← Selected Shorts
Selected Shorts
Hiding in Plain Sight
00:58:14
Host Meg Wolitzer presents two stories about secrets that are just beneath the surface of the narratives and lives of the characters. In Walter Dean Myers’ “The Beast in the Labyrinth” children must conceal their real selves in a hostile society. The reader is Jelani Alladin. And the Shirley Jackson classic “The Lottery” demonstrates how the inconceivable can become the norm in a community if everyone accepts it. The reader is Amy Ryan.
Loading summary
Transcript23 lines
- [00:01]
Capella University Representative
When you're earning your degree, the right support can make a difference. That's why at Capella University, learning online doesn't mean learning alone. You'll get support from people who care about your success, including your dedicated academic coach, who's available every step of the way. Whether you're working toward a bachelor's, master's or doctoral degree, you can learn confidently, knowing you'll get la yuda que necesitas un futuro diferente Esta mas cerca de lo que tres con Capella University. Learn more at capella. Edu.
- [00:39]
Meg Wolitzer
Literature can be scary in a couple of different ways. It can keep us up at night, worried about witches and aliens, or it can make some of us want to censor a story so no one else can read it. On this week's Selected Shorts, dangerous literature that is scary in both senses. I'm Meg Wolitzer. Stay with me. You're listening to Selected Shorts, where our greatest actors transport us through the magic of fiction, one short story at a time. When we say something is hiding in plain sight, often it's used in a playful way, like a set of keys lying casually on the countertop, right where we looked for them that somehow escaped our notice. Or in a romantic comedy, it refers to that longtime pal who supports the main character while she dates terrible men, and then suddenly, pow. She gets it. Love and a happy ending 10 minutes away. And she never saw it coming. But there can be another, slightly more haunting meaning to this idea, like an invisible network of connections among people, places, things or events that just isn't immediately apparent if you've read something by Franz Kafka or Thomas Pynchon or slogged through any number of conspiratorial fantasies. You know what I mean? It can be compelling, the idea that there's some secret order to our world. Some people see it, others ignore it at their peril. I've been thinking about those magic eye pictures that everyone was looking at some years ago. You know the ones I mean? You stare and stare at a seemingly bland scene, like a field full of daisies, and after a while, if you let your eyes relax, an image appears in the middle of it. Maybe a person or a hippopotamus, but in any case, something big that was hiding in plain sight. And this reminds me of how fiction, or maybe art of any kind, works. People always ask writers during Q and A's where do you get your ideas? And it's hard to answer that without being glib. But I do know that however they arrive ideas can't be forced. The artist simply needs to stare and stare, if you will, until the hippopotamus appears. It was there all the time, hiding in plain sight and waiting to be found not long ago. Selected Shorts Curated A night of what we might call dangerous fiction, stories from authors who faced book bands at some point. The night was hosted by Judy Blume, a writer known for classics including Dini and Super Fudge, and someone who has faced more than her share of these book bands. The stories we heard that night felt both ominous and ordinary, and the combination made them truly hit home and is what makes them hold up over time. In the next hour, let's hear some of this dangerous fiction. One story takes place in a New York City not long past, and the other, a Shirley Jackson classic, unfolds in a small, pastoral New England town in the middle of the 20th century. Both are about a kind of secret hiding in plain sight. The first piece is by the late Walter Dean Myers. Myers is the author of young adult titles including Hoops, Fallen Angels, and Monster. This story was included in an anthology edited by Judy Blume titled Places I Never Meant to Be Reading. The story is Jelani Aladdin. He was one of the original cast of the Broadway production of Frozen and is known for series including Fellow Travelers and now Jelani Aladdin performs the Beast Is in the Labyrinth by Walter Dean Myers.
