The Handmaid's Tale

Margaret Atwood

I Night

1

We  slept  in  what  had  once  been  the  gymnasium.  The  floor  was  of varnished wood, with stripes and circles painted on it, for the games that  were  formerly  played  there;  the  hoops  for  the  basketball  nets were still in place, though the nets were gone. A balcony ran around the room, for the spectators, and I thought I could smell, faintly like an  afterimage,  the  pungent  scent  of  sweat,  shot  through  with  the sweet  taint  of  chewing  gum  and  perfume  from  the  watching  girls, felt-skirted  as I knew from pictures, later in miniskirts,  then pants, then  in  one  earring,  spiky  green-streaked  hair.  Dances  would  have been held there; themusic lingered, a palimpsest of unheard sound, style upon style, an undercurrent of drums, a forlorn wail, garlands made  of  tissue-paper  flowers,  cardboard  devils,  a  revolving  ball  of mirrors, powdering the dancers with a snow of light.

There  was  old  sex  in  the  room  and  loneliness,  and  expectation,  of something without a shape or name. I remember that yearning, for something that was always about to happen and was never the same as the hands that were on us there and then, in the small of the back, or  out  back,  in  the  parking  lot,  or  in  the  television  room  with  the sound turned down and only the pictures flickering over lifting flesh. We  yearned  for  the  future.  How  did  we  learn  it,  that  talent  for insatiability?   It   was   in   the   air;   and   it   was   still   in   the   air,   an after-thought, as we tried to sleep, in the army cots that had been set

up  in  rows,  with  spaces  between  so  we  could  not  talk.  We  had flannelette sheets, like children's, and army-issue blankets, old ones that still said U.S. We folded our clothes neatly and laid them on the stools at the ends of the beds. The lights were turned down but not out. Aunt Sara and Aunt Elizabeth patrolled; they had electric cattle prods slung on thongs from their leather belts.

No guns though, even they could not be trustedwith guns. Guns were for the guards, specially picked from the Angels. The guards weren't allowed  inside  the  building  except  when  called,  and  we  weren't allowed out, except for our walks, twice daily, two by two around the football field, which was enclosed now by a chain-link fence topped with barbed wire. The Angels stood outside it with their backs to us. They were objects of fear to us, but of something else as well. If only they would look. If only we could talk to them. Something could be exchanged,we thought, some deal made, some tradeoff, we still had our bodies. That was our fantasy.

We learned to whisper almost without sound. In the semi-darkness we could stretch out our arms, when the Aunts weren't looking, and touch  each  other's  hands  across  space.  We  learned  to  lip-read,  our heads  flat  on  the  beds,  turned  sideways,  watching  each  other's mouths.  In  this  way  we  exchanged  names,  from  bed  to  bed:  Alma. Janine. Dolores. Moira. June.

II Shopping

^

2

A chair, a table, a lamp. Above, on the white ceiling, a relief ornament in  the  shape  of  a  wreath,  and  in  the  center  of  it  a  blank  space, plastered over, like the place in a face where the eye has been taken out.  There  must  have  been  a  chandelier,  once.  They've  removed anything you could tie a rope to.

A  window,  two  white  curtains.  Under  the  window,  a  window  seat with  a  little  cushion.  When  the  window  is  partly  openit  only  opens partlythe air can come in and make the curtains move. I can sit in the chair,or on the window seat, hands folded, and watch this. Sunlight comes  in  through  the  window  too,  ami  falls  on  the  floor,  which  is made  of  wood,  in  narrow  strips,  highly  polished.  I  can  smell  the polish.  There's  a  rug  on  the  floor,  oval,  of  braided  rags.  This  is  the kind  of  touch  they  like:  folk  art,  archaic,  made  by  women,  in  their spare  time,   from  things   that  have   no   further  use.  A   return  to traditional values. Waste not want not. I am not being wasted. Why do 1 want?

On  the  wall  above  the  chair,  a picture,  framed  but  with  no  glass: a print  of  flowers,  blue  irises,  watercolor.  Flowers  are  still  allowed, Does each of us have the same print, the same chair, the same while curtains, I wonder? Government issue?

Think of it as being in the army, said Aunt Lydia.

A  bed. Single, mattress medium-hard, covered  with a flocked  white spread. Nothing takes place in the bed but sleep; or no sleep. I try not to think too much. Like other things now, thought must be rationed. There's a lot that doesn't bear thinking about. Thinking can hurt your chances, and I intend to last. I know why there is no glass, in front of the watercolor picture of blue irises, and why the window opens only partly  and  why  the  glass in  it  is  shatterproof.  It  isn't  running  away they're  afraid  of.  Wewouldn't  get  far.  It's  those  other  escapes,  the ones you can open in yourself, given a cutting edge.

So. Apart from these details, this could be a college guest room, for the  less  distinguished  visitors;  or  a  room  in  a  rooming  house,  of former  times,  for  ladies  in  reduced  circumstances.  That  is  what  we are now. The circumstances have been reduced; for those of us who still have circumstances.

But  a  chair,  sunlight,  flowers:  these  are  not  to  be  dismissed.  I  am

alive, I live, I breathe, I put my hand out, unfolded, into the sunlight. Where I am is not a prison but a privilege, as Aunt Lydia said, who was in love with either/or.

The  bell  that  measures  time  is  ringing.  Time  here  is  measured  by bells,  as  once  in  nunneries.  As  in  a  nunnery  too,  there  are  few mirrors.

I get up out of the chair, advance my feet into the sunlight, in their red shoes, flat-heeled to save the spine and not for dancing. The red gloves are lying on the bed. I pick them up, pull them onto my hands, finger by finger. Everything except the wings around my face is red: the  color  of  blood,  which  defines  us.  The  skirt  is  ankle-length,  full, gathered to a flat yoke that extends over the breasts, the sleeves are full.  The  white  wings  too  are  prescribed  issue;  they  are  to  keep  us from seeing, but also from being seen. I never looked good in red, it's not my color. I pick up the shopping basket, put it over my arm.

The door of the roomnot my room, I refuse to say myis not locked. In fact it doesn't shut properly. I go out into the polished hallway,which has  a  runner down  the  center,  dusty  pink.  Like  a  path  through  the forest, like a carpet for royalty, it shows me the way.

The carpet bends and goes down the front staircase and I go with it, one  hand  on  the  banister,  once  a  tree,  turned  in  another  century, rubbed to a warm gloss. Late Victorian, the house is, a family house, built  for  a  large  rich  family.  There's  a  grandfather  clock  in  the hallway,  which  doles  out  time,  and  then  the  door  to  the  motherly front  sitting  room,  with  its flesh  tones  and  hints.  A  sitting room  in which I never sit, but stand or kneel only. At the end of the hallway, above the front door, is a fanlight of colored glass: flowers, red and blue.

There remains a mirror, on the hall wall. If I turn my head so that the white wings framing my face direct my vision towards it, I can see it as I go down the stairs, round, convex, a pier glass, like the eye of a

fish, and myself in it like a distorted shadow, a parody of something, some fairy-tale figure in a red cloak, descending towards a moment of carelessness that is the same as danger. A Sister, dipped in blood. At  the  bottom  of  the  stairs  there's  a  hat-and-umbrella  stand,  the bentwood kind, long rounded rungs of wood curving gently up into hooks  shaped  like  the  opening  fronds  of  a  fern.  There  are  several umbrellas        in          it:          black,   for        the            Commander,    blue,     for        the Commander's Wife, and the one assigned to me, which is red. I leave the red umbrella where it is, because I know from the window that the day is sunny. I wonder whether or notthe Commander's Wile-is in the sitting room. She doesn't always sit. Sometimes 1 can hear her pacing back and forth, a heavy step and then a light one, anil the soft tap of her cane on the dusty-rose carpet.

I walk along the hallway, past the sitting room door and the door that leads into the dining room, and open the door at the end of the hall and  go  through  into  the  kitchen.  Here  the  smell  is  no  longer  of furniture polish. Rita is in here, standing at the kitchen table, which has a top of chipped white enamel. She's in her usual Martha's dress, which  is  dull  green,  like  a  surgeon's  gown  of  the  time  before.  The dress is much like mine in shape, long and concealing, but with a bib apron over it and without the white wings and the veil. She puts on the veilto go outside, but nobody much cares who sees the face of a Martha. Her sleeves are rolled in the elbow, showing her brown arms. She's making bread, thowing the loaves for the final brief kneading and then the shaping.

Rita  sees  me  and  nods,  whether  in  greeting  or  in  simple  acknowl edgment of my presence it's hard to say, and wipes her floury hands on  her  apron  and  rummages  in  the  kitchen  drawer  for  the  token book.  Frowning, she tears  out  three  tokens and  hands them to  me. Her  face  might  be  kindly  if  she  would  smile.  But  the  frown  isn't personal: it's the red dress she disapproves of, and what it stands for.

She thinks I may be catching, like a disease or any form of bad luck. Sometimes I listen outside closed doors, a thing I never would have done in the time before. I don't listen long, because I don't want to be caught  doing  it.  Once,  though,  I  heard  Rita  say  to  Cora  I  hat  she wouldn't debase herself like that.

Nobody   asking   you,   Cora   said.   Anyways,   what   could   you   do, supposing?

Go to the Colonies, Rita said. They have the choice.

With  the  Unwomen, and  starve  to  death and  Lord  knows  what all?

said Cora. Catch you.

They were shelling peas; even through the almost-closed door I could hear  the  light  clink  of  the  hard  peas  falling  into  the  metal  howl.  I heard Rita, a grunt or a sigh, of protest or agreement.

Anyways,  they're  doing  it  for  us  all,  said  Cora,  or  so  they  say.  If  I hadn't of got my tubes tied, it could of been me, say I was ten years younger. It's not that bad. It's not what you'd call hard work.

Better her than me, Rita said, and I opened the door. Their faces were the  way  women's  faces  are  when  they've  been  talking  about  you behind your back and they think you've heard: embarrassed, but also a  little  defiant,  as  if  it  were  their  right.  That  day,  Cora  was  more pleasant to me than usual, Rita more surly.

Today, despite Rita's closed face and pressed lips, I would like to stay here, in the kitchen. Cora might come in, from somewhere else in the house,  carrying  her  bottle  of  lemon  oil  and  her  duster,  and  Rita would make coffeein the houses of the Commanders there is still real coffeeand we would sit at Rita's kitchen table, which is not Rita's any more  than  my  table  is  mine,  and  we  would  talk,  about  aches  and pains, illnesses, our feet, our backs, all the different kinds of mischief that our bodies, like unruly children, can get into. We would nod our heads  as  punctuation  to  each  other's  voices,  signaling  that  yes,  we know all about it. We would exchange remedies and try to outdo each

other   in   the   recital   of   our   physical   miseries;   gently   we   would complain, our voices soft and minor key and mournful as pigeons in the  eaves  troughs.  /  know  what  you  mean,  we'd  say.  Or,  a  quaint expression you sometimes hear, still, from older people: / hear where you're coming from, as if the voice itself were a traveler, arriving from a distant place. Which it would be, which it is.

How I used to despise such talk. Now I long for it. At least it was talk. An exchange, of sorts.

Or  we  would  gossip.  The  Marthas  know  things,  they  talk  among themselves,  passing  the  unofficial  news  from  house  to  house.  Like me, they listen at doors, no doubt, and see things even with their eyes averted.  I've  heard  them  at  it  sometimes,  caught  whiffs  of  their private  conversations.  Stillborn,  it  was.  Or,  Stabbed  her  with  a knitting needle, right in the belly. Jealousy, it must have been, eating her up. Or, tantalizingly, It was toilet cleaner she used. Worked like a charm, though you'd think he'd of tasted it. Must've been that drunk; but they found her out all right.

Or I would help Rita make the bread, sinking my hands into that soft resistant  warmth  which  is  so  much  like  flesh.  I  hunger  to  touch something, other than cloth or wood. I hunger to commit the act of touch.

But  even  if I  were  to  ask,  even  if  I  were  to violate  decorum  to  that extent, Rita would not allow it. She would he too alr?d. T Marthas are not supposed to fraternize with us.

Fraternize means to behave like a brother. Luke told me that. He said there  was  no  corresponding  word  thathat  meant  to  behave  like  a sister. Sororize, it would have to be, he said. From the Latin. He liked knowing   about   such   details.   The   derivations   of   words,   curious usages. I used to tease him about being pedantic,

I take the tokens from Rita's outstretched hand. They have pictures on them, of the things they can be exchanged for tweleve eggs, a piece

of cheese, a brown thing that's supposed to be a steak. I place them in the zippered pocket in my sleeve, where 1 keep my pass.

"Tell them fresh, for the eggs," she any. "Not like the last time. And a chicken,  tell  them,  not  a  hen.  Tell  them  who  It's  for  and  then  they won't mess around."

"All right," I say. I don't smile. Why tempt her to friendship?

3

I go out by the back door, into the garden, which is large and tidy: a lawn in the middle, a willow, weeping catkins; around the edges, the flower borders, in which the daffodils are now fading and the tulips are opening their cups, spilling out color. The tulips are red, a darker crimson towards the stem, as if they have been cut and are beginning to heal there.

This  garden  is  the  domain  of  the  Commander's  Wife.  Looking  out through my shatterproof window I've often seen her in it, her knees on a cushion, a light blue veil thrown over her wide gardening hat, a basket at her side with shears in it and pieces of string for lying the flowers into place. A Guardian detailed to the Commander does the heavy  digging;  the  Commander's  Wife  directs,  pointing  with  her stick. Many of the Wives have such gardens, it's something for them to order and maintain and care for.

1 once had a garden. I can remember the smell of the turned earth, the plump shapes of bulbs held in the hands, fullness, the dry rustle of seeds through the fingers. Time could pass more swiftly thai way. Sometimes the Commander's Wife has a chair brought out, and just sits in it, in her garden. From a distance it looks like peace.

She isn't here now, and I start to wonder where she is: I don't like to come   upon   the   Commander's   Wife   unexpectedly.   Perhaps   she's sewing,  in  the  sitting  room,  with  her  left  foot  on  the  footstool, because  of  her  arthritis.  Or  knitting  scarves,  for  the  Angels  at  the front  lines.  I  can  hardly  believe  the  Angels  have  a  need  for  such

scarves;  anyway,  the  ones  made  by  the  Commander's  Wife  are  too elaborate. She doesn't bother with the cross-and-star pattern used by many of the other Wives, it's not a challenge. Fir trees march across the ends of her scarves, or eagles, or stiff humanoid figures, boy and girl, boy and girl. They aren't scarves for grown men but for children. Sometimes I think these scarves aren't sent to the Angels at all, but unraveled and turned back into balls of yarn, to be knitted again in their turn. Maybe it's just something to keep the Wives busy, to give them  a  sense  of  purpose.  But  I  envy  the  Commander's  Wife  her knitting. It's good to have small goals that can be easily attained. What does she envy me?

She doesn't speak to me, unless she can't avoid it. I am a reproach to her; and a necessity.

We stood face to face for the first time five weeks ago, when I arrived at this posting. The Guardian from the previous pos?g brought me to the front door. On first days we are permitted front doors, but after that we're supposed to use the back. Things haven't settled down, it's too soon, everyone is unsure about our exact status. After a while it will be either all from doors or all back.

Aunt Lydia said she was lobbying for the front. Your in a position of honor, she said.

The Guardianrang the doorbell for me, but before there was time for someone  to  hear  and  walk  quickly  to  answer,  the  door  opened inward.  She  must  have  been  waiting  behind  it,  I  was  expecting  a Martha,  but   it  was   her  instead,  in  her  long  powder-blue  robe, unmistakable.

So, you're the new one, she said. She didn't step aside to let me in, she  just  stood  there  in  the  doorway,  blocking  the  entrance.  She wanted  me  to  feel  that  I  could  not  come  into  the  house  unless  she said so. There is push and shove, these days, over suchtoeholds.

Yes, I said.

Leave  it  on  the  porch.  She  said  this  to  the  Guardian,  who  was carrying  my  bag.  The  bag  was  red  vinyl  and  not  large.  There  was another  bag,  with  the  winter  cloak  and  heavier  dresses,  but  that would be coming later.

The Guardian set down the bag and saluted  her. Then I could hear his footsteps behind me, going back down the walk, and the click of the front gate, and I felt as if a protective arm were being withdrawn. The threshold of a new house is a lonely place.

She waited until the car started up and pulled away. I wasn't looking at her face, but at the part of her I could see with my head lowered: her blue waist, thickened, her left hand on the ivory head of her cane, the   large   diamonds   on   the   ring   finger,   which   must   once   have beenfine  and  was  still  finely  kept,  the  fingernail  at  the  end  of  the knuckly  finger  filed  to  a  gentle  curving  point.  It  was  like  an  ironic smile, on that finger; like something mocking her.

You might as well come in, she said. She turned her back on me and limped down the hall. Shut the door behind you.

I lifted my red bag inside, as she'd no doubt intended, then closed the door. I didn't say anything to her. Aunt Lydia said it was best not to speak unless they asked you a direct question. Try to think of it from their point of view, she said, her hands clasped and wrung together, her nervous pleading smile. It isn't easy for them.

In  here,  said  the  Commander's  Wife.  When  I  went  into  the  sitting room she was already in her chair, her left foot on the footstool, with its petit point cushion, roses in a basket. Her knitting was on the floor beside the chair, the needles stuck through it.

I stood in front of her, hands folded. So, she said. She had a cigarette, and she put it between her lips and gripped it there while she lit it. Her lips were thin, held that way, with the small vertical lines around them you used to see in advertisements for lip cosmetics. The lighter was  ivory-colored.  The  cigarettes  must  have  come  from  the  black

market, I thought, and this gave me hope. Even now that there is no real  money  anymore,  there's  still  a  black  market.  There's  always  a black market,  there's always something that  can be exchanged.  She then was a woman who might bend the rules. But what did I have, to trade?

I looked at the cigarette with longing. For me, like liquor and coffee, they are forbidden.

So old what's-his-face didn't work out, she said. No, ma'am, I said.

She gave what might have been a laugh, then coughed. Tough luck on him, she said. This is your second, isn't it?

Third, ma'am, I said.

Not  so  good  for  you  either,  she  said.  There  was  another  coughing laugh. You  can sit down. I  don't  make a practice  of it, but just  this time.

I did sit, on the edge of one of the stiff-backed chairs. I didn't want to stare around the room, I didn't want to appear inattentive to her; so the  marble  mantelpiece  to  my  right  and  the  mirror  over  it  and  the bunches of flowers were just shadows, then, at the edges of my eyes. Later I would have more than enough time to take them in.

Now her face was on a level with mine. I thought I recognized her; or at  least  there was something familiar  about  her.  A  little of her  hair was showing, from under her veil. It was still blond. I thought then that  maybe  she  bleached  it,  that  hair  dye  was  something  else  she could get through the black market, but I know now that it really is blond. Her eyebrows were plucked into thin arched lines, which gave her a permanent look of surprise, or outrage, or inquisitiveness, such as you might see on a startled child, but below them her eyelids were tired-looking.  Not so  her eyes, which  were the flat  hostile blue of a midsummer  sky  in  bright  sunlight,  a  blue  that  shuts  you  out.  Her nose  must  once  have  been  what  was  called  cute  but  now  was  too

small for her face. Her face was not fat but it was large. Two lines led downward  from  the  corners  of  her  mouth;  between  them  was  her chin, clenched like a fist.

I want to see as little of you as possible, she said. 1 expect you feel the same way about me.

I   didn't   answer,   as   a   yes   would   have   been   insulting,   a   no contradictory.

I  know  you  aren't  stupid,  she  went  on.  She  inhaled,  blew  out  the smoke.  I've  read  your  file.  As  far  as  I'm  concerned,  this  is  like  a business transaction. But if I get trouble, I'll give trouble back. You understand?

Yes, ma'am, I said.

Don't call me ma'am, she said irritably. You're not a Martha.

I didn't ask what I was supposed to cull her, because I could see that she hoped I would never have the- occasion to call her anvthing at all. I was disappointed. I wanted, then, to turn her into an older sister, a motherly  figure,  someone  who  would  understand  and  protect  me. The Wife in my posting before this had spent most of her time in her bedroom;   the   Marthas   said   she   drank.   I   wanted   this   one   to bedifferent. I wanted to think I would have liked her, in another time and place, another life. But I could see already that I wouldn't have liked her, nor she me.

She put her cigarette out, half smoked, in a little scrolled ashtray on the  lamp  table  beside  her.  She  did  this  decisively,  one  jab  and  one grind, not the series of genteel taps favored by many of the Wives.

As for my husband, she said, he's just that. My husband. I want that to be perfectly clear. Till death do us part. It's final.

Yes, ma'am, I said again, forgetting. They used to have dolls, for little girls, that would talk if you pulled a string at the back; I thought I was sounding like that, voice of a monotone, voice of a doll. She probably longed to slap my face. They can hit us, there's Scriptural precedent.

But not with any implement. Only with their hands.

It's one of the things we fought for, said the Commander's Wife, and suddenly  she  wasn't  looking  at  me,  she  was  looking  down  at  her knuckled,  diamond-studded  hands,  and  I  knew  where  I'd  seen  her before.

The  first  time  was  on  television,  when  I  was  eight  or  nine.  It  was when my mother was sleeping in, on Sunday mornings, and I would get up early and go to the television set in my mother's study and flip through   the   channels,   looking   for   cartoons.   Sometimes   when   I couldn't  find  any  I  would  watch  the  Growing  Souls  Gospel  Hour, where they would tell Bible stories for children and sing hymns. One of the women was called Serena Joy. She was the lead so-prano. She was  ash  blond,  petite,  with  a  snub  nose  and  huge  blue  eyes  which she'd  turn  upwards  during  hymns.  She  could  smile  and  cry  at  the same time, one tear or two sliding gracefully down her cheek, as if on cue,   as   her   voice   lifted   through   its   highest   notes,   tremulous, effortless. It was after that she went on to other things.

The woman sitting in front of me was Serena Joy. Or had been, once. So it was worse than I thought.

4

I walk along the gravel path that divides the back lawn, neatly, like a hair parting. It has rained during the night; the grass to either side is damp,  the  air  humid.  Here  and  there  are  worms,  evidence  of  the fertility  of  the  soil,  caught  by  the  sun,  half  dead;  flexible  and  pink, like lips.

I  open  the  white  picket  gate  and  continue,  past  the  front  lawn  and towards   the  front  gate.  In  the  driveway,  one  of  the  Guardians assigned  to  our  household  is  washing  the  car.  That  must  mean  the Commander  is  in  the  house,  in  his  own  quarters,  past  the  dining room and beyond, where he seems to stay most of the time.

The car is a very expensive one, a Whirlwind; better than the Chariot,

much  better  than  the  chunky,  practical  Behemoth.  It's  black,  of course,  the  color  of  prestige  or  a  hearse,  and  long  and  sleek.  The driver is going  over it with a chamois, lovingly.  This ;it least hasn't changed, the way men caress good cars.

He's wearing the uniform of the Guardians, but his cap is tilted at a jaunty  angle  and  his  sleeves  are  rolled  to  the  dhow,  showing  his forearms, tanned but with a stipple of dark hairs, He has a cigarette stuck  in  the  corner  of  his  mouth,  which  shows  that  he  too  has something he can trade on the black market.

I know this man's name: Nick. I know this because I've heard

Rita and Cora talking about him, and once I heard the Commander speaking to him: Nick, I won't be needing the car.

He  lives  here,  in  the  household,  over  the  garage.  Low  status:  he hasn't  been  issued  a  woman,  not  even  one.  He  doesn't  rate:  some defect, lack of connections. But he acts as if he doesn't know this, or care,  He's  too  casual,  he's  not  servile  enough.  It  may  be  stupid-ity, but I don't think so. Smells fishy, they used to say; or, I smell a rat Misfit as odor. Despite myself, I think of how he might smell. Not fish or decaying rat; tanned skin, moist in the sun, filmed with smoke. I sigh, inhaling.

He  looks  at  me,  and  sees  me  looking.  He  has  a  French  face,  lean, whimsical,  all  planes  and  angles,  with  creases  around  the  mouth where he smiles. He takes a final puff of the cigarette, lets it drop to the driveway, and steps on it. He begins to whistle. Then he winks.

I drop my head and turn so that the white wings hide my face, and keep walking. He's just taken a risk, but for what? What if I were to report him?

Perhaps he was merely being friendly. Perhaps he saw the look on my face and mistook it for something else. Really what I wanted was the cigarette.

I'erhaps it was a test, to see what I would do. i I'erhaps he is an Eye.

I open the front gate and close it behind me, looking down but not back.  The  sidewalk is red  brick. That is the landscape  I focus on, a held  of  oblongs,  gently  undulating  where  the  earth  beneath  has buckled,  from  decade  after  decade  of  winter  frost.  The  color  of  the bricks is old, yet fresh and clear. Sidewalks are kept much cleaner tan they used to be.

I walk to the corner and wait. Iused to be bad at waiting. They also serve  who  only  stand  and  wait,  said  Aunt  Lydia.  She  made  us memorize it. She also said, Not all of you will make it through. Some of   you   will   fall   on   dry   ground   or   thorns.   Some   of   you   are shallow-rooted. She had a moleon her chin that went up and  down while  she  talked.  She  said,  Think  of  yourselves  as  seeds,  and  right then her voice was wheedling, conspiratorial, like the voices of those women who used to teach ballet classes to children, and who would say, Arms up inthe air now; let's pretend we're trees. I stand on the corner, pretending I am a tree.

A shape, red with white wings around the face, a shape like mine, a nondescript woman in red carrying a basket, comes along the brick sidewalk  towards  me.  She  reaches  meand  we  peer  at  each  other's faces, looking down the white tunnels of cloth that enclose us. She is the right one.

"Blessed  be the fruit," she says to  me, the accepted greeting among us.

"May the Lord open," I answer, the accepted response. We turn and walk together past the large houses, towards the central part of town. We aren't allowed to go there except in twos. This is supposed to be for our protection, though the notion is absurd: we are well protected already. The truth is that she is my spy, as I am hers. If either of us slips through  the net  because of something that happens on  one  of our daily walks, the other will be accountable.

This woman has been my partner for two weeks. I don't know what

happened to the one before. On a certain day she simply wasn't there anymore, and this one was there in her place. It isn't the sort of thing you ask questions about, because the answers are not usually answers you want to know. Anyway there wouldn't be an answer.

This one is a little plumper than I am. Her eyes are brown. Her name is Ofglen, and that's about all I know about her. She walks demurely, head down, red-gloved hands clasped in from, with short little steps like a trained pig's, onits hind legs. During these walks she has never said anything that was not strictly orthodox, but then, neither have I. She may be a real believer, a Handmaid in more than name. I can't take the risk.

"The war is going well, I hear," she says.

"Praise be," I reply.

"We've been sent good weather."

"Which I receive with joy."

"They've defeated more of the rebels, since yesterday."

"Praise be," I say. I don't ask her how she knows, "What were they?"

"Baptists.  They  had  a  stronghold  in  the  Blue  Hills.  They  smoked them out."

"Praise be."

Sometimes I wish she would just shut up and let me walk in peace. But I'm ravenous for news, any kind of news; even if it's false news, it must mean something.

We  reach  the  first  barrier,  which  is  like  the  barriers  blocking  off roadworks, or dug-up sewers: a wooden crisscross painted in yellow and black stripes, a red hexagon which means Stop. Near the gateway there  are  some  lanterns,  not  lit  because  it  isn't  night.  Above  us,  I know, there are floodlights, attached to the telephone poles, for use in   emergencies,   and   there   are   men   with   machine   guns   in   the pillboxes on either side of the road. I don't see the floodlights and the pillboxes, because of the wings around my face. I just know they are

there.

Behind  the  barrier,  waiting  for  us  at  the  narrow  gateway,  there  are two men, in the green uniforms of the Guardians of the Faith, with the crests on their shoulders and berets: two swords, crossed, above a white  triangle.  The  Guardians  aren't  real  soldiers.  They're  used  for routine   policing   and   other   menial   functions,   digging   up   the Commander's Wife's garden, for instance, and they're either stupid or older  or  disabled  or  very  young,  apart  from  the  ones  that  are  Eyes incognito.

These  two  are  very  young:  one  mustache  is  still  sparse,  one  face  is still blotchy. Their youth is touching, but I know I can't be deceived by  it.  The  young  ones  are  often  the  most  dangerous,  the  most fanatical,  the  jumpiest  with  their  guns.  They  haven't  yet  learned about existence through time. You have to go slowly with them.

Last  week  they shot a woman,  right about  here. She was a Martha. She was fumbling in her robe, for her pass, and they thought she was hunting for a bomb. They thought she was a man in disguise. There have been such incidents.

Rita and Cora knew the woman. I heard them talking about it, in the kitchen.

Doing their job, said Cora. Keeping us safe.

Nothing safer than dead, said Rita, angrily. She was minding her own business. No call to shoot her. It was an accident, said Cora.

No such thing, said Rita. Everything is meant.

I could hear her thumping the pots around, in the sink.

Well, someone'll think twice before blowing up this house, any ways, said Cora.

All the same, said Rita. She worked hard. That was a bad death. I can think of worse, said Cora. At least it was quick.

You can say that, said Rita. I'd choose to have some time, before, like. To set things right.

The two young Guardians salute us, raising three fingers to the rims of their berets. Such tokens are accorded to us. They are supposed to show respect, because of the nature of our service.

We  produce  our  passes,  from  the  zippered  pockets  in  our  wide sleeves, and they are inspected and stamped. One man goes into the right-hand pillbox, to punch our numbers into the Compuchek.

In  returning  my  pass,  the  one  with  the  peach-colored  mustache bends his head to try to get a look at my face. I raise my head a little, to help him, and he sees my eyes and I see his, and he blushes. His face is long and mournful, like a sheep's, but with the large full eyes of    a    dog,   spaniel    not    terrier.    His    skin    is    pale    and    looks un-wholesomely  tender,  like  the  skin  under  a  scab.  Nevertheless,  I think of placing my hand on it, this exposed face. He is the one who turns away.

It's an event, a small defiance of rule, so small as to be undetect-able, but  such  moments  are  the  rewards  I  hold  out  for  myself,  like  the candy I hoarded, as a child, at the back of a drawer. Such moments are possibilities, tiny peepholes.

What if I were to come at night, when he's on duty alonethough he would  never  be  allowed  such  solitudeand  permit  him  beyond  my white  wings?  What  if  I  were  to  peel  off  my  red  shroud  and  show myself to him, to them, by the uncertain light of the lanterns? This is what  they  must  think  about  sometimes,  as  they  stand  endlessly beside   this   barrier,   past   which   nobody   ever   comes   except   the Commanders of the Faithful in their long black murmurous cars, or their blue Wives and white-veiled daughters on their dutiful way to Salvagings  or  Prayvaganzas,  or  their  dumpy  green  Marthas,  or  the occasional   Birthmobile',   or  their   read   Hand-maids,   on   foot.   Or sometimes a black-painted van, with the winged

Eye  in  white on  the  side. The windows  of the  vans are dark-tinted, and the men in the front seats wear dark glasses: a double obscurity.

The vans are surely more silent than the other cars. When they pass, we avert our eyes. If there are sounds coming from inside, we try not to hear them. Nobody's heart is perfect.

When  the  black  vans  reach  a  checkpoint,  they're  waved  through without  a  pause. The Guardians  would  not  want  to  take  the  risk  of looking  inside,  searching,  doubting  their  authority.  Whatever  they think.

If they do think; you can't tell by looking at them.

But more likely they don't think in terms of clothing discarded on the lawn. If they think of a kiss, they must then think immediately of the floodlights going on, the rifle shots. They think instead of doing their duty and of promotion to the Angels, and of being allowed possibly to marry, and then, if they are able to gain enough power and live to be old enough, of being allotted a Handmaid of their own.

The  one  with  the  mustache  opens  the  small  pedestrian  gate  for  us and stands back, well out of the way, and we pass through. As wewalk away   I   know   they're   watching,   these   two   men   who   aren't   yet permitted to touch women. They touch with their eyes instead and I move my hips a little, feeling the full red skirt sway around me. It's like thumbing your nose from behind a fence or teasing a dog with a bone  held  out  of  reach,  and  I'm  ashamed  of  myself  for  doing  it, because none of this is the fault of these men, they're too young. Then I find I'm not ashamed  after all. I enjoy the power; power of a dog bone,  passive  but  there.  I  hope  theyget  hard  at  the  sight  of  us  and have to rub themselves against the painted barriers, surreptitiously. They will suffer, later, at night, in their regimented beds. They have no outlets now except themselves, and that's a sacrilege. There are no more  magazines,  no  more  films,  no  more  substitutes;  only  me  and my shadow, walking away from the two men, who stand at attention, stiffly, by a roadblock, watching our retreating shapes.

5

Doubled,   I   walk   the   street.   Though   we   are   no   longer   in   the Commanders' compound, there are large houses here also. In front of one of them a Guardian is mowing the lawn. The lawns are tidy, the facades are gracious, in good repair; they're like the beautiful pictures they  used  to  print  in  the  magazines  about  homes  and  gardens  and interior decoration. There is the same absence of people, the same air of being asleep. The street is almost like a museum, or a street in a model town constructed  to show the way people used  to live. As in those  pictures,  those  museums,  those  model  towns,  there  are  no children.

This is the heart of Gilead, where the war cannot intrude except on television. Where the edges are we aren't sure, they vary, according to the attacks and counterattacks; but this is the center, where nothing moves. The Republic of Gilead, said  Aunt  Lydia, knows no bounds. Gilead is within you.

Doctors lived here once, lawyers, university professors. There are no lawyers anymore, and the university is closed.

Luke and I used to walk together, sometimes, along these streets. We used to talk about buying a house like one of these, an old big house, fixing  it  up.  We  would  have  a  garden,  .swings  forthe  Children.  We would have children. Although we knew it wasn't too likely we could ever  afford  it,  it  was  something  to  talk  about,  a  game  forSundays. Such freedom now seems almost weightless.

We  turn  the  corner  onto  a  main  street,  where  there's  more  traffic. Cars  go  by,  black  most  of  them,  some  gray  and  brown.  There  are other women with baskets, some in red, some in the dull green of the Marthas,  some  in  the  striped  dresses,  red  and  blue  and  green  and cheap   and   skimpy,   that   mark   the   women   of   the   poorer   men. Econowives,   they're   called.   These   women   are   not   divided   into functions. They have to do everything; if they can. Sometimes there is a womanall  in black, a widow.  There  used  to be more of them,  but

they seem to be diminishing. You don't see the Commanders' Wives on the sidewalks. Only in cars.

The sidewalks here are cement. Like a child, I avoid stepping on the cracks.  I'm  remembering  my  feet  on  these  sidewalks,  in  the  time before, and what I used to wear on them. Sometimes it was shoes for running,  with  cushioned  soles  and  breathing  holes,  and  stars  of fluorescent fabric that reflected light in the darkness. Though I never ran at night; and in the daytime, only beside well-frequented roads. Women were not protected then.

I remember the rules, rules that were never spelled out but that every woman knew: Don't open your door to a stranger, even if he says he is the police. Make him slide his ID under the door. Don't stop on the road to help a motorist pretending to be in trouble. Keep the locks on and keep going. If anyone whistles, don't turn to look. Don't go into a laundromat, by yourself, at night.

I  think  about  laundromats.  What  I  wore  to  them:  shorts,  jeans, jogging pants. What I put into them: my own clothes, my own soap, my  own  money,  money  I  had  earned  myself.  I  think  about  having such control.

Now we walk along the same street, in red pairs, and no man shouts obscenities at us, speaks to us, touches us. No one whistles.

There is more than one kind of freedom, said Aunt Lydia. Freedom to and  freedom  from.  In  the  days of  anarchy,  it  was freedom  to.  Now you are being given freedom from. Don't underrate it.

In front of us, to the right, is the store where we order dresses. Sonic people  call  them  habits,  a  good  word  for  them.  Habits  are  hard  to break. The store has a huge wooden sign outside it, in the shape of a golden lily; Lilies of the Field, it's called. You can see the place, under the lily, where the lettering was painted out, when they decided that even  the  names  of  shops  were  too  much  temptation  for  us.  Now places are known by their signs alone.

Lilies used to be a movie theater, before. Students went there a lot; every spring they had aHumphrey Bogart festival, with Lauren Bacall or Katharine Hepburn, women on their own, making up their minds. They  wore  blouses  with  buttons  down  the  front  that  suggested  the possibilities of the word undone. These women could be undone; or not.  They  seemed  to  be  able  to  choose.  We  seemed  to  be  able  to choose, then. We were a society dying, said Aunt Lydia, of too much choice.

I don't know when they stopped having the festival. I must have been grown up. So I didn't notice.

We don't go into Lilies, but across the road and along a side street. Our  first  stop  is  at  a store  with  another  wooden sign:  three eggs,  a bee, a cow. Milk and Honey. There's a line, and we wait our turn, two by  two.  I  see  they  have  oranges  today.  Ever  since  Central  America was lost to the Libertheos, oranges have been hard to get: sometimes they  are  there,  sometimes  not.  The  war interferes  with  the  oranges from  California,  and  even  Florida  isn't  dependable,  when  there  are roadblocks or when the train tracks have been blown up. I look atthe oranges,  longing  for  one.  But  I  haven't  brought  any  coupons  for oranges.  I'll  go  back  and  tell  Rita  about  them,  I  think.  She'll  be pleased.  It  will  be  something,  a  small  achievement,  to  have  made oranges happen.

Those who've reached the counter hand their tokens across it, to the two men in Guardian uniforms who stand on the other side. Nobody talks much, though there is a rustling,and the women's heads move furtively  from  side  to  side:  here,  shopping,  is  where  you  might  see someone you know, someone you've known in the time before, or at the   Red   Center.   Just   to   catch   sight   of   a   face   like   that   is   an encouragement.  If  I  could  see  Moira,  just  see  her,  know  she  still exists. It's hard to imagine now,having a friend

But Ofglen, beside me, isn't looking, Maybe she doesnt know anyone

anymore.  Maybe  they  have  all  vanish,  the  women  she  knew.  Or maybe she doesn't want to be see. She stands in silence head down. As we wait in our double line, the door opens and two more women

come in, both in the red dresses and white wings of the Handmaids. One of them is vastly pregnant; her belly, under her loose garment, swells triumphantly. There is a shifting in the  room,  a murmur, an escape  of breath; despite  ourselves we  turn  our heads,  blatantly, to see better; our fingersitch to touch her. She's a magic presence to us, an object of envy and desire, we covet her. She's a flag on a hilltop, showing us what can still be done: we too can be saved.

The  women  in  the  room  are  whispering,  almost  talking,  so  great  is their excitement.

"Who is it?" I hear behind me.

"Ofwayne. No. Ofwarren."

"Showoff,"  a  voice  hisses,  and  this  is  true.  A  woman  that  pregnant doesn't have to go out, doesn't have to go shopping. The daily walk is no  longer  prescribed,  to  keep  her  abdominal  muscles  in  working order.  She  needs  only  the  floor  exercises,  the  breathing  drill.  She could  stay at her house. And  it's dangerous for her to be out, there must be a Guardian standing outside the door, waiting for her. Now that she's the carrier of life, she is closer to death, and needs special security. Jealousy could get her, it's happened before. All children are wanted now, but not by everyone.

But the walk may be a whim of hers, and they humor whims, when something  has  gone  this  far  and  there's  been  no  miscarriage.  Or perhaps she's one of those, Pile it on, I can take it, a martyr. I catch a glimpse of her face, as she raises it to look around. The voice behind me was right. She's come here to display herself. She's glowing, rosy, she's enjoying every minute of this.

"Quiet," says one of the Guardians behind the counter, and we hush like schoolgirls.

Ofglen and I have reached the counter. We hand over our tokens, and one Guardian enters the numbers on them into the Compubite while the  other  gives  us  our  purchases,  the  milk,  the  eggs.  We  put  them into our baskets and go out again, past the pregnant woman and her partner,  who  beside  her  looks  spindly,  shrunken;  as  we  all  do.  The pregnant woman's belly is like a huge fruit. Humungous,

word of my childhood. Her hands rest on it as if to defend it, or as if they're gathering something from it, warmth and strength.

As I pass she looks full at me, into my eyes, and I know who she; is. She was at the Red Center with me, one of Aunt Lydia's pets. I never liked her. Her name, in the time before, was Janine.

Janine looks at me, then, and around the corners of her mouth there is the trace of a smirk. She glances down to where my own belly lies flat under my red robe, and the wings cover her face. I can see only a little of her forehead, and the pinkish tip of her nose.

Next we go into All Flesh, which is marked by a large wooden pork chop  hanging  from  two  chains.  There  isn't  so  much  of  a  line  here: meat is expensive, and even the Commanders don't have it every day. Ofglen gets steak, though, and  that's the second  time this week. I'll tell  that  to  the  Marthas:  it's  the  kind  of  thing  they  enjoy  hearing about.  They  are  very  interested  in  how  other  households  are  run; such  bits  of  petty  gossip  give  them  an  opportunity  for  pride  or discontent.

I  take  the  chicken,  wrapped  in  butcher's  paper  and  trussed  with string.  Not  many  things  are  plastic,  anymore.  I  remember  those endless white plastic shopping bags, from the supermarket; I hated to wastethem and would stuff them in under the sink, until the day would  come  when  there  would  be  too  many  and  I  would  open  the cupboard door and they would bulge out, sliding over the floor. Luke used to complain about it. Periodically he would take all the bags and throw them out.

She  could  get  one  of  those  over  her  head,  he'd  say.  You  know  how kids  like  to  play.  She  never  would,  I'd  say.  She's  too  old.  (Or  too smart, or too lucky.) But I would feel a chill of fear, and then guilt for having  been  so  careless.  Itwas  true,  I  took  too  much  for  granted;  I trusted fate, back then. I'll keep them in a higher cupboard, I'd say. Don't  keep  them  at  all,  he'd  say.  We  never  use  them  for  anything. Garbage bags, I'd say. He'd say

Not  here  and  now.  Not  where  people  are  looking.  I  turn,  see  my silhouette in the plate glass window. We have come outside, then, we are on the street.

A group of people is coming towards us. They're tourists, from Japan it  looks  like,  a  trade  delegation  perhaps,  on  a  tour  of  the  historic landmarks  or  out  for  local  color.  They're  diminutive  and  neatly turned out; each has his or her camera, his or her smile. They look around, bright-eyed, cocking their heads to one side like robins, their very cheerfulness aggressive, and I can't help staring. It's been a long time since I've seen skirts that short on women. The skirts reach just below  the  knee  and  the  legs  come  out  from  beneath  them,  nearly naked  in  their  thin  stockings,  blatant,  the  high-heeled  shoes  with their straps attached to the feet like delicate instruments of torture. The women teeter on their spiked feet as if on stilts, but off balance; their backs arch at the waist, thrusting the buttocks out. Their heads are uncovered  and their hair too is exposed, in all  its darkness and sexuality. They wear lipstick, red, outlining the damp cavities of their mouths, like scrawls on a washroom wall, of the time before.

I  stop  walking.  Ofglen  stops  beside  me  and  I  know  that  she  too cannot  take  her  eyes  off  these  women.  We  are  fascinated,  but  also repelled. They seem undressed. It has taken so little time to change our minds, about things like this.

Then I think: I used to dress like that. That was freedom. Westernized, they used to call it.

The Japanese tourists come towards us, twittering, and we turn our heads away too late: our faces have been seen.

There's  an  interpreter,  in  the  standard  blue  suit  and  red-patterned tie, with the winged-eye tie pin. He's the one who steps forward, out of  the  group,  in  front  of  us,  blocking  our  way.  The  tourists  bunch behind him; one of them raises a camera.

"Excuse me," he says to both of us, politely enough. "They're asking if they can take your picture."

I look down at the sidewalk, shake my head for no. What they must see is the white wings only, a scrap of face, my chinand part of my mouth. Not the eyes. I know better than to look the interpreter in the face. Most of the interpreters are Eyes, or so it's said.

I also know better than to say yes. Modesty is invisibility, said Aunt Lydia.   Never   forget   it.   To   be   seento   be   seenis   to   beher   voice trembledpenetrated.  What  you  must  be,  girls,  is  impenetrable.  She called us girls.

Beside me, Ofglen is also silent. She's tucked her red-gloved hands up into her sleeves, to hide them.

The interpreter turns back to the group, chatters at them in stac cato. I know what he'll be saying, I know the line. He'll be telling them that the women here have different customs, that to stare at them through the lens of a camera is, for them, an experience of violation.

I'm looking down, at the sidewalk, mesmerized by the women's feet. One of them is wearing open-toed sandals, the toenails painted pink. I remember the smell of nail polish, the way it wrinkled if you put the second  coat  on  too  soon,  the  satiny  brushing  of  sheer  pantyhose against the skin, the way the toes felt, pushed towards the opening in the shoe by the whole weight of the body. The woman with painted toes shifts from one foot to the other. I can feel her shoes, on my own feet. The smell of nail polish has made me hungry.

"Excuse me," says the interpreter again, to catch our attention. I nod,

to show I've heard him.

"He asks, are you happy," says the interpreter. I can imagine it, their curiosity: Are they happy? How can they be happy? I can feel their bright black eyes on us, the way they lean a little forward to catch our answers,  the  women  especially,  but  the  men  too:  we  are  secret, forbidden, we excite them.

Ofglen   says   nothing.   There   is   a   silence.   But   sometimes   it's   as dangerous not to speak.

"Yes, we are very happy," I murmur. I have to say something. What else can I say?

6

A block past All Flesh, Ofglen pauses, as if hesitant about which way to go. We have a choice. We could go straight back, or we could walk the  long  way  around.  We  already  know  which  way  we  will  take, because we always take it.

"I'd like to pass by the church," says Ofglen, as if piously.

"All right," I say, though I know as well as she does what she's really after.

We  walk,  sedately.  The  sun  is  out,  in  the  sky  there  are  white  fluffy clouds, the kind that look like headless sheep. Given our wings, our blinkers, it's hard to look up, hard to get the full view, of the sky, of anything. But we can do it, a little at a time, a quick move of the head, up and down, to the side and back. We have learned to see the world in gasps.

To the right, if you could walk along, there's a street that would take you down towards the river. There's a boathouse, where they kept the sculls once, and some bridges; trees, green banks, where you could sit and watch the water, and the young men with their naked arms, their oars lifting into the sunlight as they played at winning. On the way to the river are the old dormitories, used for something else now, with their  fairy-tale  turrets,  painted  white  and  gold  and  blue.  When  we

think  of  the  past  it's  the  beautiful  things  we  pick  out.  We  want  to believe it was all like that.

The football stadium is that way too, where they hold the Men's

Salvagings. As well as the football games. They still have those.

I don't go to the river anymore, or over bridges. Or on the subway, although there's a station right there. We're not allowed on, there are Guardians  now,  there's  no  official  reason  for  us  to  go  down  those steps,  ride  on  the  trains  under  the  river,  into  the  main  city.  Why would we want to go from here to there? We would be up to no good and they would know it.

The church is a small one, one of the first erected here, hundreds of years  ago.  It  isn't  used  anymore,  except  as  a  museum.  Inside  ityou can  see  paintings,  of  women  in  long  somber  dresses,  their  hair covered  by  white  caps,  and  of  upright  men,  darkly  clothed  and unsmiling. Our ancestors. Admission is free.

We  don't  go  in,  though,  but  stand  on  the  path,  looking  at  the churchyard. The old gravestones are still there, weathered, eroding, with           their      skulls    and       crossed            bones,  memento          mori,    their dough-faced  angels,  their  winged  hourglasses  to  remind  us  of  the passing  of  mortal  time,  and,  from  a  later  century,  their  urns  and willow trees, for mourning.

