The Lottery and Other Stories (9 page)

Everything was going smoothly, although half-an-hour late, when the telephone rang. The Walpoles were on a party line, and Mrs. Walpole usually let the phone ring her number twice before concluding that it was really their number; this morning, before nine o’clock, with Mr. Walpole not half-through his breakfast, it was an unbearable intrusion, and Mrs. Walpole went reluctantly to answer it. “Hello,” she said forbiddingly.

“Mrs. Walpole,” the voice said, and Mrs. Walpole said, “Yes?” The voice—it was a woman—said, “I’m sorry to bother you, but this is—” and gave an unrecognizable name. Mrs. Walpole said, “Yes?” again. She could hear Mr. Walpole taking the coffeepot off the stove to pour himself a second cup.

“Do you have a dog? Brown-and-black hound?” the voice continued. With the word
dog
Mrs. Walpole, in the second before she answered, “Yes,” comprehended the innumerable aspects of owning a dog in the country (six dollars for spaying, the rude barking late at night, the watchful security of the dark shape sleeping on the rug beside the double-decker beds in the twins’ room, the inevitability of a dog in the house, as important as a stove, or a front porch, or a subscription to the local paper; more, and above any of these things, the dog herself, known among the neighbors as Lady Walpole, on an exact par with Jack Walpole or Judy Walpole; quiet, competent, exceedingly tolerant), and found in none of them a reason for such an early morning call from a voice which she realized now was as irritable as her own.

“Yes,” Mrs. Walpole said shortly, “I own a dog. Why?”

“Big brown-and-black hound?”

Lady’s pretty markings, her odd face. “Yes,” Mrs. Walpole said, her voice a little more impatient, “yes, that is certainly my dog. Why?”

“He’s been killing my chickens.” The voice sounded satisfied now; Mrs. Walpole had been cornered.

For several seconds Mrs. Walpole was quiet, so that the voice said, “Hello?”

“That’s perfectly ridiculous,” Mrs. Walpole said.

“This morning,” the voice said with relish, “your dog was chasing our chickens. We heard the chickens at about eight o’clock, and my husband went out to see what was the matter and found two chickens dead and he saw a big brown-and-black hound down with the chickens and he took a stick and chased the dog away and then he found two more dead ones. He says,” the voice went on flatly, “that it’s lucky he didn’t think to take his shotgun out with him because you wouldn’t have any more dog. Most awful mess you ever saw,” the voice said, “blood and feathers everywhere.”

“What makes you think it’s
my
dog?” Mrs. Walpole said weakly.

“Joe White—he’s a neighbor of yours—was passing at the time and saw my husband chasing the dog. Said it was your dog.”

Old man White lived in the next house but one to the Walpoles. Mrs. Walpole had always made a point of being courteous to him, inquired amiably about his health when she saw him on the porch as she passed, had regarded respectfully the pictures of his grandchildren in Albany.

“I see,” Mrs. Walpole said, suddenly shifting her ground. “Well, if you’re absolutely
sure
. I just can’t believe it of Lady. She’s so gentle.”

The other voice softened, in response to Mrs. Walpole’s concern. “It
is
a shame,” the other woman said. “I can’t tell you how sorry I am that it happened. But…” her voice trailed off significantly.

“Of
course
we’ll take care of the damage,” Mrs. Walpole said quickly.

“No, no,” the woman said, almost apologetically. “Don’t even
think
about it.”

“But of
course—
” Mrs. Walpole began, bewildered.

“The dog,” the voice said. “You’ll have to do something about the dog.”

A sudden unalterable terror took hold of Mrs. Walpole. Her morning had gone badly, she had not yet had her coffee, she was faced with an evil situation she had never known before, and now the voice, its tone, its inflection, had managed to frighten Mrs. Walpole with a word like “something.”

“How?” Mrs. Walpole said finally. “I mean, what do you want me to do?”

There was a brief silence on the other end of the wire, and then the voice said briskly, “I’m sure I don’t know, missus. I’ve always heard that there’s no way to stop a chicken-killing dog. As I say, there was no damage to speak of. As a matter of fact, the chickens the dog killed are plucked and in the oven now.”

Mrs. Walpole’s throat tightened and she closed her eyes for a minute, but the voice went inflexibly on. “We wouldn’t ask you to do anything except take care of the dog. Naturally, you understand that we can’t have a dog killing our chickens?”

Realizing that she was expected to answer, Mrs. Walpole said, “Certainly.”

