The Greatest Hits of Wanda Jaynes

by Bridget Canning

  “Huh.” Must be nice. Wanda looks to Ivan. He thumbs through his phone, eyebrows slightly raised. She turns from him and stares straight ahead. The barista clangs metal taps and gadgets. Wanda works her right hand into her left sleeve and digs her nails into the rough bumps above her elbow. The more she scratches it, the better it feels. When she removes her hand, her nails are ridged with scabs and a little blood.

  Trish pulls out her own phone as soon as they sit down. “Lydia just texted me. I don’t have much time.”

  “When do you think the photos will be ready?” Ivan asks.

  “Oh, pretty soon. There’s already buzz about the show.”

  Wanda stares into her drink. The barista placed the foam on top artfully, in a little leaf pattern. She raises her mug to her mouth and her napkin flutters to the floor. When she ducks down to pick it up, she glances below the rim of the table. Trish’s knee in her navy-blue tights presses into Ivan’s. Trish’s knee jerks away.

  At home, Wanda yanks her coat off and flings it towards a hook by the door. It lands on the floor. It can stay there. Ivan comes in behind her. He plunks his keys in the dish by the door. “We both work and live downtown. What, you thought I never got coffee with Trish?”

  “I guess because you’ve never mentioned that you have coffee with Trish every day, no.” She stayed silent through the journey home, until stomping up the path and hissing at him: “You and your shitty little secrets.”

  “What’s to mention? It’s coffee.”

  “It’s not coffee. We have goddamn coffee here at home. You’re not hanging out with each other to refuel on caffeine.”

  “Jesus Christ. Trish is my friend. I’ve been friends with her since before you and I met.”

  “Yes, and you’ve been having regular coffees with her since forever, and I’m only finding out about it now.”

  “Holy fucking shit.” Ivan stares at her. “We have coffee and talk. What do you think, she blows me under the table?”

  “For all I know, it’s another detail you’ve failed to mention.”

  “You’re…I can’t talk to you when you’re like this.” Ivan zips his coat up. “Take some time to calm down.” He walks towards the door.

  “Are you serious? You’re just going to leave?”

  “I’m not having a discussion with you when you’re being irrational.”

  “You sit and talk with another woman every day and never, ever mention it.” The frustration is so fierce, she might start panting. “I ask you how your day is, you say fine. I ask you what you did. You say ‘not much.’ Never a word. Never a word about her.”

  “There’s nothing to say!”

  “Bullshit! If it’s nothing, you’d mention it. ‘Oh, you know, same old same old. Did some work, Trish and I got our special French-press coffee and we shared secrets.’” Wanda stares at him, arms folded, fingertips clawing the spot over her elbow. “Does Leo know you two hang out all the time?”

  “Probably. Or maybe not. Because he wouldn’t give a fuck. Because he trusts us.” Ivan shakes his head. He zips up his jacket to his chin.

  “No, I’m leaving.” She passes him, grabs her coat from the floor. “You don’t get to run away.” She throws it on and leaves with a slam. Her black dress pants swish together as she stamps up the path to the sidewalk. She almost knocks over Pascale Aggressive who carries large brown paper bags in her arms. Pascale hops out of the way like a startled cat. Look out for Wanda, she might lay you out with a can or fly into a jealous rage.

  After the photo shoot, she replaced the red stilettos with her regular, chunky-heeled black shoes, but they’ll prove uncomfortable soon. And she wants to walk a long time, wants to run, pump her arms, speed past everything. She should have grabbed her sneakers on the way out. She reaches into her sleeve to scratch and the flesh stings and she jerks her hand out. Her fingertips are red with her own blood. She searches her pocket for a tissue and finds something plastic and conical. The pill bottle. She placed it in her pocket yesterday with plans to look up the medication. She pulls it out. Karl V. Prendergast. Zyprexa. Take 10mg/day. Rather stunned of him not to remove the label before chucking it out.

  Her elbow throbs. It’s about a ten-minute walk to Churchill Square. She could get some band aids and lotion at the drug store. She could wander around the aisles to consume time and sort out her thoughts.