They haven't fiddled with the gravestones, or the church either. It's only the more recent history that offends them.

Ofglen's head is bowed, as if she's praying. She does this every time. Maybe, I think, there's someone, someone in particular gone, for her too; a man, a child. But I can't entirely believe it. I think of her as a woman for whom every act is done for show, is acting rather than a real act. She does such things to look good, I think. She's out to make the best of it.

But  that  is  what  I  must  look  like  to  her,  as  well.  How  can  it  be otherwise?

Now we turn our backs on the church and there is the thing we've in truth come to see: the Wall.

The  Wall  is  hundreds  of years old  too;  or over n  hundred, at  least. Like the sidewalks, it's red brick, and must once have been plain but handsome.  Now  the  gates  have  sentries  and  there  are  ugly  new floodlights mounted on metal posts above it, and barbed wire along the bottom and broken glass set in concrete along the lop,

No  one  goes  through  those  gates  willingly.  the  precautions  are  for those  trying  to  get  out,  though  to  make  it  even  as  far  as  the  Wall, from the inside, past  the electronic  alarm system, would  be next  to impossible.

Beside the main gateway there are six more bodies hanging, by the necks,  their  hands  tied  in  front  of  them,  their  heads  in  white  bags tipped sideways onto their shoulders. There must have been a Men's Salvaging  early  this  morning.  I  didn't  hear  the  bells.  Perhaps  I've become used to them.

We stop, together as if on signal, and stand and look at the bodies. It doesn't matter if we look. We're supposed to look: this is what they are  there  for,  hanging  on  the  Wall.  Sometimes  they'll  be  there  for days,  until  there's  a  new  batch,  so  as  many  people  as  possible  will have the chanceto see them.

What they are hanging from is hooks. The hooks have been set into the  brickwork  of  the  Wall,  for  this  purpose.  Not  all  of  them  are occupied.  The  hooks  look  like  appliances  for  the  armless.  Or  steel question marks, upside-down and sideways.

It's the bags over the heads that are the worst, worse than the faces themselves would be. It makes the men like dolls on which the faces have  not  yet  been  painted;  like  scarecrows,  which  in  a  way  is  what they are, since they are meant to scare. Or as if their heads are sacks, stuffed with some undifferentiated material, like flour or dough. It's the  obvious  heaviness  of  the  heads,  their  vacancy,  the  way  gravity

pulls them down and  there's no  life anymore to  hold  them up. The heads are zeros.

Though if you look and look, as we are doing, you can see the outlines of the features under the white cloth, like gray shadows. The heads are  the  heads  of snowmen,  with  the  coal  eyes  and  the  carrot  noses fallen out. The heads are melting.

But  on  one  bag  there's  blood,  which  has  seeped  through  the  white cloth, where the mouth must have been. It makes another mouth, a small   red   one,   like   the   mouths   painted   with   thick   brushes   by kindergarten children. A child's idea of a smile. This smile of blood is what fixes the attention, finally. These are not snowmen after all.

The men wear white coats, like those worn by doctors or scientists. Doctors and scientists aren't the only ones, there are others, but they must have had a run on them this morning. Each has a placard hung around his neck to show why he has been executed: a drawing of a human fetus. They were doctors, then, in the time before, when such things were legal. Angel makers, they used to call them; or was that something  else?  They've  been  turned  up  now  by  searchs  through hospital  records,  or,  ormore  likely,  since  most  hospitals  destroyed such  records  once  it  became  clear  what  was  going  to  happenby informants:  ex-nurses  perhaps,  or  a  pair  of  them,  since  evidence from  a  single  woman  is  no  longer  admissible;  or  another  doctor, hoping to save his own skin; or someone already accused, lashing out at an enemy, or at random, in some desperate bid for safety. Though informants are not always pardoned.

These men, we've been told, are like war criminals. It's no excuse that what they did was legal at the time: their crimes are retroactive. They have committed atrocities and must be made into examples, for the rest.  Though  this  is  hardly  needed.  No  woman  in  her  right  mind, these days, would seek to prevent a birth, should she be solucky as to conceive.

What  we  are  supposed  to  feel  towards  these  bodies  is  hatred  and scorn.  This  isn't  what  I  feel.  These  bodies  hanging  on  the  Wall  are time travelers, anachronisms. They've come here from the past.

What I feel towards them is blankness. What I feel is that I must not feel. What I feel is partly relief, because none of these men is Luke. Luke wasn't a doctor. Isn't.

I look at the one red smile. The red of the smile is the same as the red of the tulips in Serena Joy's garden, towards the base of the flowers where they are beginning to heal. The red is the same but there is no connection. The tulips are not tulips of blond, the red smiles are not flowers, neither thing makes a comment or the other. The tulip is not a reason for disbelief in the hanged man, or vice versa. Each thing is valid and really there. It is through a field of such valid objects that I must pick  my way, every day and in every way. I put a lot  of effort into making such distinctions I need to make them. I need to be very clear, in my own mind,

I feel a tremor in the woman beside me. Is she crying? In what way could it make her look good? I can't afford to know, My own hands are  clenched,  I note,  tight  around  the  handle  of  my  basket,  I  won't give anything away.

Ordinary, said Aunt Lydia, is what you are used to.This may not seem ordinary to you now, but alter a time it will, It will he-come ordinary. III

Night

^

7

The night is mine, my own time, to do with as I will, as long as I am quiet.  As  long  as  I  don't  move.  As  long  as  I  lie  still.  The  difference between lie and lay. Lay is always passive. Even men used to say, I'd like to get laid. Though  sometimes they said, I'd like to  lay her. All this is pure speculation. I don't really know what men used to say. I

had only their words for it.

I  lie,  then,  inside  the  room,  under  the  plaster  eye  in  the  ceiling, behind  the  white  curtains,  between  the  sheets,  neatly  as  they,  and step sideways out of my own time. Out of time. Though this is time, nor am I out of it.

But the night is my time out. Where should 1 go? Somewhere good.

Moira, sitting on the edge of my bed, legs crossed, tinkle on kt in her purple overalls, one dangly earring, the- gold fingernail she wore to be  eccentric,  a  cigarette  between  her  stubby  yellow-ended  fingers. Let's go for a beer.

You're getting ashes in my bed, I said.

If you'd make it you wouldn't have this problem, Mid Moira.

In half an hour, I said. I had a paper due the next day it? Psychology, English, economics. We studied things like that, then. On the floor of the  room  there  were  books,  open  face  down,  this  way  and  that, extravagantly.

Now,  said  Moira.  You  don't  need  to  paint  your  face,  it's  only  me. What's your paper on? I just did one on date rape.

Date  rape,  I  said.  You're  so  trendy.  It  sounds  like  some  kind  of dessert. Date rape.

Ha-ha, said Moira. Get your coat.

She  got  it  herself and  tossed  it  at  me.  I'm  borrowing  five  bucks  off you, okay?

Or in a park somewhere, with my mother. How old was I? It was cold, our breaths came out in front of us, there were no leaves on the trees; gray sky, two ducks in the pond, disconsolate. Bread crumbs under my fingers, in my pocket. That's it: she said we were going to feed the ducks.

But  there  were  some  women  burning  books,  that's  what  she  was really there for. To see her friends; she'd lied to me, Saturdays were

supposed to be my day. I turned away from her, sulking, towards the ducks, but the fire drew me back.

There were some men, too, among the women, and the books were magazines. They must have poured gasoline, because the flames shot high, and then they began dumping the magazines, from boxes, not too many ata time. Some of them were chanting; onlookers gathered. Their  faces  were  happy,  ecstatic  almost.  Fire  can  do  that.  Even  my mother's face, usually pale, thinnish, looked ruddy and cheer-ful, like a  Christmas  card;  and  there  was  another  woman,  large,  with  asoot smear down her cheek and an orange knitted cap, I remember her. You want to throw one on, honey? she said. How old was I?

Good riddance to bad rubbish, she said, chuckling. It okay? she aml to my mother.

It she wants to, my mother said; she had a way of talking about me to others as if I couldn't hear.

The woman handed me one of the magazines. It had a pretty woman on it, with no clothes on, hanging from the ceiling by a chainwound around her hands. I looked at it with interest. It didn't frighten me.I thought she was swinging, like Tarzan from a vine, on the TV.

Don't let her see it, said my mother. Here, she said to me, toss it in, quick.

I threw the magazine into the flames. It riffled open in the wind of its burning;  big  flakes  of  paper  came  loose,  sailed  into  the  air,  still  on fire, parts of women's bodies, turning to black ash, in the air, before my eyes.

But then what happens, but then what happens? I know I lost time.

There must have been needles, pills, something like that. I couldn't have lost that  much time without help. You  have had  a shock, they said.

I would come up through a roaring and confusion, like surf boiling. I

can remember feeling quite calm. I can remember screaming, it felt like  screaming  though  it  may  have  been  only  a  whisper,  Where  is she? What have you done with her?

There was no night or day; only a flickering. After a while there were chairs again, and a bed, and after that a window.

She's in good hands, they said. With people who are fit. You are unfit, but you want the best for her. Don't you?

They showed me a picture of her, standing outside on a lawn, her face a closed oval. Her light hair was pulled back tight behind her head. Holding her hand was a woman I didn't know. Sin- was only as tall as the woman's elbow.

You've killed her, I said. She looked like an angel, solemn, compact, made of air.

She  was  wearing  a  dress  I'd  never  seen,  white  and  down  lothe ground.

I would like to believe this is a story I'm telling. I need to believe it. I must  believe  it.  Those  who  can  believe  that  such  stories  are  only stories have a better chance.

If it's a story I'm telling, then I have control  over the ending. Then there will be an ending, to the story, and real life will come after it. I can pick up where I left off.

It isn't a story I'm telling.

It's also a story I'm telling, in my head; as I go along,

Tell,  rather  than  write,  because  I  have  nothing  to  write  with  and writing is in any case forbidden. But if it's a story, even in my head.

I must be telling it to someone. You don't tell a story only to yourself. There's always someone else.

Even when there is no one.

A story is like a letter. Dear You, I'll say. Just you, without a name. Attaching a name attaches you to the world of fact, which is riskier, more  hazardous:  who  knows  what  the  chances  are  out  there,  of

survival,  yours?  I  will  say  you,  you,  like  an  old  love  song.  You  can mean more than one.

You can mean thousands. I'm not in any immediate danger, I'll say to you.

I'll pretend you can hear me.

But it's no good, because I know you can't. IV

Waiting Room

^

8

The good weather holds. It's almost like June, when we would get out our sundresses and our sandals and go for an ice cream cone. There are  three  new  bodies on  the  Wall.  One  is a  priest,  still  wearing  the black cassock. That's been put on him, for the trial, even though they gave  up  wearing  those  years  ago,  when  the  sect  wars  first  began; cassocks  made  them  too  conspicuous.  The  two  others  have  purple placards  hung  around  their  necks:  Gender  Treachery.  Their  bodies still  wear  the  Guardian  uniforms.  Caught  together,  they  must  have been,   but   where?   A   barracks,   a   shower?   It's   hard   to   say.   The snowman with the red smile is gone.

"We should go back," I say to Ofglen. I'm always the one to say this. Sometimes I feel  that if I didn't  say it, she would slay here forever. But is she mourning or gloating? I still can't tell

Without a word she swivels, as if she's voice-activated, as if she's on little oiled wheels, as if she's on top of a music box, I resent this grace of hers. I resent her meek head, bowed as if onto a heavy wind. But there is no wind.

We leave the Wall, walk back the way wr came, in the warm sun.

"It's a beautiful May day," Ofglen says. I feel rather than see her head turn towards me, waiting for a reply.

"Yes," I say. "Praise be," I add as an afterthought. Mayday used to he

a distress signal, a long time ago, in one of those wars we studied in high  school.  I kept  getting  them mixed  up,  but  you  could  tell  them apart by the airplanes if you paid attention. It was Luke who told me about mayday, though. Mayday, mayday, for pilots whose planes had been  hit,  and  shipswas  it  ships  too?at  sea.  Maybe  it  was  SOS  for ships.   I   wish   I   could   look   it   up.   And   it   was   something   from Beethoven, for the beginning of the victory, in one of those wars.

Do you know what it came from? said Luke. Mayday? No, I said. It's a strange word to use for that, isn't it?

Newspapers  and  coffee, on  Sunday  mornings,  before she  was  born. There were still newspapers, then. We used to read them in bed.

It's French, he said. From m'aidez. Help me.

Coming  towards  us  there's  a  small  procession,  a  funeral:  three women,   each   with   a   black   transparent   veil   thrown   over   her headdress.   An   Econowife   and   two   others,   the   mourners,   also Econo-wives,    her    friends    perhaps.    Their    striped    dresses    are worn-looking, as are their faces. Some day, when times improve, says Aunt Lydia, no one will have to be an Econowife.

The first one is the bereaved, the mother; she carries asmall black jar. From the size of the jar you can tell how old it was when it foundered, inside her, flowed to its death. Two or three months, too young to tell whether or not it was an Unbaby. The older ones and those that die at birth have boxes.

We pause, out of respect, while they go by. I wonder if Ofglen feels what I do, pain like a stab, in the belly. We put our hands over our hearts to show these stranger women that we feel with them in their loss.  Beneath  her  veil  the  first  one  scowls  at  us.  One  of  the  others turns aside, spits on the sidewalk. The Econowives do not like us.

We go past the shops and come to the barrier again, and are passed through. We continue on among the large empty-looking houses, the

weedless  lawns.  At  the  corner  near  the  house  where  I'm  posted, Ofglen stops, turns to me.

"Under His Eye," she says. The right farewell.

"Under His Eye," I reply, and she gives a little nod. She hesitates, as if to say something more, but then she turns away and walks down the street.  I  watch  her.  She's  like  my  own  reflection,  in  a  mirror  from which I am moving away.

In the driveway, Nick is polishing the Whirlwind again. He's reached the chrome at the back. I put my gloved hand on the latch of the gate, open it, push inward. The gate clicks behind me. The tulips along the border  are  redder  than  ever,  opening,  no  longer  wine  cups  but chalices;  thrusting  themselves  up,  to  what  end?  They  are,  after  all, empty.  When  they  are  old  they  turn  themselves  inside  out,  then explode slowly, the petals thrown out like shards.

Nick looks up and begins to whistle. Then he says, "Nice walk?"

I nod, but do not answer with my voice. He isn't supposed to speak to me.  Of  course  some  of  them  will  try,  said  Aunt  Lydia.  All  flesh  is weak. All flesh is grass, I corrected herin my head. They can't help it, she said, God made them that way but He did not make you that way. He made you different. It's up to you to set the boundaries. Later you will be thanked.

In the garden behind the house the Commander's Wife is sitting, in the chair she's had brought out. Serena Joy, what a stupid name. It's like  something  you'd  put  on  your  hair,  in  the  other  time,  the  time before, to straighten it. Serena Joy, it would say on the bottle, with a woman's  head  in  cut-paper  silhouette  on  a  pink  oval  background with scalloped gold edges. With everything to choose from in the way of names, why did she pick that one? Serena Joy was never her real name, not even then. Her real name was Pain. I read that in a profile on her, in a news magazine, long after I'd first watched her singing while my mother slept in on Sunday mornings. By that time she was

worthy of a profile: Time or Newsweekit was, it must have been. She wasn't singing anymore by I then, she was making speeches. She was good at it. Het speeches were about the sanctity of the home, about how women should stay home. Serena Joy didn't do this herself, she made  speeches  instead,  but  she  presented  this  failure  of  hers  as  a sacrifice shes was limiting lor the good of all.

Around  that  time,  someone  tried  to  shoot  her  and  missed;  her secretary,  who  was  standing  right  behind  her,  was  killed  instead. Someone else planted a bomb in her ear but it went off loo early. Though  some  people  said  she'd  put  the  bomb  in  her  own  car,  for sympathy. That's how hot things were getting.

Luke  and  I  would  watch  her  sometimes  on  the  late-night  news. Bothrobes, nightcaps. We'd watch her sprayed hair and her hys-teria, and  the  tears  she  could  still  produce  at  will,  and  the  mascara blackening her cheeks. By that time she was wearing more makeup. We  thought  she  was funny.  Or Luke  thought  she  was  funny.  I  only pretended to think so. Really she was a little frightening. She was in earnest.

She doesn't make speeches anymore. She has become speechless. She stays in her home, but it doesn't seem to agree with her. How furios she must be, now that she's been taken at her word.

She's looking at the tulips. Her cane is beside her, on the grass. Her profile is towards me, I can see that in the quick sideways look I take at her as I gopast. It wouldn't do to stare. It's no longer a flawlesss cut-paper  profile,  her  face  is  sinking  in  upon  itself,  and  I  think  of those  towns  built  on  underground  rivers,  where  houses  iul  whole streets  disappear  overnight,  into  sudden  quagmires,  or  coal  towns collapsing  into  the  mines  beneath  them.  Something  like  this  must have happened to her, once she saw the true shape of tilings to come. She doesn't turn her head. She doesn't acknowledge my presence in any way, although she knows I'm there. I can tell she knows, it's like a

smell, her knowledge; something gone sour, like old milk.

It's not the husbands you have to watch out for, said Aunt Lydia, it's

the  Wives.  You  should  always  try  to  imagine  what  they  must  l팿

feeling. Of course they will resent you. It is only natural. Try In feel for them. Aunt Lydia thought she was very good at feeling lor other people. Try to pity them. Forgive them, for they know not what they do. Again the tremulous smile, of a beggar, the weak-eyed blinking, the gaze upwards, through the round steel-rimmed glasses, towards the back of the classroom, as if the green-painted plaster ceiling were opening and God on a cloud of Pink Pearl face powder were coming down  through  the  wires  and  sprinkler  plumbing.  You  must  realize that theyare defeated women. They have been unable

Here her voice broke off, and there was a pause, during which I could hear a sigh, a collective sigh from those around me. It was a bad idea to  rustle  or  fidget  during  these  pauses:  Aunt  Lydia  might  look abstracted but she was aware of every twitch. So there was only the sigh.

The  future  is in your hands,  she resumed.  She held  her own  hands out  to  us,  the  ancient  gesture  that  was  both  an  offering  and  an invitation, to come forward, into an embrace, an acceptance. In your hands, she said, looking down at her own hands as if they had given her the idea. But there was nothing in them. They were empty. It was our hands that were supposed to be full, of the future; which could be held but not seen.

I walk around to the back door, open it, go in, set my basket down on the kitchen table. The table has been scrubbed off, cleared of flour; today's bread, freshly baked, is cooling on its rack. The kitchen smells of yeast, a nostalgic smell. It reminds me of other kitchens, kitchens that were mine. It smells of mothers; although my own mother did not  make  bread.  It  smells  of  me,  in  former  times,  when  I  was  a mother.

This is a treacherous smell, and I know I must shut it out.

Rita  is  there,  sitting  at  the  table,  peeling  and  slicing  carrots.  Old carrots they are, thick ones, overwintered, bearded from their time in storage. The new carrots, tender and pale, won't be ready for weeks. The knife she uses is sharp and bright, and tempting. I would like to have a knife like that.

Rita  stops chopping the carrots, stands up,  takes the parcels out  of the  basket,  almost  eagerly.  She  looks  forward  to  seeing  what  I've brought,  although  she  always  frowns  while  opening  the  parcels. nothing I bring fully pleases her. She's thinking she could have done better herself. She would rather do the shopping, gel exactly what she wants; she envies me the walk. In this house we all envy each other something.

"They've got oranges," I say. "At Milk and Honey. There are still some left." I hold out this idea to her like an ollering, I wish to ingratiate myself. I saw the oranges yesterday, bill I didn't tell Rita; yesterday she was too grumpy. "I could get some tomorrow, if you'd give me the tokens  for  them."  I  hold  on  the  chicken  to  her.  She  wanted  steak today, but there wasn't any.

Rita grunts, not revealing pleasure or acceptance, She'll think it, the grunt  says,  in  her  own  sweet  time.  She  undoes  the  string  on  the chicken, and the glared paper. She prods the chicken, flexes a wing, pokes a finger into the cavity, fishes out the giblets. The- chicken lies there, headless and without feet, goose pimpled as though shivering.

"Bath day," Rita says, without looking at me.

Cora comes into the kitchen, from the pantry at the back, where they keep  the  mops  and  brooms.  "A  chicken,"  she  says,  almost  with delight.

"Scrawny," says Rita, "but it'll have to do."

"'I'here wasn't much else," I say. Rita ignores me.

"Looks  big  enough  to  me,"  says  Cora. Is she  standing  up  for me?  1

look  at  her,  to  see  if  I  shouldsmile;  but  no,  it's  only  the  food  she's thinking of. She's younger than Rita; the sunlight, coming slant now through the west window, catches her hair, parted and drawn back. She must have been pretty, quite recently. There's a little mark, like a dimple,  in  each  of  her  ears,  where  the  punctures  for  earrings  have grown over.

"Tall,"  says  Rita,  "but  bony.  You  should  speak  up,"  she  says  to  me, looking directly at me for the first time. "Ain't like you're common." She means the Commander's rank. But in the other sense, her sense, she thinks I am common. She is over sixty, her mind's made up.

She goes to the sink, runs her hands briefly under the tap, dries than on the dishtowel. The dishtowel is white with blue stripes. Dishtowels are  the  same  as   they   always   were.  Sometimes   these   flashes  of normality  come  at  me  from  the  side,  like  ambushes.  The  ordinary, the usual, a reminder, like a kick. I see the dishtowel, out of context, and  I  catch  my  breath.  For  some,  in  some  ways,  things  haven't changed that much.

"Who's  doing  the  bath?"  says  Rita,  to  Cora,  not  to  me.  "I  got  to tenderize this bird."

"I'll do it later," says Cora, "after the dusting."

"Just so it gets done," says Rita.

They're  talking  about  me  as  though  I  can't  hear.  To  them  I'm  a household chore, one among many.

I've been dismissed. I pick up the basket, go through the kitchen door and  along  the  hall  towards  the  grandfather  clock.  The  sitting  room door  is  closed.  Sun  comes  through  the  fanlight,  falling  in  colors across the floor: red and blue, purple. I step into it briefly, stretch out my hands; they fill with flowers of light. I go up the stairs, my face, distant  and  white  and  distorted,  framed  in  the  hall  mirror,  which bulges  outward  like  an  eye  under  pressure.  I  follow  the  dusty-pink runner down the long upstairs hallway, back to the room.

There's  someone  standing  in  the  hall,  near  the  door  to  the  room where  I  stay.  The  hall  is  dusky,  this  is  a  man,  his  back  to  me;  he's looking into  the room, dark  against its light. I can see now, it's the Commander,  heisn't  supposed  to  be  here.  He  hears  me  coming, turns, hesitates, walks forward. Towards me. He is violating custom, what do I do now?

I stop, he pauses, I can't see his face, he's looking at me, what does he want?  But  then  he  moves  forward  again,  steps  to  the  side  to  avoid touching me, inclines his head, is gone.

Something has been shown to me, but what is it? Like the flag of an unknown country, seen for an instant above a curve of hill. It could mean  attack,  it  could   mean  parley,  it  could  mean  the  edge  of something, a territory. The signals animals give one another: lowered blue  eyelids,  ears  laid  back,  raised  hackles.  A  flash  of  bared  teeth, what in hell does he think he's doing? Nobody else has seen him. I hope. Was he invading? Was he in my room?

I called it mine.

9

My room, then. There has to be some space, finally, that I claim as mine, even in this time.

I'm waiting, in my room, which right now is a waiting room. When I go to bed it's a bedroom. The curtains are still wavering in the small wind,  the  sun  outside  is  still  shining,  though  not  in  through  the window directly. It has moved west. I am trying not to tell stories, or at any rate not this one.

Someone  has  lived  in  this  room,  before  me.  Someone  like  me,  or  I

piefer to believe so.

I discovered it three days after I was moved here.

I had a lot of time to pass. I decided to explore the room. Not hastily, as  one  would  explore  a  hotel  room,  expecting  no  surprise,  opening and shutting the desk drawers, the cupboard doors, unwrapping the

tiny  individually  wrapped  bar  of  soap,  prodding  the  pillows.  Will  I ever be in a hotel room again? How I wasted them, those rooms, that freedom from being seen.

Rented license.

In the afternoons, when Luke was still in flight from his wife, when I was still imaginary forhim. Before we were married and I solidified. I would always get there first, check in. It wasn't that many times, but it seems now like a decade, an era; I can remember what I wore, each blouse, each scarf. I would pace, waiting for him, turn the television on and then off, dab behind my ears with perfume, Opium it was. It was in a Chinese bottle, red and gold.

I was nervous. How was I to know he loved me? It might be just an affair.  Why  did  we  ever  say  just?  Though  at  that  time  men  and women tried each other on, casually, like suits, rejecting whatever did not fit.

The knock would come at the door; I'd open, with relief, desire. He was  so  momentary,  so  condensed.  And  yet  there  seemed  no  end  to him.  We  would  lie  in  those  afternoon  beds,  afterwards,  hands  on each other, talking it over. Possible, impossible. What could be done? We thought we had such problems. How were we to know we were happy?

But now it's the rooms themselves I miss as well, even the dreadful paintings that hung on the walls, landscapes with fall foliage or snow melting in hardwoods, or women in period costume, with china-doll faces and bustles and parasols, or sad-eyed clowns, or bowls of fruit, stiff  and  chalky  looking.  The  fresh  towels  ready  for  spoilage,  the wastebaskets gaping their invitations, beckoning in the careless junk. Careless. I was careless, in those rooms. I could lift the telephone and food would appear on a tray, food I had chosen. Food that was bad for  me,  no  doubt,  and  drink  too.  There  were  Bibles  in  the  dresser drawers,put  there  by  sonic  charitable  society,  though  probably  no

one read them very much. There were postcards, too, with pictures of the  hotel  on  them,  and  you  could  write  on  the  postcards  and  send them to anyone you wanted. It seems like such an impossible thing, now; like something you'd make up.

So. I explored this room, not hastily, then. like a hotel room, wasting it. I didn't want to do it all at once, I wanted to make it last. I divided the  room  into  sections,  in  my  head;  I  allowed  myself  one  section  a day. This one section I would examine with the great-est minuteness: the unevenness of the plaster under the wallpaper, the scratches in the paint of the baseboad and the windowsill, un-der the top coat of paint, the stains on the matress,for I went so far as to lift the blankets and sheets from the bed, folkd them back, a little at a time, so they could be replaced quickly if anyone came.

The stains on the mattress. Like dried flower petals. Not recent. Old love; there's no other kind of love in this room now.

When   I   saw   that,   the   evidence   left   by   two   people,   of   love   or something like it, desire at least, at least touch, between two people now perhaps old or dead, I covered the bed again and lay down on it. I  looked  up  at  the  blind  plaster  eye  in  the  ceiling.I  wanted  to  feel Luke  lying  beside  me.  I  have  them,  these  attacks  of  the  past,  like faintness, a wave sweeping over my head. Sometimes it can hardly be borne.  What  is  to  be  done,  what  is  to  be  done,  I  thought.  There  is nothing to be done. They also servewho only stand and wait. Or lie down and wait. I know why the glass in the window is shatterproof, and why they took down the chandelier. I wanted to feel Luke lying beside me, but there wasn't room.

I saved the cupboard until the third day. I looked carefully over the door first, inside and out, then the walls with their brass hookshow could  they  have  overlooked  the  hooks?  Why  didn't  they  remove them?  Too  close  to  the  floor?  But  still,  a  stocking,  that's  all  you'd need. And  the rod  with the plastic  hangers,  my dresses hanging on

them,  the  red  woollen  cape  for  cold  weather,  the  shawl.  I  knelt  to examine  the  floor,  and  there  it  was,  in  tiny  writing,  quite  fresh  it seemed, scratched with a pin or maybe just a fingernail, in the corner where the darkest shadow fell: Nolite te bastardes carborun-dorum.

I  didn't  know  what  it  meant,  or  even  what  language  it  was  in.  I thought it might be Latin, but I didn't know any Latin. Still, it was a message,  and  it  was  in  writing,  forbidden  by  that  very  fact,  and  it hadn't yet been discovered. Except by me, for whom it was intended. It was intended for whoever came next.

It  pleases  me  to  ponder  this  message.  It  pleases  me  to  think  I'm communing with her, this unknown woman. For she is unknown; or if known, she has never been mentioned to me. It pleases me to know that her taboo message made it through, to at least one other person, washed itself up on the wall of my cupboard, was opened and read by me.  Sometimes I  repeat  the  words  to  myself.  They  give  me  a  small joy.  When 1  imagine  the woman who wrote them,  I think of her as about my age, maybe a little younger. I turn her into Moira, Moira as she was when she was in college, in the room next to mine: quirky, jaunty,  athletic,  with  a  bicycle  once,  and  a  knapsack  for  hiking. Freckles, I think; irreverent, resourceful.

I wonder who she was or is, and what's become of her. I tried that out on Rita, the day I found the message.

Who was the woman who stayed in that room? I said. Before me? If I'd asked it differently, if I'd said, Was there a woman who stayed in that room before me? I might not have got anywhere.

Which one? she said; she sounded grudging, suspicious, but then, she almost always sounds like that when she speaks to me.

So  there  have  been  more  than  one.  Some  haven't  stayed  their  full term of posting, their full two years. Some have been sent away, for one reason or another. Or maybe not sent; gone?

The lively one. I was guessing. The one with freckles.

You know her? Rita asked, more suspicious than ever. I knew her before, I lied. I heard she was here.

Rita   accepted   this.   She   knows   there   must   be   a   grapevine,   an underground of sorts.

She didn't work out, she said.

In what way? I asked, trying to sound as neutral as possible.

But Rita clamped her lips together. I am like a child here, there are some things I must not be told. What you don't know won't hurt you, was all she would say.

10

Sometimes  I  sing  to  myself,  in  my  head;  something  lugubrious, mournful, presbyterian:

Amazing grace, how sweet the sound

Could save a wretch like me, Who once was lost, but now am found, Was bound, but now am free.

1 don't know if the words are right. I can't remember. Such songs are not sung anymore in public, especially the ones that use words like free.  They  are  considered  too  dangerous.  They  belong  to  outlawed sects.

I feel so lonely, baby, I feel so lonely, baby, I feel so lonely I could die. This  too  is  outlawed.  I  know  it  from  an  old  cassette  tape  of  my mother's;  she  had  a  scratchy  and  untrustworthy  machine,  too,  that could  still  play  such  things.  She  used  to  put  the  tape  on  when  her friends came over and they'd had a few drinks.

I don't sing like this often. It makes my throat hurt.

There isn't much music in this house, except what wehear on the TV. Sometimes  Rita  will  hum,  while  kneading  or  peeling:  a  wordless humming,  tuneless,  unfathomable.  And  sometimes  from  the  front sitting  room  there  will  be  the  thin  sound  of  Serena's  voice,  from  a disc made long ago and played now with the volume low, so she won't be  caught  listening  as  she  sits  in  there  knitting,  remembering  her

own former and now amputated glory: Hallelujah.

It's warm for  the  time  of year.  Houses  like this heat  up  in the sun, there's not enough insulation. Around me the air is stagnant, despite the little current, the breath coming in past the curtains. I'd like to be able to open the window as wide as it could go. Soon we'll be allowed to change into the summer dresses.

The summer dresses are unpacked and hanging in the closet, two of them,  pure  cotton,  which  is  better  than  synthetics  like  the  cheaper ones, though even so, when it's muggy, in July and August, you sweat inside them. No worry about sunburn though, said Aunt Lydia. The spectacles women used to make of themselves. Oiling themselves like roast meat on a spit, and bare backs and shoulders, on the street, in public, and legs, not even stockings on them, no wonder those things used  to  happen.  Things, the  word  she  used  when whatever it  stood for  was  too  distasteful  or  filthy  or  horrible  to  pass  her  lips.  A successful life for her was one that avoided things, excluded things. Such  thingsdo  not  happen  to  nice  women.  And  not  good  for  the complexion,  not  at  all,  wrinkle  you  up  like  a  dried  apple.  But  we weren't  supposed  to  care  about  our  complexions  anymore,  she'd forgotten that.

In  the  park,  said  Aunt  Lydia,  lying  on  blankets,  men  and  women together sometimes, and at that she began to cry, .standing up there in front of us, in full view.

I'm  doing  my  best,  she  said.  I'm  trying  to  give  you  the  best  chance you can have. She blinked, the light was too strong lor her, her mouth trembled,  around  her  front  teeth,  teeth  that  Murk  out  a  little  and were  long  and  yellowish,  and  1  thought  about  the  dead  mice  we would find on the doorstep, when we lived in a house, all three of us, four counting our cat, who was the one making these offerings.

Aunt Lydia pressed her hand over her mouth of dead rodent. After a minute  she  took  her  hand  away    I  wanted  to  cry  too  because  she

reminded  me.  If  only  she  wouldn't  eat  half  of  them  first,  I  said  to

Luke.

Don't think it's easy for me either, said Aunt Lydia.

Moira,  breezing  into  my  room,  dropping  her  denim  jacket  on  the floor. Got any cigs, she said.

In my purse, I said. No matches though.

Moira  rummages  in  my  purse.  You  should  throw  out  some  of  this junk, she says. I'm giving an underwhore party.

A what? I say. There's no point trying to work, Moira won't allow it, she's like a cat that crawls onto the page when you're trying to read. You  know, like Tupperware, only with underwear. Tarts' stuff. Lace crotches,  snap  garters.  Bras  that  push  your  tits  up.  She  finds  my lighter, lights the cigarette she's extracted from my purse. Want one? Tosses the package, with great generosity, considering they're mine. Thanks piles, I say sourly. You're crazy. Where'd you get an idea like that?

Working  my  way  through  college,  says  Moira.  I've  got  connections. Friends of my mother's. It's big in the suburbs, once they start getting age   spots   they   figure   they've   got   to   beat   the   competition.   The Pornomarts and what have you.

I'm laughing. She always made me laugh. But here? I say. Who'll come? Who needs it?

You're  never  too  young  to  learn,  she  says.  Come  on,  it'll  be  great. We'll all pee in our pants laughing.

Is  that  how  we  lived,  then?  But  we  lived  as  usual.  Everyone  does, most  of  the  time.  Whatever  is  going  on  is  as  usual.  Even  this  is  as usual, now.

We lived, as usual, by ignoring. Ignoring isn't the same as ignorance, you have to work at it.

Nothing  changes  instantaneously:  in  a  gradually  heating  bathtub you'd be boiled to death before you knew it. There were stories in the

newspapers, of course, corpses in ditches or the woods, bludgeoned to death or mutilated, interfered with, as they used to say, but they were  about  other  women,  and  the  men  who  did  such  things  were other  men  None  of  them  were  the  men  we  knew.  The  news  paper stories  were  like  dreams  to  us,  bad  dreams  dreamt  by  others.  How awful,  we  would  say,  and  they  were,  but  they  were  awful  without being believable. They were too melodramatic, they had a dimension that was not the dimension of our lives.

We were the people who were not in the papers. We lived in the blank white spaces at the edges of print. It gave us more freedom.

We lived in the gaps between the stories.

From  below,  from  the  driveway,  comes  the  sound  of  the  car  being started. It's quiet in this area, there isn't a lot of traffic, you can hear things like that very clearly: car motors, lawn mowers, the clipping of a hedge, the slam of a door. You could hear a shout clearly, or a shot, if  such  noises  were  ever  made  here.  Sometimes  there  are  distant sirens.

I go to the window and sit on the window seat, which is too narrow for  comfort.  There's  a  hard  little  cushion  on  it,  with  a  petit  point cover:  FAITH,  in  square  print,  surrounded  by  a  wreath  of  lilies. FAITH is a faded blue, the leaves of the lilies a dingy green. This is a cushion  once  used  elsewhere,  worn  but  not  enough  to  throw  out. Somehow it's been overlooked.

I can spend minutes, tens of minutes, running my eyes over the print: FAITH. It's the only thing they've given me to read. If I were caught doing it, would it count? I didn't put the cushion here myself.

The motor turns, and I lean forward, pulling the while curtain across my face, like a veil. It's semisheer, I can sec through it. If I press my forehead against the glass and look down, I can SCT the back half of the  Whirlwind.  Nobody  is  there,  but  ass  I  watch  I  see  Nick  come around to the back door of the car, open it, stand stiffly beside it. His

cap is straight now and his sleeves rolled down and buttoned. I can't see his face because I'm looking down on him.

Now  the  Commander  is  coming  out.  I  glimpse  him  only  lor  an instant, foreshortened, walking to the car. He does't have his hat on, so it's not a formal event he's going to. His hair is a gray. Silver, you might call it if you were being kind. I don't feel like being kind. The one before this was bald, so I suppose he's an improvement

If I could spit, out the window, or throw something, the cushion for instance, I might be able to hit him.

Moira  and  I,  with  paper  bags  filled  with  water.  Water  bombs,  they were  called.  Leaning  out  my  dorm  window,  dropping  them  on  the heads of the boys below. It was Moira's idea. What were they trying to do? Climb a ladder, for something. For our underwear.

That dormitory had once been coeducational, there were still urinals in one of the washrooms on our floor. But by the time I'd got there they'd put things back the way they were.

The Commander stoops, gets into the car, disappears, and Nick shuts the   door.   A   moment   later   the   car   moves   backward,   down   the driveway and onto the street, and vanishes behind the hedge.

I ought  to  feel  hatred  for this man.  I know I  ought to  feel  it, but it isn't what I do feel. What I feel is more complicated than that. I don't know what to call it. It isn't love.

11

Yesterday morning I went to the doctor. Was taken, by a Guardian, one of those with the red arm bands who are in charge of such things. We rode in a red car, him in the front, me in the back. No twin went with me; on these occasions I'm solitaire.

I'm taken to the doctor's once a month, for tests: urine,, hormones, cancer  smear,  blood  test;  the  same  as  before,  except  that  now  it's obligatory.

The doctor's office is in a modern office building. We ride up in the

elevator, silently, the Guardian facing me. In the black-mirror wall of the elevator I can see the back of his head. At the office itself, I go in; he waits, outside in the hall, with thr other Guardi-ans, on one of the chairs placed there for that purpose.

Inside  the  waiting  room  there  are  other  women,  three  of  them,  in red: this doctor is a specialist. Covertly we regard each other, sizing up each other's bellies: is anyone lucky? The nurse records our names and the numbers from our passes on the Compudoc, to see if we are who we are supposed to be. He's six feet tall, about forty, a diagonal scar  across  his  check;  he  sits  typing,  his  hands  too  big  for  the keyboard, still wearing his pistol in the shoulder holster.

When  I'm  called  I  go  through  the doorway intothe  inner  room.  It's white, featureless, like the outer one, except for the folding screen.

red  cloth  stretched  on  a  frame,  a  gold  Eye  painted  on  it,  with  a snake-twined  sword  upright  beneath  it,  like  a  sort  of  handle.  The snakes and the sword are bits of broken symbolism left over from the time before.

After  I've  filled  the  small  bottle  left  ready  for  me  in  the  little washroom,  I  take  off  my  clothes,  behind  the  screen,  and  leave themfolded   on   the   chair.   When   I'm   naked   I   lie   down   on   the examining table, on the sheet of chilly crackling disposable paper. I pull the second sheet, the cloth one, up over my body. At neck level there's another sheet, suspended from the ceiling. It intersects me so that the doctor will never see my face. He deals with a torso only. When I'm arranged I reach my hand out, fumble for the small lever at the right side of the table, pull it back. Somewhere else a bell rings, unheard  by  me.  After  a  minute  the  dooropens,  footsteps  come  in, there is breathing. He isn't supposed to speak to me except when it's absolutely necessary. But this doctor is talkative.

"How  are  we  getting  along?"  he  says,  some  tic  of  speech  from  the other time.  The sheet is lifted  from my skin, a draft  pimples me. A

cold finger, rubber-clad  and jellied, slides into me, I am poked  and prodded. The finger retreats, enters otherwise, withdraws.

"Nothing  wrong  with  you,"  the  doctor  says,  as  if  to  himself.  "Any pain, honey?" He calls me honey.

"No," I say.

My breasts are fingered in their turn, a search for ripeness, rot. The breathing comes nearer. I smell old smoke, aftershave, tobacco dust on  hair.  Then  the  voice,  very  soft,  close  to  my  head:  that's  him, bulging the sheet.

"I could help you," he says. Whispers.

"What?" I say.

"Shh," he says. "I could help you. I've helped others."

"Help  me?"  I  say,  my  voice  as  low  as  his.  "How?"  Does  he  know something, has he seen Luke, has he found, can he bring back?

"How  do  you  think?"  he  says,  still  barely  breathing  it.  Is  that  his hand, sliding up my leg? He's taken off the glove. "The door's locked. No one will come in. They'll never know it isn't his."

He lifts the sheet. The lower part of his face is covered by the white gauze mask, regulation. Two brown eyes, a nose, a head

i

with brown hair on it. His hand is between my legs. "Most of those old guys can't make it anymore," he says. "Or they're sterile."

I almost  gasp: he's said  a forbidden word. Sterile. There is no such thing as a sterile man anymore, not officially. There are only women who are fruitful and women who are barren, that's the law.

"Lots of women do it," he goes on. "You want a baby, don't you?"

"Yes," I say. It's true, and I don't ask why, because I know. Give me children, or else I die. There's more than one meaning to it.

"You're soft," he says. "It's time. Today or tomorrow would do it, why waste  it?  It'd  only  take  a  minute,  honey."  What  he  called  his  wife, once; maybe still does, but really it's a generic term. We are all honey.

I  hesitate. He's offering himself to  me, his  services,  at  some risk  to himself.

"I hate to see what they put you through," he murmurs. It's genuine, genuine sympathy; and yet he's enjoying this, sympathy and all. His eyes are moist with compassion, his hand is moving on me, nervously and with impatience.

"It's  too  dangerous,"  I  say.  "No.  I  can't."  The  penalty  is  death.  But they have to catch you in the act, with two witnesses. What are the odds, is the room bugged, who's waiting just outside the door?

His hand stops. "Think about it," he says. "I've seen your chart. You don't have a lot of time left. But it's your life."

"Thank you," I say. I must leave the impression dial I'm not offended, that  I'm  open to  suggestion. He  takes his hand  away, lazily almost, lingeringly, this is not the last word as far as he's concerned. He could fake the tests, report me for cancer, lor infertility, have me shipped off to the Colonies, with the Unwomen.. None of this has been said, but the knowledge of his power hangs nevertheless in the air as  he pats my thigh, withdrew himself behind the hanging sheet.

"Next month," he says.

I put on my clothes again, behind the screen, My hands are shak-ing. Why am I frightened? I've crossed no boundaries, I'vegiven no trust, taken no risk, all is safe. It's the choice that terrifies me. A way out, a salvation.

12

The  bathroom  is  beside  the  bedroom.  It's  papered  in  small  blue flowers, forget-me-nots, with curtains to match. There's a blue bath mat, a blue fake-fur cover on the toilet seat; all this bathroom lacks from the time before is a doll whose skirt  conceals the extra roll of toilet paper. Except that the mirror over the sink has been taken out and replaced by an oblong of tin, and the door has no lock, and there are no razors, of course. There were incidents in bathrooms at first:

there  were  cuttings,  drownings.  Before  they got  all  the  bugs ironed out. Cora sits on a chair outside in the hall, to see that no one else goes in. In a bathroom, in a bathtub, you are vulnerable, said Aunt Lydia. She didn't say to what.

The bath is a requirement, but it is also a luxury. Merely to lift off the heavy  white  wings  and  the  veil,  merely  to  feel  my  own  hair  again, with my hands, is a luxury. My hair is long now, un-trimmed. Hair must be long but covered. Aunt Lydia said: Saint Paul said it's either that or a close shave. She laughed, that held-back neighing of hers, as if she'd told a joke.

Cora has run the bath. It steams like a bowl of soup. I take off the rest of  the  clothes,  the  overdress,  the  white  shift  and  petticoat,  the  red stockings,  the  loose  cotton  pantaloons.  Pantyhose  gives  you  crotch rot,  Moira  used  to  say.  Aunt  Lydia  would  never  have  used  an expression    like    crotch    rot.    Unhygienicwas    hers.    She    wanted everything to be very hygienic.

My nakedness is strange to me already. My body seems outdated. Did I  really  wear  bathing  suits,  at  the  beach?  I  did,  without  thought, among  men,  without  caring  that  my  legs,  my  arms,  my  thighs  and back  were  on  display,  could  be  seen.  Shameful,  immodest.  I  avoid looking  down  at  my  body,  not  so  much  because  it's  shameful  or immodest but because I don't want to see it. I don't want to look at something that determines me so completely.

I  step  into  the  water,  lie  down,  let  it  hold  me.  Thewater  is  soft  as hands.  I  close my eyes, and  she's  there  with  me,  suddenly, without warning, it must be the smell of the soap. I put my face against the soft hair at the back of her neck and breathe her in, baby powder and child's washed flesh and shampoo, with an undertone, the faint scent of urine. This is the age she is when I'm in the bath. She comes back to me at different ages. This is how I know she's not really a ghost. If she were a ghost she would be the same age always.

One day, when she was eleven months old, just before she began to walk, a woman stole her out of a supermarket cart. It was a Saturday, which was when Luke and I did the week's shopping, because both of us had jobs. She was sitting in the little baby seats they had then, in supermarket  carts,  with  holes  for  the  legs.  She  was  happy  enough, and I'd turned my back, the cat loud section I think it was; Luke was over  at  the  side  of  the  store,  out  of  sight,  at  the  meat  counter.  He liked to choose what kind of meant we were going to eat during the week. He said men needed more meat than women did, and that it wasn't  a  superstition  and  he  wasn't  being  a  jerk,  studies  had  been done.  There  are  somesome  differences,  he  said.  He  was  fond  of saying that, as if I was trying to prove there weren't. But mostly he said it when my mother was there. He liked to tease her.

I heard her start to cry. I turned around and she was disappear-ing down  the  aisle,  in  the  arms  of  a  woman  I'd  never  seen  before.  I screamed,  and  the  woman  was  stoppctl.  She  must  havebeen  about thirty-five. She was crying and saying it was her baby, the Lord had given  it  to  her,  he'd  sent  her  a  sign.  I  felt  sorry  for  her.  The  store manager apologized and they held her until the police came.

She's just crazy, Luke said.

I thought it was an isolated incident, at the time.

She fades, I can't keep her here with me, she's gone now. Maybe I do think of her as a ghost, the ghost of a dead girl, a little girl who died when  she  was  five.  I  remember  the  pictures  of  us  I  once  had,  me holding her,standard poses, mother and baby, locked in a frame, for safety. Behind my closed eyes I can see myself as I am now, sitting beside  an  open  drawer,  or  a  trunk,  in  the  cellar,  where  the  baby clothes are folded  away, a lock of hair, cut when she was two, inan envelope, white-blond. It got darker later.

I  don't  have  those  things  anymore,  the  clothes  and  hair.  I  wonder what happened to all our things. Looted, dumped out, carried away.

Confiscated.

I've learned to do without a lot of things. If you have a lot of things, said Aunt Lydia, you get too attached to this material world and you forget  about  spiritual  values.  You  must  cultivate  poverty  of  spirit. Blessed  are  the  meek.  She  didn't  go  on  to  say  anything  about inheriting the earth.

I lie, lapped by the water, beside an open drawer that does not exist, and think about a girl who did not die when she was five; who still does  exist,  I  hope,  though  not  for  me.  Do  I  exist  for  her?  Am  I  a picture somewhere, in the dark at the back of her mind?

They must have told her I was dead. That's what they would think of doing. They would say it would be easier for her to adjust.

