Man Camp (8 page)

Martha tries to give Fred the benefit of the doubt. “How does it work as a stay-at-home dad now that you’re divorced?” she asks, using chopsticks to put some bok choy in the bubbling water. Although no scum has developed yet, she skims the top with her special spoon.

“Pretty much the same as it always did,” Fred says, “except now I have my own place. I still spend the days at my ex-wife’s apartment with the girls.” He tosses some other vegetables into the pot and pokes at them. “Want to see pictures?”

Before Martha has a chance to answer, Fred comes around the table and slides in beside her. She scoots over close to the wall and concentrates on skimming the brownish yellow bubbles off the surface of the broth. Steam is billowing up from the pot and Fred’s arm has found its way across the top of the banquette behind her. She feels claustrophobic.

Fred flips through photos of his adorable daughters—at the merry-go-round, in the bath, on the beach. “Aren’t they precious?”

“Mm,” Martha agrees, putting two slices of beef in the broth and elbowing Fred in the process. “Ready to eat?” She looks at the empty bench across the table.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Fred says, removing his arm but remaining in her space. “Full-disclosure time: You’re my first date since my wife and I split up, and I guess I’m a little nervous.” He laughs. “Okay, I’m a lot nervous. I even scheduled an emergency session with my shrink this afternoon.”

Martha is tempted to advise Fred not to discuss his psychotherapy on a first date but reminds herself he’s not a client.

BACK AT THE KINGSTON, Lucy and Cooper and Adam are sitting around the dinner table, twisting succulent forkfuls of linguine into their mouths. The meal is delicious and both men seem to be relaxed and enjoying each other’s company, though Adam did squeeze her hand in surprise when Cooper said grace.

But now the wine is flowing, as are Cooper’s stories of life on Tuckington Farm, and Lucy and Adam are mesmerized. He tells them about the hardships of the record-cold winter they’d had: the failure of various machines—his tractor, a bailer, the farm’s “honey wagon” (a vehicle that spreads manure); how a portion of his herd got an infection of the udders called mastitis that had to be treated with antibiotics, rendering the whole herd’s milk unsellable for a time; how a farmhand accidentally ripped open one of two huge hundred-foot-long silage bags, ruining much of the spring fodder.

“The truth is, it’s been the toughest winter since I took over the farm,” Cooper says. “Thank God for spring.” He takes another bite of pasta and smiles at Lucy appreciatively.

“How’s Pinckney?” Lucy asks, referring to Cooper’s prize bull.

“Trouble,” he says. “Lots and lots of trouble. Darn beast tore clear through the fence last week to go after the neighbor’s Holstein. They’ve been waging war all winter, bellowing at each other like dinosaurs. With the first sign of spring, ole Pinckney decided he needed to suss out the competition.”

“What did you do?” Lucy asks, putting down her fork.

“Well, there was nothing to do but watch, really. Neither had horns, thank God, but the battle went on for hours. They rolled each other over, smashed fences, bashed in each other’s ribs, even took down a small tin shed.” Cooper uses his utensils as surrogate bulls.

“That’s unbelievable,” Lucy says. “Why can’t anything that exciting ever happen around here?” She grabs Adam’s hand and suggests they flee the city and buy a farm.

Adam looks at her as if she’s crazy. Their Valentine’s Day trip was less than two weeks ago.

“Do I need to remind you that my mornings start with shoveling muck at five A.M.?” Cooper asks. “Does that sound exciting to you?”

“Shut your piehole,” Lucy says, an expression she picked up from him in college. “You’ve got the best life of anyone I know!”

“You’re right. Dairy farming is undeniably glamorous. As you know, most of my time is spent fending off the advances of supermodels.”

Lucy rolls her eyes.

Cooper looks at Adam over the bedraggled bunch of flowers, suddenly aware that he’s dominated the evening’s conversation. “I’ve shot off at the mouth quite enough for one night. Tell me more about what you do, Adam.”

Adam shakes his head. “I always find crazed-bull stories a tough act to follow.”

“Nonsense,” Lucy says, squeezing Adam’s forearm. “The world’s most influential thinkers are starting to pay attention to behavioral economists.”

“Lay it on me,” Cooper says enthusiastically. “You don’t want me to return to West Virginia unable to impress the supermodels.”

Lucy smiles encouragement at Adam.
Go on!

Adam has no choice. “Essentially, behavioral economy offers an alternative to classic economic theory, which assumes people are rational beings living in a perfectly efficient market.” He speaks rapidly, wanting to get the spiel over with. “Behavioral economists concentrate on the
ir
rational things people do, using psychology to explain behaviors like altruism or buying unnecessary items. Our goal is to improve the predictiveness of conventional economic models by plugging them into more realistic formulas for how people actually behave.”

Cooper is genuinely interested. “What’s your area of expertise?”

“Procrastination,” says Adam, looking at his pasta. “Procrastination has huge economic implications.”

Having just covered Adam’s portion of the rent again, Lucy thinks,
I’ll say it does.

Adam continues: “For instance, lots of people procrastinate in taking advantage of 401(k) plans, even though they know they’re good for them.”

“And what do behavioral economists think should be done about that?”

“Most would probably argue that government should create policies that acknowledge procrastination and make 401(k) deductions automatic rather than opt-in plans.”

“Interesting premise,” Cooper says, “although I must admit, I strongly disagree with it.”

Adam cocks his head.

“The idea of creating policies to coddle procrastinators seems wrong,” Cooper says. “The government should encourage people to be self-sufficient, not accommodate laziness. We don’t want a dependent populace.”

Adam laughs nervously and is about to launch into a rebuttal when Lucy grabs his knee under the table and squeezes,
You’re totally right, but please change the subject.

Not fluent in Squeeze, Adam feels reprimanded and clams up.

“I want to visit the farm,” Lucy blurts out.

Cooper registers the alarm on her face and looks back at Adam. “I’m sorry,” he says. “How about we skip politics for now? Lucy’ll tell you, I’m just a pigheaded old conservative. The only way we’ve managed to stay friends all these years was to agree not to discuss politics.”

Adam nods and wonders why Lucy never mentioned that Cooper is a rabid Fox-TV-watching-Bible-thumping-Second-Amendment he-man. He’s never known one personally before.

IT’S AFTER 10 P.M. when Martha knocks on Lucy’s door. “You are the Albert Einstein of dating!” she proclaims, hugging her friend. “The night was a bust, but your advice was awesome!”

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.