The Greatest Hits of Wanda Jaynes

by Bridget Canning

  So Trish knew. Wanda asked Ivan not to tell anyone and he told her. Trish knew and made art with it.

  The screen door squeals. She continues looking. Ivan enters with plastic grocery bags in both hands. “What are you doing?”

  “Reading.” She waves his phone at him. “So, you and Trish basically live in each other’s pockets, huh?”

  His mouth is clamped over gritted teeth. He lays down the bags. Slowly, he pries open the breast pocket of his jacket, looks in with one eyebrow raised. Pats pants pockets, front and back. “Nope. She’s not there.”

  “Don’t react like I’m overreacting.”

  “You’re invading my privacy.”

  “You two are in constant contact.”

  “Really?” Ivan holds out his hand for the phone. “Let’s see about that.” Like he’s going to say ta-ta, like asking a baby for its toy.

  She throws the phone. It clatters across the floor. “Don’t step on it. Might be like walking on eggshells.”

  Ivan picks it up and brushes his finger across it. “What is so upsetting?” He leans his back against the wall as he scrolls through the messages. “Let’s see. Yesterday, we talked about farts. This morning, she sent me a joke her ten-year-old neighbour told her.”

  “You talk about me!”

  “Yeah, of course we talk about you.”

  “She knew at the vigil! She fucking took pictures of me!”

  “Okay, yes, but —”

  “And you knew that Pike douchebag was going to meet us! You’re both greedy assholes!” She lets out a sob and wraps her arms around her belly.

  “Wanda. Leo and Trish knew as soon as it happened. I called them from the police station.”

  “Why did you do that?”

  “It wasn’t until the next day you said you wanted to keep it a secret.” He runs a hand through his hair. “And as for the other night, you’ve been kind of…reactive with me lately. I thought if you heard about the festival from him and Trish, it might ease your concerns.” He puts the phone into his jacket pocket and looks to her, his palms open at his sides. “And you didn’t seem too bothered by it when you came home.”

  “Why is it so important I go?”

  “Wanda, you’ve been closed off since the shooting.” He takes a step towards her. “I don’t know. I thought it might help you see how others see you.”

  “Bullshit. It’s good for Trish’s art. It’s good for the new album and your music.” She makes quotation motions with her fingers.

  Ivan’s face flushes. “What does that mean? You have an opinion on that now? You haven’t been to watch us play in ages.”

  “You never invite me.”

  “You have to be invited now?”

  “It’s so obviously you and Leo and precious fucking Trish’s thing.” Her quotation fingers are on automatic now.

  “Okay. Jesus. My things are not separate from yours. I’ve never excluded you.”

  “Yeah, the way I feel has nothing to do with your behaviour. You never fail to dissect the way others act. You should try looking at yourself.”

  “Fine. Look.” He holds his hands out to her. “Let’s calm down.”

  “I’m too disgusted to calm down. I’m going out.”

  “Okay, get some air, come back. We can talk.” Ivan steps out of the way as she strides towards the door.

  “By the way, my doctor thinks I might have an ulcer,” she says. She grabs her coat and purse. “Don’t forget to text Trish about it.” She slams the door on the image of his hanging head.

  Her footsteps make echoing slaps in the mist as she pounds down Empire Avenue. The fog blurs all lines and edges. Good. She wants to be an anonymous shape. She walks a straight line downtown, past the brewery and its yeasty stench, past the sheltered cluster of Georgetown houses. She jaywalks across Military Road and strides so briskly down Prescott Street, she feels her feet may catch on themselves and she could tumble, head over arse, straight down the hill. She forces herself to take slow, deliberate steps down the steep sidewalk, past colourful houses standing willfully against the grey air. The Fort Amherst foghorn sounds, each monotone blast the opening note on a pitch pipe, setting the tone, as if the ocean is about to break into song. Just to remind the city it is still there, just to announce it will continue no matter what horrible things people do, no matter if minds shatter, no matter what injustice occurs, no matter how many lovers turn out to be selfish shits, the ocean remains, it pushes the tide in and out, it keeps doing its job.

