Inappropriate Behavior: Stories (24 page)

It's bill night in the Putnam household. It used to be sort of fun. George and Miranda would pour each other a glass of wine, toast another $385 and $312, respectively, toward their not-so-rapidly dwindling student loans, another $1602.61 on the mortgage. They'd take out a pair of dice and roll to see which credit card got the big payment that month. Now it is not fun.

The savings are what's dwindling now, and fast. They're still paying most of the mortgage, because their ARM explodes soon, and if George is still out of work then, they know they'll need all the goodwill they can muster.

They're stuck on the student loans, too—they used up all their deferments when they were saving for the down payment on the house. And sometime over the summer, they can never remember exactly when, the student loan bills are supposed to increase. In their early forties, it seems highly unlikely to either of them that they'll ever have those things paid off.

Miranda brings home $3,024 per month, except in the two months a year when there are three paycheck-Fridays in the month. This is not one of those months. George makes $1,164 from unemployment benefits.

They budget $600 a month for groceries and other household necessities. Sometimes that's enough, sometimes it's not. Gas, thirty bucks a tank, times two, times four weeks, $240. Sometimes that's enough, especially with George driving less. They got rid of the cable, the Netflix. They got rid of the Y. They got rid of Archie's after-school program, which ran them $250
a month and was nothing but a problem, since they got the same kind of calls, the same kind of trouble there as Archie had at school, even more often. Archie won't settle down during homework time. Archie has problems keeping his hands to himself. Archie throws food during Group Snack. Archie doesn't listen when adults talk to him. Archie's temper got the better of him. Archie had to be consequenced again today.

Power, gas, Internet, garbage, water, sewer, cell phone—set those aside for now. Instead, they get out the notebook that has all the medical-bill arrangements. The biggest one, the one they hate the most, is to the pediatric neurologist, a German immigrant who wanted to do a sleep study on Archie that ended up not being covered by either of their insurances, when George had insurance. They pay this man, for his
inconclusive
sleep study, $210 a month. Total up their current outstanding balances to St. Louis's medical professionals—$7,352. Current monthly payment due, $511.

Every credit card gets the minimum now, no more big payments, no more pair of dice. Total minimum payment due—$519. George and Miranda guess it's possible that someone could say there was a time in their lives that they were irresponsible with their credit, that they lived beyond their means, but really, they didn't. They both like to read books, and they bought some books. They wanted to have this house for Archie, so they bought the house. It needed furniture. They don't take elaborate vacations. They drive nine- and ten-year-old cars, a Nissan Sentra and a Ford Focus. When Archie first started school, Miranda agitated for a minivan so she would be able to take Archie and his friends places. But Archie doesn't have any friends. So at least there's no car payment.

The president gives a speech on job creation. Immediately after the speech, the Senate minority leader says no to the president's job creation plan. Republicans win the special election in New York, where a former congressman had to resign because he sent out pictures of his penis on Twitter. The stock market's
down three hundred points. In Afghanistan, seven US soldiers are killed by an IED.

Insurances—car, home, life—must be paid, $311 per month. LaShonda at the outplacement agency says it's smart to open automatic payment accounts for these must-pay bills so that you don't see them and thus they don't weigh on your mind. She recommends using your one remaining credit card for these accounts—she recommends cutting up everything but your oldest credit card and paying the balance in full every month. That way the bills don't seem so daunting. George and Miranda have not cut up their other credit cards. What if there's a car problem, a pipe break, a smashed window, a fritzy stove?

Throw the utilities back in the pile, and we're at negative $490 for the month. That's before drinks with Miranda's coworkers. Before writing the check for Archie's lunch money. Before anything that comes up.

And of course they don't need the after-school program for Archie because George can pick him up every day. He gets there about ten minutes before school lets out, parks the car, and walks a block or so to the front of the school. To wait with the mothers. They all know each other, the mothers, they're all out talking. They're all nicely dressed. There are three categories of mothers. The busy professional, she's on flex time, goes in at six o'clock every morning, wears a suit, slim, distracted. There are the rich wives, who range from the heartbreakingly cute twenty-five-year-old to the brittle but handsome forty-something. There are the uber-moms, thick but fit-looking, sometimes in jeans, all with the same short haircut Miranda calls Suburban Butch. There are no fathers. Oh, occasionally. Not today.

It's windy today, and chilly. George gets out his phone. No messages, no texts, no e-mails. What do you expect late on a Friday? George is sure these people, these women waiting for
their kids, are bound to have problems in their lives, too. You never know what's happening in someone's life. George waits where he always waits, by the concrete bulldog statue on the northeast corner of the school's front lawn. The flagpole lanyard rings in the wind.

And there's Archie, and yes, there's his teacher walking alongside him and holding one hand while Archie drags his book bag with the other. While he was standing there waiting, George felt that a teacher would be coming out with Archie. It was in the air, like a smell, like the wind, and so George is not surprised. What has Archie done today?

