by Tom Perrotta
“I gotta tell you guys. Jetman and Mr. Asbestos might be alone with their fears, but we’re not. We got someone watching our backs way more powerful than any superhero. And that’s why every single one of us can walk through the valley of the shadow of death, and we will fear no evil. Because He’s with us! I can feel Him here tonight!
“A little while ago, I told you about our mission. Before we can truly be undaunted men of God, we got to deal with our fears. And that’s what we gonna do now. If you’ll open your program to page eight, you’ll see a white card. I want you to rip it out at the perforation.”
Tim detached his card. It was blank, except for a single phrase printed across the top—MY GREATEST FEAR IS:
“Now guys,” Brother Biggs continued, “what I need is for you to be completely honest. Don’t be writing down stupid stuff like, I’m afraid the world will run out of ice cream. We really need you to look into your hearts and face your fears. Some of you got work problems, and some of you got problems with your wives, or maybe your kids. And a lot of you—oh, I know it, because I know you guys, you’re my brothers—some of you got appetites and addictions that are keeping you from being the kind of man God wants you to be. And by the way, don’t be telling me you can’t fill out the card because you didn’t bring anything to write with. We got volunteers spread throughout the auditorium even as I speak, and they got a pencil for anyone who needs one.”
It was true. Guys in neon green traffic safety vests were moving up and down the stairways, handing out fistfuls of stubby, eraserless pencils from plastic buckets. Bill Spooner took a bunch and passed them down the aisle.
AFTER THE Faith Keepers had filled out their cards, Brother Biggs invited them to come down to the area in front of the stage for what he called the Presentation of Fears.
“Come on now, let’s do this together. You done the facing and the embracing just by looking into yourself and writing down what you saw there. Now we gotta take this one last step. We got to erase these fears by giving them to God.”
The procession started slowly, individual guys rising from their seats and moving toward the stage.
“Okay,” said Brother Biggs. “That’s a start. I know it’s not easy to be a pioneer. But we’re with Jesus. Ain’t nothing can scare us.”
There was a big open pit in front of the stage. Once the first group of volunteers made it that far, they raised their hands, waving their cards overhead as they approached a row of plastic trash cans with the words FEAR RECEPTACLE painted on them.
“Go ahead, guys. Put those cards in the barrels. Give those fears to God! He can handle anything you got!”
The band had been repeating the same dreamy chords for several minutes, but the music suddenly grew louder. The singer launched into an eighties-style power ballad, with a quiet verse that swelled to a stirring chorus:
Fear not!
The day is breaking
Fear not!
Stop your shaking
Fear not!
The Lord is with us, and we’ve got nothing to fear
“Come join us!” Brother Biggs called out during an instrumental break. “Let’s show the world what it means to be undaunted!”
Pastor Dennis stood first, and the rest of the Tabernacle guys followed, filing down the aisle and into the stairway, which was starting to get pretty congested.
“Take courage,” Brother Biggs told them. “Remember what Jesus said. ‘Be not afraid, for I am with you!’”
All over the auditorium more men were leaving their seats and joining the procession. Tim was caught at a bottleneck near the entrance to the floor when a torrent of confetti suddenly dropped from the ceiling over the pit.
“Do you know what that is?” Brother Biggs said. “Those are the cards we collected last week in Baltimore! We took those fears and turned them into something joyful! And next week your cards will rain down on the good men of Albany!”
By the time he reached the edge of the pit, Tim had his hands up; he was waving his card and singing along with the band.
“Fear not! Day is breaking. …”
He hung back for a moment, letting his comrades go ahead of him. It was chaos down there, confetti and swirling lights, a surging mass of bodies coming and going, packed as tight as a rush hour subway car. All around him, guys were weeping and falling to their knees. Tim watched Bill Spooner and Steve Zelchuk let go of their fears—Bill wiped a tear away afterward, and Steve pumped his fist into the air—before stepping up to a barrel himself.
