Prisoner's Dilemma

by Richard Powers

  The word animation derives from Latin meaning life, spirit, breath, courage. We will need these exact quantities in good measure if we are to survive. Besides, we have long ago lost our ability to know whether facts beat belief or the other way around. What the newsreels from Europe could not bring home, Welles brought on with radio fantasy. If transparent fiction is more frightening than fact, it must certainly have more power to delight. And the side that comes through this final fight still loving the exhausted, ruined world, the side with more delight, will be the winning side.

  Eddie Hobson learns of the news that will change his life one afternoon at the matinee, late in December of 1941. Pearl Harbor has weeks before sealed his fate. The outcome is terminally uncertain. But that day, he hears the awesome power of a single vote enlist. Mickey Mouse goes to War.

  6

  Dinner was a disaster. Everyone arrived at table euphoric with the news but determined to say nothing to jinx the turn of events. Even Dad was in good humor. He did not look like someone who’d just agreed to surrender himself to the authorities. His topic of discussion that evening was The Drunk and the Lamppost, also called The Random Walk. Dad said it illustrated Brownian motion among other things. “Set a drunk up against a lamppost. Assume he walks a random number of steps and then turns a random angle, continuing in this manner. Where will he end up?”

  “Farther and farther from his starting position, in a random direction,” said Eddie Jr., trying his hardest to please.

  “Back, eventually, at the lamppost,” said Artie, having read it.

  “The rehab clinic,” said Rach, in her helpful deadpan. This crack precipitated the blowup. Lily, a piece of pepper steak in her mouth, began to choke. Eddie Jr., thinking her laughter a vaudeville take, began to laugh with her. When Lily went on gagging, Artie, finally thinking quickly, jumped up and whacked her on the back. Out came the offending piece of gristle. Lily jumped up just as quickly, smacking Artie back for hitting so hard. When she recovered, she turned on Little Eddie, saying, “And damn you, too, you little sycophant.”

  Focusing her full anger on her sister, she narrowed her eyes and dropped to staccato. “Do you ever stop to consider what your punchlines cost? What we all pay to keep you in chuckles?” She threw her napkin down and slammed off, barricading herself in her room.

  Artie sat back down in silence. Little Eddie looked as if he had just cut himself shaving. Rach sat upright, eyes and mouth wide. The bottom of her face puffed out as if it had been slugged. “Somebody tell me what I said.”

  “She thinks,” Dad explained, eye-twinkle only a little subdued, “that you were insulting me.”

  Ailene quietly folded her linen napkin and placed her silver perfectly at the side of her plate. She stood up demurely. “And you were.” Then she too disappeared, upstairs.

  Rach shook her head, still stunned. “Remind me to take my next vacation in Wisconsin.” She went to the front hall, put on her coat, and left for the Northern Lights.

  A minute passed as the dust settled. Artie grinned weakly, stood, and said, “Gotta study. I leave you gentlemen to your own devices.”

  The two Eddies sat together, pushing food around on untouched plates. After a long silence, Little asked Big: “So tell me. Where does that drunk end up?”

  Hours later, the house closed up for the night, Rach returned from the neighborhood bar and knocked on Lily’s door. Her sister’s “Come in” sounded almost cheerful. Nothing had happened: that was the way Lily meant to play it. Rach went into the room and sat on the antique armchair. She grinned, the kind that doesn’t know if it helps or hurts. At last, Rach asked forgiveness the only way she knew how. “Let’s play something.”

  “What?” Lily asked pleasantly.

  Rach looked around the room. Her glance settled on Lily’s ancient Olympia typewriter. She hoisted it up onto the spool table between them, rolled a sheet of scrap paper into it, and began typing.

