The Greatest Hits of Wanda Jaynes

by Bridget Canning

  “Ok, good. I wanted to make sure you got it.” He scratches the back of his neck with twitchy fingers. “Are you going to take marks off for lateness? Cause I had it finished, I just wasn’t able to get at it.”

  “According to the course requirements, I take off ten percent for every day late up to three days. Then it’s a zero,” she says. Evan’s face starts to turn pink. “But seeing as things may have been out of your control, I’ll reconsider,” she says. His shoulders sink with relief.

  “Oh, thank you so much, Miss. You’re the best.”

  “That’s okay, Evan.”

  “And Miss? Check it out.” Evan unzips his hoodie and holds it open. Underneath he wears a grey t-shirt. Printed on his chest is a round-headed figure in blue and black, holding a green blob. It’s her in the grocery store once again, the Internet meme from the video, the same one she just threw in the garbage. White capital letters above the picture: WHEN FEAR SAYS YOU CAN’T. And on the bottom: YOU “CAN.”

  “What do ya think? Pretty deadly, wha?”

  Wanda glances up at Evan’s beaming, expectant face and down to the image again. “That’s something all right.” Her teeth gnaw the inside of her cheek as she scans her mind for some kind of calm reproach.

  “My buddy made it.” He zips up his hoodie. “I’d better go. Thanks a lot for your help, Miss.”

  “No problem,” she says. Evan trots away with inflated steps. Wanda shuts her office door. She lays Evan’s paper on her desk and selects a red pen from the mug by the monitor. She bites the top off and writes on his paper with a flourish: “Late paper. No excuse. 0%.”

  16

  WANDA holds the cupcake tray steady on her lap as Ivan jolts over another speedbump.

  “They’ll get squished against each other.”

  The car jumps again. A pothole this time.

  “What odds?” He grins. “She only eats the tops. She’s an icing junkie.”

  “Fine uncle you are.” She runs her hand over the top of the container as if to soothe it. Last night was spent decorating each cupcake, squeezing pale-pink buttercream through the star tip of the icing bag, making thick, gooey swirls. Afterwards, she peppered them with silver ball sprinkles. “When I was a kid,” she said to Ivan, “I would hold these against my teeth and pretend they were fillings.” “And as a result, you needed fillings,” he said.

  He flicks through the radio stations: “Fiona won’t care if they’re a bit squishy. She’ll be too busy being a hyperactive banshee.”

  Wanda smiles out the window. Everything is blue skies and sweet air and three days ’til work again. The road narrows as they get closer to the water. Everything is ocean and trees and sloped green lawns and people puttering around their sheds. All things are fresh and productive.

  Yesterday, she waited until the end of the last class to pass back her students’ papers. She left right away, Evan’s falling face a sliding door in her peripheral vision. She walked straight to Andrea’s car, got home, poured a glass of wine, and made cupcakes from scratch. Her mind stayed on the task at hand: flour level against the measuring-cup line, dry ingredients sifting together, butter and sugar fluffing under the fork. Now the cupcakes sit patiently in their dome-like carrier, each one a pink, pristine offering in its own round divot. Those cupcake fads of a few years ago have died down a bit (hipster donuts are the new cupcakes, Ivan says), but maybe she can still get in on it. She could make up new flavours. Baileys and chocolate. Rum and butter. Wanda’s Booze Cakes.

  They turn up the driveway. Mrs. Medeiros had the house painted last spring and went with a creamy-lemon shade of yellow with white trim. The red tulips in her small front garden stand on ceremony. Party is on and in full force. Children spill out of the front door and tear off behind the house. Neighbours and guests sip beverages and watch the kids run. One woman looks down at a child clinging to her leg, another crouches in front of an animated little boy. Clusters of men, clusters of women.

  They park and head to the picnic table. The cut grass is spongy under Wanda’s canvas shoes. She moves a stack of paper plates and lays the holder on the table beside an assembly line of condiments. In the center, a two-layer cake decorated colour-by-number style with pointed icing dollops in the image of Hello Kitty. Plastic pitchers of red, punchy-looking liquid perch along the edge of the table, three large camping coolers line up beside the barbeque where Alex, Ivan’s brother-in-law, holds court with a long, metal spatula. Two low, yellow plastic kiddie tables have been set up: one for eating, the other with toys and games—Jenga, Uno, Snakes and Ladders. Mrs. Medeiros likes to have something for everybody.