“You know what?” Brother Biggs shouted. “I want you to turn to the man next to you and say, I’m not afraid anymore!”
Tim hadn’t found it easy to put a name to his fear, partly because he had so many of them. He thought about Abby first, and how he might never get to know her the way he wanted to, and then of Carrie, because he knew how much he’d hurt her. He thought about tomorrow’s soccer game, and how badly he wanted a drink. But when he actually put his pencil to the paper, it was Pastor Dennis he was thinking about, and John Roper, and all the guys he’d come here with tonight, guys he’d worshipped and prayed with these past three years. The guys who’d accepted him despite all his flaws and helped him back on his feet. They were gathered behind him now in a confetti blizzard, hugging one another and saying they weren’t afraid anymore. And Tim was standing in a daze by the trash can, a white card trembling in his hand.
“MY GREATEST FEAR IS:,” it said, “that I’m not part of this anymore.”
BRUSHING BITS of paper off his shoulders, Tim stepped through the exit door and into the fresh night air. As far as he could tell, no one seemed to be following him. He’d sensed Pastor Dennis’s eyes on him as he lingered by the barrel, unable to let go of his card, but he’d taken advantage of the whiteout caused by a fresh confetti drop to slip out of the pit and make his getaway.
He wasn’t alone out there. There must have been a dozen Faith Keepers loitering around the cement plaza outside the Civic Center. A couple were smokers who’d stepped outside for a cigarette break, but most of the others appeared to be in some sort of spiritual turmoil, muttering to themselves or staring uncertainly at their cell phones, doing their best to avoid eye contact with anyone else.
Keeping his head down, Tim veered across the plaza, stopping by the taxi stand to strip off his purple bracelet. He cast a quick fearful glance over his shoulder—he wasn’t sure why; he wasn’t doing anything wrong—before dropping it into a trash can.
He crossed Fountain Boulevard and darted down a side street, power-walking as though late for an appointment. As he approached the parking lot it suddenly occurred to him how badly he was inconveniencing the guys he’d left behind. There were eight of them and John’s van fit only seven, which meant that somebody was going to have to sit on somebody’s lap. It would be a long, uncomfortable ride home.
For a second or two, Tim felt so bad about this that he considered turning around and going back, but he couldn’t make himself do it. The Civic Center seemed impossibly far away, and his car was right around the corner. Even so, the thought of all those guys—all his friends—squeezed into the Odyssey, their big night ruined by Tim’s selfishness, was so vivid in his mind, and so disturbing, that he actually felt relieved, upon entering the parking lot, to find Jay leaning against the trunk of his Saturn, arms crossed impatiently on his chest.
“Damn,” he said. “You sure took your time.”
“A LITTLE more?” Randall asked.
“Why not?” Ruth replied. “I’m not the one who has to drive home.”
To make up for her less-than-festive behavior at the restaurant, Ruth had picked up a bottle of Champagne at the Liquor Mart and invited the guys back to her house for a do-over celebration. They were more than happy to accept, and even bought a second bottle, on the grounds that “you never knew when it might come in handy.” It was this bottle that Randall used to refill Ruth’s glass and top off Gregory’s.
“Better be careful,” Gregory warned hi
s fiancé. “We’re the ones who do.”
“Not necessarily,” Randall said, gazing at Ruth with a smile full of drunken goodwill. “I’m always happy to sleep on Ruth’s couch.”
“Feel free,” she assured him. “You’re always welcome.”
“I know,” he said, then turned to Gregory. “But I’d really like to sleep in my own bed tonight.”
“If you want to do more than sleep,” Gregory said, “we better not drink much more.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Randall said. “Drunken sex tonight or hangover sex in the morning. It’s all good.”
“Oh yeah.” Gregory laughed. “Nothing beats hangover sex. Except maybe flu sex. That’s superhot.”
“Believe it or not,” Randall said, “I do tend to get horny when I’m sick.”
Gregory nodded. “He had strep last year and kept begging me for a blowjob every time I took his temperature.”
