The Lottery and Other Stories (10 page)

“Right,” the grocer said.

The man looked at Mrs. Walpole and said, “Gonna have to shoot him, I guess?”

“I hope not,” Mrs. Walpole said earnestly. “We’re all so fond of the dog.”

The man and the grocer looked at one another for a minute, and then the grocer said reasonably, “Won’t do to have a dog going around killing chickens, Mrs. Walpole.”

“First thing you know,” the man said, “someone’ll put a load of buckshot into him, he won’t come home no more.” He and the grocer both laughed.

“Isn’t there any way to cure the dog?” Mrs. Walpole asked.

“Sure,” the man said. “Shoot him.”

“Tie a dead chicken around his neck,” the grocer suggested. “That might do it.”

“Heard of a man did that,” the other man said.

“Did it help?” Mrs. Walpole asked eagerly.

The man shook his head slowly and with determination.

“You know,” the grocer said. He leaned his elbow on the meat counter; he was a great talker. “You know,” he said again, “my father had a dog once used to eat eggs. Got into the chicken-house and used to break the eggs open and lick them up. Used to eat maybe half the eggs we got.”

“That’s a bad business,” the other man said. “Dog eating eggs.”

“Bad business,” the grocer said in confirmation. Mrs. Walpole found herself nodding. “Last, my father couldn’t stand it no more. Here half his eggs were getting eaten,” the grocer said. “So he took an egg once, set it on the back of the stove for two, three days, till the egg got good and ripe, good and hot through, and that egg smelled pretty bad. Then—I was there, boy twelve, thirteen years old—he called the dog one day, and the dog come running. So I held the dog, and my daddy opened the dog’s mouth and put in the egg, red-hot and smelling to heaven, and then he held the dog’s mouth closed so’s the dog couldn’t get rid of the egg anyway except swallow it.” The grocer laughed and shook his head reminiscently.

“Bet that dog never ate another egg,” the man said.

“Never touched another egg,” the grocer said firmly. “You put an egg down in front of that dog, he’d run’s though the devil was after him.”

“But how did he feel about you?” Mrs. Walpole asked. “Did he ever come near
you
again?”

The grocer and the other man both looked at her. “How do you mean?” the grocer said.

“Did he ever
like
you again?”

“Well,” the grocer said, and thought. “No,” he said finally, “I don’t believe you could say’s he ever did. Not much of a dog, though.”

“There’s one thing you ought to try,” the other man said suddenly to Mrs. Walpole, “you really want to cure that dog, there’s one thing you ought to try.”

“What’s that?” Mrs. Walpole said.

“You want to take that dog,” the man said, leaning forward and gesturing with one hand, “take him and put him in a pen with a mother hen’s got chicks to protect. Time she’s through with him he won’t never chase another chicken.”

The grocer began to laugh and Mrs. Walpole looked, bewildered, from the grocer to the other man, who was looking at her without a smile, his eyes wide and yellow, like a cat’s.

“What would happen?” she asked uncertainly.

“Scratch his eyes out,” the grocer said succinctly. “He wouldn’t ever be able to
see
another chicken.”

Mrs. Walpole realized that she felt faint. Smiling over her shoulder, in order not to seem discourteous, she moved quickly away from the meat counter and down to the other end of the store. The grocer continued talking to the man behind the meat counter and after a minute Mrs. Walpole went outside, into the air. She decided that she would go home and lie down until nearly lunchtime, and do her shopping later in the day.

At home she found that she could not lie down until the breakfast table was cleared and the dishes washed, and by the time she had done that it was almost time to start lunch. She was standing by the pantry shelves, debating, when a dark shape crossed the sunlight in the doorway and she realized that Lady was home. For a minute she stood still, watching Lady. The dog came in quietly, harmlessly, as though she had spent the morning frolicking on the grass with her friends, but there were spots of blood on her legs and she drank her water eagerly. Mrs. Walpole’s first impulse was to scold her, to hold her down and beat her for the deliberate, malicious pain she had inflicted, the murderous brutality a pretty dog like Lady could keep so well hidden in their home; then Mrs. Walpole, watching Lady go quietly and settle down in her usual spot by the stove, turned helplessly and took the first cans she found from the pantry shelves and brought them to the kitchen table.

