There are still faint glimmers of civilization left in this barbaric slaughterhouse that was once known as humanity.

Student: I see that we’re reading Frankenstein this year.

Gibbs: That’s right.

Student: I’m excited for that one.

Gibbs: Great. Why?

Student: It’s a horror story, right? Horror stories are usually pretty dark and I like dark stuff.

Gibbs: What kind of dark stuff?

Student: Dark music, dark books, dark clothing.

Gibbs: How about dark airplane pilots?

Student: Ha! What’s a dark airplane pilot?

Gibbs: An airplane pilot who dresses in dark clothing, reads dark books, and listens to dark music.

Student: I think I want airplane pilots to be as normal as possible.

Gibbs: I do, as well. So, what makes dark things dark?

Student: What do you mean?

Gibbs: On what grounds would you call a certain television show “dark”?

Student: If it has dark themes and dark images. Or a dark plot.

Gibbs: What sort of dark themes?

Student: Death.

Gibbs: Would you say Where the Red Fern Grows is dark?

Student: No. Not at all.

Gibbs: But it has death in it. Those dogs die in the end. It’s pretty sad.

Student: Yes, but the fact someone dies doesn’t necessarily make something dark.

Gibbs: But you would say that death is part of what makes a dark television show dark?

Student: Yes.

Gibbs: So, how does a television show deal with death such that it makes the show dark?

Student: It deals with death in a cool way, I suppose.

Gibbs: I’ll go along with that. How do you present death in a cool way?

Student: Some dark stories and dark books have characters that are actually dead. Some dark stories have characters that look dead, or who fantasize about being dead, or about killing themselves. Suicide is a real problem, you know. Or some stories have vampires or other creatures that have to kill to survive. Or there are origin stories that deal with death cults. Or dark stories deal with evil in just a really creative way.

Gibbs: You said some dark stories have characters that look dead. What does that mean?

Students: They use skulls as decorations.

Gibbs: On what?

Students: Clothes, home décor. There’s one book I like where the hero drinks out of a human skull.

Gibbs: Why doesn’t he get a proper glass?

Student: Because it’s the skull of someone he once knew. I don’t know. It’s just kind of weird.

Gibbs: But you like it?

Student: Yes, but dark stuff isn’t just skulls. It’s far more than that. Dark music is music that isn’t just happy-clappy pop music about how great life is all the time. That’s why I like that. Most dark music is about real stuff, real life, life as it actually is, not some cleaned up version of life.

Gibbs: When I was your age, I liked a lot of dark stuff, as well, and I liked it for that very reason.

Student: Which reason?

Gibbs: It wasn’t happy-clappy pop music about how great life is all the time. Although, let’s be honest. It’s not happy-clappy pop music I was rebelling against. It was happy-clappy Christian pop music I was rebelling against, which is the happiest-clappiest stuff imaginable.

Student: Fair enough. I hate that stuff.

Gibbs: I did, too.

Student: The people who listen to that stuff make me gag. That music is so fake. It makes people who listen to it fake, too.

Gibbs: Huh.

Student: Do you still listen to dark music?

Gibbs: Not really. If Korn’s “Got the Life” came on the radio, I might listen to it for old time’s sake, but I wouldn’t go out of my way to track it down. But I don’t know why I’d be listening to a radio station that might play Korn.

Student: Korn? Seriously?

Gibbs: Back in high school? Absolutely. I died my hair black, wore Doc Martens, smoked British cigarettes. The whole bit.

Student: Who else did you listen to?

Gibbs: Marilyn Manson. Nine Inch Nails. And just look at me now: I wear a blue blazer to work and try to persuade you to confess to your parents all the bad things you’ve gotten away with.

Student: Wait, so why did you listen to Marilyn Manson?

Gibbs: Because it was dark. Because it was the antithesis of the gutless, smarmy, saccharine-sweet, Jesus-is-my-boyfriend, everything-is-going-to-be-fine pop music that typified Christian popular culture at the time. That stuff seemed as false and hollow as possible, so I wanted the opposite of it.

Student: Did it work?

Gibbs: What do you mean?

Student: Did listening to Marilyn Manson help?

Gibbs: Help what?

Student: Did it help you?

Gibbs: Help me what?

Student: Feel better!

Gibbs: I didn’t listen to it so I could feel better. The happy-clappy stuff was supposed to make you feel better. I listened to Marilyn Manson so I could feel bad because I believed feeling bad was more real than feeling good.

Student: Did it help you feel bad?