Eight,  she  must  be  now.  I've  filled  in  the  time  I  lost,  I  know  how much  there's  been.  They  were  right,  it's  easier,  to  think  of  her  as dead. I don'thave to  hope then, or make a wasted effort. Why bash your  head,  said  Aunt  Lydia,  against  a  wall?  Sometimes  she  had  a graphic way of putting things.

"I ain't got all day," says Cora's voice outside the door. It's true, she hasn't. She hasn't got all of anything. I must not deprive her of her time. I soap myself, use the scrub brush and the piece of pum-ice for sanding  off  dead  skin.  Such  puritan  aids  are  supplied.  I  wish  to  be totally clean, germless, without bacteria, like the surface of the moon. I will not be able to wash myself, this evening, not afterwards, not for a day. It interferes, they say, and why take chances?

I cannot avoid seeing, now, the small tattoo on my ankle. Four digits and  an  eye,  a passport  in reverse. It's supposed  to  guarantee that I will  never  be  able  to  fade,  finally, into  another landscape.  I am  too important, too scarce, for that. I am a national resource.

I  pull  the  plug,  dry  myself,  put  on  my  red  terrycloth  robe.  I  leave today's dress here, where Cora will pick it up to be washed. Back in the room I dress again. The white headdress isn't necessary for the

evening, because I won't be going out. Everyone in this house knows what  my face  looks like.  The red  veil  goes on,  though,  covering my damp hair, my head, which has not been shaved. Where did I see that film, about the women, kneeling in the town square, hands holding them, their hair falling in clumps? What had they done? It must have been a long time ago, because I can't remember.

Cora  brings  my  supper,  covered,  on  a  tray.  She  knocks  at  the  door before entering. I like her for that. It means she thinks I have some of what we used to call privacy left.

"Thank you," I say, taking the tray from her, and she actually smiles at  me,  but  she  turns  away  without  answering.  When  we're  alone together she's shy of me.

I put the tray on the small white-painted table and draw the chair up to it. I take the cover off the tray. The thigh of a chicken, overcooked. It's better than bloody, which is the other way she docs it. Rita has ways  of  making  her  resentments  felt.  A  baked  potato,  green  beans, salad. Canned pears for dessert. It's good enough food, though bland. Healthy food. You have to get your vitamins and minerals, said Aunt Lydia coyly. You must be a worthy vessel. No coffee or tea though, no alcohol.  Studies  have  been  done.  There's  a  paper  napkin,  as  in cafeterias.

I think of the others, those without. This is the heartland, here, I'm leading  a  pampered  life,  may  the  Lord  make  us  truly  grateful,  said Aunt  Lydia,  or  was  it  thankful,  and  Istart  to  eat  the  food.  I'm  not hungry tonight. I feel sick to my stomach. But there's no place to put the  food,  no  potted  plants,  and  I  won't  chance  the  toilet.  Im  too nervous, that's what it is. Could I leave it on theplate,ask Cora not to report me? I chew and swallow, chew and swallow, feeling th sweat come out. In my stomach the food balls itself together, a handful of damp cardboard, squeezed.

Downstairs,  in  the  dining  room,  there  will  be  candles  on  the  large

mahogany table, a white cloth, silver, flowers, wine glasses with wine in them. There will be the click of knives against china, a clink as she sets  down  her  fork,  with  a  barely  audible  sigh,  leaving  half  the contents  of  her  plate  untouched.  Possibly  she  will  say  she  has  no appetite. Possibly shewon't say anything. If she says something, does he comment? If she doesn't say anything, does he notice? I wonder how she manages to get herself noticed. I think it must be hard. There's a pat of butter on the side of the plate. I tear off a corner of the paper napkin, wrap the butter in it, take it to the cupboard and slip  it  into  the  toe  of  my  right  shoe,  from  the  extra  pair,  as  I  have done before. I crumple up the rest of the napkin: no one, surely, will bother  to  smooth  it  out,  to  check  if  any  is  missing.  I  will  use  the butter later tonight. It would not do, this evening, to smell of butter.

I wait. I compose myself. My self is a thing I must now compose, as one  composes  a  speech.  What  I  must  present  is  a  made  thing,  not something born.

V Nap

^

13

There's  time  to  spare.  This  is  one  of  the  things  I  wasn't  prepared forthe amount of unfilled time, the long parentheses of nothing. Time as white sound. If only I could embroider. Weave, knit, something to do  with  my  hands.  I  want  a  cigarette.  I  remember  walking  in  art galleries,  through  the  nineteenth  century:  the  obsession  they  had then with harems. Dozens of paintings of harems, fat women lolling on divans, turbans on their heads or velvet caps, being fanned with peacock tails, a eunuch in the background standing guard. Studies of sedentary  flesh,  painted  by  men  who'd  never  been  there.  These pictures were supposed to be erotic, and I thought they were, at the time; but I see now what they were really about They were paintings

about suspended animation; about wailing, about objects not in use. They  were  paintings  about  boredom.  But  maybe  boredom  is  erotic, when women do it, for men.

I  wait,  washed,  brushed,  fed,  like  a  prize  pig.  Sometime  in  the eighties they invented pig balls, for pigs who were being fattened in pens. Pig balls were large colored balls; the pigs rolled them around with their snouts. The pig marketers said this improved their muscle tone;the  pigs  were  curious,they  liekd  to  have  some-thing  to  think about.

I read about that in introduction to Psychology; that, and the chapter on caged rats who'd give themselves electric shocks for something to do And the one on the pigeons, trained to peck abutton that made a grain  of corn  appear.  Three  groups  of them:  the  first  got  one  grain per  peck,  the  second  one  grain  every  other  peck,  the  third  was random.  When  the  man  in  charge  cut  off  the  grain,  the  first  group gave  up  quite  soon,  the  second  group  alittle  later.  The  third  group never  gave  up.  They'd  peck  themselves  to  death,  rather  than  quit. Who knew what worked?

I wish I had a pig ball.

I  lie  down  on  the  braided  rug.  You  can  always  practice,  said  Aunt Lydia. Several  sessions a day, fitted  into yourdaily routine. Arms at the  sides, knees bent,  lift  the pelvis,  roll  the  backbone  down. Tuck. Again.  Breathe  in  to  the  count  of  five,  hold,  expel.  We'd  do  that  in what used to be the Domestic Science room, cleared now of sewing machines  and  washer-dryers;in  unison,  lying  on  little  Jap-anese mats,  a  tape  playing,  Les  Sylphides.  That's  what  I  hear  now,  in  my head, as I lift, tilt, breathe. Behind my closed eyes thin white dancers flit gracefully among the trees, their legs fluttering like the wings of held birds.

In the afternoons we lay on our beds for an hour in the gymnasium, between  three  and  four.  They  said  it  was  a  period  of  rest  and

meditation. I thought then they did it because they wanted some time off themselves, from teaching us, and I know the Aunts not on duty went off to the teachers' room for a cup of coffee, or whatever they called by that name. But now I think that the rest also was practice. They were giving us a chance to get used to blank time.

A catnap, Aunt Lydia called it, in her coy way.

The strange thing is we needed the rest. Many of us went to sleep. We were tired there, a lot of the time. We were on some kind of pill or drug 1 think, they put it in the food, to keep us calm. But maybe not. Maybe it was the place itself. After the first shock, after you'd come to terms, it was better to be lethargic. You could tell yourself you were saving up your strength.

I  must  have  been  there  three  weeks  when  Moira  came.  She  was brought into the gymnasium by two of the Aunts, in the usual way, while  we  were  having  our  nap.  She  still  had  her  other  clothes  on, jeans and a blue sweatshirther hair was short, she'd defied fashion as usualso  I  recognized  her  at  once.  She  saw  me  too,  but  she  turned away, she already knew what was safe. There was a bruiseon her left cheek, turning purple. The Aunts took her to a vacant bed where the red dress was already laid out. She undressed, began to dress again, in  silence,  the  Aunts  standing  at  the  end  of  the  bed,  the  rest  of  us watching from inside our slitted eyes. As she bent over I could see the knobs on her spine.

I couldn't talk to her for several days; we looked only, small glances, like sips. Friendships were suspicious, we knew it, we avoided each other during the mealtime line-ups in the cafeteria and  in the halls between classes. But on the fourth day she was beside me during the walk,  two  by  two  around  the  football  field.  We  weren't  given  the white wings until we graduated,  we had  only the veils; so we could talk,  as  long  as  we  did  it  quietly  and  didn't  turn  to  look  at  one another. The Aunts walked at the head of the line and at the end, so

the only danger was from the others. Some were believers and might report us.

This is a loony bin, Moira said. I'm so glad to see you, I said. Where can we talk? said Moira.

Washroom, I said. Watch the clock. End stall, two-thirty. That was all we said.

It  makes  me  feel  safer,  that  Moira  is  here.  We  can  go  to  the washroom if we put our hands up, though there's a limit to how many times a day, they mark it down on a chart.I watch the clock, electric and round, at the front over the green blackboard. Two-thirty comes during Testifying. Aunt Helena is here, as well as Aunt Lydia, because Testifying is special. Aunt Helena is fat, .she once headed a  Weight Watchers' franchise operation in Iowa, She's good at Testifying.

It's Janine, telling about how she was gang-raped at fourteen and had an  abortion.  She  told  the  same  story  ast  week.  She  seemed  almost proud  of  it,  while  she  was  telling.  It  may  not  even  be  true.  At Testifying,it's safer to make things upthan to say you have nothing to reveal. But since it's Janine, it's probably more or less true.

But  whose  fault  was  it?  Aunt  Helena  says,  holding  up  one  plump finger.

Her fault, her fault, her fault, we chant in unison.

Who led them on? Aunt Helena beams, pleased with us. She did. She did. She did.

Why did God allow such a terrible thing to happen?

Teach her a lesson. Teach her a lesson. Teach her a lesson.

Last week, Janine burst into tears. Aunt Helena made her kneel Ml the front of the classroom, hands behind  her back, where we could alll see her, her red face and dripping nose. Her hair dull blond, her eyelashes  so  light  they  seemed  not  there,  the  lost  eye-lashes  of someone  who's  been  in  a  fire.  Burned  eyes.  She  looked  disgusting:

weak,  squirmy,  blotchy,  pink,  like  a  newborn  mouse.  None  of  us wanted to look like that, ever. For a moment, even though we knew what was being done to her, we despised her.

Crybaby. Crybaby. Crybaby.

We meant it, which is the bad part.

I used to think well of myself. I didn't then.

That  was  last  week.  This  week  Janine  doesn't  wait  for  us  to  jeer  at her. It was my fault, she says. It was my own fault. I led them on. I deserved the pain.

Very good, Janine, says Aunt Lydia. You are an example.

I have to wait until this is over before I put up my hand. Sometimes, if you ask at the wrong moment, they say no. If you really have to go that  can  be  crucial.  Yesterday  Dolores  wet  the  floor.  Two  Aunts hauled her away, a hand under each armpit. She wasn't there for the afternoon walk, but at night she was back in her usual bed. All night we could hear her moaning, off and on.

What did they do to her? we whispered, from bed to bed. I don't know.

Not knowing makes it worse.

I raise my hand, Aunt Lydia nods. I stand up and walk out into the hall,  as  inconspicuously  as  possible.  Outside  the  washroom  Aunt Elizabeth is standing guard. She nods, signaling that I can go in.

This washroom used to be for boys. The mirrors have been replaced here too by oblongs of dull gray metal, but the urinals are still there, on  one  wall,  white  enamel  with  yellow  stains.  They  look  oddly  like babies'  coffins.  I  marvel  again  at  the  nakedness  of  men's  lives:  the showers right out in the open, the body exposed for in

I

spection  and  comparison,  the  public  display  of  privates.  What  is  it for?  What  purposes  of  reassurance  does  it  serve?  The  flashing  of  a badge,  look,  everyone,  all  is  in  order,  I  belong  here.  Why  don't

women  have  to  prove  to  one  another  that  they  are  women?  Some form  of  unbuttoning,  some  split-crotch  routine,  just  as  casual.  A doglike sniffing.

The high school is old, the stalls are wooden, some kind of chipboard. I go into the second one from the end, swing the door to. Of course there are no longer any locks. In the wood there's a small hole, at the back, next to the wall, about waist height, souvenir of some previous vandalism  or  legacy  of  an  ancient  voyeur.  Everyone  in  the  Center knows about this hole in the woodwork; everyone except the Aunts. I'm afraid I am too late, held up by Janine's Testifying: maybe Moira has been here already, maybe she's had to go back. They don't give you much time. I look carefully down, aslant under the stall wall, and there are two red shoes. But how can I tell who it is?

I put my mouth to the wooden hole. Moira? I whisper. Is that you? she says.

Yes, I say. Relief goes through me. God, do I need a cigarette, says Moira. Me too, I say.

I feel ridiculously happy.

I  sink  down  into  my  body  as  into  a  swamp,  fenland,  where  only  I know  the  footing.Treacherous  ground,  my  own  territory.  I  become the earth I set my ear against, for rumors of the future.Each twinge, each murmur of slight pain, ripples of sloughed-off matter, swellings and diminishings of tissue, the droolings of the flesh, these are signs, these are the things I need to know about, Each month I watch for blood, fearfully, for when it comes it means failure. I have failed once again  to  fulfill  the  expectations  of  others,  which  have  become  my own.

I used to think of my body as an instrument, of pleasure, or a means of  transportation,  or  an  implement  for  the  accomplishment  of  my will. I could use it to run, push buttons of one sort or an other, make

things  happen.  There  were  limits,  hut  my  body  was  nevertheless lithe, single, solid, one with me.

Now  the  flesh  arranges  itself  differently  I'm  a  cloud,  congealed around a central object, the shape of a pear, which is hard and more real than I am and glows red within its translucent wrapping. Inside it is a space, huge as the sky at night and dark and curved like that, though black-red rather than black. Pinpoints of light swell, sparkle, burst and shrivel within it, countless as stars. Every month there is a moon, gigantic, round, heavy, an omen. It transits, pauses, continues on and passes out of sight, and I see despair coming towards me like famine.  To  feel  that  empty,  again,  again. I  listen  to  my  heart,  wave upon wave, salty and red, continuing on and on, marking time.

I'm in our first apartment, in the bedroom. I'm standing in front of the cupboard, which has folding doors made of wood. Around me I know  it's  empty,  all  the  furniture  is  gone,  the  floors  are  bare,  no carpets even; but despite this the cupboard is full of clothes. I think they're  my  clothes,  but  they  don't  look  like  mine,  I've  never  seen them before. Maybe they're clothes belonging to Luke's wife, whom I've also never seen; only pictures and a voice on the phone, late at night, when she was calling us, before the divorce. But no, they're my clothes all right. I need a dress, I need something to wear. I pull out dresses,  black,  blue,  purple,  jackets,  skirts;  none  of  them  will  do, none of them even fits, they're too big or too small.

Luke is there, behind me, I turn to see him. He won't look at me, he looks  down  at  the  floor,  where  the  cat  is  rubbing  itself  against  his legs,  mewing  and  mewing  plaintively.  It  wants  food,  but  how  can there be any food with the apartment so empty?

Luke, I say. He doesn't answer. Maybe he doesn't hear me. It occurs to me that he may not be alive.

I'm  running,  with  her,  holding  her  hand,  pulling,  dragging  her through the bracken, she's only half awake because of the pill I gave

her, so she wouldn't cry or say anything that would give us away, she doesn't     know    where  she    is.            The            ground  is          uneven,    rocks, deadbranches, the smell of damp earth, old leaves, she can't run fast enough, by myself I could run faster, I'm a good runner. Now she's crying,  she's  frightened,  I  want  to  carry  her  but  she  would  be  too heavy.  I  have  my  hiking  boots  on  and  I  think,  when  we  reach  the water I'll have to kick them off, will it be too cold, will she be able to swim  that  far,  what  about  the  current,  we  weren't  expecting  this. Quiet,  I  say  to  her  angrily.  I  think  about  her  drowning  and  this thought slows me. Then the shots come behind us, not loud, not like firecrackers,  but  sharp  and  crisp  like  a  dry  branch  snapping.  It sounds wrong, nothing ever sounds the way you think it will, and I hear the voice, Down, is it a real voice or a voice inside my head or my own voice, out loud?

I pull her to the ground and roll on top of her to cover her, shield her. Quiet,  Isay  again,  my  face  is  wet,  sweat  or  tears,  I  feel  calm  and floating,  as  if  I'm  no  longer  in  my  body;  close  to  my  eyes  there's  a leaf,  red,  turned  early,  I  can  see  every  bright  vein.  It's  the  most beautiful thing I've ever seen. I ease off, I don't want to smother her, instead I curl myself around her, keeping my hand over her mouth. There's  breath  and  the  knocking  of  my  heart,  like  pounding,  at  the door of a house at night, where you thought you would be safe. It's all right, I'm here, I say, whisper, Please be quiet, but how can she? She's too  young,  it's  too  late,  we  come  apart,  my  arms  are  held,  and  the edges  go  dark  and  nothing  is  left  but  a  little  window,  a  very  little window,  like  the  wrong  end  of  a  telescope,  like  the  window  on  a Christmas  card,  an  old  one,  night  and  ice  outside,  and  within  a candle, a shining tree, a family, I can hear the bells even, sleigh bells, from the radio, old music, but through this window I can see, small but very clear, I can see her, going away from me, through the trees which  are already turning, red  and  yellow,  holding out  her arms to

me, being carried away.

The bell awakens me; and then Cora, knocking at my door. I sit up, on the rug, wipe my wet face with my sleeve. Of all the dreams this is the worst.

VI Household

^

14

When the bell has finished I descend the stairs, a brief waif in the eye of  glass  that  hangs  on  the  downstairs  wall.  The  clock  ticks  with  its pendulum,  keeping  time;  my  feet  in  their  neat  red  shoes  count  the way down.

The sitting room door is wide open. I go in: so far no one else is here. I  don't  sit,  but  take  my  place,  kneeling,near  the  chair  with  the footstool where Serena Joy will shortly enthrone herself, leaning on her cane while she lowers herself down. Possibly she'll put a hand on my  shoulder,  to  steady  herself,  as  if  I'm  a  pitve  of  furniture.  She's done it before.

The  sitting  room  would  once  have  been  called  a  drawing  room, perhaps; then a living room. Or maybe it's a parlor, the kind with a spider and flies. But now it's officially a sitting room, because that's what is done in it, by some. For others there's standing room only. The   posture   of   the   body   is   important,   here   and   now:   minor discomforts are instructive.

The  sitting  room  is  subdued,  symmetrical;  it's  one  of  the  shapes money takes when it freezes. Money has trickled through this room for years and years, as if through an underground cavern, crustling and  hardening  like  stalactites  into  these  found,  Mutely  the  varied, surfaces   present   themselves:  the   dusk-rose   velvet   of   the   drawn drapes,  the  gloss  of  the  matching  chairs,  eighteenth  century,  the cow's-tongue  hush  of  the  tufted  Chinese  rug  on  the  floor,  with  its

peach-pink peonies, the suave leather of the Commander's chair, the glint of brass on the box beside it.

The rug is authentic. Some things in this room are authentic, some are  not.  For  instance,  two  paintings,both  of  women,  one  on  either side of the fireplace. Both wear dark dresses, like the ones in the old church, though of a later date. The paintings are possibly authentic. I suspect that when Serena Joy acquired them, after it became obvious to   her  that  she'd   have  to   redirect  her  energies   into   something convincingly domestic, she had the intention of passing them off as ancestors.  Or  maybe  they  were  in  the  house  when  the  Commander bought it. There's no way of knowing such things. In any case, there they  hang,  their  backs  and  mouths  stiff,  their  breasts  constricted, their  faces  pinched,  their  caps  starched,  their  skin  grayish  white, guarding the room with their narrowed eyes.

Between  them,  over  the  mantel,  there's  an  oval  mirror,  flanked  by two  pairs  of  silver  candlesticks,  with  a  white  china  Cupid  centered between  them,  its  arm  around  the  neck  of  a  lamb.  The  tastes  of Serena Joy are a strange blend: hard lust for quality, soft sentimental cravings.  There's  a  dried  flower  arrangement  on  either  end  of  the mantelpiece, and a vase of real daffodils on the polished marquetry end table beside the sofa.

The  room  smells  of  lemon  oil,  heavy  cloth,  fading  daffodils,  the leftover smells of cooking that have made their way from the kitchen or the dining room, and of Serena Joy's perfume: Lily of the Valley. Perfume is a luxury, she must have some private source. I breathe it in,  thinking  1  should  appreciate  it.  It's  the  scent  of  pre-pubescent girls,  of  the  gifts  young  children  used  to  give  their  mothers,  for Mother's  Day;the  smell  of  white  cotton  socks  and  white  cotton petticoats, of dusting powder, of the innocence of female flesh not yet given over to hairiness and blood. It makes me feel slightly ill, as it I'm in a closed car on a hot muggy day with an older woman wearing

too much face powder. This is what the sitting room is like, despite its elegance.

I would like to steal .something from this room. I would like to take some  small  thing,  the  scrolled  ashtray,  the  little  silver  pillbox  from the mantel perhaps, or a dried flower: hide it in the folds of my dress or  in  my  zippered  sleeve,  keep  it  there  until  this  evening  is  over, secrete it in my room, under the bed, or in a shoe, or in a slit in the hard petit point FAITH cushion. Every once in a while I would take it out and look at it. It would make me feel that I have power.

But such a feeling would be an illusion, and too risky. My hands stay where  they  are,  folded  in  my  lap.  Thighs  together,  heels  tucked underneath  me,  pressing  up  against  my  body.  Head  lowered.  In mymouth there's the taste of toothpaste: fake mint and plaster.

I wait, for the household to assemble. Household: that is what we are. The Commander is the head of the household. The house is what he holds. To have and to hold, till death do us part.

The hold of a ship. Hollow.

Cora comes in first, then Rita, wiping her hands on her apron. They too have been summoned by the bell, they resent it, they have other things to do, the dishes for instance. But they need to be here, they all need to be here, the Ceremony demands it. We are all obliged to sit through this, one way or another.

Rita scowls at me before slipping in to stand behind me. It's my fault, this  waste  of  her  time.  Not  mine,  but  my  body's,  if  there  is  a difference. Even the Commander is subject to its whims.

Nick walks in, nods to all three of us, looks around the room. He too takes his place behind me, standing. He's so close that the tip of his boot is touching my foot. Is this on purpose? Whether it is or not we are touching, two shapes of leather. I feel my shoe soften, blood flows into  it,  it  grows  warm,  it  becomes  a  skin.  I  move  my  foot  slightly, away.

"Wish he'd hurry up," says Cora.

"Hurry  up  and  wait,"  says  Nick.  He  laughs,  moves  his  foot  so  it's touching  mine  again.  No  one  can  see,  beneath  the  folds  of  my outspread  skirt.  I  shift,  it's  too  warm  in  here,  the  smell  of  stale perfume makes me feel a little sick. I move my foot away.

We hear Serena coming, down the stairs, along the hall, the muffled tap of her cane on the rug, thud of the goodfoot. She hobbles through the  doorway,  glances  at  us,  counting  but  not  seeing.  She  nods,  at Nick, but says nothing. She's in one of her best dresses, sky blue with embroidery in white along the edges of the veil: flowers and fretwork. Even at her age shestill feels the urge to wreathe herself in flowers. No use for you, I think at her, my face unmov-ing, you cant use them anymore, you're withered. They're the genital organs of plants. I read that somewhere, once.

She makes her way to her chair and footstool, turns, lowers her-self, lands ungracefully. She hoists her left foot onto the stool, fumbles in her sleeve  pocket.  I can  hear the  rustling,  the  click  of her lighter,  1 smell the hot singe of the smoke, breathe it in.

"Late  as  usual,"  she  says.  We  don't  answer.  There's a  clatter as she gropes  on  the  lamp  table,  then  a  click,  and  the  television  set  runs through its warm-up.

A  male  choir,  with  greenish-yellow  skin,  the  color  needs  adjusting; they're singing "Come to the Church in the Wildwood." Come, come, come,  come,  sing  the  basses.  Serena  clicks  the  channel  changer. Waves, colored zigzags, a garble of sound: it's the Montreal satellite station, being blocked. Then there's a preacher, earnest, with shining dark eyes, leaning towards us across a desk. These days they look a lot  like  businessmen.  Serena  gives  him  a  few  seconds,  then  clicks onward.

Several  blank  channels,  then  the  news.  This  is  what  she's  been looking  for.  She  leans  back,  inhales  deeply.  I  on  the  contrary  lean

forward, a child being allowed up late with the grown-ups. This is the one good thing about these evenings, the evenings of the Ceremony: I'm  allowed  to watch  the  news. It seems  to  be  an unspoken  rule  in this household: we always get here on time, he's always late, Serena always lets uswatch the news.

Such as it is: who knows if any of it is true? It could be old clips, it could  be  faked.  But  I  watch  it  anyway,  hoping  to  be  able  to  read beneath it. Any news, now, is better than none.

First, the front lines. They are not lines, really: the war seems to be going on in many places at once.

Wooded hills, seen from above, the trees a sickly yellow. I wish she'd fix the color. The Appalachian Highlands, says the voice-over, where the  Angels  of  the  Apocalypse,  Fourth  Division,  are  smoking  out  a pocket  of  Baptist  guerillas,  with  air  support  from  the  Twenty-first Battalion of the Angels of Light. We are shown two helicopters, black ones with silver wings painted on the sides. Below them, a clump of trees explodes.

Now a close shot of a prisoner, with a stubbled and dirty face, flanked by  two  Angels  in  their  neat  black  uniforms.  The  prisoner  accepts  a cigarette from one of the Angels, puts it awkwardly to his lips with his bound hands. He gives a lopsided little grin. The announcer is saying something, but I don't hear it: I look into this man's eyes, trying to decide what he's thinking. He knows the camera is on him: is the grin a show of defiance, or is it submission? Is he embarrassed, at having been caught?

They only show us victories, never defeats. Who wants bad news? Possibly he's an actor.

The  anchorman  comes  on  now.  His  manner  is  kindly,  fatherly;  he gazes out at us from the screen, looking, with his tan and his white hair  and  candid  eyes,  wise  wrinkles  around  them,  like  everybody's ideal grandfather. What he's telling us, his level smile implies, is for

our own good. Everything will be all right soon. I promise. There will be peace. You must trust. You must go to sleep, like good children.

He tells us what we long to believe. He's very convincing.

I struggle against him. He's like an old movie star, I tell myself, with false teeth and a face job. At the same time I sway towards him, like one hypnotized. If only it were true. If only I could believe.

Now  he's  telling  us  that  an  underground  espionage  ring  has  been cracked  by  a  team  of  Eyes,  working  with  an  inside  informant.  The ring has been smuggling precious national resources over the border into Canada.

"Five members of the heretical sect of Quakers have been arrested,"

he says, smiling blandly, "and more arrests are anticipated."

Two of the Quakers appear onscreen, a man and a woman. They look terrified,  but  they're  trying  to  preserve  some  dignity  in  front  of  the camera. The man has a largedark mark on his forehead; the woman's veil has been torn off, and her hair falls in strands over her face. Both of them are about fifty.

Now  we  can  see  a city,  again from  the  air.  This used  to be  Detroit. Under the voice of the announcer there's the thunk of artillery. From the skyline columns of smoke ascend.

"Resettlement  of  the  Children  of  Ham  is  continuing  on  schedule," says  the  reassuring  pink  face,  back  on  the  screen.  "Three  thousand have arrived this week in National Homeland One, with another two thousand in transit." How are they transporting that many people at once? Trains, buses? We are not shown any pictures of this. National Homeland   One   is   in   North   Dakota.   Lord   knows   what   they're supposed to do, once they get there. Farm, is the theory.

Serena  Joy  has  had  enough  of  the  news.  Impatiently  she  clicks  the button  for a  station  change, comes  up  with  an  aging  bass  baritone, his  cheeks  like  emptied  udders.  "Whispering  Hope"  is  what  he's singing. Serena turns him off.

We wait, the clock in the hall ticks, Serena lights another cigarette, 1 get  into  the  car.  It's  a  Saturday  morning,  it's  a  September,  we  still have a car. Other people have had to sell theirs. My name isn't Offred, I have another name, which nobody uses now because it's forbidden. I  tellmyself  it  doesn't  matter,  your  name  is  like  your  telephone number, useful only to others; but what I tell myself is wrong, it does matter.  I  keep  the  knowledge  of  this  name  like  something  hidden, some treasure I'll come back to dig up, one day. I think ofthis name as  buried.  This  name  has  an  aura  around  it,  like  an  amulet,  some charm that's survived from an unimaginably distant past. I lie in my single bed  at  night, with  my eyes closed, and  the name  floats there behind my eyes, not quite within reach, shining in the dark.

It's a Saturday morning in September, I'm wearing my shining name. The little girl who is now dead sits in the back seat, with her two best dolls,  her  stuffed  rabbit,  mangy  with  age  and  love.  I  know  all  the details. They are sentimental details but I can't help that. I can't think about  the  rabbit  too  much  though,  I  can't  start  to  cry,  here  on  the Chinese  rug,  breathing  in  the  smoke  that  has  been  inside  Serena's body. Not here, not now, I can do that later.

She thought we were going on a picnic, and in fact there is a picnic basket on the back seat, beside her, with real food in it, hard-boiled eggs,  thermos  and  all.  We  didn't  want  her  to  know  where  we  were really going, we didn't want her to tell, by mistake, reveal anything, if we were stopped. We didn't want to lay upon her the burden of our truth.

I  wore  my  hiking  boots,  she  had  on  her  sneakers.  The  laces  of  the sneakers  had  a  design  of  hearts  on  them,  red,  purple,  pink,  and yellow.  It  was  warm  for  the  time  of  year,  the  leaves  were  turning already, some of them; Luke drove, I sat beside him, the sun shone, the  sky was blue,  the  houses  as we passed  them looked  comforting and  ordinary,  each  house  as  it  was  left  behind  vanishing  into  past

time, crumbling in an instant as if it had never been, because I would never see it again, or so I thought then.

We  have  almost  nothing  with  us,  we  don't  want  to  look  as  if  we're going  anywhere  far  or  permanent.  We  have  the  forged  passports, guaranteed,  worth  the  price.  We  couldn't  pay  in  money,  of  course, orput it on the Compucount: we used other things, some jewelry that was  my  grandmother's,  a  stamp  collection  Luke  inherited  from  his uncle. Such things can be exchanged, for money, in other countries. When we get to the border we'll pretend we're just going over on a day  trip;  the  fake  visas  are  for  a  day.  Before  that  I'll  give  her  a sleeping  pill  so  she'll  be  asleep  when  we  cross.  That  way  she  won't betray us. You can't expect a child to lie convincingly.

And  I  don't  want  her  to  feel  frightened,  to  feel  thefear  that  is  now tightening my muscles, tensing my spine, pulling me so taut that I'm certain I would break if touched. Every stoplight is an ordeal. We'll spend  the  night  at  a motel, or,  better,  sleeping  in  the car  on a  side road  so  there  will  be  no  suspicious  questions.  We'll  cross  in  the morning,   drive   over   the   bridge,   easily,   just   like   driving   to   the supermarket.

We turn onto the freeway, head north, flowing with not much traffic. Since the war started, gas is expensive and in short supply. Outside thecity  we  pass  the  first  checkpoint.  All  they  want  is  a  look  at  the license,  Luke  does  it  well.  The  license  matches  the  passport:  we thought of that.

Back on the road, he squeezes my hand, glances over at me. You're white as a sheet, he says.

That is how I feel: white, flat, thin. I feel transparent. Surely they will be able to  see through me. Worse, how will 1  be able to hold  on to Luke, to her, when I'm so flat, so while? I feel as if there's not much left of me; they will slip through my arms, as if I'm made of smoke, as if I'm a mirage, fading before their eyes. Don't think that way, Moira

would say. Think that way and you'll make it happen.

Cheer   up,   says   Luke.   He's   driving   a   little   too   fast   now.   The adrenaline's gone to his head. Now he's singing. Oh what a beautiful morning, he sings.

Even  his  singing  worries  me.  We've  been  warned  not  to  look  too happy.

The  Commander  knocks  at  the  door.  The  knock  is  prescribed:  the sitting room is supposed to be Serena Joy's territory, he's supposed to ask permission toenter it. She likes to keep him waiting. It's a little thing,   but   in   this   household   little   things   mean   a   lot.   Tonight, however,  she  doesn't  even  get  that,  because  before  Serena  Joy  can speak  he  steps  forward  into  the  room  anyway.  Maybe  he's  just forgotten  the  protocol,  but  maybe  it's  deliberate.  Who  knows  what she said to him, over the silver-encrusted dinner table? Or didn't say. The Commander has on his black uniform, in which he looks like a museum guard. A semiretired man, genial but wary, killing time. But only  at  first  glance.  After  that  he  looks  like  a  midwestern  bank president,  with  his  straight  neatly  brushed  silver  hair,  his  sober posture,   shoulders   a   little   stooped.   And   after   that   there   is   his mustache, silver also, and after that his chin, which really you can't miss. When you get down as far as the chin he looks like a vodka ad, in a glossy magazine, of times gone by.

His   manner   is   mild,   his   hands   large,   with   thick   fingers   and acquisitive          thumbs,            his        blue      eyes            uncommunicative,         falsely innocuous.He  looks  us  over  as  if  taking  inventory.  One  kneeling woman in red, one seated woman in blue, two in green, standing, a solitary man, thin-faced, in the background. He manages to  appear puzzled, as if he can't quite remember how we all got in here. As ifwe are  something  he  inherited,  like  a  Victorian  pump  organ,  and  he hasn't figured out what to do with us. What we are worth.

He nods in the general direction of Serena Joy, who does not make a

sound. He crosses to the large leather chair reserved for him, takes the  key  out  of  his  pocket,  fumbles  with  the  ornate  brass-bound leather-covered  box  that  stands  on  the  table  beside  the  chair.  He inserts the key, opens the box, lifts out the Bible, an ordinary copy, with a black cover and gold-edged pages. The Bibleis kept locked up, the way people once kept tea locked up, so the servants wouldn't steal it. It is an incendiary device: who knows what we'd make of it, if we ever got our hands on it? We can be read to from it, by him, but we cannot  read.  Our  heads  turn  towards  him,  we  are  expectant,  here comes our bedtime story.

The Commander sits down and crosses his legs, watched by us. The bookmarks  are  in  place.  He  opens  the  book.  He  clears  his  throat  a little, as if embarrassed.

"Could I have a drink of water?" he says to the air. "Please," he adds. Behind me, one of them, Cora or Rita, leaves her space in the tableau and  pads  off  towards  the  kitchen.  The  Commander  sits,  looking down. The Commander sighs, takes out a pair of reading glasses from his inside jacket pocket, gold rims, slips them on. Now he looks like a shoemaker in an old fairy-tale book. Is there no end to his disguises, of benevolence?

We watch him: every inch, every flicker.

To be a man, watched by women. It must be entirely strange. To have them watching him all the time. To have them wondering, What's he going to do next? To have them flinch when he moves, even if it's a harmless  enough  move,  to  reach  for  an  ashtray  perhaps.  To  have them sizing him up. To have them thinking, Hee can't do it, he won't do, he'll have to do, this last as if he were a garment, out of style or shoddy, which must nevertheless be put on because there's nothing else available.

To have them putting him on, trying him on, trying him out, while he himself puts them on, like a sock over a tool, onto the stub of himself,

his  extra,  sensitive  thumb,  his  tentacle,  his  delicate,  stalked  slug's eye, which extrudes, expands, winces, and shrivels back into himself when  touched  wrongly,  grows  big  again,  bulging  a  little  at  the  tip, traveling  forward  as  if  along  a  leaf,  into  them,  avid  for  vision.  To achieve  vision  in  this  way,  this  journey  into  a  darkness  that  is composed  of  women,  a  woman,  who  can  see  in  darkness  while  he himself strains blindly forward.

She  watches  him  from  within.  We're  all  watching  him.  It's  the  one thing we can really do, and it is not for nothing: if he were to falter, fail,  or  die,  what  would  become  of  us?  No  wonder  he's  like  a  boot, hard on the outside, giving shape to a pulp of tenderfoot. That's just a wish.  I've  been  watching  him  for  some  time  and  he's  given  no evidence, of softness.

But watch out, Commander, I tell him in my head. I've got my eye on you. One false move and I'm dead.

Still, it must be hell, to be a man, like that. It must be just fine.

It must be hell.

It must be very silent.

The water appears, the Commander drinks it. "Thank you," he says. Cora rustles back into place.

The Commander pauses, looking down, scanning the page. He takes his time, as if unconscious of us. He's like a man toying with a steak, behind a restaurant window, pretending not to see the eyes watching him  from  hungry  darkness  not  three  feet  from  his  elbow.  We  lean towards him a little, iron filings to his magnet. He has something we don't have, he has the word. How we squandered it, once.

The Commander, as if reluctantly, begins to read. He isn't very good at it. Maybe lie's merely bored.

It's the usual story, the usual stories. God to Adam, God to Noah. lie fruitful, and multiply, and replenish the earth. Then comes the moldy

old  Rachel  anil  Leah  stuff  we  had  drummed  into  us  at  the  Center. Give  me  children,  or  else  I  die.  Am  I  in  God's  stead,  who  hath withheld from thee the fruit of the womb? Behold my maid Bilhah. She shall bear upon my knees, that I may also have children by her. And so on and so forth. We had it read to us every breakfast, as we sat  in  the  high  school  cafeteria,  eating  porridge  with  cream  and brown  sugar.  You're  getting  the  best,  you  know,  said  Aunt  Lydia. There's  a  war  on,  things  are  rationed.  You  are  spoiled  girls,  she twinkled, as if rebuking a kitten. Naughty puss.

For lunch it was the Beatitudes. Blessed be this, blessed be that. They played it from a tape, so not even an Aunt would be guilty of the sin of reading. The voice was a man's. Blessed be the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. Blessed are the merciful. Blessed be the meek. Blessed are the silent. I knew they made that up, I knew it was  wrong,  and  they  left  things  out,  too,  but  there  was  no  way  of checking. Blessed be those that mourn, for they shall be comforted. Nobody said when.

I  check  the  clock,  during  dessert,  canned  pears  with  cinnamon, standard for lunch, and look for Moira in her place, two tables over. She's gone already. I put my hand up, I am excused. We don't do this too often, and always at different times of day.

In the washroom I go to the second-last stall, as usual. Are you there? I whisper.

Large as life and twice as ugly, Moira whispers back. What have you heard? I ask her.

Nothing much. I've got to get out of here, I'm going bats.

I feel panic. No, no, Moira, I say, don't try it. Not on your own. I'll fake sick. They send an ambulance, I've seen it.

You'll only get as far as the hospital.

At least it'll be a change. I won't have to listen to that old bitch. They'll find you out.

Not to worry, I'm good at it. When I was a kid in high school I cut out vitamin  C,  I  got  scurvy.  In  the  early  stages  they  can't  diagnose  it. Then you just start it again and you're fine. I'll hide my vitamin pills. Moira, don't.

I couldn't stand the thought of her not being here, with me. For me. They send two guys with you, in the ambulance. Think about it. They must  be  starved  for  it,  shit,  they  aren't  even  allowed  to  put  their hands in their pockets, the possibilities are

You  in  there.  Time's  up,  said  the  voice  of  Aunt  Elizabeth,  from  the doorway.  I  stood  up,  flushed  the  toilet.  Two  of  Moira's  fingers appeared, through the hole in the wall. It was only large enough for two fingers. I touched my own fingers to them, quickly, held on, Let go.

"And Leah said, God hath given me my hire, because I have given my maiden to my husband," says the Commander. He lets the book fall closed. It makes an exhausted sound, likea padded door shutting, by itself, at a distance: a puff of air. The sound suggests the softness of the  thin  oniony  pages,  how  they  would  feel  under  the  fingers.  Soft and dry, like papier poudre, pink and powdery, from the time before, you'd  get  it  in  booklets  for  taking  the  shine  off  your  nose,  in  those stores that sold candles and soap in the shapes of things: seashells, mushrooms. Like cigarette paper. Like prints.

The Commander sits with his eyes closed for a moment, as if tired. He works long hours. He has a lot of responsibilities.

Sc-i cna has begun to cry. I can hear her, behind my back. It isn't the lirst  time.  She  always  does  this,  the  night  of  the  Ceremony.  She's trying  not  to  make  a  noise.  She's  trying  to  preserve  her  dignity,  in front of us. The upholstery and the rugs muffle her but we ran hear her clearly despite that. The tension between her lack of control and her attempt to suppress it is horrible. It's like a fart in church. I feel, as always, the urge to laugh, but not because I think it's funny. The

smell of her crying spreads over us and we pretend to ignore it.

The  Commander  opens  his  eyes,  notices,  frowns,  ceases  to  notice.

"Now we will have a moment of silent prayer," says the Commander.

"We will ask for a blessing, and for success in all our ventures."

I  bow  my  head  and  close  my  eyes.  I  listen  to  the  held  breath,  the almost inaudible gasps, the shaking going on behind my back. How she must hate me, I think.

I pray silently: Nolite te bastardes carborundorum. I don't know what it means, but it sounds right, and it will have to do, because I don't know what else I can say to God. Not right now. Not, as they used to say,  at  this  juncture.  The  scratched  writing  on  my  cupboard  wall floats before me, left by an unknown woman, with the face of Moira. I saw  her  go  out,  to  the  ambulance,  on  a  stretcher,  carried  by  two Angels.

What  is  it?  I  mouthed  to  the  woman  beside  me;  safe  enough,  a question like that, to all but a fanatic.

A fever, she formed with her lips. Appendicitis, they say.

I  was  having  dinner,  that  evening,  hamburger  balls  and  hashed browns. My table was near the window, I could see out, as far as the front gates. I saw the ambulance come back, no siren this time. One of the Angels jumped out, talked with the guard. The guard went into the building; the ambulance stayed parked; the Angel stood with his back  towards  us,  as  they  had  been  taught  to  do.  Two  of  the  Aunts came  out  of  the  building,  with  the  guard.  They  went  around  to  the back. They hauled Moira out, dragged her in through the gate and up the front steps, holding her under the armpits, one on each side. She was having trouble walking. I stopped eating, I couldn't eat; by this time all  of us on my side of the table were staring out the window. The window was greenish, with that chicken wire mesh they used to put inside glass. Aunt Lydia said, Eat your dinner. She went over and pulled down the blind.

They took her into the room that used to be the Science Lab. It was a room where none of us ever went willingly. Afterwards she could not walk for a week, her feet would not fit into her shoes, they were too swollen. It was the feet they'd do, for a first offense. They used steel cables, frayed at the ends. After that the hands. They didn't care what they  did  to  your  feetor  your  hands,  even  if  it  was  permanent. Remember,  said  Aunt  Lydia.  For  our  purposes  your  feet  and  your hands are not essential.

Moira  lay  on  her  bed,  an  example.  She  shouldn't  have  tried  it,  not with the Angels, Alma said, from the next bed over. We had to carry her to classes. We stole extra paper packets of sugar for her, from the cafeteria at mealtimes, smuggled them to her, at night, handing them from  bed  to  bed. Probably she didn't  need  the  sugar but  it  was  the only thing we could find to steal. To give.

I am still praying but what I am seeing is Moira's feet the way they looked after they'd brought her back, Her feet did not look like feet at all. They looked like drowned feet, swollen and bone-less, except for the color. They looked like lungs.

Oh God, I pray. Nolite te bastardes carborundorum. Is this what you had in mind?

The Commander clears his throat. This is what he does to let us know dial in his opinion it's time we stopped praying. "For the eyes of the Lord  run  to  and  fro  throughout  the  wholeearth,  to  know  himself strong in the behalf of them whose heart is perfect towards him," he says.

It's the sign-off. He stands up. We are dismissed.

16

The Ceremony goes as usual.

I  lie  on  my  back,  fully  clothed  except  for  the  healthy  white  cotton underdrawers. What I could see, if I were to open my eyes, would be the   large   white   canopy   of   Serena   Joy's   outsized   colonial-style

four-poster  bed,  suspended  like  a  sagging  cloud  above  us,  a  cloud sprigged with tiny drops of silver rain, which, if you looked at them closely, would turn out to be four-petaled flowers. I would not see the carpet, which is white, or the sprigged curtains and skirted dressing table  with  its  silver-backed  brush  and  mirror  set;  only  the  canopy, which manages to suggest at one and the same time, by the gauziness of  its  fabric  and  its  heavy  downward  curve,  both  ethereality  and matter.

Or  the  sail  of  a  ship.  Big-bellied  sails,  they  used  to  say,  in  poems. Bellying. Propelled forward by a swollen belly.

A mist of Lily of the Valley surrounds us, chilly, crisp almost. It's not warm in this room.

Above  me,  towards  the  head  of  the  bed,  Serena  Joy  is  arranged, outspread.  Her  legs  are  apart,  I  lie  between  them,  my  head  on  her stomach,  her  pubic  bone  under  the  base  of  my  skull,  her  thigh  on either side of me. She too is fully clothed,

My  arms  are  raised;  she  holds  my  hands,  each  of  mine  in  each  of hers.  This  is  supposed  to  signify  that  we  are  one  flesh,  one  being. What it really means is that she is in control, of the process and thus of the product.If any. The rings of her left hand cut into my fingers. It may or may not be revenge.

My red skirt is hitched up to my waist, though no higher. Below it the Commander  is  fucking.  What  he  is  fucking  is  the  lower  part  of  my body. I do not say making love, because this is not what he's doing. Copulating  too  would  be  inaccurate,  because  it  would  imply  two people and  only  one  is involved.  Nor does  rape  cover it: nothing is going on here that I haven't signed up for. There wasn't a lot of choice but there was some, and this is what I chose.

Therefore  I  lie  still  and  picture  the  unseen  canopy over  my  head.  I remember Queen Victoria's advice to her daughter: Close your eyes and think of England. But this is not England. I wish he would hurry

up.

Maybe I'm crazy and this is some new kind of therapy.

I wish it were true; then I could get better and this would go away. Serena Joy grips my hands as if it is she, not I, who's being fucked, as if  she  finds  it  either  pleasurable  or  painful,  and  the  Commander fucks, with a regular two-four marching stroke, on and on like a tap dripping. He is preoccupied, like a man humming to  himself in the shower  without  knowing  he's  humming;  like  a  man  who  has  other things on his mind. It's as if he's somewhere else, waiting for himself to come, drumming his fingers on the table while he waits. There's an impatience in his rhythm now.  But isn't  this everyone's wet  dream, two women at once? They used to say that. Exciting, they used to say. What's going on in this room, under Serena Joy's silvery canopy, is not exciting. It has nothing to do with passion or love or romance or any of those other notions we used to titillate ourselves with. It has nothing to do with sexual desire, at least for me, and certainly not for Serena.  Arousal  and  orgasm  are  no  longer  thought  necessary;  they would  be  a  symptom  of  frivolity  merely,  like  jazz  garters  or  beauty spots:  superfluous  distractions  for  the  light-minded.  Outdated.  It seems  odd  that  women  once  spent  such  time  and  energy  reading about such things,thinking about them, worrying about them, writing about them. They are so obviously recreational.

This  is  not  recreation,  even  for  the  Commander.  This  is  serious business. The Commander, too, is doing his duty.

If I were going to open my eyes a slit, I would be able to see him, his not-unpleasant face hanging over my torso, with a few strands of his silver  hair  falling  perhaps  over  his  forehead,  intent  on  his  inner journey,  that  place  he  is  hurrying  towards,  which  recedes  as  in  a dream at the same speed with which he approaches it. I would see his open eyes.

If he were better looking would I enjoy this more?

