The Greatest Hits of Wanda Jaynes

by Bridget Canning

  Wanda looks at the clock. 4:33pm. She forwards the email with the links to Constable Lance. None of the messages have been overly stalker-like since the one about her jacket, so it’s doubtful Lance will get right on them. She makes sure to close her email account and the link to Joseph Workman’s show, although it’s unlikely Mrs. Medeiros will be anywhere near the computer to see it and worry. Ivan is ever vigilant for his mother’s triggers.

  Being widowed with two young kids must have been traumatic, but Wanda suspects worrying and the inability to resist expressing is a universal part of parenthood. Her parents are worse, really—Dad’s reminders to put the snow tires on in November, Mom forwarding virus warnings, inspecting expiry dates on condiments. Ivan brushes it off as parental love, but for her, their anxiety means her obligation to soothe it. And it can feel so heavy. And it’s increasing—Mom and Dad seem to collect worst-case scenarios as they age: Make sure you leave a light on if you’re going away. I read an article about identity theft, they get at you through your social media. I read an article about criminals posing as police, make sure you always ask to see their badge. Do you keep a first-aid kit in your car? Like she’s too naïve to understand danger exists so they circle every hazard with red ink.

  Mrs. Medeiros said she wants to make a chorizo bake. Wanda lays out the ingredients she needs: green onions, cornmeal, eggs. Preparing like a good Girl Guide. It all feels like work. She is solidly tired, as if tired could take a concentrated form, like carbon or cubes of chicken stock. She is constructed from a thousand building blocks of tired.

  But maybe she’s just hungover and feeling negative about the ritual of Sunday dinner, the pressure to have light, yet interesting, conversation. Then bed and an early rise and more of the same during the commute to work. Wanda the strapped-down, but grateful, passenger. Andrea, hot-boxing the car with hooting laughter. And then into the classroom to stand before the glum, burned-out student faces as they compare their results to their expectations. And the faces of her coworkers, people she may never see again when her contract tickers out.

  A slight flitter of delight echoes through her at the thought. No more Andrea, no more safe, boring exchanges about families and pets while waiting for the photocopier, drinking sour coffee. No commuting. But that’s how things are, they become annoying when a reprieve is in the mail.

  She plods through the kitchen, laying out tools, a spatula, a mixing spoon. Meanwhile, in some room, a thousand miles away, Joseph Nigel Workman scapegoats her lack of belief for a hundred hyper-faithful. And somewhere in Halifax, Edward Rumstead is hidden and analysed. Maybe watching TV. Maybe sitting down to a hot, industrial-looking meal.

  Ivan opens the door and Mrs. Medeiros trundles in with bags of groceries. Ivan rolls his eyes at Wanda from behind his mother. Here we go, parents and food. Mrs. Medeiros pulls a loaf of bread out of one: “Whole wheat.” She passes it to Ivan.

  “Thanks, Ma,” he says. He tucks it in the freezer where at least two other loaves live.

  Mrs. Medeiros’s eyes shine at Wanda with eager knowingness. She surveys the ingredients. “Do you have hot peppers?”

  “Yes, Ma, we have a jar of them here,” Ivan says.

  “No, no, I need fresh ones.” She scrounges in her purse. “Can you run to the store and get some? In the produce section.” She shoves a five-dollar bill in his hand. He opens his mouth to protest, but changes his mind. “Sure.” He puts on his jacket and touches the pocket with the pack of smokes.

  Mrs. Medeiros turns to her as soon as the door shuts. “Helen sent me some things. You need to see them.” She pulls folded papers from her purse. “These are his emails to that girl, the one I told you about.” She lays them on the table and flattens them with the bottom of her hand. “She and Helen are friends. For a while, the girl was considering making a complaint about Karl. She sent the emails to Helen to get her advice. But, in the end, she didn’t go through with it.”

  “Did she say why she didn’t go for it?”

  “Helen said she found the whole thing really embarrassing. And since he didn’t come around her, she didn’t want to make a big deal.”

  “Still, you’d think a guy who works at the university would understand cyber harassment.”

  “I don’t want Ivan to see these,” Mrs. Medeiros says. “He’ll think I’m being nosey. Or he will get angry about this man. He always has such strong reactions.”

