The Abstinence Teacher (44 page)
After tossing and turning for what felt like hours, she finally must have dozed off. She only realized this was the case because she was conscious, sometime later, of being startled awake by a creaking door.
“Ruth?” he whispered. “Are you asleep?”
“No,” she said. “Not anymore.”
Tim was standing on the threshold, illuminated from behind by the hall light, his silhouette compact, oddly familiar, deeply thrilling.
“I hate to do this,” he said, “but can I use your computer?”
HE FELT
a little weird, scrolling through Ruth’s inbox at two in the morning, but he didn’t really have a choice. In any case, it didn’t take too long to find what he was looking for, a reminder he’d sent to the team on Tuesday morning—“Re: This Week’s Practice Re-Scheduled.” He hit Reply All, erased the old subject line, and typed in a new one: “IMPORTANT MESSAGE FROM COACH TIM.”
Dear Stars
, he wrote,
I regret to inform you that due to an unavoidable personal situation, I won’t be with you at tomorrow’s game against Green Valley. Assistant Coach John Roper will lead the charge in my absence
.
He had prayed long and hard before making this decision, which ran counter to his deepest principles and desires. But a sense of calm certainty came over him as he reread his words on the screen, a spiritual clarity he hadn’t experienced in a long time, as if Jesus were looking over his shoulder, nodding in approval.
The irony of the situation wasn’t lost on him. Just a few hours earlier, in the parking lot of a “gentleman’s club” called Eyeballs, Tim had found himself tongue-tied, struggling to respond to Jay’s claim that Pastor Dennis had tricked him.
“I mean, don’t get me wrong,” he said. “I felt something that first night, when the Pastor prayed with me in the parking lot. I’m not denying that I was shit-faced at the time, but I swear to you—and I’ve thought a lot about this—I felt like I was enveloped in this beautiful cloud of love and, you know, forgiveness. And the Pastor told me that feeling was Jesus.
“And I believed him,” Jay continued in a bitter tone. “I accepted Christ and told everybody I knew that I was a different person. I gave away my porn, dumped out my liquor, and tried to stop saying
fuck
all the time.
“But guess what? That feeling never came back. Not once. I didn’t feel it in church, or at Bible Study, and I definitely didn’t feel it tonight at that fucking
event
, whatever they call it. I was just sitting there, looking around, and it hit me: that feeling wasn’t Jesus, it was just
me
, hoping for something better.”
“There’s nothing wrong with that,” Tim told him.
“Maybe not,” Jay conceded. “But it’s not gonna save anyone.”
“It’s only been a couple of weeks. You need to have a little more patience.”
Jay turned to Tim with an expression that seemed scared and defiant at the same time. They were idling in the fire lane, a short distance away from the entrance of the club.
“You think I’m making a mistake?”
“I…I really don’t know,” Tim told him. “I’m a little mixed up myself.”
Jay opened the passenger door but didn’t get out.
“You sure you don’t wanna come in? They got this Brazilian girl, I swear—”
“I don’t think so.”
Reluctantly, Jay got out of the car. Instead of heading for the club, though, he just stood there, staring at Tim, pleading almost, as if he wanted to be talked out of what he was about to do. But it was his choice, and Tim couldn’t make it for him.
“See you around,” he said.
Tim got on the highway and drove straight home, steeling himself for what he knew was going to be another painful conversation with Carrie. He got as far as the parking lot of their condo complex before losing his nerve and winding up here at Ruth’s.
Girls, you know how much I love our team, and what a privilege it’s been for me to be your coach this season. So I probably don’t have to tell you how much it breaks my heart to have to miss the game tomorrow
.
The conversation with Jay was still echoing in his mind when he got
down on his knees in Ruth’s living room. He honestly didn’t know if he was praying out of habit, or desperation, or because he actually expected to communicate with God. It didn’t help that he had no idea what he was praying
for
. His troubles were all just gathered up into one big convoluted knot, and he couldn’t even figure out which end to pull on first. On top of that he was distracted by his cell phone—Pastor Dennis and John Roper kept calling every few minutes, trying to track him down—and by the knowledge that Ruth was right upstairs in her bedroom, not to mention the recurring thought that there was probably some liquor in the house and he wouldn’t have to look too hard to find it.
He was close to throwing in the towel and trying to get some sleep—he’d been feeling that way pretty much since he started praying—when a voice sounded in his head, way louder and clearer than the confused muttering of his own thoughts.
“DON’T GO,” it said.
He understood the meaning of this, and he didn’t like it. He couldn’t miss the game. It wouldn’t be fair to the girls.
“IT’S THE ONLY WAY.”
And it was. He’d known it for a long time, but hadn’t been able to admit it to himself.
I’m truly sorry if I’ve done anything to cause divisions among you. We’re a team. We need to stick together tomorrow. Whatever happens, just know that I’ll be there in spirit, and I’ll be proud of you whether we win or lose
.
It was such a relief just to make a decision, to get one problem out of the way so he could begin to tackle the others. The important thing, he realized, was not to get overwhelmed, to take things one at a time. After this he would write an e-mail to Pastor Dennis, thanking him for all his help, the heroic efforts he’d made on behalf of a lost soul, and offering his eternal gratitude. Then he’d bite the bullet and call Carrie to let her know that he wouldn’t be coming home, though she’d
probably figured that out for herself by now. But first, he had a little more to say to the girls.
Green Valley is a tough opponent. We need to play our game—fast, smart, unselfish soccer
.
Nomad—you’re a wonderful ball handler, but you have a tendency to dribble into traffic. Please look for the early pass
.
Slinky—you kick with great power. But don’t clump. Move to the open space
.
Loopy—no fear in the goal. NO FEAR
Monkey—You’re my warrior. We need your fire
.