At least he's an improvement on the previous one, who smelled like a church  cloakroom  in  the  rain;  like  your  mouth  when  the  dentist starts picking at your teeth; like a nostril. The Commander, instead, smells of mothballs, or is this odor some punitive form of aftershave? Why does he have to wear that stupid uniform? But would I like his white, tufted raw body any better?

Kissing is forbidden between us. This makes it bearable. One detaches oneself. One describes.

He comes at last, with a stifled groan as of relief. Serena Joy, who has been  holding  her  breath,  expels  it.  The  Commander,  who  has  been propping  himself  on  his  elbows,  away  from  our  combined  bodies, doesn't  permit  himself  to  sink  down  into  us.  He  rests  a  moment, withdraws,  recedes,  rezippers.  He  nods,  then  turns  and  leaves  the room, closing the door with exaggerated carebehind him, as if both of us are his ailing mother. There's something hilarious about this, but I don't dare laugh.

Serena Joy lets go of my hands. "You can get up now," she says. "Get up  and  get  out."  She's  supposed  to  have  me  rest,  for  ten  minutes, with my feet on a pillow to improve the chances. This is meant to be a time of silent meditation for her, hut she's not in the mood for that. There is loathing in her voice, as if the touch of my flesh sickens and contaminates  her.  I  untangle  myself  from  her  body,  stand  up;  the juice of the Commander runs down my legs. Before I turn away I see her straighten her blue skirt, clench her legs together; she continues lying on the bed, gazing up at the canopy above her, stiff and straight as an effigy.

Which of us is it worse for, her or me?

17

This is what I do when I'm back in my room:

I take off my clothes and put on my nightgown.

I look for the pat of butter, in the toe of my right shoe, where I hid it

after dinner. The cupboard was too warm, the butter is semi-liquid. Much of it has sunk into the paper napkin I wrapped it in. Now I'll have butter in my shoe. Not the first time, because whenever there is butter or even margarine, I save some in this way. I can get most of the butter off the shoe lining, with a washcloth or some toilet paper from the bathroom, tomorrow.

I  rub  the  butter  over  my  face,  work  it  into  the  skin  of  my  hands. There's no longer any hand  lotion or face cream, not for us. Such I things   are  considered   vanities.  We  are  containers,  it's   only   the in-sides  of  our  bodies  that  are  important.  The  outside  can  become hard and wrinkled, for all they care, like the shell of a nut. This was a decree of the Wives, this absence of hand lotion. They don't want us to look attractive. For them, things are bad enough as it is.

The butter is a trick I learned at the Rachel and Leah Center. The Red Center, we called it, because there was so much red. My predecessor in this room, my friend  with  the freckles and the good  laugh, must have done this too, this buttering. We all do it.

As long as we do this, butter our skin to keep it soft, we can believe that we will some day get out, that we will be touched again, in love or desire. We have ceremonies of our own, private ones.

The butter is greasy and it will go rancid and I will smell like an old cheese; but at least it's organic, as they used to say.

To such devices have we descended.

Buttered, I lie on my single bed, flat, like a piece of toast. I can't sleep. In the semidark I stare up at the blind plaster eye in the middle of the ceiling,  which  stares  back  down  at  me,  even  though  it  can't  see. There's   no   breeze,   my   white   curtains   are   like   gauze   bandages, hanging  limp,  glimmering  in  the  aura  cast  by  the  searchlight  that illuminates this house at night, or is there a moon?

I  fold  back  the  sheet,  get  carefully  up,  on  silent  bare  feet,  in  my nightgown, go to the window, like a child, I want to see. The moon on

the breast of the new-fallen snow. The sky is clear but hard to make out, because of the searchlight; but yes, in the obscured sky a moon does float, newly, a wishing moon, a sliver of ancient rock, a goddess, a wink. The moon is a stone and the sky is full of deadly hardware, but oh God, how beautiful anyway.

I  want  Luke  here  so  badly.  I  want  to  be  held  and  told  my  name.  I want  to  be  valued,  in  ways  that  I  am  not;  I  want  to  be  more  than valuable.  I  repeat  my  former  name,  remind  myself  of  what  1  once could do, how others saw me.

I want to steal something.

In  the  hall  the  night-light's  on,  the  long  space  glows  gently  pink;  I walk, one foot set carefully down, then the other, without creaking, along  the  runner,  as  if  on  a  forest  floor,  sneaking,  my  heart  quick, through the night house. I am out of place. This is entirely illegal. Down past the fisheye on the hall wall, 1 can see my white shape, of tented body, hair down my back like a mane, my eyes gleaming. I like this.  I  am  doing  something,  on  my  own.  The  active,  is  it  a  tense? Tensed. What I  would  like to steal  is a knife, from the kitchen, but I'm not ready for that.

I  reach  the  sitting  room,  door's  ajar,  slip  in,  leave  the  door  a  little open. A squeak of wood, but who's near enough to hear? I stand in the room, letting the pupils of my eyes dilute, like a cat's or owl's.

Old perfume, cloth dust fill my nostrils. There'sa slight mist of light, coming  through  the  cracks  around  the  closed  drapes,  from  the searchlight outside, where two men doubtless patrol, I've seen them, fromabove, from behind my curtains, dark shapes, cutouts.

Now  I  can  see  outlines,  gleams:  from  the  mirror,  the  bases  of  the lumps, the vases, the sofa looming like a cloud at dusk.

What should I take? Something that will not be missed. In the wood at  midnight,  a  magic  flower.  A  withered  daffodil,  not  one  from  the dried  arrangement.  The  daffodils  will  soonbe  thrown  out,  they're

beginning to smell. Along with Serena's stale fumes, the stench of her knitting.

I grope, find an end table, feel. There's a clink, I must have knocked something. I find the daffodils, crisp at the edges where they've dried, limp  towards  the  stems,  use  my  fingers  to  pinch.  I  will  press  this, somewhere. Under the mattress. Leave it there, for the next woman, the  one  who  comes  after  me,  to  find.  But  there's  someone  in  the room, behind me. I hear the step, quiet as mine, the creaking of the same  floorboard.  The  door  closes  behind  me,  with  a  little  click, cutting   the   light.   I   freeze:   white   was   a   mistake.   I'm   snow   in moonlight, even in the dark.

Then a whisper: "Don't scream. It's all right." As if I'd scream, as if it's all right. I turn: a shape, that's all, dull glint of cheekbone, devoid of color. He steps towards me. Nick. "What are you doing in here?"

I don't answer. He too is illegal, here, with me, he can't give me away. Nor I him; for the moment  we're mirrors. He puts his hand  on my arm, pulls me against him, his mouth on mine, what else comes from such denial? Without a word. Both of us shaking, how

I'd like to. In Serena's parlor, with the dried flowers, on the Chinese carpet,  his  thin  body.  A  man  entirely  unknown.  It  would  be  like shouting,  it  would  be  like  shooting  someone.  My  hand  goes  down, how about that, I could unbutton, and then. But it's too dangerous, he knows it, we push each other away, not far. Too much trust, too much risk, too much already.

"I was coming to find you," he says, breathes, almost into my ear. I want  to  reach  up,  taste  his  skin,  he  makes  me  hungry.  His  fingers move,  feeling  my  arm  under  the  nightgown  sleeve,  as  if  his  hand won't listen to reason. It's so good, to be touched by someone, to be felt   so   greedily,   to   feel   so   greedy.   Luke,   you'd   know,   you'd understand. It's you here, in another body.

Bullshit.

"Why?" I say. Is it so bad, for him, that he'd take the risk of coming to my room at night? I think of the hanged men, hooked on the Wall. I can hardly stand up. I have to get away, back to the stairs, before I dissolve  entirely.  His  hand's on  my shoulder  now,  held  still,  heavy, pressing down on me like warm lead. Is this what I would die for? I'm a coward, I hate the thought of pain.

"He told me to," Nick says. "He wants to see you. In his office."

"What  do  you  mean?"  I  say.  The  Commander,  it  must  be.  See  me? What does he mean by see? Hasn't he had enough of me?

"Tomorrow," he says, just audible. In the dark parlor we move away from  each  other,  slowly,  as if pulled  towards each  other by  a force, current, pulled apart also by hands equally strong.

I find the door, turn the knob, fingers on cool porcelain, open. It's all

I can do. VII Night

^

18

I lie in bed, still trembling. You can wet the rim of a glass and run your finger around the rim and it will make a sound. This is what I feel like: this sound of glass. I feel like the word shatter. I want to be with someone.

Lying in bed, with Luke, his hand on my rounded belly. The three of us,  in  bed,  she  kicking,  turning  over  within  me.  Thunderstorm outside the window, that's why she's awake, they can hear, they sleep, they  can  be  startled,  even  there  in  the  soothing  of  Ilie  heart,  like waves  on  the  shore  around  them.  A  flash  of  lightning,  quite  close, Luke's eyes go white for an instant.

I'm not frightened. We're wide awake, the rain hits now, we will be slow and careful.

If I thought this would never happen again I would die.

But this is wrong, nobody dies from lack of sex, It's lack of love we die from. There's nobody here I can love, all the people I could love are dead or elsewhere. Who knows where they are or what their names are now? They might as well be nowhere, as I am for them. I too am a missing person.

From time to time I can see their faces, against the dark, flickering like the images of saints, in old foreign cathedrals, Inthe light of the drafty  candles;  candles  you  would  light  to  pray  by,  kneeling,  your forehead  against  the  wooden  railing,  hoping  for  an  answer.  I  can conjure  them  but  they  are  mirages  only,  they  don't  last.  Can  I  be blamed for wanting a real body, to put my arms around? Without it I too  am  disembodied.  I  can  listen  to  my  own  heartbeat  against  the bedsprings,  I  can  stroke  myself,  under  the  dry  white  sheets,  in  the dark, but I too am dry and white, hard, granular; it's like running my hand  over a plateful  of dried  rice; it's like snow. There's something dead  about  it,  something  deserted.  I  am  like  a  room  where  things once happened and now nothing does, except the pollen of the weeds that grow up outside the window, blowing in as dust across the floor. Here is what I believe.

I believe Luke is lying face down in a thicket, a tangle of bracken, the brown  fronds from  last  year  under  the  green ones just  unrolled,  or ground hemlock perhaps, although it's too early for the red berries. What  is left  of him: his  hair,  the  bones,  the  plaid  wool  shirt,  green and  black, the leather belt,  the work  boots. I  know exactly  what he was wearing. I can see his clothes in my mind, bright as a lithograph or a full-color advertisement, from an ancient magazine, though not his face, not so well. His face is beginning to fade, possibly because it wasn't always the same:his face had different expressions, his clothes did not.

I pray that the hole, or two or three, there was more than one shot, they  were  close  together,  I  pray  that  at  least  one  hole  is  neatly,

quickly, and finally through the skull, through the place whereall the pictures  were, so  that  there  would  have  been  only  the  one  flash, of darkness or pain, dull I hope, like the word thud, only the one and then silence.

I believe this.

1 also believe that Luke is sitting up, in a rectangle somewhere, gray cement,  ona  ledge  or  the  edge  of  something,  a  bed  or  chair.  God knows what he's wearing, God knows what they've put him in. God isn't the only one who knows, so maybe there could be some way of finding  out.  He  hasn't  shaved  for  a  year,  though  they  cut  his  hair short, whenever they feel like it, for lice they say. I'll have to revise that: if they cut the hair for lice, they'd cut the beard too. You'd think. Anyway, they don't do it well, the hair is ragged, the back of his neck is  nicked,  that's  hardly  the  worst,  helooks  ten  years  older,  twenty, he's bent like an old man, his eyes are pouched, small purple veins have  burst  in  his  cheeks,  there's  a  scar,  no,  a  wound,  it  isn't  yet healed, the color of tulips, near the stem end, down the left side of his face where the flesh split recently. The body is so easily damaged, so easily disposed of, water and chemicals is all it is, hardly more to it than a jellyfish, drying on sand.

He  finds  it  painful  to  move  his  hands,  painful  to  move.  He  doesn't know  what  he's  accused  of.A  problem.  There  must  be  something, some accusation. Otherwise why are they keeping him, why isn't he already dead?  He must know something they want to  know. I can't imagine. I can't imagine he hasn't already said whatever it is. I would. He is surroundedby a smell, his own, the smell of a cooped-up animal in a dirty cage. I imagine him resting, because I can't bear to imagine him  at  any  other  time,  just  as  I  can't  imagine  anything  below  his collar, above his cuffs. I don't want to think what they've doneto his body. Does he have shoes? No, and the floor is cold and wet. Does he know I'm here, alive, that I'm thinking about him? I have to believe

so. In reduced circumstances you have to believe all kinds of things. I believe in thought transference now, vibrations in the ether, that sort of junk. I never used to.

I also believe that they didn't catch him or catch up with him after all, that  he  made  it,  reached  the  bank,  swam  the  river,  crossed  the border,   dragged   himself   up   on   the   far   shore,   an   island,   teeth chattering;  found  his  way  to  a  nearby  farmhouse,  was  allowed  in, with suspicion at first, but then when they understood who he was, they were friendly, not the sort who would turn him in, perhaps they were  Quakers,  they  will  smuggle  him  inland,  from  house  to  house, the  woman  made  him  some  hot  coffee  and  gave  him  a  set  of  her husband's clothes. I picture the clothes. It comforts me to dress him warmly.

He  made  contact  with  the  others,  there  must  be  a  resistance,  a government  in  exile.  Someone  must  be  out  there,  takinf  care  of things.  I  believe  in  the  resistance  as  I  believe  there  can  be  no  light without  shadow;  or  rather,  no  shadow  unless  there  is  also  light. There must be a resistance, or where do all the criminals come from, on the television?

Any day now there  may be a message from him. Itwill come in  the most unexpected way, from the least likely person, someone I never would have suspected. Under my plate, on the dinner tray? Slipped into my hand as I reach the tokens across the counter in All Flesh? The  message  will  say  that  I  must  have  patience:  sooner  or  later  he will  get  me  out,  we  will  find  her,  wherever  they've  put  her.  She'll remember  us  and  we  will  be  all  three  of  us  together.  Meanwhile  I must endure, keep myself safe for later. What has happened to me, what's happening to me now, won't make any difference to him, he loves me anyway, he knows it isn't my fault. The message will say that also. It's this message, which may never arrive, that keeps me alive. I believe in the message.

The things I believe can't all be true, though one of them must be. But I  believe  in  all  of  them,  all  three  versions  of  Luke,  at  one  and  the same  time.  This  contradictory  way  of  believing  seems  to  me,  right now, the only way I can believe anything. Whatever the truth is, I will be ready for it.

This also is a belief of mine. This also may be untrue.

One of the gravestones in the cemetery near the earliest church has an anchor on it and an hourglass, and the words In Hope.

In  Hope.  Why  did  they  put  that  above  a  dead  person?  Was  it  the corpse hoping, or those still alive?

Does Luke hope? VIII

Birth Day

^

19

Im dreaming that I am awake.

I dream that I get out of bed and walk across the room, not this room, and go out the door, not this door. I'mat home, one of my homes, and she's  running  to  meet  me,  in  her  small  green  nightgown  with  the sunflower on the front, her feet bare, and I pick her up and reel her arms and legs go around me and I begin to cry, because I know then that I'm not awake. I'mback in this bed, trying to wake up, and I wake up  and  sit  on the  edge  of the bed, and  my mother comes in with  a tray and asks me if I'm feeling better. When I was sick, as a child, she had to stay home from work, But I'm not awake this time either.

After these dreams I do awake, and I know I'm really awake because there  is  the  wreath,  on  the  ceiling,  and  my  curtains  hanging  like drowned  white  hair.  I  feel  drugged.  I  consider'this:  maybe  they're drugging me. Maybe the life I think I'm living is a paranoid delusion. Not a hope. I know where I am, and who, and what day it is. These are the tests, and I am sane. Sanity is a valuable possesion I hoard it

the way people once hoarded money. I save it, so I will have enough, when the time comes.

* * *

Grayness  comes  through  the  curtains,  hazy  bright,  not  much  sun today. I get out of bed, go to the window, kneel on the window seat, the hard little cushion, FAITH, and look out There is nothing to be seen.

I  wonder  what  has  become  of  the  other  two  cushions.  There  must have  been  three,  once.  HOPE  and  CHARITY  where  have  they been stowed?   Serena   Joy   has   tidy   habits.   She   wouldn't   throw   away anything not quite worn out. One for Rita, one for Cora?

The  bell  goes,  I'm  up  before  it,  ahead  of  time,  I  dress,  not  looking down.

I sit in the chair and think about the word char. It can also mean the leader of a meeting. It can also mean a mode of execution. It is the first syllable in chanty. It is the French world for flesh. None of these facts has any connection with the others.

These are the kinds of litanies I use, to compse myself.

In front of me is a tray, and on the tray are a glass of apple juice, a vitamin pill, a spoon, a plate with three slice of brown toast on it, a small dish containing honey, and another plate with an eggcup on it, the kind that looks like a woman's torso, in a skirt. Under the skirt is the second egg, being kept warm. The eggcup is white china with a blue stripe.

The  first  egg  is  white.  I  move  the  eggcup  alittle,  so  it's  now  in  the watery           sunlight that       comes  through the            window            and       falls, brightening, waning, brightening again, on the tray. The shell of the egg is smooth but also grained; small pelbles of calcium are defined by the sunlight, like craters on the mom. It's a barren landscape, yet perfect;  it's  the  sort  of  desert  the  saints  went  into,  so  their  minds would  not  be  distracted  by profusion.  I think  that  this is  what God

must  look  like:  an  egg.  The  life  of  the  moon  may  not  be  on  the surface, but inside.

The egg is glowing now, as if it had an energy of its own. To look at the egg gives me intense pleasure.

The sun goes and the egg fades.

I  pick  the  egg  out  of  the  cup  and  finger'tfor  a  moment.  It's  warm. Women  used  to  carry  such  eggs  betveen  their  breasts,  to  incubate them. That would have felt good.

The minimalist life. Pleasure is an egg. Blessings that can be

.

counted,  on  the  fingers  of  one  hand.  But  possibly  this  is  how  I  am expected to react. If I have an egg, what more can I want?

In reduced circumstances the desire to live attaches itself to strange objects. I would like a pet: a bird, say, or a cat. A familiar. Anything at all familiar. A rat would do, in a pinch, but there's no chance of that. This house is too clean.

I slice the top off the egg with the spoon, and eat the contents.

While I'm eating the second egg, I hear the siren, at a great distance at  first,  winding  its  way  towards  me  among  the  large  houses  and clipped lawns, a thin sound like the hum of an insect; then nearing, opening  out,  like  a  flower  of  sound  opening,  into   atrumpet.  A proclamation, this siren. I put down my spoon, my heart speeds up, I go to the window again: will it be blue and not for me? But I see it turn the corner, come along the street, stop in front of the house, still blaring, and it's red. Joy to the world, rare enough these days. I leave the  second  egg  half  eaten,  hurry  to  the  closet  for  my  cloak,  and already I can hear feet on the stairs and the voices calling.

"Hurry," says Cora, "won't wait all day," and she helps me on with the cloak, she's actually smiling.

I almost run down the hall, the stairs are like skiing, the front door is wide,  today  I  can  go  through  it,  and  the  Guardian  stands  there,

saluting. It's started to rain, a drizzle, and the gravid smell of earth and grass fills the air.

The redBirthmobile is parked in the driveway. Its back door is open and  I  clamber  in.  The  carpet  on  the  floor  is  red,  red  curtains  are drawn  over  the  windows.  There  are  three  women  in  here  already, sitting  on the benches that  run the length  of the  van  on eitherside. The Guardian closes and locks the double doors and climbs into the front, beside the driver; through the glassed-ovcr wire grille we can see the backs of their heads'. We start with a lurch, while overhead the siren screams: Make way, make way!

"Who is it?" I say to the woman next to me; into her ear, or where her ear  must  be  under  the  white  headress,  I  almost  have  to  shout,  the noise is so loud.

"Ofwarren,"   she   shouts   back.   Impulsively   she   grabs   my   hand, squeezes it, as we lurch around the corner; she turns to me and I

see  her  face,  there  are  tears  running  down  her  cheeks,  but  tears  of what? Envy, disappointment? But no, she's laughing, she throws her arms  around  me,  I've  never  seen  her  before,  she  hugs  me,  she  has large  breasts,  under  the  red  habit,  she  wipes  her  sleeve  across  her lace. On this day we can do anything we want.

I revise that: within limits.

Across  from  us  on  the  other  bench,  one  woman  is  praying,  eyes closed, hands up to her mouth. Or she may not be praying. She nitty be  biting  her  thumbnails.  Possibly  she's  trying  to  keep  calm.  The third woman is calm already, she sits with her arms folded, Smiling a little. 'I'he siren goes on and on. That used to be the sound of death, for ambulances or fires. Possibly it will be the sound of death today also. We will soon know. What will Ofwarren give birth to? A baby, as we  all  hope?  Or  something  else,  an  Unbaby,  with  a  pinhead  or  a snout like a dog's, or two bodies, or a hole in its heart or no arms, or webbed hands and feet? There's no telling. They could tell once, with

machines,  but  that  is  now  outlawed.  What  would  be  the  point  of knowing, anyway? You can't have them taken out; whatever it is must be carried to term.

The chances are one in four, we learned  that at the Center. The air got  too  full,once,  of  chemicals,  rays,  radiation,  the  water  swarmed with   toxic   molecules,   all   of   that   takes   years   to   clean   up,   and meanwhile  they  creep  into  your  body,  camp  out  in  your  fatty  cells. Who knows, your very flesh may be polluted, dirty as an oily beach, sure death to shore birds and unborn babies. Maybe a vulture would die   of   eating   you.   Maybe   you   light   up   in   the   dark,   like   an old-fashioned  watch.  Deathwatch.  That's  a  kind  of  beetle,  it  buries carrion.

I  can't  think  of  myself,  my  body,  sometimes,  without  seeing  the skeleton: how I must appear to an electron. A cradle of life, made of bones; and within, hazards, warped proteins, bad crystals jagged as glass.  Women  took  medicines,  pills,  men  sprayed  trees,  cows  ate grass, all that souped-up piss flowed into the rivers. Not to mention the  exploding  atomic  power  plants,  along  the  San  Andreas  fault, nobody's  fault,  during  the  earthquakes,  and  the  mutant  strain  of syphilis   no   mold   could   touch.   Some   did   it   themselves,   had themselves  tied  shut  with  catgut  or  scarredwith  chemicals.  How could  they,  said  Aunt  Lydia,  oh  how  could  they  have  done  such  a thing? lezebels! Scorning God's gifts! Wringing her hands.

It's  a  risk  you're  taking,  said  Aunt  Lydia,  but  you  are  the  shock troops, you will march out in advance, into dangerous territory. The greater the risk the greater the glory. She clasped her hands, radiant with our phony courage. We looked down at the tops of our desks. To go  through  all  that  and  give  birth  to  a  shredder:  it  wasn't  a  fine thought.  We  didn't  know  exactly  what  would  happen  to  the  babies that  didn't  get  passed,  that  were  declared  Unbabies.  But  we  knew they were put somewhere, quickly, away.

There was no one cause, says Aunt Lydia. She stands at the front of the room, in her khaki dress, a pointer in her hand. Pulled down in front of the blackboard, where once there would have been a map, is a graph, showing the birthrate per thousand, for years and years: a slippery slope, down past the zero line of replacement, and down and down.

Of  course,  some  women  believed  there  would  be  no  future,  they thought  the  world  would  explode.  That  was  the  excuse  they  used, says  Aunt  Lydia.  They  said  there  was  no  sense  in  breeding.  Aunt Lydia's nostrils narrow: such wickedness. They were lazy women, she says. They were sluts.

On the top of my desk there are initials, carved into the wood, and dates.  The  initials  are  sometimes  in  two  sets,  joined  by  the  word loves. J.H. loves B.P. 1954. O.R. loves L.T. These seem to me like the inscriptions I used to read about, carved on the stone walls of caves, or  drawn  with  a  mixture  of  soot  and  animal  fat.  They  seem  to  me incredibly ancient. The desk top is of blond wood; it slants down, and there  is  an  armrest  on  the  right  side,  to  lean  on  when  you  were writing, on paper, with a pen. Inside the desk you could keep things: books,  notebooks.  These  habits  of  former  times  appear  to  me  now lavish,   decadent   almost;   immoral,   like   the   orgies   of   barbarian regimes.  M.  loves  G.  1972.  This  carving,  done  with  a  pencil  dug many-times into the worn varnish ol the desk, has the pathos of all vanished civilizations. It's like a handprint on stone. Whoever made that was once alive.

There are no dates after the mid-eighties. Thin must have been one of the schools that was closed down then, for lack of children.

They  made  mistakes,  says  Aunt  Lydia.  We  don't  Intend  lo  repeat them.  Her  voice  is  pious,  condescending,  the  voice  of  those  whose duty it is to tell us unpleasant things lor our owngood. I

would like to strangle her. I shove this thought away almost as soon

as I think it.

A thing is valued, she says, only if it is rare and hard to get. We want you to be valued, girls. She is rich in pauses, which she savors in her mouth.  Think  of yourselves  as  pearls.  We,  sitting  in  our  rows,  eyes down, we make her salivate morally. We are hers to define, we must suffer her adjectives.

I think about pearls. Pearls are congealed oyster spit. This is whin I

will tell Moira, later; if I can.

All of us here will lick you into shape, says Aunt Lydia, with satisfied good cheer.

The van stops, the back doors are opened, the Guardian herds us out. At the front door stands another Guardian, with one of those snubhy machine  guns  slung  over  his  shoulder.  We  file  towards  the  front door, in the drizzle, the Guardians saluting. The big Emerge vim, the one  with  the  machines  and  the  mobile  doctors,  is  parked  farther along  the  circular  drive.  I  see  one  of  the  doctors  looking  out  the window  of  the  van.  I  wonder  what  they  do  in  there,  waiting.  I'lay cards, most likely, or read; some masculine pursuit. Most of the time they aren't needed at all; they're only allowed in if it can't be helped.

It used to be different, they used to be in charge. A shame it was, said Aunt Lydia. Shameful. What she'd just showed us was a film, made in an olden-days hospital: a pregnant woman, wired  up to  a machine, electrodes coming out of her every which way so that she looked like a broken robot, an intravenous drip feeding into her arm. Some man with  a  searchlight  looking  up  between  her  legs,  where  she's  been shaved,  a  mere  beardless  girl,  a  trayful  of  bright  sterilized  knives, everyone  with  masks  on.  A  cooperative  patient.  Once  they  drugged women, induced labor, cut them open, sewed them up. No more. No anesthetics, even. Aunt Elizabeth said it was better for the baby, but also: / will greatly multiply thy sorrow and thy conception; in sorrow thou  shalt  bring  forth  children.  At  lunch  we  got  that,  brown  bread

and lettuce sandwiches.

As  I'm  going  up  the  steps,  wide  steps  with  a  stone  urn  on  either sideOfwarren's  Commander  must  be  higher  status  than  oursI  hear another  siren.  It's  the  blue  Birthmobile,  for  Wives.  That  will  be Serena Joy, arriving in state. No benches for them, they get real seats, upholstery.  They  face  front  and  are  not  curtained  off.  They  know where they're going.

Probably  Serena  Joy  has  been  here  before,  to  this  house,  for  tea. Probably  Ofwarren,  formerly  that  whiny  bitch  Janine,  was  paraded out  in  front  of  her,  her  and  the  other  Wives,  so  they  could  see  her belly,  feel  it  perhaps,  and  congratulate  theWife.  A  strong  girl,  good muscles. No Agent Orange in her family, we checked the records, you can never be too careful. And perhaps one of the kinder ones: Would you like a cookie, dear?

Oh no, you'll spoil her, too much sugar is bad for them. Surely one won't hurt, just this once, Mildred.

And sucky Janine: Oh yes, can I, ma'am, please?

Such a, so well behaved, not surly like some of them, do their job and that's that. More like a daughter to you, as you might say. One of the family.  Comfortable  matronly  chuckles.  That's  all  dear,  you  can  go back to your room.

And after she's gone: Little whores, all of them, but still, you can't be choosy.  You  take  what  they  hand  out,  right,  girls?  That  from  the Commander's Wife, mine.

Oh,  but  you've  been  so  lucky.  Some  of  them,  why,  they  aren't  even clean. And won't give you a smile, mope in their rooms, don't wash their hair, the smell. I have to get the Marthas to do it, almost have to hold her down in the bathtub, you practically have to bribe her to get her to take a bath even, you have to threaten her.

I had to take stern measures with mine, and now she doesn't eat her dinner properly; and as for the other thing, not a nibble, and we've

been so regular. But yours, she's a credit to yon. And any day now, oh, you must be so excited, she's big as ;i house, I bet you can hardly wait.

More tea? Modestly changing the subject. I know the sort of thing that goes on.

And Janine, up in her room, what docs she do? Sits with the taste of sugar  still  in  her  mouth,  licking  her  lips.  Stares  out  the  window. Breathes in and out. Caresses her swollen breasts, Thinks of nothing.

20

The  central  staircase  is  wider  than  ours,  with  a  curved  banister  on cither side.  From above I can hear the chanting of the women who are already there. We go up the stairs, single file, being careful not to step  on  the  trailing  hems  of  each  other's  dresses.  To  the  left,  the double doors to the dining room are folded back, and inside I can see the long table, covered with a white cloth and spread with a buffet: ham, cheese, orangesthey have oranges!and fresh-baked breads and cakes. As for us, we'll get milk and sandwiches, on a tray, later. But they  have  a  coffee  urn,  and  bottles  of  wine,  for  why  shouldn't  the Wives get a little drunk on such a triumphant day? First they'll wait for  the  results,  then  they'll  pig  out.  They're  gathered  in  the  sitting room  on   the  other  side   of  the  stairway   now,   cheering  on  this Commander's Wife, the Wife of Warren. A small thin woman, she lies on the floor, in a white cotton nightgown, her graying hair spreading like mildew over the rug; they massage her tiny belly, just as if she's really about to give birth herself.

The Commander, of course, is nowhere in sight. He's gone wherever men go on such occasions, some hideout. Probably he's figuring out when his promotion is likely to be announced, if all goes well. He's sure to get one, now.

Ofwarren is in the master bedroom, a good name for it; where this

Commander  and  his  Wife  nightly  bed  down.  She's  sitting  on  their

king-size  bed,  propped  with  pillows:  Janine,  inflated  but  reduced, shorn of her former name. She's wearing a white cotton shift, which is  hiked  up  over  her  thighs;  her  long  broom-colored  hair  is  pulled back and tied behind her head, to keep it out of the way. Her eyes are squeezed  closed,  and  this way I  can almost  like  her.  After all, she's one of us; what did she ever want but to lead her life as agreeably as possible?  What  else  did  any  of  us  want?  It's  the  possiblethat's  the catch. She's not doing badly, under the circumstances.

Two  women  I  don't  know  stand  on  either  side  of  her,  gripping  her hands, or she theirs. A third lifts the nightgown, pours baby oil onto her  mound  of  stomach,  rubs  downward.  At  her  feet  stands  Aunt Elizabeth,  in  her  khaki  dress  with  the  military  breast  pockets;  she was the one who taught Gyn Ed. All I can see of her is the side of her head, her profile, but I know it's her, that jutting nose and handsome chin,  severe.  At  her  side  stands  the  Birthing  Stool,  with  its  double seat, the back one raised like a throne behind the other. They won't put Janine on it before it's time. The blankets stand ready, the small tub for bathing, the bowl of ice for Janine to suck.

The rest of the women sit cross-legged on the rug; there's a crowd of them, everyone in this district is supposed to be here. There must be twenty-five, thirty. Not every Commander has a Handmaid: some of their Wives have children. From each, says the slogan, according to her  ability;  to  each  according  to  his  needs.  We  recited  that  three times, after  dessert.  It  was  from the Bible,  or so  they said. St. Paul again, in Acts.

You are a transitional generation, said Aunt Lydia. It is the hard-est for you. We know the sacrifices you are being expected to make. It is hard when men revile you. For the ones who conic after you, it will be easier. They will accept their duties with willing hearts.

She  did  not  say:  Because  they  will  have  no  memories,  of any other way.

She said: Because they won't want things they can't have.

Once a week we had movies, after lunch and before our nap. We sat on  the  floor  of the  Domestic  Science  room,  on  our  little  gray  mats, and  waited  while  Aunt  Helena  and  Aunt  Lydia  struggled  with  the projection  equipment.  If  we  were  lucky  they  wouldn't  get  the  film threaded  upside-down.  What  it  reminded  me  of  was  geography classes, at my own high school thousands of years before, where (hey showed  movies  of  the  rest  of  the  world;  women  in  long  skirts  or cheap printed cotton dresses, carrying bundles of sticks, or baskets,or plastic buckets of water, from some river or other, with babies slung on them in shawls or net slings, looking squint-eyed or afraid out of the  screen  at  us,  knowing  something  was  being  done  to  them  by  a machine with one glass eye but not knowing what,Those movies were comforting and faintly boring. They made me feel sleepy, even when men came onto the screen, with naked muscles, hacking away at hard dirt  with  primitive  hoes  and  shovels,  hauling  rocks.  I  preferred movies  with  dancing  in  them,  singing,ceremonial  masks,  carved artifacts  for  making  music:  feathers,  brass  buttons,  conch  shells, drums.  I  liked  watching  these  people  when  they  were  happy,  not when they were miserable, starving, emaciated, straining themselves to death over some simple thing,the digging of a well, the irrigation of land, problems the civilized na-tions had long ago solved. I thought someone  should  just  give  them  the  technology  and  let  them  get  on with it.

Aunt Lydia didn't show these kinds of movies.

Sometimes the movie she showed would be an old porno film, from the seventies or eighties. Women kneeling, sucking penises or guns, women  tied  up  or  chained  or  with  dog  collars  around  their  necks, women  hanging  from  trees,  or  upside-down,  naked,  with  their  legs held  apart,  women  being  raped,  beaten  up,  killed.  Once  we  had  to watch a woman being slowly cut into pieces, her fingers and breasts

snipped  off  with  garden  shears,  her  stomach  slit  open  and  her intestines pulled out.

Consider the alternatives, said Aunt Lydia. You see what things used to  be  like?  That  was  what  they  thought  of  women,  then.  Her  voice trembled with indignation.

Moira said  later  that  it  wasn't real, it was done  with  models; but  it was hard to tell.

Sometimes, though,  the movie would  be what Aunt Lydia called  an Unwoman  documentary.  Imagine,  said  Aunt  Lydia,  wasting  their time like that, when they should have been doing something useful. Back  then,  the  Unwomen  were  always  wasting  time.  They  were encouraged  to  do  it.  The  government  gave  them  money  to  do  that very  thing.  Mind  you,  some  of  their  ideas  were  sound  enough,  she went  on,  with  the  smug  authority  in  her  voice  of  one  who  is  in  a position  to  judge.  We  would  have  to  condone  some  of  their  ideas, even  today.  Only some,  mind  you,  she  said  coyly,  raising  her index finger, waggling it at us. But they were Godless, and that can make all the difference, don't you agree?

I sit on my mat, hands folded, and Aunt Lydia steps to the side, away from the screen, and the lights go out, and I wonder whether I can, in the dark, lean far over to the right without being seen, and whisper, to the woman next to me. What will I whisper? I will say, Have you seen  Moira.  Because  nobody  has,  she  wasn't  at  breakfast.  But  the room, although dim, isn't dark enough, so I switch my mind into the holding   pattern   that   passes   for   attention.   They   don't   play   the soundtrack, on movies like these, though they do on the porno films. They want us to hear the screams and grunts and shrieks of what is supposed  to  be  either  extreme  pain  or  extreme  pleasure  or  both  at once, but they don't want us to hear what the Unwomen are saying. First come the title and some names, blacked out on the film with a crayon so we can't read them, and then I see my mother. My young

mother,  younger  than  I  remember  her,  as  youngas  she  must  have been  once before  I  was  born.  She's  wearing  the  kind  of  outfit  Aunt Lydia  told  us  was  typical  of  Unwomen  in  those  days,  overall  jeans with a green and mauve plaid shirt underneath and sneakers on her feet;  the  sort  of  thing  Moira  once  wore,  the  sort  of  thing  I  can remember wearing, long ago, myself. Her hair is tucked into a mauve kerchief tied  behind  her head. Her face is very young, very serious, even  pretty.  I've  forgotten  my  mother  was  once  as  pretty  and  as earnest as that. She's in a group of other women, dressed in the same fashion;  she's  holding  a  stick,  no,  it's  part  of  a  banner,  the  handle. The camera pans up and we see the writing, in paint, on what must have  been  a  bedsheet:  TAKE  BACK  THE  NIGHT.  This  hasn't  been blacked  out,  eventhough  we  aren't  supposed  to  be  reading.  The women  around  me  breathe  in,  there's  a  stirring  in  the  room,  like wind  over  grass.  Is  this  an  oversight,  have  we  gotten  away  with something? Or is this a thing we're intended to set, lo remind us of the old daysof no safety?

Behind this sign there are other signs, and the camera notices them briefly: FREEDOM TO CHOOSE. EVERY BABY A WANTED BABY. RECAPTURE   OUR   BODIES.   DO   YOU   BELIEVE   A   WOMAN'S PLACE IS ON

THE, KItchen TABLE? Under the last sign there's a line drawing of a woman's body, lying on a table, blood dripping out of it.

Now my mother is moving forward, she's smiling, laughing, they all move  forward,  and  now  they're  raising  their  fists  in  the  air.  The camera  moves  to  the  sky,  where  hundreds  of  balloons  rise,  trailing their strings: red balloons, with a circle painted on them, a circle with a  stem  like  the  stem  of  an  apple,  the  stem  of  a  cross.  Back  on  the earth,  my  mother  is  part  of  the  crowd  now,  and  I  can't  see  her anymore.

1 had you when I was thirty-seven,my mother said. It was a risk, you

could have been deformed or something. You were a wanted child, all right, and did I get shit from some quarters! My oldest buddy Tricia accused me of being pronatalist, the bitch. Jealousy, I put that down to. Some of the others were okay though. But when I was six months' pregnant, a lot of them started sending me these articles about how the  birth-defect  rate  went  zooming  up  after  thirty-five.  Just  what  I needed. And stuff about how hard it was to be a single parent. Fuck that shit, I told them, I've started this and I'm going to finish it. At the  hospital  they  wrote  down  "Aged  Pri-mipara"  on  the  chart,  I caught them in the act. That's what they call you when it's your first baby  over  thirty,  over  thirty  for  god-sake.  Garbage,  I  told  them, biologically I'm twenty-two, I could run rings around you any day. I could have triplets and walk out of here while you were still trying to get up off the bed.

When she said that she'd jut out her chin. I remember her like that, her chin jutted out, a drink in front of her on the kitchen table; not young and earnest and pretty the way she was in the movie, but wiry, spunky, the kind of old woman who won't let anyone butt in front of her in a supermarket line. She liked to come over to my house and have a drink while Luke and I were fixing dinner and tell us what was wrong with her life, which always turned into what was wrong with ours. Her hair was gray by that time, of course. She wouldn't dye it. Why pretend, she'd say. Anyway what do I need it for, I don't want a man around, what use are they except for ten seconds' worth of half babies.  A  man  is just  a woman's  strategy for  making other  women. Not  that  your  father  wasn't  a  nice  guy  and  all,  but  he  wasn't  up  to fatherhood. Not that I expected it of him. Just do the job, then you can bugger off, I said, I make a decent salary, I can afford daycare. So he went to the coast and sent Christmas cards. He had beautifulblue eyes  though.  But  there's  something  missing  in  them,  even  the  nice ones.  It's  like  they're  permanently  absent-minded,  like  they  can't

quite remember who they are. They look at the sky too much. They lose  touch  with  their  feet.  They  aren't  a  patch  on  a  woman  except they're better at fixing  cars and  playing  football, just what  we  need for the improvement of the human race, right?

That was the way she talked, even in front of Luke. He didn't mind, he teased her by pretending to be macho, he'd tell her women were incapable of abstract thought and she'd have another drink and grin at him.

Chauvinist pig, she'd say.

Isn't she quaint, Luke would say to me, and my mother would look sly, furtive almost.

I'm entitled, she'd say. I'm old enough, I've paid my dues, it's time for me to be quaint. You're still wet behind the ears. Piglet, I should have said.

As for you, she'd say to me, you're just a backlash. Flash in the pan. History will absolve me.

But she wouldn't say things like that until after the third drink.

You young people don't appreciate things, she'd say. You don't know what  we  had  to  go  through,  just  to  get  you  where  you  are.  Look  at him, slicing up the carrots. Don't you know how many women's lives, how many women's bodies, the tanks had to roll over just to get that far?

Cooking's my hobby, Luke would say. I enjoy it.

Hobby,  schmobby,  my  mother  would  say.  You  don't  have  to  make excuses to me. Once upon a time you wouldn't have been allowed to have such a hobby, they'd have called you queer.

Now,  Mother,  I  would  say.  Let's  not  get  into  an  argument  about nothing.

Nothing,   she'd   say   bitterly.   You   call   it   nothing.   You   don't   un derstand, do you. You don't understand at all what I'm talking about. Sometimes she would cry. I was so lonely, she'd say. You have no idea

how  lonely  I  was.  And  I  had  friends,  I  was  a  lucky  one,  but  I  was lonely anyway.

I admired my mother in some ways, although things between us were never easy. She expected too much from me, I felt. She expected me to vindicate her life for her, andthe choices she'd made. I didn't want to live my life on her terms. I didn't want to be the model offspring, the  incarnation  of her ideas.  We  used  to  fight  about  that.  1  am  not your justification for existence, I said to her once.

I want her back. I want everything back, the way it was. But there is no point to it, this wanting.

21

It's hot in here, and too noisy. The women's voices rise around me, a soft  chant  that  is  still  too  loud  for  me,  after  the  days  and  days  of silence.  In  the  corner  of  the  room  there's  a  bloodstained  sheet, bundled  and  tossed  there,  from  when  the  waters  broke.  I  hadn't noticed it before.

The room smells too, the air is close, they should open a window. The smell is of our own flesh, an organic smell, sweat and a tinge of iron, from the blood on the sheet, and another smell, more animal, that's coming, it must be, from Janine: a smell of dens, of inhabited caves, the smell of the plaid blanket on the bed when the cat gave birth on it, once, before she was spayed. Smell of matrix.

"Breathe,  breathe,"  we  chant,  as  we  have  been  taught,  "Hold,  hold. Expel, expel, expel." We chant to the count of five. Five in, hold for five, out for five. Janine, her eyes closed, tries to slow her breathing. Aunt Elizabeth feels for the contractions.

Now Janine is restless, she wants to walk. The two women help her off the bed, support her on either side while she paces. A contraction hits  her,  she  doubles  over.  One  of  the  women  kneels  and  rubs  her back. We are all good at this, we've had lessons. I recognize Ofglen, my  shopping  partner,  sitting  two  away  from  me.  The  soft  chanting

envelops us like a membrane.

A Martha arrives, with a tray: a jug of fruit juice, the kind you make from powder, grape it looks like, and a stack of paper cups. She sets it on  the  rug  in  front  of  the  chanting  women.  Ofglen,  not  missing  a beat, pours, and the paper cups pass down the line.

I receive a cup, lean to the side to pass it, and the woman next to me says, low in my ear, "Are you looking for anyone?"

"Moira," I say, just as low. "Dark hair, freckles."

"No,"  the  woman  says.  I  don't  know  this  woman,  she  wasn't  at  the Center  with  me,  though  I've  seen  her,  shopping.  "But  I'll  watch  for you."

"Are you?" I say.

"Alma," she says. "What's your real name?"

I want to tell her there wasan Alma with me at the Center. I want to tell her my name, but Aunt Elizabeth raises her head, staring around the  room,  she  must  have  heard  a  break  in  the  chant,  so  there's  no more  time.  Sometimes  you  can  find  things  out,  on  Birth  Days.  But there would be no point in asking about Luke. He wouldn't be where any of these women would be likely to see him.

The  chanting  goes  on,  it  begins  to  catch  me.  It's  hard  work,  you're supposed   to   concentrate.   Identify   with   your   body,   said   Aunt Elizabeth. Already I can feel slight pains, in my belly, and my breasts are heavy. Janine screams, a weak scream, partway between a scream and a groan.

"She's going into transition," says Aunt Elizabeth.

One of the helpers wipes Janine's forehead with a damp cloth. Janine is sweating now, her hair is escaping in wisps from the elastic band, bits of it stick to her forehead and neck. Her flesh is damp, saturated, lustrous.

"Pant! pant! pant!" we chant.

"I  want  to  go  outside,"  says  Janine.  "I  want  to  go  for  a walk.  I  feel

fine. I have to go to the can."

We  all  know  that  she's  in  transition,  she  doesn't  know  what  she's doing. Which of these statements is true? Probably the last one. Aunt Elizabeth   signals,  two   women   stand   beside  the  portable  toi-let, Janine is lowered gently onto it. There's another smell, added to the others in the room. Janine groans again, her head bent over so all we can see is her hair. Crouching like that, she's like a doll, an old one that's been pillaged and discarded, in some corner, akimbo.

Janine is up again and walking. "I want to sit down," she says. How long  have  we  been  here?  Minutes  or  hours.  I'm  sweating  now,  my dress  under  my  arms is drenched,  I taste salt  on  my upper lip,  the false  pains  clench  at  me,  the  others  feel  it  too,  I  can  tell  by  the waythey  sway.  Janine  is  sucking  on  an  ice  cube.  Then,  after  that, inches away or miles, "No," she screams. "Oh no, oh no oh no." It's her second baby, she had another child, once, I know that from the Center, when she used to cry about it at night, like the rest of us only more noisily. So she ought to be able to remember this, what it's like, what's coming. But who can remember pain, once it's over? All that remains  of  it  is  a  shadow,  not  in  the  mind  even,  in  the  flesh.  Pain marks you, but too deep to see. Out of sight, out of mind.

Someone has spiked the grape juice. Someone has pinched a bottle, from  downstairs.  It  won't  be  the  first  time at  such  a gathering; but they'll turn a blind eye. We too need our orgies.

"Dim the lights," says Aunt Elizabeth. "Tell her it's time."

Someone  stands,  moves  to  the  wall,  the  light  in  the  room  fades  to twilight, our voices dwindle to a chorus of creaks, of husky whispers, like grasshoppers in a field at night. Two leave the room, two others lead Janine to the Birthing Stool,where she sits on the lower of the two seats. She's calmer now, air sucks evenly into her lungs, we lean forward, tensed, the muscles in our backs and bellies hurt from the strain. It's coming, it's coming, like a bugle, a call to arms, like a wall

falling, we can feel it like a heavy stone moving down, pulled down inside us, we think we will burst. We grip each other's hands, we are no longer single.

The  Commander's  Wife  hurries  in,  in  her  ridiculous  while  cotton nightgown, her spindly legs sticking out beneath iti. Two of the Wives in their blue dresses and veils hold her by the arms, as if she needs it; she has a tight little smile on her face, like a hostess at a party she'd rather  not  be  giving.  She  must  know  what  we  think  of  her.  She scrambles onto  the Birthing Stool, sts on theseat behind and  above Janine, so that Janine is framed by her her skinny legs come down on either side, like the arms ol an eccentric chair Oddlly enough, she's wearing white cotton socks, and bedroom slippers, blue ones made of fuzzy material, like toilet covers. Hut we pay no attention to the Wife, we hardly even see her, our eyesi are on Janine. In the dim light, in her white gown, she glows like a moon in cloud.

She's grunting now, with the effort. "Push, push, push," we whisper.

"Relax.  Pant.  Push,  push,  push."  We're  with  her,  we're  the  same  as her, we're drunk. Aunt Elizabeth kneels, with an outspread towel to catch the baby, here's the crowning, the glory, the head, purple and smeared  with  yoghurt,  another  push  and  it  slithers  out,  slick  with fluid and blood, into our waiting. Oh praise.

