Man Camp (7 page)

“And the modern caveman should know how to change a tire,” Martha adds, picturing her brother stranded on the side of the road.

“Not to mention how to jump-start a car,” Lucy says, opening the floodgates and letting the whole disappointing story of her weekend with Adam pour out: the eagle comment, the outhouse debacle, the wood-chopping fiasco, every cringe-worthy moment. “It went beyond ineptitude,” she tells them. “It was as if Adam was letting me know that he wasn’t up to the task of being my mate, like he was saying, ‘These are my limitations. Look at me, I can barely provide for myself. I’m not ready to be a husband or a father.’ ”

“I don’t think that’s what he meant to convey,” Martha says. “I know he’s screwing up right now, but try to remember how much he loves you.”

Lucy blows her nose in a damp cocktail napkin. “Not easy to do when he’s acting like such a total idiot. The man consoles himself with
math.
He’s completely absent. It’s like I’m the administrative assistant for our relationship: I have to do everything from arranging our vacations and planning dinners to envisioning our future.”

At a loss for words, Martha pulls Lucy toward her and gives her forehead a quick kiss.

“What’s happened to men?” Lucy asks, slurring slightly. She rolls a dried wasabi pea underneath her index finger. “Were our fathers like this and we just didn’t notice? Or did feminism somehow interfere with the natural order of things? Maybe men were threatened when women intruded on the sacred male territory of work. Instead of picking up the slack at home, they checked out entirely.”

Eva and Martha exchange a wary look, and Eva pours Lucy a large glass of water.

“In the words of Gloria Steinem,” Lucy says, getting onto her soapbox, “I have yet to hear a man ask for advice on how to combine marriage and career.” She crushes the pea under her thumb, leaving a little green mess.

Eva looks at the pea dust. “How about we don’t overintellectualize this. They’re men and they’ve been this way since the dawn of time. Sooner or later, anthropologists will discover that they’ve been duped by cave drawings for centuries: Cavemen were only
fantasizing
when they drew those macho killing-woolly-mammoths scenes on the wall; what they were really doing was killing time, sitting on their fuzzy asses and doing a little sketching while they waited for the women to return with food.”

Martha snorts with laughter. “My own theory is that it’s a city problem. Don’t country men know how to do all those basic manly things?”

“In your dreams,” Eva says.

“No, Eva, Martha’s got a point,” Lucy says. “My friend Cooper is from the South and he’s manly.”

“And gentlemanly to boot,” Martha adds.

“You’d think city guys would at least make up for their lack of manliness with some extra chivalry, but no.”

“So, we’ll teach them!” Martha says, lighting up at the thought. “Where did you guys learn how to build a fire?”

“Nauset Girls Camp,” Lucy says.

“Camp Mashunga,” Eva says.

“That’s it!” Martha shouts, slapping her hands on the bar and nearly knocking over the bowl of peas. “It’s so obvious. We’ll start a camp for men!”

Lucy laughs. “Apparently, I’m not the only one who’s had too much to drink.”

“We’ll call it Man Camp,” Martha says.

“That’s kind of catchy,” Lucy admits. “Okay, I’m in. And Adam will be the first camper.”

“Jesse’s number two,” Martha says. “If that boy’s going to have any chance with Andrea, he needs a masculinity booster shot.”

“Your FirstDate guys could use the help, too,” Eva says, and then lowers her voice. “Not to mention most of my customers.”

Tired and tipsy, Lucy announces that it’s time for her to go home. She has to teach freshman biology in the morning and already feels tomorrow’s hangover looming in the back of her head.

Eva charges them for two shots of tequila, which Lucy insists on paying for. She pulls a twenty-dollar bill out of her wallet, on which Adam has stuck a Post-it note.
I’m thinking about you
right now,
it says. She peels it off and tucks it into the outer pocket of her wallet, where a dozen other Post-it love notes are stored:
I love you like thunder. Be mine forever. I wish I had you in my
arms.
Usually his messages seem adorable, but tonight they just seem short.

Lucy leaves Eva a gigantic tip and she and Martha stagger outside into the night air, giggling as they wend their way home to the Kingston. They walk arm in arm and point out random men. “Send him to Man Camp,” they whisper to each other. They say, “camper,” about the man who lets his wife pick up their toy poodle’s deposit as he looks away, pretending not to be the poodle-dad. They say it about the stooped-over man who, berated by his shrill wife, keeps repeating, “You’re right. You’re right. I’m sorry.” And they say it about the man who enters their building before them, allowing the door to click closed in their faces.

