“What did he say?”
“Oh, all kinds of nothing. He has a little fluffy dog. He gives money to a charity Helen supports, something with animals.” She flings her hands in the air to dismiss the idea of him. “But, he is really strange. He gives me a bad feeling. And I know when I have a gut feeling about someone, it means I should listen to it.”
“In what way is he strange? I mean, yeah, he’s pretty awkward.”
“When he looks at you, he stares and twitches,” Mrs. Medeiros says. “His eyes and lips move. Like he’s thinking of something else.”
“Yes, well, that is a side effect.”
“Side effect? Of what?”
Fuck. What to say? Her head is a little woozy from being sweater-born again. “When I met him at the pharmacy, I noticed the name of his medication. I looked it up.”
“What kind of medication?”
“Um, Zyprexa I believe.”
“Zyprexa? What did you learn about it?” Mrs. Medeiros leans in closer. Her eyes are caverns. Might as well tell her. She’ll just look it up for herself.
“There are a number of side effects,” Wanda says. “It’s a medication they give for mental disorders.”
“I see.” Mrs. Medeiros stands up straight. “So, this man has real problems then.”
“I think so, yes.” Her sleeve chafes against the eczema sores. She digs her nails into the spot.
“This is something to think about,” Mrs. Medeiros says. “I’m glad I talked to you.” She turns on her heel and crunches back over the gravel.
Wanda sighs. Holy shit, this woman. Now that it’s almost summer, Wanda should prepare some ideas to keep Mrs. Medeiros occupied. A weekly outing or a hobby they can share. Something she can fixate on.
She makes her way back to the cooler by the picnic table. The ice has melted and a few cans of beer swim in the cold water. She opens one with a pop and fizz. The bonfire is going strong and makes shadows across the lawn.
She feels a light touch on the base of her spine. Leo. “How are you doing?” he says. He gives the spot on her back a little rub. Everyone is always touching her back these days. Like they’re congratulating her on a great goal.
“I feel like that Jenga puzzle.” She gestures to the tower of wooden blocks on the kids’ table.
He tilts his head. “Taking a little bit off here and there? I think I know what you mean.”
“And now, everyone wants me to go to a fucking carnival.”
“Well, it might be a carnival, but I figure it’s part of the reason he wants Trish’s art,” Leo says. “He needs to bring a bit of class to his event.”
“Class indeed. He should serve canapés.”
“Ooo, yes. And a champagne fountain.” Leo sips his drink. “Whatever, though. Maybe it’s something we all need.”
“Who’s we?”
“I mean the city at large. This place is a small town, really. Murders are big news. Shootings are huge. Shootings that get stopped are The Big Bang.” Leo waggles his fingers over the hand holding his glass, like he’s casting a spell. “People need to shake it off. To quote Taylor Swift.”
“Why don’t they just stay drunk as often as possible, like the rest of us?” She says it with a laugh. Leo stares at her. She drops her gaze to her can.
“Most festivals are kinda gross,” he says. “They’re excuses for people to carry on. Get Dionysian with it. That said, I don’t think you should feel pressured to go.”
“Yeah. Well, I don’t.” She clinks her can against his glass.
“Anyway. Brighter things.” Leo takes a drink and swirls the ice in his glass. “I’m glad you and Ivan worked things out.”
“Yeah.” Ivan didn’t say he talked to Leo. “I didn’t know you knew about that.”
“Honestly, he was being pissy, so I said, it’s not that he was doing something wrong with Trish, it’s because you didn’t know about it,” Leo says. “It’s what’s unspoken that worries people, not the obvious.”
Wanda nods. Perhaps Ivan wasn’t so understanding. For such a direct person, it seems he was quoting Leo. And pissy. He was pissy about it. The disappointment slides in like quicksand in her core. “So, you knew they have coffee together, all the time?”
“Oh yes. Trish has coffee with everybody, on the regular. She’s got wings, that one. Always on the fly.”