Lady sat quietly by the stove until the children came in noisily for lunch, and then she leaped up and jumped on them, welcoming them as though they were the aliens and she the native to the house. Judy, pulling Lady’s ears, said, “Hello, Mom, do you know what Lady did? You’re a bad bad dog,” she said to Lady, “you’re going to get shot.”

Mrs. Walpole felt faint again and set a dish down hastily on the table. “Judy Walpole,” she said.

“She
is
, Mom,” Judy said. “She’s going to get shot.”

Children don’t realize, Mrs. Walpole told herself, death is never real to them. Try to be sensible, she told herself. “Sit down to lunch, children,” she said quietly.

“But,
Mother
,” Judy said, and Jack said, “She
is
, Mom.”

They sat down noisily, unfolding their napkins and attacking their food without looking at it, eager to talk.

“You
know
what Mr. Shepherd said, Mom?” Jack demanded, his mouth full.

“Listen,” Judy said, “we’ll tell you what he said.”

Mr. Shepherd was a genial man who lived near the Walpoles and gave the children nickels and took the boys fishing. “He says Lady’s going to get shot,” Jack said.

“But the spikes,” Judy said. “Tell about the spikes.”

“The
spikes
,” Jack said. “Listen, Mommy. He says you got to get a collar for Lady….”

“A strong collar,” Judy said.

“And you get big thick nails, like spikes, and you hammer them into the collar.”

“All around,” Judy said. “Let
me
tell it, Jack. You hammer these nails all around so’s they make spikes inside the collar.”

“But it’s loose,” Jack said. “Let
me
tell this part. It’s loose and you put it around Lady’s neck….”

“And—” Judy put her hand on her throat and made a strangling noise.

“Not
yet
,” Jack said. “Not
yet
, dopey. First you get a long long long long rope.”

“A
real
long rope,” Judy amplified.

“And you fasten it to the collar and then we put the collar on Lady,” Jack said. Lady was sitting next to him and he leaned over and said, “Then we put this real sharp spiky collar around your neck,” and kissed the top of her head while Lady regarded him affectionately.

“And then we take her where there are chickens,” Judy said, “and we show her the chickens, and we turn her loose.”

“And make her chase the chickens,” Jack said. “And
then
, and then, when she gets right up close to the chickens, we puuuuuuull on the rope—”

“And—” Judy made her strangling noise again.

“The spikes cut her head off,” Jack finished dramatically.

They both began to laugh and Lady, looking from one to the other, panted as though she were laughing too.

Mrs. Walpole looked at them, at her two children with their hard hands and their sunburned faces laughing together, their dog with blood still on her legs laughing with them. She went to the kitchen doorway to look outside at the cool green hills, the motion of the apple tree in the soft afternoon breeze.

“Cut your head right off,” Jack was saying.

Everything was quiet and lovely in the sunlight, the peaceful sky, the gentle line of the hills. Mrs. Walpole closed her eyes, suddenly feeling the harsh hands pulling her down, the sharp points closing in on her throat.

After You, My Dear Alphonse

M
RS
. W
ILSON
was just taking the gingerbread out of the oven when she heard Johnny outside talking to someone.

“Johnny,” she called, “you’re late. Come in and get your lunch.”

“Just a minute, Mother,” Johnny said. “After you, my dear Alphonse.”

“After
you
, my dear Alphonse,” another voice said.

“No, after
you
, my dear Alphonse,” Johnny said.

Mrs. Wilson opened the door. “Johnny,” she said, “you come in this minute and get your lunch. You can play after you’ve eaten.”

Johnny came in after her, slowly. “Mother,” he said, “I brought Boyd home for lunch with me.”

“Boyd?” Mrs. Wilson thought for a moment. “I don’t believe I’ve met Boyd. Bring him in, dear, since you’ve invited him. Lunch is ready.”

“Boyd!” Johnny yelled. “Hey, Boyd, come on in!”

“I’m coming. Just got to unload this stuff.”

“Well, hurry, or my mother’ll be sore.”

“Johnny, that’s not very polite to either your friend or your mother,” Mrs. Wilson said. “Come sit down, Boyd.”

