“Thank you.”
“And avoid those religious fanatics. Anyone who thinks they have all the answers is dangerous.” Dallas wrinkles her nose. “I’ve been in an ongoing Twitter racket with Geraldine Harvey for ages now. It’s too much fun. Hope she doesn’t block me.” She walks away, tipping her cup into her mouth.
The phone in Wanda’s hand vibrates. Two text messages from Ivan now:
She takes a deep breath and all her aches tingle in response, her stinging elbow, the bruise forming on her shin, her toes pinched in her clunky shoes. It’s an apology. It’s a start. She allows herself to feel mollified and takes a big bite of the blueberry muffin. The top is satisfyingly crunchy and she finds herself appreciating the damage she has done to the dome shape. Take that, muffin. She presses reply:
She presses send. A moment later his response appears: “OMW.” She cracks off another piece of blueberry muffin and chews.
15
IVAN’s fingers run the edge of the kitchen table and pause to circle a knot in the wood. “I’m sorry.”
“What are you sorry for?” Wanda folds her arms from across the table. She still wears her black interview suit, like a scolding bank executive.
“I’m sorry you didn’t know I had coffee with Trish that often. I guess I thought you knew.” His fingers continue to etch the knot. “If I found out you were always hanging out with someone and you never mentioned it, it would throw me for a loop as well.”
“So, you understand how I got upset.”
“Yes. But you know, it’s just Trish. It’s just all of us.” His eyes flicker up to hers. “I guess I don’t draw boundaries. I think of us all as close.” He brings his hands together and interlocks his fingers. “A solid mass. You, me, Leo, Trish, we’re a family.” He shakes his intertwined hands, like he’s about to roll dice.
“But you can’t assume everyone feels the same way.”
“I can assume mutual trust though, can’t I?”
She sighs. Can they stop talking now? The relief of his apology has sunk in and she is heavy with it. She reaches across the table and covers his joined hands with her own. “It’s also because you’ve known her for so long. You have all these memories together. I want more of my—of our own, I guess.”
“Memories? We live together. We make daily memories. We have this whole life.”
“Yeah, but I’m boring common-law wife. My novelty is gone.”
He furrows his brow at her. The same expression he uses when he programs the remote control. She lets go of his hands and moves to his side of the table. “Get up.”
He stands. She runs her palms up his shoulders and rests her cheek against his neck, presses her lips against the space where his jaw meets his earlobe. She kisses under his ear and down his neck. He runs his hands lightly down her back, dusting his fingertips along her spine. She presses her hips against his and brings one arm down from his shoulder, tucks it around his waist. She pulls his hips closer to hers. He cranes his neck while she continues to kiss it, still stroking her spine, letting her hands run over him.
His hand under her blazer. He tugs her blouse up a few inches for entry. His fingers jumble around the back of her bra. “It opens in the front,” she says into his ear.
“Well, then,” he says, “let’s turn this thing around.”
Her skin sings in relief once free of the suit. She undoes his belt and he unhooks her bra. They are adept with each other’s contraptions. He holds her close, but she needs to see him. She looks into his face as her fingers smooth over his cock. He closes his eyes and exhales. He cups her breast, his fingers are cold on her nipple, but she leans into them. They fall into their steps: he likes to be sucked before he goes down on her; she likes it when he removes her underwear himself. They make the circles and strokes the other knows and likes.
She comes first, but he finishes about a minute later. She is on top and keeps riding him until he’s done, his hips thrusting up to her, his eyes squeezed together. She stares at his face, his clenched teeth and crinkled eyelids.
Afterwards, they lie naked, side by side. Wanda lays her fingers on his wrist and leans over to rest her cheek on his bare shoulder. “Almost simultaneous,” she says.
“Yes,” Ivan says. “Good at closing, we are.”
He kisses her on the forehead. “I think we need a snack.” He bounces out of bed. “Stay there.” He walks out of the room, wearing only his socks.