We  hold  our breath as Aunt  Elizabeth  inspects it: a girl, poor th?g, but so far so good, at least there's nothing wrong with it, tlhat can be seen, hands, feet, eyes, we silently count, everything is in place. Aunt Elizabeth, holding the baby, looks up at us and smiles. We smile too, we are one smile, tears run down our cheeks, we are so happy.

Our happiness is part memory. What I remember is Luke, with me in the hospital, standing beside myhead, holding my hand, in the green gown and  white mask  they gave him. Oh, he said, oh  Jesus, breath coming  out  in  wonder.  That  night  he  couldn't  go  to  sleep  at  all,  he said, he was so high.

Aunt Elizabeth is gently washing the baby off, it isn't crying much, it stops.  As  quietly  as  possible,  so  as  not  to  startle  it,  we  rise,  crowd around Janine, squeezing her, patting her. She's crying too. The two Wives in blue help the third Wife, the Wife of the household, down from the Birthing Stool and over to the bed, where they lay her down and   tuck   her   in.   The   baby,   washed   now   and   quiet,   is   placed ceremoniously in her arms. The Wives from downstairs are crowding in  now,  pushing  among  us,  pushing  us  aside.  They  talk  too  loud, some  of  them  are  still  carrying  their  plates,  their  coffee  cups,  their wine glasses, some of them are still chewing, they cluster around the bed, the mother and child, cooing and congratulating. Envy radiates from  them,  I  can  smell  it,  faint  wisps  of  acid,  mingled  with  their perfume. The Commander's Wife looks down at the baby as if it's a bouquet of flowers: something she's won, a tribute.

The Wives are here to bear witness to the naming. It's the Wives who do the naming, around here.

"Angela," says the Commander's Wife.

"Angela, Angela," the Wives repeat, twittering. "What a sweet name! Oh. she's perfect! Oh, she's wonderful!"

We stand between Janine and the bed, so she won't have to see this. Someone gives her a drink  of grape juice, I  hope there's wine  in it, she's still having the pains, forthe afterbirth, she's crying helplessly, burnt-out miserable tears. Nevertheless we are jubilant, it's a victory, for all of us. We've done it.

She'll be allowed to nurse the baby, for a few months, they believe in mother's milk. After that she'll be transferred, to see if she can do it again, with someone else who needs a turn. But she'll never be sent to the Colonies, she'll never be declared Unwoman. That is her reward. The  Birthmobile  is  waiting  outside,  to  deliver  us  back  to  our  own households.  The  doctors  are  still  in  their  van;  their  faces  appear  at the  window,  white  blobs,  like  the  faces of  sick  children  confined  to

the house. One of them opens the door and comes towards us.

"Was it all right?" he asks, anxious.

"Yes,"  I  say.  By  now  I'm  wrung  out,  exhausted.  My  breasts  are painful,  they're  leaking  a little. Fake milk,  it  happens this  way with some  of  us.  We  sit  on  our  benches,  facing  one  another,  as  we  are transported; we're without emotion now, almost without feeling, we might be bundles of red cloth. We ache. Each of us holds in her lap a phantom,  a  ghost  baby.  What  confronts  us,  now  the  excitement's over, is our own failure. Mother, I think. Wherever you may be. Can you hear me? You wanted a women's culture. Well, now there is one. It isn't what you meant, but it exists. Be thankful for small mercies.

22

By  the  time  the  Birthmobile  arrives  in  front  of  the  house,  it's  late afternoon. The sun is coming weakly through the clouds, the smell of wet grass warming up is in the air. I've been at the Birth all day; you lose  track  of  time.  Cora  will  have  done  the  shopping  today,  I'm excused from all duties. I go up the stairs, lifting my feet heavily from one step to the next, holding on to the banister. I feel as if I've been awake for days and running hard;my chest hurts, my muscles cramp as if they're out of sugar. For once I welcome solitude.

I lie on the bed. I would like to rest, go to sleep, but I'm too tired, at the  same  time  too  excited,  my  eyes  won't  close.  I  look  up  at  the ceiling, tracing the foliage of the wreath. Today it makes me think of a hat, the large-brimmed  hats women  used  to  wear  at  some  period during  the  old  days: hats like  enormous  halos,  festooned  with  fruit and  flowers,  and  the  feathers  of  exotic  birds;  hats  like  an  idea  of paradise, floating just above the head, a thought solidified.

In  a  minute  the  wreath  will  start  to  color  and  I  will  begin  seeing things. That's how tired I am: as when you'd driven all night, into the dawn, for some reason, I won't think  about that now, keeping each other  awake  with  stories  and  taking  turns  at  the  wheel,  and  as  the

sun would begin to come up you'd see things at the sides of your eyes: purple animals, in the bushes beside the road, the vague outlines of men, which would disappear when you looked at them straight.

I'm  too  tired  to  go  on  with  this  story.  I'm  too  tired  to  think  about where I am. Here is a different story, a better one. This is the story of what happened to Moira.

Part of it I can fill in myself, part of it I heard from Alma, who heard it from Dolores, who heard it from Janine. Janine heard it from Aunt Lydia. There  can  be  alliances even  in such  places,  even  under such circumstances.  This  is  something  you  can  depend  upon:  there  will always be alliances, of one kind or another.

Aunt Lydia called Janine into her office.

Blessed  be  the  fruit,  Janine,  Aunt  Lydia  would  have  said,  without looking  up  from  her  desk,  where  she  was  writing  something.  For every  rule  there  is  always  an  exception:  this  too  can  be  depended upon. The Aunts are allowed to read and write.

May  the  Lord  open,  Janine  would  have  replied,  tonelessly,  in  her transparent voice, her voice of raw egg white.

I feel I can rely on you, Janine, Aunt Lydia would have said, raising her eyes from the page at last and fixing Janine with that look of hers, through the spectacles, a look that managed to be both menacing and beseeching,  all  at  once.  Help  me,  that  look  said,  we  are  all  in  this together.  You  are  a  reliable  girl,  she  went  on,  not  like  some  of  the others.

She thought all Janine's sniveling and repentance meant something, she thought Janine had been broken, she thought Janine was a true believer. But by that time Janine was like a puppy that's been kicked too often, by too many people, at random: she'd roll over for anyone, she'd tell anything, just for a moment of approbation.

So  Janine  would  have  said:  I  hope  so,  Aunt  Lydia.  I  hope  I  have become worthy of your trust. Or some such thing.

Janine, said Aunt Lydia, something terrible has happened.

Janine  looked  down  at  the  floor.  Whatever  it  was,  she  knew  she would not be blamed for it, she was blameless. But what use had that been to her in the past, to be blameless? So at the same time she felt guilty, and as if she was about to be punished.

Do you know about it, Janine? said Aunt Lydia softly.

No,  Aunt  Lydia,  said  Janine.  She  knew  that  at  this  moment  it  was necessary to look up, to look Aunt Lydia straight in the eyes. After a moment she managed it.

Because if you do I will be very disappointed in you, said Aunt Lydia. As the Lord is my witness, said Janine with a show of fervor.

Aunt  Lydia  allowed  herself  one  of her  pauses.  She  fiddled  with  her pen. Moira is no longer with us, she said at last.

Oh, said Janine. She was neutral about this. Moira wasn't a friend of hers. Is she dead? she asked after a moment.

Then Aunt Lydia told her the story. Moira had raised her hand to go to  the  washroom,  during  Exercises.  She  had  gone.  Aunt  Elizabeth was on washroom duty. Aunt Elizabeth stayed outside the washroom door, as usual; Moira went in. After a moment Moira called to Aunt Elizabeth: the toilet was overflowing, could Aunt Elizabeth come and fix  it?  It  was  true  that  the  toilets  sometimes  overflowed.  Unknown persons stuffed wads of toilet paperdown them to make them do this very  thing.  The  Aunts  had  been  working  on  some  foolproof  way  of preventing this, but funds were short and right now they had to make do  with  what  was  at  hand,  and  they  hadn't  figured  out  a  way  of locking up the toilet paper. Possibly they should keep it outside the door on a table and hand each person a sheet or several sheets as she went  in.  But  that  was  for  the  future.  It  takes  a  while  to  get  the wrinkles out, of anything new.

Aunt Elizabeth, suspecting no harm, went into the washroom. Aunt

Lydia had to admit it was a little foolish of her. On the other hand,

she'd  gone  in  to  fix  a  toilet  on  several  previous  occasions  without mishap.

Moira was  not  lying,  water was  running  over the  floor,  and  several pieces  of  disintegrating  fecal  matter.  It  was  not  pleasant  and  Aunt Elizabeth   was   annoyed.   Moira   stood   politely   aside,   and   Aunt Elizabeth hurried into the cubicle Moira had indicated and bent over the  back  of  the  toilet.  She  intended  to  lift  off  the  porcelain  lid  and fiddle  with  the  arrangement  of  bulb  and  plug  inside.  She  had  both hands  on  the  lid  when  she  felt  something  hard  and  sharp  and possibly  metallic  jab  into  her  ribs  from  behind.  Don't  move,  said Moira, or I'll stick it all the way in, I know where, I'll puncture your lung.

Thev found out afterwards that she'd dismantled the inside of one of the  toilets  and  taken  out  the  long  thin  pointed  lever,  the  part  that attaches to the handle at one end and the chain at the other. It isn't too  hard  to  do  if  you  know  how,  and  Moira  hadmechanical  ability, she  used  to  fix  her  own  car,  the  minor  things.  Soon  after  this  the toilets  were  fitted  with  chains  to  hold  the  tops  on,  and  when  they overflowed  it  took  a  long  time  to  get  them  open.  We  had  several floods that way.

Aunt  Elizabeth  couldn't  see  what  was  poking  into  her  back,  Aunt

Lydia said. She was a brave woman

Oh yes, said Janine.

?but  not  foolhardy,  said  Aunt  Lydia,  frowning  a  little.  Janine  had been overenthusiastic, which sometimes has the force of a denial. She did as Moira said,Aunt Lydia continued. Moira got hold of her cattle prod and her whistle, ordering Aunt Elizabeth to un-clip them from her  belt.  Then  she  hurried  Aunt  Elizabeth  down  the  stairs  to  the basement. They were on the second floor, not the third, so there were only two flights of stairs to be negotiated. Classes were in session so there was nobody in the halls. They did see another Aunt, but she was

at  the  far  end  of  the  corridor  and  not  looking  their  way.  Aunt Elizabeth  could  have  screamed  at  this  point  but  she  knew  Moira meant what she said; Moira had a bad reputation.

Oh yes, said Janine.

Moira took Aunt Elizabeth along the corridor of empty lockers, past the door to the gymnasium, and into the furnace room. She told Aunt Elizabeth to take off all her clothes

Oh, said Janine weakly, as if to protest this sacrilege.

?and  Moira  took  off  her  own  clothes  and  put  on  those  of  Aunt Elizabeth, which did not fit her exactly but well enough. She was not overly cruel to Aunt Elizabeth, she allowed her to put on her own red dress. The veil she tore into strips, andl tied Aunt Elizabeth up with them,  behind  the  furnace.  She  sniffed  some  of  the  cloth  into  her mouth and tied it in place with another strip. She tied a strip around Aunt Elizabeth's neck and lied the other end to her feet, behind. She is a cunning and dangerous woman, said Aunt Lydia.

Janine said, May I sit down? As if it had all been too much for her. She had something to trade at last, for a token at least.

Yes, Janine,  said  Aunt Lydia, surprised, but  knowing she could  not refuse  at  this  point.  She  was  asking  for  Janine's  attention,  her cooperation.  She  indicated  the  chair  in  the  corner.  Janine  drew  it forward.

I  could  kill  you,  you  know,  said  Moira,  when  Aunt  Elizabeth  was safely stowed out of sight behind the furnace. I could injure you badly so you would never feel good in your body again. I could zap you with this, or stick this thing into your eye. Just remember I didn't, if it ever comes to that.

Aunt Lydia didn't repeat any of this part to Janine, but I expect Moira said  something  like  it.  In  any  case  she  didn't  kill  or  mutilate  Aunt Elizabeth, who a few days later, after she'd recovered from her seven hours behind the furnace and presumably from the interrogationfor

the  possibility  of  collusion  would  not  have  been  ruled  out,  by  the

Aunts or by anyone elsewas back in operation at the Center.

Moira  stood  up  straight  and  looked  firmly  ahead.  She  drew  her shoulders back, pulled  up  her  spine,  and  compressed  her  lips. This was not our usual posture. Usually we walked with heads bent down, our  eyes  on  our  hands  or  the  ground.  Moira  didn't  look  much  like Aunt  Elizabeth,  even  with  the  brown  wimple  in  place,  but  her stiff-backed  posture  was  apparently  enough  to  convince  the  Angels on  guard,  who  never  looked  at  any  ofus  very  closely,  even  and perhaps  especially  the  Aunts;  because  Moira  marched  straight  out the front door, with the bearing of a person who knew where she was going;  was  saluted,  presented  Aunt  Elizabeth's  pass,  which  they didn't  bother  to  check,  becausewho  would  affront  an  Aunt  in  that way. And disappeared.

Oh,  said  Janine.  Who  can  tell  what  she  felt?  Maybe  she  wanted  to cheer. If so, she kept it well hidden.

So, Janine, said Aunt Lydia. Here is what I want you to do.

Janine opened her eyes wide and tried to look innocent and attentive. I  want  you  to  keep  your  ears  open.  Maybe  one  of  the  others  was involved.

Yes, Aunt Lydia, said Janine.

And come and tell me about it, won't you, dear? If you hear anything. Yes, Aunt Lydia, said Janine. She knew she would not have to kneel down anymore, at the front of the classroom, anil listen to all of us shouting at her that it was her fault. Now it would be someone else for a while. She was, temporarily, off the hook.

The fact that she told Dolores all about this encounter in Aunt Lydia's office meant nothing. It didn't mean she wouldn't testify against us, any of us, if she had the occasion. We knew that. By this time we were treating her the way people used to treat those with no legs who sold pencils  on  street  corners.  We  avoided  her  when  we  could,  were

charitable to her when it couldn't be helped. She was a danger to us, we knew that.

Dolores  probably  patted  her  on  the  back  and  said  she  was  a  good sport   to   tell   us.   Where   did   this   exchange   take   place?   In   the gymnasium, when we were getting ready for bed. Dolores had the bed next to Janine's.

The  story  passed  among  us  that  night,  in  the  semidarkness,  under our breath, from bed to bed.

Moira  was  out  there  somewhere.  She  was  at  large,  or  dead.  What would  she  do?  The  thought  of  what  she  would  do  expanded  till  it filled   the   room.   At   any   moment   there   might   be   a   shattering explosion,  the  glass  of  the  windows  would  fall  inward,  the  doors would swing openMoira had power now, she'd been set loose, she'd set herself loose. She was now a loose woman.

I think we found this frightening.

Moira  was  like  an  elevator  with  open  sides.  She  made  us  dizzy. Already we were losing the taste for freedom, already we were finding these  walls  secure.  In  the  upper  reaches  of  the  atmosphere  you'd come apart, you'd vaporize, there would be no pressure holding you together.

Nevertheless Moira was  our fantasy. We hugged  her to  us, she  was with us in secret, a giggle; she was lava beneath the crust of daily life. In the light of Moira, the Aunts were less fearsome and more absurd. Their power had a flaw to it. They could be shanghaied in toilets. The audacity was what we liked.

We  expected  her  to  be  dragged  in  at  any  minute,  as  she  had  been before. We could not imagine what they might do to her this time. It would be very bad, whatever it was.

But nothing happened. Moira didn't reappear. She hasn't yet.

23

This   is   a   reconstruction.   All   of   it   is   a   reconstruction.   It's   a

recon-stfuction  now,  in  my  head,  as  I  lie  flat  on  my  single  bed rehearsing  what  I  should  or  shouldn't  have  said,  what  I  should  or shouldn't have done, how I should have played it. If I ever get out of here

Let's  stop  there.  I  intend  to  get  out  of  here.  It  can't  last  forever. Others have thought such things, in bad times before this, and they were always right, they did get out one way or another, and it didn't last forever. Although for them it may have lasted all the forever they had.

When  I  get  out  of  here,  if  I'm  ever  able  to  set  this  down,  in  any form,even   in   the   form   of   one   voice   to   another,   it   will   be   a reconstruction then too, at yet another remove. It's impossible to say a  thing  exactly  the  way  it  was,  because  what  you  say  can  never  be exact,  you  always  have  to  leave  something  out,  there  are  too  many parts, sides, crosscurrents, nuances; too many gestures, which could mean   this   or   that,   too   many   shapes   which   can   never  be   fully described, too many flavors, in the air or on the tongue, half-colors, too many. But if you happen to be a man, sometime inthe future, and you've made it this far, please remember: you will never be subject to the temptation or feeling you must forgive, a man, as a .; woman. It's difficult to resist, believe me. But remember that for giveness too is a power.  To  beg  for  it  is  a  power,  and  to  withhold  or  bestow  it  is  a power, perhaps the greatest.

Maybe none of this is about control. Maybe it isn't really about who can own whom, who can do what to whom and get away with it, even as far as death. Maybe it isn't about who can sit and who has to kneel or stand or lie down, legs spread open. Maybe it's about who can do what to whom and be forgiven for it. Never tell me it amounts to the same thing.

I want you to kiss me, said the Commander.

Well,  of  course  something  came  before  that.  Such  requests  never

come flying out of the blue.

I went to sleep after all, and dreamed I was wearing earrings, and one of  them  was  broken;  nothing  beyond  that,  just  the  brain  going through  its  back  files,  and  I  was  wakened  by  Cora  with  the  dinner tray, and time was back on track.

"It a good baby?" says Cora as she's setting down the tray. She must know  already,  they  have  a  kind  of  word-of-mouth  telegraph,  from household to household, news gets around; but it gives her pleasure to hear about it, as if my words will make it more real.

"It's fine," I say. "A keeper. A girl."

Cora smiles at me, a smile that includes. These are the moments that must make what she is doing seem worthwhile to her.

"That's  good,"  she  says. Her voice  is almost  wistful,  and  I think: of course. She would have liked to have been there. It's like a party she couldn't go to.

"Maybe we have one, soon," she says, shyly. By we she means me. It's up to me to repay the team, justify my food and keep, like a queen ant with eggs. Rita may disapprove of me, hut Cora does not. Instead she depends on me. She hopes, and I am the vehicle of her hope.

Her hope is of the simplest kind. She wants a Birth Day, here, with guests and food and presents, she wants a little child to spoil in the kitchen,  to  iron  clothes  for,  to  slip  cookies  into  when  no  one's watching. I am to provide these joys for her. I would rather have the disapproval, I feel more worthy of it.

The  dinner  is  beef  stew.  I  have  some  trouble  finishing  it,  because halfway through it I remember what the day has erased right out of my  head.  It's  true  what  they  say,  it's  a  trance  state,  giving  birth  or being there, you lose track of the rest of your life, you focus only on that one instant. But now it comes back to me, and I know I'm not prepared.

The  clock  in  the  hall  downstairs  strikes  nine.  I  press  my  hands

against the sides of my thighs, breathe in, set out along the hall and softly down the stairs. Serena Joy may still be at the house where the Birth took place; that's lucky, he couldn't have foreseen it. On these days the Wives hang around for hours, helping to open the presents, gossiping,  getting  drunk.  Something  has  to  be  done  to  dispel  their envy. I follow the downstairs corridor back, past the door that leads into the kitchen, along to the next door, his. I stand outside it, feeling like a child who's been summoned, at school, to the principal's office. What have I done wrong?

My presence here is illegal. It's forbidden for us to be alone with I he Commanders.  We  are  for  breeding  purposes: we  aren't  concubines, geisha  girls,  courtesans.  On  the  contrary:  everything  possible  has been done to remove us from that category. There is sup-posed to be nothing  entertaining  about  us,  no  room  is  to  be  permitted  lor  the flowering  of  secret  lusts;  no  special  favors  are  to  be  wheedled,  by them or us, there are to be no toeholds for love. We are two-legged wombs, that's all: sacred vessels, ambulatory chalices.

So why does he want to see me, at night, alone?

If I'm caught, it's to Serena's tender mercies I'll be delivered. He isn't supposed  to  meddle  in  such  household  discipline,  that's  women's business. After that, reclassification. I could become an Un woman. But to refuse to see him could be worse. There's no doubt about who holds the real power.

But there must be something he wants, from me. To want is to have a weakness. It's this weakness, whatever it is, that entices me. It's like a small crack in a wall, before now impenetrable. If I press my eye to it, this weakness of his, I may be able to see my way clear.

I want to know what he wants.

I raise my hand, knock, on the door of this forbidden room where I

have never been, where women do not go. Not even Serena Joy t

comes  here,  and  the  cleaning  is  done  by  Guardians.  What  secrets, what male totems are kept in here?

I'm told to enter. I open the door, step in.

What is on the other side is normal life. I should say: what is on the other  side  looks  like  normal  life.  There  is  a  desk,  of  course,  with  a Computalk on it, and a black leatherchair behind it. There's a potted plant on the desk, a pen-holder set, papers. There's an oriental rug on the  floor,  and  a  fireplace  without  a  fire  in  it.  There's  a  small  sofa, covered  in  brown  plush,  a  television  set,  an  end  table,  a  couple  of chairs.

But  all  around  the  walls  there  are  bookcases.  They're  filled  with books. Books and books and books, right out in plain view, no locks, no  boxes.  No  wonder  we  can't  come  in  here.  It's  an  oasis  of  the forbidden. I try not to stare.

The Commander is standing infront of the fireless fireplace, back to it,  one  elbow  on  the  carved  wooden  overmantel,  other  hand  in  his pocket.  It's  such  a  studied  pose,  something  of  the  country  squire, some  old  come-on  from  a  glossy  men's  mag.  He  probably  decided ahead of time that he'd be standing like that when I came in. When I knocked  he  probably  rushed  over  to  the  fireplace  and  propped himself up. He should have a black patch, over one eye, a cravat with horseshoes on it.

It's  all  very  well  for  me  to  think  these  things,  quick  as  staccato,  a jittering of the brain. An inner jeering. But it's panic. The fact is I'm terrified.

I don't say anything.

"Close the door behind you," he says, pleasantly enough. I do it, and turn back.

"Hello," he says.

It's  the  old  form  of  greeting.  I  haven't  heard  it  lor  a  long  time,  for years. Under the circumstances it seems out of place, comical even, a

flip backward in time, a stunt. 1 can think of nothing appropriate to say in return.

I think I will cry.

He must have noticed this, because he looks at me puzzled, gives a little frown I choose to interpret as concern, though it may merely be irritation. "Here," he says. "You can sit down." He pulls a chair out for me, sets it in front of his desk. Then he goes around behind the desk and sits down, slowlyand it seems to me elaborately. What this act tells me is that he hasn't brought me here to touch me in any way, against my will. He smiles. The smile is not sinister or predatory. It's merely a smile, a formal kind of smile, friendly but a little distant, as if I'm a kitten in a window. One he's looking at but doesn't intend to buy.

I sit up straight on the chair, my hands folded on my lap. I feel as if my feet in their flat red shoes aren't quite touching the floor. But of course they are.

"You must find this strange," he says.

I simply look at him. The understatement of the year, was a phrase my mother uses. Used.

I feel like cotton candy: sugar and air. Squeeze me and I'd turn into a small sickly damp wad of weeping pinky-red.

"I guess it is a little strange," he says, as if I've answered.

I think I should have a hat on, tied with a bow under my chin.

"I want? he says.

I  try not  to  lean  forward.  Yes? Yes yes? What,  then? What  does he want?   But   I  won't  give  it  away,  this  eagerness   of  mine.  It's   a bargaining session, things are about to be exchanged. She who does not hesitate is lost. I'm not giving anything away: selling only.

"I  would  like"  he  says.  "This  will  sound  silly."  And  he  does  look embarrassed, sheepishwas the word, the way men used to look once. He's old enough to remember how to look that way, and to remember

also how appealing women once found it. The young ones don't know those tricks. They've never had to use them.

"I'd like you to play a game of Scrabble with me," he says.

I  hold  myself  absolutely  rigid.  I  keep  my  face  unmoving.  So  that's what's in the forbidden room! Scrabble! I want to laugh, shriek with laughter, fall off my chair. This was once the game of old women, old men, inthe summers or in retirement villas, to be played when there was  nothing  good  on  television.  Or  of  adolescents,  once,  long  long ago. My mother had a set, kept at the back of the hall cupboard, with the  Christmas  tree  decorations  in  their  cardboard  boxes.Once  she tried to interest me in it, when I was thirteen and miserable and at loose ends.

Now  of  course  it's  something  different.  Now  it's  forbidden,  for  us. Now it's dangerous. Now it's indecent. Now it's something he can't do with his Wife. Now it's desirable. Now he's compromised himself. It's as if he's offered me drugs.

"All right," I say, as if indifferent. I can in fact hardly speak.

He  doesn't  say  why  he  wants  to  play Scrabble  with  me.  I  don't  ask him. He merely takes a box out from one of the drawers in his desk and   opens   it   up.   There   are   the   plasticized   wooden   counters   I remember,  the  board  divided  into  squares,  the  little  holders  for setting  the  letters  in.  He  dumps  the  counters  out  on  the  top  of  his desk and begins to turn them over. After a moment I join in.

"You know how to play?" he says. I nod.

We play two games. Larynx, I spell. Valance. Quince. Zygote. I hold the  glossy counters with  their  smooth  edges,  finger  the  letters.  The feeling is voluptuous. This is freedom, an eyeblink of it. Limp, I spell. Gorge.  What   a   luxury.   The  counters   are  like   candies,  made   of peppermint, cool like that. Humbugs, those were called. I would like to put them into my mouth. They would taste also of lime. The letter

C. Crisp, slightly acid on the tongue, delicious.

I  win  the  first  game,  I  let  him  win  the  second:  I  still  haven't discovered  what  the  terms  are,  what  I  will  be  able  to  ask  for,  in exchange.

Finally he tells me it's time for me to go home. Those are the words he uses: go home. He means to my room. He asks me if I will be all right, as if the stairway is a dark street. I say yes. We open his study door, just a crack, and listen for noises in the hall.

This is like being on a date. This is like sneaking into the dorm after hours.

This is conspiracy.

"Thank you," he says. "For the game." Then he says, "I want you to kiss me."

I think about how I could take the back of the toilet apart, the toilet in my  own  bathroom,  on  a  bath  night,  quickly  and  quietly,  so  Cora outside on the chair would not hear me. I could get the sharp lever out and hide it in my sleeve, and  smuggle it into the Commander's study, the next time, because after a request like that there's always a next  time,  whether  you  say  yes  or  no.  I  think  about  how  I  could approach  the Commander, to  kiss him, here alone, and take off his jacket, as  if to  allow or invite  something  further,  some  approach  to true love, and put my arms around him and slip the lever out from the  sleeve  and  drive  the  sharp  end  into  him  suddenly,  between  his ribs. I think about the blood coming out of him, hot as soup, sexual, over my hands.

In  fact  I  don't  think  about  anything  of  the  kind.  I  put  it  in  only afterwards. Maybe I should have thought about that, at the time, but I didn't. As I said, this is a reconstruction.

"All right," I say. I go to him and place my lips, closed, against his. I smell  the  shaving  lotion,  the  usual  kind,  the  hint  of  mothballs, familiar enough to me. But he's like someone I've only just met.

He  draws  away,  looks  down  at  me.  There's  the  smile  again,  the sheepish one. Such candor. "Not like that," he says. "As if you meant it."

He was so sad.

That is a reconstruction, too. IX

Night

^

24

I go back, along the dimmed hall and up the muffled stairs, stealthily to  my  room.  There  I  sit  in  the  chair,  with  the  lights  off,  in  my  red dress,  hooked  and  buttoned.  You  can  think  clearly  only  with  your clothes on.

What I need is perspective. The illusion of depth, created by a frame, the arrangement of shapes on a flat surface. Perspective is necessary. Otherwise  there  are  only  two  dimensions.  Otherwise  you  live  with your face squashed against a wall, everything a huge foreground, of details, close-ups, hairs, the weave of the bedsheet, the molecules of the face. Your own skin like a map, a diagram of futility, crisscrossed with tiny roads that lead nowhere. Otherwise you live in the moment. Which is not where 1 want to be.

But  that's  where  I  am,  there's  no  escaping  it.  Time's  a  trap,  I'm caught in it. I must forget about my secret name and all ways back. My name is Offred now, and here is where I live.

Live in the present, make the most of it, it's all you've got. Time to take stock.

I  am  thirty-three  years  old.  I  have  brown  hair.  I  stand  five  seven without shoes. I have trouble remembering what I used lo look like. I have viable ovaries. I have one more chance.

But something has changed, now, tonight.Cicumstances have altered. I can ask for something. Possibly not much; but something.

Men  are  sex  machines,  said  Aunt  Lydia,  and  not  much  more.  They only  want  one  thing.  You  must  learn  to  manipulate  them,  for  your own  good.  Lead  them  around  by  the  nose;  that  is  a  metaphor.  It's nature's way. It's God's device. It's the way things are.

Aunt Lydia did not actually say this, but it was implicit in everything she did say. It hovered over her head, like the golden mottoes over the  saints,  of  the  darker  ages.  Like  them  too,  she  was  angular  and without flesh.

But how to fit the Commander into this, as he exists in his study, with his  word  games  and  his  desire,  for  what?  To  be  played  with,  to  be gently kissed, as if I meant it.

1  know  I  need  to  take  it  seriously,  this  desire  of  his.  It  could  be important, it could be a passport, it could be my downfall. I need to be  earnest  about  it,  I  need  to  ponder  it.  But  no  matter  what  I  do, sitting here in the dark, with the searchlights illuminating the oblong of my window, from outside, through the curtains gauzy as a bridal dress, as ectoplasm, one of my hands holding the other, rocking back and  forth  a  little,  no  matter  what  I  do  there's  something  hilarious about it.

He wanted me to play Scrabble with him, and kiss him as if I meant it.

This is one of the most bizarre things that's happened to me, ever. Context is all.

I  remember  a  television  program  I  once  saw;  a  rerun,  made  years before. I must have been seven or eight, too young to understand it. It   was   the   sort   of  thing   my   mother  liked   to   watch:  historical, educational. She tried to explain it to me afterwards, to tell me that the things in it had really happened, but to me it was only a story. I thought someone had made it up. I suppose all children think that, about any history before their own. If it's only a story, it becomes less frightening.

The  program  was  a  documentary,  about  one  of  those  wars.  They interviewed  people  and  showed  clips  from  films  of  the  time,  black and  white,  and  still  photos.  I  don't  remember  much  about  it,  but  I remember  the  quality  of  the  pictures,  the  way  everything  in  them seemed  to  be  coated  with  a  mixture  of  sunlight  and  dust,  and  how dark  the  shadows  were  under  people's  eyebrows  and  along  their cheekbones.

The/interviews with  people still  alive  then were in color.  The  one  I remember  best  was  with  a  woman  who  had  been  the  mistress  of  a man who had supervised one of the camps where they put the Jews, before they killed them. In ovens, my mother said; but there weren't any pictures of the ovens, so I got some confused notion that these deaths  had  taken  place  in  kitchens.  There  is  something  especially terrifying to a child  in that  idea. Ovens mean cooking, and cooking comes before eating. I thought these people had been eaten. Which in a way I suppose they had been.

From  what  they  said,  the  man  had  been  cruel  and  brutal.  The mistressmy   mother   explained   mistress,   she   did   not   believe   in mystification, I had a pop-up book of sexual organs by the time I was fourthe   mistress   had   once   been   very   beautiful.   There   was   a black-and-white  shot  of  her  and  another  woman,  in  the  two-piece bathing  suits  and  platform  shoesand  picture  hats  of  the  time;  they were  wearing  cat's-eye  sunglasses  and  sitting  in  deck  chairs  by  a swimming  pool.  The  swimming  pool  was  beside  their  house,  which was near the camp with the ovens. The woman said she didn't notice much that she found unusual. She denied knowing about the ovens. At the time of the interview, forty or fifty years later, she was dying of emphysema.  She  coughed  a  lot,  and  she  was  very  thin,  almost emaciated; but she still took pride in her appearance. (Look at that, said my mother, half grudgingly, half admiringly. She still takes pride in her appearance.) She was carefully made up, heavy mascara on her

eyelashes, rouge on the bones of her cheeks, over which the skin was stretched like a rubber glove pulled tight. She was wearing pearls.

He was not a monster, she said. People say he was a monster, but he was not one.

What  could  she  have  been  thinking  about?  Not  much,  I  guess;  not back then, not at the time. She was thinking about how not to think. The times were abnormal. She took pride in her appearance. She did not believe he was a monster. Hw was not a monster, to her. Probably he had some endearing trait: he whistled,  offkey, in the shower, he had a yen for truffles, he called his dog Liebchen and made it sit up for little pieces of raw steak. How easy it is to invent a humanity, for anyone at all. What an available temptation. A big child, she would have  said  to  herself.  Her  heart  would  have  melted,  she'd  have smoothed the hair back from his forehead, kissed him on the ear, and not just to get something out of him either. The instinct to soothe, to make it better. There there, she'd say, as he woke from a nightmare. Things are so hard for you. All this she would have believed, because otherwise how could she have kept on living? She was very ordinary, under  that  beauty.  She  believed  't't  in  decency,  she  was  nice  to  the Jewish maid, or nice enough, nicer than she needed to be.

Several  days  after  this  interview  with  her  was  filmed,  she  killed herself. It said that, right on television.

Nobody asked her whether or not she had loved him. What I remember now, most of all, is the make-up.

1  stand  up,  in  the  dark,  start  to  unbutton.  Then  I  hear  something, inside my body. I've broken, something has cracked, that must be it. Noise  is  coming  up,  coming  out,  of  the  broken  place,  in  my  face. Without warning: I wasn't thinking about here or there or anything. If I let the noise get out into the air it will be laughter, too loud, too much of it, someone is bound to hear, and then there will be hurrying footsteps   and   commands   and   who   knows?   Judgment:   emotion

inappropriate  to  the  occasion.  The  wandering  womb,  they  used  to think. Hysteria. And then a needle, a pill. It could be fatal.

I cram both hands over my mouth as if I'm about to be sick, drop to my knees, the laughter boiling like lava in my throat. I crawl into the cupboard,  draw  up  my  knees,  I'll  choke  on  it.  My  ribs  hurt  with holding  back,  I  shake,  I  heave,  seismic,  volcanic,  I'll  burst.  Red  all over the cupboard, mirth rhymes with birth,oh to die of laughter.

I  stifle  it  in  the  folds  of  the  hanging  cloak,  clench  my  eyes,  from which tears are squeezing. Try to compose myself.

After a while it passes, like an epileptic fit. Here I am in the closet. Nolite  te  bastardes  carborundorum.  I  can'tsee  it  in  the  dark  but  I trace the tiny scratched writing with the ends of my fingers, as if it's a code in Braille. It sounds in my head now less like a prayer, more like a command; but to do what?  Useless to  me in any case, an ancient hieroglyph to which the key's been lost. Why did she write it, why did she bother? There's no way out of here.

I  lie  on  the  floor,  breathing  too  fast,  then  slower,  evening  out  my breathing, as in the Exercises, for giving birth. All I can hear now is the  sound  of  my  own  heart,  opening  and  closing,  opening  and closing, opening

X

Soul Scrolls

^

25

What I heard first the next morning was a scream and a crash. Cora, dropping  the  breakfast  tray.  It  woke  me  up.  I  was  still  half  in  the cupboard,  head  on  the  bundled  cloak.  I  must  have  pulled  it  off  the hanger, and gone to sleep there; for a moment I couldn't remember where I was. Cora was kneeling beside me, I felt her hand touchmy back. She screamed again when I moved.

What's wrong? I said. I rolled over, pushed myself up.

Oh, she said. I thought. She thought what? Like?she said.

The  eggs  had  broken  on  the  floor,  there  was  orange  juice  and shattered glass.

I'll have to bring another one, she said. Such a waste. What was you doing  on  the  floor  like  that?  She  was  pulling  at  me,  to  get  me  up, respectably onto my feet.

I didn't want to tell her I'd never been to bed at all. There would be no way of explaining that. I  told  her I must have fainted. That was almost as bad, because she seized on it.

It's one of the early signs, she said, pleased. Thai, and throwing up. She should have known there hadn't been time enough, but she was very hopeful.

No, it's not that, I said. I was sitting in the chair. I'm sure it isn't that. I was just dizzy. I was just standing here and things went dark.

Itmust have been the strain, she said, of yesterday and all. Takes it out of you.

She meant the Birth, and I said it did. By this time I was sitting in the chair,  and  she  was  kneeling  on  the  floor,  picking  up  the  pieces  of broken glass and egg, gathering them onto the tray. She blotted some of the orange juice with the paper napkin.

I'll have to bring a cloth, she said. They'll want to know why the extra eggs. Unless you could  do without.  She looked  up at  me side-ways, slyly, and 1 saw that it would be better if we could both pretend I'd eaten my breakfast after all. If she said she'd found me lying on the floor, there would be too many questions. She'd have to account for the broken glass in any case; but Rita would get surly if she had to cook a second breakfast.

I'll  do  without,  I  said.  I'm  not  that  hungry.  This  was  good,  it  fit  in with the dizziness. But I could manage the toast, I said. I didn't want

to go without breakfast altogether. It's been on the floor, she said.

I don't mind, I said. I sat there eating the piece of brown toast while she  went  into  the  bathroom  and  flushed  the  handful  of  egg,  which could not be salvaged, down the toilet. Then she came back.

I'll say I dropped the tray on the way out, she said.

It pleased me that she was willing to lie for me, even in such a small thing, even for her own advantage. It was a link between us.

I smiled at her. I hope nobody heard you, I said.

It did give me a turn, she said, as she stood in the doorway with the tray.  At  first  I  thought  it  was  just  your  clothes,  like.  Then  I  said  to myself, what're they doing there on the floor? I thought maybe you'd Run off, I said.

Well, but, she said. But it was you. Yes, I said. It was.

And  it  was,  and  she  went  out  with  the  tray  and  came  back  with  a cloth for the rest of the orange juice, and Rita that afternoon made a grumpy  remark  about  some  folks  being  all  thumbs.  Too  much  on their   minds,   don't   look   where   they're   going,   she   said,   and   we continued on from there as if nothing had happened. * * *

That  was  in May. Spring has now been  undergone.  The  tulips have had  their  moment  and  are  done,  shedding  their  petals  one  by  one, like teeth. One day I came upon Serena Joy, kneeling on a cushion in the garden, her cane beside her on the grass. She was snipping off the seedpods with a pair of shears. I watched her sideways as I went past, with   my   basket   of   oranges   and   lamb   chops.   She   was   aiming, positioning  the  blades of  the  shears,  then  cutting  with  a  convulsive jerk   of  the   hands.  Was   it   the   arthritis,  creeping   up?   Or   some blitzkrieg,  some  kamikaze,  committed  on  the  swelling  geni-talia  of the flowers? The fruiting body. To cut off the seedpods is supposed to make the bulb store energy.

Saint Serena, on her knees, doing penance.

I often amused myself this way, with small mean-minded bitter jokes about her; but not for long. It doesn't do to linger, watching Serena Joy, from behind.

What I coveted was the shears.

Well. Then  we  had  the  irises, rising  beautiful  and  cool  on  their tall stalks,  like  blown  glass,  like  pastel  water  momentarily  frozen  in  a splash,  light  blue,  light  mauve,  and  the  darker  ones,  velvet  and purple, black cat's ears in the sun, indigo shadow, and the bleeding hearts, so female in shape it was a surprise they'd not long since been rooted  out.  There  is  something  subversive  about  this  garden  of Serena's, a sense of buried things bursting upwards, wordlessly, into the light, as if to point, to say:Whatever is silenced will clamor to be heard,   though   silently.   A   Tennyson   garden,   heavy   with   scent, languid;  the  return  of  the  word  swoon.  Light  pours  down  upon  it from the sun, true, but also heat rises, from the flowers themselves, you  can  feel  it:  like  holding  your  hand  an  inch  above  an  arm,  a shoulder.  It  breathes,  in  the  warmth,  breathing  itself  in.  To  walk through it in these days, of peonies, of pinks and carnations, makes my head swim.

The  willow  is  in  full  plumage  and  is  no  help,  with  its  insinuating whispers. Rendezvous, it says, terraces;the sibilants run up my spine, a shiver as if in fever. The summer dress rustles against the flesh of my thighs, the grass grows underfoot, at the edges of my eyes I here are movements, in the branches; feathers,flirtings, grace notes, tree into bird, metamorphosis run wild. Goddesses are possible now and the   air  suffuses   with   desire.   Even   the   bricks   of   the   house   are softening, becoming tactile; if I leaned against them they'd be warm and  yielding.  It's  amazing  what  denial  can  do.  Did  the  sight  of  my ankle make him lightheaded, faint, at the checkpoint yesterday, when I dropped my pass and let him pick it up for me? No handkerchief, no

fan, I use what's handy.

Winter is not so dangerous. I need hardness, cold, rigidity; not this heaviness, as if I'm a melon on a stem, this liquid ripeness.

The  Commander and  I have  an  arrangement.  It's not  the first such arrangement in history, though the shape it's taken is not the usual one.

I  visit  the  Commander  two  or  three  nights  a  week,  always  after dinner,  but  only  when  I  get  the  signal.  The  signal  is  Nick.  If  he's polishing  the  car  when  I  set  out  for  the  shopping,  or  when  I  come back, and if his hat is on askew or not on at all, then I go. If he isn't there or if he has his hat on straight, then I stay in my room in the ordinary way. On Ceremony nights, of course, none of this applies. The  difficulty  is  the  Wife,  as  always.  After  dinner  she  goes  to  their bedroom, from where she could conceivably hear me as I sneak along the  hall,  although  I  take  care  to  be  very  quiet.  Or  she  stays  in  the sitting room, knitting away at her endless Angel scarves, turning out more and more yards of intricate and useless wool people: her form of procreation, it must be. The sitting room door is usually left ajar when she's in there, and I don't dare to go past it. When I've had the signal  but  can't  make  it,  down  the  stairs  or  along  the  hall  past  the sitting room, the Commander understands. He knows my situation, none better. He knows all the rules.

Sometimes,       however,          Serena  Joy       is          out,      visiting  another Commander's  Wife,  a  sick  one;  that's  the  only  place  she  could conceivably go, by herself, in the evenings. She takes food, a cake or pie  or  loaf  of  bread  baked  by  Rita,  or  a  jar  of  jelly,  made  from  the mint leaves that grow in her garden. They get sick a lot, these Wives of  the  Commanders.  It  adds  interest  to  their  lives.  As  for  us,  the Handmaids  and  even  the  Marthas,  we  avoid  illness.  The  Marthas don't want to be forced to retire, because who knows where they go? You don't see that many old women around anymore. And as for us,

any  real  illness,  anything  lingering,  weakening,  a  loss  of  flesh  or appetite,  a fall  of hair,  a failure  of the  glands,  would  be  terminal.  I remember Cora, earlier in the spring,staggering around even though she had the flu, holding on to the door frames when she thought no one  was looking, being careful  not to  cough. A  slight cold,  she  said when Serena asked her.

Serena  herself  sometimes  takes  a  few  days  off,  tucked  up  in  bed. Then  she's  the  one  to  get  the  company,  the  Wives  rustling  up  the stairs, clucking and cheerful; she gets the cakes and pies, the jelly, the bouquets of flowers from their gardens.

They take turns. There is some sort of list, invisible, unspoken. Each is careful not to hog more than her share of the attention.

On   the   nights   when   Serena   is   due   to   be   out,   I'm   sure   to   be summoned.

The  first  time,  I  was  confused.  His  needs  were  obscure  to  me,  and what  I  could  perceive  of  them  seemed  to  me  ridiculous,  laughable, like a fetish for lace-up shoes.

Also, there had been a letdown of sorts. What had I been expecting, behind  that  closed  door,  the  first  time?  Something  unspeakable, down  on  all  fours  perhaps,  perversions,  whips,  mutilations?  At  the very least some minor sexual manipulation, some bygone peccadillo now  denied  him,  prohibited  by  law  and  punishable  by  amputation. To be asked to play Scrabble, instead, as if we were an old married couple, or two children, seemed kinky in the extreme, a violation in its own way. As a request it was opaque.

So when I left the room, it still wasn't clear to me what he wanted, or why,  or  whether  I  could  fulfill  any  of  it  for  him.  If  there's  to  be  a bargain, the terms of exchange must be set forth. This was something he  certainly  had  not  done.  I  thought  he  might  be  toying,  some cat-and-mouse routine, but now I think that his motives and desires weren't  obvious even  to  him.  They had  not  yet  reached  the  level  of

words.

The second evening began in the same way as the first. I went to the door,  which  was  closed,  knocked  on  it,  was  told  to  come  in.  Then followed the same two games, with the smooth beige counters. Prolix, quartz, quandary, sylph, rhythm, all the old tricks with consonants I could dream up or remember. My tongue felt thick with the effort of spelling. It was like using a language I'd once known but had nearly forgotten, a language having to do with customs that had long before passed  out  of  the  world:  cafe  au  lait  at  an  outdoor  table,  with  a brioche,   absinthe   in   a   tall   glass,   orshrimp   in   a   cornucopia   of newspaper; things I'd read about once but had never seen. It was like trying  to  walk  without  crutches,  like  those  phony  scenes  in  old  TV movies. You can do  it. I know you  can. That was the way my mind lurched and stumbled, among the sharp R's and T's, sliding over the ovoid vowels as if on pebbles.

The  Commander  was  patient  when  I  hesitated,  or  asked  him  for  a correct spelling. We can always look it up in the dictionary, he said. He said we. The first time, I realized, he'd let me win.

That night I was expecting everything to be the same, including the good-night kiss. But when we'd finished the second game, he sat back in his chair. He placed his elbows on the arms of the chair, the tips of his fingers together, and looked at me.

I have a little present for you, he said.

He smiled a little. Then he pulled open the top drawer of his desk and took something out. He held it a moment, casually enough, between thumb  and  finger,  as  if  deciding  whether  or  not  to  give  it  to  me. Although it was upside-down from where I was sitting, I recognized it.  They were  once  common  enough.  It  was a  magazine,  a  women's magazine  it  looked  like  from  the  picture,  a  model  on  glossy  paper, hair  blown,   neck   scarfed,  mouth   lipsticked;   the   fall   fashions.  I thought  such  magazines  had  all  been  destroyed,  but  here  was  one,

left over, in a Commander's private study, where you'd least expect to find   such   a   thing.   He   looked   down   at   the   model,   who   was right-side-up to him; he was still smiling, that wistful smile of his. It was a look you'd give to an almost extinct animal, at the zoo.

Staring at the magazine, as he dangled  it before me like fish bait, I wanted it. I wanted it with a force that made the ends of my fingers ache.  At  the  same  time  I  saw  this  longing  of  mine  as  trivial  and absurd,  because  I'd  taken  such  magazines  lightly  enough  once.  I'd read them in dentists' offices, and sometimes on planes; I'd bought them to take to hotel rooms, a device to fill in empty time while I was waiting for Luke. After I'd  leafedthrough  them I would  throw them away,  for  they  were  infinitely  discardable,  and  a  day  or  two  later  I wouldn't be able to remember what had been in them.

