Catholic Guilt and the Joy of Hating Men (22 page)

And I saw a ship.

Adrift.

I’d inflated the lifeboat and grabbed the paddle and the first aid kit. With my lifevest on and a prayer said to whoever’s out there, I climbed in and set off towards the ghost ship.

From what I could see from the deck of the ketch, it was a small Japanese fishing boat, probably about as small as you’d expect to see in the ocean.

I didn’t know why I was going there.

It was possible that there was water and food still on board, or even a radio.

I didn’t know for sure.

But somehow I knew I’d be alright.

I knew because Edgar was with me, following my little orange raft on its trip across the water.

I knew he wouldn’t rest until he’d brought me back to Haida Gwaii, maybe to return the raven-headed dagger, maybe to see Paul again. Or maybe just to be his new Poesy.

I’ll go back to Haida Gwaii and Hotspring Island, as soon as I‘m able.

I think I owe him that.

HOW CAN
you tell who’s vegan at a dinner party?

Don’t worry... they’ll be sure to let you know.

That’s not my joke... I read it on the Internet somewhere. It’s funny because it’s true, just like it’s funny that vegans get so damned angry at people who make fun of them.

I mean... come on, it’s just a joke.

But I’m not all about hating on vegans. I like vegans... they’re fucking delicious.

That last one’s not a joke.

My name is Marie-Claire Grimson. I’m a cannibal.

I also like paintball and modern art.

Larissa Huong had impeccable taste. Fancy cruelty-free clothes, high-end animal-free furniture, a hybrid convertible that makes very little sense with Beantown winters... those things were all warning signs that I just didn’t bother noticing. I didn’t even know that PayPal cheques could bounce.

Her apartment manager had let me in, no problem; even with my hair dyed pink I still managed to play the delicate and grieving card, telling him that Larissa is my best friend... or was... and cue the tears... Mom always tells me it’s never the hair and makeup, that it’s just about the boobs... yeah... but she’s been a good mother to me in other ways.

The manager had left me alone in there since the Patriots were playing, locking the door up behind me. I grabbed everything I could that would fit in my purse, mostly jewelry and what I’m hoping is acid... I knew I’d only get away with taking one outfit, so I chose the one with the tags that seemed the most Italian... I can’t remember if Italy’s just for shoes.

It doesn’t really matter... I won’t get nearly enough for it on Craigslist. Tasty little Larissa owes me two hundred bucks.

As I was just about to go, I heard a voice that sounded familiar, echoing up the hallway from the doorway of apartment 1A.

“She’s in there right now,” the woman said. “She’s robbing that dead girl blind.”

“Look,” I heard the manager say, “I don’t want to get involved in this. You’re telling me that girl with the pink hair is a murderer? You gotta be high on something, lady.”

He sounded different when he spoke to her, like he felt she wasn’t even worth talking to.

I had a feeling I knew who it was.

Some feet started stomping down the hall towards me. Then I heard another set in pursuit. I wouldn’t have time to duck out before they reached me.

And if it really was Eleanor, I’d be better off confronting her with a witness present.

There was banging on the door, and some screaming, and after a few seconds more I heard the jangling of a keyring. The door opened to a very annoyed apartment manager and a very puffy-looking Eleanor. Her skin was bright red and her dreadlocked hair was so dirty and matted that it barely looked blond anymore.

She’d gone over to the dark side.

“You look different, Eleanor,” I said, remembering how put-together she’d once been, not that she’d ever looked that good. “Your hair...”

“I look like someone who’s happy now,” she said. “And if you’d had your way, I’d be halfway through your lower intestine.”

“You girls are friggin’ loons,” the manager said. “Get out of here before I call the cops.”

“You aren’t going to search her?” Eleanor asked.

The manager shook his head and started back towards his apartment.

“So you’ve moved up to real life stalking,” I said. “Threatening emails weren’t doing it for you?”

“You’re a serial killer,” she said. “I’m not going to stop until I see you strapped to a gurney with a needle in your arm.”

“Then you’d better get me a gig in Texas or something. Someplace with deep-fried green beans and cowboy hats.”

“I’m sure I can rent my own gurney.”

I had to roll my eyes at that. “Listen... I really have to go. We just got a new PVR and I haven’t had a chance to set it up to tape Jon Stewart.”

And that’s when she spat in my face. Her loogie tasted like smoked tofu.

If that’s the worst my newfound nemesis can do, I’d say I have things pretty easy.

It’s about time someone gave it to you straight about the world we live in. So many of us grew up watching McDonald’s commercials and that Simpsons episode with Lisa and the Gazpacho and the “You don’t make friends with salad” song... we live in this fantasy world where we let someone else do the butchering for us and we call the end result “barbecue”. It’s bloody disgusting... yeah... I meant to do that.

But don’t worry, my dear. Marie-Claire is here to preach the gospel, to let the truth set you free.

Eating beef is way worse than eating people. It’s not like cows fill out living wills before they’re shot in the head with a bolt gun. They’re not given a choice... no one asks them if they’re looking for a way out from the cut-throat world of feedlot cliques.

People just drag them into the slaughterhouse and make that choice for them.

That’s not something I’d ever do.

My parents introduced me to it, after coming back from an anthropology expedition among the Korowai of New Guinea. They’d both wanted so badly to get a taste of the forbidden long pig, but somehow they’d never gotten the chance. By the time they’d come back home they were completely obsessed with the idea.

Two days on web forums with all caps and blinking text found them a guy in Arizona who had just what they needed. There are some people pay big money to get frozen when they die. Other people want the same thing but can’t afford to freeze more than the head; that leaves a whole lot of surplus parts, most pretty old and tough but you can marinate the stringiness right out if you’re patient enough.

Now I’ve always been one of those girls who didn’t like trying anything new, but before long I wanted a bite of whatever mom and dad were eating. That’s the same way they got me to try asparagus for the first time.

And I liked it. The asparagus and the other thing.

But all good things come to an end, and the brownshirt fascists in Washington decided to override states’ rights once again and my parents and I were left without a supplier.

Mom and Dad got separated a few months later, and while the official blame was on taking opposite sides on something called the Yanomami Controversy, I blame the change in diet. You’ll get the same kind of crash if you dump carbs.

I rarely saw my father after that.

A few months after he left I had half-joked to my mother that we should try eating homeless people.

Her reply changed my life.

“There’s plenty of people who don’t want to live anymore,” she said. “Why don’t we just eat some of them?”

It’s been three years since she said that. We haven’t gone hungry since.