“So…” the voice said.

Mrs. Walpole saw over the top of the phone that Mr. Walpole was passing her on his way to the door. He waved briefly to her and she nodded at him. He was late; she had intended to ask him to stop at the library in the city. Now she would have to call him later. Mrs. Walpole said sharply into the phone, “First of all, of course, I’ll have to make sure it’s my dog. If it
is
my dog I can promise you you’ll have no more trouble.”

“It’s your dog all right.” The voice had assumed the country flatness; if Mrs. Walpole wanted to fight, the voice implied, she had picked just the right people.

“Good-bye,” Mrs. Walpole said, knowing that she was making a mistake in parting from this woman angrily; knowing that she should stay on the phone for an interminable apologetic conversation, try to beg her dog’s life back from this stupid inflexible woman who cared so much for
her
stupid chickens.

Mrs. Walpole put the phone down and went out into the kitchen. She poured herself a cup of coffee and made herself some toast.

I am not going to let this bother me until after I have had my coffee, Mrs. Walpole told herself firmly. She put extra butter on her toast and tried to relax, moving her back against the chair, letting her shoulders sag. Feeling like this at nine-thirty in the morning, she thought, it’s a feeling that belongs with eleven o’clock at night. The bright sun outside was not as cheerful as it might be; Mrs. Walpole decided suddenly to put her wash off until tomorrow. They had not lived in the country town long enough for Mrs. Walpole to feel the disgrace of washing on Tuesday as mortal; they were still city folk and would probably always be city folk, people who owned a chicken-killing dog, people who washed on Tuesday, people who were not able to fend for themselves against the limited world of earth and food and weather that the country folk took so much for granted. In this situation as in all such others—the disposal of rubbish, the weather stripping, the baking of angel-food cake—Mrs. Walpole was forced to look for advice. In the country it is extremely difficult to “get a man” to do things for you, and Mr. and Mrs. Walpole had early fallen into the habit of consulting their neighbors for information which in the city would have belonged properly to the superintendent, or the janitor, or the man from the gas company. When Mrs. Walpole’s glance fell on Lady’s water dish under the sink, and she realized that she was indescribably depressed, she got up and put on her jacket and a scarf over her head and went next door.

Mrs. Nash, her next-door neighbor, was frying doughnuts, and she waved a fork at Mrs. Walpole at the open door and called, “Come in, can’t leave the stove.” Mrs. Walpole, stepping into Mrs. Nash’s kitchen, was painfully aware of her own kitchen with the dirty dishes in the sink. Mrs. Nash was wearing a shockingly clean house dress and her kitchen was freshly washed; Mrs. Nash was able to fry doughnuts without making any sort of a mess.

“The men do like fresh doughnuts with their lunch,” Mrs. Nash remarked without any more preamble than her nod and invitation to Mrs. Walpole. “I always try to get enough made ahead, but I never do.”

“I wish I could make doughnuts,” Mrs. Walpole said. Mrs. Nash waved the fork hospitably at the stack of still-warm doughnuts on the table and Mrs. Walpole helped herself to one, thinking: This will give me indigestion.

“Seems like they all get eaten by the time I finish making them,” Mrs. Nash said. She surveyed the cooking doughnuts and then, satisfied that she could look away for a minute, took one herself and began to eat it standing by the stove. “What’s wrong with you?” she asked. “You look sort of peaked this morning.”

“To tell you the truth,” Mrs. Walpole said, “it’s our dog. Someone called me this morning that she’s been killing chickens.”

Mrs. Nash nodded. “Up to Harris’,” she said. “I know.”

Of course she’d know by now, Mrs. Walpole thought.

“You know,” Mrs. Nash said, turning again to the doughnuts, “they do say there’s nothing to do with a dog kills chickens. My brother had a dog once killed sheep, and I don’t know
what
they didn’t do to break that dog, but of course nothing would do it. Once they get the taste of blood.” Mrs. Nash lifted a golden doughnut delicately out of the frying kettle, and set it down on a piece of brown paper to drain. “They get so’s they’d rather kill than eat, hardly.”

“But what can I
do?
” Mrs. Walpole asked. “Isn’t there
anything?
”

“You can try, of course,” Mrs. Nash said. “Best thing to do first is tie her up. Keep her tied, with a good stout chain. Then at least she won’t go chasing no more chickens for a while, save you getting her killed
for
you.”