  At Duckworth Street, she turns right and darts across the street. She scampers down the first steps of Solomon’s Lane and enters The Ship. Happy hour is descending. She perches at the bar and orders a rum and coke. She thought she would want a whiskey or a glass of dry red wine, something that hurts a little, but the cool air and speedy walk require sugar and caffeine.

  She lays her phone on the bar beside her. No messages. No missed calls. She may have to go to the bathroom and cry. She may have to go outside and bum a smoke. What the fuck is she going to do? She tries Sharon’s number. Voice mail. Nikki’s at work right now. She’s so hard to get a hold of. Who to call? Mom would pitch into instant worry-mode and insist she come home. She imagines herself lying fetal on the twin bed in her old room, gazing up at pictures of Corey Haim and River Phoenix. Dead teen idols watching over her while Ivan plays a show to over a thousand people in a park and parties all night. With Trish. Who else can she call? Everyone has husbands and kids, everyone is occupied. There’s Andrea. No. Can’t do it.

  “They let any old riff-raff into this bar.”

  Leo’s face by her ear. “What are you doin’, missus? Where’s your mister?”

  She opens her mouth to speak, but instead, she leans into his shoulder.

  “Oh. Oh Jaynes,” he says. “It’s going to be okay.” The collar of his flannel shirt wedges behind her nostril and she inhales the scent of his skin, fresh-baked bread with undertones of marijuana.

  “You should let him know where you are.” Leo places another pint before her. They have claimed the tall table in the darkest corner for the privacy and people-watching angle.

  “I think he should ask me where I am.”

  “Man, you guys need to press reset or something,” he says. “Sit down, clear your heads, and talk it out.”

  “I’ve made it pretty clear how I feel about things,” she says.

  “Ivan is my brother, but some people, you know, they’re great every day, but suck in a crisis. And this is uncharted territory.” He sips his beer. “For the whole city, really. The whole province.”

  “It’s not even about recovery. It’s the notoriety. It’s a pleasant side effect to him. Like, ‘hey, too bad you broke your leg, but at least you got some free morphine out of it.’”

  “Ivan thinks of things in possibilities. After his dad died, they didn’t have much. He said it felt like everyone around him had more options. So, even though this is a fucked-up situation, he recognizes what might be possible.”

  “I know how he feels. But he can’t expect his point of view to be universal.”

  “I agree. And it is gross. Even the little bits that have fallen our way—like this Pike guy? What a dipshit. Trish has to deal with him for the festival. It’s half hippy-peace-love-in, half business convention.”

  “Do you guys disagree about it?”

  “No,” Leo says. He sips his drink. “She’s always been very entrepreneurial. You should see some of the crazies she’s had to work with.”

  “You know Ivan and Trish are bosom friends, right? Always with the texty-text.”

  “She texts everyone. It’s part of her temperament.”

  “Come on, Leo. It doesn’t bother you?” She reaches forward and ruffles his hair, drags her hand down his shirt. “Oh, your hair’s so nice. Oh, this shirt is so soft.” She squeezes his knee. �
�Are these jeans 100% denim? Ah-mazing!”

  “So? She’s tactile.” For an instant, his lips are stiff, a minus sign. Maybe she went too far. But he shrugs. “She’s always been that way.”

  “It’s never been an issue?”

  “I wouldn’t say that. In the first couple of years, yeah, I had some insecurity. I see how other men look at her. I see them getting hopeful. But she always comes home to me.”

  “I guess. Maybe it wouldn’t bother me so much if I felt like I did anything for Ivan anymore.”

  “You don’t think you do?”

  “I feel like a fad about to lose its novelty.”

  “You’re not a fad. You’re trendy as hell, but a fad? No way.”

  “I am. I’m fadulous.”

  “Like Beanie Babies?”

  “Like Pogs.”

  “Like a No Fear t-shirt?”

  “Like Crystal Pepsi.”

  “You know what never loses its novelty?”

  “What?”

  “Tequila shots.”

  “So, what happened?” Wanda leans against the brick wall and lights her cigarette. “Back when you were feeling insecure.”

  “I got over it.”

  “But was there a thing? Did you fight?”