- [04:16]
Jelani Aladdin
The Beast is in the Labyrinth My sister's name is Temi. My name is John. When I was born, my father gave me the name of John without the H. When I grew up and realized that he had never lived with us, had never been a father to us, I put the H back into my name. It's a small thing, something that many people will consider superficial, even dumb. But somehow I imagined him, him being my father, thinking it clever to leave out the H. Perhaps it reminded him of a friend he had known in the army, although I doubt that he was ever in the army. My mother doesn't speak of it when she speaks of him. I applied only to out of town colleges. I wanted to get away from the streets. I knew from the people. I knew, from the stench of garbage that came up to me on the morning air. I received a scholarship from a small college in Millersville, Pennsylvania. There are cows in Millersville and people with round white faces who eat too much and smile too much and expect too much of a black 17 year old from Harlem. Still, I like Millersville, and I've made an investment here. I go to the pizza parlor on Saturday nights with the crowd from my dorm, I go to the diner across from the small airport and eat large German sausages and hard fried eggs. I become part of the quota of blacks that Millersville finds acceptable. With the few of us on campus, they can exercise their good intentions, their Christian feelings of warmth and brotherhood, without the doubt of challenge. In turn, I accept their hospitality and their reaching out to me without wondering what it would be like if there were more of us. Christmas break I've come home and the sounds and sights and scents of Harlem meet me at the corner of 1 45th street in Amsterdam. I walk down the hill toward my home and realize that my body is striving for a rhythm it hasn't felt for several months. Harlem, home. Hard black faces, hard black eyes watching like jackals for something ready to die. There's more. I see it. I feel it, pull it from the streets into my heart. Harlem, home. Children playing impossible games in the streets, the dirty snow lining the curbs. Old men, warriors with only memories of their victories, shuffling through the concrete canyons of New York. Cave dwellers, Dogan villagers living in the shadow of the moon and remembering the labyrinth of their creation. The labyrinth. Its echo first came to me in a field in Millersville. Me, blade, thin, black, looking out over the sun drenched field. Her orange, white, younger than she had the right to be, talking of dead European writers as if she were speaking a symphony. The labyrinth had started. Dozens of pathways that could lead to other places and other times came into my mind as if they'd always been there, but they had not always been there, and the knowing of it pulled at my shoulders. Up the stairs. I've run a thousand times as a child, running from whatever bully had found me. I had run up those stairs As a ball player, showing my strength, I had run up those stairs. Now I run up the stairs, pretending I'm not apprehensive, that my testicles aren't drawn up in a hard knot, anticipating the disappointment I know will come. My mother opens the door. Brown skinned, prettier even than I remember. There's a fragility about her, a sense that she's been wounded. It's good to see you, son. The words come from her heart and suddenly I feel ashamed. Of course it's good to see me. I'm her son and she's my mother. I got a discount on the train, I say, meaningless. What have I learned in college? You hungry? Yes. She offers food as a metaphor. I take it as poetry. We talk quietly. She doesn't mention my sister, Temi. Neither do I you don't go where you don't know. You mean a lot of girls down there? She asks. One or two, I say, grinning. She turns her head slightly and gives me a look that says we must re establish ourselves. My mind races to the next day. What will I do? I mean, who will I talk to? How's Timmy? The words slip out. I want to suck them back, but they are loosed. She's sick, my mother says. She nods toward the bedroom door. I stand and go to the door. The room is dark when I go in. I find the lamp and turn it on. Temmie is asleep. She is thin. On the night table there's a small plastic vial. I sit on the edge of the bed. The labyrinth grows. There's a need to find a way out of despair. I sense a distance between what I know and what I see before me. Yo, sis. She stirs. There's a white stain on her cheek. I rub her shoulder and she moves under my hand. She turns in her sleep and then wakes with a jolt. She twists violently and starts to push herself from the bed. John, when you get home? She asks. Just now, I answer, smiling. I smile the reassuring smile I have learned in Millersville. It doesn't change her suspicions. How you been? Her eyes dart around the room, looking for