Regan Wolfrom - Catholic Guilt and the Joy of Hating Men

She’d said the same thing on Monday. And Tuesday. I knew she’d say the same thing every day from then until I either said yes or drowned her in my tank.

There’d always be too many witnesses around for that.

“You need to leave me alone,” I said. “My uncle wouldn’t be too happy to find out you’re sniffing around his place for clients.”

“I’m not sniffing. I know exactly what I want. And I’ve talked to your uncle. He thinks you should take a chance. You know, live a little.”

“You’ve gotta be kidding me… you didn’t seriously talk to him about this. Do you get that I hate your guts?”

I could hear a couple of the kids snickering, along with a few parents gasping. One of the teenage boys gave out a little hoot, grinning wildly underneath his training stache. I’d seen that kid around before, more than a few times. I’d started to think of him as my first overly-attached fan, short and skinny, and obviously a local with his NMU wildcats shirt and matching camo baseball cap.

“Don’t make this mistake,” Sandra said. “You’re young and beautiful. Everyone loves you. We need to cash in on that. I’m going to keep on you until you see what you’re throwing away.”

“Just leave me alone,” I said. “Please…”

“We’ll talk again.”

“No—”

“Tomorrow.”

She smiled one last time before turning and walking away.

I needed to find a way to keep her from coming back.

The Wolfman waved me down at lunchtime. That was a first.

“Eat with me,” he said, his mouth half-stuffed with beef kabob.

I sat down at his picnic table, narrowly avoiding a white smear of bird poo.

“You look like you need a vacation,” he said. “Rough morning?”

“I’m being stalked by a cougar from Grand Rapids.”

“The dye-job blonde that’s been hanging around your tank?”

“That’s her. She wants me to run off to Atlantic City.”

“Maybe you should go. You’d be great at it.” He didn’t sound like someone who was overly concerned with me sticking around.

“It’s the same stuff I do here,” I said. “Only it’s away from my family and for not much more money.”

He grinned. “Away from your uncle? That’s living the dream. But you know that I’ll miss you, Vanessa.”

That was unexpected. “Uh, me too… Wolfman.”

“That’s The Wolfman. It’s all about branding.”

I laughed. “Do you ever tell anyone your real name?”

“It’s Quinn,” he said, not that I believed him. “And now that we’ve been officially introduced… I really think you should keep an open mind about that offer.”

I smirked. “Open mind, huh? I’ll bet that’s just what you told Anastasia before you filleted her in the forest.”

He grinned. “You know what I mean.” I felt his hand on my knee. It was close to touching my thigh… but not quite. “I wouldn’t want you staying here just because of me.”

I wasn’t sure what that was supposed to mean. “Okay, then,” I said. “I’ve got to go. I forgot my stupid phone in the bunkhouse.”

“What were you doing there? You have a trailer.”

“Taking my morning cold shower. There’s no hot water but it beats a sponge bath in the water fountain.”

“You’re still using the bunkhouse to shower? But those people are animals.”

“We can’t all afford a fancy supertrailer with indoor plumbing. Not on a pearl diver’s salary.”

He smiled. “You can use my tub,” he said. “It has jets and hot water and everything.”

I froze for a moment. Not because Quinn The Wolfman wanted me to get naked in his trailer, but because he was letting another person into his trailer at all. He’d almost torn the Peschel twins another conjoined rectum when they’d tried to barge in on the Fourth. All they’d wanted to do was take a much-needed piss… or a pair of them, depending on how their system works.

I decided to smirk. “A hot bath in your trailer, huh? I don’t know if I’m willing to pay the price of admission.”

“Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ve got a date tonight. You’ll have the whole place to yourself.”

His little announcement sounded like a rejection, like he was doing his best to subtly tell me “thanks, but no thanks, I get plenty of grade A tail in my line of work”.

“Uh… okay,” I said. “I guess that works.” I mostly just wanted the conversation to be over.

He lifted his knee-scouring hand and gave my lower thigh a nice, friendly slap. “Great,” he said. “You’ll love my collection of fine French soaps.”

I got up to leave.

“It’s a joke,” he said. “I only use good, upstanding American soap.”

I nodded and eventually I remembered to smile.

I was already missing the time in my life when The Wolfman had kept his distance.

Quinn was as good as his word, leaving his trailer unlocked and the bathroom light on, and being nowhere in sight. I’d thought of the possibility that he’d set up some kind of pinhole camera to peep on me, but I soon decided that a guy like The Wolfman didn’t need to bother with deception if he wanted to film some lady parts here and there; northern Michigan has more than enough party stores per capita to make college girls do almost anything. I’m sometimes curious why the Girls Gone Wild van never came up here that often. Then I think of blackfly season and our proximity to Wisconsin and the wonder passes.

I filled up the tub as far as it would go, and then I slipped off my ill-gained Holiday Inn bathrobe and climbed in. The feeling was almost as good as the last time I’d broken a hot water fast, a few years back when I’d gone for four days without a real wash. But it didn’t match that feeling, since this time it was just me and myself; there was neither a bottle of scotch nor a fellow dirty traveler to warm me up.

My current fellow traveler was out on a date, most likely with some ditzy blonde. They say a man wants to mess around with blondes and fall in love with a brunette, but I’ve seen no first-hand evidence of the tail end of that plan. All I’d seen lately is Northern Michigan’s most eligible bachelors all shoulder-deep in fair-haired tramps.

I sighed, and then I lay back in the water and felt the heat lap over my ears. It felt good.

I dipped even lower, until I was completely submerged, other than my pointy knees popping out. My face was under the water, and I held my breath for a few seconds before I felt the gills kick in, filling my lungs with oxygen from the rusty bath water.

The goddess inside me is always waiting for that moment when the water washes over me. My goddess and I could stay there forever if we wanted to… or at least until I needed to pee.

With my eyes closed and my body cocooned in the warmth, I finally felt relaxed, and I tried to let my mind empty as I listened to the breathing from the back of my neck.

My grandmother was like me. I saw her gills and goddess once, out at Sand Point Beach by the lighthouse, back when I lived up at home. We’d been dipping our toes into Lake Superior, enjoying the painfully short summer. She’d noticed my gills first, and I guess she hadn’t wanted me to feel like there was something wrong with me.

“We’re blessed by the spirits of the ocean,” she’d said to me. “They live on earth through us, just as we can live in the waters through them.”

“But the ocean’s a thousand miles away,” I’d replied. I still feel like an idiot for saying that.

My grandmother had never dived for pearls, but she was the one who’d told me the story of Shinju, the Japanese diver who’d come to Hawaii and fallen in love with a big-hearted man from the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, and about how she’d decided to leave everything behind and follow him home, and make him her husband.