The Abstinence Teacher (7 page)

For nothing.

She cried out in frustration and scrambled to her feet, leaving the towel and the book behind as she hurried across the lawn to her house. She had just reached the patio when she heard a window being raised. Paul poked his head outside, peering down at her from the second floor.

“Ruthie,” he said. He’d never called her that before, and she felt a warm blush spreading across her face.

“Yeah?”

“The back door’s open.”

WHAT AMAZED
her wasn’t that she went to him, crossing the lawn in her bathing suit, letting herself in, and climbing the stairs to his bedroom. That part of it was a foregone conclusion, all she’d been waiting for since the first day they had walked home together. What amazed her was what she did when she got there.

It was mystifying, really. She was a month away from her sixteenth birthday, and still fairly innocent, at least compared to a lot of girls she knew. She’d played a few rounds of spin-the-bottle in junior high, and had kissed three different boys in her first two years of high school. The most recent one, Scott Molloy, had touched her breasts, but only briefly, and only through her bra.

Ruth really didn’t know how to account for the recklessness—the complete absence of fear—that came over her the moment she stepped into his room. He just looked so harmless—so sweet and nervous—sitting on the bed, the trumpet resting on his bedside table next to a bag of Ruffles, his injured foot propped on a pillow. He started to say something complicated—it was part apology for keeping her waiting so long, mixed in with guilty mutterings about Missy—but she shushed him with a kiss and started fumbling with his belt. His mouth tasted like tuna on rye.

“Ruth?” His voice trembled slightly, as if she were about to burn him with a cigarette. “What are you doing?”

“Let’s find out,” she told him.

It had something to do with Mandy, Ruth understood that much, because she had the distinct impression that her sister was watching her, an invisible third person in the room, smiling with approval as she unzipped Paul’s fly and tugged his pants down to his knees, nodding in encouragement as she peeled off her bathing suit and tossed it on the floor.

“Ruth?” Paul said again. “Are you sure—”

She pressed a finger to his lips as she climbed on top of him.

Go ahead
, Mandy seemed to say.
Don’t be afraid. It’ll only hurt a little, and then it’ll get better
.

“It’s okay,” she whispered, reaching down and guiding him inside. And it did hurt, a lot more than she’d expected, though she tried not to show it, still keenly aware of the sensation of being judged by her sister, of proving herself to a beloved teacher.

Because, of course, that was how Ruth had learned everything she knew, lying in bed at night, listening drowsy and aroused to Mandy’s half-sheepish, half-triumphant confessions about what she had and hadn’t done with this boy or that—the first time she made Billy Frelinghausen hard with her hand, the first time she used her mouth on Danny Wirth, the night she lost her virginity in Rich Lodi’s parents’ bedroom, with a gallery of family photos smiling down upon her.

But this is different
, Ruth thought, as Paul released a series of astonished grunts beneath her. Mandy had been working up to that for years, taking things one step at a time, inching methodically toward the goal line. She’d had serious boyfriends since eighth grade, and had somehow managed to postpone sexual intercourse all the way to the end of high school, and to save herself for a boy she really believed she loved.

“Ho, God!” Paul shouted. He seemed to have overcome his doubts, and was bucking his hips wildly, almost like he was trying to throw her off the bed. “Holy shit!”

For as long as she could remember, Ruth had felt herself trailing far behind her sister, so far that she couldn’t even see her anymore. But now, in a matter of just a few minutes, in a single giant leap forward, she’d gotten herself all caught up.

“Jesus.” Paul stared at her in bewilderment when it was over. His face was slick with sweat, his hair plastered against his cheek. “I just thought we were gonna make out a little.”

IT LASTED
for a little over two weeks. There was a feverish quality to those stolen afternoons that Ruth had never forgotten, a hectic intensity that left her feeling exalted, set apart from the world.

They’d head straight to his bedroom after school, yank down the shades, and pick up right where they’d left off the day before. Because of his limited mobility, Paul spent most of this time flat on his back, with his shirt still on (he was shy about his body) and his pants down around his knees (it was a big production to get them off over the
cast), staring up at Ruth with an expression of awestruck gratitude as she sat astride his waist, basking in his admiration. He couldn’t believe his good luck, couldn’t believe that something so miraculous had been made possible by a broken ankle.

