The morning of June 27th was clear and sunny, with the fresh
warmth of a full-summer day; the flowers were blossoming profusely
and the grass was richly green. The people of the village began to
gather in the square, between the post office and the bank, around
ten o'clock; in some towns there were so many people that the lottery
took two days and had to be started on June 2th, but in this village,
where there were only about three hundred people, the whole lottery
took less than two hours, so it could begin at ten o'clock in the
morning and still be through in time to allow the villagers to get
home for noon dinner.
The children assembled first, of course. School was recently over for
the summer, and the feeling of liberty sat uneasily on most of them;
they tended to gather together quietly for a while before they broke
into boisterous play, and their talk was still of the classroom and the
teacher, of books and reprimands. Bobby Martin had already stuffed
his pockets full of stones, and the other boys soon followed his
example, selecting the smoothest and roundest stones; Bobby and
Harry Jones and Dickie Delacroix-- the villagers pronounced this
name "Dellacroy"--eventually made a great pile of stones in one
corner of the square and guarded it against the raids of the other
boys. The girls stood aside, talking among themselves, looking over
their shoulders at the boys, and the very small children rolled in the
dust or clung to the hands of their older brothers or sisters.
Soon the men began to gather, surveying their own children, speaking
of planting and rain, tractors and taxes. They stood together, away
from the pile of stones in the corner, and their jokes were quiet and
they smiled rather than laughed. The women, wearing faded house
dresses and sweaters, came shortly after their menfolk. They greeted
one another and exchanged bits of gossip as they went to join their
husbands. Soon the women, standing by their husbands, began to call
to their children, and the children came reluctantly, having to be
called four or five times. Bobby Martin ducked under his mother's
grasping hand and ran, laughing, back to the pile of stones. His father
spoke up sharply, and Bobby came quickly and took his place
between his father and his oldest brother.
The lottery was conducted--as were the square dances, the teen club,
the Halloween program--by Mr. Summers. who had time and energy
to devote to civic activities. He was a round-faced, jovial man and he
ran the coal business, and people were sorry for him, because he had
no children and his wife was a scold. When he arrived in the square,
carrying the black wooden box, there was a murmur of conversation
among the villagers, and he waved and called. "Little late today,
folks." The postmaster, Mr. Graves, followed him, carrying a three-
legged stool, and the stool was put in the center of the square and Mr.
Summers set the black box down on it. The villagers kept their
distance, leaving a space between themselves and the stool, and
when Mr. Summers said, "Some of you fellows want to give me a
hand?" there was a hesitation before two men, Mr. Martin and his
oldest son, Baxter, came forward to hold the box steady on the stool
while Mr. Summers stirred up the papers inside it.
The original paraphernalia for the lottery had been lost long ago, and
the black box now resting on the stool had been put into use even
before Old Man Warner, the oldest man in town, was born. Mr.
Summers spoke frequently to the villagers about making a new box,
but no one liked to upset even as much tradition as was represented
by the black box. There was a story that the present box had been
made with some pieces of the box that had preceded it, the one that
had been constructed when the first people settled down to make a
village here. Every year, after the lottery, Mr. Summers began talking
again about a new box, but every year the subject was allowed to fade
off without anything's being done. The black box grew shabbier each
year: by now it was no longer completely black but splintered badly
along one side to show the original wood color, and in some places
faded or stained.
Mr. Martin and his oldest son, Baxter, held the black box securely on
the stool until Mr. Summers had stirred the papers thoroughly with
his hand. Because so much of the ritual had been forgotten or
discarded, Mr. Summers had been successful in having slips of paper
substituted for the chips of wood that had been used for generations.
Chips of wood, Mr. Summers had argued, had been all very well when
the village was tiny, but now that the population was more than three
hundred and likely to keep on growing, it was necessary to use
something that would fit more easily into he black box. The night
before the lottery, Mr. Summers and Mr. Graves made up the slips of
paper and put them in the box, and it was then taken to the safe of
Mr. Summers' coal company and locked up until Mr. Summers was
ready to take it to the square next morning. The rest of the year, the
box was put way, sometimes one place, sometimes another; it had
spent one year in Mr. Graves's barn and another year underfoot in
the post office, and sometimes it was set on a shelf in the Martin
grocery and left there.
