their two mutual friends: “Wanda is wonderful! She goes out with my friend’s son and is a nice lady.” That explains how Karl found her on Facebook and how she knows Helen Marsh. She vaguely remembers an introduction at a Christmas party—Helen is Mrs. Medeiros’s friend from church. Helen added her on Facebook and Wanda unfollowed her from her newsfeed because all she posts are inspirational quotes and recipes.

  She clicks on Helen’s profile to see how she is connected to Karl. “See friendship.” Helen works in the university archives. So they probably work together, somehow.

  Wanda starts an email to Mrs. Medeiros, but deletes it. Mrs. Medeiros would want—would respect—a phone call. And after everything that happened last week, it would be good to have a solid chat with her. She picks up her phone. Maybe she should text Ivan first to let him know what she’s doing. But he won’t think it’s a good idea. “It will just get her worked up,” he’ll say. “She looks for reasons to be paranoid.” And he’s been condescending enough today. She pours herself a glass of wine before calling. This conversation will take a while.

  Mrs. Medeiros’s voice rises several notches when she realizes it’s Wanda. “Oh, I thought you were one of those awful sales callers. They always call when it’s dark out.” Mrs. Medeiros asks where Ivan is and goes on about how nice Leo and Trish are as friends: “But they’re too thin. They never stop running around.” They discuss the weather, the cost of fresh produce in town—Mrs. Medeiros is almost out of her smuggled oranges.

  Wanda takes a deep breath, “I was wondering, do you talk to your friend Helen Marsh often?”

  “Oh yes, I see her at least once a week.”

  “I met someone the other day who might work with her.” Keep voice neutral. “Karl Prendergast.”

  “Oh?” There is a metallic rattle in the background, pots bubbling on the stove.

  “Yes. I was wondering if it’s possible…just to bring it up to Helen, that I met this guy. He added me on Facebook and I’m wondering what he’s like.”

  “Yes, I can ask her.” There is a pause and shifting, she’s puttering around the kitchen. “Can I ask why?”

  “Well, I’ve been receiving some strange anonymous emails lately. Nothing to worry about though.”

  “Oh Wanda,” Mrs. Medeiros’s voice shivers with sympathy. “I’m so sorry. You don’t deserve this. You deserve good things to happen, not nasty strangers. There are so many people out there with evil secrets. And you know this too well now. Oh, it makes me sick.” There is a short click, the shutting of a pot lid. “It’s not fair you have to have this extra stress. It can wear you down. When Ivan and Sylvie’s father died, I thought I was going to have a breakdown from the stress. I was all alone and they were so little.”

  “I can imagine.”

  “And all my family is so far away. You know, you get married and start a family and build this life together. And then he’s gone and all you have left are memories. And you have to do everything for your children. Keep them safe. Thinking about what might happen to them, all the dangers of the world, it kept me up at night. All I could think about were my own limits. How I could only do so much.”

  “I’m so sorry you went through that.” Pots rattle in the background. Mrs. Medeiros, alone in her house. They need to go visit her.

  “It was a long time ago,” Mrs. Medeiros says, “but I still have trouble sleeping, sometimes.” Yes, yes she does. Thanks for the Valium, by the way. “So these messages,” Mrs. Medeiros continues, “do you think it might be this Karl?”

  “Well, I just want to be sure. The emails come from the university and that’s where he works. And there’s a photo on his Facebook profile which kind of connects to the email address.” She’s such a Sherlock. So fucking lame.

  But Mrs. Medeiros makes soft gasps and clucks her tongue. “I will ask Helen what kind of man he is. Don’t worry, I’ll be discreet.” The pots and pans sing out and Mrs. Medeiros curses under her breath in Portuguese. “I should see her tomorrow. I’ll give you a call.”

  They say their goodbyes and Wanda pours another glass of wine. She considers a bath. If she bathes now and gets ready for bed, she’ll be asleep when Ivan gets home. Or she can pretend to be.

