by Erin Mallon
“I’m sensing some tension. Why is there tension?” Mabel asks with interest.
“My traps are always tight, but a night spent on this floor didn’t do them any favors.”
“No, I meant between you and Ralph. Why is there tension between you and Ralph?”
“Isn’t it obvious? They did the nasty.”
“Otto!” I scold.
“Forgive me.” He places his hand over his heart in supplication. “They made love. There is nothing nasty about making love. I’m gonna scrap that phrase from now on.”
“You and Ralph made love!?” Mabel squeals.
“No!” I whisper shout.
Ralph turns around and looks at us. Mabel smiles and waves. He returns to chatting with a parent. I lower my voice to a hush.
“Shhhhhhhh! No! Ralph and I did not make anything. Love, the nasty, or anything else.” I look around to see if any other tables are listening, then lower my voice even further. “Dear God, I do not need that rumor going around. Besides, Otto, the term make love is so embarrassing. People only say make love on schmaltzy old soap operas.”
“What’s a soap opera?” Mabel asks.
“Oh,” I say. This girl continues to surprise me with how sheltered she is. “Um, yeah, soap operas aren’t really a thing anymore, but they used to be huge.”
“My wife, Marta, loved them!” Otto says.
“My mom did too,” I offer. “She actually used to tape them while I was at school so we could watch them together when I got home. Which is… really weird now that I think about it.”
“And they’re musicals about cleaning?” Mabel questions.
“Huh?”
“The soap operas.”
“Oh. No.” I’m learning this girl is hella literal. “There was no singing. I guess they were called operas because they were so dramatic?”
“Okay, but why were they called soap operas, though?”
“Gosh, I don’t freaking know, Mabel.”
Otto takes one for the team. “Well, Mabel, that was because when they started, way back in the 1920s, when they were actually radio dramas, most were sponsored by soap manufacturers like Proctor & Gamble, Colgate, Palmolive…”
“Interesting,” I say. “I didn’t know that. Anyway, there was lots of drama and paternity tests and poisoning, which I loved.”
“Usually a kidnapping too!” Otto adds.
“Oh yeah, the kidnappings were great!” I agree.
“Remember when Billy Clyde Tuggle kidnapped Dixie on All My Children?”
“Billy Clyde Tuggle?” I rack my brain.
“Yes! Billy Clyde!” Otto drops into an impression complete with a decent Southern accent. “Oh, I love you, Dixie Biiiird!”
I got nothin’ for the guy.
“Ran that prostitution ring in Pine Valley? Tried to kill Dr. Chuck Tyler with a shovel? Built a bomb and planned to detonate it on the Pine Valley Bridge? No?!”
“He must have been before my time. I was tuning in from like ’06 to ’08. Like third through fifth grade.”
“Christ, you’re a child. And why was your mother letting you watch that smut in third grade?”
“She’s a complicated woman, my mom. Anyway, Mabel, people came back from the dead constantly. Lots of medical miracles. Characters were always talking to themselves out loud and confessing their dirty secrets when they thought no one else was around. That always cracked me up. Ugh, but when the characters said they wanted to make love, I always wanted to vomit.”
Just then, Ralph comes back to the table with his tray piled high with floppy French toast and already soggy Cheerios. “You’re going to vomit?” He sounds concerned.
“No, making love makes her want to vomit,” Mabel helpfully explains.
“You told them!?” Suddenly, Ralph is the one freaking out.
“Okay, I gotta go, guys!” I shoot to my feet. “Thanks a million for the help. Nothing else we need to do. Parents are all set to sign out at security with the kids once they’re finished with breakfast. So… peace out, cub scouts.”
Then I start hauling ass out of there.
And… Ralph follows me.
“Calliope, wait. We should probably talk, don’t you think?”
“I hear ya, and we will, but I kind of have to catch a train.”
“A train to where?”
“Home.”
“But you live right around the corner.”
“No. Home-home. Where-I-grew-up home.”
“‘Right outside the city’ home?”
“Yup.” I continue to hustle down the long marble hallway toward the exit.
“Can you please stop running so we can talk like civilized human beings?”
I stop and face him.
I pause.
I breathe.
“Ralph,” I say quietly. “I think last night proved how uncivilized I am, don’t you?”
He brushes his thumbs along my cheeks.
“Everything is going to be okay, baby,” he says.
“How can you be so sure? Also, did you just call me baby?”
“I’m a pretty insightful guy. And yeah, I think I did. That okay?”
This gets a tentative laugh from me.
“Yeah. It’s okay. Can we just… step outside to do this?” I can’t help looking all around me as I say it.
He drops his hands from my face.
“Sure. Let’s go.”
We push through the revolving doors and out into the spring air. It’s bright, so I slide my sunglasses over my eyes. Or maybe I’m hiding. I don’t know.
We stand face-to-face while he waits for me to speak.
“I… really don’t like going home to visit.”
“So why are you going?”
“Easter Sunday dinner. Big deal in the FitzGerald house. They’re expecting me. Plus, I haven’t seen my niece and nephew in way too long, so…”
“Want company?”
