The Abstinence Teacher

“Enough,” Ruth said. “She's just a kid.”

She spoke more forcefully this time, and Frank actually listened. His expression turned sheepish, and he shook his head, as if trying to clear away the cobwebs.

“Sorry. Sometimes I get a little worked up.”

“No kidding.”

“It's crazy. These Bridgeton girls are a bunch of bruisers. What're they putting in the milk over there?”

It was true, Ruth realized. The Comets were unusually big for their age—aside from one nimble Asian girl, they looked like a tribe of Viking warrior maidens—and they played a tough physical game, lots of pushing and shoving and body-checking. But you had to give Maggie's team credit; what they lacked in size they made up for in quickness and skill, frequently beating their opponents to the ball and moving upheld in a rat-a-tat-tat series of pinpoint passes. If not for several spectacular but risky saves by the Comets’ goalie, who had no qualms about coming way out of the net to challenge the shooter, Stonewood Heights would have held a commanding lead.

Ruth was especially impressed by her daughter's performance. Maggie had always been a natural athlete, but in the past she'd seemed oddly tentative in the field, too polite for her own good. If a girl on the other team wanted the ball badly enough, Maggie would just stand aside and let her have it. Today, though, she was playing with a competitive fire that took Ruth by surprise, a beady-eyed intensity uncannily similar to her father's. She was all over the field, leading the breaks on offense, helping out on defense, fighting fiercely for control of the ball. She talked a lot during the game, barking incomprehensible instructions to her teammates—she wore a mouthpiece to protect her orthodontia—who seemed to understand exactly what she wanted from them.

“Wow,” said Ruth. “She's come a long way.”

Frank nodded. “She's been like this all season.”

UNTIL HER divorce, Ruth had been a dutiful soccer mom, surrendering countless Saturday mornings to the dubious pleasures of watching little kids kick a ball up and down a grassy field, often in unpleasant weather. Now that Frank had the girls on Saturday, though, he'd become point man for weekend sporting events, a piece of parental turf Ruth had surrendered without complaint. God knew she spent enough time ferrying the girls back and forth to various lessons, practices, and friends’ houses during the rest of the week.

Besides, Frank enjoyed the games more than she did, especially once Maggie began qualifying for the stronger teams. In the past couple of years, he'd become her advisor, practice partner, and biggest fan; besides taking her to numerous high-school and college games, he supervised her development, enrolling her in instructional clinics and expensive summer programs (this past July, she'd spent two weeks at a sleepaway camp run by former members of the USA Women's National Team). Eliza—a lackluster athlete who'd quit sports as soon as she was given a choice—frequently complained about Frank's favoritism toward her little sister, how all he could talk about was Maggie, Maggie, Maggie, soccer, soccer, soccer.

The irony of this was not lost on Ruth, who remembered quite vividly just how disappointed Frank had been to have a second daughter, rather than a son he could “play ball with.” He used this phrase all the time, as if male children existed for the sole purpose of playing ball with their fathers. He pressured Ruth to reconsider the two-child policy that had been in place since the beginning of their marriage, and changed his mind about going in for the vasectomy he'd agreed to get once they reached their quota.

In retrospect, Ruth could see that Maggie's birth had marked the beginning of the end of their marriage. Slowly but inexorably, Frank began drifting away. Without consulting her, he signed up for graduate courses in Education, and threw himself into his studies with an energy that would have seemed admirable under other circumstances, earning his Master's in Administration in only two years while holding down a full-time teaching job. Only his family life suffered, but Ruth understood that that was the whole point—he'd gone back to school precisely so he could get the hell out of that house full of females, away from the unendurable torment of not having a boy to play ball with.

But now he had a girl to play ball with, and everything was forgiven. Ruth didn't begrudge him the pleasure, or his closeness to Maggie, not anymore. As far as she was concerned, he was welcome to stand out in the rain and scream at the refs to his heart's content, as long as it allowed her to spend her Saturday mornings waking up slowly in a warm, quiet house. This privilege had seemed doubly luxurious during the dark days of last spring's Sex Ed scandal, when running the gauntlet of concerned soccer parents ranked somewhere beneath oral surgery on Ruth's list of Fun Things to Do.

