Wake Up, Wanda Wiley

by Andrew Diamond

  He was paying the toll for his offense with Shana, and Wanda was accepting the payment. He had taken her to the new French restaurant last night, and lavished on her the full power of his warmth. They came home and had sex, and they had sex again when they woke up. His favorite way to start the day, and hers too.

  Normally by now, securely back in the good graces of his admirer, Dirk would have turned his attention to other things. To work perhaps, where he could puff himself up under the admiring gaze of the girls in his undergraduate class, or to the new spring suits in the clothing catalog that could make him look as dashing (he thought) as the models on the pages.

  But still he looked at her, as if his work weren’t done, as if he hadn’t fully sucked her back into the Dirk Jaworski universe. She wanted to ask him what was wrong, but she feared provoking his temper. More than an angry eruption, she feared his cutting insults, those clever backhanded compliments targeted with uncanny precision at whatever she happened to feel most insecure about in the moment. A cruel word from him at breakfast could leave her deflated for the entire day, and she didn’t want to do anything to bring it out of him. So she sat quietly and drank her coffee, balanced on the razor’s edge of the happiness brought on by good sex and a special breakfast. Funny, she thought, how even my happiest moments with him are tinged with fear.

  “What were you thinking of?” he asked coldly.

  She knew exactly what he was asking. What had she been thinking of while they were having sex this morning? Or more to the point, who was she thinking of?

  “That dweebus,” she said, surprised at the sound of her own voice. She had meant to say, “Nothing, why?” But instead, this came out. Dweebus. Where had that word come from? She had never uttered it before.

  “Austin?”

  How the hell did he know who she was talking about?

  “Yeah.”

  “You were thinking of Austin while we were having sex?” He laughed in a way that made her feel stupid and small. “Seriously?”

  “I was mean to him the other night.”

  “When?” Dirk asked.

  His tone of accusation made her feel she had done something wrong, and she replied defensively. “He came by to see you, remember? But you were out with that… Counseling that student.”

  “Why would you feel bad about anything that happened with Austin?” His tone was haughty. “And why would you bother thinking about it during sex?”

  “I don’t know,” Wanda answered honestly. “I have no idea where the idea came from, or how it got in my mind.”

  “What did you guys do?”

  “Nothing, Dirk. We just talked.”

  “What’s the point of talking to a guy like Austin?”

  “He was telling me about—”

  “He probably just wanted sympathy.”

  “No, he—”

  “He wanted you to feel bad for him because he lost his job. He wanted a pity fuck. That’s what he wanted. You know he’s been in love with you for years.”

  “You think?”

  “Oh, come on!” Dirk got up from the table and set his coffee cup beside the sink. “Does it turn you on?”

  “What?”

  “Austin wanting you.”

  “I don’t think he wants me in that way.”

  “Well what other way would he want you?” He turned on the sink and rinsed his hands.

  “He likes to talk. And so do I.”

  “Yeah,” said Dirk as he wiped his hands on a dish towel. “You’re all gushy feely and he’s mentally unzipping your pants.”

  “No, Dirk. I’m not all gushy feely. Not with him.”

  “Well maybe you should be,” he said as he turned to leave. “You can dump all the annoying feelings on him and save the good stuff for me. He’s the kind of symp who’ll suck it all up like a sponge. Clean up those dishes.”

  “Don’t talk to me like that. Fuck you, Dirk!”

  “Fuck you!” he said from the hall. “When you cook, I clean. When I cook, you clean. A deal’s a deal.”

  “Jerk!”

  Damnit, Wanda thought. Why do I even care if that bastard likes me? Something is wrong with my emotional wiring.

  12

  “Hold it steady,” Trevor said. “So the holes line up with the bracket and I can get the bolts through.”

  Hannah slid the heavy wooden handle up an inch until the holes lined up.

  “That’s not too heavy for you?” Trevor asked.

  “No.”

  He slid the first bolt through, and then the second. Then he told her to let go.

  When she wiped her hands on the satin dress, he said, “You’re going to ruin that thing.”

  “I’m sick of it. I feel like I’ve been wearing it all my life, waiting for one of Wanda’s heroes to carry me away.”

  Trevor twisted the nut onto the top bolt with his fingers.

  “It doesn’t suit you.”

  “No.”

  “To be honest…” He paused to twist the second nut onto the bottom bolt. “I see you in pants.”

  Hannah let out a little chuckle of surprise. “That’s funny. You’re the first person who’s said that.”

  “I see you as more of a practical type. A get-things-done kind of person.”

  She was glad he said person and not woman. “You can understand, then, how I’m going crazy here.”

  “Oh, I get it,” Trevor said as he applied the wrench to the top bolt. “Anyone would go crazy being stuck here.”

  “Can you ask her?”

  “Ask her what?”

  “Ask Wanda to put me in pants.”

  “Yeah, sure.” He finished tightening the top bolt. As he started on the bottom bolt, he said in a low voice, “Wanda, get her out of that stupid dress and put some pants on her.”

  “You told her to talk to Dallas, didn’t you?” Hannah asked.

  “About a hundred and fifty times.”