Mrs. Walpole got up reluctantly and began to put her scarf on again. “I guess I’d better get a chain down at the store,” she said.

“You going downstreet?”

“I want to do my shopping before the kids come home for lunch.”

“Don’t buy any store doughnuts,” Mrs. Nash said. “I’ll run up later with a dishful for you. You get a good stout chain for that dog.”

“Thank you,” Mrs. Walpole said. The bright sunlight across Mrs. Nash’s kitchen doorway, the solid table bearing its plates of doughnuts, the pleasant smell of the frying, were all symbols somehow of Mrs. Nash’s safety, her confidence in a way of life and a security that had no traffic with chicken-killing, no city fears, an assurance and cleanliness so great that she was willing to bestow its overflow on the Walpoles, bring them doughnuts and overlook Mrs. Walpole’s dirty kitchen. “Thank you,” Mrs. Walpole said again, inadequately.

“You tell Tom Kittredge I’ll be down for a pork roast later this morning,” Mrs. Nash said. “Tell him to save it for me.”

“I shall.” Mrs. Walpole hesitated in the doorway and Mrs. Nash waved the fork at her.

“See you later,” Mrs. Nash said.

Old man White was sitting on his front porch in the sun. When he saw Mrs. Walpole he grinned broadly and shouted to her, “Guess you’re not going to have any more dog.”

I’ve got to be nice to him, Mrs. Walpole thought, he’s not a traitor or a bad man by country standards; anyone would tell on a chicken-killing dog; but he doesn’t have to be so pleased about it, she thought, and tried to make her voice pleasant when she said, “Good morning, Mr. White.”

“Gonna have her shot?” Mr. White asked. “Your man got a gun?”

“I’m so worried about it,” Mrs. Walpole said. She stood on the walk below the front porch and tried not to let her hatred show in her face as she looked up at Mr. White.

“It’s too bad about a dog like that,” Mr. White said.

At least he doesn’t blame
me
, Mrs. Walpole thought. “Is there anything I can do?” she said.

Mr. White thought. “Believe you might be able to cure a chicken-killer,” he said. “You get a dead chicken and tie it around the dog’s neck, so he can’t shake it loose, see?”

“Around her neck?” Mrs. Walpole asked, and Mr. White nodded, grinning toothlessly.

“See, when he can’t shake it loose at first he tries to play with it and then it starts to bother him, see, and then he tries to roll it off and it won’t come and then he tries to bite it off and it won’t come and then when he sees it won’t come he thinks he’s never gonna get rid of it, see, and he gets scared. And then you’ll have him coming around with his tail between his legs and this thing hanging around his neck and it gets worse and worse.”

Mrs. Walpole put one hand on the porch railing to steady herself. “What do you do then?” she asked.

“Well,” Mr. White said, “the way I heard it, see, the chicken gets riper and riper and the more the dog sees it and feels it and smells it, see, the more he gets to hate chicken. And he can’t ever get rid of it, see?”

“But the dog,” Mrs. Walpole said. “Lady, I mean. How long do we have to leave it around her neck?”

“Well,” Mr. White said with enthusiasm, “I guess you leave it on until it gets ripe enough to fall off by itself. See, the head….”

“I see,” Mrs. Walpole said. “Would it work?”

“Can’t say,” Mr. White said. “Never tried it myself.” His voice said that
he
had never had a chicken-killing dog.

Mrs. Walpole left him abruptly; she could not shake the feeling that if it were not for Mr. White, Lady would not have been identified as the dog killing the chickens; she wondered briefly if Mr. White had maliciously blamed Lady because they were city folk, and then thought, No, no man around here would bear false witness against a dog.

When she entered the grocery it was almost empty; there was a man at the hardware counter and another man leaning against the meat counter talking to Mr. Kittredge, the grocer. When Mr. Kittredge saw Mrs. Walpole come in he called across the store, “Morning, Mrs. Walpole. Fine day.”

“Lovely,” Mrs. Walpole said, and the grocer said, “Bad luck about the dog.”

“I don’t know what to do about it,” Mrs. Walpole said, and the man talking to the grocer looked at her reflectively, and then back at the grocer.

“Killed three chickens up to Harris’s this morning,” the grocer said to the man and the man nodded solemnly and said, “Heard about that.”

Mrs. Walpole came across to the meat counter and said, “Mrs. Nash said would you save her a roast of pork. She’ll be down later to get it.”

“Going up that way,” the man standing with the grocer said. “Drop it off.”