Though  I  remembered  now.  What  was  in  them  was  promise.  They dealt   in    transformations;    they    suggested   anendless    series   of possibilities, extending like the reflections in two  mirrors set facing one  another,  stretching  on,  replica  after  replica,  to  the  vanishing point.  They  suggested  one  adventure  after  another,  one  wardrobe after   another,   one   improvement   after   another,   one   man   after another.           They     suggested         rejuvenation,     pain            overcome         and transcended, endless love. The real promise in them was immortality. This  was  what  he  was  holding,  without  knowing  it.  He  riffled  the pages. I felt myself leaning forward.

It's an old one, he said, a curio of sorts. From the seventies, I think. A Vogue. This like a wine connoisseur dropping a name. I thought you might like to look at it.

I   hung   back.   He   might   be   testing   me,   to   see   how   deep   my indoctrination had really gone. It's not permitted, I said.

In here, it is, he said quietly. I saw the point. Having broken the main taboo, why should I hesitate over another one, something minor? Or another, or another; who could tell where it might stop? Behind this

particular door, taboo dissolved.

I  took  the  magazine  from  him  and  turned  it  the  right  way  round. There  they  were  again,  the  images  of  my  childhood:  bold,  striding, confident, their arms flung out as if to claim space, their legs apart, feet planted squarely on the earth. There was something Renaissance about  the  pose,  but  it  was  princes  I  thought  of,  not  coiffed  and ringleted  maidens. Those candid  eyes, shadowed with makeup, yes, but like the eyes of cats, fixed for the pounce. No quailing, no clinging there, not in those capes and rough tweeds, those boots that came to the knee. Pirates, these women, with their ladylike briefcases for the loot and their horsy acquisitive teeth.

I  felt  the Commander  watching  me  as I  turned  the  pages.  I  knew  I was doing something I shouldn't have been doing, and that he found pleasure in seeing me do it. I should have felt evil; by Aunt Lydia's lights,  I  was  evil.  But  I  didn't  feel  evil.  Instead  I  felt  like  an  j  old Edwardian seaside postcard: naughty. What was he going to give me next? A girdle?

Why do you have this? I asked him.

Some of us, he said, retain an appreciation for the old things.

But  these  were  supposed  to  have  been  burned,  I  said.  There  were house-to-house searches, bonfires

What's dangerous in the hands of the multitudes, he said, with what may  or  may  not  have  been  irony,  is  safe  enough  for  those  whose motives are

Beyond reproach, I said.

He nodded gravely. Impossible to tell whether or not he meant it.

But why show it to me? I said, and then felt stupid. What could he possibly say?  That he  was amusing  himself, at  my  expense?  For he must  have  known  how  painful  it  was  to  me,  to  be  reminded  of  the former time.

I wasn't prepared for what he actually did say. Who else could I show

it to? he said, and there it was again, that sadness.

Should I go further? I thought. I didn't want to push him, too far, too fast. I  knew  I  was dispensable.  Nevertheless I  said,  too  softly,  How about your wife?

He   seemed   to   think   about   that.   No,   he   said.   She   wouldn't understand. Anyway, she won't talk to me much anymore. We don't seem to have much in common, these days.

So there it was, out in the open: his wife didn't understand him. That's  what  I  was  there  for,  then.  The  same  old  thing.  It  was  too banal to be true.

On the third night I asked him for some hand lotion, I didn't want to sound begging, but I wanted what I could get.

Some what? he said, courteous as ever. He was across the desk from me. He didn't touch me much, except for that one obligatory kiss. No pawing, no heavy breathing, none of that; it would have been out of place, somehow, for him as well as for me.

Hand lotion, I said. Or face lotion. Our skin gets very dry. For some reason  I  said  our  instead  of  my.  I  would  have  liked  to  ask  also  for some bath oil, in those little colored globules you used to be able to get,  that  were  so  much  like  magic  to  me  when  they  existed  in  the round glass bowl in my mother's bathroom at home. But I thought he wouldn't know what they were. Anyway, they probably weren't made anymore.

Dry? the Commander said, as if he'd never thought about that before. What do you do about it?

We use butter, I said. When we can get it. Or margarine. A lot of the time it's margarine.

Butter, he said, musing. That's very clever. Butter. He laughed. I could have slapped him.

I think I could get some of that, he said, as if indulging a child's wish for bubble gum. But she might smell it on you. I wondered if this fear

of  his  came  from  past  experience.  Long  past:  lipstick  on  the  collar, perfume  on  the  cuffs,  a  scene,  late  at  night,  in  some  kitchen  or bedroom.  A  man  devoid  of  such  experience  wouldn't  think  of  that. Unless he's craftier than he looks.

I'd be careful, I said. Besides, she's never that close to me. Sometimes she is, he said.

I looked down. I'd forgotten about that. I could feel myself blushing. I

won't use it on those nights, I said.

On the fourth evening he gave me the hand lotion, in an un-labeled plastic  bottle.  It  wasn't  very   good   quality;  it  smelled   faintly   of vegetableoil.   No   Lily   of   the   Valley   for   me.   It   may   have   been something  they  made  up  for  use  in  hospitals,  on  bedsores.  But  I thanked him anyway.

The trouble is, I said, I don't have anywhere to keep it. In your room, he said, as if it were obvious.

They'd find it, I said. Someone would find it.

Why? he asked, as if he really didn't know. Maybe he didn't. It wasn't the  first  time  he  gave  evidence  of  being  truly  ignorant  of  the  real conditions under which we lived.

They look, I said. They look in all our rooms. What for? he said.

I  think  I  lost  control  then,  a  little.  Razor  blades,  I  said.  Books, writing, black-market stuff. All the things we aren't supposed to have. Jesus  Christ,  you  ought  to  know.  My  voice  was  angrier  than  I'd intended, but he didn't even wince.

Then you'll have to keep it here, he said. So that's what I did.

He watched me smoothing it over my hands and then my face with that  same  air  of  looking  in  through  the  bars.  I  wanted  to  turn  my back on himit was as if he were in the bathroom with mebut I didn't dare.

For him, I must remember, I am only a whim.

26

When  the  night  for  the  Ceremony  came  round  again,  two  or  three weeks   later,   I   found   that   things   were   changed.   There   was   an awkwardness now that there hadn't beenbefore. Before, I'd treated it as a job, an unpleasant job to be gone through as fast as possible so it could  be  over  with.  Steel  yourself,  my  mother  used  to  say,  before examinations  I  didn't  want  to  take  or  swims  in  cold  water.  I  never thought  much  at  the time about what  the  phrase meant, but  it  had something to do with metal, with armor, and that's what I would do, I would  steel  myself.  I  would  pretend  not  to  be  present,  not  in  the flesh.

This state of absence, of existing apart from the body, had been true of the Commander too, I knew now. Probably he thought about other things the whole time he was with me; with us, for of course Serena Joy was there on those evenings also. He might have been thinking about  what  he  did  during  the  day,  or  about  playing  golf,  or  about what he'd had for dinner. The sexual act, although he performed it in a perfunctory way, must have been largely unconscious, for him, like scratching himself.

But  that  night,  the  first  since  the  beginning  of  whatever  this  new arrangement was between usI had no name for itI felt shy of him. I felt, for one thing, that he was actually looking at me, and

I didn't like it. The lights were on, as usual, since Serena Joy always avoided  anything  that  would  have  created  an  aura  of  romance  or eroticism, however slight: overhead lights, harsh despite the canopy. It was like being on an operating table, in the full glare; like being on a stage. I was conscious that my legs were hairy, in the straggly way of  legs  that  have  once  been  shaved  but  have  grownback;  I  was conscious of my armpits too, although of course he couldn't see them. I  felt  uncouth.  This  act  of  copulation,  fertilization  perhaps,  which

should  have  been  no  more  to  me  than  a  bee  is  to  a  flower,  had become  for  me  indecorous,  an  embarrassingbreach  of  propriety, which it hadn't been before.

He was no longer a thing to me. That was the problem. I realized it that night, and the realization has stayed with me. It complicates. Serena Joy had changed for me, too. Once I'd merely hated her for her part in what was being done to me; and because she hated me too and resented my presence, and because she would be the one to raise my child, should I be able to have one after all. But now, although I still hated her, no more so than when she was grippingmy hands so hard that her rings bit my flesh, pulling my hands back as well, which she must have done on purpose to make me as uncomfortable as she could, the hatred was no longer pure and simple. Partly I was jealous of her; but how could I be jealous of a woman so obviously dried-up and   unhappy?   You   can   only   be   jealous   of   someone   who   has something you think you ought to have yourself. Nevertheless I was jealous.

But I also felt guilty about her. I felt I was an intruder, in a territory that ought to havebeen hers. Now that I was seeing the Commander on  the  sly,  if  only  to  play  his  games  and  listen  to  him  talk,  our functions  were  no  longer  as  separate  as  they  should  have  been  in theory,  I  was  taking  something  away  from  her,  although  she  didn't know   it.   Iwas   filching.   Never   mind   that   it   was   something   she apparently didn't want or had no use for, had rejected even; still, it was hers, and  if I took it  away, this mysterious "it" I couldn't  quite definefor the Commander wasn't in love with me, I refused to believe he felt anything for me as extreme as thatwhat would be left for her? Why should  I  care?  I  told  myself.  She's nothing to  me, she dislikes me, she'd have me out of the house in a minute, or worse, if she could think  up  any  excuse  at  all.  If  she  wereto  find  out,  for  instance.  He wouldn't  be  able  to  intervene,  to  save  me;  the  transgressions  of

women   in   the   household,   whether   Martha   or   Handmaid,   are supposed to be under the jurisdiction of the Wives alone. She was a malicious and vengeful woman, I knew that. Nevertheless I couldn't shake it, that small compunction towards her.

Also: I now had power over her, of a kind, although she didn't , know it. And I enjoyed that. Why pretend? I enjoyed it a lot. f

But  the  Commander  could  give  me  away  so  easily,  bya  look,  by  a gesture,  some  tiny  slip  that  would  reveal  to  anyone  watching  that there was something between us now. He almost did it the night of the  Ceremony.  He  reached  his  hand  up  as  if  to  touch  my  face;  I moved  my  head  to  the  side,  to  warn  him  away,  hoping  Serena  Joy hadn't  noticed,  and  he  withdrew  his  hand  again,  withdrew  into himself and his singled-minded journey.

Don't do that again, I said to him the next time we were alone. Do what? he said.

Try to touch me like that, when we're?when she's there. Did I? he said.

You could get me transferred, I said. To the Colonies. You know that. Or worse. I thought he should continue to act, in public, as if I were a large   vase  or  a   window:  part   of  the  background,  inanimate  or transparent.

I'm sorry, he said. I didn't mean to. But I find it What? I said, when he didn't go on. Impersonal, he said.

How long did it take you to find that out? I said. You can see from the way I was speaking to him that we were already on different terms. For  the  generations  that  comeafter,  Aunt  Lydia  said,  it  will  be  so much  better.  The  women  will  live  in  harmony  together,  all  in  one family; you will be like daughters to them, and when the population level is up to scratch again we'll no longer have to transfer you from one house toanother because there will be enough to go round. There

can be bonds of real affection, she said, blinking at us ingratiatingly, under such conditions. Women united for a common end!

Helping one another in their daily chores as they walk the path of life together,   each   performing   her   appointed   task.   Why   expect   one woman to carry out all the functions necessary to the serene running of  a household?  It  isn't  reasonable  or humane.  Your  daughters will have  greater  freedom.  We  are  working  towards  the  goal  of  a  little garden  for  each  one,  each  one  of  youthe  clasped  hands  again,  the breathy  voiceand  that's  just  one  for  instance.  The  raised  finger, wagging  at  us.  But  we  can't  be  greedy  pigs  and  demand  too  much before it's ready, now can we?

The  fact  is  that  I'm  his  mistress.  Men  at  the  top  have  always  had mistresses,      why      should  things    be        any            different            now?    The arrangements aren't quite the same, granted. The mistress used to be kept  in  a  minor  house  or  apartment  of  her  own,  and  now  they've amalgamated  things.  But  underneath  it's  the  same.  More  or  less. Outside woman, they used to be called, in some countries. I am the outside  woman.  It's  my  job  to  provide  what  is  otherwise  lacking. Even the Scrabble. It's an absurd as well as an ignominious position. Sometimes I think she knows. Sometimes I think they're in collusion. Sometimes I think she put him up to it, and is laughing at me; as I laugh, from time to time and with irony, at myself. Let her take the weight,  she  can  say  to  herself.  Maybe  she's  withdrawn  from  him, almost completely; maybe that's her version of freedom.

But even so, and stupidly enough, I'm happier than I was before. It's something to do, for one thing. Something to fill the time, at night, instead  of  sitting  alone  in  my  room.  It's  something  else  to  think about.  I  don't  love  the  Commander  or  anything  like  it,  but  he's  of interest to me, he occupies space, he is more than a shadow.

And I for him. To him I'm no longer merely a usable body. To him

I'm  not  just  a  boat  with  no  cargo,  a  chalice  with  no  wine  in  it,  an

ovento be crudeminus the bun. To him I am not merely empty.

27

I walk with Ofglen along the summer street. It's warm, humid; this would have been sundress-and-sandals weather, once. In each of our baskets are strawberriesthe strawberries are in season now, so we'll eat  them  and  eat  them  until  we're  sick  of  themand  some  wrapped fish. We got the fish at Loaves and Fishes, with its wooden sign, a fish with  a  smile  and  eyelashes.  It  doesn't  sell  loaves  though.  Most households  bake  their  own,  though  you  can  get  dried-up  rolls  and wizened  doughnuts  at  Daily  Bread,  if  you  run  short.  Loaves  and Fishes is hardly ever open. Why bother opening when there's nothing to sell? The sea fisheries were defunct several years ago; the few fish they have now are from fish farms, and taste muddy. The news says the coastal areas are being "rested." Sole, I remember, and haddock, swordfish,  scallops,  tuna; lobsters,  stuffed  and  baked,  salmon,  pink and  fat, grilled in steaks. Could they all be extinct, like the whales? I've heard that rumor, passed on to me in soundless words, the lips hardly moving,  as we  stood  in  line  outside,  waiting for  the  store to open,  lured  by  the  picture  of  succulent  white  fillets  in  the  window. They put the picture in the window when they have something, take it away when they don't. Sign language.

Ofglen and I walk slowly today; we are hot in our long dresses, wet under the arms, tired. At least in this heat we don't wear gloves.

There used to be an ice cream store, somewhere in this block. 1 can't remember the name. Things can change so thickly, buildings can be torn  down  or  turned  into  something  else,  it's  hard  to  keep  them straight in your mind the way they used to be. You could get double scoops, and if you wanted they would put chocolate sprinkles on the top.  These  had  the  name  of  a  man.  Johnnies?  Jackies?  I  can't remember.

We would go there, when she was little, and I'd hold her up so she

could see through the glass side of the counter, where the vats of ice cream were on display, colored so delicately, pale orange, pale green, pale  pink,  and  I'd  read  the  names  to  her  so  she  could  choose.  She wouldn't choose by the name, though, but by the color. Her dresses and overalls were those colors too. Ice cream pastels.

Jimmies, that was the name.

Ofglen and I are more comfortable with one another now, we're used to   each   other.   Siamese   twins.  We  don't   bother  much   with   the formalities anymore when we greet  each  other; we  smile  and  move off,  in  tandem,  traveling  smoothly  along  our  daily  track.  Now  and again we vary the route; there's nothing against it, as long as we stay within the barriers. A rat in a maze is free to go anywhere, as long as it stays inside the maze.

We've  been to  the stores already, and  the church; now  we're  at  the Wall. Nothing on it today, they don't leave the bodies hanging as long in  summer as they do  in winter, because of the flies and the smell. This  was  once  the  land  of  air  sprays,  pine  and  floral,  and  people retain the taste; especially the Commanders, who preach purity in all things.

"You have everything on your list?" Ofglen says to me now, though she knows I do. Our lists are never long. She's given up some of her passivity lately, some of her melancholy. Often she speaks to me first.

"Yes," I say.

"Let's go around," she says. She means down, towards the river. We haven't been that way for a while.

"Fine," I say. I don't turn at once, though, but remain standing where I am, taking a last look at the Wall. There arc the red bricks, there are the   searchlights,   there's   the   barbed   wire,   there   arc   the   hooks. Somehow the Wall is even more foreboding when it's empty like this. When there's someone hanging on it at least you know the worst. But vacant, it is also potential, like a storm approaching. When I can see

the  bodies,  the  actual  bodies,  when  I  can  guess  from  the  sizes  and shapes that  none  of  them  is Luke,  I  can  believe  also  that  he  is still alive.

I  don't  know  why  I  expect  him  to  appear  on  this  wall.  There  are hundreds of other places they could have killed him. But I can't shake the  idea  that  he's  in  there,  at  this  moment,  behind  the  blank  red bricks.

I  try  to  imagine  which  building  he's  in.  I  can  remember  where  the buildings are, inside the Wall; we used to be able to walk freely there, when  it  was  a  university.  We  still  go  in  there  once  in  a  while,  for Women's  Salvagings. Most  of the  buildings are red  brick  too; some have  arched  doorways,  a  Romanesque  effect,  from  the  nineteenth century.  We  aren't  allowed  inside  the  buildings  anymore;  but  who would want to go in? Those buildings belong to the Eyes.

Maybe he's in the Library. Somewhere in the vaults. The stacks.

The  Library  is  like  a  temple.  There's  a  long  flight  of  white  steps, leading  to  the  rank  of  doors.  Then,  inside,  another  white  staircase going up. To either side of it, on the wall, there are angels. Also there are men fighting, or about to fight, looking clean and noble, not dirty and bloodstained and smelly the way they must have looked. Victory is on one side of the inner doorway, leading them on, and Death is on the other. It's a mural in honor of some war or other. The men on the side  of  Death  are  still  alive.  They're  going  to  heaven.  Death  is  a beautiful woman, with wings and one breast almost bare; or is that Victory? I can't remember.

They won't have destroyed that.

We  turn  our  backs  to  the  Wall,  head  left.  Here  there  are  several empty  storefronts,  their  glass  windows  scrawled  with  soap.  I  try  to remember what was sold in them, once. Cosmetics? Jewelry? Most of the  stores  carrying  things  for  men  are  still  open;  it's  just  the  ones dealing in what they call vanities that have been shut down.

At the corner is the store known as Soul Scrolls. It's a franchise: there are Soul Scrolls in every city center, in every suburb, or so they say. It must make a lot of profit.

The  window  of  Soul  Scrolls  is  shatterproof.  Behind  it  are  printout machines,  row  on  row of  them; these  machines are  known as  Holy Rollers, but only among us, it's a disrespectful nickname. What the machines print is prayers, roll upon roll, prayers going out endlessly. They're  ordered  by  Compuphone,  I've  overheard  the  Commander's Wife doing it. Ordering prayers from Soul Scrolls is supposed to be a sign   of   pietyand   faithfulness   to   the   regime,   so   of   course   the Commanders' Wives do it a lot. It helps their husbands' careers.

There are five different prayers: for health, wealth, a death, a birth, a sin. You pick the one you want, punch in the number, then punch in your own number so your account will be debited, and punch in the number of times you want the prayer repeated.

The machines talk as they print out the prayers; if you like, you can go  inside  and  listen  to  them,  the  toneless  metallic  voices  repeating the same thing over and over. Once the prayers have been printed out and  said,  the  paper  rolls  back  through  another  slot  and  is  recycled into fresh paper again. There are no people inside the building: the machines run by themselves. You can't hear the voices from outside; only  a  murmur,  a  hum,  like  a  devout  crowd,  on  its  knees.  Each machine has an eye painted in gold on the side, flanked by two small golden wings.

I try to remember what this place sold when it was a store, before it was turned into Soul Scrolls. I think it was lingerie. Pink and silver boxes,   colored    pantyhose,   brassieres   with   lace,    silk   scarves? Something lost.

Ofglen   and   I   stand   outside   Soul   Scrolls,   looking   through   the shatterproof  windows,  watching  the  prayers  well  out  from  the  ma7 chines anddisappear again through the slot, back to the realm of the

unsaid.  Now  I  shift  my  gaze.  What  I  see  is  not  the  machines,  but Ofglen, reflected in the glass of the window. She's looking straight at me.

We can see into each other's eyes. This is the first time I've ever seen Ofglen's  eyes,  directly,  steadily,  not  aslant.  Her  face  is  oval,  pink, plump but not fat, her eyes roundish.

She holds my stare in the glass, level, unwavering. Now it's hard to look  away.  There's a shock  in  this seeing;  it's like  seeing somebody naked, for the first time. There is risk, suddenly, in the air between us,  where  there  was  none  before.  Even  this  meeting  of  eyes  holds danger. Though there's nobody near.

At last Ofglen speaks. "Do you think God listens," she says, "to these machines?" She is whispering: our habit at the Center.

In the past this would have been a trivial enough remark, a kind of scholarly speculation. Right now it's treason.

I could scream. I could run away. I could turn from her silently, to show   her   I   won't   tolerate   this   kind   of   talk   in   my   presence. Subversion, sedition, blasphemy, heresy, all rolled into one.

I steel myself. "No," I say.

She lets out her breath, in a long sigh of relief. We have crossed the invisible line together. "Neither do I," she says.

"Though  I  suppose it's  faith,  of a kind,"  I say.  "Like Tibetan prayer wheels."

"What are those?" she asks.

"I only read about them," I say. "They are moved around by the wind. They're all gone now."

"Like  everything,"  she  says.  Only  now  do  we  stop  looking  at  one another.

"Is it safe here?" I whisper.

"I figure it's the safest place," she says. "We look like we're praying, is all."

"What about them?"

"Them?" she says, still whispering. "You're always safest out of doors, no  mike,  and  why  would  they  put  one  here?  They'd  think  nobody would dare. But we've stayed long enough. There's no sense in being late getting back." We turn away together. "Keep your head down as we walk," she says, "and lean just a little towards me. That way I can hear you better. Don't talk when there's anyone coming."

We walk, heads bent as usual. I'm so excited I can hardly breathe, but I  keep  a  steady  pace.  Now  more  than  ever  I  must  avoid  drawing attention to myself.

"I thought you were a true believer," Ofglen says.

"I thought you were," I say.

"You were always so stinking pious."

"So were you," I reply. I want to laugh, shout, hug her.

"You can join us," she says.

"Us?" I say. There is an us then, there's a we. I knew it.

"You didn't think I was the only one," she says.

I didn't think that. It occurs to me that she may be a spy, a plant, set to trap me; such is the soil in which we grow. But I can't believe it; hope is rising in me, like sap in a tree. Blood in a wound. We have made an opening.

I want  to  ask her if she's seen Moira, if anyone can find out what's happened,  to  Luke,  to  my  child,  my  mother  even,  but  there's  not much time; too soon we're approaching the corner of the main street, the one before the first barrier. There will be too many people.

"Don't say a word," Ofglen warns me, though she doesn't need to. "In any way."

"Of course I won't," I say. Who could I tell?

We walk the main street in silence, past Lilies, past All Flesh. There are  more  people  on  the  sidewalks  this  afternoon  than  usual:  the warm weather must have brought them out. Women, in green, blue,

red,  stripes;  men  too,  some  in  uniform,  some  only  in  civilian  suits. The sun is free, it is still there to be enjoyed. Though no one bathes in it anymore, not in public.

There are more cars too, Whirlwinds with their chauffeurs and their cushioned occupants, lesser cars driven by lesser men.

Something  is  happening:  there's  a  commotion,  a  flurry  among  the shoals of cars. Some are pulling over to the side, as if to get out of the way. I look up quickly: it's a black van, with the white-winged eye on the  side.  It  doesn't  have  the  siren  on,  but  the  other  cars  avoid  it anyway. It cruises slowly along the street, as if looking for something: shark on the prowl.

I freeze, cold travels through me, down to my feet. There must have been microphones, they've heard us after all.

Ofglen,  under  cover  of  her  sleeve,  grips  my  elbow.  "Keep  moving,"

she whispers. "Pretend not to see."

But  I  can't  help  seeing.  Right  in  front  of  us  the  van  pulls  up.  Two Eyes, in gray suits, leap from the opening double doors at the back. They  grab  a  man  who  is  walking  along,  a  man  with  a  briefcase,  an ordinary-looking  man,  slam  him  back  against  the  black  side  of  the van. He's there a moment, splayed out against the metal as if stuck to it; then one of the Eyes moves in on him, does something sharp and brutal that doubles him over, into a limp cloth bundle. They pick him up and heave him into the back of the van like a sack of mail. Then they are also inside and the doors are closed and the van moves on. It's  over,  in  seconds,  and  the  traffic  on  the  street  resumes  as  if nothing has happened.

What I feel is relief. It wasn't me.

28

I   don't   feel   like   a   nap   this   afternoon,   there's   still   too   much adrenaline.   I   sit   on   the   window   seat,   looking   out   through   the semisheer of the curtains. White nightgown. The window is as open

as it goes,  there's a breeze, hot  in the sunlight, and  the white  cloth blows across my face. From the outside I must look like a cocoon, a spook,  face  enshrouded  like  this,  only  the  outlines  visible,  of  nose, bandaged mouth, blind eyes. But I like the sensation, the soft cloth brushing my skin. It's like being in a cloud.

They've given me a small electric fan, which helps in this humidity. It whirs on the floor, in the corner, its blades encased in grille-work. If I were  Moira,  I'd  know  how  to  take  it  apart,  reduce  it  to  its  cutting edges. I have no screwdriver, but if I were Moira I could do it without a screwdriver. I'm not Moira.

What  would  she  tell  me,  about  the  Commander,  if  she  were  here? Probably she'd disapprove. She disapproved of Luke, back then. Not of Luke but of the fact that he was married. She said I was poaching, on another woman's ground. I said  Luke wasn't a fish or a piece of dirt either, he was a human being and could make his own decisions. She said I was rationalizing. I said I was in love. She said that was no excuse. Moira was always more logical than 1 am.

I  said  she  didn't  have  that  problem  herself  anymore,  since  she'd decided  to  prefer  women,  and  as  far  as  I  could  see  she  had  no scruples about stealing them or borrowing them when she felt like it. She  said  it  was  different,  because  the  balance  of  power  was  equal between women so sex was an even-steven transaction. I said "even Steven"  was  a  sexist  phrase,  if  she  was  going  to  be  like  that,  and anyway  that  argument  was  outdated.  She  said  I  had  trivialized  the issue and if I thought it was outdated I was living with my head in the sand.

We said all this in my kitchen, drinkingcoffee, sitting at my kitchen table, in those low, intense voices we used for such arguments when we were in our early twenties; a carry-over from college. The kitchen was in a rundown apartment in a clapboard house near the river, the kind with three stories and a rickety outside back staircase. I had the

second  floor,  which  meant  I  got  noise  from  both  above  and  below, two unwanted disc players thumping late into the night. Students, I knew. I was still on my first job, which didn't pay much: I worked a computer in an insurance company. So the hotels, with Luke, didn't mean only love or even only sex to me. They also meant time off from the cockroaches, the dripping sink, the linoleum that was peeling off the floor in patches, even from my own attempts tobrighten things up by sticking posters on the wall and hanging prisms in the windows. I had  plants,  too;  though  they  always  got  spider  mites  or  died  from being unwatered. I would go off with Luke, and neglect them.

I said there was more than one way of living with your head in the sand and that if Moira thought she could create Utopia by shutting herself  up  in  a  women-only  enclave  she  was  sadly  mistaken.  Men were not just going to go away, I said. You couldn't just ignore them. That's  like  saying  you  should  go  out  and  catch  syphilis  merely because it exists, Moira said.

Are you calling Luke a social disease? I said.

Moira  laughed.  Listen  to  us,  she  said.  Shit.  We  sound  like  your mother.

We  both  laughed  then,  and  when  she  left  we  hugged  each  other as usual.  There  was  a  time  when  we  didn't  hug,  after  she'd  told  me about  being  gay;  but  then  she  said  I  didn't  turn  her  on,  reassuring me,  and  we'd  gone  back  to  it.  We  could  fight  and  wrangle  and name-call, but it didn't change anything underneath. She was still my oldest friend.

Is.

I got a better apartment after that, where I lived for the two years it took Luke to pry himself loose. I paid for it myself, with my new job. It was in a library, not the big one with Death and Victory, a smaller one.

I  worked  transferring  books  to  computer  discs,  to  cut  down  on

storage  space  and  replacement  costs,  they  said.  Discers,  we  called ourselves.  We  called  the  library  a discotheque,  which  was a  joke  of ours. After the  books were  transferred  they were supposed  to go  to the shredder, but sometimes I took them home with me. I liked the feel   of   them,   and   the   look.   Luke   said   I   had   the   mind   of   an antiquarian. He liked that, he liked old things himself.

It's strange, now, to think about having a job. Job. It's a funny word. It's  a  job  for  a  man.  Do  a  jobbie,  they'd  say  to  children  when  they were being toilet trained. Or of dogs: he did a job on the carpet. You were  supposed  to  hit  them  with  rolled-up  newspapers,  my  mother said.  I  can remember  when  there  were newspapers, though  I  never had a dog, only cats.

The Book of Job.

All those women having jobs: hard to imagine, now, but thousands of them had jobs, millions. It was considered the normal thing. Now it's like  remembering  the  paper  money,  when  they  still  had  that.  My mother kept some ofit, pasted into her scrapbook along with the early photos.  It  was  obsolete  by  then,  you  couldn't  buy  anything  with  it. Pieces  of  paper,  thickish,  greasy  to  the  touch,  green-colored,  with pictures on each side, some old man in a wig and on the other side a pyramid  with  an eye above it. It  said  In God  We Trust. My mother said people used to have signs beside their cash registers, for a joke: In  God  We  Trust,  All  Others  Pay  Cash.  That  would  be  blasphemy now.

You  had  to  take  those  pieces  of  paper  with  you  whenyou  went shopping,  though  by  the  time  I  was  nine  or  ten  most  people  used plastic cards. Not for the groceries though, that came Inter. It seems so primitive, totemistic even, like cowry shells. 1 must have used that kind   of   money   myself,   a   little,   beforeeverything   went   on   the Compubank.

I guess that's how they were able to do it, in the way they did, all at

once,  without  anyone  knowing  beforehand.  If  there  had  still  been portable money, it would have been more difficult.

It  was  after  the  catastrophe,  when  they  shot  the  president  and machine-gunned  the  Congress  and  the  army  declared  a  state  of emergency. They blamed it on the Islamic fanatics, at the time.

Keep calm, they said on television. Everything is under control.

I was stunned. Everyone was, I know that. It was hard to believe. The entire  government,  gone  like  that.  How  did  they  get  in,  how  did  it happen?

That was when they suspended the Constitution. They said it would be  temporary.  There  wasn't  even  any  rioting  in  the  streets.  People stayed home at night, watching television, looking for sofne direction. There wasn't even an enemy you could put your finger on.

Look out, said Moira to me, over the phone. Here it comes. Here what comes? I said.

You wait, she said. They've been building up to this. It's you and me up  against  the  wall,  baby.  She  was  quoting  an  expression  of  my mother's, but she wasn't intending to be funny.

Things  continued  in  that  state  of  suspended  animation  for  weeks, although  some  things  did  happen.  Newspapers  were  censored  and some   were   closed   down,   for   security   reasons   they   said.   The roadblocks began to appear, and Identipasses. Everyone approved of that, since it was obvious you couldn't be too careful. They said that new  elections  would  be  held,  but  that  it  would  take  some  time toprepare for them. The thing to do, they said, was to continue on as usual.

The  Pornomarts  were  shut,  though,  and  there  were  no  longer  any Feels on Wheels vans and Bun-Die Buggies circling the Square. But I wasn't sad to see them go. We all knew what a nuisance they'd been. It's high time somebody did something, said the woman behind the counter, at the store where I usually bought my cigarettes. It was on

the corner, a newsstand chain: papers, candy, cigarettes. The woman was older, with gray hair; my mother's generation.

Did they just close them, or what? I asked.

She shrugged. Who knows, who cares, she said. Maybe they i moved them  off  somewhere  else.  Trying  to  get  rid  of  it  altogether  is  like trying to stamp out mice, you know? She punched my Compunumber into the till, barely looking at it: I was a regular, by then. People were complaining, she said.

The next morning, on my way to the library for the day, I stopped by the same store for another pack, because I'd run out. I was smoking more   those   days,   it   was   the   tension,   you   could   feel   it,   like   a subterranean hum, although things seemed so quiet. I was drinking more  coffee  too,  and  having  trouble  sleeping.  Everyone  was  a  little jumpy.  There  was  a  lot  more  music  on  the  radio  than  usual,  and fewer words.

It was after we'd been married, for years it seemed; she was three or four, in daycare.

We'd  all  got  up  in  the  usual  way  and  had  breakfast,  granola,  I remember, and Luke had driven her off to school, in the little outfit I'd  bought  her  just  a  couple  ofweeks  before,  striped  overalls  and  a blue  T-shirt.  What  month  was  this?  It  must  have  been  September. There was a School Pool that was supposed to pick them up, but for some  reason  I'd  wanted  Luke  to  do  it,  I  was  getting  worried  even about the School Pool. No children walked to school anymore, there had been too many disappearances.

When  I  got  to  the  corner  store,  the  usual  woman  wasn't  there. Instead there was a man, a young man, he couldn't have been more than twenty.

She sick? I said as I handed him my card. Who? he said, aggressively I thought.

The woman who's usually here, I said.

How  would  I  know,  he  said.  He  was  punching  my  number  in, studying  each  number,  punching  with  one  finger.  He  obviously hadn't   done   it   before.   I   drummed   my   fingers   on   the   counter, impatient  for  a  cigarette,  wondering  if  anyone  had  ever  told  him something   could   be   done   about   those   pimples   on   his   neck.   I remember  quite  clearly  what  he  looked  like:  tall,  slightly  stooped, dark  hair  cut  short,  brown  eyes  that  seemed  to  focus  two  inches behind the bridge of my nose, and that acne. I suppose I remember him so clearly because of what he said next.

Sorry, he said. This number's not valid.

That's ridiculous, I said. It must be, I've got thousands in my account. I just got the statement two days ago. Try it again.

It's not valid, he repeated obstinately. See that red light? Means it's not valid.

You must have made a mistake, I said. Try it again.

He shrugged and gave me a fed-up smile, but he did try the number again. This time I watched his fingers, on each number, and checked the numbers that came up in the window. It was my number all right, but there was the red light again.

See? he said again, still with that smile, as if he knew some private joke he wasn't going to tell me.

I'll  phone  them  from  the  office,  I  said.  The  system  had  fouled  up before, but a few phone calls usually straightened it out. Still, I was angry, as if I'd been unjustly accused of something I didn't even know about. As if I'd made the mistake myself.

You do that, he said indifferently. I left the cigarettes on the counter, since I hadn't paid for them. I figured I could borrow some at work.

I did phone from the office, but all I got was a recording. The lines were overloaded, the recording said. Could I please phone back?

The  lines  stayed  overloaded  all  morning,  as  far  as  I  could  tell.  I

phoned back several times, but no luck. Even that wasn't too unusual.

About  two  o'clock,  after  lunch,  the  director  came  in  to  the  discing room.

I have something to tell you, he said. He looked terrible; his hair was untidy,  his  eyes  were  pink  and  wobbling,  as  though  he'd  been drinking.

We  all  looked  up,  turned  off  our  machines.  There  must  have  been eight or ten of us in the room.

I'm sorry, he said, but it's the law. I really am sorry. For what? somebody said.

I have to let you go, he said. It's the law, I have to. I have to let you all go. He said this almost gently, as if we were wild animals, frogs he'd caught, in a jar, as if he were being humane.

We're being fired? I said. I stood up. But why?

Not fired, he said. Let go. You can't work here anymore, it's the law. He  ran  his  hands  through  his  hair  and  I  thought,  He's  gone  crazy. The strain has been too much for him and he's blown his wiring.

You  can't  just  do  that,  said  the  woman  who  sat  next  to  me.  This sounded   false,   improbable,   like   something   you   would   say   on television.

It isn't me, he said. You don't understand. Please go, now. His voice was  rising.  I  don't  want  any  trouble.  If  there's  trouble  the  books might  be  lost,  things  will  get  brokenHe  looked  over  his  shoulder. They're outside, he said, in my office. If you don't go now they'll come in themselves. They gave me ten minutes. By now he sounded crazier than ever.

He's loopy, someone said out loud; which we must all have thought. But  I  could  see  out  into  the  corridor,  and  there  were  two  men standing   there,   in   uniforms,   with   machine   guns.   This   was   too theatrical  to  be  true,  yet  there  they  were:  sudden  apparitions,  like Martians. There was a dreamlike quality to them; they were too vivid, too at odds with their surroundings.

Just  leave  the  machines,  he  said  while  we  were  getting  our  things together, filing out. As if we could have taken them.

We  stood  in  a  cluster,  on  the  steps  outside  the  library.  We  didn't know what to say to one another. Since none of us understood what had happened, there was nothing much we could say. We looked at one another's faces and saw dismay, and a certain shame, as if we'd been caught doing something we shouldn't.

It's  outrageous,  one  woman  said,  but  without  belief.  What  was  it about this that made us feel we deserved it?

When  I  got  back  to  the  house  nobody  was  there.  Luke  was  still  at work, my daughter was at school. I felt tired, bone-tired, but when I sat  down  I  got  up  again,  I  couldn't  seem  to  sit  still.  I  wandered through the house, from room to room. I remember touching things, not  even  that  consciously,  just  placing  my  fingers  on  them;  things like the toaster, the sugar bowl, the ashtray in the living room. After a while Ipicked up the cat and  carried her around  with me. I wanted Luke to come home. I thought I should do something, take steps; but I didn't know what steps I could take.

I tried phoning the bank again, but I only got the same recording. I poured myself a glass of milkI told myself I was too jittery for another coffeeand went into the living room and sat down on the sofa and put the glass of milk on the coffee table, carefully, without drinking any of it.  I held  the  cat  up against  my chest  so  I  could  feel  her purring against my throat.

After a while I phoned my mother at her apartment, but there was no answer.  She'd  settled  down  more  by  then,  she'd  stopped  moving every few years; she lived across the river, in Boston. I waited a while and phoned Moira. She wasn't there either, but when I tried half an hour later she was. In between these phone calls I just sat on the sofa. What  I  thought  about  was  my  daughter's school  lunches.  I  thought maybe I'd been giving her too many peanut butter sandwiches.

I've been fired, I told Moira when I got her on the phone. She said she would  come  over.  By  that  time  she  was  working  for  a  women's collective,  the  publishing  division.  They  put  out  books  on  birth control  and  rape and  things like that, though there wasn't  as much demandfor those things as there used to be.

I'll come over, she said. She must have been able to tell from my voice that this was what I wanted.

She got there after some time. So, she said. She threw off her jacket, sprawled into the oversize chair. Tell me. First we'll have a drink.

She  got  up  and  went  to  the  kitchen  and  poured  us  a  couple  of Scotches,  and  came  back  and  sat  down  and  I  tried  to  tell  her  what had  happened  to  me.  When  I'd  finished,  she  said,  Tried  getting anything on your Compucard today?

Yes, I said. I told her about that too.

They've  frozen  them,  she  said.  Mine  too.  The  collective's  too.  Any account with an F on it instead of an M. All they needed to do is push a few buttons. We're cut off.

But  I've got  over two  thousand  dollars in the  bank,  I said,  as if my own account was the only one that mattered.

Women can't hold property anymore, she said. It's a new law. Turned on the TV today?

No, I said.

It's on there, she said. All  over the place. She was not stunned, the way I was. In some strange way she was gleeful, as if this was what she'd been expecting for some time and now she'd been proven right. She even looked more energetic, more determined. Luke can use your Compucount for you, she said. They'll transfer your number to him, or that's what they say. Husband or male next of kin.

But what about you? I said. She didn't have anyone.

I'll  go  underground,  she  said.  Some  of  the  gays  can  take  over  our numbers and buy us things we need.

But why? I said. Why did they?

Ours is not to reason why, said Moira. They had to do it that way, the Compucounts and the jobs both at once. Can you picture the airports, otherwise? They don't want us going anywhere, you can bet on that.

I went to pick my daughter up from school. I drove with exaggerated care. By the time Luke got home I was sitting at the kitchen table. She was drawing with felt pens at her own little table in the corner, where her paintings were taped up next to the refrigerator.

Luke knelt beside me and put his arms around me. I heard, he said, on the car radio, driving home. Don't worry, I'm sure it's temporary. Did they say why? I said.

He didn't answer that. We'll get through it, he said, hugging me.

You don't know what it's like, I said. I feel as if somebody cut off my feet. I wasn't crying. Also, I couldn't put my arms around him.

It's only a job, he said, trying to soothe me.

I guess you get all my money, I said. And I'm not even dead. I was trying for a joke, but it came out sounding macabre.

Hush, he said. He was still kneeling on the floor. You know I'll always take care of you.

I  thought,  Already  he's  starting  to  patronize  me.  Then  I  thought, Already you're starting to get paranoid.

I know, I said. I love you.

Later, after she was in bed andwe were having supper, and I wasn't feeling  so  shaky,  I  told  him  about  the  afternoon.  I  described  the director  coming  in,  blurting  out  his  announcement.  It  would  have been  funny  if  it  wasn't  so  awful,  I  said.  I  thought  he  was  drunk. Maybe he was. The army was there, and everything.

Then  I  remembered  something  I'd  seen  and  hadn't  noticed,  at  the time. It wasn't the army. It was some other army.

There were marches, of course, a lot of women and some men. But they were smaller than you might have thought. I guess people were

scared.  And  when  it  was  known  that  the  police,  or  the  army,  or whoever  they  were,  would  open  fire  almost  as  soon  as  any  of  the marches even started, the marches stopped. A few things were blown up, post offices, subway stations. But you couldn't even be sure who was  doing  it.  It  could  have  been  the  army,  to  justify  the  computer searches and the other ones, the door-to-doors.

I didn't go on any of the marches. Luke said it would be futile and I had to think about them, my family, him and her. I did think about my family. I started doing more housework, more baking. I tried not to cry at mealtimes. By this time I'd started to cry, without warning, and  to  sit  beside  the  bedroom  window,  staring  out.  I  didn't  know many of  the  neighbors,  and  whenwe  met,  outside  on  the  street,  we were careful to exchange nothing more than the ordinary greetings. Nobody wanted to be reported, for disloyalty.

Remembering this, I remember also my mother, years before. I must have   been   fourteen,   fifteen,  that   age   when  daughters   are  most embarrassed by their mothers. I remember her coming back to one of our  many  apartments,  with  a  group  of  other  women,  part  of  her ever-changing  circle  of friends. They'd  been in  a march  that day;  it was during the time of the porn riots,or was it the abortion riots, they were close together. There were a lot of bombings then: clinics, video stores; it was hard to keep track.

My mother had a bruise on her face, and a little blood. You can't stick your  hand  through  a glass window  without  getting  cut,  is what  she said about it. Fucking pigs.

Fucking bleeders, one of her friends said. They called the other side bleeders, after the signs they carried: Let them bleed. So it must have been the abortion riots.

I went into my bedroom, to DC out of their way. They were talking too much, and too loudly. They ignored me, and I resented them. My mother and her rowdy friends. I didn't see why she had to dress that

way, in overalls, as if she were young; or to swear so much.

You're such a prude, she would say to me, in a tone of voice that was on the whole pleased. She liked  being more outrageous than I was, more rebellious. Adolescents are always such prudes.

Part of my disapproval was that, I'm sure: perfunctory, routine. But also  I  wanted  from  her  a  life  more  ceremonious,  less  subject  to makeshift and decampment.

You   were  a   wanted   child,  God  knows,  she  would  say   at  other moments,  lingering  over  the  photo  albums  in  which  she  had  me framed; these albums were thick with babies, but my replicas thinned out as I grew older, as if the population of my duplicates had been hit by  some  plague.  She  would  say  this  a  little  regretfully,  as  though  I hadn't  turned  out  entirely  as  she'd  expected.  No  mother  is  ever, completely, a child's idea of what a mother should be,and I suppose it works the other way around as well. But despite everything, we didn't do badly by one another, we did as well as most.

I wish she were here, so I could tell her I finally know this.

Someone has come out of the house. I hear the distant closing of a door,  around  at  the  side,  footsteps on  the  walk. It's Nick,  I can  see him now; he's stepped off the path, onto the lawn, to breathe in the humid air which stinks of flowers, of pulpy growth, of pollen thrown into  the  wind  in  handfuls,  like  oysterspawn  into  the  sea.  All  this prodigal breeding. He stretches in the sun, I feel the ripple of muscles go along him, like a cat's back arching. He's in his shirt sleeves, bare arms sticking shamelessly out from the rolled cloth. Where does the tan end? I haven't spoken to him since that one night, dreamscape in the moon-filled sitting room. He's only my flag, my semaphore. Body language.

Right now his cap's on sideways. Therefore I am sent for.

What  does  he  get  for  it,  his  role  as  page  boy?  How  does  he  feel, pimping in this ambiguous way for the Commander? Does it fill him

with disgust, or make him want more of me, want me more? Because he has no idea what really goes on in there, among the books. Acts of perversion, for all he knows. The Commander and me, covering each other with  ink, licking it  off, or making love  on stacks of forbidden newsprint. Well, he wouldn't be far off at that.

But depend on it, there's something in it for him. Everyone's on the take,  one  way  or  another.  Extra  cigarettes?  Extra  freedoms,  not allowed to the general run? Anyway, what can he prove? It's his word against the Commander's, unless he wants to head  a posse. Kick in the  door,  and   what  did   I  tell  you?   Caught   in  the  act,  sinfully Scrabbling. Quick, eat those words.

Maybe he just likes the satisfaction of knowing something secret. Of having something on me, as they used to say. It's the kind of power you can use only once.

I would like to think better of him.

That  night,  after  I'd  lost  my  job,  Luke  wanted  to  make  love.  Why didn't I want to? Desperation alone should have driven me. But I still felt numbed. I could hardly even feel his hands on me.

What's the matter? he said. I don't know, I said.

We still have?he said. But he didn't go on to say what we still had. It occurred to me that he shouldn't be saying we, since nothing that I knew of had been taken away from him.

We still have each other, I said. It was true. Then why did I sound, even to myself, so indifferent?

He kissed me then, as if now I'd said that, things could get back to normal. But something had shifted, some balance. I felt shrunken, so that when he put his arms around me, gathering me up, I was small as a doll. I felt love going forward without me.

He doesn't mind this, I thought. He doesn't mind it at all. Maybe he even likes it. We are not each other's, anymore. Instead, I am his.

Unworthy, unjust, untrue. But that is what happened.

So Luke: what I want to ask you now, what I need to know is, Was I right?  Because  we  never  talked  about  it.  By  the  time  I  could  have done that, I was afraid to. I couldn't afford to lose you.

29

I'm sitting in the Commander's office, across from him at his desk, in the client position, as if I'm a bank customer negotiating a hefty loan. But  apart  from  my  placement  in  the  room,  little  of  that  formality remains between us. I no longer sit stiff-necked, straight-backed, feet regimented side by side on the floor, eyes at the salute. Instead my body's  lax,  cozy  even.  My  red  shoes  are  off,  my  legs  tucked  up underneath  me on  the chair,  surrounded  by  a buttress  of red  skirt, true,  but  tucked  nonetheless,  as  at  a  campfire,  of  earlier  and  more picnic  days.  If  there  were  a  fire  in  the  fireplace,  its  light  would  be twinkling  on  the  polished  surfaces,  glimmering  warmly  on  flesh.  I add the firelight in.

As  for  the  Commander,  he's  casual  to  a  fault  tonight.  Jacket  off, elbows on the table. All he needs is a toothpick in the corner of his mouth to be an ad for rural democracy, as in an etching. Fly-specked, some old burned book.

The squares on the board in front of me are filling up: I'm making my penultimate play of the night. Zilch, I spell, a convenient one-vowel word with an expensive Z.

