The Greatest Hits of Wanda Jaynes

by Bridget Canning

  “But, I don’t know, Wanda,” he says. “If you don’t tell me, I don’t know what I’m doing wrong. Or what you need.” He moves in front of her and touches her cheek inside the hood. “I missed you these past few days.”

  “I missed you too.”

  “I’m sorry everything has been so fucked up,” he says.

  “Me too. I feel like everything I do is wrong. I’m becoming a lunatic.”

  “Ridiculous. I mean, you’re not ridiculous. Don’t think like that.” Ivan sighs. “Here, you wanna see a lunatic? Look at that dog. That dog is bananas.”

  He nods to a bopping, yapping Pomeranian, a fluff ball of orange fur. Lumbering beside it is Karl Prendergast, lips moving subtly, eyes swimming in his thick lenses. Wanda’s face retreats turtle-like into her hood.

  Once he moves beyond them, she pulls her hood back and looks around. A head of wild black curls juts out from behind a tree about twenty feet away.

  “Just…give me a second,” Wanda says. She strides away. When she glances back, Ivan is checking his phone.

  Mrs. Medeiros steps out from the tree. Her hair rises off her head in a frazzled snarl. A pale-pink windbreaker is tied around her hips; one of the cuffs is stained yellow-brown, like coffee or tea. She wears a saggy grey t-shirt, large, dark circles of sweat shadow the armpits. She waves Wanda over.

  “There he goes,” she says. “We need to watch him.”

  “Are you okay?” Wanda says. “You look...when was the last time you ate? Let’s get you some food.”

  “Wanda, honey, you should go. Follow him to his house. Go and watch there.” Mrs. Medeiros’s eyes widen. She wipes at her mouth with the back of her hand. “Get Ivan, he can come with me. Ivan can stop him.”

  “We don’t need to stop him, remember?” Wanda tries to keep her voice steady. “I talked to the cops. Karl didn’t send me those emails.”

  “But it’s worse, so, so much worse. It’s in his house.”

  “What did you see?”

  Mrs. Medeiros starts to shake her head. “He went to make tea. I asked to use the powder room. And I saw all the equipment, set up in the room. The computer, the telescope, the high-powered camera. All trained out the window. All watching the school next door.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I looked through the camera. It’s aimed at the playground. The telescope looks into the windows of the school, the little girls’ room.” Her breath sucks in sharply. “When I think about what he’s doing, what he’s taking pictures of, I could kill him.” She stops suddenly. “Where is he?” Mrs. Medeiros whirls around. “Where?” She brings her shaking hands to her face. “I lost him. I lost him. He can do anything now. He’ll do bad things.” She bends forwards and lays her hands on her knees, panting.

  “Are you okay? C’mon, Ivan’s here. We can take you home.” Wanda looks back at Ivan and waves. He is still face and eyes into his phone.

  Mrs. Medeiros jolts upright and points to the end of the park. “Police. Police! There! They can help me.” She kisses Wanda hard on the cheek, her lips tight and sticky. “There they are. It’s like they knew I needed them.” She sprints towards the patrol cars, dodging between and around trees.

  “No, stop!” Wanda calls. She runs. Ripping pain erupts in her stomach. She staggers. Ivan looks up. He follows her gaze to his mother standing before a police officer. Mrs. Medeiros makes animated gestures.

  “Ma?” Ivan starts towards them. The officer nods at her and motions to the car. “What’s going on?” Ivan says. They are too far away to hear him. The police officer walks to the back door of the cruiser and opens it. Mrs. Medeiros gets in. The door shuts and he moves to the front. He speaks into the radio as he pulls out. They catch a glimpse of Mrs. Medeiros’s profile in the back seat, straight-backed and head high.

  Ivan turns to Wanda. “Why did my mother get into that cop car?”

  “I don’t know. I mean, I don’t know what she said to him. She’s freaking out about that Karl guy.”

  “What Karl guy?”