what I might have seen. She pulls open a drawer and takes out a stick of incense. The smell of it will make me sick to my stomach. I mumble something about being tired, and we both know everything there is to know in our small world. Daybreak somehow stumbles into the night, forcing its way through the rooftops and turning the darkness of the room into the into a hard edged gray. The shadow of the window gates form a medieval pattern on the wall. I look in the dresser and instantly remember I've taken all the decent underwear with me to school. In the bathroom, voices from the kitchen soft a conspiracy. They don't want me to know what they are feeling. Me in the mirror, toothbrush in hand. Me in the mirror. A Prospero wannabe in the kitchen, a pas de toile. Awkward. As we shift the weight around. I make instant resolutions. We ought to paint this place this summer. Do a whole number on it. Maybe paper. The living room. I can design the paper. Temmie says nothing. Too far out, I say. We talk and it's good. We drink tea and I wonder if there's coffee to be had. I don't ask because I really don't want to know. I want to walk away and think of better times. Times I will make better. Temmie says she has to go downtown to see about a job. Luck is wished. We talk about the job and she leaves. Mom is relieved. I relax. The beast lurches Millersville. The teaching assistant is Irish. What he wants to talk about is Ireland and the turn of the century and how his grandfather used to stand across the street from University College and watch the gentleman walk up the stairs into the school. What we want him to do is amuse us with antidotes about Joyce, about making the rounds of the pub, about the white and flushing flesh of Molly Bloom. A round faced, well scrubbed literature major gets up the nerve to tell the TA what it is we want. He is hurt, he says. We don't understand. A phone call. Temmie hasn't been home for a week. The voice on the phone crackles with worry. All right, I'll come home. Nah, I ain't seen her, the coroner monitor says. He looks up Malcolm X Boulevard, then checks the traffic on 135th Street. Nothing is amiss. His corner is safe. I ain't seen him for a while. And I ain't seen you for a while either. Where you been? I'm going to school in Pennsylvania, I say. Hey, that's good, he says, but he looks at me carefully, not long enough to diss me, just to see who I am. I used to be the guy who played ball with him. His mom used to shop with mine. He knew me then. He glances at me and says, hey, that's good. But he looks at me carefully just to see who I am. I go downtown, not the white downtown, where we scavenge for jobs and other realities. I go downtown to 110th street, where old Harlem borders other sanities and where now a small buffer zone of young whites looking for cheap housing has been established. I find Pac in the barbershop. I think, what the hell are you doing out of jail? I say. Yo, Pac, what's happening? Hey, young blood, what's happening? Same old thing, I say, reaching for an inflection that has become inflection instead of talk. How you doing? Lungs is working, pac says. The scar on his cheek is lighter than his black skin but somewhat heavier than original sin. Have you seen Temmie around? Temmie? Your sister? Yeah. She's getting heavy, man. Pac looks across the street towards Central Park. Getting heavy. It's growing cold and a layer of fog covers the tops of the trees in the park. Our side of the park is beautiful, a respite from the probing angles of the city. The other side of the park, where it has a name, Central Park South. Instead of a number is a one way entry into the labyrinth. Have you seen her around? Ooh, are the words too softly spoken? Does he hear me? Can I force him out louder? Have you? She hang out on One to Third sometimes. Pax says there's a bodega on the corner of 3rd Avenue. I don't move. I nod, but I don't move. No need to hurry. The corner will be there. The block will be there. I know the way. 90 paces due east, then turn right past the burnt out neon signs, back up past the building with the board of windows. Unless there are eyes peering through the cracks. If there are eyes, then you run quickly past until you reach the bicycle shop. Then west, then south, then wherever. As long as you don't move too quickly, you'll get there. I get there. She went down the street. Down the street there's an open lot, figures huddled around a garbage can. Fire palms face fire as if heat could radiate through thin brown arms, as if it's so cold a fire is needed. Beyond them against the wall, a brown coat almost blends with the terracotta bricks. I walk over, my feet heavy on the gravel, stop, lean against the wall. She senses my presence and looks up. There's a gesture, a kind of wave of the arm that stops halfway through its arc and collapses onto itself. How you