The Prisoner's Dilemma (39 page)

“I wasn’t trying to!” Constance protested. “Sometimes it just happens.”

“It would happen less if you practiced,” Number Two said irritably. (She had shared her snack with S.Q. Pedalian and was suffering from it now.) “Every day we sit down with you to work on it, and every day you refuse…”

“You’re one to talk about refusing!” Constance snipped. “After all this time, you still won’t tell us your real name!”

This comment, which seemed to have come out of nowhere, prompted curious glances from the other children. Constance’s eyes were squeezed tightly closed. Number Two had just begun to chide her for changing the subject when Constance’s eyes popped open with a look of delight.

“Pencilla!” she exclaimed triumphantly. “That’s your name—Pencilla!”

The other children gasped. So did Number Two.

“You… you set me up!” cried Number Two, flustered and indignant. “You mentioned my name just so I’d think of it!”

“That was extremely inappropriate, Constance,” said Rhonda, frowning at her in the rearview mirror. But to Number Two she murmured, “Still, it
was
about time they knew your given name.”

“Oh, I suppose, but it’s just…” Number Two blushed and put a hand to her head. “It just doesn’t
feel
right. It never has.”

“I think Pencilla is a perfectly lovely name,” Kate declared. “Don’t you, boys?”

“I love it, Number Two,” Reynie said. “Really, it’s a great name.”

Sticky nodded. “Me, too. I think it suits you.”

“Suits me? How do you mean?” said Number Two, knitting her brow.

There was a tense pause. Reynie whispered into Sticky’s ear.

“Because it’s pretty!” Sticky said, and everyone immediately, emphatically agreed.

That night, Mr. Benedict was sitting on the floor of his study, as was his habit when working alone, when there came a knock on his door. He contemplated the door before answering—in fact he almost didn’t, which was
not
his habit—but then he lowered his papers and said, “Come in, all of you.”

The children filed into the study. Reynie closed the door, and everyone sat on the floor around Mr. Benedict. Their expressions were serious.

“I see we have something to discuss,” Mr. Benedict said.

“More than that,” Kate said. “We have something to do.”

Constance pointed her finger at him. “I know why you didn’t want to talk about the Whisperer today. You didn’t want me to find out how close you were to finding a cure for your narcolepsy!”

Mr. Benedict considered a moment before replying. “Forgive me, my dear, but I was a bit embarrassed. I hope you can understand. With such urgent problems afoot, it seems selfish to have spent time working on what was, at bottom, a personal matter. But you’re right; I was closer than I let on. I am sorry for keeping it from you.”

“How close were you?” Constance demanded. “
Exactly
how close?”

Mr. Benedict had looked apologetic; now he looked resigned. “I see you already know the answer.” He waved his hand carelessly. “It’s really of no consequence, Constance. I’m more than used to living with my condition, and?—”

“You put it off!” Constance cried. “You were only a few hours away!
Hours
! But you didn’t go through with it—because of me!”

“It’s more complicated than?—”

“Don’t try to explain it away! I’ve already gotten the whole truth from Rhonda and Number Two.”

“Not exactly with their permission,” Sticky put in, with a significant look.

Constance pressed on. “You thought it might exhaust you to try it, and so you didn’t. You wanted to be alert and strong enough to deal with Mr. Pressius, and to help me recover my memories! You knew you were risking your opportunity—you knew you might lose it, but you put it off anyway, because of me! You gave up your chance for my sake, and
that’s
what you didn’t want me to know about, because you didn’t want me to feel bad about it!”

Mr. Benedict pursed his lips and said nothing for several moments. But at last, as all the children were staring at him with the clear expectation of a truthful answer, he smiled somewhat ruefully and tapped his nose.

Suddenly Constance was all business. “That’s all right,” she said in a matter-of-fact tone. “I’ll forgive you on one condition.” She paused dramatically. “You let me try to fix your problem.”

“That’s what I meant when I said we have something to do,” Kate said.