There was a great deal of fussing to be done before Mr. Summers
declared the lottery open. There were the lists to make up--of heads
of families, heads of households in each family. members of each
household in each family. There was the proper swearing-in of Mr.
Summers by the postmaster, as the official of the lottery; at one time,
some people remembered, there had been a recital of some sort,
performed by the official of the lottery, a perfunctory tuneless chant
that had been rattled off duly each year; some people believed that
the official of the lottery used to stand just so when he said or sang it,
others believed that he was supposed to walk among the people, but
years and years ago this part of the ritual had been allowed to lapse.
There had been, also, a ritual salute, which the official of the lottery
had had to use in addressing each person who came up to draw from
the box, but this also had changed with time, until now it was felt
necessary only for the official to speak to each person approaching.
Mr. Summers was very good at all this; in his clean white shirt and
blue jeans. with one hand resting carelessly on the black box, he
seemed very proper and important as he talked interminably to Mr.
Graves and the Martins.
Just as Mr. Summers finally left off talking and turned to the
assembled villagers, Mrs. Hutchinson came hurriedly along the path
to the square, her sweater thrown over her shoulders, and slid into
place in the back of the crowd. "Clean forgot what day it was," she
said to Mrs. Delacroix, who stood next to her, and they both laughed
softly. "Thought my old man was out back stacking wood," Mrs.
Hutchinson went on, "and then I looked out the window and the kids
was gone, and then I remembered it was the twenty-seventh and came
a-running." She dried her hands on her apron, and Mrs. Delacroix
said, "You're in time, though. They're still talking away up there."
Mrs. Hutchinson craned her neck to see through the crowd and found
her husband and children standing near the front. She tapped Mrs.
Delacroix on the arm as a farewell and began to make her way
through the crowd. The people separated good-humoredly to let her
through: two or three people said, in voices just loud enough to be
heard across the crowd, "Here comes your, Missus, Hutchinson," and
"Bill, she made it after all." Mrs. Hutchinson reached her husband,
and Mr. Summers, who had been waiting, said cheerfully. "Thought
we were going to have to get on without you, Tessie." Mrs.
Hutchinson said, grinning, "Wouldn't have me leave m'dishes in the
sink, now, would you. Joe?," and soft laughter ran through the crowd
as the people stirred back into position after Mrs. Hutchinson's
arrival.
"Well, now," Mr. Summers said soberly, "guess we better get started,
get this over with, so's we can go back to work. Anybody ain't here?"
"Dunbar." several people said. "Dunbar. Dunbar."
Mr. Summers consulted his list. "Clyde Dunbar." he said. "That's
right. He's broke his leg, hasn't he? Who's drawing for him?"
"Me. I guess," a woman said, and Mr. Summers turned to look at her.
"Wife draws for her husband." Mr. Summers said. "Don't you have a
grown boy to do it for you, Janey?" Although Mr. Summers and
everyone else in the village knew the answer perfectly well, it was the
business of the official of the lottery to ask such questions formally.
Mr. Summers waited with an expression of polite interest while Mrs.
Dunbar answered.
"Horace's not but sixteen yet." Mrs. Dunbar said regretfully. "Guess
I gotta fill in for the old man this year."
"Right." Sr. Summers said. He made a note on the list he was
holding. Then he asked, "Watson boy drawing this year?"
A tall boy in the crowd raised his hand. "Here," he said. "I m drawing
for my mother and me." He blinked his eyes nervously and ducked his
head as several voices in the crowd said things like "Good fellow,
Jack," and "Glad to see your mother's got a man to do it."
"Well," Mr. Summers said, "guess that's everyone. Old Man Warner
make it?"
"Here," a voice said, and Mr. Summers nodded.
A sudden hush fell on the crowd as Mr. Summers cleared his throat
and looked at the list. "All ready?" he called. "Now, I'll read the
names--heads of families first--and the men come up and take a
paper out of the box. Keep the paper folded in your hand without
looking at it until everyone has had a turn. Everything clear?"
The people had done it so many times that they only half listened to
the directions: most of them were quiet. wetting their lips. not looking
around. Then Mr. Summers raised one hand high and said, "Adams."
A man disengaged himself from the crowd and came forward. "Hi.
