Man Camp

by Adrienne Brodeur

  Lucy responds with a shush and a finger over her lips. “Adam already went to bed. He has to give a lecture first thing tomorrow morning. But come on in. Cooper and I are still working on dessert.”

  Out of the corner of her eye, Martha sees Cooper rise from the sofa and turns to walk toward him, hips swaying. “Oh, hello, Man-Who-Stands-When-I-Enter,” she says.

  “Can I get you a glass of wine?” Lucy asks.

  “Please,” Martha says, flopping down on the sofa opposite where they’ve been sitting. She kicks off her boots and puts her feet up, stretching her long legs. Her angora sweater pulls up, baring a couple of inches of pale midriff. “So what brings you to our fair city this time?”

  “Simply the prospect of drinking wine with the two most fabulous women on earth,” Cooper says, momentarily averting his eyes from her belly to open the bottle of wine Lucy has handed him.

  “And are there others of his kind, Lucy?”

  “Cooper tells me they’re all like him in West Virginia,” Lucy replies, wanting to toss a throw over Martha’s midriff. She pulls down her own sweater, as if to set an example.

  “I’ve never said any such thing,” Cooper says, unable to take his eyes off Martha. “I can assure you, I’m one of a kind. Now, what great dating advice did the formidable Ms. Stone give you?”

  “Oh, just the usual stuff: Wear clean underwear and think like a peahen,” Martha says.

  “Of course,” he says, playing along, bewildered but utterly charmed by Martha.

  “Well?” Lucy says impatiently. “How’d the date go?”

  “It was perfectly nondescript,” Martha says, smiling. “Like the peacock himself. I have no idea what I was so scared of. Fred’s tail feathers were beige, his song was off-key, and his idea of a mating dance was to discuss the revelations he’s made in therapy since his divorce.”

  “Sexy,” Lucy says with zero enthusiasm. She looks at Cooper. “See? I’m not exaggerating when I tell you about this stuff. This is something we deal with all the time: men who are just a little too in touch with their sensitive side.”

  Martha chimes in: “And don’t forget the metrosexuals.”

  “Metro-whats?” Cooper asks.

  “You know: metrosexuals,” Lucy says. “Guys who are straight but like expensive face creams, wear only custom-tailored shirts, and would never think to order a martini without specifying a chic brand of vodka: Grey Goose or Ketel One.”

  “That’s right,” Martha adds. “Men in New York enjoy therapy, yoga, and the Barneys warehouse sale. And they love talking about their feelings.”

  “Good Lord,” Cooper says.

  “And metrosexuals aren’t even the worst of what’s out there in the dating pool,” Martha tells him.

  “This is totally mind-boggling,” Cooper says, stuttering with disbelief. “Do you realize that if you two lived in West Virginia, men would be fighting to open doors for you?” He starts to lift his wineglass, but puts it back down to keep talking. “Hell, they’d walk a mile in the rain to get you a ham sandwich, if that’s what you wanted.”

  Lucy and Martha beam. Even though they don’t believe a word of it, there’s nothing like hearing one of Cooper’s how-men-should-treat-women rants.

  “Don’t these men know how expendable they are?” Cooper asks. “With their pathetic little Y chromosome and all its junky DNA? As I see it, a man’s job is to prove himself indispensable or risk becoming, well, dispensable.”

  “Reproductively speaking, you’re totally on the mark,” Lucy says, and explains the concept to Martha: “A small number of high-quality males would be a perfectly efficient way to serve the reproductive needs of all women.”

  Cooper nods. “It only takes one bull to breed all the cows on any farm,” he says. Then he looks at Martha longingly. “Though I like to think human males can offer things other than sperm: protection, security, and adoration.”

  Uncomfortable under Cooper’s gaze, Martha says, “Well, if tonight has convinced me of anything, it’s that I need to focus on FirstDate, on business. Real dating is too discouraging.”

  DURING THE COURSE of his weeklong visit, without any hinting or prodding, Cooper does every single thing that Lucy and Martha need done. He stops by Martha’s apartment, and with a few swift strokes of a hammer fixes the slanted shelf that Jesse put up. He installs an extra phone jack in Lucy’s bedroom, snakes her clogged bathroom sink, and puts together a modular desk so that she can work at home. He holds doors, pulls out chairs, takes the girls to movies, and eloquently discusses everything from wine to politics to dairy farming, all while exuding masculinity and chivalry in a completely unself-conscious way, a way that is wholly unfamiliar to Lucy and Martha in their daily life in New York.

