Wednesday came, and the other two guys and I decided to give Carl the day off given that the airport he needed to get to was at least a two hour drive one way and Mary's flight was arriving at noon. The motivation behind the other two biologists in letting Carl go was not really that altruistic in that both had plans on getting home to their wives as early as possible for the long holiday weekend.
I suspected that once Mary arrived I would be seeing very little of Carl, and got my mind set on spending a lot of time alone for the next four days. After work I skipped dinner because I always hated eating alone, and instead went straight to the tavern and played a few games of pool with some of the locals. I made it an early night, however, and arrived back at the house around eight o'clock that evening. Much to my surprise, Carl and Mary were waiting for me in the living room.
I can best describe Mary as a wannabe hippie-chick, the type of person who wished she had been 'of-age' during the Haight-Ashbury days; and who, when not attending school, was spending most of her adult life backpacking across Europe and now America, seeking others of similar persuasion.
She was slender, almost to the point of emaciation; and had long, black hair that she braided into a ponytail. She wore glasses; the rounded, thin-rimmed style similar to those sported by John Lennon, naturally. She was born and reared on London's west-side. I'm not sure why that fact was important to her, but she seemed to make it a point of honor in our conversations. However, although she was British by birth and probably had access to many fine English or European schools, she had decided to attend one of the eastern United States' all-woman colleges, either Smith or Bryn Mawr; I forget which one.
She was about a year away from a degree in clinical psychology, and along with her core psych courses had also taken a healthy smattering of women's studies. I thought it a lethal combination, pop psychology marinated with new-aged feminism. Heaven help the man unlucky enough to seek her counsel because I had only been talking with her for ten minutes, and already felt the need to slit my wrists.
Carl spent much of the time quietly sitting next to her and smiling. Only occasionally did he interject himself into the conversation, and that was only to affirm or underscore a point Mary had made. I found the two of them as unlikely a pair as one could meet, and had an unsuccessful time trying to find anything that either of them had in common.
I don't know why; maybe it was the haughty way she carried her British elitism or the condescending way she talked about people not of her class or station, or maybe it was the fact that she thought most Americans, particularly non-East Coast Americans, were crude and of low-class; but for whatever the reason I took an instant dislike to her.
However, Carl seemed happy, so I held back my tongue and prayed for an early evening.
Mary was currently prattling on and on about the superiority of European culture over American while I was desperately trying to find a polite way of excusing myself for the evening without sounding rude, when Mary abruptly changed the subject, "So John, Carl tells me you're gay."
An awkward silence fell over the room as I turned and glared at Carl. "He did, did he?" I said, dead-panned.
Carl suddenly became visibly nervous. As beads of sweat started to form on his forehead, he quickly tried to alleviate the awkward situation by correcting Mary, "No; I think I told you John is a switch-hitter."
"Switch-hitter," Mary said thoughtfully, "that's an American term for bisexual, is it not?"
"A coarse American term, yes," I said, nodding slowly.
Mary thought about this for a minute while I continued to glare at Carl, wondering exactly what variety of stupid he was, given that part of our last conversation was about keeping secrets. Mary sensed that tension had developed between Carl and me, and tried to defuse the situation, "Oh, it's okay, John, some of my best friends are gay."
My dislike for Mary was quickly devolving into something worse, but I held my ire and said emotionlessly, "They are, are they?"
"Why yes, and I find it quite cosmopolitan and chic of you...an American, that is, who is so forthright and honest with others," she said smiling, but then added with a look of concern, "although maybe not with yourself."
"With myself?" I asked.
Oh yes, my dislike was indeed metastasizing to new level. I was about to add a few more forthright observations about Mary when she quickly asked, "Oh John, hold that thought; but before we delve too deeply into your proclivities, could I bother you for some wine if you have any?"
I pointed toward the kitchen, "I think there's a bottle of red and white above the stove; help yourself."
Mary walked off toward the kitchen, remarking, "Above the stove? You should really keep your wine in a cooler area."
Once she was out of ear-shot, I turned my full attention to Carl and said while trying to keep my voice at a whisper, "What the fuck...!"
"Sorry; it just came out...," Carl started to explain, but I cut him off.
"What do you mean, 'it just came out'?"
I heard Mary say from the kitchen, "This looks like a nice wine, but the white should really be kept in the fridge."
I heard the refrigerator door open, and said with a tinge of sarcasm, "They were a gift from the company. They have a cork and everything," I turned back to Carl and said, "So let me get this straight. You haven't seen this person for over a month, and the first thing you start talking about is my personal behave..."
"Do you have a corkscrew?" I heard Mary ask again from the kitchen.
"Upper-left-hand drawer," I said again over my shoulder.
Carl started stammering, "It wasn't like that. Besides, she's totally cool with it."
"Did it also just come out about your own...how did she put it...about your own proclivities with me over the last few days, and is she cool with that, too?"
Carl started to answer, but Mary called out again, "Where? I don't see it."
"It's the Swiss Army knife on the right," I said with some exasperation, and then turned again to Carl, "Would you go and fucking help her. She's going to ask for a glass next, and will probably want to castrate us because we don't have the correct goblet for California red," Carl started to get up, and I added, "And bring back a freaking beer for me."
Before Carl left the room to help his fiancée, he pleaded, "Just don't say anything, okay? Please?"
After a few minutes the two of them returned to the living room. Mary had a large water glass filled with red wine. Carl handed me a beer before sitting on the couch next to Mary.
Mary took a generous sip from her glass before reinitiating the conversation, "So what were you saying, John?"
"What were you implying, Mary?" I asked with a slight smile.
