The Abstinence Teacher. Tom Perrotta

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СКАЧАТЬ style="font-size:15px;">      “Okay, Dad.”

      He felt a fullness in his heart that was almost painful and wished he could think of something to say that would do it justice. But words like that were never there when he needed them.

      “I'm gonna miss you, Ab.”

      She laughed sweetly—the first happy sound that had come out of her mouth all morning—and patted him on the knee.

      “Dude,” she said. “It's only a week.”

      ALLISON STOOD in the sunlit, two-story entrance foyer—it featured a glittering chandelier that could be raised and lowered by remote control—looking sweetly disheveled in a gold silk robe that Tim had never seen before, tied just loosely enough for him to get a tantalizing glimpse of the sheer black nightgown underneath. She hugged Abby, then invited him in for the ritual Sunday morning cup of coffee and parental debriefing. He could've begged off, of course, could've told her he was in a rush, had to get ready for church or whatever, but he never did. She was the mother of his child, a woman who'd stood by him for way longer than he deserved before finally throwing in the towel, and the least he could do was give her fifteen minutes a week of his time.

      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 СКАЧАТЬ