by Tom Perrotta
“I gave him the benefit of the doubt,” Matt wrote, “and he took full advantage.”
“I don’t care what my husband thinks,” Arlene declared. “This has gone far enough. It’s time to make a stand.”
On some level, Ruth understood this development as good news. She had allies now and could no longer be written off as an isolated crank. She could just print out another copy of the letter, send it off to Matt and Arlene, and then to Bill Derzarian, and wait for the war to start. But for some reason, all the fire had gone out of her. She no longer felt any anger toward Tim Mason, only a kind of wounded bewilderment.
All she really wanted was a chance to talk to him, to have him explain why he’d taken the trouble to visit her twice last week and make her like him so much—and why, for that matter, he’d looked at her so hungrily on Friday night—if all he was going to do was break his word and leave them both right back where they’d started.
As she pondered this it occurred to her that it was almost like there were Two Tims: Silky-Hair Tim and Greasy-Hair Tim. Silky-Hair Tim was charming and honest, a decent guy with a complicated history and fuck-up tendencies, who was trying his best to do right by everyone. Greasy-Hair Tim was a liar and a manipulator, a smooth talker who couldn’t be trusted and was only out for himself. This theory didn’t make sense on a literal level—his hair had been greased back on Wednesday night, when he’d behaved like his silky-haired alter ego—but it was such a good metaphor for his duplicitous behavior that she decided to call Randall and tell him about it.
She owed him a call anyway. Randall had left a message on Friday night, checking to see how her date had gone, and she still hadn’t gotten back to him. It wasn’t embarrassment that was holding her back—he was the kind of friend with whom she’d happily share an embarrassing anecdote—so much as it was uncertainty about how to tell the story. To make him understand why she’d walked out on Paul, she’d have to describe her recent interactions with Tim, and she hadn’t known how to do that in a way that would make sense to herself, let alone to Randall. But now that she’d developed the theory of the Two Tims, she thought she might be able to explain it in a way that was amusing as well as true, or at least true enough to get away with.
She was a little nervous about calling so early on Sunday morning, but Randall and Gregory were already out. Either that or they were still in bed—drinking coffee, maybe, or making love—and happily ignoring the ringing phone. Good for them, Ruth thought. Nothing brings a couple closer than ignoring a summons from the outside world.
“Hi, guys,” she told the machine. “It’s me, just checking in after my not-so-big date. Call me when you get a chance.”
Ruth thought it would probably be a good idea to put on some coffee, but instead she lay back down on the couch and closed her eyes. She wasn’t planning on napping, or even “resting her eyes,” as her father used to put it, but she must have drifted off because the next thing she knew the doorbell was ringing, and she was sitting up, blinking in confusion, and mumbling things like, “Whuh? All right. Okay. I’m coming.”
The clock on her VCR said it was only 9:37, way too early for it to be the girls, unless one of them had gotten cold feet and asked to be taken home. She trudged over to the door with a sticky mouth and that sense of muddleheaded urgency that comes with not being fully awake, and pulled it open. She felt oddly unsurprised to see Greasy-Hair Tim standing on her welcome mat, muttering about how he needed to have a word with her, and very surprised indeed by just how good it felt to slap him across the face.
“WHOA!” TIM raised both hands in front of his face in a cringing attitude of self-defense. “Take it easy!”
In reality, he didn’t mind the slap, which he thought he probably deserved. It didn’t hurt too bad—all that remained after the initial shock was a tingly sensation where her hand had been—and it seemed to take some of the edge off her anger.
“I’m sorry,” Ruth said, touching her own cheek as if in sympathy. “I shouldn’t have done that. But you lied to me.”
He nodded contritely, though he couldn’t help feeling like the word “lie” was stronger than the circumstances warranted.
“I’m sorry about the misunderstanding,” he told her.
“Misunderstanding?” She laughed bitterly. “That’s a good one. I guess I misunderstood you to be an honest person.”
Tim found himself gazing contemplatively at his fingernails. He’d done this all his life, when he was forced to account for something stupid or hurtful or selfish that he’d done.
