“Me too. Listen, I was just talking to the cops. We were wrong about Karl.”
“No, no, it’s so much worse,” Mrs. Medeiros says. Her voice is high and eerie. “It’s so awful. He is a monster. He needs to be stopped.”
“Why? What happened?”
“I was in his house.” She pauses, pants. “He has things, set up. Equipment.”
“You went to his house?”
“Yes! Remember I told you he is involved with the same charity as my friend, Helen? Well, I rang his doorbell, told him I was going door to door, looking for donations.” She pauses. Wanda hears a clicking sound like a bottle cap popping. A signal indicator.
“Are you driving?”
“Yes! I’ve been following him for two days.” A car horn blares. “I have to, you see. I have to make sure he doesn’t do anything bad.”
“Bad like what?”
“I saw it, in his house.” More car horns: a series of angry honks.
“You should pull over.” Wanda pictures Mrs. Medeiros balancing the phone between her chin and shoulder, turning the steering wheel hard, the flashing lights of a police car through the rear window. “You shouldn’t drive and talk. It’s dangerous. You’ll get a fine.”
“I have to follow him. I have to make sure. Don’t worry, I’ve been looking at his Facebook too. After he goes home, he’s going to the festival. I can follow him on foot there.”
“Please, I think you should pull over.”
“He’s almost home.”
“I’m scared you’re not thinking clearly,” Wanda says. Hot nervous sweat envelopes her. “We should talk about this.”
“Ah, he’s parking now.” Mrs. Medeiros sighs. “I’m going to follow him over to the festival.” She hangs up.
Wanda closes her eyes. Fucking hell. What to do. She starts to text Ivan, but stops. Texting your boyfriend to tell him his mother is off the rails. Good idea. Christ. She presses call. Straight to voice mail. The time is 4:41. He’s at the festival by now. She opens the Facebook event, checks the lineup for musical acts. 4:30. Ray and the Autumn People. They started playing ten minutes ago. When she shows up, they’ll be finished. Everyone can tell her what a nice fucking girlfriend she is.
Wanda scrambles around the room. Yesterday’s jeans are in a pile and her navy-blue hoodie hangs on the doorknob. She throws it all on. Her stomach moans in hunger. She grabs the cup of veggie juice and flies down the stairs. What else does she need? Sunglasses. Secrecy would be nice. She puts them on and charges out the door.
The festival grounds occupy half the park, starting at the playground and stretching to the end. Signs and decorations skirt the sides of the walkway. Wanda strides up the dirt path under the maple trees. Tibetan prayer flags are strung from tree to tree, homey-looking Bristol-board placards are propped up on plywood posts: To the Festival of Healing! ☺ Painted rainbows and doves juxtapose with corporate signs and logos: Proud Sponsors of the Festival of Healing. A haze of activity hums in the distance. A few scattered clouds on an otherwise idyllic sky. Where the Jesus is Mrs. Medeiros?
As she nears the playground, the noises intensify and separate: music, voices, the grinding of generators. Booths and tables line a wide walkway through the park: games of chance, crafts, organizations with stacks of pamphlets and badges, cotton candy, popcorn, samosas, cupcakes, and coffee. No Mrs. Medeiros.
Burly men with tight black t-shirts and folded arms hover by the entrance to the beer tent. On its right, people have set up deck chairs and blankets on the grass facing the tall, black monolith of the stage. “Test, test. One-two, one-two.” The next act prepares to perform. Which means Ivan’s around. Maybe she can find his mother and leave unnoticed. She stops by a craft table and scans the area. Where would Karl be? If she can find Karl, she can find Mrs. Medeiros.
A roundish woman in a royal-blue t-shirt walks towards her. There is something familiar in her gait that makes Wanda push her sunglasses up and tug her hood around her face. The woman’s eyes catch on Wanda. It’s Pascale Aggressive. Wanda gives her a quick nod. Pascale’s face pales. She makes an abrupt right turn and crosses to the booths lining the other side of the walkway. A gaggle of others wearing the same t-shirt cluster around one of the booths. A glossy royal-blue banner hangs over it with yellow letters: Keeping in Touch: Workers for Modern Christianity. A picture of a smiling Joseph Workman in the lower right corner. Pascale is a member. Well then. Guess it was easy for them to get her address. Maybe Pascale would like being added to every flyer distribution list in town. What a cow.