doing? I ask. The lie. She doesn't answer. Which is the truth? On the bus back to school, the scenes flash before me out of order, and I try to make sense of them. I want to make a list, but the man sitting next to me would never understand. So I try to put the scenes in order in my head. All the while the bus lurches through small New Jersey towns anchored by elks clubs and Florida flag draped firehouses. There's a scene of me lifting Tammy to her feet. She stumbles against me. She stops and turns away. The sound of her retching does things to my stomach. There's a scene on the bus. The driver looks at me and at her. He smells the vomit and doesn't want it on his vehicle. He looks at me, imagines who I might be, and returns to his dreams of driving the bus. There's a scene with my mother. She's making tea. She's putting a thin cover over Temi's shoulders. She's making small bird like movements with her hands. Her lips move wordlessly. There are furrows between her eyes. There's a scene with me in the doorway I am lying. Words of reassurance, necessary words. But the scene that comes back again and again, never in order, is me and Tammy on the staircase. I am half walking her, half carrying her up the stairs. She stops and turns to me, her face incredibly luminous. She tenderly touches my cheek. What does it mean? The bus driver curses. I look up. There's a detour. The labyrinth grows denser. Yes. She looked at me and told me with her eyes to ask again, and I did, and she said yes. Why the reaching for yes with this strange blonde who thinks I'm exotic? Why am I looking to bury myself away from wherever, whatever it is I am from? The days balance more precariously, and I wake in the mornings full of awareness that I do not want the burden of calling home. But I call, forcing the change into the coin slots, dialing the numbers, waiting for the familiar ring. Once, twice, three times. Hello, weary. Hello cheerfully. Oh, hello, small talk. The pitch of her voice is high and she speaks quickly. Things are good. She tells me about the new linoleum in the kitchen. It is light green and yellow. Real kitchen linoleum, she says, with squares of other colors. I think Mondrian. I say that school is going well. She reminds me to study. How is Temi? Better. I'm glad. Spring break. The winter was too cold for my clothes. The spring has not come fast enough. After carefully making promises I will never keep, I announce that I am on my way home. Where is home? The TA throws the question above our heads, hoping it will somehow land on fertile ground. Is it where the heart is or from whence the soul has sprung? This is the question that Singe had to ask himself again and again. I was in Harlem once. Someone named Jeff says his father is an artist for a greeting card company. I liked it. No, you were never in Harlem, I think. I get a ride with two girls who live in Meriden, Connecticut. Having long legs, I sit in the front seat and we have good conversation all the way through Pennsylvania and into New Jersey. The girl in the back falls asleep as the rain starts, and I imagine that the conversation is even better. I'm running to safety without knowing what it is I am running from. The driver asks me if I have a family. The answer is quick to come and warmly couched. It brings a glance and a smile to the driver's face and a description of her brother. He is smart and a good athlete. He collects coins but now has turned away from them. He's maturing, and that takes a smile away and brings A pensive look to a pretty face. Why is Temi so far away from this conversation? Why are her dark eyes like the memory of a memory? We come through the Holland Tunnel and the car stops at Canal Street. The girl in the back is still asleep, and so the kiss goodbye has more promise than it would have had. We are young and wondering about each other. The D train shudders from the station heading uptown. I've taken my laundry and placed it between my knees. There are resolutions to be fulfilled, walls to paint, a memo to myself to admire. The linoleum, yes, and in the laundry bag there's also a present, a set of four cups, saucers, sugar bowl, and creamer from an antique shop. They are of translucent green glass, carefully wrapped in Pennsylvania newspapers. Mama opens the door and sits back to look at me. I stand taller and let her have her moment. I'm glad to see her and reach out to her and pull her to me. Is everything all right? She asks. Everything is wonderful, I say. She looks at me again, giving me the look that says I better be telling the truth. Then she is satisfied that everything with me is wonderful and hugs me again. I think again how glad I am to see her sitting on the side of the table nearest the stove. She turns on the burner under the teapot. I take out the cups and saucers and unwrap them, and she loves them. We talk