The Lottery and Other Stories

by Jackson, Shirley

  For a minute Elizabeth stood in the doorway holding her packages, trying clearly to visualize her room as it might be smoothed out by an affectionate hand, but the noise of footsteps above coming down the stairs drove her inside with the door shut and, once in, there was no clear vision; she had her feet on the unpolished floor; there was a dirty fingerprint on the inside doorknob. Robbie’s, Elizabeth thought.

  She opened the glass French doors that screened the kitchenette and put her packages down; the kitchenette was part of one wall, with a tiny stove built in under a cabinet, a sink installed over a refrigerator, and, over the sink, two shelves on which stood her collection of china: two plates, two cups and saucers, four glasses. She also owned a small saucepan, a frying-pan, and a coffeepot. She had bought all her small house furnishings in a five-and-ten a few years before, planning a tiny complete kitchen, where she could make miniature roasts for herself and Robbie, even bake a small pie or cookies, wearing a yellow apron and making funny mistakes at first. Although she had been a fairly competent cook when she first came to New York, capable of frying chops and potatoes, in the many years since she had been near a real stove she had lost all her knowledge except the fudge-making play in which she indulged herself occasionally. Cooking was, like everything else she had known, a decent honest knowledge meant to make her a capable happy woman (“the way to a man’s heart,” her mother used to say soberly), which, with the rest of her daily life, had sunk to a miniature useful only as a novelty on rare occasions.

  She had to take down the four glasses and wash them; they were dusty from standing so long unused on the open shelf. She checked the refrigerator. For a while she had kept butter and eggs in the refrigerator, and bread and coffee in the cabinet, but they had grown mouldy and rancid before she had been able to make more than one breakfast from them; she was so often late and so seldom inclined to take time over her own breakfast.

  It was only four-thirty; she had time to straighten things up and bathe and dress. Her first care was for the easy things in the apartment; she dusted the tables and emptied the ashtray, stopping to put her dustcloth down and pull the bedcovers even, smoothing the spread down to a regular roundness. She was tempted to take up the three small scatter rugs and shake them, and then wash the floor, but a glance at the bathroom discouraged her; they would certainly be in and out of the bathroom, and the floor and tub and even the walls badly needed washing. She used her dust cloth soaked in hot water from the tap, getting the floor clean at last; she put out clean towels from her small stock and started her bath water while she went back to finish the big room.

  After all her haphazard work the room looked the same; still grey and inhospitable in the rainy afternoon light. She debated for a minute running downstairs for some bright flowers, and then decided that her money wouldn’t last that far; they would only be in the room for a short while anyway, and with something to drink and something to eat any room should look friendly.

  When she finished her bath it was nearly six, and dark enough to light the lamp on the end table. She walked barefoot across the room, feeling clean and freshened, conscious of the cologne she had put on, with her hair curling a little from the hot water. With the feeling of cleanness came an excitement; she would be happy tonight, she would be successful, something wonderful would happen to change her whole life. Following out this feeling she chose a dark red silk dress from the closet; it was youthfully styled and without the grey in her hair it made her look nearer twenty than over thirty. She selected a heavy gold chain to wear with it, and thought, I can wear my good black coat, even if it’s raining I’ll wear it to feel nice.

  While she dressed she thought about her home. Considered honestly, there was no way to do anything with this apartment, no yellow drapes or pictures would help. She needed a new apartment, a pleasant open place with big windows and pale furniture, with the sun coming in all day. To get a new apartment she needed more money, she needed a new job, and Jim Harris would have to help her; tonight would be only the first of many exciting dinners together, building into a lovely friendship that would get her a job and a sunny apartment; while she was planning her new life she forgot Jim Harris, his heavy face, his thin voice; he was a stranger, a gallant dark man with knowing eyes who watched her across a room, he was someone who loved her, he was a quiet troubled man who needed sunlight, a warm garden, green lawns….

  A Fine Old Firm

  MRS. CONCORD and her older daughter, Helen, were sitting in their living-room, sewing and talking and trying to keep warm. Helen had just put down the stockings she had been mending and walked over to the French doors that opened out on to the garden. “I wish spring would hurry up and get here,” she was saying when the doorbell rang.