Wanda gazes at the ceiling. In the dim light, it looks blank and flawless, a clean sheet of paper. Her hand skims along her arm to the itchy scabs over her elbow, but she stops herself. Let it heal. She props herself up and inspects the afternoon’s damage. A toonie-sized bruise, eggplant colour, has formed where she smacked her shin with the shopping basket. A bubble of a blister ridges the inside tip of her big toe, another small one on the back of her heel. She checks her hands. The fingernails on her right hand are dingy with leftover blood from scratching her arm. Blueberry muffin crumbs too. She has to take better care of herself. She’ll go back to running. She’ll update her résumé, put out some feelers for jobs. Maybe she should take a short drive this weekend to test her anxiety level. Ivan can come with her.
Ivan returns to the bedroom with a tray. Two glasses of red wine, a plate with slices of cheese: gouda and old cheddar. A small glass bowl of Kalamata olives. She sits up and accepts her glass of wine. Ivan pops an olive in his mouth.
“Thank you for the bed-picnic.”
“You’re very welcome.”
“We should go for a real outdoors picnic this weekend. Maybe out to Clarke’s Beach.”
“Well, we might not have time, with my niece’s thing,” he says. He raises his eyebrows at her blank expression. “Forgot about that, did you?”
“Jesus. I did.” This Monday is a stat holiday. May has blurred by. Ivan’s sister Sylvie has planned a barbeque and a belated birthday party for her daughter, Fiona. The party was supposed to happen three weeks ago, but she postponed it because of the shooting. Now it’s merged with the Medeiros’s family barbeque which always happens on the May 24th weekend. Every year, they drive out to Topsail and spend the day at Ivan’s childhood home. Mrs. Medeiros cooks her face off for relatives and family friends.
“I mean, we’ll go if you want to,” Ivan says. “If you don’t feel up to it, we don’t have to go.”
“No, no, it will be good,” she says. “I just forgot. It’ll be a laugh.” Ivan munches another olive. They finish the food and the rest of the wine while watching TV, they order Chinese food for supper. That night, she falls asleep feeling comfortably full and tipsy.
The next morning, Andrea rapid-fire beeps her horn to the “shave and a haircut” rhythm. Wanda scrambles up the pathway and into the Rav4. She senses the curtains in Pascale’s front window shift as they pull out onto the road. Perhaps she’s composing a note of complaint already: “I was disturbed this morning by YOUR driver blaring their horn to get YOU. Perhaps YOU could tell them not to do that or be on time for YOUR ride.” Wanda puts on her sunglasses. The morning sunlight pings off some spot in her frontal lobe where the wine kicked extra hard.
“How are we doing this morning?” Andrea says. “You look like you had a good night last night.”
“Oh, I’m fine.” Wouldn’t it be lovely to have a silent ride? Some cab company offers that in their cars, it’s printed on placards: You are entitled to a silent ride. Must take the car out this week. After work even.
“I hear you’re going to be a model.”
“Hmm?” Wanda peers at her. Andrea has broken out her summer wardrobe. She wears a mint windbreaker and white cotton capris with several million wrinkles in them. Like a tube of toothpaste that’s been squeezed too hard.
“Oh, the word is out, my dear. Boyd follows your friend, what’s her name, Tessa? On the Twitter. She’s an artist type.”
“Trish?�
�
“Yes, that’s her. She was tweeting about a photo shoot with you in it.” Andrea turns away from the road to give her an ample-toothed grin. “You’re some famous.”
Wanda fishes out her phone to check Trish’s Twitter. There are several tweets discussing yesterday’s photo shoot.
Trish Samson @trixiethepixie: So blessed 2 be surrounded by courage & beauty all day! @lydiasimms & @JJWoods. Photos r gorge! #localheroes #WandaJaynesNLhero
Trish Samson @trixiethepixie: Can’t wait 2 start picking the choice photos! Will be a challenge. #localheroes #beauty #bravery #WandaJaynesNLhero
She knows Trish is trying to build momentum, but is it good form to brag about a project before it’s done? What if it’s total shit? She scrolls through several more tweets written in the same vein, many retweeted and liked by others.
Trish Samson @trixiethepixie: @Pikeitalot I think that’s a great idea! PM me.
