by Tom Perrotta
“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 upfield 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 anx
ious 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.
IT WASN’T true, as certain people insisted in the weeks that followed, that Ruth had gone to Shackamackan Park that morning looking to cause trouble. In fact, trouble was the furthest thing from her mind as the ref blew the whistle to end the game, giving the Stars a hard-fought 3-2 victory.
“We did it!” Arlene cried, hugging Ruth and jumping up and down at the same time. “I can’t believe we did it!”
“What a game,” Ruth said. “The girls just didn’t give up.”
She was surprised at how exhilarated she felt—proud of Maggie, mainly, but also mysteriously validated as a parent—and these good feelings even spilled over onto Frank as he approached with a cockeyed grin on his face. He looked wired, the way he used to get when he stayed up all night writing a term paper.
“Can you believe your daughter?” he asked. “Is she amazing or what?”
Ruth was about to launch into her own rhapsody of agreement, but she checked herself when she saw that Eliza had wandered over from the picnic table to join them.
“You missed quite a game,” Frank informed her.
She shrugged. “How’d Maggie do?”
“Good,” Ruth said. “They won.”
Eliza nodded, and Ruth could see the struggle it took for her to produce even a hal
fhearted smile.
“Cool,” she said.
Ruth’s heart went out to her. Eliza was going through a rough patch. The divorce had shaken her, the newspaper stories about her mother had mortified her, and puberty had knocked her for a loop. In three years, she’d gone from being an adorable little girl to being a chunky, strangely proportioned adolescent with greasy hair—it didn’t matter how often she washed it—a perpetual squint, and a mouth that hung open in a look of constant bewilderment. Her grades were mediocre, and her best friend had dumped her for a more glamorous crowd.
“She did good?” Frank asked. “Are you kidding me? She kicked ass out there.”
Eliza’s only reaction was to tug her upper lip over her lower one, a strange habit she had developed in the past few months.
“Can we go now?” she asked her father. “I’m starving.”
“We didn’t really have time for breakfast this morning,” Frank explained. “I promised the girls I’d take them to the diner after the game.” He hesitated, glancing first at Eliza, then at Ruth. “You can come with us if you want.”
Ruth was tempted—she would have liked to talk about the game with Maggie, and see what she could do to cheer Eliza up—but she and Frank had agreed to have as few “family” outings as possible, to avoid misleading the girls about the possibility of their getting back together.
“No thanks,” she said. “I gotta go. I’m just gonna say good-bye to Maggie.”
She kissed Eliza on the cheek, then headed across the field just as the Comets launched into their obligatory postgame cheer.
“Two, four, six, eight, who do we appreciate? Stonewood Heights, Stonewood Heights, yaaay …”
The Stars hadn’t done their cheer yet; they were sitting cross-legged in a circle on the grass, holding hands, looking unexpectedly solemn as they listened to whatever it was Tim Mason and John Roper were telling them. The coaches were part of the group, and that just made it cuter—the two grown men holding hands with the complete lack of self-consciousness they’d displayed while dancing at halftime—until Ruth suddenly realized what they were doing, at which point it wasn’t cute at all.