  Why doesn’t he understand? Ivan and Trish, sipping their coffee in their element, surrounded by hipster chic. People seeing them, people remembering them: Hey, you two. Trish and Ivan, down at the coffee shop. Trish and Ivan, hanging out at a gig.

  Wanda used to go to his shows in the early times, before they were official, when they were still being aloof. He’d invite her to where he was playing, usually somewhere dim with cheap cover at the door and graffiti in the bathrooms. Places where no one got carded and teenagers frolicked in front of the stage in black boots and too much eyeliner. Sharon and Nikki came with her those first times and she felt powerful beside them on the walk to the bar. Nikki made sure they timed it so they showed up in the middle of the set: “Don’t be eager. These musicians get laid too easily. It goes to their heads.”

  They’d arrive at the show while the band was playing. Ivan up front on stage, but she’d resist looking right at him. She’d make sure he saw her get a drink at the bar. She’d take small, insouciant sips and pretend to be enthralled with whoever she was speaking to. When she finally let her eyes meet his, usually during the chorus, he would smile right into her from under his valance of black curls. And then her heart was a helium balloon quivering against the ceiling. And she’d smile back and when there was a break between sets, he’d keep his arm around her waist and slide his hand up the back of her shirt. His fingertips stroking her spine, playing a song about the promise of later.

  And now, him and Trish, in their special spot, being cool. Trish and her wandering touch. How many times have her hands stroked his hair, his legs. She thinks of Ivan’s legs, lean and toned, the way his legs feel on her legs. It’s been weeks now. And he hasn’t made her laugh in so long. Why does Trish deserve it? Petulant fury escapes in a hot sob. She rubs her face with her cuff.

  In the Churchill Square plaza, she first goes into the washroom to check herself. The blood from her fingertips has left a smear on the side of her nose. Her hair, made neat and straight for the photo shoot, is now windblown and rumpled. As she washes her hands, her eyes land on a handwritten sign taped above the sink. “Careful Hot Water.” She stares at it until someone enters and the squeal of the door breaks her trance.

  She meanders around the drug store. A middle-aged couple nudge each other as they pass by in the Skin Care aisle. Whispers like cobwebs on the back of her neck. She tosses two kinds of soothing oatmeal-based lotions into her shopping basket. In a corner of the store is a small kiosk, “Your Medication Information Station.” The screen says to enter the name of the medication and a handy information table will be produced. There is also a downloadable app.

  Wanda peeks at the canister label to check the spelling. She types “Zyprexa.”

  Zyprexa (olanzapine) is an antipsychotic medication used to treat the symptoms of psychotic conditions such as schizophrenia and bipolar disorder (manic depression) in adults and children who are at least 13 years old.

  Side effects may include weight gain, high cholesterol, high blood sugar, slow reaction time, and some dizziness. Alcohol should be avoided when taking Zyprexa.

  Whenever she comes across the word “schizophrenia” she thinks of that old black-and-white movie her mother rented, where the main character had multiple-personality disorder. What was it? The Three Faces of Eve. It’s an unfair association, but it’s where her mind goes. One of those broad-reaching disorders encompassing all kinds of misery. And bipolar disorder—she had a bipolar student last year. He told her about how the serotonin in his brain peaks and burns out. He was
doing well, then stopped showing up, then reappeared with a doctor’s note and apologies. “I just can’t get the right meds, Miss.” She gave him an extension on his assignments.

  So Karl takes Zyprexa. Mental illness on top of his myopic eyes and speech impediment, sitting alone in his house, drinking pop, writing desperate emails to a young librarian who never responds. Like Holdenshat@mail.com , maybe he lives in his own little world. Wanda touches the X icon and closes the window. She squints as her eyes adjust from the dark screen to the astringent light of the store.

  Her phone dings. A new text message from Ivan. He can wait. She strolls through every aisle. In the magazine section, she reads headlines and judges celebrity hairstyles. New Spring Fashions! Summer Skin! The front page of The Telegram shows a photo of an elderly woman getting out of a police car. The headline reads “Mother of a Maniac: Grocery Store Killer’s Mother Harassed.” Wanda leans in to grab the paper so quickly she forgets the shopping basket in her hand. It bounces off the shelf, barking her shin.