  Yes, it’s hereditary. “I understand.” Wanda flips through the pages. The emails are plentiful and regular, sometimes three a day. No responses from the girl, amandapb@mun.ca.

  “What do you think?”

  “His spelling and grammar seem pretty good. Not like the Holden’s hat emails.”

  “But look,” Mrs. Medeiros says. “As time passes and she doesn’t write back, his writing gets worse.” She pulls out some pages at the bottom and jabs her index finger at words. “Their instead of they are. No apostrophe in it’s. And here,” she yanks out one sheet, “he starts with the poems, good Lord.” Karl’s poem is entitled “The Math Angel.”

  At every angle, you’re an angel

  Every angle absolute

  If an angle was this angel

  It would definitely be “a-cute.”

  Wanda snorts and covers her mouth with her hand. Oh my, poor Karl. What happened between him and Amanda? Maybe she woke up with a stinging hangover and a starry-eyed Karl in her bed. Maybe she couldn’t remember him. Maybe she gave him her email address so he’d get out of her house and avoid an uncomfortable breakfast. And he didn’t take the hint.

  The stack of emails look like harassment. He’d argue it wasn’t, but unintentional harassment is still harassment. Or would it be, if they didn’t directly work together? And Karl doesn’t get it. Some people lack the ability to pick up on subtle signals, either low emotional intelligence or poor communication skills—she’s talked about it with students. There was Karl’s persistent handshake in the pharmacy, the way he didn’t notice she wanted him to let go of her hand, the way his eyes slunk to her chest. All her negative nonverbal cues bounced off him. And here’s Amanda, she never responds and it takes him months to stop trying. And now, like Mrs. Medeiros says, Wanda doesn’t respond to Holden’s Hat and the emails keep on keepin’ on.

  Wanda’s phone beeps. A text message from Ivan at the store. “Ivan’s on his way back,” she says.

  Mrs. Medeiros scoops up the papers and taps them into a neat pile. She hands them to Wanda. “Here, put these somewhere, she says. “Compare them to your emails, see what you can see.” She grabs a knife from the rack in front of her and attacks the green onions in a flurry of little chops.

  It isn’t until supper is over and the dishwasher is humming that she remembers. She opens her work email account and rereads the email from a few days ago.

  You might not believe in god but you r an angle weather u believe it or not.

  It’s commonly misspelled; angle/angel gets messed up in autocorrect all the time. And Karl doesn’t misspell it. But he thinks about angels and angles. When the counterarguments form in her mind, they take on Constable Lance’s voice, his apple cheeks moving up and down as he speaks: This is not enough to go on. We can’t arrest someone based on mild coincidence. You didn’t acquire his emails to Miss Amanda Whatsherface with permission. All she can do is wait and see.

  The next day feels like three. During their morning drive, Andrea rattles on and on about a bake sale she participated in where four people donated coconut-covered snowballs: “A list was sent out, why didn’t they read it? More than enough snowballs. It was like winter carnival, there were so many snowballs. Ha-ha-ha-Ha! I’m some silly.”

  While Andrea describes baked goods, the coffee in Wanda’s belly summons all its laxative powers and by the time they’re in the building, she has to scurry to the nearest staff bathroom which is, unfortunately, the unisex one near the cafeteria. She hate
s the doorknob with its subtle lock, the kind that has to be pressed and twisted slightly to work. Whenever she uses it, she imagines the door will fly open to the surprised face of some male colleague and a cluster of passing students.

  When she hits the flush, the water swirls, but gives up the gusto. She considers telling maintenance, but it all seems too embarrassing, so she ends up using a small plastic garbage pail in the corner of the room to pour water from the sink down the toilet. She removes the black garbage bag, empty except for one wad of gum stuck inside, fills it with water from the tap, and pours it into the toilet. The contents finally disappear. She washes and dries her hands, flushes the toilet with her foot on the lever one more time for good measure. When she opens the door leading to the offices, the doorknob is cold and wet. Sparks of hot aggravation: dry your wet slimy hands, adult coworkers.

  At the end of her last class before lunch, she spends an extra ten minutes with a student who claims he has all his assignments done, but can’t access them because he and his girlfriend are fighting and she won’t let him back in the apartment to get his tablet. “And they’re all there, Miss, they’re all on the hard drive. But she won’t let me in and I lost my key.”