Gibbs: “Feeling bad” is a really generic turn of phrase that can mean a great many things. It can mean feeling sorry for yourself, feeling angry at others, feeling ashamed of yourself. I certainly didn’t listen to Marilyn Manson so I could feel ashamed of myself. And I didn’t listen to Marilyn Manson so I could contemplate my sins and confess them more earnestly.

Student: So what did you feel when you listened to Marilyn Manson?

Gibbs: I felt superior to other people. When I listened to Marilyn Manson, I liked to think about how shocked people would be to know that I listened to Marilyn Manson. I liked to imagine pious students clutching their pearls and saying, “But Marilyn Manson is so dark and gross and he openly despises Christians.” I really relished just how offended they’d be if they knew.

Student: Did that help?

Gibbs: Did that help me feel better?

Student: Yes.

Gibbs: Sheesh, is feeling better really all that matters?

Student: I mean, sort of.

Gibbs: But that’s what the happy-clappy, life-is-always-great people think.

Student: No, it’s not. Or—I mean, the happy-clappy people go about it very differently.

Gibbs: Big deal. They may go about it differently, but you want the same things as the people who listen to K-LOVE. You want to feel good and so do they.

Student: But they’re not dealing with the real issues of life.

Gibbs: Look, I’ve listened to enough “dark music” to know it rarely deals with the real issues of life—and that goes double for dark movies and dark television shows. A good deal of “dark music” is far more concerned with creating a sound, a mood, a wardrobe, and a cosmetics regime that would disturb kindly old grandmothers than dealing with the real issues of life. If you want to watch a movie that deals with the real issues of life, you should watch something like Robert Redford’s Ordinary People. Or Kramer vs Kramer. I should warn you that no one drinks from a human skull in either of those films, but they somehow still manage to deal honestly with human suffering.

Student: When did you give up on dark music, then?

Gibbs: My mid-20s.

Student: Why?

Gibbs: For many years, I believed that dark, gritty things were necessarily more profound than happy, positive things. I knew beyond a doubt that the happy, positive things were shallow. I thought that necessarily meant dark, gritty things were the opposite—that they were profound. But I slowly came to realize that dark, gritty things were just as basic and shallow, they simply cloaked that shallowness in shock. When I was young, I found the shock entrancing. As I got older, life became a good deal more complicated and I realized that dark, gritty things didn’t actually have anything to tell me about what it means to live a good, satisfying life. Can you imagine telling someone who watched his father die of bone cancer that you like movies that make death look cool? Can you imagine telling someone whose brother was murdered that you like shows about serial killers?

Student: I know a kid who has really bad depression and he finds dark, depressing music really helpful.

Gibbs: If he has really bad depression, the music can’t be helping all that much. You may as well tell me your friend finds pornography helpful in his struggle with lust.

Student: Look, who are you to judge what works and what doesn’t?

Gibbs: This conversation started with you judging people that listen to happy-clappy music as fake. If their happiness can be fake, then so can the happiness your friend gets from dark music. A great many people destroy themselves with things they claim make their lives better.

Student: Was listening to Korn destroying you?

Gibbs: It wasn’t helping. It didn’t give me happiness or joy. It may have given me pleasure, the pleasure which comes from condemning others, but that sort of pleasure isn’t good. That’s just the worst and most obvious sort of pride.

Student: The dark things I enjoy don’t lead me to condemn others.

Gibbs: Again, this conversation began with you saying that people who listen to happy-clappy music “made you gag.”

Student: Don’t you think you might be reading a bit too deeply into what I said?

Gibbs: If you had offered more profound reasons for enjoying dark things, perhaps so, but I didn’t hear any. I heard you give the same reasons I gave at your age.

Student: So, what do you listen to now? Bach?

Gibbs: I’m 42.

Student: What’s that got to do with it?

Gibbs: Are you thinking that you’re going to still be listening to My Chemical Romance when you’re in your 40s? Your 50s?

Student: I mean—

Gibbs: Your 80s? Are you going to put a skull on your mobility scooter when you tool around the grocery store buying Depends and peanut butter?

Student: No!

Gibbs: Of course, not. We both know you’re going to think My Chemical Romance is pretty ridiculous by the time you’re that age, if not many decades beforehand, all of which means that you and I don’t actually disagree here. It’s just that I agree with the you of the future, not the you of the present. You’re not really arguing with me. You’re arguing with yourself.

Student: Huh… Okay, that’s interesting.