“I gathered as much,” Mr. Benedict said, and with a wondering expression he looked from face to face. “And I see you are all determined that this should happen. But Constance, you know I cannot possibly allow it. I am deeply touched, you must know that, but?—”

“You don’t think I can do it?” Constance snapped.

“I…” Mr. Benedict frowned. “I…”

“You’re not sure how to answer,” Reynie said, “because she has you trapped. If you do say that she can do it, she’ll insist on trying. If you say that she can’t, you’ll be lying. She already knows you think she can do it. We’ve been talking about this all evening, Mr. Benedict.”

Mr. Benedict gave Reynie a helpless, ironic smile. “Thank you, Reynie, for clearing that up.”

“We know you don’t want her to try it,” Kate said, “because of how sick you think it will make her, and how if it doesn’t work she’ll have gone through all that misery for nothing. But she doesn’t care, Mr. Benedict. She wants to try it anyway—and we want you to let her!”

“That’s why we’re here,” Sticky said. “For moral support. And we’ve agreed to take turns sitting with her all night, to keep her company while she’s so miserable.”

“I want to do this,” Constance insisted. “
Please
let me try!”

“Please,” Reynie said.

“Pretty please,” Kate said.

“Beautiful please,” Sticky said, then winced a little, for it had seemed wittier when he thought it than when he spoke it aloud.

All of the children clasped their hands together pleadingly.

Mr. Benedict looked at them, his bright green eyes shining. Then he fell asleep. When he woke up, there they were, still clasping their hands together and widening their eyes with exaggerated, puppy-dog looks, and this time he laughed. He fell asleep twice more. And when he awoke the last time, he agreed to let Constance try.

“You’ll tell me exactly what to think,” Constance said. “Right? With your mind, I mean.”

“Yes, my dear. And the thoughts will be fairly simple, but you will need to think them with as much intensity as you can manage.”

“That’s what I figured,” Constance said. “I’m ready to try.” She swallowed dryly, thinking of the misery that would soon be upon her. But she did not flinch.

“I think it will be best,” Mr. Benedict said quietly, “if you stare directly at me. Do not close your eyes.”

Constance nodded and began to stare. “Let’s go.”

Mr. Benedict took a deep breath, relaxed his shoulders, and fixedly returned Constance’s gaze. For five minutes and more the two of them stared and stared. The others were reminded of a contest in which each person tries to get the other to laugh. But never had any of them seen two people gazing with such intensity. It was disconcerting—so much so they were tempted to look away. But they held still, afraid of causing distraction, until at last a look of frustration passed over Constance’s face, and she broke off the stare with an irritated grunt.

“I don’t feel like it’s working!” She thumped her fists against her knees. “It’s… somehow it doesn’t feel strong enough. It isn’t like it was the other times.”

“Never fret,” Mr. Benedict said gently. He seemed a bit relieved. “Perhaps someday, when?—”

But Reynie, thinking back, felt a sudden flash of inspiration. “Try getting angry!” he suggested.

Mr. Benedict lifted an eyebrow and glanced sidelong at Reynie. His lips twitched as if he were suppressing a smile.

“Angry at Mr. Benedict?” said Constance with a helpless look. “But I don’t… I don’t think I can…”

“At the problem,” Reynie said. “Try getting angry at
that.
”

“Angry,” Constance repeated thoughtfully. She gave a tight, resolute nod. “Okay,” she said. “I can do that. Let’s try again, Mr. Benedict.”

Mr. Benedict’s eyes twinkled (whether with amusement or anticipation it was impossible to say—perhaps it was both), and taking another deep breath he folded his hands together and said, “By all means, my dear. Let us try again.”

They locked eyes as they had done before. This time, however, Constance’s face began to darken. She furrowed her brow, her lips pressed together, and her jaw began to clench and unclench. In moments her face was the exact hue of a pomegranate. She was visibly trembling now—she looked not just angry but furious. Indeed, had the others not known better, they would have thought she was ready to fly at Mr. Benedict and try to pull his hair out.