“What do you mean?”
“I could come with you if you want.”
“To my parents’ house?!”
“Yeah. Why not?”
“Don’t you think it’s a bit early in this… whatever this is… to meet the parents?”
“It wouldn’t have to be like that. I’ve been told I’m an excellent buffer in situations like this. Besides, I’m a scientist. Human interaction interests me.”
“Oh, my family is interesting alright!”
“They’d have to be. To have produced you.”
He smiles.
I look at my feet.
“I don’t know…” I hedge.
“Tell me this. How were you planning on getting there?”
“Megabus.”
“MEGABUS!?” He seems horrified.
“Uh, yeah, dude.”
“No. Hell no. You are not taking megabus. Megabus is a den of sorrows on six wheels. A heinous tubular tin can with soiled seats and terrible airflow. A hotbed of motion sickness overrun with foul-smelling fellow passengers, not to mention dangerous drivers and—”
“I got it; I got it. But, whatever. Megabus is what I have.”
“Nope. You’ve got me. I’ll drive you.”
“You have a car?”
“I have a great car! She’s my baby. Name is Vulva.”
“Ex-squeeze me?!”
“I know. It’s weird.”
I definitely need to hear more on this subject.
I continue, “So what you’re saying is you want me to…get inside your vulva?”
“Yes. She’s actually a Volvo, though. When my little sister was really young, she couldn’t say Volvo. She called it The Family Vulva, and I guess it stuck. What time is dinner?”
My head is spinning.
“Uh… six? Thou
gh we usually all arrive around five.”
“Great. Pick you up at four.”
“Are you sure, Ralph? Because I can almost guarantee this is going to be—”
“Pick you up at four,” he repeats, then gives me a quick peck on the cheek and starts walking down the street.
I watch him for a long time until he’s completely out of sight.
“Miss FitzGerald? Earth to Miss FitzGerald,” a smooth voice says a few feet away from me.
I snap out of whatever trance I was just in.
“Dr. Knowles, hi! I didn’t see you walk up. I was just… I was, um…”
“No need to explain,” she says with the subtlest of smiles. She can’t actually be smiling at me, though, can she? Nah. She probably has gas or something. Or is it babies who smile when they have gas? Hell if I know.
“How was your sleepover?” she asks.
“My sleepover?” I squeak.
“You chaperoned the museum sleepover for us, yes?”
“Yes. Yes! It was fantastic. Yes.”
“Good. I really appreciate you doing that on your night off. And thank you for getting us those extra volunteers too.”
“Of course. Anything to help!”
“I’ll send an email with particulars, but I was thinking… I could use your assistance with a special segment on the night of the gala. I think you’re just the right person to ask.”
“Sure! Yes. Whatever you need.”
“Great. I’ll see you at the staff meeting tomorrow afternoon then.”
“You will indeed!”
Dr. Knowles heads up the steps, and just before entering the revolving doors, she calls over her shoulder. “Oh, and Calliope?”
“Yes, Dr. Knowles?”
“Are you still open to traveling to South Dakota this summer?”
“What? Where? Yes! Why? Why, do you…?”
“Well… it seems that my assistant won’t be able to join me after all, due to a family situation, so… I was curious if you’d be interested in taking her spot?”
I’m pretty sure the world stops spinning for a moment.
“Yes,” I breathe. “That would be… I would be… I mean, I don’t think I can adequately express how much that would mean for me to—”
“Excellent. I’ll have Maria draw up the paperwork tomorrow.”
“Excellent! Wonderful! Oh my gosh, thank you! Can I hug you?”
I bound up the steps toward her like an enthusiastic puppy.
“Oh, I—”
I don’t wait for her response before throwing my arms around her.
“You’re… very welcome,” she says as stoic as ever before extricating herself from my embrace and smoothing her blazer. “Have a lovely Sunday, Miss FitzGerald.”
“You too, Dr. Knowles,” I beam at her. I can’t help it.
I watch her enter the building, all class and grace and magnificence.
Well, what do you know? Suddenly, my Goddamn dreams are coming true.
Chapter Eighteen
“Oooh, turn it up, turn it up!”
He turns the volume dial, and the car fills with the sweet explicit sounds of Puff Daddy. I can’t help the immediate groove that overtakes me.
“You’re in a much better mood now,” Ralph says, sounding pleasantly surprised.
“I’m in a good mood every day.”
“Not so much this morning. You seemed pretty freaked out.”
“I’m sorry about that. The tea left me with a bit of a headache. I took a shower and a nap, and I feel much better now.”
“Good.” He watches me while I continue to car dance. “What the hell is this music, by the way?”
“‘Can’t Nobody Hold Me Down’ by Puff Daddy, featuring Mase!” I say like it should be obvious. “It’s my life’s theme song!”
“Okay…”
“Listen to those words. Terrible grammar, but a gorgeous message. Also, I just have mad respect for The Puff. Can you imagine if every few years you were like ‘You know what? I’m changing my name. Now you have to call me The Ralphinator.’ Then two months later, you say, ‘No actually, ef that! Now my name is Ralphalpha, suckas!’ But whether he’s going by Puffy Daddy, P. Diddy, Diddy, Love, Brother Love, or straight-up Sean Combs, that there is a guy who’s not afraid to tell the world how he wants to be seen and how he deserves to be treated. Am I right?”