Gibbs: Isn’t it? I’m even telling you, “I used to like that stuff,” which is the same thing the you of the future will say. Granted, you can take that argument—that perspective—only so far, but it’s interesting to admit to yourself at any age that many of the things you’re presently obsessed with will seem pretty pointless in twenty years, if not sooner. It’s even true when you’re in your eighties, when you’ll need food and sleep and medicine and television. Twenty years on, you won’t care about any of that stuff. You’ll be dead.

Student: Are you obsessed with things now that you won’t care about in twenty years?

Gibbs: Yes, and I would be a much better person if that weren’t true.

Student: Are you fighting it?

Gibbs: Not hard enough.

Student: Then what are you chewing me out for?

Gibbs: You think no one chews you out when you’re 42? We all need someone to chew us out.

Student: Are there any things you cared about when you were young that you still care about?

Gibbs: Religion. I care about religion more now, actually. And I hope I still care about religion when I’m in my 80s, if I make it that long. If there’s something you love now that you don’t want to love in the future, why waste your time on it now? If there’s something you love now that you want to love in the future, too, why not throw everything you’ve got into it? You’ve got to love what lasts.

This post originally appeared on The CiRCE Institute blog.

Tom: Let’s order the tableside chips.

Harry: What’s that?

Tom: The waiter wheels a cart out with a bag of chips on it and you like get to see him rip open the bag of chips and then pour the chips in a metal bowl. Then he, like, places the bowl of chips right on the table for you. It’s just neat to see. You know the chips are like really fresh because they open the bag like right in front of you, you know? It’s just neat. It’s not cheap but it’s worth it to know you’re getting fresh chips.

This week, I delivered a talk defending the lecture (and explaining the origins of the terms “guide on the side” and “sage on the stage”) at the Flagler University Institute for Classical Education Workshop.

“You all have made it to the end of another school year, and I want you to know: I have seen your sacrifices.

I have not seen all of your sacrifices, but I have seen some of them.

I have not seen all of your sacrifices because you are virtuous men and women, which means you do not make a show of your good works. You have been insulted by parents and said nothing about it. You have been insulted by students and said nothing about it. You have been insulted by one another and said nothing about it. You have even been insulted by me and said nothing about it.

You have been insulted so many times that you have quit keeping count. In the beginning, you complained, but the insults kept coming, your complaints got you nowhere, and now you have humbly accepted that such insults are simply part of your job. You receive praise, too, of course, but praise doesn’t keep you up at night. But you have lost much sleep thinking about the ways you have been slighted, and you have come to work the following day tired and dejected. For all the sleep you have lost worrying about your students, praying for your students, or grinding your diamond frustrations into dust, thank you. I cannot repay you, but the Lord will recompense you with rest in Glory.

You have worked hard while at school and continued working hard when you got home. You have spent money on your students just to bless them and not asked for reimbursement. You have spent time preparing gifts, food, and needlessly extravagant lessons for your students. You have labored diligently when you could have phoned it in. For this, I thank you.

Let me speak honestly: there are many people who are necessary in order for this school to run smoothly, and a school is definitely a team, but it is you—the teachers—who actually make classical Christian education happen. You are what make it possible for this school to call itself a classical Christian school. The buck stops with you. If the building is classical, the handbook is classical, the curriculum is classical, the ads are classical, and the uniforms are classical, but the teachers aren’t, then the school isn’t giving anyone a classical education. Everything else is expendable. Plato’s Academy didn’t have any of those things. The Lord didn’t have any of those things during His earthly ministry. You, the teachers, are this school’s most precious and vital asset.

Of course, every school’s teachers are its most vital asset, but you are precious to me also because you are good at what you do. This is not simply a safe school or a prestigious school. This is a good school because you are good teachers. I have been in your classrooms, I have seen your work, I have listened to you all describe what you do and why you do it, and I am immensely proud to work beside you. Classical schools are opening up all over the country and it is by no means easy for a school like this one to acquire good teachers. You are a rarity. It is easy to acquire teachers, it is quite hard to acquire good teachers. So, knowing that you all could go elsewhere and make more money, I thank you for teaching here.

The end of the year is often attended with mixed feelings: relief, sorrow, joy, disappointment. Some of you have seen your students grow intellectually and spiritually over the last nine months. Some of you have seen the opposite. You have seen students who did well last year begin to falter. You have seen students you care about form destructive friendships and give themselves over to the world. Some of you have seen things get better, some have seen things get worse. For those of you who have seen things get worse, you sometimes feel guilt, sometimes confusion. Why did none of your lessons avail on stony hearts?

