The Lottery and Other Stories (30 page)

“I’m sure—” Mrs. Hart began.

“I
told
her,” Mrs. Anderson said, “I said I was sure Mr. Hart never did any running around’s far as I knew. Nor drinking like some. I said I felt like you might be my own daughter sometimes and no man was going to mistreat you while I was around.”

“I wish,” Mrs. Hart began again, a quick fear touching her; her kind neighbors watching her beneath their friendliness, looking out quietly from behind curtains, watching Bill, perhaps? “I don’t think people ought to talk about other people,” she said desperately, “I mean, I don’t think it’s fair to say things when you can’t
know
for sure.”

Mrs. Anderson laughed again suddenly and went over to open the mop closet. “You don’t want to let anything scare you,” she said, “not right now. Will I do the living-room this morning? I could get the little rugs out to air in the sun. It’s just that
he—
” the back door “—got me all upset. You know.”

“I’m sorry,” Mrs. Hart said. “Isn’t that a shame.”

“Mrs. Martin said why didn’t I come live with you folks,” Mrs. Anderson said, searching violently in the mop closet, her voice sounding muffled and dusty. “Mrs. Martin was saying a young woman like you, just starting out, always needs a friend around.”

Mrs. Hart looked down at her fingers twisting the handle of the cup; she had only drunk half her tea. It’s too late now for me to walk into another room, she thought; I can always say Bill would never allow it. “I met Mrs. Martin in town a few days ago,” she said. “She was wearing an awfully good-looking blue coat.” She smoothed her house dress with her hand, and added irritably, “I wish I could get into a decent dress again.”

“‘Why don’t you get out?’ he says to me.” Mrs. Anderson backed out of the mop closet with a dustpan in one hand and a cleaning cloth in the other. “Drunk and cursing so’s all the neighbors could hear. ‘Why don’t you get out?’ I thought sure you’d hear him even up here.”

“I’m sure he couldn’t mean it,” Mrs. Hart said, trying to make her voice sound final.

“
You
wouldn’t stand for it,” Mrs. Anderson said. She put the dustpan and cloth down and came over and sat down at the table opposite Mrs. Hart. “Mrs. Martin was thinking if you wanted me to I could come right into your spare room. Do all the cooking.”

“You could,” Mrs. Hart said amiably, “except that I’m going to put the baby in there.”

“We’d put the baby in your room,” Mrs. Anderson said. She laughed and gave Mrs. Hart’s hand a push. “Don’t worry,” she said, “I’d keep out of your way. Well, and if you wanted to put the baby in with me then I could get up at night to feed it for you. Guess I could take care of a baby all right.”

Mrs. Hart smiled cheerfully back at Mrs. Anderson. “I’d love to, of course,” she said. “Some day. Right now of
course
Bill would never let me do it.”

“Of course not,” Mrs. Anderson said. “The men never do, do they? I told Mrs. Martin down at the grocery, she’s the nicest little thing in the world, I said, but her husband wouldn’t let the scrubwoman come live with them.”

“Why, Mrs. Anderson,” Mrs. Hart said, looking horrified, “saying things like that about yourself!”

“And another woman, one who’s older and knows a little more,” Mrs. Anderson said. “She might see a little more, too, maybe.”

Mrs. Hart, her fingers tight on the teacup, caught a quick picture of Mrs. Martin, leaning comfortably across the counter (“I see you’ve got a new star boarder, Mrs. Hart. Mrs. Anderson’ll see that you’re taken good care of!”). And her neighbors, their frozen faces regarding her as she walked down to meet Bill at the bus; the girls in New York, reading her letters together and envying her (“Such a perfect
jewel—
she’s going to live with us and do
all
the work!”). Looking up at Mrs. Anderson’s knowing smile across the table, Mrs. Hart realized with a sudden unalterable conviction that she was lost.

