Did you call me?

One day, Mr. Luminous was summoned to school for his son's misbehavior. What came of it?

The sun had crossed the halfway line of the horizon, sinking slowly. The day was drawing to its close, and work in the fields was coming to an end. Small shops along Main Avenue had already begun counting their tills.
Jeep City was slowly but surely slipping away from its active, noisy, shouting, and at times downright foolish daytime life, and easing itself into a calm, quiet, almost lethargic evening existence.
The clock on the town hall, dignified as befitted a two-hundred-year-old patriarch, struck four times.
Mrs. Houston, the vice-principal of the local school next door, cast a quick glance at the wall clock and, sighing softly, went on studying her papers. The office was quiet; only the rustle of pages from time to time broke the harmony of her industrious solitude.
The walls, painted a light beige, were spotless—as walls in such a respectable institution were expected to be.
Mrs. Houston’s desk stood directly before the window; beside it stood a cabinet from which she had just taken a thin blue folder, three chairs lined up on either side, and a small side table. Such was the decor of one of the rooms in this modest temple of learning.
Mrs. Houston was a woman of about forty, though her colleagues swore she had been there all her life. And in part, they were right. Having left the school’s walls for only four years, she had returned as a young teacher, and now, having risen to the post of second-in-command, she valued her position dearly.
A zealous devotee from a Puritan family, she revered order above all things—and most of all, within her beloved school.
Of all the chapters of her remarkably interesting (at least to herself), though rather plain life, it was in her role as vice-principal that she was most uncompromising and consistent.
Suddenly she paused at one of the pages. Her light-blue eyes, framed by long lashes, lingered on the text before her—something, evidently, about someone who at that moment interested Mrs. Houston more than she cared to admit.
“A farmer… Well, just as I thought.”
Sighing once again, the woman set the papers aside, took a small key from her inner pocket, and unlocked a little golden notebook lying nearby. She was just finishing the first page when a sudden knock at the door—soft but clear—startled her, scattering her thoughts like birds from a comfortable branch.
With a slightly puzzled expression, Mrs. Houston laid the notebook aside and locked it.
“Yes, come in,” she said, her face regaining its proper seriousness, befitting her position.
“Good afternoon, ma’am. May I?”
In the doorway stood a man of medium height, hat in hand, dressed in a dark-blue checkered shirt and green overalls. Smiling faintly, he stepped partway into the room, though his boots—Mrs. Houston’s imagination had already supplied the image of black work boots, and she was not mistaken—remained just outside the door.
“Yes, come in. Did you want something?”
The man entered, closing the door, stood for a while somewhat guiltily, and approached the table.
“Yes, Mrs. Houston, am I right?”
The man’s good-natured, searching gaze made the woman smile for a split second, but she immediately pulled herself together.
“Yes, that’s me. And who are you?”
“I believe you called for me. I’m Luminous, Rob Luminous.”
Hearing this surname, Mrs. Houston sighed quietly for the third time and, smiling briefly, said,
“Yes, please, sit down. I called for you, but I think not only you…”
“Yes, you called for me and my dear Jenny, but unfortunately she couldn’t come. She really wanted to, but she was gored by a bull and had to stay home. I hope you’ll forgive her for such an oversight.”
Rob continued to look kindly at Mrs. Houston.
“Yes, of course, I think… I think you alone will be enough. I hope you know the reason for the call?”
Mrs. Houston’s tone was no warmer than the color of her walls.
“Oh, no, of course I’m not aware of it, although I suspect my Ed has done something wrong, right?”
There was no doubt about the sincerity of this man’s words.
“Yes,” the vice principal added after a short pause, “he did something very bad. We didn’t want to bother his parents, although he has been annoying everyone all week. But today…”
“I suppose something terrible happened?”
Rob frowned for a second and approached the table.
“Yes, terrible. Your son drew a mustache on Thomas Jefferson’s portrait.”
Mrs. Houston exhaled deeply for the fourth time.
“That’s all? I thought he had done something truly terrible.”
Rob’s face brightened. The vice principal, on the other hand, became angry when she heard these words. It seemed that the emotions she had long wanted to express had found their moment, and the small waves were already turning into a tsunami — still distant, but inevitable.
“So, for you, drawing a mustache on one of the greatest men in our history is a trifle?”