“Man Camp for all of them,” Martha says, swiping her magnetic key across the box and holding open the door as Lucy scoots under her arm.

Once inside, Lucy suddenly gets serious. “God, Martha. Can you imagine what we’d think if some guy proposed Woman Camp?” She pictures classes on how to churn butter and darn socks.

“Don’t harsh my mellow,” Martha says. “We’re in the land of make-believe and we can do whatever we want, and I want to round men up and send them off.”

“Okay, Tinkerbell.”

They hug good night and walk in opposite directions down the long central corridor. Lucy hears Martha sing her own version of “Where Have All the Flowers Gone”: “
Where have all the
young men gone? / Gone to Man Camp every one / That’s where they’ll
finally learn / That’s where they’ll finally learn.”

CHAPTER 6

“Women want mediocre men, and men are working hard to be as mediocre as possible.”

Margaret Mead

MARTHA CAN’T DECIDE what to wear for her blind date with Fred. Clothes are strewn all over the Bordello—across the bed, over the backs of armchairs, on the floor. She tries on several variations of her standard FirstDate outfit: a fitted black skirt paired with a colorful blouse and chic, pointy-toed black boots. But tonight no combination feels right and she worries that her work uniform might seem too brisk and businesslike. This is a
real
date, after all.

If only she could come up with the perfect character to play for her evening with Fred, then maybe the perfect outfit would follow. But who’d be right for the job? Marilyn Monroe? Audrey Hepburn? Catherine Deneuve? Somehow, channeling a legendary star seems beyond her ability tonight and she wonders why she can’t come up with some garden-variety fabulous woman. Someone irresistible and smart and funny. Someone like Lucy.

That’s brilliant,
she thinks.
I’ll go as Lucy Stone.
She pours herself a glass of wine and picks up a CD that Lucy recently loaned her, thinking it might help get her in the mood. It was a Christmas gift from Cooper, a compilation of his favorite tunes, entitled
Farm Songs.
Martha flips over the CD and studies the photograph of the farm on the cover. There are cows in the foreground and a man in the distance, who Martha guesses might be Cooper. The man’s wearing jeans and a checked shirt and has a huge two-man crosscut saw, longer than he is tall, balanced across his sturdy shoulders. He is walking away from the photographer on a dirt road bordered by a fence. Martha wonders if Fred has ever even
seen
a saw like that.

The first song is “Hey, Good Lookin’,” and Martha takes this as a positive sign. She turns the volume up and sings, “Whatcha got cookin’?” as she dances down the hallway in a matching lime green Cosabella bra and thong. Once in the bedroom, she wriggles into a snug pair of low-riding brown cords, slings a wide belt across her hips, and nods approvingly at herself in the mirror.
Now, what would Lucy wear on top?
she wonders. The last thing Lucy borrowed from her was an ivory angora cardigan, which Martha thinks might do the trick (especially if she leaves it unfastened a button or two below where Lucy would). She puts it on and it’s perfect, right down to the tiny triangle of tummy left bare where the sweater opens slightly below the last button.

During Patsy Cline’s bittersweet “Sweet Dreams (of You),” Martha applies some barely there, Lucy-style makeup, while envisioning the entire, tragic trajectory of her love affair with Fred: their first kiss, a brushstroke of blush; their first fight, a swipe of mascara; infidelity, a dab of lip gloss; abandonment, a dusting of powder.
You don’t love me, it’s plain,
sings Patsy.
I should
know I’ll never wear your ring.
Martha puts her hands on either side of the bathroom sink and stares hard at the results. Despite the anguish of imagined heartbreak on her face, the lack of makeup suits her. Her dark eyes glisten and her skin looks dewy.

You should’ve thought about all this before you dumped me, Fred,
Martha thinks, forwarding the CD to a more upbeat song.

LUCY IS IN A SCRAMBLE to get her place ready for Cooper’s visit. If his plane landed on time, he’ll arrive any minute. Most of the items on her checklist are done: She’s put sheets on the sofa bed, cleaned the bathroom, put out new votive candles. All that remains is to cook a perfect dinner, over which she wants Cooper and Adam to get to know each other better. They’ve met a few times, but always when one or the other was in a rush, so their exchanges have been mostly handshakes in person and how-are-yous over the phone. Though Lucy can’t imagine that they won’t like each other, she knows that a tasty meal, mellow music, and a great bottle of Cabernet do a lot to further a friendship.