  The day before Cooper is to leave, Lucy’s new sofa arrives. Her doorman intercoms her when the deliverymen refuse to bring it up to her apartment.

  “Their slip says curb-to-curb service,” the doorman says, “and they say it’ll be an additional two hundred dollars to bring it up.”

  Lucy is appalled. “To roll it onto an elevator?” But by the time she gets downstairs, the deliverymen have left and the sofa, wrapped in heavy-duty plastic, is sitting out on the curb. “Would you call maintenance for a dolly?” she asks the doorman.

  “Of course, Miss Stone,” he replies. “Always happy to lend a hand.”

  “Thanks,” she says, relieved to know that chivalry isn’t entirely dead.

  “You take care of me and I’ll take care of you,” he says.

  Having had every intention of tipping him, Lucy feels indignant that he’s suggested it. When the dolly arrives, she tells him she’ll manage without him. But how? Adam’s in bed, doped up on painkillers from having thrown out his back rearranging his office computer per his ergonomist’s instructions, and Cooper is having breakfast with some other college friends. She calls Martha on her cell phone, waking her even though it’s past 11 A.M.

  Five minutes later, Martha shows up on the sidewalk looking disheveled.

  “Late night?” Lucy asks.

  “Kinda.” Martha isn’t much of a talker before her third coffee.

  The sofa is heavy but they attempt to heave half of it on top of the dolly, which keeps skidding away from them across the sidewalk.

  They’re sitting on the sofa outside, debating their options, when Cooper returns from breakfast. “What on earth?” he asks, gently moving them aside. He shimmies the sofa onto the dolly and deftly maneuvers it up the wheelchair ramp and into the Kingston, where the doorman stands. “What the hell’s wrong with you, just standing there like a bump on a log while these ladies struggle?”

  The doorman shrugs. “It’s not in my job description to haul furniture.”

  Cooper glares at him. “You weren’t exaggerating, were you?” he says to Lucy. “Where the hell is your boyfriend? Who lets a woman move a sofa alone?”

  “Hey,” Lucy says, feeling protective. “You know Adam threw his back out.”

  “Ridiculous,” Cooper mutters. He shifts the sofa to its side and guides it onto the elevator, sweat beading on his brow.

  Martha imagines the muscles on Cooper’s back working underneath his sweater. She hooks arms with Lucy. “Finally, a man who doesn’t need Man Camp!”

  “Sadly, for every one who doesn’t, there’re about six who do,” Lucy says, looking back at the doorman as they board the elevator. “He gets a one-way ticket.”

  “A Man Camp lifer,” Martha agrees.

  Cooper looks at them curiously. “What did you just say?”

  Lucy and Martha lock eyes. Busted! The elevator doors swoosh together.

  “Out with it,” Cooper says. “What is Man Camp?”

  “Can you keep a secret?”

  CHAPTER 7

  “Nobody will ever win the battle of the sexes. There’s too much fraternizing with the enemy.”

  Henry Kissinger

  “REMIND ME AGAIN why we’re going to the Guggenheim?” Martha asks, unable to imagine
anything less fun to do on Cooper’s last day in town. They are headed uptown on a packed Madison Avenue bus, elbows hooked around a metal pole to keep from bumping into other passengers as the vehicle lurches in traffic. “I get motion sick every time I walk down that huge spiral.”

  “We’re going for culture, my dear,” Lucy says. “Don’t you think it’s a little ridiculous that we live here and never go to museums?”

  Martha shrugs. She’d been pushing for lunch in the Village or a shopping excursion to Soho.

  “Even Cooper managed to make it to the Matisse-Picasso exhibit,” Lucy adds.

  “Now, that was a great show,” Cooper says. “Though, if you ask me, it should’ve been called ‘Picasso’s a Little Better.’ ”

  Martha laughs and repeats the line, nudging Lucy, as if her friend didn’t hear it or she’d be laughing, too.

