CHARLES by Shirley Jackson

The day my son Laurie started kindergarten he renounced corduroy overalls with
bibs and began wearing blue jeans with a belt; I watched him go off the first morning
with the older girl next door, seeing clearly that an era of my life was ended, my sweetvoiced nursery-school tot replaced by a long-trousered, swaggering character who forgot to stop at the corner and wave good-bye to me.

He came running home the same way, the front door slamming open, his cap on
the floor, and the voice suddenly become raucous shouting, “Isn’t anybody here?”

At lunch he spoke insolently to his father, spilled his baby sister’s milk, and
remarked that his teacher said we were not to take the name of the Lord in vain.

“How was school today?” I asked, elaborately casual.

“All right,” he said.

“Did you learn anything?” his father asked.

Laurie regarded his father coldly. “I didn’t learn nothing,” he said.

“Anything,” I said. “Didn’t lean anything.”

“The teacher spanked a boy, though,” Laurie said, addressing his bread and butter.
“For being fresh,” he added, with his mouth full.

“What did he do?” I asked. “Who was it?”

Laurie thought. “It was Charles,” he said. “He was fresh. The teacher spanked
him and made him stand in the corner. He was awfully fresh.”

“What did he do?” I asked again, but Laurie slid off his chair, took a cookie, and
left, while his father was still saying, “See here, young man.”

The next day Laurie remarked at lunch, as soon as he sat down, “Well, Charles
was bad again today.” He grinned enormously and said, “Today Charles hit the teacher.”

“Good heavens,” I said, mindful of the Lord’s name, “I suppose he got spanked

“He sure did,” Laurie said. “Look up,” he said to his father.

“What?” his father said, looking up.

“Look down,” Laurie said. “Look at my thumb. Gee, you’re dumb.” He began
to laugh insanely.

“Why did Charles hit the teacher?” I asked quickly.

“Because she tried to make him color with red crayons,” Laurie said. “Charles
wanted to color with green crayons so he hit the teacher and she spanked him and said
nobody play with Charles but everybody did.”

The third day—it was a Wednesday of the first week—Charles bounced a see-saw
on to the head of a little girl and made her bleed, and the teacher made him stay inside all
during recess. Thursday Charles had to stand in a corner during story-time because he
kept pounding his feet on the floor. Friday Charles was deprived of black-board
privileges because he threw chalk.

On Saturday I remarked to my husband, “Do you think kindergarten is too
unsettling for Laurie? All this toughness and bad grammar, and this Charles boy sounds
like such a bad influence.”

“It’ll be alright,” my husband said reassuringly. “Bound to be people like Charles
in the world. Might as well meet them now as later.”

On Monday Laurie came home late, full of news. “Charles,” he shouted as he
came up the hill; I was waiting anxiously on the front steps. “Charles,” Laurie yelled all
the way up the hill, “Charles was bad again.”

“Come right in,” I said, as soon as he came close enough. “Lunch is waiting.”

“You know what Charles did?” he demanded following me through the door.

“Charles yelled so in school they sent a boy in from first grade to tell the teacher she had to make Charles keep quiet, and so Charles had to stay after school. And so all the
children stayed to watch him.

“What did he do?” I asked.

“He just sat there,” Laurie said, climbing into his chair at the table. “Hi, Pop,
y’old dust mop.”

“Charles had to stay after school today,” I told my husband. “Everyone stayed
with him.”

“What does this Charles look like?” my husband asked Laurie. “What’s his other

“He’s bigger than me,” Laurie said. “And he doesn’t have any rubbers and he
doesn’t wear a jacket.”

Monday night was the first Parent-Teachers meeting, and only the fact that the
baby had a cold kept me from going; I wanted passionately to meet Charles’s mother. On
Tuesday Laurie remarked suddenly, “Our teacher had a friend come to see her in school

“Charles’s mother?” my husband and I asked simultaneously.

“Naaah,” Laurie said scornfully. “It was a man who came and made us do
exercises, we had to touch our toes. Look.” He climbed down from his chair and
squatted down and touched his toes. “Like this,” he said. He got solemnly back into his
chair and said, picking up his fork, “Charles didn’t even do exercises.”

“That’s fine,” I said heartily. “Didn’t Charles want to do exercises?”

