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Authors: Deborah Digges
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well-worn script we are each ready to play out. G. is so excited to see Stephen that he relents, stops the rubbing of his wrists and picks up the dog. We can't help but drop our guard a bit in surprise.
“Still—” Stan's heavy brows are knit frighteningly “We've got to deal with this.”
But GQ. is licking Stephen's face, slobbering with joy Stephen tries to stifle a grin. Holding the dog close to his chest he steers him—as a weapon, it might appear, or a shield. He turns his head from side to side, trying to avoid G's enormous wet tongue. Stephen and his dog make their way between Stan and me and head up to Stephen's room.
“Follow him,” Stan urges, his voice tinged with helplessness.
“Wait,” I say. “Let it go for tonight.”
“But we've got to deal with this! We've got to deal with it
now.
He's out of control.”
While Stan is yet excited, focused, intense, I feel an unstoppable draining of energy. Stan is trying to do the right thing, the way he knows, the way we know, though it fails us over and over.
We believe that to do the right thing means to confront Stephen, make him understand what he's done wrong, and then resolve this episode as best we can.
Then we must try like hell to regain our control.
Control, yes, this is the modus operandi. We must regain control of this kid, where he goes, who he talks to, with whom, for how long, etc.
We've already taken sanctions toward this end.
Every night at ten o'clock Stephen must unplug the phone extension in his room and deliver it to us. This particular sanction was enacted when, getting up to let the puppy out one night about 5:00 A.M., I heard Stephen talking and laughing.
Not only had he been on the phone all night, but when we received our first phone bill, it was clear Stephen was running up huge long-distance charges.
We took control by putting a long-distance block on the line, demanding that Stephen unplug the phone in his room and deliver it to us every night at ten. Then we grounded Stephen for two weeks during which the three of us drove around the New England countryside, Stan and I ogling the scenery, Stephen in the backseat, his eyes closed, his Walkman leaking a hiss and rumble as he listened to rap.
But soon we would learn that we had overlooked a fewdetails regarding the phone. As they came to our attention, we corrected them too.
We'd overlooked the fact that Stephen could—and did—borrow a substitute phone. Returning the official phone to us each night, he went back to his room, rooted out the contraband phone from its hiding place and plugged it in.
And though we had put a block against outgoing longdistance calls—except when using a special numerical code that Stan and I, like spies, memorized and repeated back to each other in our locked car, promising never, ever to write the code down or breathe word of it, or dial it in Stephen's presence—we'd failed to block long-distance calls coming
in.
“That's a different
kind
of block,” the AT&T operator explained to us. “It's not included with a direct-dial block. They're two different blocks, each with a separate fee that will appear on your phone bill.”
“If I were to choose one,” she continued, warming up to us when we didn't argue with her about the two fees, “I'd choose the collect-call block. Collect calls are more expensive than direct-dial, you know.
Much
more expensive.”
“We know,” we answered, Stan on the downstairs extension, I on the upstairs. “We'll take both.”
“So much for the honor system,” said Stan over the dead line, quoting the method of choice suggested to us by Stephen's former therapist.
“Ha!” I punctuated as we hung up and met in the kitchen for celebratory drinks.
But tonight we've lost our humor as we stand in thekitchen racking our brains for a course of action, “That will get this kid in line,” I say.
“And keep him there.” Stan finishes my sentence.
In light of the last few years, the recent phone
“Still—” Stan's heavy brows are knit frighteningly “We've got to deal with this.”
But GQ. is licking Stephen's face, slobbering with joy Stephen tries to stifle a grin. Holding the dog close to his chest he steers him—as a weapon, it might appear, or a shield. He turns his head from side to side, trying to avoid G's enormous wet tongue. Stephen and his dog make their way between Stan and me and head up to Stephen's room.
“Follow him,” Stan urges, his voice tinged with helplessness.
“Wait,” I say. “Let it go for tonight.”
“But we've got to deal with this! We've got to deal with it
now.
He's out of control.”
While Stan is yet excited, focused, intense, I feel an unstoppable draining of energy. Stan is trying to do the right thing, the way he knows, the way we know, though it fails us over and over.
We believe that to do the right thing means to confront Stephen, make him understand what he's done wrong, and then resolve this episode as best we can.
Then we must try like hell to regain our control.
Control, yes, this is the modus operandi. We must regain control of this kid, where he goes, who he talks to, with whom, for how long, etc.
We've already taken sanctions toward this end.
Every night at ten o'clock Stephen must unplug the phone extension in his room and deliver it to us. This particular sanction was enacted when, getting up to let the puppy out one night about 5:00 A.M., I heard Stephen talking and laughing.
Not only had he been on the phone all night, but when we received our first phone bill, it was clear Stephen was running up huge long-distance charges.
We took control by putting a long-distance block on the line, demanding that Stephen unplug the phone in his room and deliver it to us every night at ten. Then we grounded Stephen for two weeks during which the three of us drove around the New England countryside, Stan and I ogling the scenery, Stephen in the backseat, his eyes closed, his Walkman leaking a hiss and rumble as he listened to rap.
But soon we would learn that we had overlooked a fewdetails regarding the phone. As they came to our attention, we corrected them too.
We'd overlooked the fact that Stephen could—and did—borrow a substitute phone. Returning the official phone to us each night, he went back to his room, rooted out the contraband phone from its hiding place and plugged it in.
And though we had put a block against outgoing longdistance calls—except when using a special numerical code that Stan and I, like spies, memorized and repeated back to each other in our locked car, promising never, ever to write the code down or breathe word of it, or dial it in Stephen's presence—we'd failed to block long-distance calls coming
in.
“That's a different
kind
of block,” the AT&T operator explained to us. “It's not included with a direct-dial block. They're two different blocks, each with a separate fee that will appear on your phone bill.”
“If I were to choose one,” she continued, warming up to us when we didn't argue with her about the two fees, “I'd choose the collect-call block. Collect calls are more expensive than direct-dial, you know.
Much
more expensive.”
“We know,” we answered, Stan on the downstairs extension, I on the upstairs. “We'll take both.”
“So much for the honor system,” said Stan over the dead line, quoting the method of choice suggested to us by Stephen's former therapist.
“Ha!” I punctuated as we hung up and met in the kitchen for celebratory drinks.
But tonight we've lost our humor as we stand in thekitchen racking our brains for a course of action, “That will get this kid in line,” I say.
“And keep him there.” Stan finishes my sentence.
In light of the last few years, the recent phone
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