Pascale scurries to the Workers’ booth and whispers something to a woman with long red pigtails. The red-haired woman turns and stares at Wanda. She is familiar. Geraldine Harvey, the woman who was shot at and played dead.
Geraldine tugs the sleeve of the person next to her: a stick-thin figure in a black toque. Wanda averts her eyes from them; she examines the items on the closest craft table. Glass-bead necklaces, earrings. She pretends to be enthralled in a stained-glass sun catcher shaped like an owl.
“Excuse me?” Three furtive taps on her shoulder. Geraldine’s brassy braids are coated with a froth of orange frizz. They dangle along the sides of her large breasts, like the floor path lighting on airplanes. This way, please. The woman beside her is chiselled and frail, the black toque tight across her skull. Her eyes shine with intensity. Both wear royal-blue t-shirts with “ASK ME WHY I BELIEVE IN MIRACLES” in bold gold letters across the chest.
“You are her, yes?” says Geraldine. “Wanda Jaynes?”
Wanda nods. Geraldine smiles with her lips shut, but her eyes stay direct. “My name is Geraldine and this is Ruth. We are both members of Workers for Modern Christianity.” She points to a button above her giant right boob that states the group’s title. “But I believe you’ve heard of our founder, Joseph Nigel Workman?”
“Yes, he sounds vaguely familiar.” Why is she trying to be funny? Her glib reply does not amuse. Ruth’s eyes roll up to the sky. Geraldine’s chin juts out and she smooths her pigtails in one long, quick stroke with both hands.
“Yes, I’m sure he does,” Geraldine says. “I don’t know if you might have seen me on the news. I was in the store as well, that day.”
“Yes, I saw. How are you doing?”
“Well, you know, such a tragedy. But we were lucky God was on our side,” Geraldine says. “I’d like to invite you over to our tent to talk. You can meet some of the other members.”
“Um, that’s very nice of you,” Wanda takes off her sunglasses. Maybe she’ll seem sincere if they can see her eyes. “Unfortunately, I have to meet someone here. Thanks, though.” She steps to the right. Ruth matches it to stand in front of her. She glares up into Wanda’s face. Ruth has a fierce, reptilian look. It takes Wanda a moment to realize she has no eyebrows or eyelashes. Cancer survivor.
“I’m sorry, Gerry, but I really need to hear her say it,” Ruth says. Her left eye twitches.
“Easy, Ruth,” Geraldine says. Her cheek quivers with pleasure.
“No, I’d like to hear this woman say she stopped the shooter herself,” Ruth says. “I’d like to hear her deny God’s power.”
Geraldine speaks into Wanda’s ear, her breasts press into her arm. “You’ll have to excuse, Ruth, Miss Jaynes. Ruth is a miracle. Like you and I.” Geraldine places her hand on Ruth’s shoulder. “Without the power of prayer, she would not be here.”
“Stage three cancer.” Ruth puffs out her bony chest. “It was everywhere. And I was Satan’s cohort back then. I drank. I smoked. I tarnished this gift from God, this body. And Satan was winning. I was a goner.” She holds out her skinny arms to the sides, displaying the miracle that is her. “But I believed. And I prayed, every day. And thanks to people like Geraldine, I had an army of believers praying for me. And now, remission.” Ruth’s arms rise up over her shoulders. She smiles up to the sky. Then the arms descend to
fold in front of her. Her eyes drill into Wanda’s. “So, I find it very hard to take people who can stick their noses in the air and ignore God’s blessings.”
“We all saw the video,” Geraldine says. “God acted through you. If you won’t take it from me, take it from this woman. She knows miracles.”
Wanda swallows. She is unbelievably thirsty. “I’m glad you’re okay now, Ruth.” She occupies herself stirring the straw in the pink vegetable juice.
“Thank you, Miss Jaynes.”
“But, no offense,” Wanda takes a quick sip. “You had chemo, right?” Maybe she’s still drunk. Or high.
Ruth’s eyes narrow. “I prayed every day.”
“Yes, but you know, you also had radiation therapy, right? I mean, you do also take that into consideration, yes? The work of doctors and nurses?” Wanda takes another sip and can’t stop. So thirsty.