  12

  THE clock radio reads 9:19am. Wanda’s lips are gummy with wine tannins. Ivan is deposited on top of the comforter next to her. He managed to get his pants off, but everything else is intact: black t-shirt, black socks, and black boxer briefs. His jaw is slack and parted and his curls stick straight up. Like last Halloween when he dressed up as Kramer from Seinfeld. Her hand floats up to touch them, but stops. He rubs his face in his sleep. The imprint of a stamp is still inked on the back of his wrist. Black letters: CBTG’s. He shifts and gives a whisper of a snore, she catches the faint scent of something sweet and boozy. Rum or whiskey. Jamming no doubt.

  She slips out of bed and snatches her bathrobe on the way to the door. Downstairs, she gets a glass of orange juice before checking Facebook. Let’s see if Karl posted anything new.

  Karl Prendergast: Nice mild day today! Great day for the Dog Walking Club on Rennie’s River Trail!

  Posted ten minutes ago. The orange juice bites a path through her food pipe. Where would he go after walking his dog? Straight home? If he is watching her, wouldn’t it be good to be aware of his routes? Figure out how he knows about her?

  She tiptoes back through the bedroom to grab some clothes. Ivan has shifted into an X pose in the bed’s centre; arms and legs spread wide to monopolize both sides. Good thing she didn’t plan on returning to bed.

  She slips into jeans and her navy-blue hoodie. She scribbles a post-it note and slaps it on the refrigerator door: “Gone for a walk. W.” Outside, the overcast sky is thick and full, gauze over a wound. She puts on sunglasses anyway. Check out Wanda, so incognito.

  She takes lengthened strides, jerky with nerves. The entrance to Rennie’s River Trail is about a four-minute walk from her house, three if she hurries. The brisk air fills her lungs and she tugs the cotton hood around her chin. It’s just going for a walk. It’s good exercise. If she sees Karl and learns something, that’s a good thing. She’s not crossing any lines by going for a walk.

  She spots him as she comes down the hill. A lucky break. He is at the bottom, crossing the street with a fluffy Pomeranian on a neon-green leash. A stocky woman with short, cropped grey hair walks beside him leading a beagle puppy which constantly lurches to escape. Both Karl and the woman wear burgundy fl
eeces, the woman’s sneakers are breast-cancer-awareness pink. Looks like they are the only club members who showed. Must be hard to plan an early walk on a Saturday morning.

  Karl half turns in her direction as he maneuvers his puff of a dog over the curb. Wanda pushes her sunglasses up the ridge of her nose and hunches down in her hoodie. She takes short steps to slow down, but her momentum wants to pitch her down the hill. At the bottom, the trail diverges into two separate paths, one on each side of the river. She staggers onto the side opposite them and hovers behind a patch of alders. Something on the ground moves towards her. She yelps. A duck, scampering away. Karl and the woman continue walking without looking back. They haven’t seen her.

  Their stroll idles and meanders; they pause and point at things in trees, they feed treats to the dogs. A couple with two little girls stop and fuss over the puppy and Karl’s excited ball of fluff. Wanda congratulates herself on having the common sense to bring her phone. She stops for minutes at a time, pretending to text people.

  Karl and the woman leave the trail to climb the steep path back to Georgetown by the brewery. From Fleming Street, they walk up Bonaventure Avenue and cut by Holy Heart Theatre to the Sobeys grocery store. She watches them pass Sobeys and enter a blue house across the street on Newtown Road. Who lives there, Karl or the woman? He said he lives by the park, so it’s probably her. Wanda scowls to herself. The whole morning, wasted. Or she could wait for him to leave. She could go into the grocery store and wander around, give them some time. Then hover outside like she’s waiting for a ride until he leaves.

  The store entrance leads into the wide, bright produce section and the automatic doors whisper closed behind her. She glances around the space before her. Displays of grapes, sliced cantaloupe in clear plastic. She steps forward and a force presses her chest. It squeezes her ribcage. She gasps for breath. A thick, dry presence fills her windpipe.

  “Miss? Are you okay?” A soft-faced young man in a Sobeys apron. He grips something black and metallic, he aims it towards her.