Another guffaw falls out of Wanda’s mouth. She clamps her hand over it. Her eyes well up. “All I do is make poison.” Her throat chokes on the words. “I can’t do anything else anymore.”
“Impossible.” Trish puts her arm around Wanda’s shaking shoulders. “There are thirty poster-sized photos of you in the Green Room people want you to sign. That’s not poison. That’s goodness.”
“Yay posters. Dead trees.” Wanda swallows hard to control the sobs. In the corner of her eye, she sees faces turn towards her. “I wish it had never happened. I wish I’d just gone straight home from the gym that day.”
“More people would have died if you hadn’t been there.”
Wanda’s eyes heat up with tears. “But, now, it hurts so much to think about. It physically hurts.” She senses movement; two women, double-fisted with drinks are taking tentative steps towards them.
“Come on. We need to get food into you.” Trish gently grips her shoulder. Wanda lets herself be guided out of the gate. Their footsteps fall together in unison towards the circus-style tent.
Trish sits Wanda down inside the Green Room and brings her a Styrofoam bowl full of chili and a clean, white plastic spoon. Rachel brings her a beer from the cooler.
“You poor thing. So wound up.” Trish jiggles Wanda’s knee. The chili on the spoon is lava-hot and scorches the top of her mouth. She takes a gulp of beer to extinguish it.
“Tomorrow, I’ll talk to Ivan,” Trish says. “I’ll tell him to stop being a turd and be more attentive to you.”
“Really?”
“Yes! He should be more focused on you.” Trish tugs Wanda’s hood down and strokes her hair. “You’re finished work for the summer. You two should take some time, go away for a while or something. You can go out to my folks’ cabin in Bonavista.” She pushes back a strand of hair from Wanda’s face. Wanda fights the urge to yank the hood forward. Her hair feels like oily string pressed into her skull and neck.
“We’ll just hang out here, eat some food, listen to music.” Trish checks her phone. “Two acts until Pike wants everyone on stage.”
“Trish, I really don’t want to.”
“The guys up next are really good. Leo has one of their albums at home.”
“I think I should try to slip out or something.”
Trish’s eyes latch onto Wanda’s. “Oh honey. I know you want to. But you know, there are people who came here tonight just to see you.” Her eyes gloss over with emotion. “I’ve talked to families today. Ella Collier’s family. D’arcy Fadden’s family.” She runs a finger underneath her eye, damming in her mascara. “When I think about how much worse it could have been.” She swallows deeply. “It’s important you’re here tonight, Wanda.”
“I look and feel like a value pack of crap.”
Trish laughs. “Oh, honey, that’s why Rachel is here. She helps everyone.” Trish waves at Rachel, who waves back from the other side of the tent and approaches in tidy, elegant steps.
“Rachel, do you have anything Wanda can wear?”
Rachel appraises Wanda, seated on the couch. Wanda averts her eyes, blows on the chili to cool it. “Oh yes. Come.” She strolls to the far corner of the tent, not checking to see if Wanda is behind her. Wanda lays the bowl of chili on the coffee table and shuffles after her.
Three stuffed racks of clothes are lined up against the tent wall. Rachel slides the hangers along. “There should be several things in your size.” She pulls out a long grey tunic and holds it up to Wanda’s face. “Hmm. We need something to make you pop.” She pulls out a bright purple blazer.
“I don’t think that’s really me,” Wanda says.
Rachel’s eyebrows raise a little. Perhaps at the idea that Wanda has established an idea of what her “style” is. “This, maybe.” She selects an off-white blouse, long, hitched at the waist. “Yes. It wouldn’t look bad with those jeans, either. Kind of funky/dreamy. Try it on?” Wanda unzips the navy hoodie. Underneath, she’s still wearing the t-shirt with the long red wine stain. She glances at Rachel, who looks away, straight-faced.
In the dressing area, Wanda yanks the t-shirt over her head, wincing as she hears the static fizzle of the fabric against her hair. The t-shirt is ripe. She should throw it out; she blushes at the thought of other occupants of the room wrinkling their noses at it. The off-white blouse smells like lilacs and soothes her skin. When it’s buttoned up, it hangs smartly at her hips.