  “I can tell. She’s unsettled. We were having sex this morning and—”

  “Wait, you were having sex? With Wanda?”

  “No. Wanda was having sex with Dirk and—”

  “Oh,” said Trevor, less interested now. He finished tightening the second bolt. “You said we.”

  “I feel what she feels, so I can guess what she’s up to, even if I can’t see or hear her. She was having sex with Dirk, and she was thinking of Dallas.”

  “Thinking of, like… doing it?”

  “No. She felt bad about something that happened between them.”

  “She was mean to him,” Trevor said.

  “Was that it?”

  Trevor nodded and dropped the wrench into the wooden toolbox. “He asked for it, in my opinion. The guy’s a dweeb.”

  “But that’s a big deal. For her to think of him when she’s having sex with Dirk. Even if the thoughts aren’t sexual. She’s always been so physically wrapped up in Dirk. This is the first time she’s had room in her mind for something else. I mean, the first time during sex.”

  “Yeah, he felt it too,” said Trevor.

  “How do you know?”

  “Did you hear them talking at breakfast?”

  “No.”

  “That guy’s a prick. He doesn’t care how miserable she is, as long as she keeps worshipping him. And as soon as she stops, he’ll find a replacement. I know his type.”

  Trevor pumped the handle and watched the clear water gush into the old wooden bucket.

  “Keep working the Dallas angle,” Hannah said. “And don’t call him dweebus. It might bias her opinion.” Hannah reassessed him as he lifted the water bucket. “You know, you’re a lot more interesting when you’re not racing around shooting people.”

  “Tell you the truth,” Trevor said, “I needed a break.”

  “Well, keep talking to Wanda. We need her healthy again, so she can write us out of here.”

  “Hey.” Trevor smiled. He nodded toward he
r as if to say, Look at yourself.

  Hannah looked down to see herself dressed in a simple white blouse and black slacks.

  “Thank God,” she said.

  13

  For the life of her, Wanda could not understand why she had spent the entire morning on her iPad looking for open professor jobs and new houses in Dallas. She couldn’t have located the city on a map or named its core industries or any famous person from there other than J.R. Ewing and the Cowboys.

  It was 11:30 a.m. She wasn’t stoned, and she didn’t want to be. Dirk was a jerk and could clean his own damn dishes, and Austin was a dweeb, but he was a sincere dweeb, and she should apologize to him in a way that didn’t lead him on. She called his cell, but it went straight to voicemail. She knew he sometimes turned it off while he worked. But he wasn’t working anymore. If anything, he was packing. So why not stroll on over to his house and tell him in person that she was sorry for being a bitch?

  She walked past the office on her way upstairs to get dressed. The computer monitor was dark and would stay that way because Trevor Dunwoody was not interesting enough to write about, and neither was the president or any other character Ed Parsippany had ever written, and that stupid bitch editor could shove her outline up her ass.

  Forty minutes later, as she stood before the mirror applying eyeliner, she asked herself why she had showered, why she had put on fresh black slacks and a white blouse—the same outfit Hannah was wearing—and why her eyes looked so white and clear.

  Because you’re not stoned for once, she told herself. Your eyes look good when they’re not all bloodshot. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen them like that, or the last time she’d put on real clothes in the daylight hours. She was used to sitting in front of a monitor in sweats or tights, pouring out the contents of her imagination.

  The sun was warm on the walk to Austin’s. The sky was clear and blue. In a few weeks, after the students were done with finals, the moisture of the summer air would turn the sky a paler blue. The oppressive humidity would keep people indoors during the day, and the outdoor tables of the cafes would fill at night with lovers and families and intellectual college-town types talking of literature over beer and wine.

  Did Dallas have outdoor cafes? Or was everyone down there too busy drilling oil wells and eating barbecue and rooting for the Cowboys?

  Why did she care about Dallas anyway?

  Austin’s house was a small two-story craftsman, like hers, only he rented while she and Dirk owned. An adjunct professor could never afford to buy a house. Even renting, he had to share. His housemate Audrey was intimidatingly beautiful, though she had vandalized herself with poorly chosen tattoos.

  There was one of a spider, and one of a butterfly, and one of a motorcycle, all done in different styles with different color palettes, a pastiche of drunken whims and contradictory moods.

  For months after Austin arrived in town, Wanda wondered why he wasn’t dating Audrey. They lived in the same house and they seemed to get along. He was OK looking and she was stunning. He had all the time in the world to work her, so why didn’t he? Was he gay?

  No. She was. Wanda saw her kissing another woman at a bar one evening, and for the next six months Audrey and Trish were always together. Too bad for Austin, Wanda thought. He had had the perfect setup, sharing the house with the lithe, intriguing beauty, and even their names went together. Austin and Audrey sounded like the couple all the other couples would measure themselves against.

  This is how my mind works, she thought as she ascended the steps to Austin’s house. Writing or not, this is how it churns, and the ideas aren’t all bad when I’m not stoned. I should lay off the weed. It’s like a weight has been lifted from my mind and—

  “Is Austin here?”

  “No,” said Audrey, standing in the doorway with the perfect skin of her perfect arms covered with tattoos that could never match the beauty of the canvas they were drawn on. Why did she do that to herself?