“Wow,” Geraldine says. “You’re something else.”
“Conceit,” Ruth hisses. A thin droplet of spittle lands on Wanda’s cheek.
“Leave her alone.” The voice booms. Two people appear next to her. The speaker is a tall man with cropped green hair. His earlobes reach his jaw and gape open; the round plugs in each are so wide, she could watch the concert through them. The person beside him comes up to his elbow, red bucket hat, tiny fierce eyes. Dallas Cleal.
“Oh look,” Geraldine scowls. “It’s Dallas and the philosophy society.”
“Maybe you should take a class,” Earlobes says.
“Then she’d have to read a book,” Dallas says. “Geraldine only reads propaganda. And distributes it. Thanks for keeping me on your mailing list. Kept the woodstove going all winter.”
“What do you want, Dallas?’
“I want you to stop badgering this woman,” Dallas says. Earlobes glowers beside her.
“Badgering?” Geraldine says. “You’re the one with the goon.” She grabs Ruth’s hand. “Pretty low to gang up on a cancer survivor.”
“You call yourself Christian, but you’re an insult to Christians,” Earlobes says. “You come to a peaceful festival and harass people?” Dallas nods, hands on hips. Wanda glances around. More people in blue t-shirts are approaching. Others stop and stare.
Ruth laughs. “Oh, Gerry, isn’t it refreshing to see how little things change? Dallas always brings her most smug first-year philosophy student to explain how things work.”
A hand clamps down on Wanda’s shoulder. “There you are.” She looks into Darryl Pike’s beaming face.
“Everyone enjoying themselves so far?” Pike looks slick. He wears dark jeans and a silver-grey t-shirt made of some kind of gauzy material that clings to his pectoral muscles. His black sports jacket looks tailored and expensive. He removes strips of tickets from the inside pocket. “Here are some complimentary tickets for the beer tent and local treats. Enjoy them, give them to your friends, on me.” He tears them in quick, neat rips and hands them out. Ruth and Geraldine glare at Wanda before skulking off. Dallas hands her tickets to Earlobes. She nods to Wanda and walks away.
“Well, you’re a sight for sore eyes, missus,” Pike produces another strip of drink tickets and slides them into the pocket of her hoodie. “C’mon, let’s get you outta this chaos. You gotta backstage pass, after all.”
He places her hand on the crook of his elbow and steers her past the line of vendors and tents. People mill by them, dragging children, balancing Styrofoam containers of fried food. Pike greets them with nods and winks: “Hey there. Whaddya at? How ya gettin’ on?” He never waits for a response. People’s faces register the two of them and glow with recognition. Great. Wanda didn’t shower today—did she yesterday?—and she is decked out in her grubbiest, non-descript clothes. She imagines she exudes booze in a sour, pungent aura. She tries to shrink further into her hoodie.
“So many people have asked about you today,” Pike says. “Did you just get here?”
“Yes. Actually, I need to find a friend of mine.”
“Good luck! Massive crowd on the go. The vibe is truly amazing, Wanda.” He rubs her hand on his arm, pressing it into the silky fabric of his jacket.
“Thanks for getting me away from those Workman people back there, but it’s kind of important I find my friend.”
“Who is it you need to find?”
“Ivan’s mom, actually.”
“Oh, well he might know himself. He’s in the backstage area—the Green Room, I call it. Lotsa green goin’ on there all day.” Pike grins. He smells like Axe body spray and Listerine. He eyes Wanda’s hoodie. “Did you bring a change of clothes? For later, on stage?”
“Um, no. I need to talk to you about that.”
“No worries, my dear. We have lots of clothes in the Green Room. We’ll find something sharp.”
She withers a little more. How to get out of here. She’ll check out the Green Room to be polite, make a quick exit.
The Green Room is actually a large tent with red and white stripes. Pike opens the flap with a generous sweep of his arm. “Ladies first.” Inside, Wanda recognizes several local musicians sprawled across worn couches against the tent walls. They ooze a practiced nonchalance. Two bearded guys with dark-framed glasses rummage in a cooler. There are tables full of liquor. Racks of clothes along the far wall with a curtained-off dressing room.
“What’s your poison, my dear?” Pike gestures to the bar area. “Wine or beer? A rum and coke? Vodka with something fruity?”
