The Lottery and Other Stories (26 page)

“But you didn’t finish,” Mrs. Corn said.

“The stomach,” the old man said, “as this lady has pointed out, shrinks. Yes, indeed,” he went on reminiscently, “I knew Yeats.”

At the front door he turned and said to Mrs. Archer, “Your kindness should not go unrewarded.” He gestured to the shoelaces lying on the floor. “These,” he said, “are for you. For your kindness. Divide them with the other ladies.”

“But I wouldn’t dream—” Mrs. Archer began.

“I insist,” the old man said, opening the door. “A small return, but all that I have to offer. Pick them up yourself,” he added abruptly. Then he turned and thumbed his nose at Mrs. Corn. “I hate old women,” he said.

“Well!” said Mrs. Corn faintly.

“I may have imbibed somewhat freely,” the old man said to Mrs. Archer, “but I never served bad sherry to my guests We are of two different worlds, Madam.”

“Didn’t I tell you?” Mrs. Corn was saying. “Haven’t I kept telling you all along?”

Mrs. Archer, her eyes on Kathy, made a tentative motion of pushing the old man through the door, but he forestalled her.

“‘Come dance with me in Ireland,’” he said. Supporting himself against the wall, he reached the outer door and opened it. “And time runs on,” he said.

We are never liable to be so betray’d and abused, till, by our vile
Dispositions
and
Tendencies
, we have forfeited the
tutelary
Care, and
Oversight
of the better Spirits; who, tho’ generally they are our Guard and Defence against the Malice and Violence of evil
Angels
, yet it may well enough be thought, that some Time they may take their Leave of such as are swallow’d up by
Malice, Envy
, and
Desire
of
Revenge
, Qualities most contrary to their
Life
and
Nature;
and leave them exposed to the
Invasion
and
Solicitations
of those
wicked Spirits
, to whom such hateful
Attributes
make them very suitable.

Joseph Glanvil:
Sadducismus Triumphatus

Of Course

M
RS
. T
YLOR
, in the middle of a busy morning, was far too polite to go out on the front porch and stare, but she saw no reason for avoiding the windows; when her vacuuming or her dishwashing, or even the upstairs bedmaking, took her near a window on the south side of the house she would lift the curtain slightly, or edge to one side and stir the shade. All she could see, actually, was the moving van in front of the house, and various small activities going on between the movers; the furniture, what she could see of it, looked fine.

Mrs. Tylor finished the beds and came downstairs to start lunch, and in the short space of time it took her to get from the front bedroom window to the kitchen window a taxi had stopped in front of the house next door and a small boy was dancing up and down on the sidewalk. Mrs. Taylor estimated him; about four, probably, unless he was small for his age; about right for her youngest girl. She turned her attention to the woman who was getting out of the taxi, and was further reassured. A nice-looking tan suit, a little worn and perhaps a
little
too light in color for moving day, but nicely cut, and Mrs. Tylor nodded appreciatively over the carrots she was scraping.
Nice
people, obviously.

Carol, Mrs. Tylor’s youngest, was leaning on the fence in front of the Tylor house, watching the little boy next door. When the little boy stopped dancing up and down Carol said, “Hi.” The little boy looked up, took a step backward, and said, “Hi.” His mother looked at Carol, at the Tylor house, and down at her son. Then she said, “Hello there” to Carol. Mrs. Tylor smiled in the kitchen. Then, on a sudden impulse she dried her hands on a paper towel, took off her apron, and went to the front door. “Carol,” she called lightly, “Carol, dear.” Carol turned around, still leaning on the fence. “What?” she said uncoöperatively.

“Oh, hello,” Mrs. Tylor said to the lady still standing on the sidewalk next to the little boy. “I heard Carol talking to someone….”

“The children were making friends,” the lady said shyly.

Mrs. Tylor came down the steps to stand near Carol at the fence. “Are you our new neighbor?”