When the phone rings, Lucy assumes it’s Cooper calling to tell her that his plane is delayed or his luggage is missing, but she hears Martha’s voice on a static-filled cell-phone line.

“What’s up, dater?” Lucy asks, chopping onions with the phone cradled between her chin and shoulder, her eyes starting to water.

“Um. Not much,” Martha says, hesitating. “I seem to have taken a detour on my way to meet Fred.”

Lucy puts down the knife and looks at her watch; it’s 7:10 P.M., ten minutes after Martha’s date was supposed to start. “What kind of detour?”

“I’m at an Irish pub across the street from where I’m supposed to meet him.”

Lucy hears the tinkle of ice cubes in a glass as Martha takes a sip of something.

“Luce, what’s wrong with me?”

“You’re just nervous.” Lucy rinses her hands and goes to the living room, where she sits down on the floor, her spine against the sofa. “What’s going on?”

“I have no idea. But I think the problem is as simple as I’m not you.”

Confused, Lucy says, “That seems like a good thing.”

“No, you see, as far back as I can remember I’ve gotten into character for dates.” Martha has never told this to anyone. “I usually choose celebrities: Mae West if I’m feeling sassy, Audrey Hepburn if I want to be glamorous. You get the idea. Anyway, tonight I thought it might be fun to be you.”

Lucy digests the information, unsure she likes the idea of Martha playing her.

“But it didn’t work,” Martha continues. “In the cab ride over, the real me kept coming through so loudly I couldn’t ignore her.”

Relieved, Lucy asks, “Well, uh, what did the real you say?”

“That you wouldn’t be caught dead doing something this neurotic.”

True,
Lucy thinks. “What I don’t quite understand is why you’re so anxious about a date with a man you’ve never met. An amateur potter, no less.”

Martha is quiet for a moment. “I guess I just don’t think I could handle it right now if some Fred Nobody made me feel like I wasn’t pretty enough or young enough or witty enough.”

Hearing this, Lucy is flooded with gratitude for Adam’s presence in her life. She lifts one of the sofa’s cushions in search of a Post-it love note, but finds none. “Martha, if you go as you, that won’t happen!”

“You’re just saying that because you’re my best friend.” Martha sighs. “Besides, you have no idea of the person I become on dates; she’s nothing like the me you know. You’d hate her.”

“I doubt that.”

“It’s true! I become this pathetic, smiley, unopinionated über-hostess. I ask questions like: ‘How are you finding your soup?’ and ‘Isn’t this place delightful?’ I kid you not, I use words like
delightful.
Lucy, it’s awful, I become
my mother.
”

“Look,” Lucy says, “here’s what I want you to think about tonight.” She’s not quite sure what to say next. “Think: I’m Martha McKenna: actress, entrepreneur, fabulous woman. You are Fred Nobody, some unknown entity who must prove himself worthy of my company.” Lucy pauses a moment. “I’ve got it: go as a peahen!”

“What?”

“In nature, males are always in charge of courtship and seduction. Remember? Meet Fred with that in mind. Make
him
do the work. Think: Fred is just one of a hundred peacocks who wants to mate with me.”

“Okay,” Martha says, clearly dubious but willing to grasp at any straw.

Lucy gets up and paces across the living room. “These are the questions you should ask yourself when you’re at dinner. Fred, do your tail feathers please me? Do I like your song? Am I into your mating dance or does your chest-puffing just make you look bloated?”

There’s no reply.

“You with me?”

“Coo,” Martha says in the affirmative. “Coo.”

“Atta girl!” Lucy fights an impulse to correct Martha’s dove impersonation. “Remember, make
him
do the work!”

“Right. Make
him
do the work. Make
him
do the work. Okay, I better get over there, Luce. I’ve already made my peacock wait twenty minutes.”

FOR DINNER, Lucy serves her favorite Cape Cod dish, linguine with white clam sauce. As a child, at least once a week during the summertime, she and her father would slog through the mud pools in the marshes of Nauset Bay, fending off green-head flies and no-see-ums to find the delicate clams for this dish. Tonight’s clams, however, are from Whole Foods, along with an array of exotic greens. When Lucy is depressed about living in New York, she likes to remind herself that it’s one of the few places on earth where you can find baby arugula 24/7, no matter the season. She tosses on some goat cheese, pear slices, and a small handful of crushed walnuts, then puts the bowl into the refrigerator to crisp.