“A rum and coke sounds good.” The pink juice is down to the dregs.
Pike takes the cup. “A girl after my own heart,” he says. He waves at a svelte black girl with cornrows twisted into a high pile on her head. She wears a beige suede dress that looks designer and amazing. “Rachel, get Wanda and I a couple of rum and cokes, please.” Rachel gives them a perfect smile, exposing rows of even white teeth. When she turns, Wanda sees the dress is backless, exposing the long sweep of her flawless brown skin. Pike’s eyes dance down her spine as she walks away. “Rachel is great. She’ll help you pick out something for onstage as well.” He points to the rack of clothes. “Lots of stuff here for you to go through.”
“About that. I don’t really think I’m up to going on stage,” Wanda says. “It’s almost 5:30 now and I’m feeling really gross.”
Pike’s face hardens with concern. “Oh no. People have been asking about you all day. There are people who came just to see you.”
“See, that’s it too. I find all this extremely stressful.”
“Stressful? Oh, honey, my stress has gone through the roof! Smoking a pack a day and nervous diarrhea all week for me.” He tosses his head back and laughs. A gold-capped tooth on the top front row of his mouth sparkles. His head levels with hers. “Seriously though, whatever you need. There’s a soundproof trailer a street away if you want a nap. We can get you food, drinks, a massage, anything you need.” Rachel appears with two fizzing plastic cups. Pike takes one and coils an arm around Rachel’s shoulders. “You’re among friends here, my dear. We’ll take care of you. Won’t we, Rache?”
“Anything for the Wandawoman,” Rachel says.
“See? No stress here.” He smiles. His hand disappears from Rachel’s shoulder and from the flicker in her dark eyes, Wanda suspects it made an appearance somewhere on her naked back. She thinks of his hand poised over Trish’s behind in that photo. What a dicksmack.
“That’s all very kind, thank you. But I really—” The flap in the tent parts. Ivan enters. Her heart jerks in her chest. His eyes meet hers and he deflates a little, like some vital energy was just siphoned out of him.
He raises one hand to her. She matches it. He nods his head towards the exit and mouths the word “outside?”
She nods. “Pike, I need to talk to Ivan, back soon.” She tips her cup at Rachel in thanks.
Outside, they scan the area for a place to talk. A band of about a
dozen musicians in colourful tie-dye clothes have taken the stage, pounding out hyperactive ska. People dance writhing-hippy-style on the grass before them. Sloppy bellows of laughter echo from the beer tent. They pass lines of vendors: the Potters Association, handmade hemp products, Inuit crafts and sculpture. A few people pat Ivan’s back as they walk by: “Good job, man.” “Deadly set.” Ivan thanks them. These are the only times he smiles or speaks. Wanda tightens her hood over her head. She scans the area. No sign of Mrs. Medeiros.
Ivan points to a blue tent, set off from the main stage. “Trish’s exhibit,” he says. A silver banner bearing the words “Local Heroes in Their Element” drapes over the opening. Wanda looks sideways at Ivan. His face is sullen and unreadable. He’s so angry with her.
They continue walking to the edge of the park where it’s just grass and trees. A few people sit on blankets under trees, sipping from thermoses and unmarked bottles. Three cop cars line the street at the park’s end.
“Here is good,” Ivan says. He leans against a tree. The music thumps in the distance. A dog yaps. Marijuana smoke wafts by.
“You look tired,” he says.
“I am.” Her fingernails on the hand holding her cup have ragged, dirty ridges. Tiny bubbles rise from the black drink. “I’ve never felt so tired in my life.”
“What are you going to do about it?”
“What are you going to do about it?” she says.
His eyes cast down from hers. “I’m trying, Wanda. I’m trying to help you.”
“Really? Because I wonder if you even want to understand how I feel.”
“I guess I thought we were at a place where we’re close enough you would tell me how you feel,” he says. “That if there was a problem, you would tell me.”
“I feel like I have been telling you.”
“I feel like you’re just reacting.”
“Well, yeah, I’m reacting to you. To your…lack of acting or…acting in ways that aren’t cool.” Nothing she says is right. It’s like scratching a slab of granite.
The Greatest Hits of Wanda Jaynes Page 22