  “Karl Prendergast. The Facebook guy, remember? She’s convinced he’s the one sending me emails.”

  “Is he?”

  “No. I found out today and told her. But she believes he’s into…other stuff.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like…kid stuff. Pedo stuff.”

  “What? How does she know that?”

  “From what she’s observed.” Wanda licks her lips. How to phrase this.

  “She saw him with kids?”

  “No. She was in his house,” Wanda says. Ivan stares at her. “I don’t know,” she says. “She was pretty incoherent when I spoke to her.”

  He stares at her. “I called her earlier today,” she says. “As for her and Karl, she’s been…fixated on him for a while. I told her I suspected him and it turns out her friend knew him from work.”

  Ivan’s eye twitches. “What do you mean, fixated?”

  “She’s been trying to find out stuff about him. Asking questions.”

  “Jesus, Wanda. Since when?”

  “I don’t know.” Her insides are cold. “Since…well, before the long weekend. And she followed him around today.”

  “When you say followed, what do you mean?”

  “I don’t know what she’s been doing. But I called her this morning and she was following him in her car.”

  Ivan holds his head. “Why didn’t you call me?”

  “I…I came here to find her. I wanted to find her first.”

  His hands smear down his face. “So, for at least three weeks, my mother has been discussing some guy with you and, what, spying on him? Stalking him? This didn’t strike you as alarming behaviour?”

  “She didn’t want you to worry.”

  “She’s my fucking mother,” Ivan says. “She’s been a wreck on and off for years. You know this. You know it’s why she has buckets of pills. I’ve told you about the nerves and the wild imagination stuff. And if you thought you knew who was creeping you, why wouldn’t you tell me? Don’t you think the person who shares your home and your bed should know that?”

  “Please stop yelling at me.”

  “Well, Jesus Christ, Wanda.” He streaks his hands through his hair. “Who else knows?”

  “About your mom? No one. Leo knows about what I thought about Karl.”

  “So he’s your confidant now?”

  “Don’t start with who talks to who.”

  “That’s not fair. I’m the one you should be talking to. Friendship is one thing, confiding is another. Confiding is fucking intimate.”

  “Maybe I wouldn’t feel a need to confide in someone else if you showed me more understanding.”

  “Oh, Christ. This is just circles now.” He takes out his phone. “I don’t know what to do. Okay. I have to go. I have to go find my mother.”

  “I can come.”

  “No. Just…give me a reprieve, please.” He turns and walks away, taking wide steps.

  Her stomach twists in complaint as her legs scrabble to keep up with him. “Wait!” A couple sitting on a blanket turn and stare at her. Her muscles are tender and slow and she cannot keep up as his back disappears into the crowd. When she gets to the stage, she catches the sight of his frame slipping into the candy-cane stripes of the Green Room.

  In the Green Room. Pike will be there. Smooth beautiful Rachel and all the cool people. And she’s filthy with grime and shame. It’s all so embarrassing. Better to wait for him to come out. She can go with him. They can talk things out, far away from all this shit.

  In the pocket of her hoodie, her fingers touch the cardboard strip of Pike’s drink tickets. The beer tent is surrounded by a temporary fence of posts and plastic netting. From the edge of the fence, she’d have a view of people entering and exiting the Green Room. She could get a drink, sip it casually
, not standout, wait for him to exit. She has her phone if she wants to act like she’s waiting for someone. She dons her sunglasses and heads inside.

  The beer tent has long, industrial wooden tables set up close to the bar area, their sticky surfaces peppered with plastic cups and beer cans. She hands in three tickets—might as well get three at once, save a trip, avoid looking conspicuous in line. She finds a spot near the fence, lays two cans at her feet. The red and white tent is pristine against the black stage and the myriad of plastic tarps and tents. A sea of people filter in from all sides. City bylaws dictate the festival has to end by eleven. Everyone will come to fill up on junk food, beer, and free music before moving to bars or house parties. It will be a nice night. First good party of the summer. Wanda pours beer down her throat, each mouthful is an improvement. Clusters of drinkers are scattered throughout the space between the bar and the fence. They chatter and laugh. They take photos of each other: keepsakes, evidence. No one looks like they’re hiding or stalking.