Adam shows up with a bouquet of flowers bought at the corner bodega. “Smells delicious,” he calls from the hallway, bolting the door behind him. Lucy’s back is to him when he walks into the kitchen and he kisses the nape of her neck, sending a shiver down her spine.

She turns around to kiss him on the mouth. “Flowers! How sweet.” She has a clam in each hand and a pile of already scrubbed ones in the sink. “Put them in a vase for me?”

Adam reaches for a vase, then cuts through the bouquet’s plastic wrapping. The stems are coated with slime and when he lifts the flowers out, half of the petals stay behind. He looks to see if Lucy’s noticed—she hasn’t—and quickly arranges the flowers, trying to hide the gaps.

“How was your day, sweetie?” Lucy asks, expecting an animated review of the behavioral economy lecture he was supposed to attend.

Instead, Adam tells her about the ergonomist from Mount Sinai who came to observe him at work and assess how his computer setup and work habits contribute to his chronic back pain. “You can’t imagine how many things I’m doing wrong, Luce: My screen’s too far away, I overuse the mouse, my chair’s too low.”

Lucy wipes her hands on her apron before taking it off. “Did he have any suggestions for what to do?”

“More breaks.”

More breaks?
Lucy wonders if Adam will finish his dissertation before mandatory retirement.

“He also advised me to buy a tented keyboard and one of those hands-free phones, but they’re both kind of expensive.” Adam rubs his lower back area. “And that I go to an ortho-bionics bodywork person for massage.”

“Bodywork?” Lucy says skeptically, thinking of the thinly veiled ads for sexual services listed under that heading in the backs of magazines like
New York
and
Time Out.
“Are you in pain right now?”

Adam nods.

“How about a drink?” Lucy suggests, wondering if he remembered to pick up the wine. He hadn’t brought any into the kitchen.

“Wine should be here any moment,” Adam says, clearly pleased not to have forgotten. “The ergonomist told me that until I’m asymptomatic, I shouldn’t lift anything heavy, so I had a half case delivered.”

When the doorbell rings a few moments later, it isn’t the deliveryman but Cooper, whose six-foot frame fills the door. With a duffel bag slung over his shoulder and a couple bottles of wine in his hand, he scoops up Lucy for a bear hug, lifting her feet off the ground.

Adam stands to one side as they embrace, studying Cooper’s face over Lucy’s shoulder. He’s a big man with a great flop of brown hair that falls almost to his eyes and sideburns that slice across well-tanned cheekbones. Adam nods hello and Cooper nods back, handing him the duffel bag, which is heavier than Adam expects and lands on the floor with a thud.

There are twelve tables in the restaurant and only one man sitting alone. Fred. He’s wearing a bright yellow V-neck sweater over a blue oxford shirt. Although he’s facing the door, he’s too busy depilling the arm of his sweater to notice Martha as she enters.

Martha comes to the table and introduces herself.

“Hello,” Fred says. “Nice to finally meet you.”

Martha slides into the banquette across from him. In between them is a sunken burner, which a slender, kimono-clad waitress comes by to ignite, placing a pot of water above it.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” she says.

“Not a problem,” Fred says, but Martha can tell that it is. “Before I became a father, I used to be a late person myself.” Fred goes on to explain that he’s a newly divorced stay-at-home dad with two young daughters. “Nothing like children to get your priorities straight. They force you to become a better person than you knew you could be.”

Martha imagines Lucy’s reaction to the news that Fred-the-potter doesn’t have a real job. Then she feels guilty. Is it sexist to have reservations about dating a full-time dad? To say nothing of the potential stepchildren Eva never mentioned? The word
homemaker
pops into her head.

The pot of water between them starts to boil.

“Have you had shabu-shabu before?” he asks. “I’m partial to foods that you have to work for: lobster, artichokes, pistachios. I think the effort makes them taste better.”

Soon their waitress presents them with a beautiful tray of thinly sliced beef and artfully arranged vegetables. She hands Martha a tool, some hybrid of a ladle and a strainer, and shows her how to skim the froth off the top of the boiling liquid.