at each other about the good things in our lives, linoleum books, the diners In Millersville, how Mr. Givens down the street found God at last. How's Temi? Sick in the morning. That's when I'll go and see her. In the morning. Mom and I stay up most of the night. Our voices become quieter as the night wears on. We hold the passing moments on our breaths and let them fall gently into the gathered darkness. There are smiles in her words as we remember each other fondly to ourselves. I see that the strands of gray in her hair have gathered themselves into streaks and hold their own character. I see that her hands are thinner, fragile. We speak a language of family that is not quite real but that we understand. I know for the first time that it is the understanding that matters, not the reality. We speak until my eyes are closed and I wake with a start, the green teacup still cradled in my hands. It is morning. I walk to the Harlem Hospital. There are corridors and guards. The corridor stinks of disinfectant, Doctors in green, nurses in blue, orderlies in white or green patients, humanity shuffling through the halls. A pass will allow me to go to the fourth floor. Room 238. Mama said to tell her that she will come later. She's been coming twice a day. I think about telling her that Mama can't make it today. Room 238 has five beds on one side of the room and five on the other. In the middle of the room a large cart carries what looks to be breakfast. The odor is unpleasant. Searching for Temi, I find her by process of elimination. She is not the heavy woman with the heaving chest. She is not the bone thin white haired woman staring off into space. She's not this one. She's not that one. I go to the far bed and find her lying on her side facing the wall. There's an IV in her arm again. She senses me. How does she do that? Is there some sense she has developed? Some recognition of a kindred spirit, of danger? Hello? I look into her eyes. I remember the Ancient Mariner, he of the glittering eyes. I don't want to look at what is left of her body. Temi struggles to sit up and I touch her shoulder. She moves her eyes away for a moment and then back at me. They plead. They plead and fill with tears. Look at me, she says. Then her lips repeat the words but there's no sound. She's ashamed. I don't want to sit in the bed and I look around for a chair. The chair is white, which I pull next to the bed. She takes my hand and holds it against her breast. It makes me stay close to her, which lets her look into my eyes. She reads me, reads the truth my lips want to deny. Tell Mama not to come anymore, she says. You know I can't, I say. It's too hard. I know it's too hard. It's too hard to see her wasted on the bed. Everything that was to be known was crammed into this small space between us. We've walked together into the maze of our lives and have taken different routes. The beast has come to the reunion. I know it's too hard and she knows it's too hard for me. The words I searched for come the tower within me, the one that's been built with bricks of hope, and the sure knowledge that there are things to do collapses. I wonder if I'll be able to stand. Do you need anything? She shakes her head. Yeah, I was thinking. I hear the words coming from me and listen with interest. That we could all move to Pennsylvania. You know, fresh start and that kind of thing. Maybe we could change you into a Quaker. She doesn't take her eyes off mine, on my hand, from her breast. I can feel her heartbeat, or think I can. After a long time I can't feel it or think I can't. So what is there to understand? That there are different places called home? That they're not easy to find? Or to understand that someone like Temmie might not have a home no matter how hard she looks? I tell Momma I'll look for a place for her in Millersville, a small town. I say, there's not much to do, and you'll probably have to learn to drive at my age. She laughs. Thin laugh lines touch the corners of her eyes. What would I drive? A bicycle? Spring break is over. The funeral is over. The bus ride has ended. I swing off the bus and go into the waiting room. In Millersville. Two guys are calling to another to hurry. The jitneys of the college is about to leave. I run after them. They squeeze into the jitney and I decide to walk. On the way to the dorm, I think about waking up in Harlem the day after the funeral. Mom was up and washing the kitchen floor. It caught me by surprise, and my first instinct was to pull the mop from her hand. Instead, I went into the bathroom and washed. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror, remembering how Tammy looked at me. I stepped closer and looked as hard as I could. There was nothing there that I could recognize that I knew. Frightened, I turned away. Later we had tea in the green cups. Still later I said goodbye.