  It’s not that funny, Lucy thinks, and takes a few steps toward the window to see what street they’re on. Her view is blocked by fluffy parkas and grimy windows, making it hard to read the numbers on the tiny green signs as they whiz by.

  All at once the bus bounces to a stop and Martha loses her balance. She swings into Cooper, who catches her with a solid arm around the waist. Neither moves, not even once Martha regains her balance, and she’s reminded of a time in seventh grade when Danny McCormick’s knee found hers under the table and they sat frozen in that position for what seemed like a slow-motion hour, pretending that the contact was neither intentional or remarkable, though at the time an electric current ricocheted through Martha’s body.

  “Have you and Lucy ever discussed making Man Camp real?” Cooper asks, acting nonchalant about his arm. “I haven’t stopped thinking about it since you mentioned it. It’s brilliant. Harebrained, to be sure, but full of possibilities.”

  Funny you should mention hair, Martha thinks, wanting to run her fingers through his mop. “I came up with the idea,” she says in a low voice, immediately feeling silly for trying to take credit.

  “That doesn’t surprise me one bit,” Cooper says, giving her a smile. “You know, Tuckington Farm has Man Camp written all over it.”

  “Seventy-ninth Street,” Lucy calls out, spinning back around to catch her friends pressed together like statues, their faces close enough to kiss. “Almost there,” she mumbles inaudibly.

  Cooper lets his arm fall and Martha takes a baby step to one side.

  “Would you believe this nut wants to make Man Camp real?” Martha says.

  Lucy doesn’t reply. That nut is my oldest friend, she thinks. He’s my nut!

  “I mean, he’s serious, Luce,” she continues. “He wants to create a real Man Camp at Tuckington Farm.”

  Give me a break, Lucy thinks.

  “It’s a great idea,” Cooper says. “And I’m always in need of a few extra farmhands in the spring.” He smiles at Martha. “My ulterior motive, of course, is to get you two down to the farm.”

  Lucy glares at his profile. You’re my backup plan! Why are you flirting with Martha?

  “Besides, can you imagine how much fun it would be to watch city boys become real men?” he asks.

  “You might actually be on to something,” Martha says, studying Cooper’s calloused fingers wrapped around the pole in front of her. She wonders if the sense of accomplishment that vigorous outdoor work gives men might not be the relaxation equivalent of what spas do for women. Could it boost their confidence? Give them a jolt of endorphins? “Man Camp might be just what my FirstDate clients need. One date sure isn’t cutting it. What do you think, Luce?”

  “I don’t know,” Lucy answers, annoyed that she feels jealous.

  “Well, I say the idea has great potential,” Martha says. “Just think, if Man Camp works at the farm, we could franchise it.”

  “You might be right,” Cooper says.

  Lucy folds her arms across her chest.

  Martha becomes giddy with the possibility. “Man Camps could sprout up all over the country,” she says. “We could even have themes: Old Man Camp, Artsy Man Camp, Brainy Man Camp, Gay Man Camp . . .”

  “Am I the only one who thinks this is a little on the man-bashing side?” Lucy asks. “To say nothing of an unlikely business venture.”

  “Might I remind you that I made a real go of FirstDate, an equally unlikely gambit?”

  Cooper’s eyes light up. “This could be a real moneymaker.”

  Lucy hadn’t thought of Man Camp as an improved and expanded FirstDate, a way for men to do well with women. Then again, she’d never thought of making it real, period. The biologist in her knows that the promise of improving a male’s chance at mating will always be desirable to him, though she’s not ready to admit that Man Camp could work.

  Cooper chuckles. “Come on, Luce. Think how easy it would be. All we need are some counselors and campers. We already have the perfect campsite.”

  “Tuckington Farm: home of the manly man!” Martha says, imitating what she imagines would be the voice-over for the Man Camp ad campaign.

  Lucy isn’t in the mood to be pitched.

  “The three of us would make excellent counselors,” Cooper says. “You two could teach lessons on chivalry and courtship, and I could show them how to plow fields and build fences, which would have the added bonus of helping me during my busiest season.”

  “What about the campers, Cooper?” Lucy asks in her dripping-with-patience voice, the one she usually reserves for freshmen with stupid questions.