The Tooth

T
HE BUS
was waiting, panting heavily at the curb in front of the small bus station, its great blue-and-silver bulk glittering in the moonlight. There were only a few people interested in the bus, and at that time of night no one passing on the sidewalk: the one movie theatre in town had finished its show and closed its doors an hour before, and all the movie patrons had been to the drugstore for ice cream and gone on home; now the drugstore was closed and dark, another silent doorway in the long midnight street. The only town lights were the street lights, the lights in the all-night lunchstand across the street, and the one remaining counter lamp in the bus station where the girl sat in the ticket office with her hat and coat on, only waiting for the New York bus to leave before she went home to bed.

Standing on the sidewalk next to the open door of the bus, Clara Spencer held her husband’s arm nervously. “I feel so funny,” she said.

“Are you all right?” he asked. “Do you think I ought to go with you?”

“No, of course not,” she said. “I’ll be all right.” It was hard for her to talk because of her swollen jaw; she kept a handkerchief pressed to her face and held hard to her husband. “Are you sure
you
’ll be all right?” she asked. “I’ll be back tomorrow night at the latest. Or else I’ll call.”

“Everything will be fine,” he said heartily. “By tomorrow noon it’ll all be gone. Tell the dentist if there’s anything wrong I can come right down.”

“I feel so funny,” she said. “Light-headed, and sort of dizzy.”

“That’s because of the dope,” he said. “All that codeine, and the whisky, and nothing to eat all day.”

She giggled nervously. “I couldn’t comb my hair, my hand shook so. I’m glad it’s dark.”

“Try to sleep in the bus,” he said. “Did you take a sleeping pill?”

“Yes,” she said. They were waiting for the bus driver to finish his cup of coffee in the lunchstand; they could see him through the glass window, sitting at the counter, taking his time. “I feel so
funny
,” she said.

“You know, Clara,” he made his voice very weighty, as though if he spoke more seriously his words would carry more conviction and be therefore more comforting, “you know, I’m glad you’re going down to New York to have Zimmerman take care of this. I’d never forgive myself if it turned out to be something serious and I let you go to this butcher up here.”

“It’s just a
toothache
,” Clara said uneasily, “nothing very serious about a
toothache
.”

“You can’t tell,” he said. “It might be abscessed or something; I’m sure he’ll have to pull it.”

“Don’t even talk like that,” she said, and shivered.

“Well, it looks pretty bad,” he said soberly, as before. “Your face so swollen, and all. Don’t you worry.”

“I’m not worrying,” she said. “I just feel as if I were all tooth. Nothing else.”

The bus driver got up from the stool and walked over to pay his check. Clara moved toward the bus, and her husband said, “Take your time, you’ve got plenty of time.”

“I just feel funny,” Clara said.

“Listen,” her husband said, “that tooth’s been bothering you off and on for years; at least six or seven times since I’ve known you you’ve had trouble with that tooth. It’s about time something was done. You had a toothache on our honeymoon,” he finished accusingly.

“Did I?” Clara said. “You know,” she went on, and laughed, “I was in such a hurry I didn’t dress properly. I have on old stockings and I just dumped everything into my good pocketbook.”

“Are you sure you have enough money?” he said.

“Almost twenty-five dollars,” Clara said. “I’ll be home tomorrow.”

“Wire if you need more,” he said. The bus driver appeared in the doorway of the lunchroom. “Don’t worry,” he said.

“Listen,” Clara said suddenly, “are you
sure
you’ll be all right? Mrs. Lang will be over in the morning in time to make breakfast, and Johnny doesn’t need to go to school if things are too mixed up.”

“I know,” he said.

“Mrs. Lang,” she said, checking on her fingers. “I called Mrs. Lang, I left the grocery order on the kitchen table, you can have the cold tongue for lunch and in case I don’t get back Mrs. Lang will give you dinner. The cleaner ought to come about four o’clock, I won’t be back so give him your brown suit and it doesn’t matter if you forget but be sure to empty the pockets.”

“Wire if you need more money,” he said. “Or call. I’ll stay home tomorrow so you can call at home.”

“Mrs. Lang will take care of the baby,” she said.