What has
George
done today? There was a coffee at the Radisson in Florissant he was supposed to attend. He didn't. He didn't even get dressed until noon. He watched SportsCenter. He watched CNN. He watched ads for injury lawyers, bankruptcy lawyers, asbestos lawyers. Our attorneys are former IRS employees, and they know how to handle your case. He watched seven-and-a-half minutes of facial cumshots and four minutes of a blonde fucking another blonde with a strap-on dildo. Two minutes of a woman fucking a machine. Less than a minute of two men fucking a woman in the ass at the same time. He checked the ads on Monster. Ignored a phone call from Miranda. Ate a bologna sandwich.

“We had just another real rough day,” the teacher says. “Archie, you want to tell your dad?”

Archie does not want to tell his dad. His long hair blows in the wind. Some other kids run past Archie and the teacher and down the steps to the sidewalk. One of them bumps Archie and Archie smiles, laughs goofily, says, “What the heck?”

“Archie,” the teacher says. “Tell your dad.”

“I got in trouble for hugging Josh Okey,” Archie says.

“Mr. Putnam, he was not just hugging Josh Okey,” the teacher says. “He was practically
chasing
Josh Okey around the room. We had to put Archie outside in the hallway. You'll get a report. I had to write him up.”

“I'm sorry,” George says. Archie is now watching, and laughing at, some boys who are chasing each other around the front lawn of the school. George puts his hand on the back of Archie's neck, firmly. “We'll work on it. We are working on it. Please keep us informed of any problems.”

“What's your schedule like next week?” the teacher says now. “I talked this over with Ms. Patti, the counselor.” She says this like George doesn't know who Ms. Patti is, like he's not practically family with Ms. Patti after the last three years. “She's got some new ideas. Can we meet next week, with you and your wife?”

“I'll have to get back with you,” George says. Archie has slipped George's hand, gone over to sit on the concrete bulldog like it's a horse. “I'll have to check with Miranda.”

Months they've known this woman now, and she still always calls Miranda “your wife.” The actual unemployment rate nationally is something more like 20 percent when you include the part-timers, the underemployed, and people who have given up looking for work.

“Mr. Putnam, the other kids have to be allowed to learn,” the teacher says now, sotto voce into the wind, serious into the wind.

“We're really sorry,” George says. “I don't know. I'm sorry. We just have to keep working on it.”

“Try to make a time to meet next week,” the teacher says. “It's important. Ms. Patti asked me to invite you.”

“Okay,” George says. “I'll be in touch.”

He goes to Archie at the bulldog, has to do everything in his power to resist grabbing him by the arm and dragging him to the car. He does resist, and feels a little better about himself for resisting. Then he feels worse because he's got nearly three hours alone with Archie until Miranda gets home, and that's three hours if she doesn't have to go out for drinks after work. He and Archie walk through the crowd of kids and moms toward where he's parked the car. He decides he will not speak to Archie. He sets a grim look on his face. Not that not talking to Archie ever works. But neither does yelling or spanking
or making him sit in the corner or not letting him watch TV or crying. They've even tried crying. Archie's maturity level is not where it should be for an eight-year-old boy, the doctors say. His emotional maturity is a little slow-developing, the doctors say. Nothing works.

They get in the car, they pull into traffic. It's about a five-minute drive to their house. After about two minutes, Archie starts singing. George looks at him in the rearview mirror. Archie sees him and says, “What?”

“Why do you do this stuff, Archie?” George says. “What is the matter with you? We talk about this every morning. You say you understand what's appropriate and what's not appropriate, and then I've got this teacher coming and telling me you're chasing some other boy around the classroom trying to hug him.”

“I don't know,” Archie says. “The teachers always get me in trouble. Other kids do things, too.”

“We've talked about this, Archie. You're not other kids. I can't do anything about those other kids and neither can you.”

Archie says nothing.

“You know you can't do that, right?” George says.

“Yes.”

“Then, Archie, what the hell?”

“I'm sorry.”

“Son, you can't just say you're sorry.” Archie calls this
saying my sorry
. He thinks it fixes things. I said my sorry, Archie will say. I said my sorry like thirty times. It baffled George and Miranda until they realized he was confusing the second-person possessive with the contraction for
you are
. Because George and Miranda have said to him, over and over again, “You can't just say you're sorry.”

“You can't just say you're sorry,” George says now. “You've got to
show
you're sorry. You've got to stop doing these things you have to say you're sorry for. When are you planning to figure this out?”

“I don't know,” Archie says. They've pulled into the driveway at the house. George doesn't get out. He just sits there quietly for a moment.

“Can I have a snack?” Archie says. “I'm hungry.”

“No, Archie,” George says. “Get out and go to your room.” The house is unlocked. Archie gets out of the car, dragging his book bag behind him, past the unfinished shed. George sits in the car. The car is still running. The radio is talking about the Euro crisis. The market continues its despondent slide.