  New game. First I type two lines on this sheet of paper and give

  it to you. Then you have to continue from wherever I leave

  off? What do I win for guessing that? I suppose there are more

  rules than just that. If there’s anything I’ve learned from your

  darling games over the years, dearest sister, it’s that they are

  marvelously unencumbered (pretty posh phrase for one who’s never

  been able to tell the difference between posh and purple) with any

  sense of purpose. Why are we playing this game anyway? Can’t you just come out and

  gimme that. Rule 1 is that you have to stop after EXACTLY two

  lines, and no fair going over from now on. Rule 2 is that there

  is no Rule 2. How are we going to know which lines are yours and

  which mine? I mean years from now. Of course there’s my impec

  unious way of handling the “e” key. Is “impecunious” a word?

  Like I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted, I’ve never

  been able to differentiate between mere whim and what the rest of

  the world commonly agrees on as reality. You never answered my

  simpering. Nor do I intend to. The fact that we ARE playing

  ought to indicate the futility of hankering over why. After all.

  Not that question. The one about how we’ll be able to tell

  who’s who. Shouldn’t we start each line with an “L” or an “R”? That way

  we raise the possibility of our “L” not knowing what our “R” is

  doing. Nope. It’s better without the IDs, because years from

  I disagree, Rach. Let’s do it playscript style. Otherwise, we’re

  just going to run into one another, create a conflict of identi

  Rule 3 is that you can’t break off the last person’s thoughts and

  start something different. You have to make a smooth transition

  from one thing to the next. How’s that? Now will you answer me?

  Ten years from now I’ll want to know whether this is me asking you

  or you, me? What’s the difference? We can avoid the problem all

  together by keeping the “I”s out from here on. Rule 4: No “I”s.

  “All right,” said her considerably less flighty older sister, wise

  beyond her years. Yet still something tugged at her, and she

  would have rectified (potty joke) the problem

  if not for a nervous if not to say apprehensive colon, thus: If you make one more

  rational protest, you’ll what? Brain the poor woman? If there’s

  no more “I”s than “you”s have to go too, ok? Let’s do the

  whole thing in third person,” agreed the always fairminded Rachel. But

  the new rule rapidly bored her, and seeing as how it was her game,

  little sister thought clearly and carefully before making any

  sudden and potentially disastrous moves (didn’t she?) and decided

  that Rule 5 was that Rules 1–4 would only apply if, when, and

  where I want them to apply. Got it, Lady? Hey wait gimme help

  Now what kind of rules would they be, if the rules keep changing?

  Two can play at that game. This is my typewriter, remember.

  Okayokayokayokay. So they repealed Amendment 5, for Lily at

  least. Now both sisters had exactly what each one needed. Rules

  for the self-controlled, and anarchy for the animal. By this

  time, however, Lily was getting into it, and wanted to see just

  how far the sisters could sustain a thought without any barriers

  between them. They had, until this moment, been circling around

  the issue that was on both of their minds, if “mind” could be used

  to describe what stuff was in the younger one’s brain case. But

  just as they thought they had fallen into lockstep, the women

  discovered each other way off on opposite side
s of the lamppost.

  Why do you always have to do that? Saw the real issue coming,

  didn’t you, and thought you’d jump ship. I quit.

  No pouting, now. That one violated the pronoun rule. Also, the

  tacit rule about finishing a stanza all the way to the end, even

  steven. Getting that out of her system, Rach was ready to come to

  terms with the issue. Again they asked one another, “What IS the

  best way for those two mutual felons of Dad’s to stay out of the

  hoosegow? That one does interest me, though I wouldn’t in a mil-

  lion years let the poor guy know it? Of course not. You don’t

  think his problem is at all related to his daughter taking it on

  herself to torture him? Not bloody likely. He loves it. Now

  stick to the point. How do those guys keep from ratting on each

  other? Search me. Seems to me a clear cut case of

  trust begets trust, lack of trust begets lack of trust. Pass me the truffles,

  Tess. The curry Carrie. Gosh, fellas, she’s funny and pert too.

  So why is it so bloody hard to get out of the Hymen League?