“Yes. You look like a classy number now,” Rachel says when she sees Wanda. “Let’s find you something to dress up that lovely long neck of yours.” She produces a wooden box and opens it to an assortment of necklaces. “This one, I think.” She hangs a thin golden chain around Wanda’s neck; a solitary pearl nestles just above the opening of the blouse. Rachel gives one brisk, approving nod. “Now. Your pretty face. Sit.” She slides out a sleek black makeup bag and takes out a package of disposable facial wipes. Wanda closes her eyes as Rachel runs the cool wet square over her forehead and cheeks. She almost moans as Rachel wipes her neck and behind her ears. “Feels good,” Rachel whispers. Wanda remains still while Rachel applies foundation, powder, and eye shadow in little swipes. “Your hair. I’m just going to brush it back.” She smoothes Wanda’s hair back with a soft brush. Wanda catches a whiff of something floral and fresh from Rachel’s wrists close to her face. “Okay. What do you think?”
Wanda opens her eyes. Her hair, flat and stringy from being tucked under the hood all day, now cascades from her face in soft, shiny waves. Rachel has covered up the dark circles and red blotches on her face and played up her eyes, shades of peach and grey.
“Thank you.”
“You’re easy to work with,” Rachel says. “Great hair, good bone structure.”
“You’re very good.” She flushes with shame. “I’ve been having a rough couple of days.”
Rachel scoffs. “Please. I’ve been doing this for ten years. I’ve covered all kinds of bruises, scars, cocaine faces. You’re a piece of cake.”
Wanda turns her face, inspecting all its angles in the mirror. “I might be able to do this now. Maybe.”
Rachel tilts her head at Wanda. “You smashed in the head of a gunman. You can smile and wave to some drunk people.”
On stage, Pike bounces behind turntables. The floor throbs with the overpowering bass. There are other musicians—a keyboardist, an electric guitar, a backup rapper—but the volume is so high, it’s all muddled soup to her ears. Perhaps if she wasn’t backstage, if she was in front of the speakers, she might be able to distinguish his lyrics from the blare. Once in a while, she can make out a “yeah” and a “fuck” and “haters.” But the crowd before him are on low boil. They gyrate and sway. 10:27pm. Pike will stop in a moment and call everyone out on stage, one by one. Then he’ll do one last closing number. Then she can go home and lie down and shut her eyes.
She stands backstage at the end of a line. Trish, Lydia Simms, the head of the Coalition Against Violence, and a tall man in a police uniform all wait in front of her. It’s like they’re about to accept their high-school diplomas.
She peeks out at the audience. Beyond the dancers, people stand in clusters, smoking, talking. Security guards circulate, talking into headsets.
The song ends. Pike bows deeply. The crowd whistles and thunders with applause. Pike makes a sidelong glance backstage, a little wave. Everyone in front of her gives a little wave back, like a synchronized dance move. Wanda waves last. Pike points at her and cocks his thumb. Shooting a finger gun at her. What a tool.
“Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for making this day, this festival, the fuckin’ best!” Pike says. Again, he bows deeply to the audience. Whistles and whoops. “Before we wrap it up, there are some special people I want to bring out. Hardworking people who make things happen. People who save lives.”
Pike goes through the list. Volunteers, staff, security. The
organizations and vendors who make this city what it is. The park staff. Then he turns his attention to the people in front of her. “Patricia Samson, who created these beautiful photographs on display today, truly inspirational.” Trish crosses the stage. Wanda gets a glimpse of her white leg jutting out of the slit in her skirt. Whistles from the audience. “Lydia Simms, who has worked tirelessly with the Coalition Against Violence in the province for over twenty years.” Lydia crosses the stage, her silver hair glistening under the lights. She moves to shake Pike’s hand; he kisses her cheek.
“Officer J.J. Woods, who was there, on that day, and is here with us tonight, representing the Royal Newfoundland Constabulary and police officers throughout the province.” J.J. Woods walks a straight line to Pike’s outstretched hand. Claps and cheers.
“And now. We’ve all seen the video. We’ve all been captivated by her. A woman who will be known, throughout history, as a hero, Wanda Jaynes!”