  At the checkout, the cashier scans the lotions and the news-paper. Her eyes travel to Wanda’s face and hesitate, hazel eyes with deep eyelids full of sudden knowledge. Wanda jerks her fingers through her dishevelled hair and tries not to snatch the receipt. “Thank you,” she says to the cashier.

  “Oh no,” the cashier says, “thank you.” Have a dollop of extra warmth. Wanda nods and exits the store.

  She crosses to the Tim Horton’s next door. It’s quiet, she can sit and go over the article. She buys a coffee and a blueberry muffin, cracks off a top section and chews it as she reads.

  The Royal Newfoundland Constabulary was called to the home of Frances Rumstead on Monday evening to investigate an act of vandalism. Cans of food were thrown at Mrs. Rumstead’s house, breaking two large windows.

  According to the RNC, the cans were wrapped in paper and contained threatening messages and insults. Mrs. Rumstead told The Telegram she has also received harassing phone calls: “I am scared to go out alone. If this continues, I will have to move. My heart is broken about what Eddie did. He always had problems. I did the best I could.”

  Edward Rumstead is currently in custody. His defense states he is pleading not guilty on basis of insanity/mental illness.

  Cans of food. They made a plan, they were symbolic about it. She stares at the picture of Frances Rumstead. She has short, dark curly hair and a stricken expression. Her face turns towards the camera, her eyes black and lost. Edward has his mother’s eyes. Wanda sees those eyes seeing her, haunted but decisive.

  Her mouth and throat are suddenly dry. A morsel of blueberry muffin sticks to the top of her palate. Her stomach lurches and she covers her mouth with a napkin and spits out the muffin bite. Did anyone see that? A couple of teenage girls perch at a table by the window. They text and show each other the little screens on their phones. Both have long hair with the tips dyed in jewel tones. Behind the counter, a plump woman in a hairnet and too much blue eyeliner moves coffee pots onto burners. Everyone in their own little worlds, consumed with their immediate realities, attention sunk into their devices, into their many little tasks. None of them are aware of her. Less than a month since the shooting and Wanda, too, stays in her own little world, filtering what comes in and out. People know her name, know what she did. She will be linked to Edward forever, her and Frances. Wanda takes a swig of her coffee. It leaves a dull queasiness in her belly.

  There’s free Wi-Fi in the cafe. She brings up Google on her phone and types in “Edward Rumstead.” Just seeing his name is an internal nudge, like a prodding knee under a table. Just fucking take a look already. She touches the search icon.

  The results are massive. Her eyes flicker through the list and land on a link that includes Frances’s name: “Killer’s Mother Discusses Disturbed Son.”

  Frances Rumstead describes her son as a simple soul, plagued throughout his life by academic struggles and health problems. His father died when he was an infant, and as an only child, he was shy and preferred to play by himself. In childhood, he scored 75 on an IQ test. He missed a lot of school due to severe allergies and asthma. He was held back twice and continued to have trouble maintaining his grades.

  At fifteen, Edward dropped out of school and took a job cleaning warehouses at night. He lived at home, although Frances states it didn’t feel like a permanent situation back then. In his mid-twenties, he developed severe sleep apnea and had difficulty sleeping for more than thirty minutes at a time. His mother says at this time, he was unable to work and became more reclusive. He lived at home with her, assisting with small chores around the house and retreating into his room for hours at a time, watching TV and searching the Internet. His main responsibility was the weekly grocery run. We interviewed the visibly distraught Mrs. Rumstead and she described a prior incident with her son and the grocery store:

  “Eddie loved getting the flyers every week. He would go over the specials to see what we needed in the house. That was his job, ever since he was in high school. He loves a bargain. He’ll walk all over town to get a deal: go to Pipers for eggs, Coleman’s for potatoes. Always a help to me. We never had much money and he was proud to be able to save me some.”

  “A month or so ago, there was a mistake in the Dominion flyer. When he didn’t get the price he expected, he got upset. The cashier got scared. She called security. That night, the store manager called me and said they didn’t call the police, but Eddie wasn’t allowed in the store anymore. Eddie was very upset about that. He didn’t speak for days.”