Hangman—it’s okay to push up on D, but please hustle back into position if necessary
.
Caddyshack—Don’t hesitate. If you get a shot, take it. We need you to step up on offense
.
Abba—I love you so much. Play as hard as you can, and don’t lose your focus. Please call me after the game
.
AFTER A
night of uneasy sleep, Ruth was awakened by the doorbell. She sat up in bed, aware of both a sense of incipient panic and the early-warning signs of a hangover. The bell sounded again, one long buzz followed by two shorter ones.
“All right,” she said, throwing off the covers and standing up more quickly than was advisable. “I’m coming.”
She glanced at the clock. It was 6:47 in the morning. Saturday. The girls were at Frank’s. She made it to the top of the stairs before remembering she had a guest and wasn’t decently dressed, her memory jogged by the sight of the guest in question coming up the stairs in boxer shorts and a T-shirt, looking at her with a worried expression. At almost the same moment their eyes met, the doorbell went crazy, buzzing repeatedly and insistently, as if it were an emergency.
“It’s for me,” he told her.
“Well, could you get it?”
He grimaced and shook his head.
“I really can’t handle this right now.”
“Is it your wife?”
As if to answer her question, the caller gave up on the bell and started pounding on the door, demanding to be let in. Ruth couldn’t make out the words, but she could hear enough to know that it was a man doing the shouting.
“He’s gonna wake up the whole neighborhood,” she said, squeezing past Tim on her way downstairs.
She opened the door a crack, just wide enough to show her face. The man on the porch was smaller and younger-looking in person than he was in her memory. Of course, she’d only seen him a couple of times at public meetings and had never gotten this close to him.
“Can I help you?” she asked.
Pastor Dennis stared at her through his wire-rimmed glasses. His eyes looked bloodshot and haunted, like he’d been up all night.
“I need to speak to Tim.”
“He doesn’t want to talk to you.”
“Let me in,” the Pastor insisted, craning his neck to get a better view into her house. “Tim’s afraid, and he needs my help.”
Ruth was startled by the anguish in his voice. In public, Pastor Dennis was always so strident and angry, but he now seemed to be on the verge of tears.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “You really need to go now.”
The Pastor shook his head.
“I came for Tim, and I’m not leaving without him. He doesn’t belong here.”
“Please,” Ruth said. “I’m asking you politely.”
“Just bring him to the door. If he wants me to leave, let him say it to my face.”
“You have to go,” she told him.
“Now
. I don’t want to argue about it.”
The Pastor must have heard the implicit threat in her voice.
“Fine,” he said. “But do me a favor. Tell him I’ve been praying for him all night. And I’m not going to stop until he talks to me.”
Feeling an unexpected pang of guilt, Ruth shut the door, twisted the dead bolt, and headed back upstairs. Tim was crouching by her bedroom window, peering down at the front lawn.
“I told him to go away,” she reported. “He wasn’t too happy about it.”
He stood up and looked at her, his eyes lingering on her body. She should’ve been embarrassed, standing there in the kind of nightgown you only wore for a lover, but the feeling didn’t materialize. It helped that he was in his underwear, too, as close to naked as she was.
“Believe me,” he told her. “The Pastor’s not going anywhere.”
“What do you mean?”
He beckoned her to the window. It was a bright morning, a beautiful day for a soccer game. A stiff breeze must have been blowing, because the air was full of red and yellow leaves, detaching themselves from trees, floating dreamily to the earth, blowing sideways across the grass. Tim’s Saturn was parked right in front of Ruth’s house, beneath the sugar maple, and Pastor Dennis was sitting on the hood, arms crossed on his chest, staring right back at them.
“He’s a stubborn guy,” Tim said. “He’ll stay there all day if he has to.”
“What time do you have to leave for the game?”
“I’m not going. I have to sit this one out.”
“Really? But isn’t this for the championship of, uh, what is it, Division B-3?”
“Yeah,” he said. “I’m trying not to think about it.”
“Sorry.”
“That’s okay. It’s not your fault.”
Ruth wasn’t sure this was true, but she kept it to herself.
“What about you?” he said. “You going?”
“Not today. Maggie asked me to stay home. She thinks I’m a troublemaker.”
Tim shook his head. “She’s a good kid, Ruth.”
“I know.”
A few seconds went by. Tim’s voice was soft, a bit fearful.
“I guess I should get going soon. I’m sure you have things to do.”
They were standing side by side, not quite touching, but close enough that she could breathe in the sleepy smell of his body and feel a gentle current moving between them. They kept staring straight ahead for a long time, almost as if they were afraid of looking at each other, the silence gathering around them, thickening, until the world outside the window disappeared—the sky, the houses, the trees, the airborne leaves, even the man on the car—and they were alone.
“Stay as long as you want,” she told him.
Tom Perrotta is the author of five previous works of fiction:
Bad Haircut, The Wishbones, Election
, and
The New York Times
bestsellers
Joe College
and
Little Children. Election
was made into the acclaimed movie directed by Alexander Payne and starring Reese Witherspoon and Matthew Broderick. Perrotta was nominated for an Academy Award for the screenplay of the movie version of
Little Children
, which was directed by Todd Field and starred Kate Winslet and Jennifer Connelly. Perrotta lives with his family outside Boston, Massachusetts. Please visit his Web site at
www.tomperrotta.net
.
VINTAGE CANADA EDITION, 2008
Copyright © 2007 Tom Perrotta
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Published in Canada by Vintage Canada, a division of Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto, in 2008, and simultaneously in the United States by St. Martin’s Griffin. Originally published in hardcover in Canada by Random House Canada, a division of Random House of Canada Limited, in 2007, and simultaneously in the United States by St. Martin’s Press. Distributed by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto.
Vintage Canada and colophon are registered trademarks of Random House of Canada Limited.
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
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