The Lottery Rose: Chapters 4–7

“Yes, Sister,” he said meekly and with so mild a face that she looked relieved.

Then, of course, I’ve wondered why you and Timothy might not cultivate a flower garden together—a big plot to brighten up things in the midst of the boys’ vegetable gardens.

Only that morning he and Timothy had glimpsed a stout, brown woman busily wiping down some windows while an even stouter and younger woman sprawled in one of the lawn chairs and watched.

“Well, are you a peddler, young man? Are you selling rosebushes?” the man asked as soon as Georgie stepped inside.

Georgie rested his awkward parcel on the terrazzo floor of the porch.

“What makes you say that—don’t he grow right?”
The grandfather ran his hand across the child’s blond hair. His face was grave when he looked up at Georgie again.

“Sure. Sure, I’ll leave you alone.” Timothy shrugged indifferently.

Georgie leaned his head upon his knees and moaned softly in his anguish.

He allowed her to help him off with his shirt, then he stood stolidly against the wall, trying to hide the wounds on his back.

“Nobody can look at my back ’cept in a hospital,” he told her grimly. “Go away. I can get ready for bed by myself.”

He lay awake, wide-eyed and frightened at what he knew he must do, but determined and unyielding.

The locks were simple—a great iron key had to be turned and then a sliding bolt could be moved back easily if one got it in its proper groove.

The latch clicked as the gate swung back into place, and Georgie cowered for a while, waiting to see if anyone had heard.

She came up to Sister Dolores in the foyer and I heard her say she wanted to see Sister Mary Angela right away.

“Why do you suppose she’d want to be throwin’ your bush around?” he asked.
“I planted it in her garden—last night,” Georgie said wretchedly.

Georgie found his forlorn bush lying on the playground and he gathered it to him as he had when the policeman rescued it from the janitor’s trash barrels.

When he approached it, he saw to his dismay that a dozen or more delicate lilies, just ready to bloom, had been broken or crushed by his feet the night before, that some of the bulbs were lying above ground and exposed to the hot sunlight.

When he approached it, he saw to his dismay that a dozen or more delicate lilies, just ready to bloom, had been broken or crushed by his feet the night before, that some of the bulbs were lying above ground and exposed to the hot sunlight.

Remorsefully, he knelt and lifted plant after broken plant, trying to replace them in their bed, pressing sand firmly about them and digging holes in which he buried the bulbs that had been upturned.

Understand this, Georgie, once and for all, if I ever find that bush here again, I’ll pull it up and throw it in the incinerator.

It was a purple and red mass of swollen flesh, welts and knots imposed one upon another, some of them beginning to heal, some oozing the yellowish liquid of infection.

She stared in disbelief for several seconds, then she leaned down and touched the mutilated flesh.

Georgie’s fever ran high for five full days and during most of that time he tossed about in delirium, unaware of the need to protect the unhealed wounds on his back.

With the resultant stinging which spread all over his back and buttocks, a picture of Steve materialized in his brain and filled him with terror.

He saw it in his dreams, thrown like trash beside the calla lilies and scorned by proud flowers that turned into jeering boys. “Hello, Ugly,” they whispered at first so that none of the Sisters could hear them.

The voices then grew so loud at times that Georgie went wild with the din they set up in his brain, and as if she wanted to add to his distress, a woman with blazing eyes and long yellow whips of hair over her shoulders advanced toward the rosebush.

On the sixth day his fever subsided and he seemed much better until he recognized Molly bending over his bed.

“Nobody here is a old liar—Except her,” he added stubbornly.

They walked away together and Georgie lay, uneasy and wondering, but less agitated.

He lay in the clean white bed, relaxed and contented, glad to be alone and able to have a waking dream of what it would be like when he could be close to his bush again.

Sister Mary Angela raised her eyes to the ceiling. “I think we are not yet attuned to Thy Presence,” she said quietly.
Her voice was very low, but Georgie heard her. “What did them words mean?” he asked.
“In a way, I was just telling God that I’m sorry you can’t forgive Mrs. Harper.”

“Ever’thing was mean,” he answered, immediately subdued.

There were more words: inattentive, destructive, filthy, incorrigible—She studied his face and wondered what words might have been on his record if he had not been half-starved all his life, if he had never known what it was like to be beaten regularly and to live in constant terror.

“Once when I was a cattle-rustler out in Colorado—” That was a lie very different from the one which claimed that Georgie had not set fire to a pile of papers under Miss Cressman’s car.

“What’s so super about goin’ into town in the station wagon?” Timothy asked scornfully. “Nuts to you, Terry.”

He rose quietly from his mattress and stood listening intently.

When he reached the rosebush at last, he found it tall and still a little frail-looking, but beautiful in his eyes.

A scampering lizard ran over his bare toes and a sudden flutter in a nearby cluster of flowers suggested that a snake might be out foraging for an early breakfast.

“I’ll tell on you,” it rasped over and over in such strident tones that a whispering and then a chattering commenced all through the garden, as dozens of birds woke up early.

“I’ll tell on you,” it rasped over and over in such strident tones that a whispering and then a chattering commenced all through the garden, as dozens of birds woke up early.