  “Good Lord,” Mrs. Concord said, “if that’s company! The rug’s all covered with loose threads.” She leaned over in her chair and began to gather up the odds and ends of material around her as Helen went to answer the door. She opened it and stood smiling while the woman outside held out a hand and began to talk rapidly. “You’re Helen? I’m Mrs. Friedman,” she said. “I hope you won’t think I’m just breaking in on you, but I have been so anxious to meet you and your mother.”

  “How do you do?” Helen said. “Won’t you come in?” She opened the door wider and Mrs. Friedman stepped in. She was small and dark and wearing a very smart leopard coat. “Is your mother home?” she asked Helen just as Mrs. Concord came out of the living room.

  “I’m Mrs. Concord,” Helen’s mother said.

  “I’m Mrs. Friedman,” Mrs. Friedman said. “Bob Friedman’s mother.”

  “Bob Friedman,” Mrs. Concord repeated.

  Mrs. Friedman smiled apologetically. “I thought surely your boy would have mentioned Bobby,” she said.

  “Of course he has,” Helen said suddenly. “He’s the one Charlie’s always writing about, Mother. It’s so hard to make a connection,” she said to Mrs. Friedman, “because Charlie seems so far away.”

  Mrs. Concord was nodding. “Of course,” she said. “Won’t you come in and sit down?”

  Mrs. Friedman followed the Concords into the living-room and sat in one of the chairs not filled with sewing. Mrs. Concord waved her hand at the room. “It makes such a mess,” she said, “but every now and then Helen and I just get to work and make things. These are kitchen curtains,” she added, picking up the material she had been working on.

  “They’re very nice,” Mrs. Friedman said politely.

  “Well, tell us about your son,” Mrs. Concord went on. “I’m amazed that I didn’t recognize the name right away, but somehow I associate Bob Friedman with Charles and the Army, and it seemed strange to have his mother here in town.”

  Mrs. Friedman laughed. “That’s just about the way I felt,” she said. “Bobby wrote me that his friend’s mother lived here only a few blocks from us, and said why didn’t I drop in and say Hello.”

  “I’m so glad you did,” Mrs. Concord said.

  “I guess we know about as much about Bob as you do by now,” Helen said. “Charlie’s always writing about him.”

  Mrs. Friedman opened her purse. “I even have a letter from Charlie,” she said. “I thought you’d like to take a look at it.”

  “Charles wrote you?” Mrs. Concord asked.

  “Just a note. He likes the pipe tobacco I send Bobby,” Mrs. Friedman explained, “and I put a tin of it in for him the last time I sent Bobby a package.” She handed the letter to Mrs. Concord and said to Helen, “I imagine I could tell you all about yourselves, Bobby’s said so much about all of you.”

  “Well,” Helen said, “I know that Bob got you a Japanese sword for Christmas. 7bat must have looked lovely under the tree. Charlie helped him buy it from the boy that had it—did you hear about that, and how they almost had a fight with the boy?”

  “Bobby almost had a fight,” Mrs. Friedman said. “Charlie was smart and stayed out of it.”

  “No, we heard it that Charlie was the one who got in trouble
,” Helen said. She and Mrs. Friedman laughed.

  “Maybe we shouldn’t compare notes,” Mrs. Friedman said. “They don’t seem to stick together on their stories.” She turned to Mrs. Concord, who had finished the letter and handed it to Helen. “I was just telling your daughter how many complimentary things I’ve heard about you.”

  “We’ve heard a lot about you, too,” Mrs. Concord said.

  “Charlie showed Bob a picture of you and your two daughters. The younger one’s Nancy, isn’t it?”

  “Nancy, yes,” Mrs. Concord said.

  “Well, Charlie certainly thinks a lot of his family,” Mrs. Friedman said. “Wasn’t he nice to write me?” she asked Helen.

  “That tobacco must be good,” Helen said. She hesitated for a minute and handed the letter back to Mrs. Friedman, who put it in her purse.

  “I’d love to meet Charlie sometime,” Mrs. Friedman said. “It seems as though I know him so well.”

  “I’m sure he’ll want to meet you when he comes back,” Mrs. Concord said.