  “Look around you,” Cooper says, his eyes landing on two young men who are seated nearby, chatting away, either oblivious or indifferent to the weary pregnant woman clinging to the handrail above them. “Our campers are everywhere.”

  “Just because they’re everywhere doesn’t mean that Man Camp will be an easy sell,” Lucy says. “Who in his right mind is going to sign up for it?”

  “Well, obviously we wouldn’t call it ‘Man Camp’ to their faces,” Cooper says, sounding slightly exasperated. “But any guy who’s willing to take dating classes isn’t going to split hairs over this.”

  Point taken, Lucy thinks, but she’s still not convinced.

  Cooper’s face grows boyish with enthusiasm. “Think, Lucy, you’d finally get to see Tuckington Farm and we’d be doing a good deed in the process. Those poor sorry sacks need our help.”

  Martha jumps in. “Why don’t you bring Adam along? He stands to benefit as much as anyone else, plus it could be a vacation for you guys. Besides, it would be easy to convince him.”

  “Are you crazy?” Lucy says. But she hadn’t considered that particular Man Camp benefit before. Presto, Adam might actually learn how to build a fire and chop wood. She pictures him in Levi’s lifting big bales of hay off a truck, his smooth, brown arms corded with muscles.

  “You could talk him into it,” Cooper says. “Don’t underrate your feminine wiles.”

  Lucy winces.

  “All I mean is that you’re incredibly persuasive,” he explains. “If you told me to stand on the West Side Highway for an hour, I wouldn’t even ask why.”

  Instead of being charmed, Lucy finds Cooper’s spiel disingenuous and irritating, and considers banishing him to the highway. “What you don’t seem to get, Cooper, is that the men here aren’t like you.”

  “Exactly why we need to send them to Man Camp!” He smiles patiently. “There’re two basic traits common to all men. One, we like to please women. Two, we like to please women. Admittedly, our reasons can be less than noble, but I guarantee you if you’re clear with us, we’ll always try to please you.”

  Lucy smiles back and sends a clear telepathic message: You could please me by not falling in love with my best friend! But part of her recognizes the truth in what Cooper’s saying: She rarely lets Adam in on her needs because she’s always so busy trying to figure out and accommodate his. If he’s having a tough time with his dissertation (always), she takes care of the domestic chores. If he’s struggling financially (often), she pays his half of the rent or picks u
p the tab for dinner. If he can’t sleep (occasionally), she runs her fingers through his hair until his breathing grows deep.

  They’re almost at One Hundredth Street when Martha realizes they’ve missed their stop. “Whoops!” she says, grabbing Cooper’s hand and pushing through the crowd. Lucy trails a few steps behind.

  Once outside, the three of them get their bearings and reassemble themselves: button coats, wrap scarves, put on hats and gloves. They didn’t overshoot the museum by much and it’s a sunny day, windy but bearable, so they decide to walk.

  Cooper offers each of them an arm. “Let’s do this, you two,” he says, squeezing their hands snugly between his arm and his body. “Seems to me there’s something in it for each of us.” He looks at Lucy. “Adam becomes a fire-building, engine-repairing, fearless, swashbuckling outdoorsman.” Then at Martha. “Man Camp is FirstDate on steroids and your clients get the intensive training they need, and you make buckets of money. And as for me, I get free labor for Tuckington Farm.”

  “Count me in,” Martha says, tightening her grip on his biceps.

  Lucy wants to object, not to Man Camp per se but to how quickly everything’s changing. Once an inside joke between best friends, Man Camp is fast becoming the vehicle by which Cooper and Martha are bonding without her. How soon before she becomes the third wheel? Stop! she tells herself, realizing she’s on a downward spiral. You have Adam. You don’t need a backup. Why are you begrudging your two best friends a little fun?

  When they get to the museum, they stop alongside a row of vendors selling T-shirts, hats, and tiny replicas of Guggenheim paintings, one of which catches Lucy’s eye: a vividly colored miniature of Picasso’s Woman with Yellow Hair. The woman in the painting has a rapturous expression on her face and her blond, ponytailed head is cradled in her arms; she’s asleep. “I need to go home and take a nap,” Lucy says, unable to come up with a better excuse to leave them alone on Cooper’s last day.