The Abstinence Teacher (37 page)

“Come on, Ruth. That’s not what it says.”

“I mean, how’s that different from seventy virgins for every suicide bomber? It’s just Santa Claus for adults.”

“The Bible doesn’t say anything about sitting in a cloud. Heaven’s supposed to be a place where only the saved are welcome. And there’s no death or pain.”

“Okay, fine. But what do you do there for all of eternity?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “You probably don’t do anything. You’re one with God.”

“Maybe it’s just me, but that sounds kinda dull.”

“Beats burning in hell.”

“I’ll let you know when I get there. We can compare notes.”

“You don’t have to go there,” he said. “Not if you accept Jesus as your Savior.”

“That’s all I have to do?”

“That’s what it says.”

“And if I don’t do that, I’ll burn in hell?” Ruth shook her head in bewilderment. “Talk about the punishment not fitting the crime. I mean, I don’t see why it matters so much to Jesus that I believe in Him that He’d torture me for not doing it. I mean, He’s God, right? What’s He so insecure about?”

“Insecure?” Tim said. “Now you’re just being silly.”

“
I’m
being silly? You’re the one trying to sell me a theological system that puts Hitler and Gandhi on the same level.”

“It does not.”

“According to what you told me, they’re both burning in hell for not being Christians.”

“I’m sure God’s capable of making a distinction between Hitler and Gandhi.”

“I hope so. But somebody apparently forgot to mention that in the Bible.”

“Whatever.” Tim didn’t even know why he was bothering to argue with her. Nothing he could say about Jesus was going to reach her ears until her heart was ready to hear. “It’s easy to mock and poke holes. But it doesn’t get you anywhere.”

“I’m just curious,” she said, her smile fading a bit. “Do you really think I deserve to go to hell?”

“It’s not my call,” he told her. “I mean, for what it’s worth, I think you’re a nice person.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“Look, Ruth. You can trap me in a hundred contradictions that smarter people would be able to explain away. But that’s not what this is about for me.”

“Well, what is it about?”

“You really want to know?”

“Sure.”

He studied her for a moment, trying to detect a trace of mockery in her expression. But all he saw was curiosity, or maybe just politeness.

“You have to understand the kind of person I was. If you asked my ex-wife, she’d just tell you I was a selfish drug addict, and I’m not saying I wasn’t. But it never felt like I had any kind of a choice. There was just this big dark hole in me, and all I could do was fill it with drugs and alcohol to keep it from hurting all the time. And then, after I’d
pretty much fucked up everything that mattered, Jesus came into my life, and He took a lot of that pain away. It was just like He was there, holding me up, watching my back. It was a feeling, not an idea or a belief. Just this kind of physical sense that He was there and He loved me. And it changed everything.”

“Okay,” Ruth said, nodding the way people do when they don’t really believe you, but aren’t going to say so. “I can respect that.”

“I can’t tell you what a relief it was,” he continued. “To be able to turn to Him, and say,
Here, Lord, this is my life, I’ve made a complete mess of it, and now I’m giving it to you
. And to just feel like a completely new person. I mean, if it wasn’t for that, I’d be dead now, or at least in jail. I sure as hell wouldn’t be sitting here talking to you.”

Ruth didn’t challenge this account, nor did she ask him to elaborate. She just let a decent interval of silence go by, then asked if he wanted some coffee.

Tim glanced at the clock above the sink.

“Yikes,” he said, startled to see that it was already ten fifteen. “I’m gonna be late for church.”

“It won’t take long,” she said. “I cleaned the coffeemaker, like you said. It’s working a lot better.”

“Cool.” Tim grinned, oddly gratified that his diagnosis had panned out. “But I really should go.”

“Come on,” she said, her voice suddenly flirtatious. “Just one cup. I got this really nice French Roast.”

He closed his eyes, and a vision came to him. The Praise Team was up on stage, the worshippers in their seats. Everything was all set to go, except the bass player was missing, his microphone unattended, his instrument resting on its stand. It all seemed so far away, like it had nothing to do with him.

“Ruth,” he said, rising abruptly from his chair, sounding more serious than he’d meant to. “Please don’t tempt me like this.”