  “I hope it won’t be long now,” Mrs. Friedman said. All three were silent for a minute, and then Mrs. Friedman went on with animation, “It seems so strange that we’ve been living in the same town and it took our boys so far away to introduce us.”

  “This is a very hard town to get acquainted in,” Mrs. Concord said.

  “Have you lived here long?” Mrs. Friedman smiled apologetically. “Of course I know of your husband,” she added. “My sister’s children are in your husband’s high school and they speak so highly of him.”

  “Really?” Mrs. Concord said. “My husband has lived here all his life. I came here from the West when I was married.”

  “Then it hasn’t been hard for you to get settled and make friends,” Mrs. Friedman said.

  “No, I never had much trouble,” Mrs. Concord said. “Of course most of our friends are people who went to school with my husband.”

  “I’m sorry Bobby never got a chance to study under Mr. Concord,” Mrs. Friedman said. “Well….” She rose. “I have certainly enjoyed meeting you at last.”

  “I’m so glad you came over,” Mrs. Concord said. “It’s like having a letter from Charles.”

  “And I know how welcome a letter can be, the way I wait for Bobby’s,” Mrs. Friedman said. She and Mrs. Concord started for the door and Helen got up and followed them. “My husband is very much interested in Charlie, you know. Ever since he found out that Charlie was studying law when he went into the Army.”

  “Your husband is a lawyer?” Mrs. Concord asked.

  “He’s the Friedman of Grunewald, Friedman & White,” Mrs. Friedman said. “When Charlie is ready to start out for himself, perhaps my husband could find a place for him.”

  “That’s awfully kind of you,” Mrs. Concord said. “Charles will be so sorry when I tell him. You see, it’s always been sort of arranged that he’d go in with Charles Satterthwaite, my husband’s oldest friend. Satterthwaite & Harris.”

  “I believe Mr. Friedman knows the firm,” Mrs. Friedman said.

  “A fine old firm,” Mrs. Concord said. “Mr. Concord’s grandfather used to be a partner.”

  “Give Bob our best regards when you write him,” Helen said.

  “I will,” Mrs. Friedman said. “I’ll tell him all about meeting you. It’s been very nice,” she said, holding out her hand to Mrs. Concord.

  “I’ve enjoyed it,” Mrs. Concord said.

  “Tell Charlie I’ll send him some more tobacco,” Mrs. Friedman said to Helen.

  “I certainly will,” Helen said.

  “Well, good-bye then,” Mrs. Friedman said.

  “Good-bye,” Mrs. Concord said.

  The Dummy

  IT WAS a respectable, well-padded restaurant with a good chef and a group of entertainers who called themselves a floor show; the people who came there laughed quietly and dined thoroughly, appreciating the principle that the check was always a little more than the restaurant and the entertainment and the company warranted; it was a respectable, likable restaurant, and two women could go into it alone with perfect decorum and have a faintly exciting dinner. When Mrs. Wilkins and Mrs. Straw came noiselessly down the carpeted staircase into the restaurant none of the waiters looked up more than once, quickly, few of the guests turned, and the headwaiter came quietly and bowed agreeably before he turned to the room and the few vacant tables far in the back.

  “Do you mind being so far away from everything, Alice?” Mrs. Wilkins, who was hostess, said to Mrs. Straw. “We can wait for a table, if you like. Or go somewhere else?”

  “Of course not.” Mrs. Straw was a rather large woman in a heavy flowered hat, and she looked affectionately at the substantial dinners set on near-by tables. “I don’t mind where we sit; this is really lovely.”

  “Anywhere will do,” Mrs. Wilkins said to the headwaiter. “Not too far back if you can help it.”

  The headwaiter listened carefully and nodded, stepping delicately off between the tables to one very far back, near the doorway where the entertainers came in and out, near the table where the lady who owned the restaurant was sitting drinking beer, near the kitchen doors. “Nothing nearer?” Mrs. Wilkins said, frowning at the headwaiter.

  The headwaiter shrugged, gesturing at the other vacant tables. One was behind a post, another was set for a large party, a third was somehow behind the small orchestra.

