Shirley Jackson - The Lottery and Other Stories

David put the clean yellow cups and saucers back on the shelves—by now, Mr. Harris’ cup was unrecognizable; you could not tell, from the clean rows of cups, which one he had used or which one had been stained with Marcia’s lipstick or which one had held David’s coffee which he had finished in the kitchenette—and finally, taking the tarnish-proof box down, he put the silverware away. First the forks all went together into the little grooves which held two forks each—later, when the set was complete, each groove would hold four forks—and then the spoons, stacked up neatly one on top of another in their own grooves, and the knives in even order, all facing the same way, in the special tapes in the lid of the box. Butter knives and serving spoons and the pie knife all went into their own places, and then David put the lid down on the lovely shining set and put the box back on the shelf. After wringing out the dishcloth and hanging up the dish towel and taking off his apron he was through, and he went slowly into the living-room. Marcia and Mr. Harris were sitting close together on the studio couch, talking earnestly.

“My father’s name was James,” Marcia was saying as David came in, as though she were clinching an argument. She turned around when David came in and said, “Davie, you were so nice to do all those dishes yourself.”

“That’s all right,” David said awkwardly. Mr. Harris was looking at him impatiently.

“I should have helped you,” Marcia said. There was a silence, and then Marcia said, “Sit down, Davie, won’t you?”

David recognized her tone; it was the one hostesses used when they didn’t know what else to say to you, or when you had come too early or stayed too late. It was the tone he had expected to use on Mr. Harris.

“James and I were just talking about….” Marcia began and then stopped and laughed. “What were we talking about?” she asked, turning to Mr. Harris.

“Nothing much,” Mr. Harris said. He was still watching David.

“Well,” Marcia said, letting her voice trail off. She turned to David and smiled brightly and then said, “Well,” again.

Mr. Harris picked up the ashtray from the end table and set it on the couch between himself and Marcia. He took a cigar out of his pocket and said to Marcia, “Do you mind cigars?” and when Marcia shook her head he unwrapped the cigar tenderly and bit off the end. “Cigar smoke’s good for plants,” he said thickly, around the cigar, as he lighted it, and Marcia laughed.

David stood up. For a minute he thought he was going to say something that might start, “Mr. Harris, I’ll thank you to…” but what he actually said, finally, with both Marcia and Mr. Harris looking at him, was, “Guess I better be getting along, Marcia.”

Mr. Harris stood up and said heartily, “Certainly have enjoyed meeting you.” He held out his hand and David shook hands limply.

“Guess I better be getting along,” he said again to Marcia, and she stood up and said, “I’m sorry you have to leave so soon.”

“Lots of work to do,” David said, much more genially than he intended, and Marcia smiled at him again as though they were conspirators and went over to the desk and said, “Don’t forget your key.”

Surprised, David took the key of her apartment from her, said good night to Mr. Harris, and went to the outside door.

“Good night, Davie honey,” Marcia called out, and David said “Thanks for a simply wonderful dinner, Marcia,” and closed the door behind him.

He went down the hall and let himself into Marcia’s apartment; the piano was still awry, the papers were still on the floor, the laundry scattered, the bed unmade. David sat down on the bed and looked around. It was cold, it was dirty, and as he thought miserably of his own warm home he heard faintly down the hall the sound of laughter and the scrape of a chair being moved. Then, still faintly, the sound of his radio. Wearily, David leaned over and picked up a paper from the floor, and then he began to gather them up one by one.

WHEN EMILY JOHNSON came home one evening to her furnished room and found three of her best handkerchiefs missing from the dresser drawer, she was sure who had taken them and what to do. She had lived in the furnished room for about six weeks and for the past two weeks she had been missing small things occasionally. There had been several handkerchiefs gone, and an initial pin which Emily rarely wore and which had come from the five-and-ten. And once she had missed a small bottle of perfume and one of a set of china dogs. Emily had known for some time who was taking the things, but it was only tonight that she had decided what to do. She had hesitated about complaining to the landlady because her losses were trivial and because she had felt certain that sooner or later she would know how to deal with the situation herself. It had seemed logical to her from the beginning that the one person in the rooming-house who was home all day was the most likely suspect, and then, one Sunday morning, coming downstairs from the roof, where she had been sitting in the sun, Emily had seen someone come out of her room and go down the stairs, and had recognized the visitor. Tonight, she felt, she knew just what to do. She took off her coat and hat, put her packages down, and, while a can of tamales was heating on her electric plate, she went over what she intended to say.

After her dinner, she closed and locked her door and went downstairs. She tapped softly on the door of the room directly below her own, and when she thought she heard someone say, “Come in,” she said, “Mrs. Allen?,” then opened the door carefully and stepped inside.

The room, Emily noticed immediately, was almost like her own—the same narrow bed with the tan cover, the same maple dresser and armchair; the closet was on the opposite side of the room, but the window was in the same relative position. Mrs. Allen was sitting in the armchair. She was about sixty. More than twice as old as I am, Emily thought, while she stood in the doorway, and a lady still. She hesitated for a few seconds, looking at Mrs. Allen’s clean white hair and her neat, dark-blue house coat, before speaking. “Mrs. Allen,” she said, “I’m Emily Johnson.”

Mrs. Allen put down the Woman’s Home Companion she had been reading and stood up slowly. “I’m very happy to meet you,” she said graciously. “I’ve seen you, of course, several times, and thought how pleasant you looked. It’s so seldom one meets anyone really”—Mrs. Allen hesitated—“really nice,” she went on, “in a place like this.”

“I’ve wanted to meet you, too,” Emily said.

Mrs. Allen indicated the chair she had been sitting in. “Won’t you sit down?”

“Thank you,” Emily said. “You stay there. I’ll sit on the bed.” She smiled. “I feel as if I know the furniture so well. Mine’s just the same.”

“It’s a shame,” Mrs. Allen said, sitting down in her chair again. “I’ve told the landlady over and over, you can’t make people feel at home if you put all the same furniture in the rooms. But she maintains that this maple furniture is clean-looking and cheap.”

“It’s better than most,” Emily said. “You’ve made yours look much nicer than mine.”

“I’ve been here for three years,” Mrs. Allen said. “You’ve only been here a month or so, haven’t you?”

“Six weeks,” Emily said.

“The landlady’s told me about you. Your husband’s in the Army.”

“Yes. I have a job here in New York.”

“My husband was in the Army,” Mrs. Allen said. She gestured at a group of pictures on her maple dresser. “That was a long time ago, of course. He’s been dead for nearly five years.” Emily got up and went over to the pictures. One of them was of a tall, dignified-looking man in Army uniform. Several were of children.