  Believe me, you’re better off as is. Treat men as if they were

  walking encumbrances, if you want what’s best for you. Take me,

  please. Come off it, girl. So you marry a guy who threatens to

  hang himself to get your attention. That’s going to leave any-

  body WHO’S BEEN THROUGH IT a little shaken, yes. Gimme a cig.

  Gratias. It struck me at the time that if I were a recessive car-

  rier of dad’s disease, with wayne-o as batty as wall stucko, that

  you two’d probably have produced an exceptionally strange brood.

  Stucco has two “c”s. Unless we’re talking about my condition,

  which seems to contain that “k”. And who’d ever heard of “two’d”?

  Try not to leave me high and dry on a new line. It’s not as fun

  when you have to start out a new couplet from scratch. The thrill

  is gone. Hey, look back a couple lines. What do you think you’ve

  been doing to me? Brood. Lamppost. League. Take the log out of

  the lion’s paw. OR is that the Monkey’s Paw. Nobody’s Paw but

  mine. I want a Gee just like the Gaw that married dear old Maw.

  You did it again. Just for that I’m going to end my next three

  with periods. Why am I playing this with you if you won’t cooper-

  Well, sis, I wish I could tell ya’. But I’m afraid that’s a

  question that everybody is just going to have to answer for

  me. Now look. As usual, we’ve degenerated. This is no better

  than trying to hold a conversation with you. I preferred it

  in third person,” she said. The nimble-witted Rachel agreed.

  Once again in lockstep, the dialectic duo of sibling synonyms

  forged ahead into research on Pa’s prisoner problem. Lily

  remarked that the knot became trivial if each knew what the

  other meant to do ahead of time. “True,” remarked her genetic

  alter-egg. “But they don’t.” Was she being laconic, or just

  coy? The world would never know. For as in a flash, it dawned on

  both women that what they were really discussing, what really

  concerned them was their

  Alert alert alert: Rule 1 violation in sector A–7. All rule-

  police report immediately. If we let this go unpunished, then

  Rach, quit it. I’m really scared. What if he’s going in

  too late? I’m not sure I still want to know what’s wrong with him.

  He is in no more danger now than he has always been. All we can

  ever do for him is stick around. But no sooner did Rach say this

  than the girls’ mother loomed up in the doorway, an imposing fig-

  ure from a bygone era. With finger to mouth, she made it plain

  that the incessant type-clacking of the dutiful daughters would

  wake said Dad from his much needed healing sleep. “You can

  “You can keep typing,” Ailene said. “Just type quietly.” Both daughters, products of the woman, knew that this meant “Quit typing.” Yet because they were enjoying a rare moment of mutual accord, neither wanted to break off negotiations just yet.

  “New game,” Rachel demanded. “Get the Ouija.” Lily stood on a chair and rooted around in the back of the closet’s top shelf. Neither had played with the beaten-up occult object for years. Lily brought the equipment down and dusted it off. They darkened the room and placed the board between them on their laps like seasoned mediums.

  They slid the heart-shaped pointer around the board, loosening up. Rachel commenced the questioning. “Oh, murky spirits from beyond the pale—it is ‘pale,’ isn’t it?”

  “Just ask the question,” Lily hissed.

  “That’s what I thought. But wait: what’s ‘veil’? Veil has something to do with this spiritual racket too. Painted veil, and so on.”

  “Get serious, will you? They won’t show up if they think you’re goofing off.”

  “All right. Oh, mighty spirits from beyond the Snail, to whom do we have the pleasure of speaking?” Their four hands lurched into low gear, and the device haltingly traced out:

  R-A-G-E R-A-G-E RAGE IN DU PAGE

  “Glad you could stop by, Mr. Rage,” Rachel said. “How are things in Dupage?” The Ouija sputtered and spelled:

  THIS IS NNY GHT NOT A GAME

  Rachel giggled at the garbled spelling. “Well, it’s no picnic for us either.”

  Lily shoved her sister with her wrists and took charge of the interrogation. “Spirit, what can you tell us about where you are?”