“It seemed like such a drag at the time,” he said. “But it turned out to be the best thing that ever happened to me.”

“You mean it?”

“Nothing even comes close.”

At four o’clock she’d kiss him good-bye and head home, her body ripe and sore and unfamiliar, a subject of constant fascination. Sometimes she’d shower, but usually not—it was exciting to possess a sexual aura, to move around inside the memory of what she’d just done, an outlaw in her own house. Schoolwork was out of the question, so she occupied herself by cooking dinner, singing along with the radio as she peeled the potatoes or tossed the salad. Even her mother, usually so dense and indifferent, noticed that something was afoot.

“You seem so cheerful lately,” she said. “If I didn’t know better, I might think someone had a boyfriend.”

“Yeah, right.” Ruth rolled her eyes.

“Pretty soon,” her mother told her. “Just you wait.”

IF SHE’D
been a character in one of JoAnn Marlow’s abstinence fables, Ruth thought, she would have paid dearly for that brief interlude of after-school pleasure, and spent the rest of her life enshrined in a cautionary anecdote:
Poor Ruth, who found out she was pregnant on her sixteenth birthday; Poor Ruth, who went blind from a rare venereal disease; Poor Ruth, who was exposed as the little slut she was, and driven out of her own high school
. …

And it could have happened, of course, at least the pregnancy. In all their time together, Paul had never once used a condom, and Ruth never asked him to; it just seemed out of the question somehow, too bald and practical, as if they were operating in the real world of choices
and consequences, rather than this sealed-off dream capsule where you could do whatever you wanted and not worry about anything. Sexually transmitted diseases, on the other hand, were a nonissue; Paul turned out to be as inexperienced as she was, though his virginity was more a matter of his girlfriend’s preference than his own.

Missy won’t do that
, was a constant refrain on those afternoons, a phrase that not only applied to actual sex, but to less momentous stuff like ear-licking, or finger-sucking, or letting Paul see what you looked like in just your underwear and socks.
She thinks it’s gross
.

“Why don’t you break up with her?” Ruth asked.

“I can’t do it now,” he explained. “Not this close to graduation.”

SHE HAD
only one bad memory from those days, but it had stuck with her over the years, its power undiminished by the passage of time. It happened on a warm evening near the end of school, a couple of weeks after Paul’s cast came off and he was reclaimed by real life, Missy, and the marching band. Ruth was in the kitchen, helping her mother clean up after dinner when her father called from the living room.

“Hey, get a load of this.”

What he wanted them to see was the white stretch limo parked in front of the Carusos’. A small crowd of curious neighbors had gathered around to admire the vehicle—it was gleaming in the dusk, giving off a soft shimmery luster—some of them chatting with the uniformed driver, others circling the car, peering into the windows and kicking the tires, as if they were thinking about buying one for themselves.

“Must be the prom,” Ruth’s mother said.

Ruth’s father was a man who liked to know what was going on. Whenever an ambulance or fire truck appeared on Peony Road, no matter what time of day or night, he headed out to investigate, buttonholing as many bystanders and emergency workers as he could,
then returning home with the bulletin:
Mrs. Rapinksi was short of breath, it was a grease fire in the oven, the old man felt dizzy
. Ruth wasn’t surprised to see him putting on his shoes.

“This oughta be interesting,” he said.

“Who’s his date?” her mother asked. “Is it that big girl? The baseball player?”

“How should I know?” Ruth snapped.

Her parents headed outside, unable to resist the glamorous pull of prom night. Ruth stayed in, staring out the window, wishing she had the courage to return to the kitchen and continue loading the dishwasher but finding it impossible to turn away from the spectacle.

The limo driver—he was an older man with a carefully expressionless face—had just pulled out a handkerchief and begun rubbing at something on the windshield when the people around him began to clap, as if applauding his diligence. It took Ruth a moment to realize that Paul and Missy must have just emerged from the house, though she couldn’t see them from where she stood. Even with her face pressed against the glass, her field of vision only encompassed the bottom half of the front lawn, where Paul’s father and another man—a burly guy in a windbreaker who must have been Missy’s dad—were kneeling and snapping flash pictures.