And then, abruptly, she stopped scowling and fell back. “There!” she gasped. “That time I felt it.” Putting a hand to her head, she looked hopefully at Mr. Benedict. “Well?”

Mr. Benedict nodded and smiled. He reached forward and squeezed her hand. “I am enormously proud of your courage and selflessness, Constance. Thank you, my dear—thank you from the bottom of my heart.”

“I know you’re
proud
of me,” Constance said in an exasperated tone. “But?—” She shuddered. The color had begun to drain from her face. “Oh no… oh no, here it comes! Tell me quick, Mr. Benedict—did it work?”

“I’m afraid I can’t say, Constance. Not yet. But we’ll know soon enough. Right now you should?—”

“No! I want to know
now
! Reynie, give him the poem! Quick!”

Reynie was already unfolding a sheet of paper. He thrust it at Mr. Benedict. “Constance wrote you a funny poem,” he explained. “She hoped you might use it as a sort of test.”

Constance groaned, crossed her arms tightly, and sank over onto her side.

Mr. Benedict gazed at her with concern. Then he looked at the poem and read the title aloud:
“Why I Find Green Plaid So Annoying, And What I Intend to Do About It: An Explanation of My Heroic Actions.”

Mr. Benedict’s lips jerked upward. He coughed into his hand, looked round at the older children (all of whom were grinning expectantly), and continued reading aloud from the first stanza:

For one thing, plaid’s hideous, a pattern cooked up

By dimwit designers who must have been mad.

It’s also perfidious (a word I looked up—

It means lots of different things, all of them bad).

Mr. Benedict chuckled, then laughed outright. And as he went on reading the poem he laughed again, and then again, until finally he was laughing so hard his shoulders were shaking and he could hardly hold the paper still enough to read from it. The children began to giggle. Even normal laughter is contagious, and Mr. Benedict’s high-pitched, chattering squeals—so very much like dolphin speech—were not only contagious but funny in themselves. Even Constance, shivering and pale, managed to snicker through her moans.

The giggles turned into laughter; and Mr. Benedict’s laughs turned into guffaws and strange, coyote-like yelps; and soon the laughter grew so uproarious it drew others to the study, so that eventually the room was packed with family and friends, with everyone laughing (though only a few knew why) and looking at everyone else with giddy, wondering expressions. Indeed, the laughter was so boisterous that it took awhile for the newcomers to notice that Constance was not only laughing but crying, too, and that in fact she looked terribly ill, and that despite this she kept gazing happily at Mr. Benedict, who had never laughed with such gusto for so long.

T
he time had almost come. The bags were packed, the early morning sunlight was growing stronger, and the children were gathered in Constance’s room, eating doughnuts Kate had smuggled up from the kitchen. She had tapped on the boys’ door as she passed, and a minute later they had come trudging groggily down the hall in their pajamas and slippers. Constance hadn’t even risen but sat munching her jelly roll in bed, heedless of the crumbs and jelly dropping onto her covers. It was a bittersweet moment. Everyone was excited, yet never again would it be so easy to convene a meeting of the Mysterious Benedict Society.

“I can’t quite get over it,” Kate was saying. “When I see Mr. Benedict walking around by himself, without Number Two or Rhonda hovering nearby—well, it’s strange, isn’t it? It’s as if he didn’t cast a shadow anymore.”

“Number Two is having a hard time with it,” Reynie said. “Every time he stands up, she does too, then sits down again looking kind of disoriented.”

“It isn’t just that,” said Sticky, licking his fingers. “When I saw him in that blue blazer yesterday, with his hair so neatly combed, I had to do a double take. I thought he was someone else.”

“I don’t like any of this as much as I thought I would,” said Constance. “I really did hate that green plaid suit, but it’s weird seeing him in other clothes. And Sticky used to drive me crazy polishing his spectacles, but now I hate the way he’s always wincing and squinting and running to the mirror to fix his contact lenses. And I couldn’t
wait
for Kate to move out, but now that the day is here the whole thing makes me grumpy.” She frowned and wiped jelly from her chin with her pillow.