“Leo, I hope you don’t think—I mean, I trust them both. We’re a family, all of us.” She sputters to get it out. Again, Ivan’s words.
“Hey, don’t apologize for feelings. Yeah, we’re all tight, but it can make fear more intense. We all know bad things can happen with the best of people.” His eyes hold hers for a moment and something flickers there, sadness, anger, regret, she can’t tell. He looks out at the party. Ivan and Trish are silhouetted against the bonfire, standing away so Mrs. Medeiros can’t see them smoke. Ivan leans into her and says something. Trish arches her back in laughter and, for a second, her blond hair is indistinguishable from the flames.
“Anyway. Family. What does that really mean, anyway?” Leo drains his glass. “Refill time,” he says. He smiles at her and walks away.
17
TWO stacks of papers face each other on her desk. The twin towers of procrastination. Wanda locks her office door and readies a red pen. Last week at work and it’s obligation laden. Sit down, get to it, finish up.
She separates out the final exams and assignments. Her computer chirps. There are two new emails.
To: [email protected] From: [email protected] Subject: nothing really
Just thinking about you. Hope you had a good long week end.
Yick. She forwards it to Constable Lance. Does he even read them? It’s like flicking a gum wrapper into a landfill.
The second email is from Trevor Dowden, Department Head.
Subject: A little chat
Hi Wanda. Please come see me when you get this.
Vague requests for meetings with your supervisor are generally not good. Her stomach does a curdling forward roll. Why be nervous now? The whole program is scrapped. But she shouldn’t burn bridges. She’ll need references. And things might change. Thoughts in Dad’s voice: Keep your options open. Networking is important.
Trevor Dowden’s office is shades of beige—tan carpet, taupe walls, a long pine desk. Wooden picture frames display photos of his plump, smiling wife and their two teenage sons, spotty and damp with puberty. The room irritates her with its bland plan, as if bad news presented here can be softened by the inoffensive decor.
Dowden is beige himself, his aging hair the colour of porridge, his tie a long custard smear draped over his protruding paunch. How many people has he had to reprimand or layoff in this room? Years of it until his edges were blunted and he became a rounder, muted version of himself.
“Hullo, Wanda,” Trevor Dowden says. “Please have a seat.” He gestures to the cushioned camel-coloured chair on the opposite side of his desk. Wanda sits politely with her hands folded.
“How are things going?” he says. “It’s been so busy lately, I’ve hardly had a chance to touch base with anyone.”
“Things are good. I have lots of marking, but that’s normal.”
“Oh, I imagine it is,” he says. He reaches towards a stack of file folders on his desk and slides the top one down. “So. One of your students. Evan—”
“McKinnley.”
“Yes. He came to see me. What’s going on there?”
“He passed in his paper late and I took off marks.” She flattens her gaze to the wall behind him.
“Understandable. However, he said when he explained his situation, you told him it was okay.”
“I told him I’d see what I could do.” She crosses her legs and forces the small of her back into the chair. Sit up straight, sit like a person who’s done nothing wrong.
“
What kind of student is he?”
“He was hard-working at the start of the term, but around the middle he slacked off. His attendance went way down.”
“Yes, he had a lot to say when he was here. However, his mother did call to back him up.”
Wanda laughs. Dowden’s face remains blank. “Of course she did,” she says. “Isn’t that what parents do now? Mom’ll probably show up at his first real job interview to inform them what a good worker he is.”
Dowden opens the file and pulls out Evan’s paper. He lays it on the desk. “Both Evan and his mother say this paper was late because he wasn’t able to get into his ex-girlfriend’s house to access his work or belongings. His mother says he had to return home without most of his clothes. He had to wear his brother’s things for a while.”
Sure, that didn’t stop him from buying new t-shirts. “In the student handbook,” she says, “it states students require doctor’s notes if they’re sick, death certificates for bereavement. I understand Evan had a domestic issue, but he should have known better than to keep all his work in one place without backing it up. He could have saved it to the institute’s network, or saved it on a USB. I tell all my students to do this.” She should stop talking. Doth not protest too much.
