Lottery by Patricia Wood Page B

the check nailed to the wall. His face turns white. Big drops of sweat roll off his forehead. I have to help him sit down on my chair by the door.
    His voice comes out hoarse. “Shit! You’re kidding, right? Shit! You know what to do? Shit! You have to get some financial advice. Is that the only check they gave you? I mean did they give you a smaller one? They did, didn’t they? Can I see it? You’d better put it right in the bank. Shit! We have to take him to the bank, Keith!” Gary has never said that many S-words in a row. His eyebrows are moving and he looks sick. Maybe he has indigestion or a heart attack. People can die from a heart attack.
    “You need a Tums, Gary? I got a Tums.” I always carried them for Gram. “You want Pepto-Bismol? I got Pepto-Bismol.” I have everything. Even Listerine and Ex-Lax. “You need Ex-Lax, Gary?”
    My big check is fixed high on the wall behind Gram’s couch. The little one that Margery gave me is folded up tight in my wallet. Gary puts his head between his knees and takes deep breaths. Keith has to help me fill out my deposit slip there are so many zeros. I write big, but very neatly. Gram taught me. I have to make the zeros skinny so all of them fit inside the lines.
    Gary refuses to ride in Yo, so we ride to Everett Federal in his Jeep Cherokee. Keith and Gary are in front and I sit by myself in the back. I feel important like I am a sports guy just like Tiger Woods, except I am not brown and I do not know how to play golf.
    I like going to the bank. I usually walk and it takes twenty minutes. It is cool to ride. They know me at my bank. Every second Tuesday I deposit my check from Holsted’s in Everett Federal. Judy, the teller, always smiles and gives me a red-and-white-striped mint along with my receipt. A receipt is a piece of paper that says the bank has your money. Gary gets a parking place right in front, which is very lucky. I watch cars circling around and around trying to find an empty space. Of course, if we had Yo, we could park in handicapped because Yo is a disabled vehicle. That is what Keith says.
    The lobby of my bank is crowded, but we do not have to stand in line. Gary whispers to a teller and we cut right to the front. A lady I do not know leads us through a door. I look for Judy behind the counter, but I do not see her.
    Maybe this is her day off.
    People talk to each other and point. The lady, whose chest tag says Norma, gives me five mints. She takes us into a big room with a brown leather couch. It is soft and fluffy, but I am too nervous to bounce. We wait only a few minutes for Mr. Jordan. He is the president of the bank and I am just a little bit afraid.
    I wonder if he is related to Michael Jordan.
    When he shakes my hand, I have to look up at his face. I think he is just like the basketball player. He is tall, but does not wear Nikes. He has a huge stomach and curly blond hair like Mrs. Callahan’s poodle Sparky. Mrs. Callahan lived next door to us before she went to a nursing home. After that, Gram died and I moved away. I do not know what happened to Sparky.
    “Well, Mr. Crandall.” Mr. Jordan sits down in his chair and leans back. He makes a steeple with his fingers and says, “Well . . . Well . . . Well . . .” over and over.
    I sit in a chair across, and Keith and Gary are on either side of me. They are like bodyguards from that movie with the gangsters. This is so cool. I try to decide whether the bank president looks more like a priest or a spider. He smiles like Father Jacob at St. Augustine’s. Like he knows me very well. It is spooky. He talks about what the bank can do with all my money. When he uncrosses his legs, I think he looks like a spider.
    “We have some excellent and fiscally responsible ideas that would be to your benefit. I can recommend that you—” he says, but does not get to finish because Keith stands up.
    “He’s not interested,” Keith interrupts.
    He tells Mr. Jordan that I am considering my options. I