While I am grateful for your efforts this year, we all have to remember that teachers must play the long game. We do indeed want our students to be faithful to God today, but we have an even greater desire that they be faithful to God for the rest of their lives. Modern Christians often want to believe that spiritual growth is a rational process wherein quantifiable input produces quantifiable output, but St. Paul says: “I have planted, Apollos watered; but God gave the increase. So then neither is he that plants any thing, neither he that waters; but God that gives the increase. Now he that plants and he that waters are one: and every man shall receive his own reward according to his own labor.” If it were up to us to decide when the increase was given, we would take it now. But God is patient and longsuffering and he knows better than we do. He knows when to bring things to fruition.

So keep planting. Keep watering. And wait for God to give the increase. Trust the Lord’s promise to reward you according to your labor and give thanks that God has given you such noble work to do. It is indeed noble work. What we are doing is right. Do not judge your success by numbers, but by the strength of your own zeal. Whatever your hand finds to do, do it with all your might. And you have.”

This essay originally appeared on The CiRCE Institute blog.

Thanks, AI.

What I love about this sketch is that you can sense the punchline before you know exactly what it will be. Good comedy, much like good teaching, isn’t wholly bound up in surprise, but in confirming what we already suspect.

And yet, this video also follows the rule of three, and the way Robert Webb says the line on the third turn acknowledges both that the audience and the characters he’s talking to know that it’s coming.

All in all, a stunningly good two minute story.

“He is a man who is worthy neither of the great censure nor the great praise presently attached to his name. Nonetheless, there is little disagreement on what he has actually said and done. There is only disagreement on what it all means. The very same qualities of his personality which drive his admirers to hail him prompt his detractors to damn him.   

He is the rare sort of man whose detractors are rabid and obsessed with the project of taking him down and seem to wake every morning with nothing else on their minds. In fact, he governs the lives of his enemies far more minutely than he governs the lives of his followers, who supposedly hang on his every word. The people who despise him do not understand how reasonable he appears in comparison with themselves, whereas he understands this all quite well. He understands how to vex his enemies far better than they understand how to vex him. After several decades of trying, no one has even come close to taking him down, though many have been wrecked by their own efforts while he simply stands by and watches.  

He is definitely a clever man, but like all clever men (except Oscar Wilde), he appreciates his own cleverness a bit too deeply, much like the beautiful woman whose gaze lingers too long on every mirror she passes. When it’s all said and done, several distinct phases of his career will be named and measured, and his most brilliant years will be those which fell in the middle, even though his fame wasn’t achieved until later. Some will say his brilliance declined as his fame rose. It is my opinion that these people are quite right. 

In the later phases of his career, he has maintained a high opinion of his own prowess that is no longer warranted, and this sometimes leads him to embarrass himself. These embarrassments are either quite apart from his knowledge, or else he ‘wisely does not notice’ his own blunders, like the adoring young wife who never seems to hear the incorrect things her husband says. Still, he is nobody’s fool but his own, and then only very occasionally. His talents are yet considerable, and evidently come directly from God, for there also seems to be between himself and God certain arrangements that preclude the possibility of him ever going senile, or displaying decrepitude, or failing spectacularly at anything—all of which are impossible to imagine of him, even by such an objective viewer as myself, who am persuaded neither of his great righteousness nor his great wickedness. He is persuasive enough that even when he seems to fail, his own rollicking self-contentment alone is sufficient to make a skeptical reader second guess his skepticism.  

The rareness of his intellect means that his closest friend, and perhaps his only real friend, is his son—a fact that everyone is free to interpret however they choose. He has heroes, to be sure, but they have all died long ago. In fact, his favorite companion is himself, not only because he is good at keeping himself amused, but because all real friendships are based on a mutually perceived equality, and it is difficult to imagine him bearing his soul to anyone. By this point, though, his character is so established in strength, or the projection of strength, I find it grotesque to imagine him freely pouring out his feelings to another. It is easier to imagine him vomiting than to imagine him weeping, though I have seen neither. He smiles often, and while his smile is unfeigned, it is never spontaneous.    