“If we ever get moved in,” the lady said. She laughed. “Moving day,” she said expressively.

“I know. Our name’s Tylor,” Mrs. Tylor said. “This is Carol.”

“
Our
name is Harris,” the lady said. “This is James Junior.”

“Say hello to James,” Mrs. Tylor said.

“And
you
say hello to Carol,” Mrs. Harris said.

Carol shut her mouth obstinately and the little boy edged behind his mother. Both ladies laughed. “Children!” one of them said, and the other said, “Isn’t it the way!”

Then Mrs. Tylor said, gesturing at the moving van and the two men moving in and out with chairs and tables and beds and lamps, “Heavens, isn’t it terrible?”

Mrs. Harris sighed. “I think I’ll just go crazy.”

“Is there anything we can do to help?” Mrs. Tylor asked. She smiled down at James. “Perhaps James would like to spend the afternoon with us?”

“That
would
be a relief,” Mrs. Harris agreed. She twisted around to look at James behind her. “Would you like to play with Carol this afternoon, honey?” James shook his head mutely and Mrs. Tylor said to him brightly, “Carol’s two older sisters might, just
might
take her to the movies, James. You’d like
that
, wouldn’t you?”

“I’m afraid not,” Mrs. Harris said flatly. “James does not go to movies.”

“Oh, well, of course,” Mrs. Tylor said, “lots of mothers
don’t
, of course, but when a child has two older….”

“It isn’t that,” Mrs. Harris said. “We do not go to movies, any of us.”

Mrs. Tylor quickly registered the “any” as meaning there was probably a Mr. Harris somewhere around, and then her mind snapped back and she said blankly, “Don’t go to movies?”

“Mr. Harris,” Mrs. Harris said carefully, “feels that movies are intellectually retarding. We do not go to movies.”

“Naturally,” Mrs. Tylor said. “Well, I’m sure Carol wouldn’t mind staying home this afternoon. She’d love to play with James. Mr. Harris,” she added cautiously, “wouldn’t object to a sandbox?”

“I want to go to the movies,” Carol said.

Mrs. Tylor spoke quickly. “Why don’t you and James come over and rest at our house for a while? You’ve probably been running around all morning.”

Mrs. Harris hesitated, watching the movers. “Thank you,” she said finally. With James following along behind her, she came through the Tylers’ gate, and Mrs. Tylor said, “If we sit in the garden out back we can still keep an eye on your movers.” She gave Carol a small push. “Show James the sandbox, dear,” she said firmly.

Carol took James sullenly by the hand and led him over to the sandbox. “See?” she said, and went back to kick the fence pickets deliberately. Mrs. Tylor sat Mrs. Harris in one of the garden chairs and went over and found a shovel for James to dig with.

“It certainly feels good to sit down,” Mrs. Harris said. She sighed. “Sometimes I feel that moving is the most terrible thing I have to do.”

“You were lucky to get that house,” Mrs. Tylor said, and Mrs. Harris nodded. “We’ll be glad to get nice neighbors,” Mrs. Tylor went on. “There’s something so nice about congenial people right next door. I’ll be running over to borrow cups of sugar,” she finished roguishly.

“I certainly hope you will,” Mrs. Harris said. “We had such disagreeable people next door to us in our old house. Small things, you know, and they do irritate you so.” Mrs. Tylor sighed sympathetically. “The radio, for instance,” Mrs. Harris continued, “all day long, and so
loud
.”

Mrs. Tylor caught her breath for a minute. “You must be sure and tell us if ours is ever too loud.”

“Mr. Harris cannot bear the radio,” Mrs. Harris said. “We do not own one, of course.”

“Of course,” Mrs. Tylor said. “No radio.”

Mrs. Harris looked at her and laughed uncomfortably. “You’ll be thinking my husband is crazy.”

“Of course not,” Mrs. Tylor said. “After all, lots of people don’t like radios; my oldest nephew, now, he’s just the
other
way—”

“Well,” Mrs. Harris said, “newspapers, too.”