  Leo fishes in his cigarette pack. “Yes, there was a thing. She had a roommate, this guy Jeremy. They were really close, roommates long before I knew her. She’d walk around the apartment wearing just a towel, he’d do the same. It bugged the shit out of me.” He pulls out a joint and wets it. “One day, I stopped by her place and the door was unlocked. I walked in. She and Jeremy were lying on the couch together, watching a movie. They had a blanket over them.”

  “They were messing around?”

  “No. Just cuddling.”

  “Huh,” she says. “Was Trish the little spoon?”

  “Yes, she was,” Leo says. “So I walked in, saw them, turned around, walked out. She chased after me. We had a row. She said for her, cuddling is natural, not sexual. Even so, I said, it’s physical intimacy.”

  “But you worked it out okay?”

  “Yeah. She told me Jeremy was gay.” He lights the joint and inhales.

  “Well, that’s good then. Sounds like you were both pretty young at the time? Younger? More to learn?”

  “You can say childish,” he says. He studies the joint for a moment before passing it to her. “Want to know something? I’ve never, ever brought this up to her.”

  “Yes. Tell me.”

  “I see that Jeremy guy with women all the time. Fucker is totally straight.”

  Wanda laughs hard from her gut, a laugh to blast through a foggy night.

  Back in the bar, session players set up. Guitars, violins, a bodhran. Wanda checks her phone. Over four hours and no messages. Each time the door opens, her eyes dart to it.

  “Just call him, sure.”

  “No.” She gets up for another round. She sways slightly at the hip. “Same?” she says. She points to Leo’s glass.

  “One more. Then we get out of here. Enough sorrow drowning.”

  “But they’re still breathing.”

  She clomps off to the bar. She looks back at Leo while the pints are being poured. He studies the players tuning up. Her phone vibrates in her pocket and she pulls it out.

  To: JaynesWanda@nlil.ca From: Holdenshat@mail.com

  U should watch the company you keep. Photo attached.

  She presses the attachment link. At first she’s not sure what she’s looking at. Bright lights, a club of some kind. Two figures face each other. The woman wears a short black dress with a red pattern, her laughing face tilts up at the man. The man gazes down on her with pursed lips, his hand reaching out and over her butt. Maybe in mid-caress. Maybe about to go for it. It takes her a few moments to register it’s Trish and Darryl Pike.

  “You’re looking pale,” Leo says when she returns with the drinks. “I should get you home.” She hands him her phone. He looks at the photo. His lip curls upward. “Where did you find this?”

  “My crazy admirer sent it to me, just now.”

  “Where is it?”

  “Don’t know. That’s the dress she wore on Thursday when we were at The Duke.” She shrugs. “I guess they went dancing after?”

  “When did you leave?”

  “Around midnight.”

  Leo passes the phone back to her. He picks up his pint and takes a sip. “She didn’t come home ’til three.”

  “I’m sure it’s nothing.”

  “She never mentioned she went dancing with him.”

  “Maybe she didn’t think she had to.”

  “No,” Leo says. “She knows I think the guy is a tool.” He picks up the phone and looks at the picture. “Look at him. Who dances like that with a girl when you know she has a boyfriend? That fucker shook my hand.”

  “He probably doesn’t know any other way to dance.”

  “She does,” he says. “She went to dance school. All ’round artiste, Trish.”

  “I shouldn’t have shown it to you,” she says. “I’m sorry. I should just block these emails. The cops have done nothing.” Fuck sakes, Trish. For someone who takes candid photos, she should know better.

  “No, I’m glad you showed me.”

  They drink in silence. The session players play one reel after another, frantic, churning music. Wanda’s and Leo’s feet tap involuntarily.

  Leo empties his pint. “This music makes me feel like a leprechaun on speed.” He plunks the glass on the table and stands. His knees buckle. Wanda leaps up to support him. She can feel the prickle of other patrons’ eyes roaming over them.

  “Look at ’em all,” Leo says. “Havin’ a fine gawk.”

  “Let’s get you home.”

  “Good idea. There’s wine there.” He starts to do up his coat, third button into second hole. “Bout time you came by. Sure, you never comes over anymore.”