While he is not what anyone would call ‘an intensely private person,’ it is nonetheless difficult to imagine him doing mundane activities like watching a film, cracking an egg, or absent-mindedly saying aloud the unusual words on a billboard as he drives past. When he speaks about the normal, humdrum activities of life, he is always talking about someone else doing them. At the same time, having long ago gotten to know him, he is the sort of man who comes to mind often. As I’ve said, I don’t think him worthy of the extreme adulation or blame he’s come to receive, and I haven’t spoken to the man more than once or twice in the last decade—and yet several times a week, I read a poignant line from a book and think, ‘Oh, I wonder what so-and-so would make of this?’ or when an especially stupid commercial comes on the television, ‘Well, I wonder what so-and-so would say about this if he were watching it with me?’ Like all self-assured men, even immodestly self-assured men, you can’t help but wonder what the world looks like to him.” 

The day my son Laurie started kindergarten he renounced corduroy overalls with bibs and began wearing blue jeans with a belt; I watched him go off the first morning with the older girl next door, seeing clearly that an era of my life was ended, my sweet-voiced nursery-school tot replaced by a long-trousered, swaggering character who forgot to stop at the corner and wave good-bye to me. 

He came home the same way, the front door slamming open, his cap on the floor, and the voice suddenly become raucous shouting, “Isn’t anybody here?” 

At lunch he spoke insolently to his father, spilled his baby sister’s milk, and remarked that his teacher said we were not to take the name of the Lord in vain. 

“How was school today?” I asked, elaborately casual. “All right,” he said. 

“Did you learn anything?” his father asked. 

Laurie regarded his father coldly. “I didn’t learn nothing,” he said. 

“Anything,” I said. “Didn’t learn anything” 

“The teacher spanked a boy, though,” Laurie said, addressing his bread and butter. “For being fresh,” he added, with his mouth full. 

“What did he do?” I asked. “Who was it?” 

Laurie thought. “It was Charles,” he said. “He was fresh. The teacher spanked him and made him stand in a corner. He was awfully fresh.” 

“What did he do?” I asked again, but Laurie slid off his chair, took a cookie, and left, while his father was still saying, “See here, young man.” 

The next day Laurie remarked at lunch, as soon as he sat down, “Well, Charles was bad again today.” He grinned enormously and said, “Today Charles hit the teacher.” 

“Good heavens,” I said, mindful of the Lord’s name, “I suppose he got spanked again?” 

“He sure did,” Laurie said. “Look up,” he said to his father. “What?” his father said, looking up. 

“Look down,” Laurie said. “Look at my thumb. Gee, you’re dumb.” He began to laugh insanely. 

“Why did Charles hit the teacher?” I asked quickly. “Because she tried to make him color with red crayons,” 

Laurie said. “Charles wanted to color with green crayons so he hit the teacher and she spanked him and said nobody play with Charles but everybody did.” 

The third day—it was Wednesday of the first week—Charles bounced a see-saw on to the head of a little girl and made her bleed, and the teacher made him stay inside all during recess. Thursday Charles had to stand in a corner during storytime because he kept pounding his feet on the floor. Friday Charles was deprived of blackboard privileges because he threw chalk. 

On Saturday I remarked to my husband, “Do you think kindergarten is too unsettling for Laurie? All this toughness, and bad grammar, and this Charles boy sounds like such a bad influence.” 

“It’ll be all right,” my husband said reassuringly. “Bound to be people like Charles in the world. Might as well meet them now as later.” 

On Monday Laurie came home late, full of news. “Charles,” he shouted as he came up the hill; I was waiting anxiously on the front steps. “Charles,” Laurie yelled all the way up the hill, “Charles was bad again.” 

“Come right in,” I said, as soon as he came close enough. “Lunch is waiting.” 

“You know what Charles did?” he demanded, following me through the door. “Charles yelled so in school they sent a boy in from first grade to tell the teacher she had to make Charles keep quiet, and so Charles had to stay after school. And so all the children stayed to watch him.” 

“What did he do?” I asked. 

“He just sat there,” Laurie said, climbing into his chair at the table. “Hi, Pop, y’old dust mop.” 

“Charles had to stay after school today,” I told my husband. “Everyone stayed with him.” 

“What does this Charles look like?” my husband asked Laurie. “What’s his other name?” 

“He’s bigger than me,” Laurie said. “And he doesn’t have any rubbers and he doesn’t ever wear a jacket.” 

Monday night was the first Parent-Teachers meeting, and only the fact that the baby had a cold kept me from going; I wanted passionately to meet Charles’s mother. On Tuesday Laurie remarked suddenly, “Our teacher had a friend come to see her in school today.” 

“Charles’s mother?” my husband and I asked simultaneously. “Naaah,” Laurie said scornfully. “It was a man who came and made us do exercises, we had to touch our toes. Look.” He climbed down from his chair and squatted down and touched his toes. “Like this,” he said. He got solemnly back into his chair and said, picking up his fork, “Charles didn’t even do exercises.” 

