The Lottery and Other Stories (23 page)

“Then it hasn’t been hard for you to get settled and make friends,” Mrs. Friedman said.

“No, I never had much trouble,” Mrs. Concord said. “Of course most of our friends are people who went to school with my husband.”

“I’m sorry Bobby never got a chance to study under Mr. Concord,” Mrs. Friedman said. “Well….” She rose. “I have certainly enjoyed meeting you at last.”

“I’m so glad you came over,” Mrs. Concord said. “It’s like having a letter from Charles.”

“And I know how welcome a letter can be, the way I wait for Bobby’s,” Mrs. Friedman said. She and Mrs. Concord started for the door and Helen got up and followed them. “My husband is very much interested in Charlie, you know. Ever since he found out that Charlie was studying law when he went into the Army.”

“Your husband is a lawyer?” Mrs. Concord asked.

“He’s the Friedman of Grunewald, Friedman & White,” Mrs. Friedman said. “When Charlie is ready to start out for himself, perhaps my husband could find a place for him.”

“That’s awfully kind of you,” Mrs. Concord said. “Charles will be so sorry when I tell him. You see, it’s always been sort of arranged that he’d go in with Charles Satterthwaite, my husband’s oldest friend. Satterthwaite & Harris.”

“I believe Mr. Friedman knows the firm,” Mrs. Friedman said.

“A fine old firm,” Mrs. Concord said. “Mr. Concord’s grandfather used to be a partner.”

“Give Bob our best regards when you write him,” Helen said.

“I will,” Mrs. Friedman said. “I’ll tell him all about meeting you. It’s been very nice,” she said, holding out her hand to Mrs. Concord.

“I’ve enjoyed it,” Mrs. Concord said.

“Tell Charlie I’ll send him some more tobacco,” Mrs. Friedman said to Helen.

“I certainly will,” Helen said.

“Well, good-bye then,” Mrs. Friedman said.

“Good-bye,” Mrs. Concord said.

The Dummy

I
T WAS
a respectable, well-padded restaurant with a good chef and a group of entertainers who called themselves a floor show; the people who came there laughed quietly and dined thoroughly, appreciating the principle that the check was always a little more than the restaurant and the entertainment and the company warranted; it was a respectable, likable restaurant, and two women could go into it alone with perfect decorum and have a faintly exciting dinner. When Mrs. Wilkins and Mrs. Straw came noiselessly down the carpeted staircase into the restaurant none of the waiters looked up more than once, quickly, few of the guests turned, and the headwaiter came quietly and bowed agreeably before he turned to the room and the few vacant tables far in the back.

“Do you
mind
being so far away from everything, Alice?” Mrs. Wilkins, who was hostess, said to Mrs. Straw. “We can wait for a table, if you like. Or go somewhere else?”

“Of course not.” Mrs. Straw was a rather large woman in a heavy flowered hat, and she looked affectionately at the substantial dinners set on near-by tables. “I don’t mind where we sit; this is really lovely.”

“Anywhere will do,” Mrs. Wilkins said to the headwaiter. “Not
too
far back if you can help it.”

The headwaiter listened carefully and nodded, stepping delicately off between the tables to one very far back, near the doorway where the entertainers came in and out, near the table where the lady who owned the restaurant was sitting drinking beer, near the kitchen doors. “Nothing nearer?” Mrs. Wilkins said, frowning at the headwaiter.

The headwaiter shrugged, gesturing at the other vacant tables. One was behind a post, another was set for a large party, a third was somehow behind the small orchestra.

“This will do beautifully, Jen,” Mrs. Straw said. “We’ll sit right down.”

Mrs. Wilkins hesitated still, but Mrs. Straw pulled out the chair on one side of the table and sat down with a sigh, setting her gloves and pocketbook on the extra chair beside her, and reaching to unfasten the collar of her coat.

“I can’t say I
like
this,” Mrs. Wilkins said, sliding into the chair opposite. “I’m not sure we can see anything.”

“Of course we can,” Mrs. Straw said. “We can see all that’s going on, and of course we’ll be able to hear everything. Would you like to sit here instead?” she finished reluctantly.