  They trudge up the steps by the LSPU Hall. Trish and Leo rent an upstairs apartment in a heritage home on Gower Street. The stairwell is dark with a faint smell of cat piss. Leo scrabbles the key in the deadbolt and the door swings open to their apartment. He flicks the light switch; the bulb flashes on and immediately fizzles out. “Piece o’ crap.”

  The apartment is still sparsely furnished, as Wanda remembers it, their round kitchen table, futon couch, an ancient television set with rabbit ears that Trish has painted with rainbows, polka-dots, animal prints. More art on the walls. Most of it looks like Trish’s work.

  “Where’s Trish?”

  “At her cousin’s,” Leo says. He yanks on the laces of his right boot and shucks it off. He unties the left and tries to remove it without loosening anything. “Ow. I’m going to get a charley horse.” He collapses into a chair by the kitchen table. Wanda clasps his foot between her knees and plucks the laces loose.

  “The nice thing about relaxing at home is that you can use the bong. So economical,” Leo says. He opens a small wooden box from the middle of the kitchen table and rustles out a small bag of weed, a few green crumbs spill out.

  “When will Trish be back?”

  “Tomorrow. She’s babysitting overnight.” Leo tilts his head towards the kitchen. “Be a dear and get us some wine? Bottle’s on the counter. And two glasses. And the bong is under the sink.”

  “Do you want me to make you a sandwich too?”

  “I would never degrade you like that. Bad enough you took me boot off.”

  The wine has a twist-off cap. Wanda cracks it and brings everything out to the table. Leo stuffs the bong bowl. “It’s not so much she went dancing with him,” he says. “Trish loves to dance. Dances all the time. But man, she made so much fun of that guy. She said he was puffed up. Like a macho little balloon.”

  “Good description.”

&nbs
p; “It all makes me wonder where the line is drawn.” Leo makes a line on the table with the side of his hand. He looks up at her. “Have some wine, my dear. You know, we only have so much time on this earth. Life is too short to spend it with annoying people.”

  “That’s exactly how I feel. I’m surrounded by annoying people all the time. It’s inescapable.” She thinks of Sharon and Nikki, what are they doing right now? Will they eventually find new friends who fit better in their lives? It’s so hard to make friends when you’re all adults. She pours a glass of wine. “When I have my own time, I want to be with people I actually like.”

  “Yes. Your top-tier friends. And I hate to be one of these times are a-changin jerks, but sometimes I get this feeling that lately, everything is a cheaper version of itself, including people.” Leo waves towards the burned-out light. “I swear I changed that friggin’ light bulb last week. Nothing is quality anymore.”

  “Maybe you got the wattage wrong.”

  “Maybe. But even with friendships, the people you surround yourself with. I don’t want to hang out with knobs like Pike because of what they can give me.” Leo sparks his lighter and touches the flame to the bowl. He inhales, neatly pops out the bowl and stem and passes the bong to Wanda. “Lots of smoke there for you.”

  “Thank you.” The extra smoke floats from her mouth to the light fixture above. “Perhaps it’s the millennial generation’s influence or something. Saturated with image over substance.”

  “It’s not any one group. My parents even. Now that they’re retired, it’s like suddenly they want this polished lifestyle.” He pauses to fill both their glasses with wine, splashing some over the rim. “Last year, Mom redecorated our house in Holyrood. Painted, bought new rugs, fancy lamps, all that stuff. Anyway, she found this wall hanging, this quote thingy in wooden letters. Has a little shelf on either end, for fuckin’ knickknacks. It’s a Chinese proverb.” He presses his fingertips to his chest: “A family in harmony will prosper in everything. So, one Sunday, she invites everyone over to check out the house. And I’m looking around and I realize something’s missing. The spot on the wall where she hung this saying is where Nan’s rug used to be. It was this hooked rug she made for Mom and Dad’s wedding. I said, ‘Mom, where’s Nan’s rug?’ And she said she sent it to Aunt Maureen in Oshawa, to hang up in her cottage. ‘I’ve been looking at it for thirty years, someone else can enjoy it now.’ So now, there’s friggin’ font art explaining the importance of family harmony while an actual symbol of it, the fucking work and effort of familial love, is in a cottage. To be seen on long weekends and holidays. Because it fits in with the rustic décor.”