The Lottery and Other Stories by Shirley Jackson Read Free Book Online

the studio couch. “Come on in, Davie,” Marcia called.
    The sight of his pretty table covered with dirty dishes and cigarette ashes held David. He carried the plates and cups and silverware into the kitchenette and stacked them in the sink and then, because he could not endure the thought of their sitting there any longer, with the dirt gradually hardening on them, he tied an apron on and began to wash them carefully. Now and then, while he was washing them and drying them and putting them away, Marcia would call to him, sometimes, “Davie, what are you doing?” or, “Davie, won’t you stop all that and come sit down?” Once she said, “Davie, I don’t want you to wash all those dishes,” and Mr. Harris said, “Let him work, he’s happy.”
    David put the clean yellow cups and saucers back on the shelves—by now, Mr. Harris’ cup was unrecognizable; you could not tell, from the clean rows of cups, which one he had used or which one had been stained with Marcia’s lipstick or which one had held David’s coffee which he had finished in the kitchenette—and finally, taking the tarnish-proof box down, he put the silverware away. First the forks all went together into the little grooves which held two forks each—later, when the set was complete, each groove would hold four forks—and then the spoons, stacked up neatly one on top of another in their own grooves, and the knives in even order, all facing the same way, in the special tapes in the lid of the box. Butter knives and serving spoons and the pie knife all went into their own places, and then David put the lid down on the lovely shining set and put the box back on the shelf. After wringing out the dishcloth and hanging up the dish towel and taking off his apron he was through, and he went slowly into the living-room. Marcia and Mr. Harris were sitting close together on the studio couch, talking earnestly.
    “My father’s name was James,” Marcia was saying as David came in, as though she were clinching an argument. She turned around when David came in and said, “Davie, you were so nice to do all those dishes yourself.”
    “That’s all right,” David said awkwardly. Mr. Harris was looking at him impatiently.
    “I should have helped you,” Marcia said. There was a silence, and then Marcia said, “Sit down, Davie, won’t you?”
    David recognized her tone; it was the one hostesses used when they didn’t know what else to say to you, or when you had come too early or stayed too late. It was the tone he had expected to use on Mr. Harris.
    “James and I were just talking about….” Marcia began and then stopped and laughed. “What were we talking about?” she asked, turning to Mr. Harris.
    “Nothing much,” Mr. Harris said. He was still watching David.
    “Well,” Marcia said, letting her voice trail off. She turned to David and smiled brightly and then said, “Well,” again.
    Mr. Harris picked up the ashtray from the end table and set it on the couch between himself and Marcia. He took a cigar out of his pocket and said to Marcia, “Do you mind cigars?” and when Marcia shook her head he unwrapped the cigar tenderly and bit off the end. “Cigar smoke’s good for plants,” he said thickly, around the cigar, as he lighted it, and Marcia laughed.
    David stood up. For a minute he thought he was going to say something that might start, “Mr. Harris, I’ll thank you to…” but what he actually said, finally, with both Marcia and Mr. Harris looking at him, was, “Guess I better be getting along, Marcia.”
    Mr. Harris stood up and said heartily, “Certainly have enjoyed meeting you.” He held out his hand and David shook hands limply.
    “Guess I better be getting along,” he said again to Marcia, and she stood up and said, “I’m sorry you have to leave so soon.”
    “Lots of work to do,” David said, much more genially than he intended, and Marcia smiled at him again as though they were conspirators and went over to the desk