Steve," Mr. Summers said, and Mr. Adams said. "Hi. Joe." They
grinned at one another humorlessly and nervously. Then Mr. Adams
reached into the black box and took out a folded paper. He held it
firmly by one corner as he turned and went hastily back to his place in
the crowd. where he stood a little apart from his family. not looking
down at his hand.
"Allen." Mr. Summers said. "Anderson.... Bentham."
"Seems like there's no time at all between lotteries any more." Mrs.
Delacroix said to Mrs. Graves in the back row.
"Seems like we got through with the last one only last week."
"Time sure goes fast.-- Mrs. Graves
said.
"Clark.... Delacroix"
"There goes my old man." Mrs. Delacroix said. She held her breath
while her husband went forward.
"Dunbar," Mr. Summers said, and Mrs. Dunbar went steadily to the
box while one of the women said. "Go on, Janey," and another said,
"There she goes."
"We're next," Mrs. Graves said. She watched while Mr. Graves came
around from the side of the box, greeted Mr. Summers gravely and
selected a slip of paper from the box. By now, all through the crowd
there were men holding the small folded papers in their large hand,
turning them over and over nervously Mrs. Dunbar and her two sons
stood together, Mrs. Dunbar holding the slip of paper.
"Harburt.... Hutchinson."
"Get up there, Bill," Mrs. Hutchinson said, and the people near her
laughed.
"Jones."
"They do say," Mr. Adams said to Old Man Warner, who stood next to
him, "that over in the north village they're talking of giving up the
lottery."
Old Man Warner snorted. "Pack of crazy fools," he said. "Listening to
the young folks, nothing's good enough for them. Next thing you
know, they'll be wanting to go back to living in caves, nobody work
any more, live hat way for a while. Used to be a saying about 'Lottery
in June, corn be heavy soon.' First thing you know, we'd all be eating
stewed chickweed and acorns. There's always been a lottery," he
added petulantly. "Bad enough to see young Joe Summers up there
joking with everybody."
"Some places have already quit lotteries." Mrs. Adams said.
"Nothing but trouble in that," Old Man Warner said stoutly. "Pack of
young fools."
"Martin." And Bobby Martin watched his father go forward.
"Overdyke.... Percy."
"I wish they'd hurry," Mrs. Dunbar said to her older son. "I wish they'd
hurry."
"They're almost through," her son said.
"You get ready to run tell Dad," Mrs. Dunbar said.
Mr. Summers called his own name and then stepped forward
precisely and selected a slip from the box. Then he called, "Warner."
"Seventy-seventh year I been in the lottery," Old Man Warner said as
he went through the crowd. "Seventy-seventh time."
"Watson" The tall boy came awkwardly through the crowd. Someone
said, "Don't be nervous, Jack," and Mr. Summers said, "Take your
time, son."
"Zanini."
After that, there was a long pause, a breathless pause, until Mr.
Summers. holding his slip of paper in the air, said, "All right, fellows."
For a minute, no one moved, and then all the slips of paper were
opened. Suddenly, all the women began to speak at once, saving.
"Who is it?," "Who's got it?," "Is it the Dunbars?," "Is it the Watsons?"
Then the voices began to say, "It's Hutchinson. It's Bill," "Bill
Hutchinson's got it."
"Go tell your father," Mrs. Dunbar said to her older son.
People began to look around to see the Hutchinsons. Bill Hutchinson
was standing quiet, staring down at the paper in his hand. Suddenly,
Tessie Hutchinson shouted to Mr. Summers. "You didn't give him
time enough to take any paper he wanted. I saw you. It wasn't fair!"
"Be a good sport, Tessie," Mrs. Delacroix called, and Mrs. Graves
said, "All of us took the same chance."
"Shut up, Tessie," Bill Hutchinson said.
"Well, everyone," Mr. Summers said, "that was done pretty fast, and
now we've got to be hurrying a little more to get done in time." He
consulted his next list. "Bill," he said, "you draw for the Hutchinson
family. You got any other households in the Hutchinsons?"
"There's Don and Eva," Mrs. Hutchinson yelled. "Make them take
their chance!"
"Daughters draw with their husbands' families, Tessie," Mr. Summers
said gently. "You know that as well as anyone else."
"It wasn't fair," Tessie said.
"I guess not, Joe." Bill Hutchinson said regretfully. "My daughter
draws with her husband's family; that's only fair. And I've got no other
family except the kids."
"Then, as far as drawing for families is concerned, it's you," Mr.