She taps Pikeitalot’s profile to see his side of the interaction.
Pikeitalot @DarrylPike: @trixiethepixie Great project sista! U should set them up @ my show in June.
Retweeted fifteen times. #heros #hergoddamnnameinahashtag. Darryl Pike and his self-promoting “hip-hop” festival thing. How absolutely tacky. Wanda turns off her phone and shoves it deep in her coat pocket.
“So what are the photos like?” Andrea says. “Gonna be any nude ones?”
“Only from the waist down,” Wanda says. She stares out the window while Andrea whoops with laughter.
When Wanda refreshes her computer on her prep period, there’s a new email from Holden’s Hat.
To: [email protected] From: [email protected] Subject: pictures
I hope if anyone takes photos of u, they show your inner beauty and not some magazine girl image. There is too much of that in the world, of people making others see others in only one way. U r better then that
How does Holden’s Hat know to follow Trish’s account? Through the hashtags? But that would be a lot of tweets to survey. Would that come up in a Google search on her name? Wanda forwards it to Constable Lance’s email address. No reply from him on the last three messages. C’mon Officer, sort this stuff out.
She checks Karl’s Facebook profile. About an hour ago, he joined an event: Karl Prendergast is going to St. John’s Festival of Healing. Wanda clicks on the link.
St. John’s Festival of Healing: An Outdoor Festival of Music and Art
Event created by Pikeitalot (Darryl Pike)
June 11th, 12:00 PM, to June 12th, 1:00 AM.
A day and night of music, dancing, art, games, food and drink, community spirit and merriment! Proceeds will go to The Newfoundland Coalition against Violence and to the families who lost loved ones in The Grocery Store Shooting.
Musical performances by Pikeitalot and DJ Spikeitall, Deep Turtle, and Case and the Tickets. Other bands TBA.
Healfest is excited to host the opening of the latest photo exhibit of local artist/musician Patricia Samson entitled Heroes in their Element.
Daytime activities include games of chance, crafts, and lots of food! Beer tent opens at 4:00 PM.
Healfest? Sounds like an advanced form of athlete’s foot. A festering little blister on her heel. She checks the “Going” list. The event was posted this morning and over 200 people have added it already. Trish hasn’t wasted any time signing on. She did say that Wanda would have final say on her image. So, if Trish isn’t stupid, she hasn’t made any promises to Darryl Pike that the woman in his video will be there in art form.
Wanda continues to scroll down Karl’s profile page. No new status updates or pictures, but he subscribes to pages that keep track of what he’s read and post for him.
Karl Prendergast read an article on NPR: Joseph Nigel Goodman, Evangelist or Hatemonger?
Karl Prendergast read an article on The Weekly News: Modern Mass Shootings, How Real is the Fear?
Karl Prendergast watched a video: Interview with Frances Rumstead: Being a Murderer’s Mom
She clicks on the video and plugs her ear buds into her computer. Genevieve Davey stands in a parking lot with the Dominion store behind her. The parking lot is empty, the store’s windows darkened. Genvieve’s gleaming hair ruffles in the breeze, she wears a fitted moss-green jacket belted at the waist, a scarf tucked in the collar, burgundy and gold tones. Wanda wants all her clothes.
“On April 27th, Edward Rumstead opened fire in a grocery store, shooting four times, killing three people before he was stopped by Wanda Jaynes. What do we know of this man? What possessed him to commit such a heinous act? We spoke with Frances Rumstead, Edward Rumstead’s mother, in hopes of shedding light on what the shooter was really like.”
The next shot scans across a living room: dark wood paneling, a small shelving unit covered in ceramic miniatures. The camera zooms in on them: little cows, a teddy bear, an angel. A boxy grey sofa rests against the wall. Frances Rumstead sits with her hands folded. She wears a prim white blouse with a lace-rimmed collar buttoned to the neck. Something Trish would wear ironically, but on Frances, it reflects some desired sense of propriety, of what she believes “classic” looks like.