  “This will do beautifully, Jen,” Mrs. Straw said. “We’ll sit right down.”

  Mrs. Wilkins hesitated still, but Mrs. Straw pulled out the chair on one side of the table and sat down with a sigh, setting her gloves and pocketbook on the extra chair beside her, and reaching to unfasten the collar of her coat.

  “I can’t say I like this,” Mrs. Wilkins said, sliding into the chair opposite. “I’m not sure we can see anything.”

  “Of course we can,” Mrs. Straw said. “We can see all that’s going on, and of course we’ll be able to hear everything. Would you like to sit here instead?” she finished reluctantly.

  “Of course not, Alice,” Mrs. Wilkins said. She accepted the menu the waiter was offering her and set it down on the table, scanning it rapidly. “The food is quite good here,” she said.

  “Shrimp casserole,” Mrs. Straw said. “Fried chicken.” She sighed. “I certainly am hungry.”

  Mrs. Wilkins ordered quickly, with no debate, and then helped Mrs. Straw choose. When the waiter had gone Mrs. Straw leaned back comfortably and turned in her chair to see all of the restaurant. “This is a lovely place,” she said.

  “The people seem to be very nice,” Mrs. Wilkins said. “The woman who owns it is sitting over there, in back of you. I’ve always thought she looked very clean and decent.”

  “She probably makes sure the glasses are washed,” Mrs. Straw said. She turned back to the table and picked up her pocketbook, diving deep into it after a pack of cigarettes and a box of wooden safety matches, which she set on the table. “I like to see a place that serves food kept nice and clean,” she said.

  “They make a lot of money from this place,” Mrs. Wilkins said. “Tom and I used to come here years ago before they enlarged it. It was very nice then, but it attracts a better class of people now.”

  Mrs. Straw regarded the crabmeat cocktail now in front of her with deep satisfaction. “Yes, indeed,” she said.

  Mrs. Wilkins picked up her fork indifferently, watching Mrs. Straw. “I had a letter from Walter yesterday,” she said.

  “What’d he have to say?” Mrs. Straw asked.

  “He seems fine,” Mrs. Wilkins said. “Seems like there’s a lot he doesn’t tell us.”

  “Walter’s a good boy,” Mrs. Straw said. “You worry too much.”

  The orchestra began to play suddenly and violently and the lights darkened to a spotlight on the stage.

  “I hate to eat in the dark,” Mrs. Wilkins said.

  “We’ll get plenty of light back here from those doors,” Mrs. Straw said. She put down her fork and
turned to watch the orchestra.

  “They’ve made Walter a proctor,” Mrs. Wilkins said.

  “He’ll be first in his class,” Mrs. Straw said. “Look at the dress on that girl.”

  Mrs. Wilkins turned covertly, looking at the girl Mrs. Straw had indicated with her head. The girl had come out of the doorway that led to the entertainers’ rooms; she was tall and very dark, with heavy black hair and thick eyebrows, and the dress was electric green satin, cut very low, with a flaming orange flower on one shoulder. “I never did see a dress like that,” Mrs. Wilkins said. “She must be going to dance or something.”

  “She’s not a very pretty girl,” Mrs. Straw said. “And look at the fellow with her!”

  Mrs. Wilkins turned again, and moved her head back quickly to smile at Mrs. Straw. “He looks like a monkey,” she said.

  “So little,” Mrs. Straw said. “I hate those flabby little blond men.”

  “They used to have such a nice floor show here,” Mrs. Wilkins said. “Music, and dancers, and sometimes a nice young man who would sing requests from the audience. Once they had an organist, I think.”

  “This is our dinner coming along now,” Mrs. Straw said. The music had faded down, and the leader of the orchestra, who acted as master of ceremonies, introduced the first number, a pair of ballroom dancers. When the applause started, a tall young man and a tall young woman came out of the entertainers’ door and made their way through the tables to the dance floor; on their way they both gave a nod of recognition to the girl in electric green and the man with her.

  “Aren’t they graceful?” Mrs. Wilkins said when the dance started. “They always look so pretty, that kind of dancers.”

  “They have to watch their weight,” Mrs. Straw said critically. “Look at the figure on the girl in green.”