"Is that a word?" says the Commander.

"We could look it up," I say. "It's archaic."

"I'll give it to you," he says. He smiles. The Commander likes it when I distinguish myself, show precocity, like an attentive pet, prick-eared and  eager to  perform. His approbation laps me like a warm bath. I sense in him none of the animosity I used to sense in men, even in Luke  sometimes.  He's  not  saying  bitch  in  his  head.  In  fact  he  is positively daddyish. He likes to think I am being entertained; and I

am, I am.

Deftly he adds up our final scores on his pocket computer. "You ran away with it," he says. I suspect him of cheating, to flatter me, to put me in a good mood. But why? It remains a question. What does he have to gain from this sort of pampering? There must be something. He leans back, fingertips together, a gesture familiar to me now. We have   built   up   a   repertoire   of   such   gestures,   such   familiarities, between   us.   He's   looking   at   me,   not   unbenevolently,   but   with curiosity, as if I am a puzzle to be solved.

"What would you like to read tonight?" he says. This too has become routine.  So  far  I've  been  through  a  Mademoiselle  magazine,  an  old Esquire from the eighties, a Ms., a magazine I can remember vaguely as having been around my mother's various apartments while I was growing  up,  and  a Reader's  Digest.  He  even  has  novels.  I've read  a Raymond Chandler, and right now I'm halfway through Hard Times, by Charles Dickens.  On  these  occasions  I  read  quickly,  voraciously, almost  skimming,  trying  to  get  as  much  into  my  head  as  possible before  the  next  long  starvation.  If  itwere  eating  it  would  be  the gluttony  of  the  famished;  if  it  were  sex  it  would  be  a  swift  furtive stand-up in an alley somewhere.

While I read, the Commander sits and watches me doing it, without speaking but also without taking his eyes off me. This watching is a curiously sexual act, and I feel undressed while he does it. I wish he would turn his back, stroll around the room, read something himself. Then  perhaps  I  could  relax  more,  take  my  time.  As  it  is,  this  illicit reading of mine seems a kind of performance.

"I think I'd rather just talk," I say. I'm surprised to hear myself saying it.

He  smiles  again.  He  doesn't  appear  surprised.  Possibly  he's  been expecting this, or something like it. "Oh?" he says. "What would you like to talk about?"

I falter. "Anything, I guess. Well, you, for instance."

"Me?" He continues to smile. "Oh, there's not much to say about me. I'm iust an ordinary kind of guy."

The falsity of this, and even the falsity of the dictionguy?pulls me up short.  Ordinary  guys  do  not  become  Commanders.  "You  must  be good at something," I say. 1 know I'm prompting him, playing up to him, drawing him out, and I dislike myself for it, it's nauseating, in fact. But we are fencing. Either he talks or I will. I know it, I can feel speech backing up inside me, it's so long since I've really talked with anyone.  The  terse  whispered  exchange  with  Ofglen,  on  our  walk today, hardly counts; but it was a tease, a preliminary. Having felt the relief of even that much speaking, I want more.

And if I talk to him I'll say something wrong, give something away. I can feel it coming, a betrayal of myself. I don't want him to know too much.

"Oh,  I  was  in  market  research,  to  begin  with,"  he  says  diffidently.

"After that I sort of branched out."

It strikes me that, although I know he's a Commander, I don't know what he's a Commander of. What does he control, what is his field, as they used to say? They don't have specific titles.

"Oh," I say, trying to sound as if I understand.

"You  might  say  I'm  a  sort  of  scientist,"  he  says.  "Within  limits,  of course."

After that he doesn't say anything for a while, and neither do I. We are outwaiting each other.

I'm the one to break first. "Well, maybe you could tell me something

I've been wondering about."

He shows interest. "What might that be?"

I'm  heading  into  danger,  but  I  can't  stop  myself.  "It's  a  phrase  I remember  from  somewhere."  Best  not  to  say  where.  "I  think  it's  in Latin, and I thought maybe?I know he has a Latin dictionary. He has

dictionaries  of  several  kinds,  on  the  top  shelf  to  the  left  of  the fireplace.

"Tell me," he says. Distanced, but more alert, or am I imagining it?

"Nolite te bastardes carborundorum" I say.

"What?" he says.

I haven't pronounced it properly. I don't know how. "I could spell it," I say. "Write it down."

He hesitates at this novel idea. Possibly he doesn't remember I can. I've never held a pen or a pencil, in this room, not even to add up the scores. Women can't add, he once said, jokingly. When I asked him what he meant, he said, Forthem, one and one and one and one don't make four.

What do they make? I said, expecting five or three. Just one and one and one and one, he said.

But now he says, "All right," and thrusts his roller-tip pen across the desk  at  me  almost  defiantly,  as  if  taking  a  dare.  I  look  around  for something  to  write  on  and  he  hands  me  the  score  pad,  a  desktop notepad with a little smile-button face printed at the top of the page. They still make those things.

I  print  the  phrase  carefully,  copying  it  down  from  inside  my  head, from inside my closet. Nolite te bastardes carborundorum. Here, in this  context,  it's  neither  prayer  nor  command,  but  a  sad  graffiti, scrawled once, abandoned. The pen between my fingers is sensuous, alive almost, I can feel its power, the power of the words it contains. Pen  Is  Envy,  Aunt  Lydia  would  say,  quoting  another  Center  motto, warning us away from such objects. And they were right, it is envy. Just holding it is envy. I envy the Commander his pen. It's one more thing I would like to steal.

The Commander takes the smile-button page from me and looks at it. Then he begins to laugh, and is he blushing? "That's not real Latin," he says. "That's just a joke."

"A joke?" I say, bewildered now. It can't be only a joke. Have I risked this,  made  a  grab  at  knowledge,  for  a  mere  joke?  "What  sort  of  a joke?"

"You know how schoolboys are," he says. His laughter is nostalgic, I see now, the laughter of indulgence towards his former self. He gets up, crosses to the bookshelves, takes down a book from his trove; not the  dictionary  though.  It's  an  old  book,  a  textbook  it  looks  like, dog-eared and inky. Before showing it to me he thumbs through it, contemplative, reminiscent; then, "Here," he says, laying it open on the desk in front of me.

What I see first is a picture: the Venus de Milo, in a black-and-white photo, with a mustache and a black brassiere and armpit hair drawn clumsily  on  her.  On  the  opposite  page  is  the  Colosseum  in  Rome, labeled in English, and below, a conjugation: sum es est, su-mus estis sunt. "There," he says, pointing, and in the margin I see it, written in the   same   ink   as   the   hair   on   the   Venus.   Nolite   te   bastardes carborundorum.

"It's sort of hard to explain why it's funny unless you know Latin," he says.  "We  used  to  write  all  kinds  of  thingslike  that.  I  don't  know where we got them, from older boys perhaps." Forgetful of me and of himself, he's turning the pages. "Look at this," he says. The picture is called The Sabine Women, and in the margin is scrawled: pirn pis pit, pimus pistis pants. "There was another one," he says. "Cim, cis, cit? He  stops,  returning  to  the  present,  embarrassed.  Again  he  smiles; this time you could call it a grin. I imagine freckles on him, a cowlick. Right now I almost like him.

"But what did it mean?" I say.

"Which?"  he  says.  "Oh.  It  meant,  'Don't  let  the  bastards  grind  you down.' I guess we thought we were pretty smart, back then."

I force  a smile, but it's all before  me now. I  can see  why she  wrote that, on the wall of the cupboard, but I also see that she must have

learned it here, in this room. Where else? She was never a schoolboy. With him, during some previous period of boyhood reminiscence, of confidences exchanged.  I have  not  been the first  then. To  enter his silence, play children's word games with him.

"What happened to her?" I say.

He hardly misses a beat. "Did you know her somehow?"

"Somehow," I say.

"She hanged herself," he says; thoughtfully, not sadly. "That's why we had  the  light  fixture  removed.  In  your  room."  He  pauses.  "Serena found out," he says, as if this explains it. And it does.

If your dog dies, get another.

"What with?" I say.

He doesn't want to give me any ideas. "Does it matter?" he says. Torn bedsheet, I figure. I've considered the possibilities.

"I  suppose  it  was  Cora  who  found  her,"  I  say.  That's  why  she screamed.

"Yes," he says. "Poor girl." He means Cora.

"Maybe I shouldn't come here anymore," I say.

"I  thought  you  were  enjoying  it,"  he  says  lightly,  watching  me, however, with intent bright eyes. If I didn't know better I would think it was fear. "I wish you would."

"You want my life to be bearable to me," I say. It comes out not as a question  but  as  a flat  statement;  flat  and  without  dimension.  If  my life is bearable, maybe what they're doing is all right after all.

"Yes," he says. "I do. I would prefer it."

"Well  then,"  I say. Things have  changed. I  have something on him, now. What I have on him is the possibility of my own death. What I have on him is his guilt. At last.

"What  would  you  like?"  he  says, still  with  that  lightness, as  if it's a money transaction merely, and a minor one at that: candy, cigarettes.

"Besides hand lotion, you mean," I say.

"Besides hand lotion," he agrees.

"I  would  like?  I  say.  "I  would  like  to  know."  It  sounds  indecisive, stupid even, I say it without thinking.

"Know what?" he says.

"Whatever  there  is  to  know,"  I  say;  but  that's  too  flippant.  "What's going on."

XI Night

^

30

Night falls. Or has fallen. Why is it that night falls, instead of rising, like the dawn? Yet if you look east, at sunset, you can see night rising, not falling; darkness lifting into the sky, up from the horizon, like a black sun behind cloud cover. Like smoke from an unseen fire, a line of  fire  just  below  the  horizon,  brushfire  or  a  burning  city.  Maybe night falls because it's heavy, a thick curtain pulled up over the eyes. Wool blanket. I wish I could see in the dark, better than I do.

Night has fallen, then. I feel it pressing down on me like a stone. No breeze. I sit by the partly open window, curtains tucked back because there's  no  one  out  there,  no  need  for  modesty,  in  my  nightgown, long-sleeved even in summer, to keep us from the temptations of our own flesh, to keep us from hugging ourselves, bare-armed. Nothing moves in the searchlight moonlight. The scent from the garden rises like heat from a body, there must be night-blooming flowers, it's so strong. I can almost see it, red radiation, wavering upwards like the shimmer above highway tarmac at noon.

Down there on the lawn, someone emerges from the spill of darkness under  the  willow,  steps  across  the  light,  his  long  shadow  attached sharply to his heels. Is it Nick, or is it someone else, someone of no importance?  He  stops,  looks  up  at  this  window,  and  I  can  see  the white oblong of his face. Nick. We look at each other. 1

have no rose to toss, he has no lute. But it's the same kind of hun-ger. Which  I  can't  indulge.  I  pull  the  left-hand  curtain  so  that  it  falls between us, across my face, and after a moment he walks on, into the invisibility around the corner.

What  the  Commander  said  is  true.  One  and  one  and  one  and  one doesn't  equal  four.  Each  one  remains  unique,  there  is  no  way  of joining them together. They cannot be exchanged, one for the other. They  cannot  replace  each  other.  Nick  for  Luke  or  Luke  for  Nick. Should does not apply.

You can't help what you feel, Moira once said, but you can help how you behave.

Which is all very well.

Context is all; or is it ripeness? One or the other.

The  night  before  we  left  the  house,  that  last  time,  I  was  walking through  the  rooms.  Nothing  was  packed  up,  because  we  weren't taking  much  with  us  and  we  couldn't  afford  even  then  to  give  the least appearance of leaving. So I was just walking through, here and there, looking at things, at the arrangement we had  made together, for  our  life.  I  had  some  idea  that  I  would  be  able  to  remember, afterwards, what it had looked like.

Luke was in the living room. He put his arms around me. We were both feeling miserable. How were we to know we were happy, even then? Because we at least had that: arms, around.

The cat, is what he said.

Cat? I said, against the wool of his sweater. We can't just leave her here.

I hadn't thought about the cat. Neither of us had. Our decision had been  sudden,  and  then  there  had  been  the  planning  to  do.  I  must have  thought  she  was  coming  with  us.  But  she  couldn't,  you  don't take a cat on a day trip across the border.

Why not outside? I said. We could just leave her.

She'd hang around and mew at the door. Someone would notice we were gone.

We could give her away, I said. One of the neighbors. Even as I said this, I saw how foolish that would be.

I'll take care of it, Luke said. And because he said it instead of her, I knew  he  meant  kill.  That  is  what  you  have  to  do  before  you  kill,  I thought. You have to create an it, where none was before. You do that first, in your head, and then you make it real. So that's how they do it, I thought. I seemed never to have known that before.

Luke  foundthe  cat,  who  was  hiding  under  our  bed.  They  always know.  He  went  into  the  garage  with  her.  I  don't  know  what  he  did and I never asked him. I sat in the living room, hands folded in my lap. I should have gone out with him, taken that small responsibility.I should at least have asked him about it afterwards, so he didn't have to carry it alone; because that little sacrifice, that snuffing out of love, was done for my sake as well.

That's  one  of  the  things  they  do.  They  force  you  to  kill,  within yourself.

Useless, as it turned out. I wonder who told them. It could have been a  neighbor,  watching  our  car  pull  out  from  the  driveway  in  the morning,  acting  on  a  hunch,  tipping  them  off  for  a  gold  star  on someone's  list.  It  could  even  have  been  the  man  who  got  us  the passports;  why  not  get  paid  twice?  Like  them,  even,  to  plant  the passport forgers themselves, a net for the unwary. The Eyes of God run over all the earth.

Because they were ready for us, and waiting. The moment of betrayal is  the  worst,  the  moment  when  you  know  beyond  any  doubt  that you've been betrayed: that some other human being has wished you that much evil.

It was like being in an elevator cut loose at the top. Falling, falling, and not knowing when you will hit.

I  try  to  conjure,  to  raise  my  own  spirits,  from  wherever  they  are.  I need to remember what they look like. I try to hold them still behind my  eyes,  their  faces,  like  pictures  in  an  album.  But  they  won't  stay still  for  me,  they  move,  there's  a  smile  and  it's  gone,  their  features curl  and  bendas  if  the  paper's  burning,  blackness  eats  them.  A glimpse,   a   pale   shimmer   on   the   air;   a   glow,   aurora,   dance   of electrons, then a face again, faces. But they fade, though I stretch out my arms towards them, they slip away from me, ghosts at daybreak. Backto wherever they are. Stay with me, I want to say. But they won't. It's my fault. I am forgetting too much.

Tonight I will say my prayers.

No longer kneeling at the foot of the bed, knees on the hard wood of the  gym  floor,  Aunt  Elizabeth  standing  by  the  double  doors,  arms folded, cattle prod hung on her belt, while Aunt Lydia strides along the rows of kneeling nightgowned women, hitting our backs or feet or bums or arms lightly, just a flick, a tap, with her wooden pointer if we slouch or slacken. She wanted  our heads bowed just right, our toes together  and  pointed,  our  elbows  at  the  proper  angle.  Part  of  her interest  in  this  was  aesthetic:  she  liked  the  look  of  the  thing.  She wanted us to look like something Anglo-Saxon, carved on a tomb; or Christmas  cardangels,  regimented  in  our  robes  of  purity.  But  she knew too the spiritual value of bodily rigidity, of muscle strain: a little pain cleans out the mind, she'd say.

What  we  prayed  for  was  emptiness,  so  we  would  be  worthy  to  be filled: with grace, with love, with self-denial, semen and babies.

Oh God, King of the universe, thank you for not creating me a man. Oh God, obliterate me. Make me fruitful. Mortify my flesh, that I may be multiplied. Let me be fulfilled

Some  of  them  would  get  carried  away  with  this.  The  ecstasy  of abasement. Some of them would moan and cry.

There is no point in making a spectacle of yourself, Janine, said Aunt

Lydia.

I  pray  where  I  am,  sitting  by  the  window,  looking  out  through  the curtain at the empty garden. I don't even close my eyes. Out there or inside my head, it's an equal darkness. Or light.

My God. Who Art in the Kingdom of. Heaven, which is within.

I wish you would tell me Your Name, the real one I mean. But You will do as well as anything.

I wish I knew what You were up to. But whatever it is, help me to get through it, please. Though maybe it's not Your doing; I don't believe for an instant that what's going on out there is what You meant.

I have enough daily bread, so I won't waste time on that. It isn't the main problem. The problem is getting it down without choking on it. Now  we  come  to  forgiveness.  Don't  worry  about  forgiving  me  right now. There are more important things. For instance: keep the others safe, if they are safe. Don't let them suffer too much. If they have to die,  let  it  be  fast.  You  might  even  provide  a  Heaven  for  them.  We need You for that. Hell we can make for ourselves.

I  suppose  I  should  say  I  forgive  whoever  did  this,  and  whatever they're doing now. I'll try, but it isn't easy.

Temptation  comes  next.  At  the  Center,  temptation  was  anything much  more  than  eating  and  sleeping.  Knowing  was  a  temptation. What you don't know won't tempt you, Aunt Lydia used to say.

Maybe I don't really want to know what's going on. Maybe I'd rather not  know.  Maybe  I  couldn't  bear  to  know.  The  Fall was a  fall  from innocence to knowledge.

I think about the chandelier too much, though it's gone now. But you could  use a hook, in the closet. I've considered  the possibilities. All you'd  have  to  do,  after  attaching  yourself,  would  be  to  lean  your weight forward and not fight.

Deliver us from evil.

Then there's Kingdom, power, and glory. It takes a lot to believe in

those  right  now.  But  I'll  try  it  anyway.  In  Hope,  as they say  on  the gravestones.

You must feel pretty ripped off. I guess it's not the first time.

If I were You I'd be fed up. I'd really be sick of it. I guess that's the difference between us.

I feel very unreal, talking to You like this. I feel as if I'm talking to a wall. I wish You'd answer. I feel so alone.

All alone by the telephone. Except I can't use the telephone. And if I

could, who could I call?

Oh God. It's no joke. Oh God oh God. How can I keep on living? XII

Jezebels

^

31

Every night when I go to bed I think, In the morning I will wake up in my own house and  things will be back  the  way they were.  It  hasn't happened this morning, either.

I  put  on  my  clothes,  summer  clothes,  it's  still  summer;  it  seems  to have stopped at summer. July, its breathless days and sauna nights, hard to sleep. I make a point of keeping track. I should scratch marks on  the  wall,  one  for  each  day  of  the  week,  and  run  a  line  through them when I have seven. But whatwould be the use, this isn't a jail sentence;  there's  no  time  here  that  can  be  done  and  finished  with. Anyway, all I have to do is ask, to find out what day it is. Yesterday was July the fourth, which used to be Independence Day, before they abolished it. September first will be Labor Day, they still have that. Though it didn't used to have anything to do with mothers.

But I tell time by the moon. Lunar, not solar.

I  bend  over to  do  up  my red  shoes;  lighter  weight  these  days,  with discreet slits cut in them, though nothing so daring as sandals. It's an effort  to  stoop;  despite  the  exercises,  I  can  feel  my  body  gradually

seizing  up,  refusing.  Being  a  woman  this  way  is  how  1  used  to imagine  it  would  be  to  be  very  old.  I  feel  I  even  walk  like  that: crouched over, my spine constricting to a question mark, my bones leached  of  calcium  and  porous  as  limestone.  When  I  was  younger, imagining  age,  I  would  think,  Maybe  you  appreciate  things  more when  you  don't  have  much  time  left.  I  forgot  to  include the  loss  of energy.  Some  days  I  do  appreciate  things  more,  eggs,  flowers,  but then I decide I'm only having an attack of sentimentality, my brain going pastel Technicolor, like the beautiful-sunset greeting cards they used to make so many of in California. High-gloss hearts. The danger is gray out.

I'd like to have Luke here, in this bedroom while I'm getting dressed, so I could have a fight with him. Absurd, but that's what I want. An argument, about who should put the dishes in the dishwasher, whose turn  it  is  to  sort  the  laundry,  clean  the  toilet;  something  daily  and unimportant in the big scheme of things. We could even have a fight about that, about unimportant, important. What a luxury it would be. Not that we did it much. These days I script whole fights, in my head, and the reconciliations afterwards too.

I sit in my chair, the wreath on the ceiling floating above my head, like a frozen halo, a zero. A hole in space where a star exploded. A ring,  on  water,  where  a  stone's  been  thrown.  All  things  white  and circular. I wait for the day to unroll, for the earth to turn, according to  the  round  face  of  the  implacable  clock.  The  geometrical  days, which go around and around, smoothly and oiled. Sweat already on my upper lip, I wait, for the arrival of the inevitable egg, which will be lukewarm like the room and will have a green film on the yolk and will taste faintly of sulphur.

Today, later, with Ofglen, on our shopping walk:

We  go  to  the  church,  as  usual,  and  look  at  the  graves.  Then  to  the

Wall. Only two hanging on it today: one Catholic, not a priest though,

placarded  with  an  upside-down  cross,  and  some  other  sect  I  don't recognize. The body is marked only with a J, in red. It doesn't mean Jewish,  those  would  be  yellow  stars.  Anyway  there  haven't  been many   of   them.   Becausethey   were   declared   Sons   of   Jacob   and therefore  special,  they  were  given  a  choice.  They  could  convert,  or emigrate  to  Israel.  A  lot  of  them  emigrated,  if  you  can  believe  the news. I saw a boatload of them, on the TV, leaning over the railings in their  blackcoats  and  hats  and  their  long  beards,  trying  to  look  as Jewish as possible, in costumes fished up from the past, the women with  shawls  over  their heads,  smiling  and  waving,  a little stiffly  it's true,  as  if  they  were  posing;  and  another  shot,  of  the  richer  ones, lining up for the planes. Ofglen says some other people got out that way,  by  pretending  to  be  Jewish,  but  it  wasn't  easy  because  of  the tests they gave you and they've tightened up on that now.

You don't get hanged only for being a Jew though. You get hanged for being a noisy Jew who won't make the choice. Or for pretending to convert. That's  been on  the  TV  too: raids at  night,  secret hoards of Jewish things dragged out from under beds, torahs, tal-liths, Magen Davids. And the owners of them, sullen faced, unrepentant, pushed by the Eyes against the walls of their bedrooms, while the sorrowful voice  of  the  announcer  tells  us  voice-over  about  their  perfidy  and ungratefulness.

So the J isn't for Jew. What could it be? Jehovah's Witness? Jesuit? Whatever it meant, he's just as dead.

After this ritual viewing we continue on our way, heading as usual for some  open  space  we  can  cross,  so  we  can  talk.  If  you  can  call  it talking, these clipped whispers, projected through the funnels of our white   wings.   It's   more   like   a   telegram,   a   verbal   semaphore. Amputated speech.

We can never stand long in any one place. We don't want to be picked up for loitering.

Today we turn in the opposite direction from Soul Scrolls, to where there's an open park of sorts, with a large old building on it; ornate late Victorian, with stained glass. It used to be called Memorial Hall, though  I  never  knew  what  it  was  a  memorial  for.  Dead  people  of some kind.

Moira told me once that it used to be where the undergraduates ale, in the earlier days of the university. If a woman went in there, they'd throw buns at her, she said.

Why?  I  said.  Moira  became,  over  the  years,  increasingly  versed  in such anecdotes. I didn't much like it, this grudge-holding against the past.

To make her go out, said Moira.

Maybe it was more like throwing peanuts at elephants, I said. Moira laughed; she could always do that. Exotic monsters, she said.

We stand looking at this building, which is in shape more or less like a church, a cathedral. Ofglen says, "I hear that's where the Eyes hold their banquets."

"Who told you?" I say. There's no one near, we can speak more freely, but out of habit we keep our voices low.

"The  grapevine,"  she  says.  She  pauses,  looks  sideways  at  me,  I  can sense the blur of white as her wings move. "There's a password," she says.

"A password?" I ask. "What for?"

"So you can tell," she says. "Who is and who isn't."

Although I can't see what use it is for me to know, I ask, "What is it then?"

"Mayday," she says. "I tried it on you once."

"Mayday," I repeat. I remember that day. M'aidez.

"Don't use it unless you have to," says Ofglen. "It isn't good for us to know about too many of the others, in the network. In case you get caught."

I  find  it  hard  to  believe  in  these  whisperings,  these  revelations, though  I  always  do  at  the  time.  Afterwards,  though,  they  seem improbable,  childish  even,  like  something  you'd  do  for  fun;  like  a girls' club, like secrets at school. Or like the spy novels I used to read, on  weekends, when I  should  have been  finishing  my homework, or like  late-night  television.  Passwords,  things  that  cannot  be  told, people with secret identities, dark linkages: this does not seem as if it ought to be the true shape of the world. But that is my own illusion, a hangover from a version of reality I learned in the former time.

And  networks.  Networking,  one  of  my  mother's  old  phrases,  musty slang  of  yesteryear.  Even  in  her  sixties  she  still  did  something  she called that, though as far as I could see all it meant was having lunch with some other woman.

I leave Ofglen at the corner. "I'll see you later," she says. She glides away  along  the  sidewalk  and  I  go  up  the  walk  towards  the  house. There's Nick, hat askew; today he doesn't even look at me. He must have   been   waiting   around   for   me   though,   to   deliver   his   silenl message,  because  as  soon  as  he  knows  I've  seen  him  he  gives  the Whirlwind  one  last  swipe  with  the  chamois  and  walks  briskly  off towards the garage door.

I walk along the gravel, between the slabs of ovcrgreen lawn. Serena Joy is sitting under the willow tree, in her chair, cane propped at her elbow.  Her dress is crisp  cool  cotton.  For her it's blue, wa-tercolor, not this red of mine that sucks in heat and blazes with it at the same time. Her profile's towards me, she's knitting. How can she bear to touch  the  wool,  in  this  heat?  But  possibly  her  skin's  gone  numb; possibly she feels nothing, like one formerly scalded.

I  lower  my  eyes  to  the  path,  glide  by  her,  hoping  to  be  invisible, knowing I'll be ignored. But not this time.

"Offred," she says. I pause, uncertain.

"Yes, you."

I turn towards her my blinkered sight.

"Come over here. I want you."

I walk over the grass and stand before her, looking down.

"You can sit," she says. "Here, take the cushion. I need you to hold this wool." She's got a cigarette, the ashtray's on the lawn beside her, and a cup of something, tea or coffee. "It's too damn close in there. You  need  a  little  air,"  she  says.  I  sit,  putting  down  my  basket, strawberries   again,   chicken   again,   and   I   note   the   swear   word: something new. She fits the skein of wool over my two outstretched hands,   starts   winding.   I   am   leashed,   it   looks   like,   manacled; cobwebbed, that's closer. The wool is gray and has absorbed moisture from  the  air,  it's  like  a  wetted  baby  blanket  and  smells  faintly  of damp sheep. At least my hands will get lanolined.

Serena   winds,   the   cigarette   held   in   the   corner   of   her   mouth smoldering, sending out tempting smoke. She winds slowly and with difficulty   because   of   her   gradually   crippling   hands,   but   with determination.  Perhaps  the  knitting,  for  her,  involves  a  kind  of willpower;    maybe    it    even    hurts.    Maybe    it's    been    medically prescribed: ten rows a day of plain, ten of purl. Though she must do more than that. I see those evergreen trees and geometric boys and girlsin  a   different   light:  evidence  of  her  stubbornness,  and   not altogether despicable.

* * *

My  mother  did  not  knit  or  anything  like  that.  But  whenever  she would bring things back from the cleaner's, her good blouses, winter coats, she'd save up the safety pins and make them into a chain. Then she'd pin the chain somewhereher bed, the pillow, a chair back, the oven mitt in the kitchenso she wouldn't lose them. Then she'd forget about them. I would come upon them, here and there in the house, the houses; tracks of her presence, remnants of some lost intention,

like signs on a road that turns out to lead no-where. Throwbacks to domesticity.

"Well  then,"  Serena  says.  She  stops  winding,  leaving  me  with  my hands  still  garlanded  with  animal  hair,  and  takes  the  cigarette  end from her mouth to butt it out. "Nothing yet?"

I  know  what  she's  talking  about.  There  are  not  that  many  subjects that could be spoken about, between us; there's not much common ground, except this one mysterious and chancy thing.

"No," I say. "Nothing."

"Too  bad,"  she  says.  It's  hard  to  imagine  her  with  a  baby.  But  the Marthas would take care of it mostly. She'd like me pregnant though, over and done with and out of the way, no more humiliating sweaty tangles,  no  more  flesh  triangles  under  her  starry  canopy  of  silver flowers. Peace and quiet. I can't imagine she'd want such good luck, for me, for any other reason.

"Your time's running out," she says. Not a question, a matter of fact.

"Yes," I say neutrally.

She's lighting another cigarette, fumbling with the lighter. Definitely her hands are getting worse. But it would be a mistake to offer to do it for her, she'd be offended. A mistake to notice weakness in her.

"Maybe he can't," she says.

I  don't  know  who  she  means.  Does  she  mean  the  Commander,  or God? If it's God, she should say won't. Either way it's heresy. It's only women   who   can't,   who   remain   stubbornly   closed,   damaged, defective.

"No," I say. "Maybe he can't."

I look up at her. She looks down. It's the first time we've looked into each other's eyes in a long time. Since we met. The moment stretches out between us, bleak and level. She's trying to see whether or not I'm up to reality.

"Maybe," she says, holding the cigarette, which she has failed to light.

"Maybe you should try it another way."

Does she  mean  on  all  fours?  "What  other  way?"  I  say.  I must  keep serious.

"Another man," she says.

"You know I can't," I say, careful not to let my irritation show. "It's against the law. You know the penalty."

"Yes," she says. She's ready for this, she's thought it through. "I know you  can't  officially.  But  it's  done.  Women  do  it  frequently.  All  the time."

"With  doctors,  you  mean?"  I  say,  remembering  the  sympathetic brown eyes, the gloveless hand. The last time I went it was a different doctor. Maybe someone caught him out, or a woman reported him. Not that they'd take her word, without evidence.

"Some  do  that,"  she  says,  her  tone  almost  affable  now,  though distanced; it's as if we're considering a choice of nail polish. "That's how Ofwarren did it. The Wife knew, of course." She pauses to let this sink in. "I would help you. I would make sure nothing went wrong."

I think about this. "Not with a doctor," I say.

"No,"  she  agrees,  and  for  this  moment  at  least  we  are  cronies,  this could  be  a  kitchen  table,  it  could  be  a  date  we're  discussing,  some girlish stratagem of ploys and flirtation. "Sometimes they blackmail. But it doesn't have to be a doctor. It could be someone we trust."

"Who?" I say.

"I was thinking of Nick," she says, and her voice is almost soft. "He's been with us a long time. He's loyal. I could fix it with him."

So  that's  who  does  her  little  black-market  errands  for  her.  Is  this what he always gets, in return?

"What about the Commander?" I say.

"Well," she says, with firmness; no, more than that, a clenched look, like a purse snapping shut. "We just won't tell him, will we?"

This idea hangs between us, almost visible, almost palpable: heavy,

formless, dark; collusion of a sort, betrayal of a sort. She does want that baby.

"It's a risk," I say. "More than that." It's my life on the line; but that's where it will be sooner or later, one way or another, whether I do or don't. We both know this.

"You might as well," she says. Which is what I think too.

"All right," I say. "Yes."

She leans forward. "Maybe I could get something for you," she says. Because   I   have   been   good.   "Something   you   want,"   she   adds, wheedling almost.

"What's that?" I say. I can't think of anything I truly want that she'd be likely or able to give me.

"A  picture,"  she  says,  as  if  offering  me  some  juvenile  treat,  an  ice cream, a trip to the zoo. I look up at her again, puzzled.

"Of her," she says. "Your little girl. But only maybe."

She  knows  where  they've  put  her  then,  where  they're  keeping  her. She's known all along. Something chokes in my throat. The bitch, not to tell me, bring me news, any news at all. Not even to let on. She's made of wood, or iron, she can't imagine. But I can't say this, I can't lose sight, even of so small a thing. I can't let go of this hope. I can't speak.

She's actually smiling, coquettishly even; there's a hint of her former small-screen   mannequin's   allure,   flickering   over   her   face   like momentary static. "It's too damn hot for this, don't you think?" she says.  She  lifts  the  wool  from  my  two  hands,  where  I  have  been holding  it  all  this  time.  Then  she  takes  the  cigarette  she's  been fiddling with and, a little awkwardly, presses it into my hand, closing my fingers around it. "Find yourself a match," she says. "They're in the kitchen, you can ask Rita for one. You can tell her I said so. Only the  one  though,"  she  adds  roguishly.  "We  don't  want  to  ruin  your health!"

32

Rita's sitting at the kitchen table. There's a glass bowl with ice cubes floating in it on the table in front of her. Radishes made into flowers, roses or tulips, bob in it. On the chopping board in front of her she's cutting  more, with  a paring  knife,  her  large  hands deft,  indifferent. The rest of her body does not move, nor does her face. It's as if she's doing it in her sleep, this knife trick. On the white enamel surface is a pile of radishes, washed but uncut. Little Aztec hearts.

She hardly bothers to look up as I enter. "You got it all, huh," is what she says, as I take the parcels out for her inspection.

"Could I have a match?" I ask her. Surprising how much like a small, begging child she makes me feel, simply by her scowl, her stolidity; how importunate and whiny.

"Matches?" she says. "What do you want matches for?"

"She  said  I  could  have  one,"  I  say,  not  wanting  to  admit  to  the cigarette.

"Who said?" She continues with the radishes, her rhythm unbroken.

"No call for you to have matches. Burn the house down."

"You can go and ask her if you like," I say. "She's out on the lawn." Rita rolls her eyes to the ceiling, as if consulting silently some deity there.  Then  she  sighs,  rises  heavily,  and  wipes  her  hands  with ostentation on her apron, to show me how much trouble I am. She goes to the cupboard over the sink, taking her time, locates her key bunch in her pocket, unlocks the cupboard door. "Keep 'em in here, summer," she says as if to herself. "No call for a fire in this weather." I  remember  from  April  that  it's  Cora  who  lights  the  fires,  in  the sitting room and the dining room, in cooler weather.

The  matches  are  wooden  ones,  in  a  cardboard  sliding-top  box,  the kind I used to covet in order to make dolls' drawers out of them. She opens  the  box,  peers  into  it,  as  if  deciding  which  one  she'll  let  me have.  "Her  own  business,"  she  mutters.  "No way  you  can  tell  her  a

thing." She plunges her big hand down, selects a match, hands it over to me. "Now don't you go setting fire to nothing," she says. "Not them curtains in your room. Too hot the way it is."

"I won't," I say. "That's not what it's for."

She does not deign to ask me what it is for. "Don't care if you eat it, or what," she says. "She said you could have one, so I give you one, is all."

She turns away from me and sits again at the table. Then she picks an ice  cube  out  of  the  bowl  and  pops  it  into  her  mouth.  This  is  an unusual thing for her to do. I've never seen her nibble while working.

"You  can  have  one  of  them  too,"  she  says.  "A  shame,  making  you wear all them pillowcases on your head, in this weather."

I  am  surprised:  she  doesn't  usually  offer  me  anything.  Maybe  she feels that if I've risen in status enough to be given a match, she can afford her own small gesture. Have I become, suddenly, one of those who must be appeased?

"Thank  you,"  I  say.  I  transfer  the  match  carefully  to  my  zip-pered sleeve where the cigarette is, so it won't get wet, and take an ice cube.

"Those  radishes  are  pretty,"  I  say,  in  return  for  the  gift  she's  made me, of her own free will.

"I like to do  things right, is all," she says, grumpy again. "No sense otherwise."

I go along the passage, up the stairs, hurrying. In the curved hallway mirror I flit past, a red shape at the edge of my own field of vision, a wraith of red smoke. I have smoke on my mind all fight, already I can feel it in my mouth, drawn down into the lungs, filling me in a long rich dirty cinnamon sigh, and then the rush as the nicotine hits the bloodstream.

After all this time it could make me sick. I wouldn't be surprised. But even that thought is welcome.

Along  the  corridor  I  go,  where  should  I  do  it?  In  the  bathroom,

running the water to clear the air, in the bedroom, wheezy puffs out the open window? Who's to catch me at it? Who knows?

Even as I luxuriate in the future this way, rolling anticipation around in my mouth, I think of something else.

I don't need to smoke this cigarette.

I could shred it up and flush it down the toilet. Or I could eat it and get the high that way, that can work too, a little at a time, save up the rest.

That way I could keep the match. I could make a small hole, in the mattress,  slide  it  carefully  in.  Such  a  thin  thing  would  never  be noticed.  There  it  would  be,  at  night,  under  me  while  I'm  in  bed. Sleeping on it.

I  could  burn  the  house  down.  Such  a  fine  thought,  it  makes  me shiver.

An escape, quick and narrow.

I lie on my bed, pretending to nap.

The Commander, last night, fingers together, looking at me as I sat rubbing oily lotion into my hands. Odd, I thought about asking him for a cigarette, but decided against it. I know enough not to ask for too  much  at  once.  I  don't  want  him  to  think  I'm  using  him.  Also  I don't want to interrupt him.

Last night he had a drink, Scotch and water. He's taken to drinking in my  presence,  to  unwind  after  the  day,  he  says.  I'm  to  gather  he  is under pressure. He never offers me any, though, and I don't ask: we both know what my body is for. When I kiss him goodnight, as if I mean it, his breath smells of alcohol, and I breathe it in like smoke. I admit I relish it, this lick of dissipation.

Sometimes   after   a   few   drinks   he   becomes   silly,   and   cheats   at Scrabble.  He  encourages  me  to  do  it  too,  and  we  take  extra  letters and  make  words  with  them  that  don't  exist,  words  like  smurt  and crup,  giggling  over  them.  Sometimes  he  turns  on  his  short-wave

radio, displaying before me a minute or two of Radio Free America, to show me he can. Then he turns it off again. Damn Cubans, he says. All that filth about universal daycare.

Sometimes,  after  the  games,  he  sits  on  the  floor  beside  my  chair, holding  my  hand.  His  head  is  a  little  below  mine,  so  that  when  he looks up at me it's at a juvenile angle. It must amuse him, this fake subservience.

He's way up there, says Ofglen. He's at the top, and I mean the very top. At such times it's hard to imagine it.

Occasionally I try to put myself in his position. I do this as a tactic, to guess in advance how he may be moved to behave towards me. It's difficult for me to believe I have power over him, of any sort, but I do; although it's of an equivocal kind. Once in a while I think I can see myself, though blurrily, as he may see me. There are things he wants to prove to me, gifts he wants to bestow, services he wants to render, tendernesses he wants to inspire.

He wants, all right. Especially after a few drinks.

Sometimes he becomes querulous, at other times philosophical; or he wishes to explain things, justify himself. As last night.

The problem wasn't only with the women, he says. The main problem was with the men. There was nothing for them anymore.

Nothing? I say. But they had

There was nothing for them to do, he says.

They  could  make  money,  I  say,  a  little  nastily.  Right  now  I'm  not afraid of him. It's hard to be afraid of a man who is sitting watching you put on hand lotion. This lack of fear is dangerous.

It's not enough, he says. It's too abstract. I mean there was nothing for them to do with women.

What do you mean? I say. What about all the Pornycorners, it was all over the place, they even had it motorized.

I'm not talking about sex, he says. That was part of it, the sex was too

easy.  Anyone  could  just  buy  it.  There  was  nothing  to  work  for, nothing to fight for. We have the stats from that time. You know what they  were  complaining  about  the  most?  Inability  to  feel.  Men  were turning off on sex, even. They were turning off on marriage.

Do they feel now? I say.

Yes, he says, looking at me. They do. He stands up, comes around the desk  to  the  chair  where  I'm  sitting.  He  puts  his  hands  on  my shoulders, from behind. I can't see him.

I like to know what you think, his voice says, from behind me.

I don't think a lot, I say lightly. What he wants is intimacy, but I can't give him that.

There's hardly any point in my thinking, is there? I say. What I think doesn't matter.

Which is the only reason he can tell me things.

Come now, he says, pressing a little with his hands. I'm interested in your opinion. You're intelligent enough, you must have an opinion. About what? I say.

What we've done, he says. How things have worked out.

I hold myself very still. I try to empty my mind. I think about the sky, at night, when there's no moon. I have no opinion, I say.

He  sighs,  relaxes  his  hands,  but  leaves  them  on  my  shoulders.  He knows what I think, all right.

You can't make an omelette without breaking eggs, is what he says. We thought we could do better.

Better? I say, in a small voice. How can he think this is better?

Better  never  means  better  for  everyone,  he  says.  It  always  means worse, for some.

I lie flat, the damp air above me like a lid. Like earth. I wish it would rain.          Better   still,      a          thunderstorm,            black    clouds, lightning, car-splitting  sound.  Theelectricity  might  go  off.  I  could  go  down  to the  kitchen  then,  say  I'm  afraid,  sit  with  Rita  and  Cora  around  the

kitchen table, they would permit my fear because it's one they share, they'd  let  me  in.  There  would  be  candles  burning,  we  would  watch each other's faces come and go in the flickering, in the white flashes of jagged light from outside the windows. Oh Lord, Cora would say. Oh Lord save us.

The air would be clear after that, and lighter.

I  look  up  at  the  ceiling,  the  round  circle  of  plaster  flowers.  Draw  a circle,  step  into  it,  it  will  protect  you.  From  the  center  was  the chandelier,  and  from  the  chandelier  a  twisted  strip  of  sheet  was hanging  down.  That's  where  she  was  swinging,  just  lightly,  like  a pendulum;  the  way  you  could  swing  as  a  child,  hanging  by  your hands from a tree branch. She was safe then, protected altogether, by the time Cora opened the door. Sometimes I think she's still in here, with me.

I feel buried.

33

Late  afternoon,  the  sky  hazy,  the  sunlight  diffuse  but  heavy  and everywhere, like bronze dust. I glide with Ofglen along the sidewalk; the pair of us, and in front of us another pair, and across the street another. We must look good from a distance: picturesque, like Dutch milkmaids on  a wallpaper frieze,  like a shelf full  of period-costume ceramic salt and pepper shakers, like a flotilla of swans or anything that repeats itself with at least minimum grace and without variation. Soothing to the eye, the eyes, the Eyes, for that's who this show is for. We're off to the Prayvaganza, to demonstrate how obedient and pious we are.

Not a dandelion in sight here, the lawns are picked clean. I long for one, just one, rubbishy and insolently random and hard to get rid of and perennially yellow as the sun. Cheerful and plebeian, shining for all   alike.   Rings,   we   would   make   from   them,   and   crowns   and necklaces, stains from the bitter milk on our fingers. Or I'd hold one

under her chin: Do you like butter? Smelling them, she'd get pollen on her nose. Or was that buttercups? Or gone to seed: I cansee her, running across the lawn, that lawn there just in front of me, at two, three years old, waving one like a sparkler, a small wand of white fire, the  air filling  with  tiny parachutes. Blow,  and  you  tell  the  time. All that time, blowing away in the summer breeze. It was daisies for love though, and we did that too.

We line up to get processed through the checkpoint, standing in our twos  and  twos  and  twos,  like  a  private  girls'  school  that  went  for  a walk  and  stayed  out  too  long.  Years  and  years  too  long,  so  that everything has become overgrown, legs, bodies, dresses all together. As  if  enchanted.  A  fairy  tale,  I'd  like  to  believe.  Instead  we  are checked through, in our twos, and continue walking.

After a while we turn right, heading past Lilies and down towards the river. I wish I could go that far, to where the wide banks are, where we  used  to  lie in  the  sun,  where the bridges arch  over. If  you went down the river long enough, along its sinewy windings, you'd reach the sea; but what could you do there? Gather shells, loll on the oily stones.

We aren't going to the river though, we won't see the little cupolas on the  buildings  down  that  way,  white  with  blue  and  gold  trim,  such chaste gaiety. We turn in at a more modern building, a huge banner draped over its doorWOMEN'S PRAYVAGANZA TODAY. The banner covers  the  building's  former  name,  some  dead  president  they  shot. Below the red writing there's a line of smaller print, in black, with the outline  of  a  winged  eye  on  either  side  of  it:  God  Is  a  National Resource.   On   either   side   of   the   doorway   stand   the   inevitable Guardians,  two  pairs,  four  in  all,  arms  at  their  sides,  eyes  front. They're  like  store  mannequins  almost,  with  their  neat  hair  and pressed  uniforms  and  plaster-hard  young  faces.  No  pimply  ones today.   Each   has   a   submachine   gun   slung   ready,   for   whatever

dangerous or subversive acts they think we might commit inside.

The Prayvaganza is to be held in the covered courtyard, where there's an oblong space, a skylight roof. It isn't a citywide Prayvaganza, that would  be  on  the  football  field;  it's  only  for  this  district.  Ranks  of folding wooden chairs have been placed along the right side, for the Wives and daughers of high-ranking officials or officers, there's not that   much   difference.   The   galleries   above,   with   their   concrete railings,   are   for   the   lower-ranking   women,   the   Marthas,   the Econowives            in          their      multicolored      stripes. Attendance       at Prayvaganzas isn't compulsory for them, especially if they're on duty or  have  young  children,  but  the  galleries  seem  to  be  filling  up anyway.  I  suppose  it's  a  form  of  entertainment,  like  a  show  or  a circus.

A number of the Wives are already seated, in their best embroi dered blue. We can feel their eyes on us as we walk in our red dresses two by  two  across  to  the  side  opposite  them.  We  are  being  looked  at, assessed, whispered  about; we can feel  it, like tiny ants running on our bare skins.

Here there are no chairs. Our area is cordoned off with a silky twisted scarlet  rope,  like  the  kind  theyused  to  have  in  movie  theaters  to restrain the customers. This rope segregates us, marks us off, keeps the others from contamination by us, makes for us a corral or pen; so into it we go, arranging ourselves in rows, which we know very well how to do, kneeling then on the cement floor.

"Head  for  the  back,"  Ofglen  murmurs  at  my  side.  "We  can  talk better." And when we are kneeling, heads bowed slightly, I can hear from all around us a susurration, like the rustling of insects in tall dry grass:  a  cloud  of  whispers.  This  is  one  of  the  places  where  we  can exchange news more freely, pass it from one to the next. It's hard for them to single out any one of us or hear what's being said. And they wouldn't   want   to   interrupt   the   ceremony,   not   in   front   of   the

television cameras.

Ofglen digs me in the side with her elbow, to call my attention, and I look up, slowly and stealthily. From where we're kneeling we have a good view of the entrance to the courtyard, where people are steadily coming in. It must be Janine she meant me to see, because there she is,  paired  with  a new  woman,  not  the  former  one; someone  I  don't recognize.   Janine   must   have   been   transferred   then,   to   a   new household,  a  new  posting.  It's  early  for  that,  has  something  gone wrong  with  her  breast  milk?  Thatwould  be  the  only  reason  they'd move her, unless there's been a fight over the baby; which happens more than you'd think. Once she had it, she may have resisted giving it  up. I can see  that. Her body under the red  dress looks very thin, skinny  almost,  and  she's  lost  that  pregnant  glow.  Her  face  is  white and peaked, as if the juice is being sucked out of her.

"It was no good, you know," Ofglen says near the side of my head. "It was a shredder after all."

She means Janine's baby, the baby that passed throughJanine on its way to somewhere else. The baby Angela. It was wrong, to name her too soon. I feel an illness, in the pit of my stomach. Not an illness, an emptiness. I don't want to know what was wrong with it. "My God," I say. To go through all that, fornothing. Worse than nothing.

"It's  her  second,"  Ofglen  says.  "Not  counting  her  own,  before.  She had an eighth-month miscarriage, didn't you know?"

We  watch  as  Janine  enters  the  roped-off  enclosure,  in  her  veil  of untouchability, of bad  luck.  She sees me, she must  see  me,  but  she looks  right  through  me.  No  smile  of  triumph  this  time.  She  turns, kneels,  and  all  I  can  see  now  is  her  back  and  the  thin  bowed shoulders.