Summers said in explanation, "and as far as drawing for households is
concerned, that's you, too. Right?"
"Right," Bill Hutchinson said.
"How many kids, Bill?" Mr. Summers asked formally.
"Three," Bill Hutchinson said.
"There's Bill, Jr., and Nancy, and little Dave. And Tessie and me."
"All right, then," Mr. Summers said. "Harry, you got their tickets
back?"
Mr. Graves nodded and held up the slips of paper. "Put them in the
box, then," Mr. Summers directed. "Take Bill's and put it in."
"I think we ought to start over," Mrs. Hutchinson said, as quietly as
she could. "I tell you it wasn't fair. You didn't give him time enough
to choose. Everybody saw that."
Mr. Graves had selected the five slips and put them in the box. and
he dropped all the papers but those onto the ground, where the
breeze caught them and lifted them off.
"Listen, everybody," Mrs. Hutchinson was saying to the people around
her.
"Ready, Bill?" Mr. Summers asked, and Bill Hutchinson, with one
quick glance around at his wife and children. nodded.
"Remember," Mr. Summers said. "take the slips and keep them
folded until each person has taken one. Harry, you help little Dave."
Mr. Graves took the hand of the little boy, who came willingly with
him up to the box. "Take a paper out of the box, Davy." Mr. Summers
said. Davy put his hand into the box and laughed. "Take just one
paper." Mr. Summers said. "Harry, you hold it for him." Mr. Graves
took the child's hand and removed the folded paper from the tight fist
and held it while little Dave stood next to him and looked up at him
wonderingly.
"Nancy next," Mr. Summers said. Nancy was twelve, and her school
friends breathed heavily as she went forward switching her skirt, and
took a slip daintily from the box "Bill, Jr.," Mr. Summers said, and
Billy, his face red and his feet overlarge, near knocked the box over
as he got a paper out. "Tessie," Mr. Summers said. She hesitated for a
minute, looking around defiantly. and then set her lips and went up to
the box. She snatched a paper out and held it behind her.
"Bill," Mr. Summers said, and Bill Hutchinson reached into the box
and felt around, bringing his hand out at last with the slip of paper in
it.
The crowd was quiet. A girl whispered, "I hope it's not Nancy," and
the sound of the whisper reached the edges of the crowd.
"It's not the way it used to be," Old Man Warner said clearly. "People
ain't the way they used to be."
"All right," Mr. Summers said. "Open the papers. Harry, you open
little Dave's."
Mr. Graves opened the slip of paper and there was a general sigh
through the crowd as he held it up and everyone could see that it was
blank. Nancy and Bill Jr. opened theirs at the same time, and both
beamed and laughed. turning around to the crowd and holding their
slips of paper above their heads.
"Tessie," Mr. Summers said. There was a pause, and then Mr.
Summers looked at Bill Hutchinson, and Bill unfolded his paper and
showed it. It was blank.
"It's Tessie," Mr. Summers said, and his voice was hushed. "Show us
her paper. Bill."
Bill Hutchinson went over to his wife and forced the slip of paper out
of her hand. It had a black spot on it, the black spot Mr. Summers
had made the night before with the heavy pencil in the coal company
office. Bill Hutchinson held it up, and there was a stir in the crowd.
"All right, folks," Mr. Summers said, "Let's finish quickly."
Although the villagers had forgotten the ritual and lost the original
black box, they still remembered to use stones. The pile of stones the
boys had made earlier was ready; there were stones on the ground
with the blowing scraps of paper that had come out of the box
Delacroix selected a stone so large she had to pick it up with both
hands and turned to Mrs. Dunbar. "Come on," she said. "Hurry up."
Mr. Dunbar had small stones in both hands, and she said, gasping for
breath. "I can't run at all. You'll have to go ahead and I'll catch up
with you."
The children had stones already. And someone gave little Davy
Hutchinson few pebbles.
Tessie Hutchinson was in the center of a cleared space by now, and
she held her hands out desperately as the villagers moved in on her.
"It isn't fair," she said. A stone hit her on the side of the head. Old
Man Warner was saying, "Come on, come on, everyone." Steve
Adams was in the front of the crowd of villagers, with Mrs. Graves
beside him.
"It isn't fair, it isn't right," Mrs. Hutchinson screamed, and then they
were upon her.
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