*   *   *

SHE SPENT
the remainder of the morning back on the couch, halfheartedly trying to talk herself into going for a run, or to the supermarket, or maybe just out to the backyard to rake some leaves. Even cleaning the bathroom would have been a step up from just lying there, fantasizing about making love to a man who wouldn’t rule out the possibility that she was going to hell.

It was worse than embarrassing. She had every right to be furious with Tim, every right to call him to account for what he’d done. To be wasting her time thinking instead about that little cleft in his chin, or the way his eyes seemed to smile before his mouth did, or how good it would feel to have those big musician’s hands on her body wasn’t just foolish; it was an act of self-betrayal.

She’d felt it the moment he sat down, that strange secret thrill of being alone for the first time with someone you’re physically attracted to, of realizing that the only thing separating you is a little bit of air and your own uncertainty. All she had to do was reach out and put her hand on top of his, and everything would have changed. She kept visualizing the act as they spoke to each other, clenching and unclenching her fist, thinking about how little it would take to lift her hand off her lap and slide it across the table. But she couldn’t do it, and now he was gone.

It was all for the best, of course. He was a married man, a born-again Christian, a recovering substance abuser, and a guy who clearly had issues with keeping his word. All they could do together was make a mess. Let him go to church with his wife, and pray to his heart’s content with the people he’s supposed to pray with.

If the phone hadn’t rung, who knows how long she might have remained on her back, pondering the mystery of how she’d become so pathetic. As it was, she stood up a little too quickly and found herself wobbling on rubber legs in the middle of the living room, certain that
she was about to topple over. But the head rush passed as suddenly as it came, and she was able to reach the phone before the machine picked up. The caller ID said it was Randall.

“Hi, sweetie,” she said. “I was wondering when I’d hear from you.”

Silence.

“Randall? Are you there?” She waited a few more seconds. “I think we have a bad connection. … Randall?”

She was about to hang up when he finally spoke in a soft, trembling voice.

“It’s over with me and Greg.”

“Oh, honey. Are you sure?”

“I threw him out,” he declared, sounding proud and heartbroken at the same time. “I couldn’t take it anymore.”

“Maybe you just need a little time apart.”

“I can’t believe it. Twelve years gone to shit.”

“You guys are such a good couple. I’m sure you’ll work it out.”

“What am I gonna do?” Randall whimpered. “I’m not good at being alone.”

Ruth understood that it was her job to supply some sort of encouraging cliché, but her mind couldn’t locate one. She picked up a damp yellow sponge from her countertop.

“I’m a wreck,” he said.

She threw the sponge across the room as hard as she could. It barely made a sound when it struck the wall, then bounced harmlessly onto the table.

“Ruth?” he said. “Are you there?”

     
PART FOUR
Presentation of Fears

Go Home to Your Wife

GEORGE DYKSTRA HELD HIS POKER GAMES IN THE KITCHEN OF ONE
of his Fox Hollow model homes, a four-thousand-square-foot, four-bedroom unit known as The Parkhurst. He’d invited the boys there as a last resort a couple of months ago—their longtime host, a divorced guy who sold and installed high-end home-theater systems, had found himself a live-in girlfriend and abruptly quit the game—and it turned out to be a stroke of genius. A huge step up from the divorced guy’s crappy condo, The Parkhurst was a luxury clubhouse where grown men could kick back in style. With Fox Hollow (“an exclusive residential enclave for the discriminating homebuyer”) still under construction, there were no kids to wake with their loud voices, no wives to offend with their coarse language, no neighbors who might object to a little vomit on their front lawns, not that that happened very often. The only downsides were the no-smoking rule George had instituted after the first game—several prospective buyers had complained that the model kitchen reeked of cigar fumes—and the fact that you had to go outside to take a piss, though that wasn’t such a big deal on a crisp autumn night like this.

“All right, you shitheads,” said Mickey Dunleavy, a Realtor whose genial, prosperous face was plastered on for sale signs all over town. “Follow the Queen, fifty-cent ante, going to Chicago, hi-lo declare.”

