The Abstinence Teacher. Tom Perrotta

the normal weirdness of adolescence setting in or something more specific to the two of them.

      “Oooh, look,” she said, whipping her head around to follow the path of a sports car that blew past on Pembroke Boulevard. “That's an Audi TT. Those things are awesome.”

      Tim didn't reply. Since she'd started going to private school, Abby had developed what he thought was a dishearteningly well-informed enthusiasm for the finer things in life—plasma-screen TVs, Rolexes, designer handbags, iPods, cars that cost more than he made in a year— and he tried, without getting all self-righteous about it, to let her know that he wasn't as impressed as she was, though she didn't seem to care much about his opinion one way or the other.

      “Maybe one of these days you can come to Sunday meeting with me,” he ventured. “You know, just give it a try. See what you think.”

      “You'll have to talk to Mom.”

      They both knew what that meant. The custody agreement gave his ex-wife exclusive control over their daughter's educational and spiritual upbringing, and Allison categorically refused to let Abby set foot in the Tabernacle, which she referred to as “that Nuthouse.” Tim understood all too well where she was coming from, and if he'd been coming from the same place, he would've felt exactly the same way. But that place just happened to be a swamp of vanity and self-delusion, and he prayed that Allison would find her way out of it someday, as unlikely as that seemed.

      Not that he was losing any sleep over the state of his ex-wife's soul; she was an adult, responsible for her own life, both in this world and the next. But Abby was still a child, and Tim felt like a coward and a bad father, letting some family court judge stand between his daughter and God. It was crazy: he was allowed to be Abby's soccer coach, but was barred from guiding her in something way more important, the only thing that really mattered.

      “So, uh, what are you going to do the rest of the day?”

      “Chill out,” she said. “Probably just IM for a while, then go to the mall.”

      Tim sighed in a way he instantly regretted, knowing it made him sound like a Goody Two-Shoes, Ned Flanders without the mustache.

      “It's the Lord's Day, honey. You shouldn't spend it at the mall.” “We might go to the movies,” she said. “I'm not really sure.” His sense of helplessness—of personal failure—intensified as he turned into Greenwillow Estates, a luxury development full of bloated McMansions, one monstrosity more gaudy and boastful than the next. His disgust at the sheer excess of the houses—what family actually needed six thousand square feet of living space?— was aggravated by a professional grievance. Tim was a mortgage broker, but somehow he never managed to connect with the kinds of clients who bought places like this. He just handled the little guys, people he met through church, mostly—hardworking, two-income families with shaky credit and not much in the way of savings, who could only qualify for high-interest, variable-rate loans that just barely got them inside a rundown ranch or a garrison colonial on a busy street or otherwise marginal neighborhood.

      Driving past the vast, oddly immaculate lawns of Country Club Way—it was mid-October, and there was barely a fallen leaf in sight—he fantasized, as he did every week, about pulling a U-turn and heading straight to the Tabernacle. What a pleasure it would be, walking into church with his little girl at his side, the person he loved best in the world, to stand beside her as she listened to God's word, surrounded by the love that filled the humble space, all those joyful voices mingling together in song.

      But it wasn't gonna happen. Abby's stepfather was a lawyer, and by all accounts a good one. As polite and friendly as Mitchell always was, Tim had no illusions about the consequences he'd suffer if he violated the custody agreement. Pastor Dennis would have encouraged him to go for it anyway—to stand up for what was right, and trust Jesus to take it from there—but Tim hadn't reached that level of faith yet. There was a special bond between him and Abby—he'd felt it the first time he saw her, just seconds after she'd slipped into the world—and it had survived all sorts of turmoil, those years when he'd disappeared into the wilderness and inflicted all sorts of suffering on the people he loved. He had a lot to make amends for, and couldn't bear the thought of spending a minute less with his daughter than he already did, let alone risking the possibility of being cut off from her altogether.

      MITCHELL AND Allison lived in something called a Greek Revival colonial on Running Brook Terrace, a monumental brick house with a portico supported by fluted pillars. Pulling his Saturn into the triple-wide driveway, next to an impossibly lustrous black Lexus SUV, Tim let the engine idle as he turned to his daughter. It was a way of prolonging their time together, as if his custodial rights didn't officially come to an end until he shut off his ignition.

      “My little girl,” he said, running his hand over her sleek dark hair, so similar to his own. “You be good, okay?”

      She stared back at him, her face blank and patient. After a long moment, she nodded.

      “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