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

I’ll wait till just three-thirty, Miss Clarence thought, and then I’ll leave. She picked up the book of dance photographs, slipping the pages through her fingers until a picture caught her eye and she turned back to it. I haven’t seen this in years, Miss Clarence thought—Martha Graham. A sudden picture of herself at twenty came to Miss Clarence, before she ever came to New York, practicing the dancer’s pose. Miss Clarence put the book down on the floor and stood up, raising her arms. Not as easy as it used to be, she thought, it catches you in the shoulders. She was looking down at the book over her shoulder, trying to get her arms right, when there was a knock and the door was opened. A young man—about Arthur’s age, Miss Clarence thought—came in and stood just inside the door, apologetically.
    “It was partly open,” he said, “so I came on in.”
    “Yes?” Miss Clarence said, dropping her arms.
    “You’re Mrs. Roberts?” the young man asked.
    Miss Clarence, trying to walk naturally over to her chair, said nothing.
    “I came about the furniture,” the man said. “I thought I might look at the chairs.”
    “Of course,” Miss Clarence said. “The price is marked on everything.”
    “My name’s Harris. I’ve just moved to the city and I’m trying to furnish my place.”
    “It’s very difficult to find things these days.”
    “This must be the tenth place I’ve been. I want a filing cabinet and a big leather chair.”
    “I’m afraid…” Miss Clarence said, gesturing at the room.
    “I know,” Harris said. “Anybody who has that sort of thing these days is hanging on to it. I write,” he added.
    “Really?”
    “Or, rather, I hope to write,” Harris said. He had a round agreeable face and when he said this he smiled very pleasantly. “Going to get a job and write nights,” he said.
    “I’m sure you won’t have much trouble,” Miss Clarence said.
    “Someone here an artist?”
    “Mr. Roberts,” Miss Clarence said.
    “Lucky guy,” Harris said. He walked over to the window. “Easier to draw pictures than write any time. This place is certainly nicer than mine,” he added suddenly, looking out the window. “Mine’s a hole in the wall.”
    Miss Clarence could not think of anything to say, and he turned again to look at her curiously. “You an artist, too?”
    “No,” Miss Clarence said. She took a deep breath. “Dancer,” she said.
    He smiled again, pleasantly. “I might have known,” he said. “When I came in.”
    Miss Clarence laughed modestly.
    “It must be wonderful,” he said.
    “It’s hard,” Miss Clarence said.
    “It must be. You had much luck so far?”
    “Not much,” Miss Clarence said.
    “I guess that’s the way everything is,” he said. He wandered over and opened the bathroom door; when he glanced in Miss Clarence winced. He closed the door again without saying anything and opened the kitchen door.
    Miss Clarence got up and walked over to stand next to him and look into the kitchen with him. “I don’t cook a lot,” she said.
    “Don’t blame you, so many restaurants.” He closed the door again and Miss Clarence went back to her chair. “I can’t eat breakfasts out, though. That’s one thing I can’t do,” he said.
    “Do you make your own?”
    “I try to,” he said. “I’m the worst cook in the world. But it’s better than going out. What I need is a wife.” He smile again and started for the door. “I’m sorry about the furniture,” he said. “Wish I could have found something.”
    “That’s all right.”
    “You people giving up housekeeping?”
    “We have to get rid of everything,” Miss Clarence said. She hesitated. “Artie’s going to Paris,” she said finally.
    “Wish I was.” He sighed. “Well, good luck to both of you.”
    “You, too,” Miss Clarence said, and closed the door behind him slowly. She listened for the sound of his steps going down the stairs and then looked at her watch.