“I agree students should be more careful. But I think he’s learned his lesson. He was quite inconsolable while he was here.” Dowden clears his throat. “And we’ve had female students with similar issues in the past. It would be unfair to not extend the same consideration.”
Jesus Christ. Like Evan McKinnley is a battered wife. Hot frustration streams up her spine. She can’t meet Dowden’s eyes. A fierce-looking zit has manifested on his chin. Looks like it will come to a head soon. Is he a popper? Maybe he borrows his sons’ Clearasil.
“What do you suggest I do?” she says.
“I think you should take another look at his paper and grade it accordingly. If you feel it should lose marks for lateness, do so. But if it’s a passing grade, I think he deserves a break.” Dowden closes Evan’s paper back in the white file folder and slides it across the desk to her.
“K. Will do.”
“Perhaps this experience supports a revision to the student handbook. We can stress the importance of backing up work. Maybe we could provide links to some online software for this purpose. A cloud application or something.”
“Yes. Good idea,” she says. Dowden’s zit is the reddest thing in the room.
“How are things with other students?”
“Oh, fine. No major issues.”
“That’s great. Any summer plans?”
“Not really, Trevor. Hard to plan a vacation when you’re getting laid off.”
“Oh, I can imagine. Believe me, we’ve all been through it.” Dowden sighs. “I’m sorry I can’t give you any news for September right now. With the cutbacks and the layoffs and dealing with the permanent staff, it won’t get sorted out for months. We’re losing a lot of great contract workers. It’s a shame.”
“Well, that’s all you can do,” she says. She pats the folder. “Let me know if you hear of any changes.” She stands and smiles warmly at his pimple.
“Oh, definitely.”
Oh mos def. Wanda shuts the door behind her with a subtle click. Her right hand worms up her left sleeve and her fingernails bear down with vengeance on the mountain range of crusted gashes above her elbow.
Twenty minutes later, she’s settled into a plodding rhythm of marking. She scours the multiple-choice sections first and matches them to the key. Her pen gives robotic ticks. The selected response areas are done when her office door rattles with Andrea’s ‘shave and a haircut’ knock. Wanda’s head swims a little as she stands to open the door, a little rush, like the first puff of a cigarette. Andrea is all set, track jacket zipped up to her chin. “Oh, look at you! Busy lil’ marking bee.”
“Shit, is it time to go? Sorry.” Wanda grapples the piles of papers into a canvas bag. Normally, she’d come into work early or stay late to get this marking done, but Andrea has to get home to her dog and cat.
“Gotta get home by four to let Kiki out,” Andrea says. “Inside or out, by 4:03, she’s done her pee. Hee-hee-hee, don’t mind me.”
“No problem, I’ll just take all this home,” Wanda says. Final exams from the ABE English Language course, comparison essays, comprehension exercises, all ungraded so far. But she has five days to get it all in.
“Sure, just do what I do,” Andrea says. “Chuck the tests down the stairs. The ones that make it to the bottom? As. Ha-ha-ha-Ha! I’m some bad.” She clangs with laughter as Wanda locks her office door.
In the Rav4, Andrea blasts the Steve Miller Band so loud Wanda barely hears her phone ding. One new text message. At first glance, the contact picture looks like a spearmint candy, all white and green. On closer inspection, it’s a selfie of Trish, her white-blond hair swept into her face. She’s holding up a martini glass of something bright green. An appletini perhaps. Wanda swipes the screen to open the message.
Trish made the date to discuss the show over pints. “You should go,” Ivan said. “The two of you hardly ever hang out together.” This is true. Wanda can’t remember the last time it was just her and Trish without the XY chromosomes. And she never did anything with Wanda when Nikki and Sharon were around. But it’s hard to believe Trish would be friends with her if they had met independent of Ivan and Leo. Trish’s female friends are like her: fashionable, artistic, gregarious.