“See?” said Ruth. “This is why I’m gonna be lost without you guys. You think I’m gonna hear stories like this from Donna DiNardo?”
“Good old Donna,” Randall said. “I’m gonna miss her.”
“Oh well,” Ruth said. “Once you find a new job, you’ll meet a whole new cast of characters.”
“Randall’s not getting a new job,” Gregory said. “At least not for a while.”
“Really?” Ruth said.
“I’m going to start an eBay business from home,” Randall told her. “It’s already like a part-time job.”
“Plus,” Gregory pointed out, “someone’s got to stay at home with the kid.”
Ruth laughed, but stopped when she realized that Gregory hadn’t been joking.
“Or kids,” Randall added. “We think two’s a nice round number.”
“You serious?” she asked. In all the time she’d known the guys, they’d never expressed even the slightest inclination to raise a child.
“Kind of,” Gregory said. “Right now we’re just thinking out loud. But once you get married, it just kind of makes sense to have kids, don’t you think?”
“It’s definitely worth considering,” Ruth said. “I think you two would make great parents.”
They agreed that they wanted an older girl and a younger boy, not that you always got to choose. Randall liked the names Fiona and Jake, while Gregory preferred Isabelle and Liam. They were throwing around some other possibilities—Maria and Luke, Nina and Josh, Madeline and Ernesto—when the doorbell rang. They looked at one another in puzzlement.
“Expecting anyone?” Randall asked.
“No,” Ruth said, rising hesitantly from her chair.
“Maybe it’s the drunk dialer,” Gregory suggested. “Maybe his phone broke.”
“It can’t be,” Ruth said, inching toward the hall. “You can’t just show up on somebody’s doorstep at this time of night.”
“Invite him in,” Randall said. “We’d like to meet him.”
“It’s not him,” Ruth insisted.
But it was. She knew it before she put her hand on the knob, before she opened the door and saw him standing right in front of her, his big hands jammed into the pockets of his jean jacket and a pleading look in his eyes. The only things she couldn’t have predicted were the confetti in his hair and her own inability to speak.
Good Morning
RUTH USUALLY SLEPT NAKED ON FRIDAY NIGHT, BUT IT DIDN’T feel right with Tim on the downstairs couch. Her everyday sweatpants-and-extra-large-T-shirt combo seemed depressingly frumpy under the circumstances, so she dug deep in her underwear drawer and dredged up a satiny black nightie with a plunging neckline that Frank used to like. It smelled a bit musty when she slipped it on—it hadn’t been in contact with fresh air for quite a while—but it was the best she could do on such short notice. At least this way she wouldn’t be at too much of a disadvantage if Tim decided to knock on her bedroom door in the middle of the night, not that there seemed to be much danger of that.
She still hadn’t fully recovered from the shock of seeing him on the porch, the sudden force and clarity of her own feelings. It felt like she’d stared at him for a full minute before recovering the power of speech.
“What are you doing here?”
His eyes drifted, as if drawn by a magnetic force, to the Champagne glass in her hand.
“You told me to come back when I was sober.”
“It’s late,” she said. “I have some friends over.”
He shut his eyes, as if he needed a moment to absorb this.
“So you want me to go?”
Ruth pretended to think this over, but she already knew the answer. She’d spent the last three days regretting her decision not to invite him in on Tuesday night—it just wasn’t possible, not with the girls upstairs and Randall crying in the kitchen—and she wasn’t about to repeat the mistake.
“Come join us,” she said.
To her surprise, Tim got along pretty well with Randall and Gregory. He congratulated them on their engagement, and didn’t say or do anything to suggest that he disapproved of their relationship or felt any squeamishness in their company. The only awkward moment came when she had to intervene to prevent Randall from pouring Tim a glass of champagne.
“No,” she said, a bit more sharply than she meant to. “Don’t do that.”
“But we’re celebrating,” Randall protested.
“He shouldn’t drink.”
Tim didn’t look too happy about this, but he didn’t contradict her.