- [29:20]
Meg Wolitzer
That was Jelani Aladdin reading the Beast is in the Labyrinth by Walter Dean Myers. I'm Meg Wolitzer. We spoke to Aladdin before his reading. Talk a little bit about how this.
- [29:30]
Amy Ryan
Story made you feel and how you decided to approach it.
- [29:32]
Jelani Aladdin
This story is incredibly personal, incredibly deep. Also, it has lots of twists and turns, as a labyrinth does, and so I really approached it by trying to put myself in the shoes of this young man who's experiencing so much for the first time, so much that is unknown, and wandering through the space of his mind, trying to understand it all and trying to digest it all. And so I kind of approached the story from a place of innocence, and even though it's heavy, even though it ends with death, there's still curiosity at every corner of the story, and so I tried to really put my energy into that.
- [30:13]
Amy Ryan
That character is so much the central.
- [30:15]
Meg Wolitzer
Part of the narrative, but you also.
- [30:16]
Amy Ryan
Have to convey this young woman who sort of misplaced herself.
- [30:21]
Meg Wolitzer
How did that work?
- [30:22]
Jelani Aladdin
I like to think of every human as the self we present and the shadow self that no one sees. And I think within all of us, we can understand this person who feels like the world isn't made for them, this sense of isolation, this sense of need for escape. And so I just tap into the.
- [30:40]
Meg Wolitzer
Truth that was Jelani Aladdin backstage at Symphony Space. The metaphor in the title, and echoed steadily in the text is pretty straightforward. But the labyrinth indicated here is much more insidious than it was in the Greek myth. And it isn't just for intrepid heroes looking to slay monsters. It's mapped onto the very ground walked by John, Temmie and every other person in their orbit. And they have to navigate it whether they want to or not. This story is so affecting, very sad, and also a little bit dizzying. And that's because Walter Dean Myers gives us a gratifyingly deep look at his characters. But he also lets us watch them not only from ground level, but also in a way, from above, as they move and live and follow very different paths. Myers writes so well about John standing out in his white college town and Temmie being hard to find on the streets of Harlem. When John goes looking for her, both brother and sister engage in a complicated and wrenching dance of hiding and being right out in the open. When we return, winning the lottery does not mean what you think it means. I'm Meg Wolitzer. You're listening to selected shorts recorded live and performance at Symphony Space in New York City and at other venues nationwide at Capella University.
- [31:54]
Capella University Representative
Learning online doesn't mean learning alone. Recividas a pollo de Personas que se perocupan por tu exito. Un futuro diferente esta macer Cadeloque cres con Capella University. Visit capella. Edu.
- [32:27]
Meg Wolitzer
Welcome back. This is selected Shorts, where our greatest actors transport us through the magic of fiction one short story at a time. I'm Meg Wolitzer. This week we're listening to stories that feature some kind of danger that hides in plain sight. And you know, when listeners find selected shorts for the first time, they do tell us we were hiding in plain sight. If you love our show, we are grateful when you're able to spread the word about us on social media, or better yet, when you start a whisper campaign amongst your friends. The next piece we'll hear is One that turned 75 years old in 2023, Shirley Jackson's the Lottery. It was published in the New Yorker in 1948 and famously provoked hundreds of readers to cancel their subscriptions Reading the story is Amy Ryan. She's a shorts regular whose recent credits include the film Wolfs as well as the series Only Murders in the Building. She's also starred in the Broadway production of Doubt, a play featuring questions about innocence and blame that dovetail nicely with Shirley Jackson's story. And now here's Amy Ryan performing the Lottery.