“That’s fine,” I said heartily. “Didn’t Charles want to do exercises?” 

“Naaah,” Laurie said. “Charles was so fresh to the teacher’s friend he wasn’t let do exercises.” 

“Fresh again?” I said. 

“He kicked the teacher’s friend,” Laurie said. “The teacher’s friend told Charles to touch his toes like I just did and Charles kicked him.” 

“What are they going to do about Charles, do you suppose?” Laurie’s father asked him. 

Laurie shrugged elaborately. “Throw him out of school, I guess,” he said. 

Wednesday and Thursday were routine; Charles yelled during story hour and hit a boy in the stomach and made him cry. On Friday Charles stayed after school again and so did all the other children. 

With the third week of kindergarten Charles was an institution in our family; the baby was being a Charles when she cried all afternoon; Laurie did a Charles when he filled his wagon full of mud and pulled it through the kitchen; even my husband, when he caught his elbow in the telephone cord and pulled telephone, ashtray, and a bowl of flowers off the table, said, after the first minute, “Looks like Charles.” 

During the third and fourth weeks it looked like a reformation in Charles; Laurie reported grimly at lunch on Thursday of the third week, “Charles was so good today the teacher gave him an apple.” 

“What?” I said, and my husband added warily, “You mean Charles?” 

“Charles,” Laurie said. “He gave the crayons around and he picked up the books afterward and the teacher said he was her helper.” 

“What happened?” I asked incredulously. 

“He was her helper, that’s all,” Laurie said, and shrugged. “Can this be true, about Charles?” I asked my husband that 

night. “Can something like this happen?” 

“Wait and see,” my husband said cynically. “When you’ve got a Charles to deal with, this may mean he’s only plotting.” He seemed to be wrong. For over a week Charles was the teacher’s helper; each day he handed things out and he picked things up; no one had to stay after school. 

“The P.T.A. meeting’s next week again,” I told my husband one evening. “I’m going to find Charles’s mother there.” 

“Ask her what happened to Charles,” my husband said. “I’d like to know.” 

“I’d like to know myself,” I said. 

On Friday of that week things were back to normal. “You know what Charles did today?” Laurie demanded at the lunch table, in a voice slightly awed. “He told a little girl to say a word and she said it and the teacher washed her mouth out with soap and Charles laughed.” 

“What word?” his father asked unwisely, and Laurie said, “I’ll have to whisper it to you, it’s so bad.” He got down off his chair and went around to his father. His father bent his head down and Laurie whispered joyfully. His father’s eyes widened. 

“Did Charles tell the little girl to say that?” he asked respectfully. 

“She said it twice,” Laurie said. “Charles told her to say it twice.” 

“What happened to Charles?” my husband asked. “Nothing,” Laurie said. “He was passing out the crayons.” 

Monday morning Charles abandoned the little girl and said the evil word himself three or four times, getting his mouth washed out with soap each time. He also threw chalk. 

My husband came to the door with me that evening as I set out for the P.T.A. meeting. “Invite her over for a cup of tea after the meeting,” he said. “I want to get a look at her.” 

“If only she’s there,” I said prayerfully. 

“She’ll be there,” my husband said. “I don’t see how they could hold a P.T.A. meeting without Charles’s mother.” 

At the meeting I sat restlessly, scanning each comfortable matronly face, trying to determine which one hid the secret of Charles. None of them looked to me haggard enough. No one stood up in the meeting and apologized for the way her son had been acting. No one mentioned Charles. 

After the meeting I identified and sought out Laurie’s kindergarten teacher. She had a plate with a cup of tea and a piece of chocolate cake; I had a plate with a cup of tea and a piece of marshmallow cake. We maneuvered up to one another cautiously, and smiled. 

“I’ve been so anxious to meet you,” I said. “I’m Laurie’s mother.” 

“We’re all so interested in Laurie,” she said. 

“Well, he certainly likes kindergarten,” I said. “He talks about it all the time.” 

“We had a little trouble adjusting, the first week or so,” she said primly, “but now he’s a fine little helper. With occasional lapses, of course.” 

“Laurie usually adjusts very quickly,” I said. “I suppose this time it’s Charles’s influence.” 

“Charles?” 

“Yes,” I said, laughing, “you must have your hands full in that kindergarten, with Charles.” 

“Charles?” she said. “We don’t have any Charles in the kindergarten.”