“Naaah,” Laurie said. “Charles was so fresh to the teacher’s friend he wasn’t let
do exercises.”

“Fresh again?” I said.

“He kicked the teacher’s friend,” Laurie said. “The teacher’s friend just told
Charles to touch his toes like I just did and Charles kicked him.

“What are they going to do about Charles, do you suppose?” Laurie’s father
asked him.

Laurie shrugged elaborately. “Throw him out of school, I guess,” he said.

Wednesday and Thursday were routine; Charles yelled during story hour and hit a
boy in the stomach and made him cry. On Friday Charles stayed after school again and
so did all the other children.

With the third week of kindergarten Charles was an institution in our family; the
baby was being a Charles when she cried all afternoon; Laurie did a Charles when he
filled his wagon full of mud and pulled it through the kitchen; even my husband, when he
caught his elbow in the telephone cord and pulled the telephone and a bowl of flowers off
the table, said, after the first minute, “Looks like Charles.”

During the third and fourth weeks it looked like a reformation in Charles; Laurie
reported grimly at lunch on Thursday of the third week, “Charles was so good today the
teacher gave him an apple.”

“What?” I said, and my husband added warily, “You mean Charles?”

“Charles,” Laurie said. “He gave the crayons around and he picked up the books
afterward and the teacher said he was her helper.”

“What happened?” I asked incredulously.

“He was her helper, that’s all,” Laurie said, and shrugged.

“Can this be true about Charles?” I asked my husband that night. “Can something
like this happen?”

“Wait and see,” my husband said cynically. “When you’ve got a Charles to deal
with, this may mean he’s only plotting.” He seemed to be wrong. For over a week
Charles was the teacher’s helper; each day he handed things out and he picked things up;
no one had to stay after school.

“The PTA meeting’s next week again,” I told my husband one evening. “I’m
going to find Charles’s mother there.”

“Ask her what happened to Charles,” my husband said. “I’d like to know.”

“I’d like to know myself,” I said.

On Friday of that week things were back to normal. “You know what Charles did
today?” Laurie demanded at the lunch table, in a voice slightly awed. “He told a little
girl to say a word and she said it and the teacher washed her mouth out with soap and
Charles laughed.”

“What word?” his father asked unwisely, and Laurie said, “I’ll have to whisper it
to you, it’s so bad.” He got down off his chair and went around to his father. His father
bent his head down and Laurie whispered joyfully. His father’s eyes widened.

“Did Charles tell the little girls to say that?” he asked respectfully.

“She said it twice,” Laurie said. “Charles told her to say it twice.”

“What happened to Charles?” my husband asked.

“Nothing,” Laurie said. “He was passing out the crayons.”

Monday morning Charles abandoned the little girl and said the evil word himself
three or four times, getting his mouth washed out with soap each time. He also threw

My husband came to the door with me that evening as I set out for the PTA
meeting. “Invite her over for a cup of tea after the meeting,” he said. “I want to get a
look at her.”

“If only she’s there.” I said prayerfully.

“She’ll be there,” my husband said. “I don’t see how they could hold a PTA
meeting without Charles’s mother.”

At the meeting I sat restlessly, scanning each comfortable matronly face, trying to
determine which one hid the secret of Charles. None of them looked to me haggard
enough. No one stood up in the meeting and apologized for the way her son had been
acting. No one mentioned Charles.

After the meeting I identified and sought out Laurie’s kindergarten teacher. She
had a plate with a cup of tea and a piece of chocolate cake; I had a plate with a cup of tea
and a piece of marshmallow cake. We maneuvered up to one another cautiously, and

“I’ve been so anxious to meet you,” I said. “I’m Laurie’s mother.”

“We’re all so interested in Laurie,” she said.

“Well, he certainly likes kindergarten,” I said. “He talks about it all the time.”

“We had a little trouble adjusting, the first week or so,” she said primly, “but now
he’s a fine helper. With occasional lapses, of course.”

“Laurie usually adjusts very quickly,” I said. “I suppose this time it’s Charles’s


“Yes,” I said, laughing, “you must have your hands full in that kindergarten, with

“Charles?” she said. “We don’t have any Charles in the kindergarten.”

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 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 Continue reading The Lottery