  According to Chris Channing, the manager on duty at the time, there were signs posted around the store’s entrance, correcting the flyer error, but Edward Rumstead did not see them. When the cashier tried to explain, Edward Rumstead became so irate, he had to be forcibly removed from the store.

  All of the guns found on Edward Rumstead were originally from the collection of his father, the late Benjamin Rumstead, who died of a heart attack when Edward was a few months old. The collection remained in the house for years, registered to Frances Rumstead. Edward Rumstead is currently in custody where he is undergoing psychiatric evaluations. When arrested, he was carrying a backpack containing extra weapons and ammunition. It is still unknown whether he intended to commit suicide, as has been a pattern with other mass shooters.

  No diagnosis, no autism or mental illness. Or at least no evidence he was ever tested. How many people fall through the cracks like that, still? At least Karl has prescriptions. She should look up current statistics.

  The bottom of the article contains the usual ferocious rash of comments:

  Does this woman expect people to feel sorry for her son? Sad excuses from a terrible mother.

  Another sad soul falls through the cracks of the system, God help us all.

  Oh yes, sounds like they’re both simple souls to me—pure stupid and evil.

  One more murderer for the taxpayer to support.

  This is another example of how undiagnosed mental health issues are rampant in this country.

  Get this pathetic woman some help and bring back the death penalty for her wack son.

  People, don’t have guns in your houses! It shouldn’t be this easy for nutbars to get weapons.

  Crazy breeds crazy.

  “Hullo there.”

  Wanda starts. A woman stands beside her, red bucket hat crammed on head, fringe of grey hair underneath.

  “You look lost in thought,” the woman says. She slurps from her takeaway coffee cup. Familiar face. Who is she? She was at the vigil, her name was a place in the States. Dakota. No, Dallas.

  “Dallas Cleal,” Wanda says.

  “Good memory on ya,” Dallas says. “Good mind and good arm.” She licks her lips. “I saw the video the next day and I said, sure, I was talking to her. If I’d known what you did, I would have bought you dinner.” She looks at Wanda’s partly eaten muffin. “Too late to eve
n get you a snack now.”

  “Oh, there’s no need of that,” Wanda says.

  Dallas blows into her cup to cool her drink. “How have you been holding up?” she says. Her eyes were swollen when they met and they are still small, like black pearls. She squints tightly at Wanda, scrutinizing. Maybe she needs glasses. Or it’s an assertive manner she’s developed. Dallas reminds Wanda of a teacher from grade eight, the woman could hear whispered conversations from the back of the room while she was at the chalkboard: “You two can wait ’til class is over to talk about the weekend.” She said it wasn’t because she had sharp ears; it was that they had ruined their hearing with walkmans and ghettoblasters: “You children have no concept of how loud you are.” Which was probably true.

  “Okay, I guess.”

  “Look at this unfortunate creature,” Dallas says. She points to the newspaper’s photo of Frances Rumstead.

  “Yes. It’s sad. And people are targeting her.”

  “Everyone loves a scapegoat.” Dallas shakes her head. “And now, she’ll never be free.”

  “Well, he’ll be in prison his whole life, I’d say. Or institutions.”

  “Will he? And technically, he was already a life sentence for her,” Dallas says. “Can you imagine? He never left home. No job, no social connections, no romance.” She sips her drink and grimaces. “If he was dead, if he had done all he was going to do and killed himself, or if he had been brought down by a cop, his mother would be free. Now, you see, she has to deal with him and the tragedy he caused.”

  Wanda nods. What else to do while this woman gets to her point?

  “But, you know, after the trial, he’ll be gone,” Dallas says. “She could leave, start fresh somewhere else. Reclaim her maiden name. I did that, before I started teaching at the university. What a feeling.” Her small eyes shine at the memory. “Because she’ll always be the mother. She’ll be forever told she didn’t do her job right.” She jerks her head, like she forgot she was there. “Listen to me ramble. I do that sometimes. I try to dig myself into the shoes of other people.” She clamps a hand on Wanda’s shoulder. “You take care of yourself. All this hoopla. Don’t let it get to you.”