Regan Wolfrom - Catholic Guilt and the Joy of Hating Men

And she’d told me how Shinju and her goddess had battled with the dark spirits who’d hunted in the north woods. It was hard and bloody, she said. The creatures would stalk her in animal form, the spirit bear or the spirit wolf, and even a cougar or two, thinking she was easy prey. And then they’d attack. But the moment the monster would pierce Shinju’s skin, the goddess would take over, scratching and tearing and killing. And by the time Shinju would awaken, the creature would be nothing more than scattered bone and blood. It was a war that had always been.

My grandmother told me of the nights when she’d walk through the forest, waiting for the spirit monsters to come and her goddess to breathe. She’d seemed disappointed when she explained that it had never happened to her, that the only creatures she’d discovered were your run-of-the-mill black bears and coyotes.

That was more than me; the closest I’ve ever come is getting chased by a leg-humping shih tzu at summer softball camp. Maybe Ted Nugent’s right. Maybe there’s a bright side to hunting prey animals almost to extinction.

My grandmother was named for her grandmother; her parents had chosen to name her in English, so Shinju became Pearl. I think my name means “butterfly”.

My grandmother told me that every woman born to our family is given the gift. That gift makes what I do for a living a little too easy. Sometimes when I dive I feel a bit like a fraud.

But I guess it’s not really a problem if no one finds out.

I heard a thud against the tub, and I shot up with my eyes open.

And then I heard someone swear. I looked over and saw the skinny boy with the puny little moustache, the one with the cute and creepy crush on me.

That crush became even more obvious when I realized what he’d just been doing with his right hand.

“Sorry,” the boy said. He sat down on the toilet seat and cradled his hurt toe. He didn’t look any older than sixteen to me; I think somehow that helped me classify him in my mind as a confused teenager with boundary issues, rather than some dangerous perv who required a serious pounding with a baseball bat. A good thing, since I’d left my bat at home.

“You’re sorry?” I asked. “Sorry about swearing? Or about spying on me with your pants down?”

His face turned red. I guess he’d forgotten what part of him he was still gripping.

“How can you breathe underwater?” he asked.

“What the hell are you doing in here?”

“I saw you… you were under there for like… ten minutes at least.”

“I doubt it took you ten minutes to choke your little chicken yolk.”

He smiled nervously. “I kinda had a second run at it.”

And then he finally pulled up his pants.

“It’s an ancient technique,” I said. “From Japan. Now will you kindly get out of here before I kick your pervy ass?”

He didn’t budge.

“Get out!”

“You were breathing.”

“I was holding my breath.”

“I saw you. You were breathing. I saw your chest moving.”

He’d seen my chest. Obviously. And a lot more than that. “I’m going to call the cops,” I said.

He grinned.

I wasn’t expecting that.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’ll leave you alone.”

He climbed off the toilet and started to back away, his gaze glued to my breasts, almost tripping over the garbage can on his way out of the tiny bathroom.

I waited until I heard the door to the trailer slam before I climbed out of the tub. Not that it mattered; I doubt I had much left to hide from that kid.

Slimy Sandra didn’t show up after any of my shows the next day. A part of me was almost disappointed; it’s nice to be sought after, even if you question the sanity and natural hair color of the seeker.

But the pervy kid was in the crowd again, and after I’d climbed down the ladder he was huddled in at the back of the mass of eager kids and single dads.

He waited patiently while I dealt with the autographs and the banter, and the two less-than-subtle propositions, one involving adult diapers. Once he was the only person left he gave me the same creepy grin I’d seen from the night before. But this time I noticed something I hadn’t noticed last night, two shiny white fangs on the sides of his mouth.

You wouldn’t believe the crap they sell at the gift stand.

“No one knows about you, do they?” he asked.

“I told you. It’s a breathing technique.”

“Is it… surgically altered?”

“Can you just drop this? I don’t see why you’ve latched on to me.”

“Tell me about it.”

I was starting to miss my bottle-blonde clapping seal and her fake eyelashes.

“Tell me about it,” he said again. “Or else I’ll tell everyone.”

“Tell them what? You don’t even know what you’re talking about.”

“I wonder what The Wolfman would think of your secret. Would he call you a freak, maybe?”

“Who cares? He thinks he’s a character in Twilight .”

“You care.”

I knew he was right. Even if the kid never figured out what it is about me that’s different, he could hassle everyone I work with until someone with half a brain finally realized that my shoddily-built dive tank was at least twenty feet too deep, or that I was always down for thirty seconds longer than the girls at Sea World. I didn’t want people thinking about that.

Even my uncle didn’t know about my goddess. Only the women in my family had known, the ones who’d been touched by it.

I was the only one left.

“Okay,” I said. “I’ll show you my secret. But not here.”

“Later tonight?” He sounded way too hopeful.

“Meet me at my camper at midnight. It’s down by the bunkhouse…”

“I know where it is.”

“You’re creepy, kid… you know that?”

“I’m happy in my own skin,” he said.

I shuddered.

I’d gone from one bad stalker to someone even worse.

The Wolfman (or Quinn) stopped by my camper not long after I got there. He brought a bag of pasties and a six pack of Stroh’s, and while I didn’t check his pockets I was pretty sure from the smile on his face that he had a condom or two on him, too. And he was still wearing his stupid fangs.

I wondered if he ever took them out.

I wondered if that really worked on the other girls.

I wondered if I was on my way to joining their ranks.

“You like pasties, right?” he asked.

“You betcha,” I said. “I’m a good little Yooper.”

“I hope you don’t mind me stopping in, Vanessa. A couple of the local girls convinced Horny Rich to let them throw a party in his trailer and the sounds travels pretty good.”

It wasn’t a terrible excuse.

We sat down at my little square dinette and began to eat.

“Got this from that place by the boat,” he said.

“That could literally be anywhere in town.”

“The little boat. Place was like a hundred and fifty degrees. I guess they cook up so many pasties they decided to make the whole restaurant into an oven.”

“I bet it made you want to buy extra pasties.”

“I get ya… marketing tactic. Sneaky bastards.”

“I have to ask,” I said, “what’s the deal with those fake fangs?”

“They’re not fake,” he said.

I expected a longer answer. I just stared at him for a while.

“They’re implants,” he said.

“You’re kidding.”

“I’ve committed to the role. And the ladies love ‘em.”

“ Some ladies, perhaps.” I gave him a light punch on the shoulder.