Frances speaks with a crackling fry, the echo of roll-your-own smokes and chronic hardship. “He was always a good boy. He tried hard. He never got to understanding how to be good at school.” She picks up a framed photo. The close-up shows Edward Rumstead as a gawky young boy with a cowlick and braces. “He was very shy growing up, didn’t make friends easily. A couple of times, he came home with bruises. Nowadays, you’d say he was bullied and ya might do something, but he just took to stayin’ away from other kids.”
Frances’s lips button at the thought. Her flesh is ashy, her eyes lost in age like grease stains in paper bags. She looks like she’s been old for a long time. Maybe she has a vitamin deficiency. Or maybe this is what happens when you have to raise a psychopath.
“Did you ever think he might do something violent?” The camera stays on France’s face to get her reaction.
“No, I never thought that. I knew he wasn’t happy. He would have liked a different life. But you do all you can, you know.” Her voice shivers, a dry branch in the wind. “You never think your son could do that.”
“How did he get the guns?”
“Those guns were his father’s. They were in the basement for years. I never thought about them, honestly.” Frances’s gaze returns to the pictures beside her. “Everyone had guns in their houses when I was growin’ up. You never thought nothin’ of it.”
The camera returns to Genevieve, now walking slowly down the sidewalk outside the store. “A quiet man who struggled and kept to himself. A description clichéd today when we learn of men who have committed similar, violent acts. As Edward Rumstead awaits trial where he will plead not criminally responsible on account of a mental disorder, his mother wishes for a quiet life. Frances has become a victim of violence herself, through the backlash against her son.”
The scene returns to Frances on the couch. “Broken windows. Nasty calls all the time, I had to change the phone,” she says. She wets her lips. “It gets so you’re frightened to go out.” She draws her hand over her eyes, her fingers unmoving in a twisted, arthritic claw.
“You’re scared all the time, now?”
“Yes. All the time. I’m sad or I’m scared. There’s no in the middle anymore.”
Genevieve’s voice flows out as the video shows Frances slowly stacking the picture frames up beside her. “For Frances Rumstead, the journey may just be beginning as she awaits her son’s trial. For CBC News, I’m Genevieve Davey.”
Wanda sinks in her office chair. Perhaps she should take a stroll to clear her head. Behind her door, Andrea’s laugh rings hard in the hallway. Perhaps she should stay in her office with the door closed.
Alright. Get on with it. She needs to settle down and finish some marking. Ju
st do it. There is a stack of assignments to be graded and more projects to come. After the long weekend, there will be three weeks of school left. She gets a little tingle thinking about it. Free. September may bring poverty, but free for now. She moves one stack of assignments to the far side of her desk. Two colourful pieces of paper fall onto the floor and stare up at her.
One she recognizes as a Workers for Modern Christianity brochure. The logo uses gold letters framed by cartoonish rays of sunlight: The Good News for You! Below the logo is a photo of a woman with a despondent expression, staring out a window with her chin on her hand. “Have you lost your faith? Advice for rediscovering the joy of God’s word in your life.” Wanda scoops it up and examines it. No note or signature.
The other is a colour printout. One of her Internet memes, the shot of her right before she throws the can. Whoever printed this out has added their own words to the image: I DON’T ALWAYS BRING DOWN MASS MURDERERS, BUT I WHEN I DO, I RELAX BY GIVING MY STUDENTS A BREAK ON THEIR ESSAYS. No signature or note. A joke. It’s meant to be cute, like drawing a little cartoon on the bottom of a test. She tells herself this as the paper shakes in her hands. She wads it up and flings it towards the garbage can. It pings off the rim and rolls back towards her.
A tap on her office door. Her office is small enough, she can wheel her chair over a few inches and open the door. One of the ABE students, Evan McKinnley, peers in wide-eyed. Last week he was having issues with obtaining his assignments from his angry girlfriend.
“Yes? You can come in, Evan.” She opens the door wide and wheels back. He takes a short step inside.
“Miss? Did you get my assignment? I left it in your mailbox.” His fingers play with the cord on his brown hoodie.
Wanda flips through the stack of papers. “Here it is.” She plucks it out and waves it at him.
The Greatest Hits of Wanda Jaynes Page 16