  She lays the empty can down and takes up another. Should check her phone, to not be so obvious, gawking about.

  A notification from her work email. Soon not to be her work email. Grades will be posted on Monday. She’ll get some notifications then. Mos def. For a moment, she considers the numbness she feels towards her job. Like it was an insignificant errand she had to run, putting gas in the car, dropping off the recycling. She touches the icon for her work inbox.

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

  They try 2 make a funeral into a festival. A fun funeral.

  Liang-Yi. The message glows in her hand. Shrill laughter blares from a nearby cluster of women. The speakers squeak angrily from the stage. Wanda presses reply.

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

  You need to stop doing this. I know who you are. Please leave me alone.

  Wanda

  Send. Your message is sent. She regards the glowing screen, flicks it off and pockets it. The entrance flap of the Green Room hangs still. No sign of Ivan. The song ends, the crowd whoops their approval.

  Her pocket vibrates and chirps about an email received.

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

  Why? How does it hurt you? You have family, friend, you live in a big house with a handsome man. I have only monsters. Media monsters, monster mothers making monster babies, religious monsters, racist monsters. All i have done is try to talk to u about this.

  She swallows. Her throat is dry and depleted. She glances around. A guy in a Toronto Maple Leafs jersey lays a chip bag in an overflowing garbage can and staggers off. The chip bag slides to the ground. She taps the reply button.

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

  I think you should talk to someone who can really help you. Your messages scare me. And I soon won’t be available at this email address. Please get some help.

  Send.

  Response.

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

  No one can help. They can’t change what i see when i close my eyes. They can’t make me stop seeing white men with guns. I saw him decide to take me first. And u saw it too.

  U are the only one who really saw. If others saw, it wouldn’t just be about u the hero. It would be about what kind of killer he was. And this makes me so scared.

  And I know you are also scared. Everyone loves u and u still hide.

  She’s right. Edward Rumstead did make a choice. Motivation is unknown, but it was there.

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

  I’m sorry you are going through this. Yes, I did see that.

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

  Then u must understand my heart. He was a stupid man who knew nothing. But he knew I should go first. He was taught someone like me should die first.

  She drinks deeply. Oh god. She can say nothing to this poor goddamn girl. She presses respond.

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

  Ok. You should know that I have been sending all your emails to the police since they started. I’m going to send these too and I think you should try to help yourself.

  Send.

  She presses forward and sends the whole chain to Constable Lance. Then she presses block. “Block Holdenshat@mail.com?” Yes. Done. No more. Wanda stabs at the off button. The screen darkens and she stuffs it into her pocket. She looks up and yelps. Trish stands before her, arms folded, all in black: a sleeveless top and a straight maxi skirt. Art-dealer chic with her pale face and red lipstick.

  Trish appraises her up and down, unsmiling. Wanda realizes she’s bracing herself for one of Trish’s threadbare hugs. There is no move to embrace her.

  “A lot of people are wondering where you are,” Trish says.

  “I’m waiting for Ivan.”

  “Here? He left to go to the police station. Ages ago,” Trish says. Her round eyes narrow. “You were there when they took off with his mother. Surely, you don’t think he would stick around drinking and leave her stranded?”

  Wanda stares at the beer in her hand dumbly. Of course she knew he would go to the police station. It’s what a sensible person would do.

  “Sorry. Sorry, I guess I wasn’t thinking.”

  “Oh, don’t apologize to me,” Trish says. “Oh, wait, yes. You should definitely apologize to me.” Her chin juts out. She’s going to haul off and give Wanda a dirty look.

  “Apologize for what?”

  “Maybe for the long brown hair you left on my pillow. I know Leo told you.”