Maggie had seemed perfectly fine with this parental division of labor until a couple of months ago, when she'd been chosen to play for the Stonewood Stars, the town's elite traveling team for girls eleven and under. It was a high honor, and it had made her happier than Ruth had ever seen her. She slept in her team jersey—royal blue with a white star over the heart—and wore it every day in the yard, where she spent an hour dribbling between cones and kicking the ball against the side of the garage. And every Friday, just before Frank came to take her and Eliza for the weekend, Maggie would remind Ruth about the game on Saturday, and beg her to please come and watch her play, and this week Ruth had finally run out of excuses.

THE SCORE was still tied at halftime, but the Stars seemed relaxed and silly on the sideline, as if they'd already won. Several players were fussing over a black Lab puppy with a purple bandana around its neck; three others were teaching a dance routine—it combined elements of the Macarena, the Swim, and the Bump—to their coaches, an incongruous pair who seemed genuinely interested in mastering the complicated sequence of moves. After a moment of uncertainty, Ruth recognized the bulkier of the two men as John Roper, Candace's dad, though he'd lost most of his hair and put on about fifty pounds since she'd first seen him dropping off his daughter at Little Learners seven years ago. She didn't know the other coach—he was younger, unexpectedly hippieish for Stonewood Heights, a small compact man whose dark hair could easily have been gathered into a respectable ponytail.

Oblivious to the festivities, Maggie sat on the grass nearby, caught up in conversation with her friend, Nadima, a Pakistani-American girl with huge brown eyes and disconcertingly skinny legs. Nadima was scowling thoughtfully, nodding the way you do when you want your friend to know that you understand what she's saying and sympathize with her position, even if you don't completely agree with her. Ruth approached cautiously, hoping she might be able to overhear a few scraps of their conversation—they looked so endearingly serious, like grown women discussing a complicated relationship or a thorny problem at work—but her cover was blown by Hannah Friedman, who glanced up while scratching the puppy's belly.

“Hi, Mrs. Maggie's mother!” she called out, in a loud, stagey voice. Unlike most of the girls on the team—they were eleven and under, after all—Hannah had already begun to develop real breasts and an annoying adolescent personality to go along with them.

“Hi,” Ruth replied, uncomfortably aware of several faces turning in her direction at once. “You girls are doing great.”

With a startled cry of delight, Maggie scrambled to her feet and rushed over to her mother, greeting her with a hug several orders of magnitude stronger than usual. Ruth squeezed back, feeling the clamminess of her daughter's skin through the mesh weave of her jersey.

“Mommy!” Maggie's voice sounded as theatrical as Hannah's, but her eyes were full of honest emotion. “Thanks for coming.”

“Happy to be here,” Ruth told her. “I'm sorry it took so long.”

Maggie stepped back from the embrace, tugging at her uniform to get everything back in order. Ruth was unexpectedly moved by the sight of her, as if she were being offered a glimpse of two Maggies at once: the little girl she still was—a dirty-kneed tomboy straight out of Norman Rockwell—and the happy, confident young woman she was already on her way to becoming.

“Did you see when I scored?” she asked, kicking an imaginary ball. “The goalie dove, but it went right through her hands.”

Ruth frowned an apology. “I'm sorry, honey, I got here a little late. But I can't believe how well you're playing. You're like the Energizer Bunny out there. I'm so proud of you.”

“You should be,” said a man's voice. “She's our spark plug.”

Ruth turned and saw the long-haired coach approaching with a friendly expression and a slight bounce in his step, probably a byproduct of the dance lesson.

“Can I interest you in an apple slice?” he asked, extending a Tupperware container. “The girls barely made a dent.”

Maggie took one, but Ruth declined.

“You sure?” The coach looked a bit put out by her refusal. “They're nice and fresh. I squeeze lemon juice on 'em so they don't turn brown.”

“Good thinking,” said Ruth. “Can't go wrong with lemon juice.”

Nodding as if she'd uttered a profound truth, the coach shifted the container to his left hand and extended his right.

“Tim Mason. I'm the fearless leader of this motley crew.”

They shook. His hand was unusually large and a lot warmer than hers.

“I'm Ruth. Maggie's mother.”

Keeping a firm grip on Ruth's hand, Tim Mason studied her face, as if she were a good friend he hadn't seen in a long time. Up close, he looked older than she'd expected, at least forty. Some gray hair. Crow's-feet. A certain wariness around the eyes.