  Ivan’s sister, Sylvie, gestures them over. “Kids are gone mad on a scavenger hunt,” she says. She punches Ivan in the shoulder. Wanda gets a one-armed hug while her other steadies a red plastic cup. “It’s all about keeping them busy so you can have a drink,” Sylvie says. She gazes into Wanda’s face. “You look good.” Sylvie is radiant herself, her ink-black hair swept over her shoulder. The outside air makes apples of her cheeks. “Jesus, did you make all those cupcakes? You have more patience than I.”

  “Did you put all this together?” Wanda says. “It’s you with the patience.”

  “If you can buy it at Dominion, that’s the extent of my effort,” Sylvie says. And her face flushes. “Aw, shit. Sorry, Wanda.”

  “It’s okay,” Wanda says. C’mon, Sylvie, don’t tiptoe.

  “Wanda knows Dominion exists. You can acknowledge where your groceries come from,” Ivan says.

  “You’re an ass.” Sylvie slaps Ivan’s arm. “I can’t help it, though. I feel like there’s this new apprehension in the air. I’m constantly looking behind me whenever I go out. And all I did was follow the story on the news. I can’t imagine it, Wanda, I really can’t.”

  Wanda shrugs. Yes it’s horrible. Pass the ketchup. “How’s Fiona doing?”

  “Mom keeps giving her everything she wants. I said to her, you know, spoiled actually means gone bad. But she won’t listen,” Sylvie says. “If we lived close by, Fiona would be a real arsehole by now.” She points to a gaggle of little girls running by. Fiona in the middle of them, her dark hair tied back in a ponytail.

  “Fiona! Come and say hello,” calls Sylvie. “Your aunt and uncle are here.”

  “Oh Mom!” Fiona puts her hands on her hips, her face crumpling into a ball. “We’re two from finishing.” Her shrill voice stabs the air. Ivan winces in response.

  “It’s okay,” Wanda says. “She can come over after.”

  Sylvie mutters something about manners and moves towards the nearest cooler. Wanda turns back to the picnic table and opens the cupcake holder. She finds a large plate and gingerly lays each pink cupcake out, in a circular pattern. Ivan puts a cooler-wet bottle of beer beside her and gives her bum a light pat. She smirks to herself. It’s good to be outside. The sunshine on her face and arms breaks through some force field. Colours are more vivid. Everyone’s eyes dance on each other, on the children, on the freshness of everything. She licks a smear of pink icing from her little finger: buttery and sharp with sweetness.

  Ivan looks off above the picnic table and waves one hand high over his head. She follows his eyes. Arriving from the path at the end of the yard is a couple, a man and woman and as soon as she sees the flash of platinum hair, something small and sturdy inside her withers a little. Of course, Trish and Leo would come. Mrs. Medeiros makes a point to invite their friends every year. Sharon and Nikki came out when they lived here. Ivan made fun of how Sharon referred to Topsail as “the bay.” Trish and Leo didn’t make it last year because there was no room in the house and it was too cold to camp. And neither of them wanted to drive and not drink, so that ruled out going home afterwards. There must be room this time.

  Trish sees them and gives a little hop and wave. She carries her shoes in her hand and pads across the lawn barefoot. Leo follows with his hands in his p
ockets.

  “Yay, May two-four!” Trish skips towards them. She holds up her empty hand and flashes two fingers, then four. “Two-four, two-four.”

  “You guys just get here?” Leo sidles up and gives Wanda’s shoulder a squeeze.

  “Yep, just parked,” Wanda says. She makes sure to smile. Is her residual guilt apparent? Less than a week ago, she had a jealous hissy fit over Trish. About drinking coffee. Now, it feels like something she watched happen, like a scene in a bad soap opera, the kind that ends with someone getting a martini flung in their face.

  “We went on a nature walk,” Leo puts his hands on his hips in mock pride. “It’s really nice down by the brook. You should go check it out.” A robin lands on the grass beyond him and hops about, as if to prove his point.

  “I’m going to settle in by that food trough and guard the beer cooler,” Ivan says.

  “And not help your mother or sister with anything,” Trish says. “What an ingrate.” Ivan mimics delivering a roundhouse kick at her.