  When Wanda returns to get her lunch, the intense smell of fried chicken throbs out of the staff room and her empty stomach moans in response. She remembers now, the memo on the bulletin board; the union is buying lunch for all staff today. She walks in, smiles in greeting at her coworkers, and takes a paper plate. There are low murmurs: “Uh-oh. Oh jeez, Wanda, are you only getting here now?” Empty boxes stained grey with grease clutter the counters. All that’s left are ketchup packets and plastic forks.

  “Oh my god, did no one leave any food for Wanda?” Mona says. “We’re only supposed to have two pieces each.”

  “That’s it, my dear,” Andrea says, “gotta get here early to score any food with this crowd. They’re a bunch of gulls.”

  “Well, I’m definitely filing a grievance,” Wanda says. This gets a few cackles. She turns and strolls out, trying to affect an air of nonchalance and not display her hangry annoyance. Keep your fried chicken and permanent jobs. She makes a silent wish for their increasing cholesterol.

  On the ride home, Andrea’s voice is background static. As they approach the Basilica, Wanda says, “Could you let me out here? I really feel like going for a walk.” The idea is immediate, her tongue’s decision working independently from her brain.

  “Oh. Okay then.” Andrea pulls over. “Enjoy your walk, lovely day for it.” She smiles wide as Wanda gets out, lips peeled back over gums.

  Wanda waves goodbye from the sidewalk. Yes, indeed, a random choice to walk home. And it feels good to be outside, far from work. Her shoes keep a beat on the pavement. She feels more awake than she has in days.

  When she reaches Knight Street, her heart wants to heave itself out of her body in protest. Come on now, her brain says, we’re here because of Karl. And really, this is just walking home. Checking out a side street which has nothing to do with the route home isn’t a big deal. She tucks her chin and mouth into her collar and turns down his street.

  If it wasn’t recycling day, the houses would seem abandoned. Curtains drawn, clapboard siding chipped and faded. But a blue bag waits by every house. Wanda holds out her phone like she’s reading a text. The house Karl entered is the last one down. She glances around. No sign of anyone, no cars. She reaches his front door. Her heart hammers in her chest. Karl’s door is painted a soft yellow, a ripe banana. The rest of the house is bright blue clapboard, robin’s egg. Looks like a recent renovation. Her eyes scan the windows. No sounds from inside. Curtains closed. Her eyes drop to the transparent blue bag on the pavement. Empty two-litre bottles: Pepsi, Pineapple Crush. A few cans. Something small and orange: a pill bottle with a label. She picks up the blue bag.

  Irate squeals blast from the house. The curtain swishes. She freezes. The animated foxy face of the Pomeranian pops up in the window and berates her with a machine-gun rattle of barks. She bolts to the end of the street and down a path. When she reaches a graffiti-coated wall, she slides to a stop. Where is she? Behind an elementary school. School is out, no one around. Her heart pounds. She takes a deep breath that backfires into coughs.

  She squats to examine the bag’s contents. Plastic salad containers, more pop bottles. She works open the knot at the top and pushes the pill bottle up from the outside of the bag to avoid touching Karl’s recycling. Her hand clasps over the top of it like a claw crane. She shoves the canister deep in her pocket.

  The path leads out to King’s Road and she takes it up to cross over the intersection and walk home down Monkstown Road. People get their recycling taken all the time, especially with the refund for cans. This economy? Happens all the time.

  14

  THE studio contains long strips of windows and flattering light. Which is a relief.

  “A good day for photos,” Trish says. A bright light is suspended above Wanda’s head. “I want the suggestion of a grocery store, but it can’t be overt, you know?” Trish flits around the space, her hands light on random objects and areas; she straightens a bottle of foundation on the make-up table, she lays a hand on the back of a large lamp. She knows the owner of the cafe downstairs (“Oh, we go way back, I sang at his wedding”) and they have use of this loft-style room for the afternoon. Hardwood floors, white walls, high ceilings, and a wall of windows. “I’m so excited for the photos,” Trish says. “You will look totally radiant in this room. This light could flatter anyone.”