“I've heard a lot about you,” he said.

Ruth chuckled nervously, glad she'd taken the time to shower and put on makeup before leaving the house.

“Good things, I hope.”

Tim Mason didn't answer, nor did he loosen his grip. He just kept staring at Ruth, the moment stretching out, the air smelling like apples.

“It means a lot to her that you're here,” he said. “I know how much she's missed you.”

When he released her hand, Ruth felt relieved and vaguely let down at the same time.

“Well, thanks for coaching,” she said. “I know it's a big time commitment.”

“I love it,” he said, turning to Maggie and ruffling her hair. “We got a great buncha kids.”

* * *

RUTH WASN'T sure why the brief encounter with Tim Mason had left her so flustered. It was nothing, really, just some innocuous small talk and a handshake that lasted a little too long with a guy she wasn't even sure she found all that attractive (he was handsome enough, but she always found something vaguely off-putting about long hair on a middle-aged man). And yet here she was, all hot and bothered at the beginning of the second half, staring right through the players on the field to the coach on the far sideline—he was holding a clipboard, banging it against his leg like a tambourine—unable to think of anything but the pressure of his palm against hers and the way time seemed to stop when he looked into her eyes.

It was embarrassing, she understood that, pining for your daughter's married soccer coach—oh, she'd checked for the ring; she always checked for the ring—possibly a new low. Not that it was her fault. This was the kind of thing that happened when you went without sex for too long. After a while, any scrap of male attention—a wry smile, a kind word, the faintest whiff of flirtation—was enough to create a full-blown disturbance in your love-starved brain. A guy says, “Excuse me” in the supermarket, well, he must be the One, your Last Chance for Happiness. Or barring that—because happiness was a pretty tall order—your last chance for a normally unhappy life where somebody at least touches you every week or two.

What made it more ridiculous was that it wasn't even midmorning yet, and Tim Mason was already her second Last Chance of the day. During the night, she'd gotten so worked up thinking about Paul Caruso and their long-lost interlude of secret passion—Hadn't they shared something special? Wasn't it a pity that they'd fallen out of touch?— that she'd done something she already regretted. Dragging herself out of bed at three-thirty in the morning, she'd logged on to Classmates.com and posted a query on the Oakhurst Regional High message board: “Does anyone know how to get in touch with Paul Caruso, class of '80? He was a trumpet player who lived on Peony Road.”

What was that, six hours ago? And already, she'd dumped her old lover for a hippie soccer coach who would undoubtedly be replaced by the surly Russian guy with liquor on his breath who pumped her gas at the Hess station. Is this what it's going to be like for the rest of my life, Ruth wondered, one unrequited fantasy after another until I shrivel up and die?

SHE WAS rescued from this unrewarding line of inquiry by the sudden appearance at her side of Arlene Zabel, a striking woman of about fifty, whose daughter, Louisa, played goalie for the Stars. Arlene had long gray hair that only heightened your awareness of how youthful she looked otherwise—her body trim and girlish, her face lively and unlined.

“Ruth,” she said. “It's been ages.”

Ruth agreed that it had. Arlene gave her an approving once-over as they exchanged pleasantries.

“You look terrific. Did you lose weight?”

“I've been running,” Ruth explained. “Mainly just to keep sane.”

Arlene nodded sympathetically, as if she understood exactly why Ruth might have needed to take steps to preserve her sanity. She was a tax-attorney-turned-massage-therapist—a true renegade, given the narrow parameters of acceptable adult conduct in Stonewood Heights— and Ruth had always considered her a kindred spirit.

“I've been meaning to call you for months,” Arlene said. “But you know how it is. Mel's been traveling for work, and I run around so much, I barely have time to breathe.”

“That's okay,” Ruth told her. “I've been pretty busy myself.”

The falseness of the moment was painfully apparent to both of them. Four years ago, they'd been good friends. They had each other's families over for dinner, went on double dates with their husbands, took the kids to movies, museums, and amusement parks. But Frank had known Mel since high school, and it was tacitly understood by everyone involved that he would get custody of the Zabels after the divorce. Ruth and Arlene tried to sustain an independent friendship for a while, but it had petered out after a couple of melancholy coffee dates.