“I meant to give you a heads-up,” he said. “That’s why I came here the other night.”
“So why didn’t you?”
“You didn’t give me a chance.”
“I’m not a mind reader, Tim. How could I give you a chance if I didn’t know you needed one?”
“I get your point,” he said. “I could’ve handled this a lot better.”
“Yeah. You could’ve told the truth.”
He made himself meet her eyes. Ever since he could remember, women had been looking at him with this same baffled, disappointed expression.
“Look, Ruth, I don’t blame you for being pissed, and if you want me to go, I’ll go. But if you want to talk, I’ll be happy to tell you my side of the story. I doubt it’ll make you feel any better, but at least you’ll know where I’m coming from.”
“Believe me,” she said. “I know exactly where you’re coming from.”
“All right, fine. I won’t waste your time.”
“No,” she said, opening the door wider and stepping to one side. “It’s okay. I’ve got nothing else to do.”
HE FOLLOWED her into the kitchen, steeling himself to receive his second scolding of the still-young day. At least this time he knew what was coming. The first one had been a sneak attack, sprung on him when he dropped Abby off at her mother’s.
“Morning,” Mitchell had said, greeting them in Allison’s place at the front door. He tousled Abby’s hair. “Welcome home, sport.”
She kissed his cheek and slipped into the house, which seemed quieter than usual.
“Your wife around?” Tim inquired.
Mitchell winced, as if this were a sore subject.
“She took Logan to the playground. It’s such a nice morning.”
“Oh.” Tim wasn’t quite sure what to make of this departure from protocol. Ever since Abby had started doing overnight visits, Allison had been present for the Sunday-morning handoff. “Think she’ll be back soon?”
“Why don’t we go downstairs,” Mitchell said. “We need to talk.”
“Why? Something wrong?”
“Come on, Tim. This is serious. You got yourself way out on a limb here.”
Tim had never been down to the basement before, and it was predictably impressive, a vast subterranean kingdom containing a cavernous laundry room, a carpeted play space/entertainment center for the kids with a wall-mounted wide-screen TV, and a gym equipped with a StairMaster, treadmill, stationary bike, weight bench, and sauna.
“This is something,” said Tim. “You work out down here?”
“I try,” Mitchell replied. “Allison uses it a lot more than me.”
Mitchell’s home office was smaller and funkier than Tim would have expected, with an old, clunky-looking PC hulking on a beige metal desk suitable for crawling under during a nuclear war. He was surprised to see an electric guitar propped on a stand near the three-drawer file cabinet, then taken aback to discover, upon closer inspection, that it was a vintage Telecaster.
“Jeez,” he said, squatting to examine the headstock. “This isn’t a reissue.”
“No way.” Mitchell looked pleased. “It’s the real thing—1952, mint condition, all original hardware. I got it on eBay.”
“I didn’t even know you played.”
“Just a few chords. Allison got me some lessons for my birthday, but I haven’t been able to take ‘em. Work’s been pretty hectic lately, not that I’m complainin
g.”
“Maybe when you retire.”
“That’s what I’m figuring.” Mitchell grinned sheepishly and strummed an air guitar. “I’ll be rocking the assisted-living facility.”
Tim wouldn’t have minded giving the Tele a test-drive—he’d never touched a ’52 before—but he could tell by the sudden improvement in Mitchell’s posture that playtime was over.
“So, uh, why don’t you have a seat?”
Adopting an expression of professional sternness that must have served him well in the courtroom—if he ever set foot in a courtroom—Mitchell sat down in the Aeron desk chair and waited for Tim to get himself settled on the couch, a big, low-slung piece of furniture upholstered in outrageously soft black leather, the kind of venue on which it was all too easy to imagine your ex-wife getting fucked on a sunny weekend afternoon.
“I know this is awkward,” Mitchell began, “but we have a problem.”
“What is it now?” Tim smiled wearily, as if he and Mitchell had been down this road numerous times, though in actual fact, nothing like this had ever happened before.
