The Abstinence Teacher (34 page)

“I’VE MADE
a few mistakes in my life,” Ruth began. “Some of them have involved sex, and at least a couple have been pretty big.”

She’d experienced a sudden breakthrough near the end of the writing session, and had composed her entire statement in a five-minute burst of inspiration. At the time, she’d felt as though she were articulating something true and important, but now that she was speaking them out loud, her words seemed vaguely embarrassing to her. They even looked childish on the page, no more substantial than the doodled universe floating above them.

“It would be all too easy to pick one of these errors and tell you what I should have done differently, and how much better my life would be if I’d been mature and responsible enough not to have made it. But I’m not sure I believe that. I think it would be more accurate to say that we
are
our mistakes, or at least that they’re an essential part of our identities. When we disavow our mistakes, aren’t we also disavowing ourselves, saying that we wish we were someone else?

“I’m halfway through my life, and as far as I can tell, the real lesson of the past isn’t that I made some mistakes, it’s that I didn’t make nearly enough of them. I doubt I’ll be lying on my deathbed in forty or fifty years, congratulating myself on the fact that I never had sex in an airplane with a handsome Italian businessman, or patting myself on the back for all those years of involuntary celibacy I endured after my divorce. If recent experience is any guide, I’ll probably be lying in that hospital bed with my body full of tubes, sneaking glances at the handsome young doctor, wishing that I hadn’t been such a coward. Wishing I’d taken more risks, made more mistakes, and accumulated more regrets. Just wishing I’d lived when I had the chance.”

*   *   *

THEY WENT
back to Paul’s hotel room and began to kiss, experimentally at first, and then with more conviction. After a while, he slid his hand down her back and onto her skirt.

“You always had a nice ass,” he told her.

“It’s not what it used to be,” she warned him.

“Feels okay to me,” he said, punctuating this assessment with a gentle squeeze. “If you take your clothes off, I’ll be happy to perform a more thorough examination.”

If there was anything in the world Ruth wanted less at that moment than a thorough examination of her ass, she wasn’t sure what it might be.

“I’ll take your word for it,” she told him.

He kissed his way down her neck to the opening of her blouse and began undoing the buttons, revealing her lacy black bra.

“Mmm,” he said. “Look at that.”

She placed her hand on top of his.

“Not yet. I’m feeling a little shy.”

Paul didn’t argue. He stepped away from her, looking directly into her eyes, and unthreaded his tie.

“It’s okay. I’ll go first.”

With the teasing patience of a stripper, he unbuttoned his shirt. His chest was bronzed and nearly hairless, his belly startlingly flat. He checked for her reaction.

“You look good,” she told him.

“It’s amazing.” He gazed affectionately down the length of his torso. “I can see my feet.”

He sat on the edge of the bed and pulled off his socks and shoes. Then he undid his pants.

“Don’t be surprised if it looks a little bigger than it used to,” he said in a matter-of-fact voice. “It’s not actually bigger, but the proportions
in that area are different now. I think what it was, my belly actually used to make it look smaller than it really is.”

“Makes sense,” she said.

Wearing only boxers, he lay down on the bed and smiled up at her, hands cupped behind his head.

“Why don’t you take your clothes off and join me?”

“In a minute,” she said. “I’m not quite ready yet.”

Paul slid his hand inside the waistband of his shorts and began stroking himself.

“You’re a sexy woman,” he said. “It really turns me on to have you watching me.”

“I’m glad,” she replied.

He wriggled out of his boxers and tossed them on the floor near her feet.

“Your turn,” he said.

Ruth wasn’t sure what was holding her back. In theory, this was what she’d come here for. But for some reason she couldn’t move.

“Something wrong?” he asked. “Am I freaking you out?”

“It’s not you,” she assured him. “I just haven’t been with anyone for a long time.”

He nodded thoughtfully and sat up.

“We don’t have to fuck,” he said. “You could just go down on me if you want. You were always great at that.”

“I was fifteen,” she told him. “I didn’t have a clue.”

“Coulda fooled me,” he said, scooching back to the edge of the mattress. “I thought you were amazing.”

Ruth hesitated for a moment before kneeling at his feet. It felt like the least she could do.

“Sweetheart,” he whispered.

