The Lottery and Other Stories by Shirley Jackson

because you don’t like them, don’t say that about Boyd. Boyd will eat anything .”
    “Bet he won’t,” Johnny said, attacking his scrambled eggs.
    “Boyd wants to grow up and be a big strong man so he can work hard,” Mrs. Wilson said. “I’ll bet Boyd’s father eats stewed tomatoes.”
    “My father eats anything he wants to,” Boyd said.
    “So does mine,” Johnny said. “Sometimes he doesn’t eat hardly anything. He’s a little guy, though. Wouldn’t hurt a flea.”
    “Mine’s a little guy, too,” Boyd said.
    “I’ll bet he’s strong, though,” Mrs. Wilson said. She hesitated. “Does he…work?”
    “Sure,” Johnny said. “Boyd’s father works in a factory.”
    “There, you see?” Mrs. Wilson said. “And he certainly has to be strong to do that—all that lifting and carrying at a factory.”
    “Boyd’s father doesn’t have to,” Johnny said. “He’s a foreman.”
    Mrs. Wilson felt defeated. “What does your mother do, Boyd?”
    “My mother?” Boyd was surprised. “She takes care of us kids.”
    “Oh. She doesn’t work, then?”
    “Why should she?” Johnny said through a mouthful of eggs. “You don’t work.”
    “You really don’t want any stewed tomatoes, Boyd?”
    “No, thank you, Mrs. Wilson,” Boyd said.
    “No, thank you, Mrs. Wilson, no, thank you, Mrs. Wilson, no, thank you, Mrs. Wilson,” Johnny said. “Boyd’s sister’s going to work, though. She’s going to be a teacher.”
    “That’s a very fine attitude for her to have, Boyd.” Mrs. Wilson restrained an impulse to pat Boyd on the head. “I imagine you’re all very proud of her?”
    “I guess so,” Boyd said.
    “What about all your other brothers and sisters? I guess all of you want to make just as much of yourselves as you can.”
    “There’s only me and Jean,” Boyd said. “I don’t know yet what I want to be when I grow up.”
    “We’re going to be tank drivers, Boyd and me,” Johnny said. “Zoom.” Mrs. Wilson caught Boyd’s glass of milk as Johnny’s napkin ring, suddenly transformed into a tank, plowed heavily across the table.
    “Look, Johnny,” Boyd said. “Here’s a foxhole. I’m shooting at you.”
    Mrs. Wilson, with the speed born of long experience, took the gingerbread off the shelf and placed it carefully between the tank and the foxhole.
    “Now eat as much as you want to, Boyd,” she said. “I want to see you get filled up.”
    “Boyd eats a lot, but not as much as I do,” Johnny said. “I’m bigger than he is.”
    “You’re not much bigger,” Boyd said. “I can beat you running.”
    Mrs. Wilson took a deep breath. “Boyd,” she said. Both boys turned to her. “Boyd, Johnny has some suits that are a little too small for him, and a winter coat. It’s not new, of course, but there’s lots of wear in it still. And I have a few dresses that your mother or sister could probably use. Your mother can make them over into lots of things for all of you, and I’d be very happy to give them to you. Suppose before you leave I make up a big bundle and then you and Johnny can take it over to your mother right away…” Her voice trailed off as she saw Boyd’s puzzled expression.
    “But I have plenty of clothes, thank you,” he said. “And I don’t think my mother knows how to sew very well, and anyway I guess we buy about everything we need. Thank you very much, though.”
    “We don’t have time to carry that old stuff around, Mother,” Johnny said. “We got to play tanks with the kids today.”
    Mrs. Wilson lifted the plate of gingerbread off the table as Boyd was about to take another piece. “There are many little boys like you, Boyd, who would be very grateful for the clothes someone was kind enough to give them.”
    “Boyd will take them if you want him to, Mother,” Johnny said.
    “I didn’t mean to make you mad, Mrs. Wilson,” Boyd said.
    “Don’t think I’m angry, Boyd. I’m just disappointed in you, that’s all. Now let’s not say