The Mysterious Benedict Society

Constance’s hands were so small that she needed both of them to hold the flashlight, so Sticky held the chart up for her. Squinting at the paper in concentration, she flashed the light once very quickly, followed this with two longer flashes, then paused.

“Dot, dash, dash,” Sticky said.

Kate referred to her chart and said, “That’s a W, isn’t it?”

Constance nodded and flashed the light again: four quick signals.

“Four dots,” said Reynie. “That’s an H.”

Again Constance nodded, and in this way they proceeded through the rest of her message. As Mr. Benedict had remarked, they were all quick learners, but even so it took them some minutes, for everyone but Sticky had to keep checking the charts. Finally, though, Constance flashed the code for her last letter (dash, dot — an N), then looked expectantly at Sticky, who immediately began to fidget. The message had been: Why did you run?

“Hey, that’s a good question,” Kate said. “Why did you run away, Sticky?”

“It would take too long to answer in code,” Sticky said. “Let’s just practice with a different message, something short.”

“Skip the code and tell us,” Kate insisted. “If we’re going to be a team, we should get to know each other better, don’t you think, Reynie?”

“She’s right,” Reynie said. “It’s best that we all know.”

“I suppose so,” Sticky said miserably. “But it isn’t a very pleasant story to tell.”

Nor was it a pleasant story to hear, and as Sticky told it, the children’s faces grew long, so that they resembled miniature versions of Milligan (who had, in his silent way, drawn close to listen). It turned out that Sticky had once been quite content with his life — the agreeable child of agreeable parents — but the situation changed once his gifts became known.

This happened one April day when his mother (whose knees were arthritic, and whose wheelchair needed extra oiling in damp weather) wondered aloud, in a rare fit of irritation, why it had to rain so much. As Sticky helped his mother into her chair, he launched into a detailed explanation of weather systems and local geography. He’d always been a shy, silent child — this was the first time he’d given any hint of his considerable knowledge. His mother checked him for a fever.

That evening she told his father, who asked Sticky to repeat what he’d said before. Sticky did, word for word. His father had to sit down. Then he rose again, went into the den, and returned carrying several volumes of an outdated encyclopedia. Questioning Sticky together, the Washingtons discovered that their son, who was only seven at the time, carried more information inside his head than a college professor, perhaps two professors, with an engineer thrown in to boot. Astonished and proud, they could hardly have been more excited if they’d found buried treasure.

And in a way they had, for right away they began entering him in quiz competitions, which Sticky won easily. He took home substantial prizes: a new encyclopedia to replace the outdated one, a new writing desk, a cash prize, a savings bond. The more Sticky won, the more excited his parents grew. They encouraged him to study constantly, to read through their meals together, to stay up late reading, to stop wasting time with his friends. The pressure to win began to distract him. His parents grew angry when he missed questions — which he began to do more and more, as he tended to get mixed up when nervous — and scolded him for not caring about them. If Sticky cared, they said, he would try harder to win, since only by winning would he bring wealth and happiness to the family.

This came as a surprise to Sticky, who knew they’d never been wealthy but hadn’t realized they were unhappy. And for him it was different — the more he won, the unhappier he became. But though he sometimes missed questions whose answers he knew, he still won the contests easily, gaining admission to bigger contests with bigger prizes, until at last his parents were perfectly dazzled by the prospect of fortune, and Sticky was perfectly exhausted. Despite complaining and even begging, however, he couldn’t persuade them to let him stop. If he wanted to be rich and famous, they said, he must keep winning. When he replied that he didn’t care to be rich and famous, they didn’t believe him and said he was only being lazy.

Finally Sticky decided to make a point by pretending to run away. He left a note, then hid for several days in a cellar closet his parents thought was boarded up, but which Sticky had found a way to enter. From there he was able to venture forth to sneak food, use the bathroom, and do a little spying on his parents. At first he was pleased by what he saw: The Washingtons, extremely distressed, had raised an outcry about their lost son, seeking help from all quarters. But then something unfortunate happened. A rich man, himself a former quiz champion, heard of the case and gave a large sum of money to the Washingtons to aid their search. Word of his generosity quickly got around, which inspired other philanthropists — unwilling to be outdone — to send even more money; and before long people everywhere were sending gifts to the Washingtons, who were growing rich. To his great astonishment and mortification, Sticky saw his parents begin trying less and less to find him, instead devoting their time and energy toward the proper disposal of their newfound riches. At last, one day, when he managed to overhear his father saying something about being “better off now” — better off with him gone, Sticky realized — he could no longer bear their betrayal. He ran away for good.

“I’d been on my own for weeks,” he concluded, removing his glasses to wipe away a tear, “when I saw Mr. Benedict’s advertisement in the paper. That’s my story. You all know the rest. Now can we get on with the practice?”

After a short, unhappy silence, the others agreed, and Constance took up the flashlight. Her message went more quickly this time; it was a single word: sorry. The others were taken aback. Even Milligan, who had retreated to his roses and seemed not to be paying attention, raised his eyebrows.

“That’s okay,” Sticky said.

“Aren’t we a depressing bunch?” said Kate. “If we continue like this, we’ll have to start calling it remorse code.”

“What’s remorse?” asked Constance.

“Feeling sad about something you did,” said Reynie.

“Oh, do you feel sad, George Washington?” asked Constance.

Sticky twitched with irritation. “She was talking about you. And please don’t call me