Wanda steps out from the curtain. The whoops and cheers boom around her. The lights bear down. Beyond them are a thousand shadows, hands up, clapping, waving. A child is being hoisted up towards the stage; a little boy with dark hair, hands full of flowers. She moves forwards and stoops to take them. The little boy smiles at her, something pink and sticky in the corner of his mouth. Other people press forward, armloads of flowers, teddy bears. Security stream out, scooping the bouquets from extended arms. “Wanda! Wanda! Love you!” She smiles hesitantly into the darkness. Placards, Bristol-board signs, her name in hearts, her name in huge letters. Her hand flutters to her mouth involuntarily. She didn’t know it would be like this. Her eyes fill up.
She stands and waves. People jump up and down, waving and clapping. A sign reads Wanda = Hero. A sign reads Wandawoman! A sign reads Thank You Wanda. A sign reads Ignorant Bitch.
A hand appears in front of the Ignorant Bitch sign and it is blurred by the black backs of security guards. Wanda can see a line of royal blue as the members of Workers for Modern Christianity face the stage. They hold signs over their heads: Conceited Atheist. Miracles Are Real. Atheism is like a fish denying the existence of water. Believe!
Security and audience members scrabble around. Wanda recognizes the green-haired man, the Earlobes guy, snatching down a sign. The sign holder jumps to get it from his hands, but he holds it up high, like Monkey in the Middle. He throws the sign and grabs another one. Ruth shakes a wiry fist: “We have every right! We have the right!” She pushes the back of a woman in a red hat, Dallas Cleal, who whirls around with her arm raised and delivers a solid crack to Ruth’s face. Wanda gasps as Ruth’s slight frame crumbles. People gape at the growing squabble. Cries of “What the fuck?” and “Call the cops!” People point cellphones at the chaos. More security guards move in. Blue t-shirts being dragged away, Dallas too, with her hands held behind her back.
“Okay, cool it! Cool it everyone!” Pike’s voice booms through the speakers. “C’mon, b’ys. I know it was fun in the beer tent, but let’s all relax.” Laughs and mutterings from the audience. “I know, I know. It sucks when some people can’t put their feelings aside.” He raises his hand out over the crowd. Scattered applause in response. “Even at times like this, when people get together for healing and happiness and togetherness, we can lose ourselves. We shouldn’t forget that.”
The applause warms and grows. “Let’s hear it once more for these amazing heroes.” Pike gestures to the line behind him. The crowd whoops once again.
“And before we do our last song, ladies and gentlemen, I want to bring one more person out,” Pike says. “And actually, it refers to what I was saying before. It’s hard to put our feelings aside. It’s hard when things have been difficult to forgive. And to heal, you need to forgive.”
Pike waves to someone off stage. A small figure shuffles forward. She raises a hand to block out the stage lights and takes timid steps towards Pike’s beckoning hand. Confused applause peppers through the crowd. The woman is familiar. Dark hair and an aged, sad face. Wanda recognizes the purple blazer from Rachel’s wardrobe. It dangles on the woman’s frame; she looks small inside.
“Everyone, this woman has had a hard time lately and I think, since the message of this festival is healing, that we should let this woman, Frances Rumstead, heal as well.”
The crowd sucks its collective teeth in response. A few claps.
“C’mon everyone, let’s welcome Frances to the stage.” Pike makes big clapping motions. A few more claps, dark murmurs. Frances’s head hangs low. A male voice, slurry and deep: “Bad move man.” Hushing sounds. “Well, it is.”
Frances Rumstead trembles. What did Pike say to convince her to do this? Wanda stares at him. He stands defiant, arm clamped around Frances like she just struck a home run. Tasteless attention- seeking bastard. If she ran, bolted forward, she could shove him. He would tumble head first off the stage.
The movement is a flicker in the corner of her vision. Two hands and a face, like a mounted heart, appear at the corner of the stage. Wanda watches Liang-Yi Chen hoist herself up and stand on the stage. Her eyes hold Wanda’s. For a moment, there is understanding. Wanda feels herself nodding. Yes, yes she knows.
Liang-Yi unzips her jacket. Underneath, she wears a t-shirt with a close-up of herself, her blurry image on its knees, begging to be spared on the floor of a grocery store. It looks faded. She’s been wearing it for a while.
Liang-Yi’s face shines with tears and sweat, her mouth moving, saying something in another language, something angry and urgent. She moves forward and grabs a microphone stand. “Monsters,” she says. She lifts the stand and holds it sideways. She starts swinging.