Rob seemed completely oblivious to this change.
“Oh, no, of course I didn’t mean that such childishness toward one of our founding fathers could be considered truly unserious. It’s just that my son was probably testing the strength of his moral imperatives, entering into conflict with his nature and the sense of citizenship that we and society instill in him. I apologize for this, and I will immediately speak with him upon my return about the importance of this man, who is undoubtedly a great figure for us.”
The man’s expression remained calm and kind throughout the entire speech. Mrs. Houston paused for a moment, then continued.
“All right, let’s suppose so. But yesterday your son shouted that he was Drunk Joe, Drunk Pirate Joe, ready to hang himself on the yardarm for freedom, for a kiss on the queen’s little finger. Poor Mrs. Poorman nearly lost her mind, and the woman is already seventy-two years old.”
At that moment, Mrs. Houston herself seemed to become an elderly literature teacher.
“You see,” Rob added, bowing his head and nodding slightly, “our family — me and my dear Jenny — are third-generation immigrants. Her grandfather is Scottish, and all her relatives too. Uncle Chester recently visited us. Thirty years ago, he served on a ship, and we talked about the wonderful ships and people of the Old World. Ed was probably very impressed by Uncle Chester’s stories, and that’s why he fell under the influence of one of his passions — acting. The boy didn’t want to offend the wonderful old lady in any way, and of course, he respects all the lessons she has taught him. Please forgive us; we will definitely talk to him about the appropriateness of his performances.”
“Yes, of course, I understand, but…” Mrs. Houston faltered again. “But during recess, he shouted that Americans are great, which scared almost all the schoolchildren, and we even had to call the guard.”
“Oh, I regret that he did such a prank,” the man added with a slight smile. “You see, not long ago my cousin Jackson, a man of extremely interesting views, gave us a lecture on patriotism. Among other things, he noted that empty patriotism is now in fashion and even valued if applied correctly. My Ed must have misunderstood Jackson’s words and decided to test this method, hoping to benefit from it. I’m sorry that the effect was different. I will definitely talk to him about the harm of such phrases.”

“All right, let’s leave it at that, but that’s not all yet.”
Although only fifteen minutes had passed, Mrs. Houston felt as if this man had been here for at least four hours.
“Yes, of course, I’m listening to you.”
With Rob’s calmness one could open the bank vault across the street.
“A couple of days ago, your son told a classmate that the Cold War destroyed our economy and that we could have been much more efficient. Don’t you think that such statements are, to put it mildly, inappropriate in light of everything that has happened?”
“Oh, you are absolutely right, such statements are blasphemous and terrible, I would not wish to argue with that in ninety-nine percent of cases. But, you see, recently we were doing a homework assignment in mathematics, and in order to give the boy additional examples, I found an old statistical reference book. It was dated 1993 and covered the previous fifty years. Probably, a few examples from there stuck in Ed’s memory. He is a very inquisitive boy, and sometimes we ourselves are surprised by his quickness. Most likely, he made wrong conclusions based on statistical data, and you know what dreamers children can be. I apologize; we will certainly work with him on his mistakes.”
“I think you are trying to justify your son, Mr. Luminous. In any case, all this cannot be perceived by me with the same enthusiasm with which your son invents all these things. I think you need to take measures, because… you need to take measures, Mr. Luminous.”
“Yes, and you are absolutely right in everything you have said, Mrs. Houston, this cannot please you in any way, especially since my Ed is the same student for you as the others, I understand. However, my wonderful Jenny and I adhere to somewhat more cautious views on the upbringing of a child. As you probably know, developmental psychology, founded by the truly talented Jean Piaget, is a relatively young science. If my memory serves me right, in one of his works, I think in the mid-sixties, the author warned that an absolute interpretation of his positions and proposed developmental schemes is somewhat incorrect and could even be dangerous in certain cases. Therefore, although we understand the entire importance of systematicity in the upbringing of the younger generation in general, and of our son in particular, we try to perceive his antics as a kind of not yet fully studied part of age-related nature. A nature quite self-evident in such a situation. I hope you will be able to understand us and will not strictly condemn a certain freedom in the upbringing of our child. We have only slightly deviated from the course, but we still know the goal, Mrs. Houston.”