  Trish touches Wanda’s shoulder and strokes downward, like she’s spreading butter. She stops by the red blotches above her elbow. “Oh, sweetie, what happened?”

  “Oh, it’s nothing. Eczema,” Wanda says. She fights the urge to cover the spot with her hand.

  “Is it painful?’

  “Sometimes. More itchy than anything else.”

  “Maybe you should give up dairy. It can be an irritant.”

  “Oh, yeah, maybe. Or just my spring molting.”

  She waits for Trish to laugh, but instead, she looks at Wanda with big eyes. “Okay, so I have something I’m dying to show you. I’m so excited. Come over to the car with me.” She tosses her shoes down and scoots her feet into them. “C’mon!” She grabs Wanda’s hand and heads towards the driveway.

  Trish skips to the back of the Tercel, gravel spits under her feet. She pops the trunk, ducks inside, and remerges with an envelope. “It came out so beautifully. You’re gonna shit when you see it.” She pulls out a large, white rectangle and hands it to Wanda.

  It is her photo, an 8” x 10”, glossy and pristine. Wanda holds the edges daintily and regards her own image. She stands straight, but one leg bends slightly so her hip juts out. Her arms are bent so she’s cupping each elbow—not folded and authoritatively posed, but a little self-hug. The suit is crisp and clean, the red pumps shiny and playful at the bottom of the frame. She smiles with her lips slightly parted, like she was just laughing. Wanda feels pleased to see her hair has movement, it flares out a little, as if in a breeze. She was scared her hair would look either messy or some kind of glossy helmet. Her backdrop, the wall of cans, resembles a retro 1960s wallpaper; the mass of them not recognizable as cans of coconut milk until they are considered separately.

  “You look so hot,” Trish says over Wanda’s shoulder. “Powerful, but natural, comfortable. And a little demure. Do you like it?”

  Wanda nods. It’s the best picture of herself she has ever seen. She realizes she doesn’t want to pass the photo back to Trish. The wind kicks up and tugs at it in her hand; she pinches the edges tighter so it doesn’t blow away. “Yes. I love it,” she says. She smiles into Trish’s beaming face. “Thank you.”

  “Oh, no, thank you!” Trish’s arms loop around Wanda from behind. She pats Trish’s wrist without taking her eyes from the photo.

  “So, originally, the opening was going to be at Eastern Edge. But, Darryl Pike, the guy organizing that festival? He proposed I show the pictures there.”

  “Oh yeah?” The Twitter proposal. The thought of the photo in an art gallery, a clean white space, is appealing. But Healfest. Ugh. What kind of art does Darryl Pike have on his walls? Something that heals him, for sure.

  “Yes, he’s got some great ideas for how to show it. There’s going to be a tent and people can walk inside and around the pictures. I haven’t decided if I’m going to set them up along the walls or kind of stand them everywhere so you can walk around them, you know?”

  “Huh. Like a maze, kinda.”

  “Yes! Exactly. I really like the idea of it being outside, but inside, you know?” Trish gestures in circular motions to illustrate outside and inside. “And also, with that venue and a music-festival atmosphere, there will be people who don’t usually go see art. A different audience for sure.”

  “Yup, should be good,” Wanda says. She takes a small step back to indicate she wants to return to the party.

  “You’ll be there, yes?” Trish says. She clasps her hands in front of her chest and widens her eyes at Wanda.

  “Oh, you know, that whole thing. I don’t know if I can make it.” She keeps her eyes down. The dust on the gravel bakes in the sun. “You know, crowds. And the overall theme.”

  “I know it must be hard for you,” Trish says. “God, all those people who know who you are. Overwhelming.”

  “Yes.” Is it hard for Trish to think of all the people who don’t know who Patricia Samson is? “It stresses me out. With the weird emails and everything.”

  “Me too. Ugh, it’s going to be so emotional.” Trish steps forward and places her hand above Wanda’s elbow, on her itchy patch. If she’s aware of the scabs, it doesn’t register on her face. “But it would mean a lot to me if you came.”

  “We’ll see.”

  “And, I’m sorry if I’m overstepping, but it might help you a bit. Like, I know for myself, I have to face the things that stress me out. It took me a long time to overcome stage fright. Leo really helped with it. He’d talk me into singing a song with the band, here and there. Anyhoo. It’s totally worked for me.”