Mrs. Tylor recognized finally the faint nervous feeling that was tagging her; it was the way she felt when she was irrevocably connected with something dangerously out of control: her car, for instance, on an icy street, or the time on Virginia’s roller skates…. Mrs. Harris was staring absent-mindedly at the movers going in and out, and she was saying, “It isn’t as though we hadn’t ever
seen
a newspaper, not like the movies at all; Mr. Harris just feels that the newspapers are a mass degradation of taste. You really never
need
to read a newspaper, you know,” she said, looking around anxiously at Mrs. Tylor.

“I never read anything but the—”

“And we took
The New Republic
for a
number
of years,” Mrs. Harris said. “When we were first married, of course. Before James was born.”

“What is your husband’s business?” Mrs. Tylor asked timidly.

Mrs. Harris lifted her head proudly. “He’s a scholar,” she said. “He writes monographs.”

Mrs. Tylor opened her mouth to speak, but Mrs. Harris leaned over and put her hand out and said, “It’s
terribly
hard for people to understand the desire for a really peaceful life.”

“What,” Mrs. Tylor said, “what does your husband do for relaxation?”

“He reads plays,” Mrs. Harris said. She looked doubtfully over at James. “Pre-Elizabethan, of course.”

“Of course,” Mrs. Tylor said, and looked nervously at James, who was shoveling sand into a pail.

“People are really very unkind,” Mrs. Harris said. “Those people I was telling you about, next door. It wasn’t only the radio, you see. Three times they
deliberately
left their
New York Times
on our doorstep. Once James nearly got it.”

“Good Lord,” Mrs. Tylor said. She stood up. “Carol,” she called emphatically, “don’t go away. It’s nearly time for lunch, dear.”

“Well,” Mrs. Harris said. “I must go and see if the movers have done anything right.”

Feeling as though she had been rude, Mrs. Tylor said, “Where is Mr. Harris now?”

“At his mother’s,” Mrs. Harris said. “He always stays there when we move.”

“Of course,” Mrs. Tylor said, feeling as though she had been saying nothing else all morning.

“They don’t turn the radio on while he’s there,” Mrs. Harris explained.

“Of course,” Mrs. Tylor said.

Mrs. Harris held out her hand and Mrs. Tylor took it. “I do so hope we’ll be friends,” Mrs. Harris said. “As you said, it means such a lot to have really thoughtful neighbors. And we’ve been so unlucky.”

“Of course,” Mrs. Tylor said, and then came back to herself abruptly. “Perhaps one evening soon we can get together for a game of bridge?” She saw Mrs. Harris’s face and said, “No. Well, anyway, we must all get together some evening soon.” They both laughed.

“It does sound silly, doesn’t it,” Mrs. Harris said. “Thanks so much for all your kindness this morning.”

“Anything we can do,” Mrs. Tylor said. “If you want to send James over this afternoon.”

“Perhaps I shall,” Mrs. Harris said. “If you really don’t mind.”

“Of course,” Mrs. Tylor said. “Carol, dear.”

With her arm around Carol she walked out to the front of the house and stood watching Mrs. Harris and James go into their house. They both stopped in the doorway and waved, and Mrs. Tylor and Carol waved back.

“Can’t I go to the movies,” Carol said, “
please
, Mother?”

“I’ll go with you, dear,” Mrs. Tylor said.

Pillar Of Salt

F
OR SOME REASON
a tune was running through her head when she and her husband got on the train in New Hampshire for their trip to New York; they had not been to New York for nearly a year, but the tune was from farther back than that. It was from the days when she was fifteen or sixteen, and had never seen New York except in movies, when the city was made up, to her, of penthouses filled with Noel Coward people; when the height and speed and luxury and gaiety that made up a city like New York were confused inextricably with the dullness of being fifteen, and beauty unreachable and far in the movies.