- [33:44]
Amy Ryan
The Lottery 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 10 o' clock. In some towns there were so many people that the lottery took two days and had to be started on June 26. But in this village, where there were only about 300 people, the whole lottery took less than two hours, so it could begin at 10 o' clock in the morning and still be through in time to allow the villagers to get home from 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 the roundest stones. Bobby and Harry Jones and Dickie Delacroix the villagers pronounce this name. Delacroix 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 amongst 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 and 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 men folk. 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 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 teenage 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. Somers set the black box down on it. The villagers kept their distance, leaving a space between themselves and the stool, and when Mr. Somers said, Some of you fellows want to give me a hand, there was a hesitation before two men, Mr. Martin and his older son Baxter, came forward to hold the box steady on the stool while Mr. Somers 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 found, put into use even before old man Warner, the oldest man in town, was born. Mr. Sommers 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 box that had preceded it, the one that had been constructed when the first people settle 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 any things 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 box securely on the stool until Mr. Somers had stirred the papers thoroughly with his hand. Because so much of the ritual had been forgotten or discarded, Mr. Somers had been successful in having slips of paper substituted for the chips of wood that had been used for generations. And 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 300 and likely to keep growing, it was necessary to use something that would fit more easily into the black box. The night before the lottery, Mr. Summers and Mr. Graves made up the slips of paper and put them into 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. The next morning. The rest of the year the box was put away, sometimes one place, sometimes another. It had spent one year in Mr. Graves barn and another underfoot in the post office, and sometimes it sat 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 lists to make up heads of families, heads of household 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, and some people believed that the official of the lottery used to stand just so when he said it or sang it, and 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 also been 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 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 of this. In his clean white shirt, his blue jeans, one hand resting carelessly on the black box, he seemed very proper and important as he talked interminably to Mr. Graves and Mr. Martins. Just as Mr. Somers 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 the back of the crowd. Colleen 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 were was gone. And then I remembered it was the 27th 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. Let her through, two or three people said in voices just loud enough to be heard across the crowd, Here comes your Mrs. 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. Well, wouldn't have me leave my dishes in the sink, now, would you, Joe? Soft laughter ran through the crowd as the people stirred back into the position after Mrs. Hutchinson's arrival. Well now, Mr. Summers said soberly, guess we better get started, get this over with so we can get 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. Somers turned to look at her wife. Draws for her husband, Mr. Somers said. Don't you have a grown boy to do it for you, Janie? Although Mr. Somers 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. Somers waited with an expression of polite interest while Mrs. Dunbar answered. Horace is not but sixteen yet, Mrs. Dunbar said regretfully. Guess I got a fill in for the old man this year. Right, Mr. 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 goodfellow Jack. Glad to see your mother's got a man to do it. Well, Mr. Somers said, guess that's everyone. Old man Warner make it here? A voice said. 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, humorously and nervously, and then Mr. Adams reached into the black box, 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 Alan, Mr. Somers said. Anderson Bentham. Seems like there's no time at all between lotteries anymore, Mrs. Delacroix said to Mrs. Graves in the back row. Seems like we got through 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. Somers said, and Mrs. Dunbar went sterling steadily to the box while one of the woman said, go on, Janie, and another said, there she goes. Where 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 hands, turning them over and over nervously. Mrs. Dunbar and her two sons stood together, Mrs. Dunbar holding the slip of paper. Harbert 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 snouted. 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 anymore. Live that way for a while. Used to be a saying about lottery in June. Corn be heavy soon. First thing you know, we'll 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. 77th year I've been in the lottery, old man Warner said as he went through the crowd. 77th 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 papers were opened. Suddenly all the women began to speak at once. Who is it? Who's got it? Is it the Dunbars? Is the at the Watsons? And 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 enough time 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. Sommers 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. 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. Summer 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 bills and put them in the box. 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 enough time 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. Somers said. Davy put his hand into the box and laughed. Take just one paper, Mr. Somers 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 12, and her school friends breathed heavily as she went forward, switching her skirt, and took a slip daintily from the box. Bill Jr, Mr. Sommers said, and Billy, his face red and his feet over large, nearly knocked the box over as he got a paper out. Tessie, Mr. Somers 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 last 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 was blank. It's Tessie, Mr. Somers 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. Somers 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. Somers 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. Mrs. 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. Mrs. Dunbar had small stones in both hands and she said, grasping 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 Davy Hutchinson a 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.
