The Abstinence Teacher

He just wished she would put some clothes on. Allison was a beautiful woman—even at forty, with twenty pounds of post-childbirth weight that looked like it was here to stay—and Tim had to force himself to keep his eyes where they belonged as he trailed her through the dining room to the entrance of the family room, where he paused to say hi to Mitchell and his two-year-old son, Logan, who were playing a wooden ring toss game that looked like it came from a catalogue that only sold toys made of natural materials by the finest Old World craftsmen.

“Hold,” Mitchell called out. He was a baby-faced guy in his late thirties with curly hair and a doughy physique. “It's Senor Tim.”

“Hola to you,” Tim replied. “How's the little guy?”

Mitchell wrapped his thumb and forefinger around Logan's pudgy bicep.

“Strong like bull,” he declared in a ridiculous Russian accent that elicited a hearty chuckle from the boy, who appeared to have been cloned from his father.

Abby peeled off to join her brother and stepfather, while Tim and Allison continued into the breakfast nook. It was possible, he thought, that there was an innocent explanation for the fact that his ex-wife was hardly ever decently dressed when he showed up on Sunday mornings— it was true that she'd never been shy about her body, and had enjoyed lounging around half-naked on weekends ever since he'd known her— but he couldn't help suspecting that she got some satisfaction from reminding him of everything he'd thrown away, all the pleasures and privileges he'd surrendered for the simple, stupid reason that he liked getting high better than he liked being a husband and father.

If that was her strategy, it was working a little too well. Standing in the archway of the eerily spotless dream kitchen—it looked like a movie set, not a place where actual people cooked actual food— watching her pour his coffee, he couldn't help noticing how shamelessly short her robe was, not much longer than a miniskirt, which made him wonder how much shorter than that her nightgown must have been, which led, inevitably, to more specific thoughts about her body, and the many ways she'd shared it with him over the years. Mitchell must have felt like he'd died and gone to heaven, a nerdy intellectual property lawyer living in a house like this with a wife who had a black strawberry tattooed on her ass—she'd gotten it back in the mid-eighties, when it was still a little bit daring—and, unless things had changed, an unusually strong sex drive. The whole deferred-gratification thing had really paid off for the guy, and Tim couldn't help envying him for his discipline and foresight.

THE BREAKFAST island was long and sleek, the countertop a thick slab of polished blue granite with a weirdly deep sink at one end. Sitting across from him, Allison rearranged the lapels of her robe in a gesture of belated modesty, as if it had just occurred to her what she was wearing and who she was with. “So how'd the game go yesterday?” “We won. We're tied for first place in the division.” “Wow.” She sounded impressed, though both of them knew she couldn't have cared less. “How'd Abby do?”

“Great.” He took a sip of coffee, a dark roast that Allison insisted was way better than Starbucks, though Tim could never taste the difference. “I did want to tell you, though—she got into a pretty bad collision near the end of the game. She and this other girl crashed into each other at full speed, and I think she was knocked out for a minute or two.” “Oh my God, did you—”

“Don't worry. Dr. Felder says she's fine, no sign of concussion or anything. He says to just keep an eye on her, but he doesn't anticipate any problems. You can give him a call if you want.”

Tim had expected to be grilled for details—he knew she questioned the soundness of his parental judgments, a holdover from the days when her worries were more than justified—but his explanation seemed to satisfy her. She shook her head with what seemed like genuine empathy.

“That must have been scary for you.”

“You have no idea.”

“I'm glad it was you,” she said, rolling her neck in a lazy circle. She'd recently begun putting blond highlights in her hair, and he liked the way they glinted against the darker gold of her robe. He'd always enjoyed her hair; she used to tease him with it when they were making love, sweeping it across his face and belly like a broom, and she never complained if he pulled it when they were playing rough. “I woulda had a heart attack.”

The conversation flagged for a few seconds, just long enough for him to register the music playing in the background; it was the Dead, a live version of “Cassidy” he'd never heard before. He grunted with surprise.

“What's this, a bootleg?”

“One of those Dick's Picks,” she said.

“Since when do you—?”

“I always liked them,” she said, a bit defensively.

“News to me.”

“I appreciated the music. I just didn't like all the drugs and craziness.”

“Okay,” he said. “Whatever you say.”

She looked at him with what felt like real curiosity.

“You still into them?”

“Not so much. I'm trying to put all that behind me.”

“Must be hard.” She smiled sadly, acknowledging the depth of his sacrifice.

“A little easier every day.”