The night had been interesting. It had been a pleasure to reconnect with Paul after all these years, to find him physically transformed and
happier than ever. She was touched by how fondly he remembered their time together, and flattered by the fact that he still wanted her.

“Oh, Ruthie,” he said, running his fingers through her hair. “I’ve been waiting for this.”

Paul’s penis was hard, just a few inches from her mouth, and it did seem bigger than she remembered. It was a very inconvenient time for her to be thinking about Tim Mason, and the way he’d looked at her earlier in the evening, after she twirled around for him on the sidewalk in front of her house. The twilight had been fading, and there was some distance between them, but his face seemed oddly vivid as he studied her, full of pain and longing.

Do I look okay?

Her question had seemed innocent enough at the time—part curiosity, part harmless flirtation—but it had been a physical shock to receive the answer, to register the full unspoken force of his approval, a jolt to her system from which she still hadn’t recovered. She would’ve given a lot to still be standing with Tim on that dark quiet street, instead of kneeling here on the coarse hotel carpet, thinking how unhappy Paul was going to be in a second or two, when she stood up and told him that she’d made a mistake and needed to go home.

Two Tims

FRANK DROPPED THE GIRLS OFF AROUND EIGHT O’CLOCK ON SATURDAY
evening, and Ruth sensed something was up the moment they walked in the door. Normally, Maggie was bubbly and affectionate after a night away from home, eager to talk about her game and find out what her mother had done all day, while Eliza skulked in the background, rarely volunteering more than a few grudging monosyllables before disappearing into her room. Tonight, though, the dynamic was reversed.

“Mom,” Eliza said, stepping forward and greeting Ruth with a suspiciously emphatic hug. “How
are
you?”

“Fine.” Ruth smiled quizzically at Maggie, who was still hanging back near the doorway, clutching a plastic trash bag full of muddy soccer clothes, shin guards, and cleats. “Everything okay?”

“Great.” Eliza let go of Ruth and folded her arms across her chest in a pretty good impersonation of one adult leveling with another. “But the three of us need to talk.”

“Fine,” Ruth said, glancing again at Maggie. “Let’s talk.”

The girls dropped their backpacks on the floor and headed straight to the kitchen table, as if the Saturday night family conference were a regularly scheduled event. Ruth followed, resisting the urge to offer a snack or try to engage them in small talk. They had something serious to say, and she wanted to honor it with her full attention.

“Mom,” Eliza began, “you know how I’m going to church tomorrow with the Parks?”

Ruth had to make an effort not to roll her eyes. Going to church with the Parks was the only thing Eliza had talked about all week.

“I’m well aware of it, honey. They’re coming at eight thirty, right?”

“Right.” Eliza glanced at her sister. “Maggie wants to come, too.”

“She does?” Ruth turned to Maggie, struggling to maintain a neutral expression. “Is this true?”

“Yes,” Maggie said, and Ruth could hear the courage it took for her to utter this one simple word.

Jesus
, she thought,
am I that terrifying?

“Was this your sister’s idea?” Ruth spoke carefully, hoping to sound curious rather than upset.

“No way,” said Eliza.

“I asked
her,”
Maggie explained.

“But why? You never had any interest in church before.”

With the tip of her right index finger, Maggie carefully traced the outline of her splayed left hand on the table, like a kindergartner drawing a turkey. Her voice was barely a whisper.

“I want to know Jesus.”

“Oh, come on,” Ruth groaned. “Not you, too.”

Maggie looked up. Her voice was stronger now.

“I felt Him. After the game. When we said our prayer.”

“What?”
Ruth felt like she’d been sucker punched. “Who said a prayer?”

“The team. Just like last week. Some of the Gifford players joined us.”

“Was Coach Tim part of this?”

Maggie nodded. “Coach John, too.”

Ruth couldn’t believe it. While she’d been at the refresher course, thinking tender thoughts about Tim, he’d been on the field, stabbing her in the back.

Some Christian
, she thought.

“A few of the girls wouldn’t do it,” Maggie added. “Nadima and Louisa and a couple of others. They didn’t kneel down or anything.”

“They did the right thing,” Ruth told her. “You know how I feel about that praying.”

“I know,” Maggie said. “But I wanted to.”

“Why? You don’t believe in Jesus.”

