Shirley Jackson - The Lottery and Other Stories

The potatoes were done before Marcia came, and then suddenly the door burst open and Marcia arrived with a shout and fresh air and disorder. She was a tall handsome girl with a loud voice, wearing a dirty raincoat, and she said, “I didn’t forget, Davie, I’m just late as usual. What’s for dinner? You’re not mad, are you?”

David got up and came over to take her coat. “I left a note for you,” he said.

“Didn’t see it,” Marcia said. “Haven’t been home. Something smells good.”

“Fried potatoes,” David said. “Everything’s ready.”

“Golly.” Marcia fell into a chair to sit with her legs stretched out in front of her and her arms hanging. “I’m tired,” she said. “It’s cold out.”

“It was getting colder when I came home,” David said. He was putting dinner on the table, the platter of meat, the salad, the bowl of fried potatoes. He walked quietly back and forth from the kitchenette to the table, avoiding Marcia’s feet. “I don’t believe you’ve been here since I got my silverware,” he said.

Marcia swung around to the table and picked up a spoon. “It’s beautiful,” she said, running her finger along the pattern. “Pleasure to eat with it.”

“Dinner’s ready,” David said. He pulled her chair out for her and waited for her to sit down.

Marcia was always hungry; she put meat and potatoes and salad on her plate without admiring the serving silver, and started to eat enthusiastically. “Everything’s beautiful,” she said once. “Food is wonderful, Davie.”

“I’m glad you like it,” David said. He liked the feel of the fork in his hand, even the sight of the fork moving up to Marcia’s mouth.

Marcia waved her hand largely. “I mean everything,” she said, “furniture, and nice place you have here, and dinner, and everything.”

“I like things this way,” David said.

“I know you do.” Marcia’s voice was mournful. “Someone should teach me, I guess.”

“You ought to keep your home neater,” David said. “You ought to get curtains at least, and keep your windows shut.”

“I never remember,” she said. “Davie, you are the most wonderful cook.” She pushed her plate away, and sighed.

David blushed happily. “I’m glad you like it,” he said again, and then he laughed. “I made a pie last night.”

“A pie.” Marcia looked at him for a minute and then she said, “Apple?”

David shook his head, and she said, “Pineapple?” and he shook his head again, and, because he could not wait to tell her, said, “Cherry.”

“My God !” Marcia got up and followed him into the kitchen and looked over his shoulder while he took the pie carefully out of the breadbox. “Is this the first pie you ever made?”

“I’ve made two before,” David admitted, “but this one turned out better than the others.”

She watched happily while he cut large pieces of pie and put them on other orange plates, and then she carried her own plate back to the table, tasted the pie, and made wordless gestures of appreciation. David tasted his pie and said critically, “I think it’s a little sour. I ran out of sugar.”

“It’s perfect,” Marcia said. “I always loved a cherry pie really sour. This isn’t sour enough, even.”

David cleared the table and poured the coffee, and as he was setting the coffeepot back on the stove Marcia said, “My doorbell’s ringing.” She opened the apartment door and listened, and they could both hear the ringing in her apartment. She pressed the buzzer in David’s apartment that opened the downstairs door, and far away they could hear heavy footsteps starting up the stairs. Marcia left the apartment door open and came back to her coffee. “Landlord, most likely,” she said. “I didn’t pay my rent again.” When the footsteps reached the top of the last staircase Marcia yelled, “Hello?” leaning back in her chair to see out the door into the hall. Then she said, “Why, Mr. Harris.” She got up and went to the door and held out her hand. “Come in,” she said.

“I just thought I’d stop by,” Mr. Harris said. He was a very large man and his eyes rested curiously on the coffee cups and empty plates on the table. “I don’t want to interrupt your dinner.”

“ That’s all right,” Marcia said, pulling him into the room. “It’s just Davie. Davie, this is Mr. Harris, he works in my office. This is Mr. Turner.”

“How do you do,” David said politely, and the man looked at him carefully and said, “How do you do?”

“Sit down, sit down,” Marcia was saying, pushing a chair forward. “Davie, how about another cup for Mr. Harris?”

“Please don’t bother,” Mr. Harris said quickly, “I just thought I’d stop by.”

While David was taking out another cup and saucer and getting a spoon down from the tarnish-proof silverbox, Marcia said, “You like homemade pie?”

“Say,” Mr. Harris said admiringly, “I’ve forgotten what homemade pie looks like.”

“Davie,” Marcia called cheerfully, “how about cutting Mr. Harris a piece of that pie?”

Without answering, David took a fork out of the silverbox and got down an orange plate and put a piece of pie on it. His plans for the evening had been vague; they had involved perhaps a movie if it were not too cold out, and at least a short talk with Marcia about the state of her home; Mr. Harris was settling down in his chair and when David put the pie down silently in front of him he stared at it admiringly for a minute before he tasted it.

“Say,” he said finally, “this is certainly some pie.” He looked at Marcia. “This is really good pie,” he said.

“You like it?” Marcia asked modestly. She looked up at David and smiled at him over Mr. Harris’ head. “I haven’t made but two, three pies before,” she said.

David raised a hand to protest, but Mr. Harris turned to him and demanded, “Did you ever eat any better pie in your life?”

“I don’t think Davie liked it much,” Marcia said wickedly, “I think it was too sour for him.”

“I like a sour pie,” Mr. Harris said. He looked suspiciously at David. “A cherry pie’s got to be sour.”

“I’m glad you like it, anyway,” Marcia said. Mr. Harris ate the last mouthful of pie, finished his coffee, and sat back. “I’m sure glad I dropped in,” he said to Marcia.

David’s desire to be rid of Mr. Harris had slid imperceptibly into an urgency to be rid of them both; his clean house, his nice silver, were not meant as vehicles for the kind of fatuous banter Marcia and Mr. Harris were playing at together; almost roughly he took the coffee cup away from the arm Marcia had stretched across the table, took it out to the kitchenette and came back and put his hand on Mr. Harris’ cup.

“Don’t bother, Davie, honestly,” Marcia said. She looked up, smiling again, as though she and David were conspirators against Mr. Harris. “I’ll do them all tomorrow, honey,” she said.

“Sure,” Mr. Harris said. He stood up. “Let them wait. Let’s go in and sit down where we can be comfortable.”

Marcia got up and led him into the living-room and they sat down on the studio couch. “Come on in, Davie,” Marcia called.

The sight of his pretty table covered with dirty dishes and cigarette ashes held David. He carried the plates and cups and silverware into the kitchenette and stacked them in the sink and then, because he could not endure the thought of their sitting there any longer, with the dirt gradually hardening on them, he tied an apron on and began to wash them carefully. Now and then, while he was washing them and drying them and putting them away, Marcia would call to him, sometimes, “Davie, what are you doing?” or, “Davie, won’t you stop all that and come sit down?” Once she said, “Davie, I don’t want you to wash all those dishes,” and Mr. Harris said, “Let him work, he’s happy.”