“Of course not, Alice,” Mrs. Wilkins said. She accepted the menu the waiter was offering her and set it down on the table, scanning it rapidly. “The food is quite good here,” she said.

“Shrimp casserole,” Mrs. Straw said. “Fried chicken.” She sighed. “I certainly am hungry.”

Mrs. Wilkins ordered quickly, with no debate, and then helped Mrs. Straw choose. When the waiter had gone Mrs. Straw leaned back comfortably and turned in her chair to see all of the restaurant. “This is a lovely place,” she said.

“The people seem to be very nice,” Mrs. Wilkins said. “The woman who owns it is sitting over there, in back of you. I’ve always thought she looked very clean and decent.”

“She probably makes sure the glasses are washed,” Mrs. Straw said. She turned back to the table and picked up her pocketbook, diving deep into it after a pack of cigarettes and a box of wooden safety matches, which she set on the table. “I like to see a place that serves food kept nice and clean,” she said.

“They make a lot of money from this place,” Mrs. Wilkins said. “Tom and I used to come here years ago before they enlarged it. It was very nice then, but it attracts a better class of people now.”

Mrs. Straw regarded the crabmeat cocktail now in front of her with deep satisfaction. “Yes, indeed,” she said.

Mrs. Wilkins picked up her fork indifferently, watching Mrs. Straw. “I had a letter from Walter yesterday,” she said.

“What’d he have to say?” Mrs. Straw asked.

“He seems fine,” Mrs. Wilkins said. “Seems like there’s a lot he doesn’t tell us.”

“Walter’s a good boy,” Mrs. Straw said. “You worry too much.”

The orchestra began to play suddenly and violently and the lights darkened to a spotlight on the stage.

“I hate to eat in the dark,” Mrs. Wilkins said.

“We’ll get plenty of light back here from those doors,” Mrs. Straw said. She put down her fork and turned to watch the orchestra.

“They’ve made Walter a proctor,” Mrs. Wilkins said.

“He’ll be first in his class,” Mrs. Straw said. “Look at the dress on that girl.”

Mrs. Wilkins turned covertly, looking at the girl Mrs. Straw had indicated with her head. The girl had come out of the doorway that led to the entertainers’ rooms; she was tall and very dark, with heavy black hair and thick eyebrows, and the dress was electric green satin, cut very low, with a flaming orange flower on one shoulder. “I never did see a dress like that,” Mrs. Wilkins said. “She must be going to dance or something.”

“She’s not a very pretty girl,” Mrs. Straw said. “And look at the fellow with her!”

Mrs. Wilkins turned again, and moved her head back quickly to smile at Mrs. Straw. “He looks like a monkey,” she said.

“So little,” Mrs. Straw said. “I hate those flabby little blond men.”

“They used to have such a nice floor show here,” Mrs. Wilkins said. “Music, and dancers, and sometimes a nice young man who would sing requests from the audience. Once they had an organist, I think.”

“This is our dinner coming along now,” Mrs. Straw said. The music had faded down, and the leader of the orchestra, who acted as master of ceremonies, introduced the first number, a pair of ballroom dancers. When the applause started, a tall young man and a tall young woman came out of the entertainers’ door and made their way through the tables to the dance floor; on their way they both gave a nod of recognition to the girl in electric green and the man with her.

“Aren’t they graceful?” Mrs. Wilkins said when the dance started. “They always look so pretty, that kind of dancers.”

“They have to watch their weight,” Mrs. Straw said critically. “Look at the figure on the girl in green.”

Mrs. Wilkins turned again. “I hope they’re not comedians.”

“They don’t look very funny right now,” Mrs. Straw said. She estimated the butter left on her plate. “Every time I eat a good dinner,” she said, “I think of Walter and the food we used to get in school.”

“Walter writes that the food is quite good,” Mrs. Wilkins said. “He’s gained something like three pounds.”

Mrs. Straw raised her eyes. “For heaven’s sake!”

“What is it?”

“I think he’s a ventriloquist,” Mrs. Straw said. “I do believe he is.”

“They’re very popular right now,” Mrs. Wilkins said.

