Page 115 of Lovebug
“Well, actually… yeah,” I say. “I mean, it’s not a bucket exactly. It’s more like a big metal barrel that catches the rain, then sends it through a filtration system, but yeah.”
She laughs. “So what’s the problem?”
“There are several, actually.”
“Okay, hit me.”
“Well, first of all,” I prep her, “He’s a lot older than me.”
“Define ‘a lot.’”
“Nine years. He’s thirty-three.”
Calliope whistles. “Thirty-three, huh? Wooooo-eeeee.”
“I know. It’s a pretty big age difference, right?”
She scoffs. “Who cares about an age difference! That kind of thing is irrelevant.”
“Oh,” I say, somewhat relieved. And confused.
She continues, “Yeah no, I ‘wooo-eeed’ because it’s his Jesus year.”
“His what?”
“The year he’s supposed to perform all his miracles! You know, like Jesus did.”
Calliope grew up in a super religious family. I did not. We were more of the go to church on Easter and Christmas kind of family. And only if we woke up in time.
“I have no idea what you’re—”
She cuts me off with full-throttled enthusiasm. “Alright. Check this. Jesus was like this quiet thirty-two-year-old nobody dude living in Nazareth with His mom. Then He turns thirty-three and BOOM! Suddenly, He meets all twelve of his best friends, starts performing miracles like a maniac, begins His own religion, throws one hell of a dinner party, gets arrested, dies, and then rises from the freaking dead. Make no mistake, thirty-three is huge.”
“Well, now that you mention it, Wally has had a pretty miraculous few years: beat cancer, left a bad marriage, quit his big, important finance job, bought the arboretum—”
“Met the love of his life…”
“What?” I shriek. “Who?!”
“You, you goober.” Calliope cackles.
This gives me a definite pause. “Me? No. He doesn’tloveme. We’ve known each other for less than a month.”
“I know that, but give it time. There’s no clock on a connection. Sometimes when you know… you know.”
Calliope certainly has become quite the romantic since meeting Ralph. An exhibitionistic, freaky romantic, but a romantic all the same.
I look over at the glowing window of Wally’s tiny home and see him assembling our meals for us. I consider Calliope’s words. “He is pretty incredible,” I say softly. “He’s like this amazing combination of compassion and caring while not giving a single shit about what anyone thinks of him.”
“Oooh, look at that!” Calliope hoots. “Mabel McGonigle curses now?”
“I guess. A lil bit, yeah.” I chuckle.
“I like this guy’s influence,” she says, then cocks her head to the side. “So. If he’s so amazing, why do you still seem hesitant?”
“Well”—I lower my voice even though I’m fairly certain he can’t hear us from inside the house—“I thoughtBertwas amazing, and look what happened there.”
“Did you, though?” Calliope’s voice gets pitchy. “Be honest, friend. Did you feel proud to be with Bert? Excited to see him? Was he the person you wanted to tell all your stories to pretty much the moment they happened?”