Onlookers shouted out jokey-sounding comments that Ruth couldn’t quite make out; she saw her own mother and father laughing on the sidewalk. Finally, she couldn’t take it anymore, the sense of being cut off from the action, of being stuck in here while it was all happening out there.

She headed for the front door, hesitating for a moment as she took stock of her unflattering outfit—baggy sweatpants and an old South-side Johnny T-shirt inherited from her sister—nothing you’d want to be seen wearing in public. She wondered if there was time to at least grab a jean jacket from her room or run a brush through her hair, but there wasn’t.

She stepped onto her porch just in time to see Paul and Missy making their way toward the limo, where the driver was waiting, holding the back door open and extending an eloquent gesture of invitation with his free hand. They stopped by the curb, posing for one last photo, Paul bulky and imposing in his rented tux, Missy a bit awkward in a sleeveless orange dress with a poufy skirt, a tight bodice—an unwieldy corsage had been pinned directly over her left breast—and spaghetti straps that emphasized the powerful girth of her shoulders. Her blond French twist seemed strangely luminous, almost iridescent, as she kissed Paul on the cheek, straightened his bow tie, and then ducked into the car. He was just about to follow her when he turned suddenly, as if drawn by Ruth’s gaze, and looked straight at her.

That moment of eye contact couldn’t have lasted more than a second or two, just long enough for Ruth to see that he’d gotten a haircut—nothing drastic, just a trim of a couple inches all around—and to notice his peculiar expression, as if his face had gotten stuck halfway between a fake smile for the cameras and a mute apology to her.

Or maybe she was imagining the apology part, because what did he have to apologize for? Ruth wasn’t his girlfriend, never had been. They’d just had some fun, and now it was over. She had no right to be jealous, no right to wish herself inside the limo in a pretty dress after having just been applauded by her neighbors, no right to call out and ask him to reconsider, to remember how he’d stroked her hair and told her that she was the kind of girl guys wrote love songs about.

He held his arms close to his body and shrugged, as if to say there was nothing he could do. She had the feeling he was about to say something, but the limo driver stepped in before he had the chance, placing his hand on Paul’s shoulder and guiding him gently into the car. He was still looking at her as the door slammed shut, his face baffled and unhappy, then lost behind the tinted window.

Who Do We Appreciate?

RUTH ARRIVED LATE AND MILDLY HUNGOVER FOR HER DAUGHTER’S
soccer game on Saturday morning. Smiling queasily, she made her way down the sideline, nodding hello to the more punctual parents, many of whom she hadn’t seen in quite a while. A few of the spectators were sitting in collapsible chairs, but most were on their feet, chatting in sociable clumps as they sipped from state-of-the-art, stainless-steel travel mugs, giving the whole scene the air of an outdoor cocktail party.

As usual, Ruth’s ex-husband, Frank, had removed himself from the talkers, his attention focused solely on the game. He stood like the baseball player he’d once been—knees bent, hands resting on his thighs—observing the action with an expression of intense absorption that Ruth might have mistaken for disgust if she hadn’t known him so well.

“Morning,” she said, tugging gently on his sleeve. “How we doing?”

“Tied at two,” he muttered, shooting her a reproachful glance. “First half’s almost over. Maggie thought you forgot.”

“I overslept.”

“Ever hear of an alarm clock?”

“Didn’t go off,” she explained, leaving out the part about how she’d unplugged the thing in a fit of three-in-the-morning insomniac misery. Because, really, what was worse than lying wide-awake in the dark, watching your life drip away, one irreplaceable minute after another?

“Come on, blue!” Frank bellowed through the loudspeaker of his cupped hands. “Move the ball! You’re dragging out there!”

Ruth squinted at the field, cursing herself for forgetting her sunglasses. She’d actually had them on the first time she left the house, but she’d decided to dart back inside for one final pit stop, knowing all too well that once she got to the game, her only alternative would be an off-kilter Port-A-Potty at the edge of the woods. She must have removed her shades to use the toilet—not that she couldn’t pee perfectly well in the dark—because they were no longer on her face when she pulled into the gravel parking area at Shackamackan Park.