“How do you know?” Eliza broke in. “Don’t tell her what she believes.”

Ruth shut her eyes. When she opened them, both girls were staring at her with fierce expressions. In a funny way, she was proud of them.

“Jeez,” she said with a dark chuckle. “Couldn’t you just get piercings like everybody else?”

“Yuck,” said Maggie.

“So can she go?” Eliza demanded.

Ruth raised her hands in a gesture of surrender.

“If she wants. I’m not gonna say no.”

“Great.” Eliza stood up. “I have to call Grace.”

Maggie and Ruth sat in silence for a few seconds after Eliza left. Ruth wanted to say something calm and encouraging, but she couldn’t think of anything.

“Mom,” Maggie said. “Do I have to wear a dress tomorrow?”

“Wear what you want,” Ruth told her. “I don’t think Jesus cares one way or the other.”

ELIZA APPARENTLY
had a different opinion about the Savior’s fashion preferences, because the girls came down on Sunday morning looking like they were heading to a school dance. Not only were they both wearing skirts and tights, they’d also acquired elegant new hairstyles—Maggie’s woven into a tight French braid, Eliza’s piled high on her head, held in place by a tortoiseshell clamp. Ruth hadn’t seen them this dressed up since they were flower girls at their cousin Melissa’s wedding four years ago.

“You look pretty,” she told them.

Maggie smiled shyly and touched the back of her head.

“Eliza did my braid. You like it?”

“I love it. You should wear it like that to school sometime.”

“We wanted to do each other’s nails,” Eliza added. “But we ran out of time.”

Ruth was touched to see them bonding like this. She’d been troubled for a long time by their lack of interest in each other, so different from the intense, conspiratorial relationship she’d shared with her own sister. Ruth and Mandy had spent their adolescence hiding from their parents, listening to music in candlelit rooms, telling secrets, plotting their jailbreaks. Every transgression Ruth committed in high school, she’d understood herself to be hurrying down a glamorous trail Mandy had blazed specifically for her, trying to catch up to her big sister so that one day the two of them could walk together as equals. There was nothing like that kind of intimacy between Eliza and Maggie, who mostly treated each other with a polite indifference that occasionally flared into outright hostility. Ruth just wished they’d found something besides a visit to the Living Waters Fellowship to bring them together.

“So can I make you guys some breakfast?”

“We don’t have time,” Eliza told her. “Grace said they have donuts and stuff at the church.”

“Yum.” Maggie licked her lips and rubbed her hands together, as if trying to remind her mother that she was still just a little kid. “Donuts.”

“Let me get you some cereal, just in case. It won’t take long.”

Eliza shook her head, inspecting Ruth with an unhappy expression.

“Mom,” she said. “Could you put some real clothes on?”

Ruth was startled by this question. She was wearing sweatpants and a long-sleeved T-shirt—a souvenir from her first 10k race—her usual weekend loungewear.

“Why? I’m not going anywhere.”

“You’re gonna meet Mr. and Mrs. Park like
that
?”

“Ugh,” said Ruth. “I have to meet them?”

“Grace said they wanted to say hello. They figured you might be a little nervous about this.”

Ruth would have liked to say
too bad
, the Parks would just have to accept her as she was, but, in reality, she had no more enthusiasm for the idea of meeting strangers dressed like this than her daughters did. She just hadn’t thought it through, hadn’t accepted the situation enough to foresee that the Parks might not just pull up in front of the house and honk the horn, the way soccer parents did when they were carpooling to practice.

“All right,” Ruth said. “Let me go change. It’ll only take a minute.”

Eliza smiled gratefully.

“Mom?” Maggie added. “Could you maybe brush your hair, too?”

RUTH GOT
herself spruced up as best she could in the short time available, but ended up feeling like she shouldn’t have bothered. Grace’s mother, Esther Park, was such a stunningly attractive woman—small-boned, well dressed, effortlessly radiant—that Ruth felt instantly and hopelessly drab by comparison, as though she might just as well have been wearing soup-stained pajamas.

“Good morning,” Esther said, shaking Ruth’s suddenly enormous hand with great vigor. She wore her hair in a shoulder-length bob, one side of it falling gracefully across her cheek. “It’s such a privilege for us to take your children to worship with us. You’ve given us a wonderful gift.”