“Sometimes I forget,” he told Randall.
“You know what?” Gregory rose from his seat, shooting a meaningful glance at his partner. “I think it’s time for us to go.”
“No, no,” Tim told him. “Don’t leave on my account.”
“Not at all,” Gregory assured him. “It’s past our bedtime.”
Ruth was pretty sure he’d make a move on her once they were alone—she was wholeheartedly in favor of the idea—but all he did was ask if he could spend the night on her couch.
“I hate to bother you,” he said. “But I have nowhere else to go.”
“What about your wife?”
He shook his head, as if this were no longer an option.
“Did you guys have a fight?”
His cell phone started buzzing before he could answer. He pulled it out of his pocket and winced at what he saw on the display.
“Come on,” he muttered. “Just leave me alone.”
“Is something wrong?”
He shoved the phone back into his pocket and tried to smile.
“My life’s a mess.”
She wanted to ask him how he’d gotten all that confetti in his hair, but he didn’t seem to be in the mood for conversation.
“I’ll get your sheets,” she said. “There’s an extra toothbrush in the medicine cabinet.”
RUTH TRIED to read in bed, but it was hopeless. She was too busy listening through the not-quite-closed door, trying to figure out what Tim was up to in the living room, wondering if he’d gotten undressed, if he was thinking the same thoughts about her that she was thinking about him. She put down the book, turned off the lamp, and slid her hand between her legs, but her heart wasn’t in it.
Help me, she thought. I’m right upstairs.
She wasn’t quite sure why she didn’t just go downstairs and kiss him. After all, wasn’t that the advice she’d given Randall, to stop waiting around and take matters into your own hands? And besides, Tim had done most of the work simply by showing up. Maybe now it was her turn.
But she couldn’t do it. Not only because he was still married—even if the marriage was hanging by a thread—or because he seemed to be going through some sort of larger crisis that involved a relapse with alcohol and drugs. And not even because she was still pissed at him about the trouble he’d caused with his prayers at the soccer games. It was mainly just that she was scared—scared he’d say no, and scared of how she’d feel if he did.
After tossing and turning for what felt like hours, she finally m
ust have dozed off. She only realized this was the case because she was conscious, sometime later, of being startled awake by a creaking door.
“Ruth?” he whispered. “Are you asleep?”
“No,” she said. “Not anymore.”
Tim was standing on the threshold, illuminated from behind by the hall light, his silhouette compact, oddly familiar, deeply thrilling.
“I hate to do this,” he said, “but can I use your computer?”
HE FELT a little weird, scrolling through Ruth’s inbox at two in the morning, but he didn’t really have a choice. In any case, it didn’t take too long to find what he was looking for, a reminder he’d sent to the team on Tuesday morning—“Re: This Week’s Practice Re-Scheduled.” He hit Reply All, erased the old subject line, and typed in a new one: “IMPORTANT MESSAGE FROM COACH TIM.”
Dear Stars, he wrote, I regret to inform you that due to an unavoidable personal situation, I won’t be with you at tomorrow’s game against Green Valley. Assistant Coach John Roper will lead the charge in my absence.
He had prayed long and hard before making this decision, which ran counter to his deepest principles and desires. But a sense of calm certainty came over him as he reread his words on the screen, a spiritual clarity he hadn’t experienced in a long time, as if Jesus were looking over his shoulder, nodding in approval.
The irony of the situation wasn’t lost on him. Just a few hours earlier, in the parking lot of a “gentleman’s club” called Eyeballs, Tim had found himself tongue-tied, struggling to respond to Jay’s claim that Pastor Dennis had tricked him.
“I mean, don’t get me wrong,” he said. “I felt something that first night, when the Pastor prayed with me in the parking lot. I’m not denying that I was shit-faced at the time, but I swear to you—and I’ve thought a lot about this—I felt like I was enveloped in this beautiful cloud of love and, you know, forgiveness. And the Pastor told me that feeling was Jesus.