As she turned to show Boyd where to sit, she saw he was a Negro boy, smaller than Johnny but about the same age. His arms were loaded with split kindling wood. “Where’ll I put this stuff, Johnny?” he asked.

Mrs. Wilson turned to Johnny. “Johnny,” she said, “what did you make Boyd do? What is that wood?”

“Dead Japanese,” Johnny said mildly. “We stand them in the ground and run over them with tanks.”

“How do you do, Mrs. Wilson?” Boyd said.

“How do you do, Boyd? You shouldn’t let Johnny make you carry all that wood. Sit down now and eat lunch, both of you.”

“Why shouldn’t he carry the wood, Mother? It’s his wood. We got it at his place.”

“Johnny,” Mrs. Wilson said, “go on and eat your lunch.”

“Sure,” Johnny said. He held out the dish of scrambled eggs to Boyd. “After you, my dear Alphonse.”

“After
you
, my dear Alphonse,” Boyd said.

“After
you
, my dear Alphonse,” Johnny said. They began to giggle.

“Are you hungry, Boyd?” Mrs. Wilson asked.

“Yes, Mrs. Wilson.”

“Well, don’t you let Johnny stop you. He always fusses about eating, so you just see that you get a good lunch. There’s plenty of food here for you to have all you want.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Wilson.”

“Come on, Alphonse,” Johnny said. He pushed half the scrambled eggs on to Boyd’s plate. Boyd watched while Mrs. Wilson put a dish of stewed tomatoes beside his plate.

“Boyd don’t eat tomatoes, do you, Boyd?” Johnny said.

“
Doesn’t
eat tomatoes, Johnny. And just because you don’t like them, don’t say that about Boyd. Boyd will eat
anything
.”

“Bet he won’t,” Johnny said, attacking his scrambled eggs.

“Boyd wants to grow up and be a big strong man so he can work hard,” Mrs. Wilson said. “I’ll bet Boyd’s father eats stewed tomatoes.”

“My father eats anything he wants to,” Boyd said.

“So does mine,” Johnny said. “Sometimes he doesn’t eat hardly anything. He’s a little guy, though. Wouldn’t hurt a flea.”

“Mine’s a little guy, too,” Boyd said.

“I’ll bet he’s strong, though,” Mrs. Wilson said. She hesitated. “Does he…work?”

“Sure,” Johnny said. “Boyd’s father works in a factory.”

“There, you see?” Mrs. Wilson said. “And he certainly has to be strong to do that—all that lifting and carrying at a factory.”

“Boyd’s father doesn’t have to,” Johnny said. “He’s a foreman.”

Mrs. Wilson felt defeated. “What does your mother do, Boyd?”

“My mother?” Boyd was surprised. “She takes care of us kids.”

“Oh. She doesn’t work, then?”

“Why should she?” Johnny said through a mouthful of eggs. “You don’t work.”

“You really don’t want any stewed tomatoes, Boyd?”

“No, thank you, Mrs. Wilson,” Boyd said.

“No, thank you, Mrs. Wilson, no, thank you, Mrs. Wilson, no, thank you, Mrs. Wilson,” Johnny said. “Boyd’s sister’s going to work, though. She’s going to be a teacher.”

“That’s a very fine attitude for her to have, Boyd.” Mrs. Wilson restrained an impulse to pat Boyd on the head. “I imagine you’re all very proud of her?”

“I guess so,” Boyd said.

“What about all your other brothers and sisters? I guess all of you want to make just as much of yourselves as you can.”

“There’s only me and Jean,” Boyd said. “I don’t know yet what I want to be when I grow up.”

“We’re going to be tank drivers, Boyd and me,” Johnny said. “Zoom.” Mrs. Wilson caught Boyd’s glass of milk as Johnny’s napkin ring, suddenly transformed into a tank, plowed heavily across the table.

“Look, Johnny,” Boyd said. “Here’s a foxhole. I’m shooting at you.”

Mrs. Wilson, with the speed born of long experience, took the gingerbread off the shelf and placed it carefully between the tank and the foxhole.

“Now eat as much as you want to, Boyd,” she said. “I want to see you get filled up.”

“Boyd eats a lot, but not as much as I do,” Johnny said. “I’m bigger than he is.”