  WHAT LIKE WHAT INSTANCE

  The answer, however uncommunicative, excited Lily. “Tell us a little bit about what it’s like, there, on the other side.”

  IMPOUNDABLE IMPONDER

  “Imponderable, Spirit? Is that what you mean?”

  Rachel cut off any answer. “Yeah, yeah. Heard that one before. You don’t have to lecture us on life’s little imponderables. You want imponderables? How about telling me why I’m the first person since Victorian fiction who has to address her boyfriends as ‘Mr.’”

  “That’s your own fault, woman. Stop going out with your married bosses.” Lily hushed her sister’s comeback as the board resumed.

  NOPCH COLD NOVEMBER NO POR

  “Spirit? November?” Lily looked at her little sister. “This is getting spooky, Rachel.”

  “Oh, pish. There is no way in hell this little piece of plastic crap can know diddly. Spirit, is Lily pushing the weejee, or what?”

  N-O Y-E-S

  Their interlocked hands battled for control of the pointer, and Lily’s lost. She crossed her arms. “Quit pushing. Play right, or that’s it.”

  I AM PLAYING RIGHT SIS

  Pouting, Lily again linked little fingers. She commanded, “Spirit, can you tell us about our household?”

  SIS GIX ARE

  The answer took two full minutes and much shuttling. “Great,” Rachel snorted. “That makes a whole load of sense, you insubstantial lump of ethereal . . .”

  Lily interrupted. “No! Don’t you get it? He means there are six of us.”

  “Terrific. I could have told you that. Woulda gotten all the words right, too. And wait a minute. How do you know it’s a man?”

  “Spirit, are you a man or a woman?”

  CLAUDIA

  As the name spelled out, Rachel giggled. “Claudia? Not the Claudia from my sixth-grade intramural field-hockey team?” The Ouija spun around several times before spelling:

  NOCKEY

  “That’s funny. I was certain it was called hockey, with an h.” Rach looped the pointer across the board in figure eights.

  “Will you grow up?” Lily snickered, des
pite herself. “This could be interesting, if you’d just behave for ten seconds. Claudia, we’re trying to find out what is wrong with our father. He’s . . . he’s sick and getting worse.”

  HAS HE PHYS

  Lily sat up, startled. “No, he hasn’t been to a physician, if that’s what you’re asking. He only today agreed to an exam. For our sakes. He doesn’t think it’s serious. But I guarantee you, it is.” The board shuddered and the women’s hands defined twin compasses.

  SEE SEES THINKS

  Each letter heightened Lily’s agitation. “That’s right!” She shouted in a whisper. “He has some kind of hallucinations.”

  EYES EYESORE

  “Naw, not an eyesore,” Rachel objected. “Not the prettiest thing in the world, granted. But he’s not that ugly.” Her tone turned to righteous indignation. “We know he sees things, clot. Tell us what.”

  ASK HIM SELF

  Sure enough, they looked up to see Dad himself halfway inside the doorframe. “Poisoning my household with instruments of the Devil, I see.”

  Ailene, behind him in the kitchen, protested that she had asked the girls to knock off hours ago. “But they’re too inconsiderate to think of anyone else but themselves.”

  “Who isn’t?” Dad asked, joining his daughters.

  As the soft glow from the kitchen spilled into the room, Rachel turned to her sister and asked, “What does that do to Claudia? Doesn’t she die if light gets on the board while she’s talking?” She screwed up her face, trying to remember her Black Magic.

  “She’s already dead,” Lily laughed, self-conscious. Dad sat next to them, forming a small circle. He gave the Ouija a look between revulsion and ridicule.

  “The one value I try to instill in you two over the years—the single burden I place on you—is to try to be a little skeptical, a tiny bit rational about what you believe. And look at the two of you. Just look at you.” He snorted good-naturedly, enjoying cornering the cabal. Lily looked down and toyed with her nicotined nails. Her hands shook, a fight-or-flight mechanism. She scaled up for the inevitable confrontation when Rachel came to her rescue.