“It's a shame what they did to you,” Arlene said. “You didn't deserve to be raked over the coals like that.”

“Thanks.” Ruth appreciated the sentiment, though she would have appreciated it a whole lot more a few months ago, back when the coals were still burning.

“I don't know where all these Bible Thumpers are coming from,” Arlene said. “I mean, they didn't used to be so—uh-oh!”

Ruth looked up just in time to see one of the Comets steal the ball from Nadima and boot it upheld to the Asian girl. A roar of anticipation went up from the Bridgeton fans as their star offensive player dribbled past Hannah Friedman and broke for the net. Alone in the goal, Louisa Zabel seemed jittery, uncertain whether to hold her ground or rush forward and force a shot.

“Oh God,” Arlene said, grabbing hold of Ruth's wrist.

The Asian girl had a wide-open shot from ten feet out, but she drilled the ball straight at Louisa, who swatted it away with her gloved hands, then dove for the rebound, curling her body around the ball before the shooter could follow up.

“Way to go, Lou-Lou!” Arlene screamed. “Get it out of there!”

Louisa leapt to her feet, sprinted forward, and flung the ball almost to midfield.

“Wow,” said Ruth. “She's got quite an arm.”

“This game's gonna give me a heart attack,” Arlene said. “What was I saying?”

“The Bible Thumpers?”

“Ah, forget it.” She waved her hand in disgust. “I'm sick of talking about it. The whole world's going nuts.”

“It's the kids who are being cheated,” Ruth pointed out. “You got a small group of fanatics telling everybody else what they can and can't do, what they should and shouldn't read or talk about. Where's it gonna end?”

“I wish it were a small group of fanatics. I'm starting to think there's more of them than us. I mean, they're running the country.”

“It's only because they're louder. The people on our side aren't speaking out. It's like we're a bunch of wimps who don't believe in anything.”

The Stars had a throw-in. Nadima raised the ball high over her head and heaved it into an empty space in the center of the field, a little bit ahead of one of her teammates—a quick, dark-haired girl Ruth had never seen before—who came streaking out of nowhere to meet it. Unfortunately, one of the Comets—Number 14, with the Wagnerian braids—arrived from the opposite direction at exactly the same time. It was a sickening thing to watch: the two players crashing into each other at full speed, both going down hard.

The bigger girl got up right away—she was crying and clutching her midsection—but Maggie's teammate remained motionless on the grass. Tim Mason and John Roper came running onto the field before the ref had even blown the whistle.

“Who got hurt?” Ruth asked.

“That's Abby, Tim's daughter.” Arlene drew an anxious breath. “I hope she's okay. Last week, a girl from Willard Falls broke her collarbone. They had to take her away in an ambulance.”

The players took a knee while the coaches attended to Abby. Tim Mason crouched at his daughter's side, his hand resting lightly on her shoulder. He addressed a worried comment to his assistant, who nodded grimly, and signaled to the ref. By this point, the Bridgeton coach had wandered onto the field to see if he could help.

“This is scary,” Arlene said.

At almost the same moment, though, Tim's face broke into a dazzling smile of relief as Abby pushed herself into sitting position and held out a hand. In a single smooth motion, her father hoisted her up from the ground and cradled her in his arms. He asked a question; she nodded yes. The spectators applauded as they made their way slowly across the field, like an old-fashioned bride and groom.

“He seems like a nice guy,” said Ruth.

“Who, Tim?”

“Yeah. I just met him a little while ago.”

“He's good with the girls,” Arlene said, a bit stiffly.

Ruth couldn't help herself. “I actually thought he was kinda cute. I mean, I know he's married and everything.”

“You're joking, right?”

“He's a little short,” Ruth conceded. “But he's got a good build.”

Arlene hesitated for a moment, apparently trying to decide if Ruth was pulling her leg.

“You know he's one of them, right?”

“One of who?”

“That church. Tabernacle. Whatever you call it.”

“Really? He doesn't seem the type.”

“Ask him,” Arlene said. “He'll be happy to tell you all about it.”

“Oh, shit.” Ruth laughed, remembering the way the coach had held her hand and stared into her eyes. He hadn't wanted her body. He'd wanted her soul. “I'm such an idiot.”