“Good for you.” She paused, letting Jerry finish a jazzy little run, that clean sunny sound no one else could duplicate. “So how's Carrie?”

“Fine.” He didn't like discussing his wife with Allison, though she was more than happy to discuss her husband with him. “Same as always.”

“Well, tell her I said hi.”

Tim nodded, feeling momentarily disoriented. Sitting across from Allison in this gorgeous kitchen, listening to the Grateful Dead on Sunday morning, it was easy to believe that this was his life—their life—a new improved version of the one he'd screwed up so royally. Abby was with them, and Mitchell and Logan and Carrie were just people they knew, and not especially important ones. It was such a convincing sensation that he had to make a conscious effort to remind himself that losing that life, painful as it was, had been the best thing that had ever happened to him. God had a plan for him, and it involved something more important than a big house and a beautiful wife and a happy intact family. He slid off the stool and pressed his palm over the lid of his coffee mug.

“I better be going,” he told her.

MOST OF the time, Tim felt pretty good about his new condo—it was a two-bedroom townhouse with wood floors, central air, a gas fireplace, and Corian countertops—but it always struck him as cramped and dingy after he returned from Greenwillow Estates. Everything was all squashed together—the closet-sized half bath a step away from the front door, the kitchen table wedged between the refrigerator and the dishwasher, forcing you to turn sideways when serving or cleaning up. The furniture, which was perfectly nice, and not cheap by any means, seemed common and nondescript, and even slightly tacky, in a way he couldn't put his finger on.

He had a similar reaction to Carrie, who was sitting on the living room couch, flipping through Parade magazine. With Allison fresh in his mind, she seemed paler and less vivid than usual, vaguely disappointing. He must have stared at her a moment too long, or with a little too much intensity, because she put down the magazine and looked up with a worried smile.

“Everything okay?” rune.

“How's Abby's mom?” For some reason, Carrie insisted on referring to Allison in this way, and Tim could never quite decide if she meant it as a subtle dig or an expression of respect.

“Hard to say I just stopped in for a minute or two.”

She nodded, keeping her gaze trained on his face, as if awaiting instructions. Though she was already dressed for church, he knew she was expecting him to take her by the hand and lead her up to the bedroom, the way he did on most Sunday mornings, taking advantage of this brief interlude—their first free moment of the weekend—between dropping Abby off and heading to church.

But Tim just stood there, hands jammed into his pockets, reminding himself of the promise he'd made to Pastor Dennis after Wednesday Night Bible Study, not to touch his wife until he cleared his head and purified his heart. Because it was deceitful and disrespectful, making love to Carrie after being aroused by Allison, turning one woman into a substitute for another.

“You look upset,” she said. “Can I make you some eggs or something?”

He shook his head, feeling a sudden wave of affection for her. Carrie was a sweet girl and wanted nothing except to make him happy. He stepped toward the couch and extended his hand, as if asking her to dance.

“Pray with me,” he said. “Would you do that?”

TIM AND Carrie had been married for less than a year. Pastor Dennis had introduced them at a church picnic shortly after Tim had found his way to the Tabernacle and been reborn in Christ.

“There's someone I want you to meet,” he said. “I think you'll like her.”

Tim was pleasantly surprised when the Pastor led him over to the condiment table, where a folksingery blond was struggling with a big Costco bag of plastic forks, spoons, and knives that didn't seem to want to open. Unlike most of the single women who worshipped at the Tabernacle, she was young and reasonably cute, with long straight hair and startled-looking blue eyes. In the strong afternoon sunlight, Tim couldn't help noticing that her peasant blouse—a gauzy embroidered garment, the kind of thing pothead girls wore in the late seventies—was translucent enough that you didn't have to strain to see the outline of her bra underneath, which was about as much excitement as you could hope for at a gathering like this. Her breasts were plump and pillowy, not what he normally went for, but he had to make a conscious effort to stop staring at them. He wasn't proud of himself for behaving in such an ungodly way, but he'd been lusting after women since he was twelve, and it was turning out to be a harder habit to break than he'd expected.

Pastor Dennis relieved Carrie of the troublesome bag.

“You're fired,” he told her. “Now get outta here. And take this guy with you, okay?”

Carrie smiled sheepishly at Tim, wiping the back of her hand across her sweaty forehead.

“Hey,” she said. “You're the guitar player.”

“Bass,” he corrected her, momentarily distracted by Pastor Dennis, who was having no more luck with the bag than Carrie had. He was tugging at it with both hands, grimacing fiercely, like a man trying to rip a phone book in two.