“Sure, yeah. Is that why it’s your life’s theme song? Because of Puff Daddy’s steadfast self-awareness and willingness to tell the world what he wants?”
“That’s a nice bonus, but nah. It’s because it was number one on the Billboard charts the day I was born. That’s your life’s theme song.”
“According to whom?”
“Nice use of whom.”
“I thank you. According to whom?”
“All those social media posts going around!”
“Oh, I don’t do social media.”
“What? No social media? None?”
“None.”
“Damn. You’re one of those guys?”
“I guess I am.”
“Don’t you feel disconnected?”
“Not at all. I call who I want to call. I see who I want to see. I don’t need to view pictures of my friends’ breakfast or the results of their Buzzfeed quizzes to know who they really are at their core.”
“Okay, Boomer.” I roll my eyes at him.
“Oh man, you don’t really say ‘Okay, Boomer,’ do you? That phrase is pretty disrespectful, don’t you think?”
“Chill, Ralphalpha.”
“I really hope that nickname doesn’t stick.”
“Oh, it’s sticking. Consider it stuck! And I was calling you a boomer ironically.”
He gives me a look out of the corner of his eye like he doesn’t quite believe me.
“Because clearly, you’re not,” I explain. “What are you, twenty-eight? Twenty-nine? But brace yourself, dude, because you are about to meet the boomerest of boomers in less than an hour.”
“Still calling me dude, I see,” he marvels. “Even after we…”
“After we what?” I say with full seriousness.
He scoffs. Then smiles. Then frowns.
“Well. You know.”
“No, I don’t know. After we…?”
He goes into full panic mode.
“Calliope, I swear to God if you tell me right now that you don’t remember sleeping together last night, I’m going to lose my damn mind. I will turn myself into the closest police station we can find! Find it right now on your phone, please. Geezus, I thought we were on the same page! I should have followed my gut on that one. I knew we shouldn’t have gone there for the first time while on a mushroom trip, but you were so… you seemed so… and then you… I mean, come on, you even clapped and cheered for The Condom Moment! So I just felt like—”
“Ralph, Ralph, Ralph!”
“What!” he practically yells at me, he’s so wound up.
The poor guy is spiraling big time. Not to mention the car is starting to swerve on the highway along with his agitation.
“First of all, I remember.”
“Oh, thank God,” he says on a rush.
“Second of all, eyes on the road, please? And breeeeeathe.”
“Breathing. I’m breathing,” he lets out on a relieved sigh. He gets the car back on track.
“And thirdly?” I hear my voice soften to the point that it doesn’t even sound like me. “You were really sweet and sexy.”
He flashes me that smile I’ve come to love.
“Sexy, huh?”
“Easy, tiger. Rest assured that the mushrooms loosened me up a bit, but they did not impair my judgment in any way. I think they just… allowed me to do what I’ve wanted to do pretty much since the first t
ime I saw you. So, no regrets.”
I take a moment to amend my statement.
“Well, I mean, I could have done without the industrial carpet rug burn on my knees and the blasts of A/C on my bare ass every few minutes, but other than that… no regrets.”
It’s silent for a moment—too long if you ask me—and I start to doubt myself.
“You?” I ask in way too high a voice.
“Same,” he says sweetly, then he reaches out to hold my hand over the console. I surprise myself by letting him. “No regrets.”
We drive a few moments in silence, holding hands. I consider letting go, but damn. It feels really nice.
“Almost there. Two lights down, you’ll want to hang a right,” I let him know.
“Sounds good.”
Just ahead of us, though, lights start flashing and bells begin clanking. The arms at a train crossing come down. We slow to a stop.
“Alright, now’s your chance.”
“For what?”
“I get that you’re anti-social media, but surely, you’re not opposed to the Google, are you?”
“Course not. A guy’s gotta do the Google.”
“Okay, good. So quick! Google the number one song from the day of your birth! I gotta know.”
“Alright.” He pulls out his phone and searches. “Okay, I found it.”
“Oooh, tell me, tell me, tell me!”
“‘Good Vibrations.’”
“Um.” My face scrunches up.
“What?”
“Dude. You told me you were a bit older than me, but ‘Good Vibrations?’ What are you, some freakishly youthful-looking, sexy sixty-something??”
“No, dude.” He laughs. “It’s ‘Good Vibrations’ by Marky Mark and the Funky Bunch. Not ‘Good Vibrations’ by the Beach Boys. Though that’s also a great song. Just happens to have released way before my time. I’m twenty-eight.”
“Oh. Thank God. I mean, whatever. As my best friend, Sasha, always says, ‘hashtag love is love’ and all, but… I think you’ll understand when I hit you with an emphatic phew!”
“Calliope FitzGerald, are you phewing because you like me?”
“What? No! I don’t like people. Why would you ask that?”
“I just wonder why you’d be relieved that I’m not sixty-something, unless…”