  Trish knows that Wanda knows that Trish knows. “Well, if it upset you, that’s your choice,” Wanda says. She sips her beer and shifts her posture to affect nonchalance. Her heels roll back too far and she wavers on her feet.

  “Choice? To be upset?” Trish says. Her open red mouth like a blossom. “So, you would choose not to be upset if I crossed that line with you and Ivan?”

  “Trish, you and Ivan have never given me any choice,” Wanda says. She sips from the can. A dribble of beer runs down her chin. Her hand jerks it away.

  “Ivan and I have been friends for years. Before you and he even met.”

  “Which gives you the right to do whatever you want. Text him night and day, hang off him, talk about me behind my back. Take fucking candid photos of me after the worst day of my life.” Her voice rises. She steers it back in. “You can’t suddenly set up boundaries.”

  Trish’s red mouth closes. A berry in a bowl of milk. “I have no intention of publishing those photos. And if we talk about you, it’s out of concern.”

  “Your high art-ly concerns,” Wanda says. She makes a flourish with her hand, beer sloshes over her wrist. “So concerned about me. And your photography. And your Twitter account. What’s sincere and what isn’t, Trish?” She wants it to come out stinging, but her voice cracks.

  Trish sighs and smoothes her skirt at her hips. The material shifts, exposing a side slit and the shock of white legs underneath. “You’re all over the place, Wanda. You say you want to help Pike. He’s been looking for you all day. You say Ivan has hurt you. Then you get involved in…whatever is going on with his mother.”

  “Of course, you know all about that,” Wanda says. “Texty-text. He won’t even answer my calls.”

  “He’s upset, Wanda. You might want to think, if he’s this upset now, how will he feel when he knows you slept in my bed, with Leo?” She steps forward slightly. Her foot appears in a red patent-leather flat.

  Wanda stares down at the shoe: a mocking red arrow. Her shoulders are waterlogged with guilt. She pictures Ivan at the police station. Talking to a bored-looking cop at a desk behind a plastic barrier, a perfect circle cut to voice your complaints through. Last year, he might have brushed off her and Leo getting drunk and passin
g out together. Last month, even. Now, it might be just the excuse he wants. Like Andrea’s hands and the swipe-swipe motion. All done. A dirty job completed.

  “I guess I thought he already knew.”

  “Nope. Leo hasn’t had a chance to talk to him. He only talks about that kind of stuff in person.”

  “So, you don’t blame Leo for this?”

  “Leo drinks too much,” Trish says. She pauses, a slight recoil at her own abruptness. “Things have been a little rough with us lately.” She tightens her arms around herself and shrugs. “We all go through rough patches.”

  Wanda nods. Ivan packing his things. Or her, packing her own things. Or her things in boxes on the path. Pascale Aggressive watching her carry boxes.

  “Look,” Trish says. She moves in front of Wanda, ducking to look into her downturned face. “Come back to the tent. We’ll get you cleaned up.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “What else are you going to do?”

  “Go home.”

  “What will you do there?”

  “Not be here.”

  “I don’t think you should be alone right now.” Trish looks around. “You’ve been drinking. Half of St. John’s has been drinking. Lots of nosey eyes around. Have you eaten?”

  Wanda’s stomach growls in betrayal. She shakes her head.

  “Come on, there’s food in Pike’s tent.”

  “The Green Room?”

  “Yeah. It’s private.” She tilts her head towards the bar area of the beer tent. “It’s turning into a shit show here.” Loud whoops peel from the crowd as if to prove her point.

  “I just want to go home. This whole getting on stage, photo-op bullshit is too much for me right now.”

  “I know.” Trish’s voice is soft and low. “I’ve been with the exhibit all day. It’s madness. I’ve sold at least fifty prints of your photo, my dear.” She smiles into Wanda’s face. “Everyone asks about you. And most of the proceeds are going to the Coalition Against Violence. You did a lot of good today.”