Arlene patted her on the shoulder.

“We gotta find you a boyfriend.”

This was no idle offer. It was Arlene who'd set Ruth up with Ray Mattingly, the divorced computer guy with whom she'd had her only serious relationship since Frank had moved out. Not that it was all that serious. They'd had a couple of bad dates, then a couple of good ones, then a lovely weekend together in the Poconos, on the way home from which he informed her that he was moving to the Research Triangle of North Carolina. He said he would've mentioned it earlier, but he hadn't wanted to spoil their trip.

“Any candidates?” Ruth asked.

“I'll give it some thought,” Arlene promised.

The ball went out of bounds off the Comets, and the Stars called for subs. Maggie was one of three girls who came sprinting onto the field.

“Thank God,” said Arlene. “Now maybe we can get some offense going. If we win today, we'll be tied for first place in Division B-3.”

RUTH DIDN'T think of herself as the kind of person who cared deeply about the outcome of a game played by fifth graders—or the standings in Division B-3, whatever that was—but even she found it impossible not to get swept up in the excitement as the clock wound down, and every play became fraught with danger and possibility. You could see the tension on the faces of the spectators—they'd abandoned their conversations and drifted en masse toward the sideline, creating an irregular human fence around the field—as well as the players, who seemed to have moved beyond fatigue into the realm of pure adrenaline. Watching them, Ruth felt a sharp pang of envy, wishing she could be out there herself—hair pulled back, shin guards tucked under her knee socks, completely alive in her body, in the moment— wishing she'd grown up at a time when sports were a routine part of a girl's life. She would be a happier person now, she was pretty sure of it. The momentum had taken a worrisome turn in the latter part of the second half. Now it was the Comets who dominated, mounting one offensive assault after another, getting off numerous solid shots on goal—including a penalty kick that ricocheted off the post—without managing to score. The Stars seemed intimidated, as if they'd given up trying to win and had decided that the best they could hope for was to run out the clock and escape with a tie.

“Come on, ladies!” Frank bellowed from down the sideline—Ruth had moved away from him in the second half, unable to cope with his enthusiasm—his voice so ragged with emotion that Ruth felt ashamed for both of them. It was simply beyond belief that she'd spent two hours with a man like that, let alone twelve years of her life. “Let's get some backbone!”

Smelling blood, but clearly frustrated at their inability to score, the Comets launched a furious last-ditch onslaught, bringing their two defenders way up past midfield to increase the pressure on the beleaguered Stars, who couldn't seem to clear the ball from out in front of their net no matter how hard they tried.

“Oh Jesus,” Arlene groaned. “This is not good.”

One of the Comets—a lanky girl with boyishly cropped blond hair—had an open shot that went wide. A few seconds later, the same girl dropped a beautiful corner kick right in front of the Stars’ goal, but Louisa reacted quickly, snatching it up on one bounce. Without a second's hesitation, she charged forward and whizzed the ball down-field, toward the right sideline. At first it seemed to Ruth that she was throwing wildly, just trying to get the ball as far away as possible, but suddenly it became clear that it was a planned maneuver, because Maggie was already far upfield, moving at full tilt, as if she'd known where the ball was going to land before it had left Louisa's hand, long before the Comets even sensed the danger.

Maggie took control of the ball near midfield, with nothing but grass between her and the goal. It looked to Ruth like one of those scenarios from a wish-fulfillment dream—one player way out front, everyone else stampeding behind, unable to catch up. When it became clear that help would arrive too late, the Comets’ goalie began moving away from the net, hoping to force a bad shot. Maggie just kept charging forward as if the goalie weren't even there, and it looked to Ruth for a second like another collision was inevitable.

“Shoot!” Frank was shouting. “Bang it in!”

But Maggie didn't shoot. With the goalie closing in on her at full speed, she kicked the ball sideways instead of straight ahead, a maneuver that made no sense to Ruth until she noticed that Candace Roper had also outrun the Comets’ pursuit and was pulling up even with Maggie just in time to receive the unexpected pass.

Candace had a little trouble getting control of the ball, giving the goalie time to whirl and make a panicky sprint back to the net, but it was too late. By the time she got there, Candace's shot—a weak dribbler that would have been an easy save under other circumstances—had already trickled across the goal line.