- [55:28]
Meg Wolitzer
That was the Lottery by Shirley Jackson, read by Amy Ryan. We spoke with Ryan about reading this powerful classic.
- [55:36]
Amy Ryan
Amy, you are reading the classic here.
- [55:39]
Meg Wolitzer
Was it a story you knew from school?
- [55:42]
Amy Ryan
No. I have to say this is new to me. It's shocking. That might be the one reason I'm glad for a banned book series. It is brought to some to my attention. So I'm reading the Lottery by Shirley Jackson. We're reading it here at Symphony Space under banned books. I kept turning pages like, what's wrong with this? What's wrong with this? I mean, it sets up this idyllic town, this warm summer day, and the people in the village seem to know each other multi generational and it seems like a lovely place to live until you were really encountering it the way that first group of audiences encountered it. Yeah, I guess so. The ending shocked me. It shocked me twice. It shocked me because I didn't see it coming. One, the brutality of it. And two, oh my gosh, 1948. She was quite ahead of the time or brave to write about this. You know, just. And of course this is to some extent probably something with a political context. Does it feel important today to still.
- [56:43]
Meg Wolitzer
Be offering something like this up?
- [56:45]
Amy Ryan
Oh, of course. Of course it does. I mean, I'm much happier to ban guns than to ban words on a page.
- [56:54]
Meg Wolitzer
That was Amy Ryan backstage at Symphony Space. Wow. If you've not heard that before, maybe you can see why a story like the Lottery has been so widely read and so memorable for those who have read it. And wow, hearing it again is like old Homeworld week. I am back in junior high school feeling sleepy because it's not even 9am slouching at my desk, thinking only about myself and my friends and the party that's going to be held in someone's furnished basement that weekend and whether I will get a part in the school play, invariably the Music man, when all of a sudden we're reading this story in English class and everything I thought I knew about adulthood or the future was turned on its head and I was genuine, genuinely frightened and wide awake in a whole new way. Yes, some do consider the stories we heard in this hour to be dangerous. Shirley Jackson's work has been banned, as have the novels of Walter Dean Myers. Maybe they exposed something about ourselves we weren't prepared to look at. Or maybe authors like Jackson and Myers are just incredibly adept at seeing those things that hide in plain sight. I'm Meg Wolitzer. Thanks for joining me for Selected Shorts. Selected Shorts is produced by Jennifer Brennan and Sarah Montague. Our team includes Matthew Love, Drew Richardson, Mary Shimkin, Vivienne Woodward, and Magdalene Robleski. The readings are recorded by Miles B. Smith. Our theme music is David Peterson's that's the Deal, performed by the Dierdorf Peterson Group. Selected Shorts is supported by the Dungannon Foundation. This program is also made possible with public funds from the New York State Council on the Arts, with the support of Governor Kathy Hochul and the New York State Legislature. Selected Shorts is produced and distributed by Symphony Space.
- [59:03]
Capella University Representative
When you're earning your degree, the right support can make a difference. That's why at Capella University, learning online doesn't mean learning alone. You'll get support from people who care about your success, including your dedicated academic coach who's available every step of the way. Whether you're working toward a bachelor's, master's, master's or doctoral degree, you can learn confidently, knowing you'll get la yuda quenecesitas un futuro diferente esta mas cerca de lo que tres con Capella University. Learn more at Capella Eduardo.