“I haven’t seen one since I was a kid,” Mrs. Straw said. “He’s got a little man—what do you call them?—in that box there.” She continued to watch, her mouth a little open. “Look at it, Jen.”

The girl in green and the man had sat down at a table near the entertainers’ door. She was leaning forward, watching the dummy, which was sitting on the man’s lap. It was a grotesque wooden copy of the man—where he was blond, the dummy was extravagantly yellow-haired, with sleek wooden curls and sideburns; where the man was small and ugly, the dummy was smaller and uglier, with the same wide mouth, the same staring eyes, the horrible parody of evening clothes, complete to tiny black shoes.

“I wonder how they happen to have a ventriloquist
here
,” Mrs. Wilkins said.

The girl in green was leaning across the table to the dummy, straightening his tie, fastening one shoe, smoothing the shoulders of his coat. As she leaned back again the man spoke to her and she shrugged indifferently.

“I can’t take my eyes off that green dress,” Mrs. Straw said. She started as the waiter came softly up to her with the menu, waiting uneasily for their dessert orders, his eye on the stage where the orchestra was finishing a between-acts number. By the time Mrs. Straw had decided on apple pie with chocolate ice cream the master of ceremonies was introducing the ventriloquist “…and Marmaduke, a chip off the old block!”

“I hope it’s not very long,” Mrs. Wilkins said. “We can’t hear from here anyway.”

The ventriloquist and the dummy were sitting in the spotlight, both grinning widely, talking fast; the man’s weak blond face was close to the dummy’s staring grin, their black shoulders against one another. Their conversation was rapid; the audience was laughing affectionately, knowing most of the jokes before the dummy finished speaking, silent with interest for a minute and then laughing again before the words were out.

“I think he’s terrible,” Mrs. Wilkins said to Mrs. Straw during one roar of laughter. “They’re always so coarse.”

“Look at our friend in the green dress,” Mrs. Straw said. The girl was leaning forward, following every word, tense and excited. For a minute the heavy sullenness of her face had vanished; she was laughing with everyone else, her eyes light. “
She
thinks it’s funny,” Mrs. Straw said.

Mrs. Wilkins drew her shoulders closer together and shivered. She attacked her dish of ice cream primly

“I always wonder,” she began after a minute, “why places like this, you know, with really good food, never seem to think about desserts. It’s always ice cream or something.”

“Nothing better than ice cream,” Mrs. Straw said.

“You’d think they’d have pastries, or some nice pudding,” Mrs. Wilkins said. “They never seem to give any
thought
to it.”

“I’ve never seen anything like that fig-and-date pudding you make, Jen,” Mrs. Straw said.

“Walter always used to say that was the best—” Mrs. Wilkins began, and was cut short by a blare from the orchestra. The ventriloquist and the dummy were bowing, the man bowing deeply from the waist and the dummy bobbing his head courteously; the orchestra began quickly with a dance tune, and the man and the dummy turned and trotted off the stage.

“Thank heavens,” Mrs. Wilkins said.

“I haven’t seen one of those for years,” Mrs. Straw said.

The girl in green had risen, waiting for the man and the dummy to come back to the table. The man sat down heavily, the dummy still on his knee, and the girl sat down again, on the edge of her chair, asking him something urgently.

“What do
you
think?” he said loudly, without looking at her. He waved to a waiter, who hesitated, looking in back of him at the table where the woman who owned the restaurant was sitting alone. After a minute the waiter approached the man, and the girl said, her voice clear over the soft waltz the orchestra was playing, “Don’t drink anything more, Joey, we’ll go somewhere and eat.”

The man spoke to the waiter, ignoring the girl’s hand on his arm. He turned to the dummy, speaking softly, and the dummy’s face and broad grin looked at the girl and then back at the man. The girl sat back, looking out of the corners of her eyes at the owner of the restaurant.

“I’d hate to be married to a man like that,” Mrs. Straw said.

“He’s certainly not a very good comedian,” Mrs. Wilkins said.

The girl was leaning forward again, arguing, and the man was talking to the dummy, making the dummy nod in agreement. When the girl put a hand on his shoulder the man shrugged it away without turning around. The girl’s voice rose again. “Listen, Joey,” she was saying.