At the mention of the name of that psychologist, Mrs. Houston seemed to disconnect for a moment from the man sitting before her, from this school, and from everything that made up the foundation of her, perhaps not perfect, but so dear world. For a moment she was again transported to a hot July day, when, hiding from her friends in the attic, she stumbled upon a book by an author unknown to her, with a beautiful French surname. That day her friends never found her. Having read that book, little Hugh (as her parents called her) wanted to study the nature of children—first her own, then others’. Years later she had in her collection almost all the works of Piaget, and she had also attended two of his conferences, in Los Angeles and Melbourne. It would be superfluous to say whom the woman was inspired by when forming her professional style.
“Yes, I understand,” Mrs. Houston added after a pause, “you have a right, but… people are complaining, and I, as a vice principal, am obliged to…”
The woman was still looking somewhere through Rob.
“Yes, people’s complaints are terrible, you as a vice principal must fulfill your duties, of course.”
Rob’s appearance could have provoked open laughter in an outside observer.
“Yes, at the beginning of the week your son ran to school dressed as an Indian and spent almost the entire day that way, barely talking to anyone and ignoring all calls. What do you think of that?”
“Oh, I understand your disappointment with my son’s behavior. However, I can explain it by the fact that not long ago Aunt Rennie came to visit us—a great figure in our family, a PhD and volunteer of every possible volunteer organization. Over tea and pie, she said that the Indians are still ambiguously perceived by our society and that we must be patient and understanding toward them. Probably Ed decided it would be good to test that theory. You know, he is a terrible practitioner, like my wonderful Jenny. He always wants to test everything in practice, and probably he carried out his social experiment within clearly defined boundaries. Unfortunately, those boundaries happened to be the limits of your school. I will definitely coordinate all his similar actions in the future, I promise you.”
“Of course, I hope for that, Mr. Luminous,” the vice principal added, exhaling for the fifth time.
“But that’s still not all. Your son argues with other children, declaring that Vietnam and the USA are the same, and that the USA is no better than Vietnam. What do you think of such a statement?”
It seemed as though she were saying this to someone sitting next to Rob, since his face did not change at all.
“Yes, these arguments among children are indeed difficult, and I can understand your indignation. However, the thing is this: not long ago, I believe last week, one of your teachers spent half a lesson telling the children about logic and its principles, and apparently Ed interpreted them in his own way. He decided that if both the USA and Vietnam are nations, and nations are equal, then the USA is neither better nor worse than Vietnam, that’s all. We will certainly conduct additional lessons in logic with him.”
“All right,” Mrs. Houston said wearily, sinking into her chair. “That is all I wanted to tell you, Mr. Luminous. I hope you will be able to do something to resolve the situation. I like order within these walls, and I would not want to worry about its disruption.”
“Very well said. A school is a temple of knowledge; one must behave here decently and properly. You and your colleagues deserve respect, you are right.”
The man smiled gently.
“If you could give me the number of that wonderful woman, the literature teacher, we would bring her a pie as a sign of gratitude.”
“Oh, that would probably be too much, but yes, I will write down her street for you; ask there, everyone knows her house.”
Rummaging in her bag, the woman found a piece of paper and wrote a few words on it.
“Here, take it. I hope you’ll be able to find common ground.”
“Oh, undoubtedly. I think we will get along—literature is a wonderful thing. Take old Thoreau, or our bright Twain, or, well…”
“May I go, Mrs. Houston?”
Rob was as good-natured as if he had walked in just a minute ago.
“Yes, of course, I won’t keep you any longer.”
The man stood up and was about to leave when a tired voice softly called after him:
“Mr. Luminous,” said Mrs. Houston with a note of interest, “where did you receive your education, if you don’t mind my asking?”
Rob turned, smiling gently.
“You see, Mrs. Houston, unfortunately for my parents, I did not receive a proper education. After the second grade, my father said to me:
‘That’s enough, Robbie. This damn school won’t teach you anything. All those ladies and gentlemen in suits are only wasting your time with useless chatter. Then you’ll become like the crowds of fools who look for work all over our country. You’ll go to Uncle Flo’s farm—he needs a helper. And don’t you dare argue.’
And I didn’t dare argue.”
The door creaked softly and closed. The wall clock showed five o’clock in the evening. Jeep City was slowly preparing for its evening existence.