“Or you can wire,” he said.

The bus driver came across the street and stood by the entrance to the bus.

“Okay?” the bus driver said.

“Good-bye,” Clara said to her husband.

“You’ll feel all right tomorrow,” her husband said. “It’s only a toothache.”

“I’m fine,” Clara said. “Don’t you worry.” She got on the bus and then stopped, with the bus driver waiting behind her. “Milkman,” she said to her husband. “Leave a note telling him we want eggs.”

“I will,” her husband said. “Good-bye.”

“Good-bye,” Clara said. She moved on into the bus and behind her the driver swung into his seat. The bus was nearly empty and she went far back and sat down at the window outside which her husband waited. “Good-bye,” she said to him through the glass, “take care of yourself.”

“Good-bye,” he said, waving violently.

The bus stirred, groaned, and pulled itself forward. Clara turned her head to wave good-bye once more and then lay back against the heavy soft seat. Good Lord, she thought, what a thing to do! Outside, the familiar street slipped past, strange and dark and seen, unexpectedly, from the unique station of a person leaving town, going away on a bus. It isn’t as though it’s the first time I’ve ever been to New York, Clara thought indignantly, it’s the whisky and the codeine and the sleeping pill and the toothache. She checked hastily to see if her codeine tablets were in her pocketbook; they had been standing, along with the aspirin and a glass of water, on the dining-room sideboard, but somewhere in the lunatic flight from her home she must have picked them up, because they were in her pocketbook now, along with the twenty-odd dollars and her compact and comb and lipstick. She could tell from the feel of the lipstick that she had brought the old, nearly finished one, not the new one that was a darker shade and had cost two-fifty. There was a run in her stocking and a hole in the toe that she never noticed at home wearing her old comfortable shoes, but which was now suddenly and disagreeably apparent inside her best walking shoes. Well, she thought, I can buy new stockings in New York tomorrow, after the tooth is fixed, after everything’s all right. She put her tongue cautiously on the tooth and was rewarded with a split-second crash of pain.

The bus stopped at a red light and the driver got out of his seat and came back toward her. “Forgot to get your ticket before,” he said.

“I guess I was a little rushed at the last minute,” she said. She found the ticket in her coat pocket and gave it to him. “When do we get to New York?” she asked.

“Five-fifteen,” he said. “Plenty of time for breakfast. One-way ticket?”

“I’m coming back by train,” she said, without seeing why she had to tell him, except that it was late at night and people isolated together in some strange prison like a bus had to be more friendly and communicative than at other times.

“Me, I’m coming back by bus,” he said, and they both laughed, she painfully because of her swollen face. When he went back to his seat far away at the front of the bus she lay back peacefully against the seat. She could feel the sleeping pill pulling at her; the throb of the toothache was distant now, and mingled with the movement of the bus, a steady beat like her heartbeat which she could hear louder and louder, going on through the night. She put her head back and her feet up, discreetly covered with her skirt, and fell asleep without saying good-bye to the town.

She opened her eyes once and they were moving almost silently through the darkness. Her tooth was pulsing steadily and she turned her cheek against the cool back of the seat in weary resignation. There was a thin line of lights along the ceiling of the bus and no other light. Far ahead of her in the bus she could see the other people sitting; the driver, so far away as to be only a tiny figure at the end of a telescope, was straight at the wheel, seemingly awake. She fell back into her fantastic sleep.

She woke up later because the bus had stopped, the end of that silent motion through the darkness so positive a shock that it woke her stunned, and it was a minute before the ache began again. People were moving along the aisle of the bus and the driver, turning around, said, “Fifteen minutes.” She got up and followed everyone else out, all but her eyes still asleep, her feet moving without awareness. They were stopped beside an all-night restaurant, lonely and lighted on the vacant road. Inside, it was warm and busy and full of people. She saw a seat at the end of the counter and sat down, not aware that she had fallen asleep again when someone sat down next to her and touched her arm. When she looked around foggily he said, “Traveling far?”

“Yes,” she said.