  “He might be back soon. Wanna come in?”

  “Sure.”

  The scene inside the house startled her. She felt a pang of sadness at the sight of all the boxes, the piled books, the artifacts of a life waiting to be sorted into toss or keep.

  “Are you moving too?” Wanda asked.

  “Just three blocks,” Audrey said. “In with Sandy.”

  Who was Sandy? I always know when Audrey has a new girlfriend, Wanda thought. Am I that out of touch that I don’t even recognize the name of the lover she’s going to move in with? “Oh,” she said. “Congratulations.”

  Audrey smiled. “It’s not that kind of move-in. She’s straight.”

  “Oh.” Wanda wondered whether, if she and Audrey ever lived together, they might hook up. She’s so fucking beautiful, Wanda thought, if she wanted me to kiss her… But she’d have to keep her arms covered. Those tattoos! And God only knows what’s on her back.

  “Where did Austin go?”

  “To get more boxes and tape. How have you been?”

  “Oh, you know… Just writing.” Just all alone writing and eating, my ass fusing to my chair. And my boyfriend is a jerk, but you know that. And I want to move to Dallas.

  “You look good,” Audrey said.

  “I do?”

  “Your eyes.” Audrey motioned to her own eyes. “They’re so clear and bright.”

  Wanda smiled.

  “You want something to drink? A Coke?”

  “Sure.”

  Wanda walked into Austin’s bedroom. His was on the first floor, Audrey’s was upstairs. The bed was unmade, and a pile of unwashed clothing stood atop an old red suitcase that sat open on the floor. He’ll never get all that in there, she thought. And I hope he has the sense to wash it first.

  A stack of textbooks sat on the printer beside the desk. Biochemistry and molecular biology. Without opening them, she knew they were filled with diagrams of molecules that connected H’s and N’s and C’s and O’s in patterns that looked like honeycombs. And there would be blurry photos from microscopes that could just as well have come from telescopes. These were the things eighteen-year-olds had learned to decipher under the tutelage of Austin Reed with his clear explanations and infinite patience.

  “He just texted me,” Audrey said, handing Wanda an icy glass of Coke. “He won’t be back for another couple hours. He ran into a friend and they’re having lunch.”

  “Oh.”

  “Anything you want me to tell him?”

  “No. I just came over to apologize. I was kind of rude to him the other night.”

  “I know.”

  “Did he tell you?”

  “No. But I knew what he was going over there to tell you. And I could read it on his face when he got home.”

  Wanda felt a tinge of shame. Not at Audrey’s judgment. She didn’t seem to be judging. Audrey never seemed to judge anyone. She was easygoing that way, the same way Austin was. Wanda’s shame came from her own judgment of her own behavior.

  “You know he really likes you,” Audrey said.

  “I know. I like him too. But not like that.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “What do you mean, am I sure?” Wanda felt the question was out of line. She heard it not as, Are you sure you don’t like Austin, but instead as, Are you sure you’re really in love with Dirk? The question cut a little deeper coming from Audrey, whose opinion and intelligence she respected.

  “It wouldn’t matter if I did,” Wanda asserted. “I’m in love with Jerk… Jadirk…” She couldn’t get the name out. “I’m in love with Jerk Worship!” She clapped her hand over her mouth before it could let out any more words she didn’t want herself to hear.

  “Suit yourself,” Audrey said. She turned to leave.

  “I’ll come back later. When is he leaving?”

  “Day after tomorrow.”

  “Well I’ll definitely say goodbye before he goes to Dallas.”

  �
�He’s not going to Dallas,” Audrey said from the echoing hallway. “He’s going to California.”

  Austin… Dallas… California… Points on a map representing places that are only real to the people who live there, like ink on the printed page. Like words laid out on a page by a solitary human mind until a second mind comes along to read them, to bring them back to life, like rain reviving desiccated desert plants.

  At the sight of the handwritten pages strewn across his desk, she felt a sharp pang of grief. You’ll miss him, Wanda. You know you will.

  But all we ever do is talk, and we can still do that on the phone.

  What sorts of things did Austin write about? She didn’t want to pry, but hadn’t he read her writing? Surely then she could read his.

  Notes about glycolysis and cellular energy production. Processes on which her life depended that seemed utterly remote and abstract. Things happening inside her body all the time of which she was unaware.

  She shifted the papers and found a drawing. A sketch of a teenage boy. Austin’s youngest brother. She recognized him from the photos on Austin’s phone. It was a good likeness done in pencil with careful shading. Strikingly good.

  Below that was another drawing. A spot-on portrait of Hannah Sharpe, the character who had no story, whose face had never seen the light of day. How could he have known?

  14

  Hannah paced the threadbare rug of the ancient farmhouse.

  “God she’s upset.”

  “Will you please stop pacing?” Trevor asked.

  “I can’t. I’ve never felt her so upset.”

  “Is she angry?”

  “No.”

  “What is it then?”

  “It’s…” Hannah tried to sort it out as she paced, her arms folded tightly across her chest. Her hands stroked her shoulders as if she were trying to keep warm. The fog outside the windows had turned black. It billowed against the panes like roiling coal smoke.