And the meeting is not about being girlfriends. Wanda has tentatively agreed to go to the Festival of Healing and do a little bow and wave on stage. The decision was settled on the return drive from the May 24th picnic. “Why not go?” Ivan said. “You’ve been friends for over four years. This is a significant exhibit for her.” He kept his eyes on the road, but drove with one hand, the other airborne to stress his points. “If you had some big event happening, you know she’d go.”
Wanda slumped in the passenger seat and stared out the window. She was tired all over, tired from a day of drinking outdoors, tired of Mrs. Medeiros’s smothering mothering. “Fine,” she said, “I’ll go. Better to say yes and get it over with.”
“That’s my positive-minded girlfriend,” said Ivan.
“You’re awfully quiet,” Andrea says. She turns down the volume. Her eyes dart from the road to the phone in Wanda’s lap. “Bad message?”
You’re awfully nosey, Wanda wants to say. “No. Yes, a bit. I’m annoyed at some people in my life at the moment.”
“I hear ya,” Andrea says. “I tells Boyd, he’s lucky I run the kitchen at home and not the one in the women’s penitentiary. Cause I could easily be in there for homicide the way he gets on.” She chuckles. “Jet Airliner” comes on over the stereo and her fingers tap its beat on the steering wheel. “How long have you and your man been together now?”
“Almost five years.”
“Ah, five years. That’s a telling time.”
“How so?”
“Well, five years is when a lot of people decide if they want five more years.” Andrea’s voice drops. “It was five years with my ex, the one before Boyd, when I knew I’d had enough. Really, we were coming up on our fifth anniversary and a friend of ours mentioned it. And I realized I didn’t want to celebrate it. Hard to ignore a gut reaction like that. How are you two doing?”
“Good. Well. It’s been hard lately,” she says. She realizes Andrea is totally silent, waiting for her to continue. “Sometimes I feel like there’s a wall of Plexiglas between us and I’m smacking my head off it trying to get him to understand me. Like, he just doesn’t get it and then I end up agreeing to things because it’s easier than making him see where I’m coming from.” Now she’s embarrassing herself. Like she sprayed spittle during a conversation.
“Answer me this,” Andrea says. “If you came home and caught him with someone else, how would
you feel?”
“What?”
“That’s how I knew I wanted to break up with my ex,” Andrea says. “Just imagine it for a moment. I drop you off, you walk in and catch him boning someone else. How do you feel?”
“I don’t know. Numb. Betrayed.”
“That’s good. If you felt relieved or,” Andrea removes both hands from the wheel and swipes them together in the wiping-dust-off-your-hands motion, “it means you’re done. God, I used to fantasize about catching Rex with someone. It meant I could leave him. No one would blame me. I wouldn’t have to feel guilty about him, about what he would do now, how he would look after himself.”
“How did you do it in the end?”
“His mother. She caught me alone in the kitchen after Christmas supper and said, ‘It’s not your job to look after him, Andrea. If you’re unhappy, do something about it.’ I ended it right after New Year’s.”
“I don’t know if I could think about breaking up with things so crazy lately. I don’t really know how to feel about a lot of things.” She forces a laugh to warm things back up. “He just makes me so angry. It takes nothing for me to get pissed at him.”
“That’s good then. Anger means you’ve made the decision to feel strongly about the issues at hand. I guess you have to ask yourself if it’s really him you’re mad at.”
Wanda points to the stereo. “Hey, I haven’t heard this song in a long time,” she says. She leans forward and turns up the volume.
The Duke is busy with an upscale crowd: lawyers, politicians, the financially successful musicians. A cluster of well-dressed thirty-somethings stand around the bar, all power suits and slippery, over-processed hair. A few of them perk up as Wanda passes. Elbows nudge and jostle, phones make appearances.
Trish scored seats on the red-velour chairs in the back. She is decked out in a rockabilly-style dress, black with a print of little red cherries. Wanda has the nagging sensation she is going on a date. Perhaps she should have brought flowers or candy.
The Greatest Hits of Wanda Jaynes Page 18