Mitchell’s face remained serious, even a bit pained. “One of the soccer parents called last night and said there’s been some religious stuff going on at the games.”
Tim smiled wanly, trying not to betray any surprise or concern. He’d expected complaints, but hadn’t figured they’d make their way so quickly to Allison, who never came to games, and wasn’t on the team e-mail or phone list.
“Just a little prayer,” he said. “Totally nondenominational.”
Mitchell nodded slowly, absorbing this information with an air of judicial impartiality.
“And you think that’s a good idea?”
“People have been praying since the beginning of time,” Tim pointed out. “If it was a bad idea, we probably would’ve stopped a long time ago.”
“Thanks for the anthropology lesson,” Mitchell told him. “But I wasn’t asking what the human race as a whole thinks about prayer. I was asking about you as an individual.”
Tim felt himself getting irritated. It wasn’t the interrogation itself, which was gentle enough, and even mildly diverting; it was the whole situation—just being here, in Mitchell’s palatial house, sitting on his wonderful sofa, not far from his amazing guitar, and having to account for himself and his child-rearing decisions to a man who was neither friend nor family, and who, on top of everything else, was wearing a T-shirt with Billy Joel’s face on the front. It didn’t help that his own gaze kept straying to a framed photograph on the wall behind the desk, an enlarged candid shot of Allison wearing a garland of flowers over a sundress, sipping a drink out of a coconut shell, and looking mighty pleased with the way things had turned out.
“It’s not about what I think,” he said. “It’s about what God thinks.”
“Come on, Tim. Don’t make this difficult. Allison’s pretty upset.”
“I figured. Why else would she sic her lawyer on me?”
Mitchell looked hurt. “That’s a cheap shot.”
“Sorry, but that’s what it feels like.”
“I’m not your enemy,” Mitchell informed him. “It may be tempting for you to think so, but if that’s the case you’re misreading the situation. I like you. I think you’re a good father to Abby.”
“Thanks,” Tim muttered, pleased in spite of himself. “I appreciate it.”
“But you know what the custody agreement says, and you know how Allison feels about that church of yours.”
On some level, Tim understood that this would be a good moment to say something conciliatory, but his self-respect wouldn’t allow it.
“If Allison’s got something to say to me about our kid, tell her to at least have the courtesy to say it to my face.”
“Believe me,” Mitchell said, “you don’t want to go there. If it was up to her, this would already be a legal matter.”
“With all due respect,” Tim told him, “this is none of your business.”
Mitchell squeezed his eyes shut and massaged his forehead.
“Don’t let this end up in court,” he said. “You don’t want to do that to Abby.”
TIM COULD’VE used a cup of coffee, but Ruth hadn’t offered, and he didn’t feel comfortable asking. It didn’t seem like that kind of visit, judging by the way she was staring at him from across the table.
“So.” She smiled frostily, interlacing her hands in the manner of an attentive schoolgirl. “You wanted to say something?”
“Where are the girls?” he asked, trying to buy himself a little time. “Still with Frank?”
“They went to church with a nice Korean family. Something called the Living Waters Fellowship?”
“It’s in Gifford,” he told her. “Supposed to be pretty loose and touchy-feely.”
“All I know is they serve donuts.”
“We do that, too. Gives people one less excuse to stay home.”
“It’s funny,” Ruth said, not sounding the least bit amused. “My older daughter had been planning to go all week, and then, out of the blue, Maggie decided to join her at the last minute. Apparently, she had some kind of religious experience at the game yesterday.”
“Listen, Ruth, I know you’re not gonna—” Tim was about to say believe me, but he stopped himself when he realized what she’d just said. “What do you mean?”
“She says she wants to know Jesus.”
“Really?”
“You think I’d make that up?”
A strange sound came out of Tim’s mouth, a kind of puzzled grunt.
“That is funny,” he said.
“Hilarious,” Ruth replied grimly. “So I guess you should give yourself a big pat on the back. You sure made a fool of me.”