Tim nodded along with the rest of the players, though he had only the vaguest idea what any of this meant, beyond the fifty-cent ante. He’d played a little poker when he worked at Lucky Rent-A-Car, but to the best of his recollection—he’d been high a lot in those days, so his memory wasn’t always that reliable—it was just the basic stuff, five-card draw, seven-card stud, acey-deucey. So far tonight, four hands had been dealt, and they’d all had unfamiliar names like Anaconda, Razz, and Lowball. Even after the rules had been spelled out, Tim still found himself lagging behind the action, making bone-headed decisions, falling for transparent bluffs. Not even a half hour in, his twenty bucks of chips had dwindled to less than five.

Dunleavy dealt a pair of hole cards—Tim got a deuce and a king—then began flipping them faceup, as though it were an ordinary hand of stud. After everyone had received their fourth card, the dealer nodded to Tim.

“Bet’s to the new guy.”

“It is?”

“Pair of eights showing.”

Tim looked at his up cards, an eight and a three.

“Threes are wild,” George informed him. “It’s Follow the Queen, remember? The first card that follows a face-up queen turns wild.”

“Oh yeah, right.”

“Jesus H. Christ,” muttered George’s cousin, Billy, the genius with the Hummer dealership. “I thought you said he was a cardplayer.”

“How about you shut your mouth?” George asked him.

Billy shrugged. He was a scrawny, jittery guy in a dark suit, with such pronounced jaw muscles it looked like he was chewing gum even when he wasn’t.

“Guy’s a greenhorn.”

“Fifty cents.” Tim glared at Billy as he tossed two red chips into the pot.

“Big spender,” Billy said, flashing him an unfriendly smile.

Tim wasn’t sure why, but Billy seemed to have taken an instantaneous dislike to him. First he’d made a disparaging comment about Tim’s Saturn—“Hey, who called Domino’s?”—in the dirt parking circle outside The Parkhurst, before they’d even been introduced. Then he’d mocked Tim for bringing a six-pack of Diet Coke to a poker game.

“Careful, pardner,” he’d drawled, doing a bad John Wayne. “Better go easy on that stuff.”

If Billy had made these remarks in the right spirit, Tim would have been the first to laugh. It
was
sad to be drinking lukewarm diet soda when everyone else was guzzling ice-cold Heinekens—he’d caught himself more than once gazing tenderly at those sweaty green bottles—and his old car did look pretty lame out there, sandwiched between someone’s BMW and a brand-new Hummer H2 with dealer plates. But underneath Billy’s just-kidding smirk, Tim sensed some real hostility, and wondered what he’d done to provoke it. Pastor Dennis would have said that Billy was in deep spiritual pain and ripe for the picking, but Tim just thought the guy was an asshole.

On the next go-round, Dunleavy flipped Tim another face-up three.

“Ooh, baby,” he said. “Three of a kind for the new guy.”

His luck was short-lived, however.

“Looky here,” Dunleavy said, dealing a queen to George, followed by a nine to Phil Kersiotis, a well-regarded contractor whose trucks Tim saw a lot around Greenwillow Estates and some of the other upscale neighborhoods in the area. “The plot thickens.”

“What happens now?” Tim asked.

“Nines are wild now,” George explained. “Nines and queens.”

“What about threes?” Tim asked, trying to sound as though he were merely trying to nail down the rules.

“Threes are just threes,” George told him. “They’re not wild anymore.”

“What the hell is this?” Billy said.
“Sesame Street?”

After another round of betting—Tim stayed in just in case there was another change in wild cards—Phil dealt the final hole card. Tim drew the seven of hearts, a meaningless addition to his hand. He figured he would fold when the bet came to him, but George spoke up before he had the chance.

“Remember, you have to declare hi-lo before you place your final wager.”

“Why?”

“It’s Chicago,” Dunleavy explained. “Low spade in the hole splits the pot. But you have to declare if you’re going for the high hand or the low one.”

Tim didn’t have to check to know that his face-down two was a spade.

“Oh, jeez.” He pretended to think over this complicated question of strategy before tossing his last four chips into the pot. “I dunno. Low, I guess. I just wish those threes were still wild.”

The only other player to declare low was Billy, who had the four of spades in the hole. He wasn’t too happy when Tim revealed the deuce.

“Goddammit!” he barked at George. “You were coaching him!”

“I was not,” George shot back. “I was just telling him the rules.”

Billy took a long pull on his beer, swishing it around like mouthwash.

“He shouldn’t play if he doesn’t know the rules.”