  Anyone indeed, no matter how homely. Wanda looks to Ivan, but his eyes are busy taking in the space. “Wow,” he says. “I bet the acoustics are amazing.”

  “Oh, they are,” Trish says. “I caught Justin Rutledge’s show here. He was splendid.” She angles her elbows at her hips and wheels around, to showcase it all. “Anyway, we have an hour before the next portrait shows up.” She ruffles the back of her white-blond hair. “I’ve been in a tizzy all day. I look like carnage.”

  Wanda eyes her. Trish wears a burgundy shorts-jumper with navy tights and neat black flats. Her cropped locks are perfectly dishevelled. If that’s carnage, it was with malice aforethought. In contrast, Wanda feels prim and stilted in her tailored black business suit which hitches in her waist and runs rigid down her legs. Trish said Wanda should “dress sharp, something with clean lines, no patterns.” The only thing that seemed fitting was her job-interview suit, but wearing it brings stressful associations. Any second she will have to explain her strengths and weaknesses, why she wants this job. Her hair is freshly straightened, make-up’s on thick. Trish brought a pair of cherry-red stilettos and Wanda perches pre- cariously in them. “They’ll bring out the lines in the suit and make you look super sexy-powerful,” Trish says.

  “If I had to walk any distance in these, I would break my face,” Wanda says. Nice complaining. What an old fusspot.

  “Oh my god, me too,” Trish says. “Those shoes aren’t for walking. They’re Oprah shoes. Remember how you’d never see her walk in her heels? They laid them on the stage and she just stepped into them before the cameras rolled.”

  Ivan chuckles. Like he ever watched Oprah. “Great idea for the backdrop, Trish. Where did you get all this?”

  Trish has constructed a wall of cans of coconut milk, the same brand as the notorious flung can with the green label and the brown coconut husk. “Costco and donations. I have to return most of it.” She gazes at her handiwork. “I guess I could have just copied and pasted the images and created a paper backdrop, but it wouldn’t have the texture, you know? Plus, I like the Warhol allusion it creates.”

  Mass shooting as pop art. Wanda imagines the cans crashing down, domino style. A red stiletto flung across the studio, impaling in something.

  “Anyhoo,” Trish says, “I think it will look beautiful. And if you don’t like it, it won’t get used. You have the last word.” She fi
ddles with the tripod. Fine, let’s do it.

  At first, it’s hard to relax and compose her face, but soon, Wanda finds herself letting go. Trish plays music in the background, all stuff she likes. Ivan makes a few jokes. They both gush compliments: “Oh, that’s nice. Great smile. You’re a natural.” Trish gives lots of suggestions: “Gaze out the window. Turn slowly. Don’t smile until you face the camera.” Twice, she pauses to show Wanda the photos and even though it’s hard to tell in the small digital image, they do look good, the black suit and red shoes sharp against the cans.

  Afterwards, they decide to grab a coffee downstairs. The cafe is busy and the crowd is mostly young people: college students with black-rimmed glasses and various forms of facial hair. The tables and chairs are a mish-mash of funky unmatched furniture. The barista is doe-eyed and cartoonish with fake eyelashes and heavy bangs, her lips a red bow. Wanda orders a cappuccino. “What kind of milk do you want in that, two percent, one percent, skim, soy?”

  “Two percent is fine.”

  The barista stares at her. The red ribbon of her mouth parts slightly as recognition sets in, but she says nothing. She turns to Ivan and Trish and her big eyes sparkle. “Hey, you two. What will it be?”

  “What do you think?” Trish says to Ivan.

  “I’ve had enough coffee today,” Ivan says, pondering the menu board. “A chai latte, I think.”

  Trish stares intently at the coffee menu on the wall above, blinking with deliberation. “That sounds good. I’ll have one of those too,” she says.

  A tall, lanky guy in a baker’s smock passes behind them. He punches Ivan in the shoulder. “Hey man. Hey missus,” he nods to Trish. “We’ll have those chocolate scones tomorrow.”

  “Oh, I’m definitely gettin’ some of that!” Trish says. The guy grins down at her and saunters away.

  “You guys come here often?” Wanda says.

  Trish looks at Ivan and shrugs. “Two or three times a week probably.”