  Trish stands close enough that Wanda can see a tiny blob of something black—mascara or eyeliner—in the tear duct of her eye. She speaks to the black blob: “I think I’m doing fine at the moment.”

  “Oh, you are! You’re doing great! God, I’d hate to see how I’d be doing. I’d be a state. Just, you know, think about it.” Trish runs her hand down Wanda’s arm and squeezes her hand.

  “Sure.” Wanda squeezes Trish’s hand in return and drops it. “By the way, you have something right here.” She points to her own tear duct. She walks away as Trish rubs her eyes.

  Back at the picnic table, she retrieves another beer from the cooler. Ivan and Leo hover by Alex at the barbeque, chatting about something technical. She feels a tug at her shirt. Fiona’s round face is flushed and sticky with crumbs. She wears a peach t-shirt emblazoned with the words “Birthday Girl” in gold letters.

  “Thank you for the cupcakes, Aunt Wanda. I ate one already.”

  “I can tell. Are you having a good birthday?”

  “It’s my belated birthday. Yes, it’s lots of fun.” Fiona sticks her bottom lip out and blows upward so her bangs puff out. “What does the word gaudy mean?”

  “Gaudy? Well, if something is gaudy, it’s like it’s decorated too much. Like, too busy? Too much of something.” Wanda tries to think of an inoffensive example. Mrs. Medeiros’s Christmas tree and her tradition of coating it with at least three boxes of silver icicles comes to mind. Not a good sound bite to plant in the child’s mind and mouth.

  “Okay. So if something is ungaudy, it’s a good thing then.”

  “Ungaudy? I don’t think that’s a word.”

  “Shelby’s mom thinks it’s a word. Shelby said her mom said you are ungaudy.”

  “Really?” Maybe it’s a compliment? Like ‘classic style.’

  “Yes, she said she saw you talking on TV and that it’s too bad you are an ungaudy Steven.”

  “That’s a strange thing to say. Is Shelby’s mom here?”

  “Yep. She said you were the eightieth one.” Fiona points to a tall blond woman in a yellow sleeveless blouse and jeans about twenty feet away, talking to two men.

  “Eightieth?”

  “Yep, she called you the eightieth ungaudy Steven. I gotta go, we’r
e playing freeze tag.” Fiona runs off, her ponytail waving goodbye behind her.

  Shelby’s mom looks over at Wanda and wrinkles her nose. The woman’s hand moves up to her neck where she fingers a large gold crucifix on a chain. Their eyes meet. Wanda tips her beer at her. Shelby’s mom looks away.

  Eightieth ungaudy Steven. Wanda takes a large mouthful of beer and lets it fill her cheeks, chipmunk style.

  As the shadows lengthen, the parents and kids dissipate. To Wanda’s relief, Shelby’s mom disappears right after the cake is cut, dragging the pouting Shelby, a tiny, blonde child dressed entirely in purple. Alex and Ivan get a blaze going in the fire pit at the far end of the yard. Mrs. Medeiros brings out a collection of collapsible camping chairs.

  When the temperature drops, Wanda goes to the car for her sweater. Walking away from the chorus of boozy laughter is a long exhale. She takes her time getting the keys out of her jeans. The toe of her shoe stubs on something and she stumbles, but catches herself. She’s drunker than she thought. When she goes back, she should eat something. Avoid being hungover at tomorrow’s breakfast table—like this Christmas. Mrs. Medeiros served apple-cinnamon pancakes, thick and cakey and the fermenting apple mush made her gag. Oh, the shining holiday moments.

  She takes her sweater out of the trunk and pulls it over her head. The neckline on this one is a bit tight. As she struggles with it, she hears rapid crunching of gravel, rushed steps coming towards her. Her hands scrabble at the neck. She plunges her face through the top with a gasp.

  “Dear God, did I scare you?” Mrs. Medeiros stands before her, hands clasped at her chest. “You looked like you were being born out of that sweater.”

  Wanda yanks the neckline down and tucks her arms into it. “Was stuck there for a sec.” She sweeps back sweater-frazzled wisps of hair from her face.

  “I’m so sorry, my dear,” Mrs. Medeiros says, “I wanted a moment with you to talk about that Karl man.”

  “Okay.”

  The sun is almost finished and the twilight glow blackens Mrs. Medeiros’s pupils. “I met him,” she says. “I went to the university to visit Helen and we saw him. He talked to me.”