“Whoa!” from the audience. Security at the bottom of the stage, ducking as she whips the stand back and forth. Liang-Yi takes long, sidesteps towards Pike and Frances. Wanda’s feet are encased in petrified earth. Every muscle seizes up. The creamy blouse is slathered on her back with fear.
Liang-Yi Chen stares at Frances Rumstead. Wanda cannot hear what she says, but sees the word mouthed over and over. Monster. Or Mother. Mother Monster. Closer with each wide step. Frances is frozen. Pike back-pedals. He falls on his rump at the edge of the curtain.
“No,” Frances says. “Please. Please leave me alone.”
“Now you know what it’s like,” Liang-Yi says. “What it’s like to know it’s you. What it’s like to be a target.”
“No,” Wanda says. “Just stop it.”
Her legs are electric. They move in wide slicing steps, once, twice, three times, gliding her into position directly in front of Frances Rumstead.
The bottom of the microphone stand piles into Wanda’s gut. Her mouth drops open to expel the wind in her lungs. Her stomach reverberates in shock and pain.
“Lord Jesus, help us,” Frances says.
Wanda’s body buckles. She crumples to the stage floor. Her eyes close.
21
THE people in the hallways have places to get to or things to wait for. Wanda’s eyes canter over them as she is guided past signs and posted reminders: Radiology, Mammography, Scent Free Workplace, MRI, No Cellphones Please. The nurse steering her stretcher wears lavender scrubs with a butterfly print.
“We’ll check your x-ray and get some fluids into you,” the nurse says.
“No rush,” Wanda says. “This is the most relaxing ride I’ve had in weeks.”
There is a line-up at X-Ray: people in wheelchairs, a pink-eyed child with a puffy arm. Wanda thought there would be more pain, but she’s been lying still for so long her body seems to have forgotten. Or she’s in shock. Or a rib has broken and dust-like shards of bone are seeping into her bloodstream. Maybe this is what an embolism feels like.
Her phone rattles at her side. Trish shoved both her hoodie and phone into her arms as the paramedics lifted her into the ambulance: “Omigod, omigod! It’s all going to be okay!” Wanda didn’t think an ambulance was necessary, but by the
time she managed to lift her head off the stage floor, it had arrived, paramedics, a stretcher. Security, cops, and strangers witnessed her horizontal departure: “God love ya, Wanda. Good job, girl.” Pike stood by the stage, smoking a cigarette with a shaking hand. She flipped him off.
“Fourteen people arrested at that festival,” someone says. One nurse to another.
“That’s madness.”
“I knew it was going to end badly.”
“Yes. Too soon for a big idea like that.”
The nurse’s voice drops: “Sure, it was the Chinese girl from the video who attacked her on stage.”
“Oh my God.” A high inhale from one, Butterfly Scrubs Nurse. “Oh, that hurts me. The poor lamb.”
“I know, it kills me when I see her in the video. When she’s begging. I can’t even deal with it.”
“I can’t imagine what she’s been going through. But fourteen arrested. That’s ridiculous.”
“What’s this place coming to?”
“Soon they’ll have armed guards at everything.”
“Makes you wonder what they’ll have to do for the Regatta this year.”
Clucking tongues and sighs. They converse in a steady rhythm of busyness with the awareness of being overheard. No privacy for those in the trenches. Wanda’s phone hums. Incoming call. She should turn it off with the amount of dings and pings and tags she’s getting. But Sharon’s contact avatar smiles at her on the screen. She answers:
“Sharon.”
“Jesus, finally. I was starting to think you’d gone AWOL.”
“No. Witness protection maybe.”
“So someone’s hit you now? What’s going on?”
“It wasn’t at me purposefully.” Wanda shifts her weight. There it is, the pain, yanking through her torso. “I got in the way.”
“Fucking hell.” Sharon’s breath sucks in. “First you’re almost getting shot, then concert violence. This is bullshit.” Wanda catches faint music in the background, the chirp of a bird. “Come visit me now,” Sharon says. “I mean it. I’m in Cape May. Housesitting for a coworker until July. There’s four bedrooms, a view, close the beach. It’s sick. Nikki’s coming this week. Join us. I’ll buy you a ticket.”
The Greatest Hits of Wanda Jaynes Page 24