Tim didn’t know what to say. Some part of him was pleased to think of Maggie in church, reaching out for something that would make her stronger than she already was. And Jesus Himself had said that He’d come to turn a man against his father, and a daughter against her mother. But this wasn’t what Tim would’ve chosen to happen—not to Ruth, and not on his account.
“If it makes you feel any better,” he said, “I tried to stop her.”
HE TOLD her how it unfolded, how he’d followed John Roper onto the field in that blinding rainstorm and stood by silently as the assistant coach sunk to his knees in the gigantic mud puddle in which the players of both teams were joyously splashing around, and called for the Stars to make a circle. A number of the Gifford girls retreated in confusion as John announced his intention of praising the Lord, but a handful remained behind, intrigued by the call to prayer. John had told them they were more than welcome to stay.
“Did you intervene?” Ruth said.
“No,” Tim admitted. “I didn’t think I had the right.”
It took a while for the prayer to begin, mainly because some of the Stars refused to kneel. They were just standing there, hovering at the edge of the circle, trying to figure out what to do. Tim could see the pain and uncertainty in their eyes, the desire to merge with the group colliding with an equally powerful urge to turn their backs on something from which they felt excluded.
“There were five holdouts,” he said. “Louisa, Hannah, Nadima, your daughter, and my daughter.”
“Your daughter?” Ruth said. “She wouldn’t pray?”
“Abby’s being raised by her mother and stepfather. They’re not interested in God.”
The girls on the ground linked hands, smiling shyly at one another, all of them soaking wet and splattered with mud. John was staring up at Tim, not with anger, but with kindness and understanding.
Coach, he said. We need you down here.
Tim couldn’t say he didn’t feel a tug. John was his friend, a man he’d brought to Jesus. And the girls who were kneeling so patiently in the mud and rain—they were his girls, even the ones he didn’t know. He took his own daughter gently by the wrist.
Come on, he told her. It’s okay.
Mom won’t like it, Abby
told him. She’ll be really mad.
You ’re not a child, he reminded her. You can make your own decisions.
Abby yanked her arm from her father’s grasp.
Leave me alone! she said. This is stupid!
It’s not stupid, Tim insisted.
By this point, John had already begun praying, talking about how beautiful it was to have players from both teams kneeling on the field, giving thanks and praise to the Almighty, because Jesus doesn’t divide the world into teams or nations or anything else that separates one person from another.
We’re all one, John declared. And He loves us all.
While he was pleading with Abby, Tim noticed Maggie drifting hesitantly forward, kneeling down between Candace and a girl from Gifford.
“I tapped her on the shoulder,” Tim told Ruth. “I said, Maggie, you shouldn’t be doing this. Your mother doesn’t allow it.”
My mother’s not here, Maggie replied.
This really isn’t a good idea, he said.
It’s fine, she insisted, clasping hands with the other girls, closing the circle she had opened. I want to do this.
Not knowing what else he could do, Tim turned back to Abby, but she was already walking away with Hannah, Nadima, and Louisa, the four of them trudging off the field with their heads down, as if they’d just suffered a heartbreaking loss.
“I was alone out there,” Tim said. “I was the only one standing.”
“So what did you do?”
“I got down on my knees,” he told her.
RUTH WASN’T as impressed by this story as Tim had hoped.
“That’s it? You tapped her on the shoulder and said I didn’t approve? That’s your big heroic act?”
“What’d you want me to do? Put her in a headlock? I mean, there I am, begging my own daughter to join the prayer, and in the next breath I’m telling yours she shouldn’t. I felt like a total hypocrite.”
“Maybe we should switch kids,” Ruth suggested. “Make things a lot simpler for both of us.”
Tim tried to smile, but it didn’t feel too convincing. Ruth could joke about giving up her daughter, but he knew what that felt like for real. And he could already feel Abby slipping away from him again, regardless of whether Allison tried to limit his visitation rights. Even if everything stayed the same, it was all too easy to imagine a future where she barely acknowledged him and didn’t need him for anything important.