"She thinks it's her fault," Ofglen whispers. "Two in a row. For being sinful. She used a doctor, they say, it wasn't her Commander's at all." I  can't  say  I  do  know  or  Ofglen  will  wonder  how.  As  far  as  she's

aware, she herself is my only source, for this kind of information; of which she has a surprising amount. How would she have found out about Janine? The Marthas? Janine's shopping partner? Listening at closed  doors,  to  the  Wives  over  their  tea  and  wine,  spinning  their webs. Will Serena Joy talk about me like that, if I do as she wants? Agreed to it right away, really she didn't care, anything with two legs and a good you-know-what was fine with her. They aren't squeamish, they don't have the same feelings we do. And the rest of them leaning forward in their chairs, My dear, all horror and prurience. How could she? Where? When?

As  they  did  no  doubt  with  Janine.  "That's  terrible,"  I  say.  It's  like Janine,  though,  to  take  it  upon  herself,  to  decide  the  baby's  flaws were due to her alone. But people will do anything rather than admit that their lives have no meaning. No use, that is. No plot.

One  morning  while  we  were  getting  dressed,  I  noticed  that  Janine was still in her white cotton nightgown. She was just sitting there on the edge of her bed.

I looked over towards the double doors of the gymnasium, where the Aunt usually stood, to see if she'd noticed, but the Aunt wasn't there. By that time they were more confident about us; sometimes they left us unsupervised in the classroom and even the cafeteria for minutes at a time. Probably she'd ducked out for a smoke or a cup of coffee. Look, I said to Alma, who had the bed next to mine.

Alma looked  at  Janine. Then we both  walked  over to  her. Get  your clothes on, Janine, Alma said, to Janine's white back. We don't want extra prayers on account of you. But Janine didn't move.

By  that  time  Moira  had  come  over  too.  It  was  before  she'd  broken free, the second time. She was still limping from what they'd done to her feet. She went around the bed so she could see Janine's face. Come here, she said to Alma and me. The others were beginning to gather too, there was a little crowd. Go on back, Moira said to them.

Don't make a thing of it, what if she walks in?

I was looking at Janine. Her eyes were open, but they didn't see me at all.  They  were  rounded,  wide,  and  her  teeth  were  bared  in  a  fixed smile. Through the smile, through her teeth, she was whispering to herself. I had to lean down close to her.

Hello,   she   said,   but   not   to   me.   My   name's   Janine.   I'm   your wait-person  for  this  morning.  Can  I  get  you  some  coffee  to  begin with?

Christ, said Moira, beside me. Don't swear, said Alma.

Moira  took  Janine  by  the  shoulders  and  shook  her.  Snap  out  of  it, Janine, she said roughly. And don't use that word.

Janine smiled. You have a nice day, now, she said.

Moira  slapped  her  across  the  face,  twice,  back  and  forth.  Get  back here,  she  said. Get right back  here! You  can't  stay there, you  aren't there anymore. That's all gone.

Janine's smile faltered. She put her hand up to her cheek. What did you hit me for? she said. Wasn't it good? I can bring you another. You didn't have to hit me.

Don't you know what they'll do? Moira said. Her voice was low, but hard,  intent.  Look  at  me.  My  name  is  Moira  and  this  is  the  Red Center. Look at me.

Janine's  eyes  began  to  focus.  Moira?  she  said.  I  don't  know  any

Moira.

They won't send  you to  the Infirmary, so  don't  even think about it, Moira  said.  They  won't  mess  around  with  trying  to  cure  you.  They won't even bother to  ship  you to  the Colonies. You go  too  far away and they just take you up to the Chemistry Lab and shoot you. Then they burn you up with the garbage, like an Unwoman. So forsret it.

I want to go home, Janine said. She began to cry.

Jesus God, Moira said. That's enough. She'll be here in one minute, I

promise you. So put your goddamn clothes on and shut up.

Janine kept whimpering, but she also stood up and started to dress. She does that again and I'm not here, Moira said to me, you just have to slap her like that. You can't let her go slipping over the edge. That stuff is catching.

She must have already been planning, then, how she was going to get out.

34

The sitting space in the courtyard is filled now; we rustle and wait. At last the Commander in charge of this service comes in. He's balding and  squarely  built  and  looks  like  an  aging  football  coach.  He's dressed  in  his  uniform,  sober  black  with  the  rows  of  insignia  and decorations. It's hard not to be impressed, but I make an effort: I try to  imagine  him  in  bed  with  his  wife  and  his  Handmaid,  fertilizing away like mad, like a rutting salmon, pretending to take no pleasure in it. When the Lord said be fruitful and multiply, did he mean this man?

This Commander ascends the steps to the podium, which is draped with a red cloth embroidered with a large white-winged eye. He gazes over the room, and our soft voicesdie. He doesn't even have to raise his hands. Then his voice goes into the microphone and out through the speakers, robbed of its lower tones so that it's sharply metallic, as if  it's  being  made  not  by  his  mouth,  his  body,  but  by  the  speakers themselves.His voice is metal-colored, horn-shaped.

"Today is a day of thanksgiving," he begins, "a day of praise."

I  tune  out  through  the  speech  about  victory  and  sacrifice.  Then there's a long prayer, about unworthy vessels, then a hymn: "There Is a Balm in Gilead."

"There Is a Bomb in Gilead," was what Moira used to call it.

Now comes the main item. The twenty Angels enter, newly returned from the fronts, newly decorated, accompanied by their honor guard,

marching one-two one-two into the central open space. Attention, at ease.  And  now  the  twenty  veiled  daughters,  in  white,  come  shyly forward,   their   mothers   holding   their   elbows.   It's   mothers,   not fathers,  who  give  away  daughters  these  days  and  help  with  the arrangement of the marriages. The marriages are of course arranged. These girls haven't been allowed to be alone with a man for years; for however many years we've all been doing this.

Are  they  old  enough  to  remember  anything  of  the  time  before, playing   baseball,   in   jeans   and   sneakers,   riding   their   bicycles? Reading books, all by themselves? Even though some of them are no more  than  fourteenStart  them  soon  is  the  policy,  there's  not  a moment to be loststill they'll remember. And the ones after them will, for three or four or five years; but after that they won't. They'll always have been in white, in groups of girls; they'll always have been silent. We've given them more than we've taken away, said the Commander. Think  of  the  trouble  they  had  before.  Don't  you  remember  the singles'  bars,  the  indignity  of  high  school  blind  dates?  The  meat market. Don't you remember the terrible gap between the ones who could  get  a  man  easily  and  the  ones  who  couldn't?  Some  of  them were desperate, they starved themselves thin or pumped their breasts full of silicone, had their nosescut off. Think of the human misery.

He  waved  a hand  at  his  stacks of old  magazines.  They were  always complaining. Problems this, problems that. Remember the ads in the Personal columns, Bright attractive woman, thirty-five?This way they all  get  a  man,  nobody's  left  out.  And  then  if  they  did  marry,  they could be left with a kid, two kids, the husband might just get fed up and take off, disappear, they'd have to go on welfare. Or else he'd stay around  and  beat  them  up.  Or  if  they  had  Ajob,  the  children  in daycare or left with some brutal ignorant woman, and they'd have to pay for that themselves, out of their wretched little paychecks. Money was the only measure of worth, lor everyone, they got no respect as

mothers. No wonder they were giving up on the whole business. This way  they're  protected,  they  can  fulfill  their  biological  destinies  in peace. With full support and encouragement. Now, tell me. You're an intelligent  person,  I  like  to  hear  what  you  think.  What  did  we overlook?

Love, I said.

Love? said the Commander. What kind of love?

Falling in love, I said. The Commander looked at me with his candid boy's eyes.

Oh  yes,  he  said.  I've  read  the  magazines,  that's  what  they  were pushing, wasn't it? But look at the stats, my dear. Was it really worth it, falling in love? Arranged marriages have always worked out just as well, if not better.

Love, said Aunt Lydia with distaste. Don't let me catch you at it. No mooning and June-ing around here, girls. Wagging her finger at us. Love is not the point.

Those   years   were   just   an   anomaly,   historically   speaking,   the Commander  said.  Just  a  fluke.  All  we've  done  is  return  things  to Nature's norm.

Women's Prayvaganzas are for group weddings like this, usually. The men's are for military victories. These are the things we are supposed to  rejoice  in  the  most,  respectively.  Sometimes  though,  for  the women, they're for a nun who recants. Most of that happened earlier, when they were rounding them up, but they still unearth a few these days, dredge them up from underground, wherethey've been hiding, like moles. They have that look about them too: weak-eyed, stunned by too  much light. The old  ones they send  off to  the  Colonies right away, but the young fertile ones they try to convert, and when they succeed  we  all  come  here to  watch  them  go  through  the  ceremony, renounce their celibacy, sacrifice it to the common good. They kneel and the Commander prays and then they take the red veil, as the rest

of us have done. They aren't allowed to become Wives though; they're considered, still, too dangerous for positions of such power. There's an  odor  of  witch  about  them,  something  mysterious  and  exotic;  it remains  despite  the  scrubbing  and  the  welts  on  their  feet  and  the time they've spent in Solitary. They always have those welts, they've always done that time, so rumor goes: they don't let go easily. Many of them choose the Colonies instead. None of us likes to draw one for a  shopping  partner.  They  are  more  broken  than  the  rest  of  us;  it's hard to feel comfortable with them.

The  mothers  have  stood  the  white-veiled  girls  in  place  and  have returned to their chairs. There's a little crying going on among them, some  mutual  patting  and  hand-holding,  the  ostentatious  use  of handkerchiefs. The Commander continues with the service:

"I  will  that  women  adorn  themselves  in  modest  apparel,"  he  says,

"with shamefacedness and sobriety; not with braided hair, or gold, or pearls, or costly array;

"But (which becometh women professing godliness) with good works.

"Let the woman learn in silence with all subjection." Here he looks us over. "All," he repeats.

"But I suffer not a woman to teach, nor to usurp authority over the man, but to be in silence.

"For Adam was first formed, then Eve.

"And Adam was not deceived, but the woman being deceived was in the transgression.

"Notwithstanding she shall be saved by childbearing, if they continue in faith and charity and holiness with sobriety."

Saved by childbearing, I think. What did we suppose would save us, in the time before?

"He  should  tell  that  to  the  Wives,"  Ofglen  murmurs,  "when  they're into the sherry." She means the part about sobriety. It's safe to talk again, the Commander has finished the main ritual and they're doing

the rings, lifting the veils. Boo, I think in my head. Take a good look, because  it'stoo  late  now.  The  Angels  will  qualify  for  Handmaids, later,  especially  if  their  new  Wives  can't  produce.  But  you  girls  are stuck.  What  you  see  is  what  you  get,  zits  and  all.  But  you  aren't expected to love him. You'll find that out soon enough. Just do your duty in silence. When in doubt, when flat on your back, you can look at  the  ceiling.  Who  knows  what  you  may  sec,  up  there?  Funeral wreaths  and  angels,  constellations  of  dust,  stellar  or  otherwise,  the puzzles  left  by  spiders.  There's  always  something  to  occupy  the inquiring mind.

Is  anything  wrong,  dear?  the  old  joke  went.  No,  why?  You  moved. Just don't move.

What  we're  aiming  for,  says  Aunt  Lydia,  is  a  spirit  of  camaraderie among women. We must all pull together.

Camaraderie, shit, says Moira through the hole in the toilet cubicle. Right  fucking  on,  Aunt  Lydia,  as  they  used  to  say.  How  much  you want to bet she's got Janine down on her knees? What you think they get up to in that office of hers? I bet she's got her working away on that dried-up old withered.

Moira! I say.

Moira what? she whispers. You know you've thought it.

It doesn't do any good to talk like that, I say, feeling nevertheless the impulse to giggle. But I still pretended to myself, then, that we should try to preserve something resembling dignity.

You were always such a wimp, Moira says, but with affection. It does so do good. It does.

And she's right, I know that now, as I kneel on this undeniably hard floor,   listening   to   the   ceremony   drone   on.   There   is   something powerful  in  the  whispering  of  obscenities,  about  those  in  power. There's something delightful about it, something naughty, secretive, forbidden, thrilling. It's like a spell, of sorts. It deflates them, reduces

them to the common denominator where they can be dealt with. In the paint of the washroom cubicle someone unknown had scratched: Aunt Lydia sucks. It was like a flag waved from a hilltop in rebellion. The  mere  idea  of  Aunt  Lydia  doing  such  a  thing  was  in  itself heartening.

So  now  I  imagine,  among  these  Angels  and  their  drained  white brides, momentous grunts and sweating, damp furry encounters; or, better,   ignominious   failures,   cocks   like   three-week-old   carrots, anguished fumblings upon flesh cold and unresponding as uncooked fish.

When it's over at last and we are walking out, Ofglen says to me in her light, penetrating whisper: "We know you're seeing him alone."

"Who?" I say, resisting the urge to look at her. I know who.

"Your Commander," she says. "We know you have been." I ask her how.

"We just know," she says. "What does he want? Kinky sex?"

It would be hard to explain to her what he does want, because I still have no name for it. How can I describe what really goes on between us?  She  would  laugh,  for  one  thing.  It's  easier  for  me  to  say,  "In  a way." That at least has the dignity of coercion.

She thinks about this. "You'd be surprised," she says, "how many of them do."

"I can't help it," I say. "I can't say I won't go." She ought to know that. We're on the sidewalk now and it's not safe to talk, we're too close to the  others  and  the  protective  whispering  of  the  crowd  is  gone.  We walk in silence, lagging behind, until finally she judges she can say,

"Of course you can't. But find out and tell us."

"Find out what?" I say.

I  feel  rather than see  the  slight  turning of her head.  "Anything you can."

35

Now there's a space to be filled, in the too-warm air of my room, and a time also; a space-time, between here and now and there and then, punctuated by dinner. The arrival of the tray, carried up the stairs as if for an invalid. An invalid, one who has been invalidated. No valid passport. No exit.

That was what happened, the day we tried to cross at the border, with our fresh passports that said we were not who we were: that Luke, for instance,  had  never  been  divorced,  that  we  were  therefore  lawful, under the law.

The man went inside with our passports, after we'd explained about the  picnic  and  he'd  glanced  into  the  car  and  seen  our  daughter asleep, in her zoo of mangy animals. Luke patted my arm and got out of the car as if to stretch his legs and watched the man through the window  of  the  immigration  building.  I  stayed  in  the  car.  I  lit  a cigarette, to steady myself, and drew the smoke in, a long breath of counterfeit relaxation. I was watching two soldiers in the unfamiliar uniforms  that  were  beginning,  by  then,  to  be  familiar;  they  were standing  idly   beside  the  yellow-and-black-striped   lift-up   barrier. They weren't doing much. One of them was watching a flock of birds, gulls, lifting and eddying and  landing on the bridge railing beyond. Watching  him,  I  watched  themtoo.  Every-thing  was  the  color  it usually is, only brighter.

It's going to be all right, I said, prayed in my head. Oh let it. Let us cross,  let  us  across.  Just  this  once  and  I'll  do  anything.  What  I thought  I  could  do  for  whoever  was  listening  that  would  be  of  the least use or even interest I'll never know.

Then  Luke  got  back  into  the  car,  too  fast,  and  turned  the  key  and reversed. He was picking up the phone,he said. And then he began to drive  very  quickly,  and  after  that  there  was  the  dirt  road  and  the woods and we jumped out of the car and began to run. A cottage, to hide in, a boat, I don't know what we thought. He said the passports

were  foolproof,  and  we  had  so  little  time  to  plan.  Maybe  he  had  a plan, a map of some kind in his head. As for me, I was only running: away, away.

I don't want to be telling this story.

I  don't  have  to  tell  it.  I  don't  have  to  tell  anything,  to  myself  or  to anyone  else.  I  could  just  sit  here,  peacefully.  I  could  withdraw.  It's possible to go so far in, so far down and back, they could never get you out.

Nolite te bastardes carborundorum. Fat lot of good it did her. Why fight?

That will never do.

lx>ve? said the Commander.

That's better. That's something I know about. We can talk about that. Falling  in  love,  I  said.  Falling  into  it,  we  all  did  then,  one  way  or another. How could he have made such light of it? Sneered even. As if it  was  trivial  for  us,  a  frill,  a  whim.  It  was,  on  the  contrary,  heavy going.  It  was  the  central  thing;  it  was  the  way  you  understood yourself; if it  never happened  to you,  not  ever, you would  be  like a mutant, a creature from outer space. Everyone knew that.

Falling in love, we said; I  fell  for him. We were falling  women.  We believed in it, this downward motion: so lovely, like flying, and yet at the same time so dire, so extreme, so unlikely. God is love, they once said,  but  we  reversed  that,  and  love,  like  heaven,  was  always  just around  the  corner.  The  more  difficult  it  was  to  love  the  particular man beside us, the more we believed in Love, abstract and total. We were waiting, always, for the incarnation. That word, made flesh.

And sometimes it happened, for a time. That kind of love comes and goes and is hard to remember afterwards, like pain. You would look at the man one day and you would think, / loved you, and the tense would  be  past,  and  you  would  be  filled  with  a  sense  of  wonder, because  it  was such  an  amazing  and  precarious and  dumb  thing  to

have  done;  and  you  would  know  too  why  your  friends  had  been evasive about it, at the time.

There is a good deal of comfort, now, in remembering this.

Or  sometimes,  even  when  you  were  still  loving,  still  falling,  you'd wake up in the middle of the night, when the moonlight was coming through  the  window  onto  his  sleeping  face,  making the  shadows  in the sockets of his eyes darker and more cavernous than in daytime, and you'd think, Who knows what they do, on their own or with other men? Who knows what they say or where they are likely to go? Who can tell what they really are? Under their daily-ness.

Likely you would think at those times: What if he doesn't love me?

Or  you'd  remember  stories  you'd  read,  in  the  newspapers,  about women who had been foundoften women but sometimes they would be  men,  or  children,  that  was  the  worstin  ditches  or  forests  or refrigerators in abandoned rented rooms, with their clothes on or off, sexually  abused  or  not;  at  any  rate  killed.  There  were  places  you didn't want to walk, precautions you took that had to do with locks on windows and doors, drawing the curtains, leaving on lights. These things you did were like prayers; you did them and you hoped they would  save you. And  for the most part they did. Or something did; you could tell by the fact that you were still alive.

But all of that was pertinent only in the night, and had nothing to do with  the  man  you  loved,  at  least  in  daylight.  With  that  man  you wanted it to work, to work out. Working out was also something you did  to  keep  your  body  in  shape,  for  the  man.  If  you  worked  out enough, maybe the man would too. Maybe you would be able to work it out together, as if the two of you were a puzzle that could be solved; otherwise, one of you, most likely theman, would go wandering off on a  trajectory  of  his  own,  taking  his  addictive  body  with  him  and leaving  you  with  bad  withdrawal,  which  you  could  counteract  by exercise. If you didn't work it out it was because one of you had the

wrong attitude. Everythingthat went on in your life was thought to be due to some positive or negative power emanating from inside your head.

If you don't like it, change it, we said, to each other and to ourselves. And so we would change the man, for another one. Change, we were sure, was for the better always. We were revisionists; what we revised was ourselves.

It's strange to remember how we used to think, as if everything were available to us, as if there were no contingencies, no boundaries; as if we  were  free  to   shape  and   reshape  forever  the  ever-expanding perimeters of our lives. I was like that too, I did that too. Luke was not the first man for me, and he might not have been the last. If he hadn't been frozen that way. Stopped dead in time, in midair, among the trees back there, in the act of falling.

In   former   times   they   would   send   you   a   little   package,   of   the belongings:  what  he  had  with  him  when  he  died.  That's  what  they would do, in wartime, my mother said. How long were you supposed to mourn, and what did they say? Makeyour life a tribute to the loved one. And he was, the loved. One.

Is, I say. Is, is, only two letters, you stupid shit, can't you manage to remember it, even a short word like that?

I wipe my sleeve across my face. Once I wouldn't have done that, for fear of smearing, but now nothing comes off. Whatever expression is there, unseen by me, is real.

You'll have to forgive me. I'm a refugee from the past, and like other refugees I go over the customs and habits of being I've left or been forced to leave behindme, and it all seems just as quaint, from here, and I am just as obsessive about it. Like a White Russian drinking tea in  Paris,  marooned  in  the  twentieth  century,  I  wander  back,  try  to regain  those  distant  pathways;  I  become  too  maudlin,  lose  myself. Weep. Weeping is what it is, not crying. I sit in this chair and ooze

like a sponge.

So. More waiting. Lady in waiting: that's what they used to call (hose stores  where  you  could  buy  maternity  clothes.  Woman  in  waiting sounds more like someone in a train station. Waiting is also a place: it  is  wherever  you  wait.  For  me  it's  this  room.  I  am  a  blank,  here, between parentheses. Between other people

The knock comes at my door. Cora, with the tray.

But it isn't Cora. "I've brought it for you," says Serena Joy.

And  then  I look  up  and  around, and  get  out  of my chair and  come towards her. She's holding it, a Polaroid print, square and glossy. So they  still  make  them,  cameras  like  that.  And  there  will  be  family albums,  too,  with  all  the  children  in  them;  no  Handmaids  though. From the point of view of future history, this kind, we'll be invisible. But the children will be in them all right, something for the Wives to look at, downstairs, nibbling at the buffet and waiting for the Birth.

"You can only have it for a minute," Serena Joy says, her voice low and   conspiratorial.   "I   have   to   return   it,   before   they   know   it's missing."

It must have been a Martha who got it for her. There's a network of the Marthas, then, with something in it for them. That's nice to know. I take it from her, turn it around so I can see it right-side-up. Is this her, is this what she's like? My treasure.

So tall and changed. Smiling a little now, so soon, and in her white dress as if for an olden-days First Communion.

Time has not stood still. It has washed over me, washed me away, as if I'm nothing more than a woman of sand, left by a careless child too near the water. I have been obliterated for her. I am only a shadow now,  far  back  behind  the  glib  shiny  surface  of  this  photograph.  A shadow of a shadow, as dead mothers become. You can see it in her eyes: I am not there.

But  she  exists,  in  her  white  dress.  She  grows  and  lives.  Isn't  that  a

good thing? A blessing?

Still,  I  can't  bear  it,  to  have  been  erased  like  that.  Better  she'd brought me nothing.

I sit at the little table, eating creamed corn with a fork. I have a fork and a spoon, but never a knife. When there's meat they cut it up for me ahead of time, as if I'm lacking manual skills or teeth. I have both, however. That's why I'm not allowed a knife.

36

I  knock  on  his  door,  hear  his  voice,  adjust  my  face,  go  in.  He's standing by the fireplace; in his hand he's got an almost-empty drink. He usually waits till I get here to start on the hard liquor, though I know they have wine with dinner. His face is a little flushed. I try to estimate how many he's had.

"Greetings," he says. "How is the fair little one this evening?"

A few, I can tell by the elaborateness of the smile he composes and aims. He's in the courtly phase.

"I'm fine," I say.

"Up for a little excitement?"

"Pardon?"  I  say.  Behind  this  act  of  his  I  sense  embarrassment,  an uncertainty about how far he can go with me, and in what direction.

"Tonight I have a little surprise for you," he says. He laughs; it's more like a snigger. I notice that everything this evening is little. He wishes to diminish things, myself included. "Something you'll like."

"What's that?" I say. "Chinese checkers?" I can take these liber-ties; he  appears  to  enjoy  them,  especially  after  a  couple  of  drinks.  I  le prefers me frivolous.

"Something better," he says, attempting to be tantalizing.

"I can hardly wait."

"Good," he says. He goes to his desk, fumbles with a drawer. Then he conies towards me, one hand behind his back.

"Guess," he says.

"Animal, vegetable, or mineral?" I say.

"Oh, animal," he says with mock gravity. "Definitely animal, I'd say." He brings his hand out from behind his back. He's holding a handful, it seems, of feathers, mauve and pink. Now he shakes this out. It's a garment,  apparently,  and  for  awoman:  there  are  the  cups  for  the breasts,  covered  in  purple  sequins.  The  sequins  are  tiny  stars.  The feathers  are  around  the  thigh  holes,  and  along  the  top.  So  I  wasn't that wrong about the girdle, after all.

I wonder where he found it. All such clothingwas supposed to have been destroyed. I remember seeing that on television, in news clips filmed  in  one  city  after  another.  In  New  York  it  was  called  the Manhattan  Cleanup.  There  were  bonfires  in  Times  Square,  crowds chanting  around  them,  women  throwing  their  arms  up  thankfully into   the   air   when   they   felt   the   cameras   on   them,   clean-cut stony-faced young men tossing things onto the flames, armfuls of silk and nylon and fake fur, lime-green, red, violet; black satin, gold lame glittering silver; bikini underpants, see-through brassieres with pink satin hearts sewn on to cover the nipples. And the manufacturers and importers  and  salesmen  down  on  their  knees,  repenting  in  public, conical paper hats like dunce hats on their heads, SHAME printed on them in red.

But  some  items  must  have  survived   the  burning,  they  couldn't possibly have got it all. He must have come by this in the same way he came by the magazines, not honestly: it reeks of black market. And it's  not  new,  it's  been  worn  before,  the  cloth  under  the  arms  is crumpled and slightly stained, with some other woman's sweat.

"I had to guess the size," he says. "I hope it fits."

"You  expect  me  to  put  that  on?"  I  say.  I  know  my  voice  sounds prudish, disapproving. Still there is something attractive in the idea. I've   never   worn   anything   remotely   like   this,   so   glittering   and theatrical,  and  that's  what  it  must  be,  an  old  theater  costume,  or

something  from  a  vanished  nightclub  act;  the  closest  I  ever  came were bathing suits, and a camisole set, peach lace, that Luke bought for me once. Yet there's an enticement in this thing, it carries with it the childish allure of dressing up. And it would be so flaunting, such a sneer at the Aunts, so sinful, so free. Freedom, like everything else, is relative.

"Well," I say, not wishing to seem too eager. 1 want him to feel I'm doing him a favor. Now we may come to it, his deep-down real desire. Does he have a pony whip, hidden behind the door? Will he produce boots, bend himself or me over the desk?

"It's a disguise," he says. "You'll need to paint your face too; I've got the stuff for it. You'll never get in without it."

"In where?" I ask.

"Tonight I'm taking you out."

"Out?"  It's  an  archaic  phrase.  Surely  there  is  nowhere,  anymore, where a man can take a woman, out.

"Out of here," he says.

I know without being told that what he's proposing is risky, for him but especially for me; but I want to go anyway. I want anything that breaks  the  monotony,  subverts  the  perceived  respectable  order  of things.

I tell him I don't want him to watch me while I put this thing on; I'm still shy in front of him, about my body. He says he will turn his back, and  does  so,  and  I  take  off  my  shoes  and  stockings  and  my  cotton underpants  and  slide  the  feathers  on,  under  the  tent  of  my  dress. Then I take off the dress itself and slip the thin se-quined straps over my shoulders. There are shoes, too, mauve ones with absurdly high heels. Nothing quite fits; the shoes are a little too big, the waist on the costume is too tight, but it will do.

"There," I say, and he turns around. I feel stupid; I want to see myself in a mirror.

"Charming," he says. "Now for the face."

All he has is a lipstick, old and runny and smelling of artificial grapes, and  some  eyeliner  and  mascara.  No  eye  shadow,  no  blusher.  For  a moment I think I won't remember how to do any of this, and my first try  with  the  eyeliner  leaves  me  with  a  smudged  black  lid,  as  if  I've been in a fight; but I wipe it off with the vegetable-oil hand lotion and try again. I rub some of the lipstick along my cheekbones, blending it in. While I do all this, he holds a large silver-backed hand mirror for me. I recognize it as Serena Joy's. He must have borrowed it from her room.

Nothing can be done about my hair.

"Terrific,"  he  says.  By  this  time  he  is  quite  excited;  it's  as  if  we're dressing for a party.

He goes to the cupboard and gets out a cloak, with a hood. It's light blue, the color for Wives. This too must be Serena's.

"Pull the hood down over your face," he says. "Try not to smear the make-up. It's for getting through the checkpoints."

"But what about my pass?" I say.

"Don't worry about that," he says. "I've got one for you." And so we set out.

We  glide  together  through  the  darkening  streets.  The  Commander has hold of my right hand, as if we're teenagers at the movies. I clutch the sky-blue cape tightly about me, as a good Wife should. Through the tunnel made by the hood I can see the back of Nick's head. His hat is on straight, he's sitting up straight, his neck is straight, he is all very straight. His posture disapproves of me, or am I imagining  it? Does he know what I've got on under this cloak, did he procure it? And if so, does this make him angry or lustful or envious or anything at all? We do have something in common: both of us are supposedto be invisible, both of us are functionaries. I wonder if he knows this. When  he  opened  the  door  of  the  car  for  the  Commander,  and,  by

extension, for me, I tried to catch his eye, make him look at me, but he  acted  as  if  he  didn't  see  me.  Why  not?  It's  a  soft  job  for  him, running  little  errands,  doing  little  favors,  and  there's  no  way  he'd want to jeopardize it.

The checkpoints are no problem, everything goes as smoothly as the Commander said it would, despite the heavy pounding, the pressure of blood in my head. Chickenshit, Moira would say.

Past   the   second   checkpoint,   Nick   says,   "Here,   sir?"   and   the

Commander says yes.

The  car  pulls  over  and  the  Commander  says,  "Now  I'll  have  to  ask you to get down onto the floor of the car."

"Down?" I say.

"We  have  to  go  through  the  gateway,"  he  says,  as  if  this  means something to me. I tried to ask him where we were going, but he said he wanted to surprise me. "Wives aren't allowed."

So  I  flatten  myself  and  the  car  starts  again,  and  for  the  next  few minutes I  see nothing.Under the cloak  it's stifling hot. It's  a winter cloak, not a cotton summer one, and it smells of mothballs. He must have borrowed it from storage, knowing she wouldn't notice. He has considerately  moved  his  feet  to  give  me  room.  Nevertheless  my foreheadis against his shoes. I have never been this close to his shoes before.  They  feel  hard,  unwinking,  like  the  shells  of  beetles:  black, polished, inscrutable. They seem to have nothing to do with feet.

We pass through another checkpoint. I hear the voices, impersonal, deferential, and the window rolling electrically down and up for the passes  to  be  shown.  This  time  he  won't  show  mine,  the  one  that's supposed to be mine, as I'm no longer in official existence, for now. Then the car starts and  then  it  stops  again, and  the  Commander is helping me up.

"We'll have to be fast," he says. "This is a back entrance. You should leave the cloak with Nick. On the hour, as usual," he says to Nick. So

this too is something he's done before.

He helps me out of the cloak; the car door is opened. I feel air on my almost-bare skin, and realize I've been sweating. As I turn to shut the car door behind me I can see Nick looking at me through the glass. He sees me now. Is it contempt I read, or indifference, is this merely what he expected of me?

We're in an alleyway behind a building, red brick and fairly modern. A bank of trash cans is set out beside the door, and there's a smell of fried  chicken,  going  bad.  The  Commander  has  a  key  to  the  door, which is plain and gray and flush with the wall and, I think, made of steel.  Inside  it  there's  a  concrete-block  corridor  lit  with  fluorescent overhead lights; some kind of functional tunnel.

"Here," the Commander says. He slips around my wrist a tag, purple, on an elastic band, like the tags for airport luggage. "If anyone asks you, say you're an evening rental," he says. He takes me by the bare upper arm and steers me forward. What I want is a mirror, to see if my  lipstick  is  all  right,  whether  the  feathers  are  too  ridiculous,  too frowzy. Inthis light I must look lurid. Though it's too late now.

Idiot, says Moira.

37

We  go  along  the  corridor  and  through  another  flat  gray  door  and along   another   corridor,   softly   lit   and   carpeted   this   time,   in   a mushroom  color, browny  pink. Doors  open off it,  with  numbers on them:  a  hundred  and  one,  a  hundred  and  two,  the  way  you  count during a thunderstorm, to see how close you are to being struck. It's a hotel  then.  From  behind  one  of  the  doors  comes  laughter,  a  man's and also a woman's. It's a long time since I've heard that.

We emerge into a central courtyard. It's wide and also high: it goes up  several  stories to  a skylight  at the top.  There's a fountain in  the middle  of  it,  a  round  fountain  spraying  water  in  the  shape  of  a dandelion goneto seed. Potted plants and trees sprout here and there,

vines hang down from the balconies. Oval-sided glass elevators slide up and down the walls like giant mollusks.

I   know   where   I   am.   I've   been   here   before:   with   Luke,   in   the afternoons,  a  long  time  ago.  It  was  a  hotel,  then.  Now  it's  full  of women.

I  stand  still  and  stare  at  them.  I  can  stare,  here,  look  around  me, there are no white wings to keep me from it. My head, shorn of them, feels  curiously  light;  as  if  a  weight  has  been  removed  from  it,  or substance.

The   women   are   sitting,   lounging,   strolling,   leaning   against   one another. There are men mingled with them, a lot of men, but in their dark  uniforms or  suits, so  similar to  one  another,  they  form only a kind of background. The women on the other hand are tropical, they are dressed in all kinds of bright festive gear. Some of them have on outfits like mine, feathers and glister, cut high up the thighs, low over the  breasts.  Some  are  in  olden-days  lingerie,  shor-tie  nightgowns, baby-doll pajamas, the occasional see-through negligee. Some are in bathing suits, one piece or bikini; one, I see, is wearing a crocheted affair,  with  big  scallop  shells  covering  the  tits.  Some  are  in  jogging shorts and sun halters, some in exercise costumes like the ones they used   to   show   on   television,   body-tight,   with   knitted   pastel   leg warmers. There are even a few in cheerleaders' outfits, little pleated skirts,  outsized  letters  across  the  chest.  I  guess  they've  had  to  fall back on a melange, whatever they could scrounge or salvage. All wear make-up, and  I realize how unaccustomed  I've become to  seeing it, on  women,  because  their  eyes  look  too  big  to  me,  too  dark  and shimmering,   their   mouths   too   red,   too   wet,   blood-dipped   and glistening; or, on the other hand, too clownish.

At   first   glance   there's   a   cheerfulness   to   this   scene.   It's   like   a masquerade party; they are like oversize children, dressed up in togs they've rummaged from trunks. Is there joy in this? There could be,

but have they chosen it? You can't tell by looking.

There are a great many buttocks in this room. I am no longer used to them.

"It's  like  walking  into  the  past,"  says  the  Commander.  His  voice sounds pleased, delighted even. "Don't you think?"

I try to remember if the past was exactly like this. I'm not sure, now. I know it contained these things, but somehow the mix is different. A movie about the past is not the same as the past.

"Yes," I say. What I feel is not one simple thing. Certainly I am not dismayed by these women, not shocked by them. I recognize them as truants.  The  official  creed  denies  them,  denies  their  very  existence, yet here they are. That is at least something.

"Don't gawk," says the Commander. "You'll give yourself away. Just act  natural."  Again  he  leads  me  forward.  Another  man  has  spotted him,  has  greeted  him  and  set  himself  in  motion  towards  us.  The Commander's grip tightens on my upper arm. "Steady," he whispers.

"Don't lose your nerve."

All you  have  to  do, I  tell  myself, is  keep  your mouth  shut  and  look stupid. It shouldn't be that hard.

The  Commander  does  the  talking  for  me,  to  this  man  and  to  the others  who  follow  him.  He  doesn't  say  much  about  me,  he  doesn't need to. He says I'm new, and they look at me and dismiss me and confer   together   about   other   things.   My   disguise   performs   its function.

He  retains  hold  of  my  arm,  and  as  he  talks  his  spine  straightens imperceptibly, his chest expands, his voice assumes more and more the  sprightliness  and  jocularity  of  youth.  It  occurs  to  me  he  is showing  off.  He  is  showing  me  off,  to  them,  and  they  understand that, they are decorous enough, they keep their hands to themselves, but they review my breasts, my legs, as if there's no reason why they shouldn't. But also he is showing off to me. He is demonstrating, to

me,  his  mastery  of  the  world.  He's  breaking  the  rules,  under  their noses, thumbing his nose at them, getting away with it. Perhaps he's reached that state of intoxication which power is said to inspire, the state in which you believe you are indispensable and can therefore do anything,  absolutely  anything  you  feel  like,  anything  at  all.  Twice, when he thinks no one is looking, he winks at me.

It's a juvenile display, the whole act, and pathetic; but it's something

I understand.

When  he's  done  enough  of  this  he  leads  me  away  again,  to  a  puffy flowered sofa of the kind they once had in hotel lobbies; in this lobby, in fact, it's a floral design I remember, dark blue background, pink art nouveau flowers. "I thought your feet might be getting tired," he says,

"in those shoes." He's right about that, and I'm grateful. He sits me down, and sits himself down beside me. He puts an arm around my shoulders.  The  fabric  is  raspy  against  my  skin,  so  unaccustomed lately to being touched.

"Well?" he says. "What do you think of our little club?"

I  look  around  me  again.  The  men  are  not  homogeneous,  as  I  first thought.   Over   by   the   fountain   there's   a   group   of   Japanese,   in lightish-gray  suits,  and  in  the  far  corner  there's  a  splash  of  white: Arabs, in those long bathrobes they wear, the headgear, the striped sweat-bands.

"It's a club?" I say.

"Well, that's what we call it, among ourselves. The club."

"I thought this sort of thing was strictly forbidden," I say.

"Well, officially," he says. "But everyone's human, after all."

I  wait  for  him  to  elaborate  on  this,  but  he  doesn't,  so  I  say,  "What does than mean?"

"It means you can't cheat Nature," he says. "Nature demands variety, for men. It stands to reason, it's part of the procreational strategy. It's Nature's  plan."  I  don't  say  anything,  so  he  goes  on.  "Women  know

that instinctively. Why did they buy so many different clothes, in the old days? To trick the men into thinking they were several different women. A new one each day."

He  says  this  as  if  he  believes  it,  but  he  says  many  things  that  way. Maybe he believes it, maybe he doesn't, or maybe he does both at the same time. Impossible to tell what he believes.

"So now that we don't have different clothes," I say, "you merely have different women." This is irony, but he doesn't acknowledge it.

"It solves a lot of problems," he says, without a twitch.

I don't reply to this. I am getting fed up with him. I feel like freezing on him, passing the rest of the evening in sulky wordlessness. But I can't afford that and I know it. Whatever this is, it's still an evening out.

What  I'd  really  like  to  do  is  talk  with  the  women,  but  I  see  scant chance of that.

"Who are these people?" I ask him.

"It's  only  for  officers,"  he  says.  "From  all  branches;  and  senior officials.  And  trade  delegations,  of  course.  It  stimulates  trade.  It's agood  place to meet people. You can hardly do business without it. We try to provide at least as good as they can get elsewhere. You can overhear things too; information. A man will sometimes tell a woman things he wouldn't tell another man."

"No," I say, "I mean the women."

"Oh,"  he  says.  "Well,  some  of  them  are  real  pros.  Working  girls"he laughs"from  the time  before. They couldn't be assimilated; anyway, most of them prefer it here."

"And the others?"

"The  others?"  he  says.  "Well,  we  have  quite  a  collection.  That  one there,  the  one  in  green,  she's a sociologist.  Or was.  That  one was a lawyer, that one was in business, an executive position; some sort of fast-food chain or maybe it was hotels. I'm told you can have quite a

good conversation with her if all you feel like is talking. They prefer it here, too."

"Prefer it to what?" I say.

"To the alternatives," he says. "You might even prefer it yourself, to what  you've  got."  He  says  this  coyly,  he's  fishing,  he  wants  to  be complimented, and I know that the serious part of the conversation has come to an end.

"I don't know," I say, as if considering it. "It might be hard work."

"You'd have to watch your weight, that's for sure," he says. "They're strict about that. Gain ten pounds and they put you in Solitary." Is he joking? Most likely, but I don't want to know.

"Now," he says, "to get you into the spirit of the place, how about a little drink?"

"I'm not supposed to," I say. "As you know."

"Once  won't  hurt,"  he  says.  "Anyway,  it  wouldn't  look  right  if'  you didn't.  No  nicotine-and-alcohol  taboos  here!  You  see,  they  do  have some advantages here."

"All  right,"  I  say.  Secretly  I  like  the  idea,  I  haven't  had  a  drink  for years.

"What'll   it   be,   then?"   he   says.   "They've   got   everything   here. Imported."

"A  gin  and  tonic,"  I  say.  "But  weak,  please.  I  wouldn't  want  to disgrace you."

"You   won't   do   that,"   he   says,   grinning.   He   stands   up,   then, surprisingly,  takes  my  hand  and  kisses  it,  on  the  palm.  Then  he moves off, heading for the bar. He could have called over a waitress, there are some of these, in identical black miniskirts with pompoms on their breasts, but they seem busy and hard to flag down.

Then  I  see  her.  Moira.  She's  standing  with  two  other  women,  over near the fountain. I have to look hard, again, to make sure it's her; I do  this  in  pulses,  quick  flickers  of  the  eyes,  so  no  one  will  notice.

She's dressed absurdly, in a black outfit of once-shiny satin that looks the worse for wear. It's strapless, wired from the inside, pushing up the  breasts,  but  it  doesn't  quitefit  Moira,  it's  too  large,  so  that  one breast   is   plumped   out   and   the   other   one   isn't.   She's'tugging absent-mindedly  at  the  top,  pulling  it  up.  There's  a  wad  of  cotton attached  to  the  back,  I  can  see  it  as  she  half  turns;  it  looks  like  a sanitary pad that'sbeen popped like a piece of popcorn. I realize that it's  supposed  to  be  a  tail.  Attached  to  her  head  are  two  ears,  of  a rabbit or deer, it's not easy to tell; one of the ears has lost its starch or wiring and is flopping halfway down. She has a black bowtie around her neck and is wearing black net stockings and black high heels. She always hated high heels.

The  whole  costume,  antique  and  bizarre,  reminds me of  something from the past, but I can't think what. A stage play, a musical comedy? Girls dressed for Easter, in rabbit suits. What is the significance of it here, why are rabbits supposed to be sexually attractive to men? How can this bedraggled costume appeal?

Moira is smoking a cigarette. She takes a drag, passes it to the woman on  her  left,  who's  inred  spangles  with  a  long  pointed  tail  attached, and silver horns; a devil outfit. Now she has her arms folded across her front, under her wired-up breasts. She stands on one foot, then the  other,  her  feet  must  hurt;  her  spine  sags  slightly.  She  gazes without  interest  or  speculation  around  the  room.  This  must  be familiar scenery.

I will her to look at me, to see me, but her eyes slide over me as if I'm just  another  palm  tree,  another  chair.  Surely  she  must  turn,  I'm willing so  hard, she must  look at me, before one of the men comes over  to  her,  before  she  disappears.  Already  the  other  women  with her, the blonde in the short pink bed jacket with the tatty fur trim, has been appropriated, has entered the glass elevator, has ascended out of sight. Moira swivelsher head around again, checking perhaps

for prospects. It must be hard to stand there unclaimed, as if she's at a high school dance, being looked over. This time her eyes snag on me. She sees me. She knows enough not to react.

We stare at one another, keeping our faces blank, apathetic. Then she makes a small motion of her head, a slight jerk to the right. She takes the cigarette back from the woman in red, holds it to her mouth, lets her  hand  rest  in  the  air a  moment,  all  five  fingers  outspread.  Then she turns her back on me.

Our old signal. I have five minutes to get to the women's wash room, which must be somewhere to her right. I look around: no sign of it. Nor   can   I   risk   getting   up   and   walking   anywhere,   without   the Commander. I don't know enough, I don't know the ropes, I might be challenged.

A minute, two. Moira begins to saunter off, not glancing around. She can only hope I've understood her and will follow.

The  Commander  comes  back,  with  two  drinks.  He  smiles  down  at me,  places  the  drinks  on  the  long  black  coffee  table  in  front  of  the sofa, sits. "Enjoying yourself?" he says. He wants me to. This after all is a treat.

I smile at him. "Is there a washroom?" I say.

"Of  course,"  he  says.  He  sips  at  his  drink.  He  does  not  volunteer directions.

"I  need  to  go  to  it."  I  am  counting  in  my  head  now,  seconds,  not minutes.

"It's over there." He nods.

"What if someone stops me?"

"Just  show  them  your  tag,"  he  says.  "It'll  be  all  right.  They'll  know you're taken."

I get up, wobble across the room. I lurch a little, near the fountain, almost  fall.  It's  the  heels.  Without  the  Commander's  arm  to  steady me  I'm  off  balance.  Several  of  the  men  look  at  me,  with  surprise  I

think   rather   than   lust.   I   feel   like   a   fool.   I   holdmy   left   arm conspicuously in front of me, bent at the elbow, with the tag turned outward. Nobody says anything.

38

I find the entrance to the women's washroom. It still says Ladies, in scrolly  gold  script.  There's  a  corridor  leading  in  to  the  door,  and  a woman  seated  at  a  table  beside  it,  supervising  the  entrances  and exits.  She's  an  older  woman,  wearing  a  purple  caftan  and  gold eyeshadow,  but  I  can  tell  she  is  nevertheless  an  Aunt.  The  cattle prod's on the table, its thong around her wrist. No nonsense here.

"Fifteen minutes," she says to me. She gives me an oblong of purple cardboard from a stack of them on the table. It's like a fitting room, in the department stores of the time before. To the woman behind me I hear her say, "You were just here."

"I need to go again," the woman says.

"Rest break once an hour," says the Aunt. "You know the rules."

The woman begins to protest, in a whiny desperate voice. I push open the door.

I remember this. There's a rest area, gently lit in pinkish tones, with several easy chairs and a sofa, in a lime-green bamboo-shoot print, with a wall clock above it in a gold filigree frame. Here they haven't removed the mirror, there's a long one opposite the sofa. You need to know,  here,  what  you  look  like.  Through  an archway  beyondthere's the  row  of  toilet  cubicles,  also  pink,  and  washbasins  and  more mirrors.

Several  women  are  sitting  in  the  chairs  and  on  the  sofa,  with  their shoes off, smoking. They stare at me as I come in. There's perfume in the air and stale smoke, and the scent of working flesh.

"You new?" one of them says.

"Yes," I say, looking around for Moira, who is nowhere in sight.

The women don't smile. They return to their smoking as if it's serious

business. In the room beyond, a woman in a cat suit with a tail made of  orange  fake  fur  is  redoing  her  make-up.  This  is  like  backstage: grease paint, smoke, the materials of illusion.

I stand hesitant, not knowing what to do. I don't want to ask about Moira, I don't know whether it's safe. Then a toilet flushes and Moira comes out of a pink cubicle. She teeters towards me; I wait for a sign.

"It's all right," she says, to me and to the other women. "I know her." The others smile now, and Moira hugs me. My arms go around her, the  wires  propping  up  her  breasts  dig  into  my  chest.  We  kiss  each other, on one cheek, then the other. Then we stand back.

"Godawful," she says. She grins at me. "You look like the Whore of

Babylon."

"Isn't  that  what  I'm  supposed  to  look  like?"  I  say.  "You  look  like something the cat dragged in."

"Yes," she says, pulling up her front, "not my style and this thing is about  to  fall  to  shreds.  I  wish  they'd  dredge  up  someone  who  still knows  how  to  make  them.  Then  I  could  get  something  halfway decent."

"You pick that out?" I say. I wonder if maybe she'd chosen it, out of the  others,  because  it  was  less  garish.  At  least  it's  only  black  and white.

"Hell no," she says. "Government issue. I guess they thought it was me."

I still can't believe it's her. I touch her arm again. Then I begin to cry.

"Don't do that," she says. "Your eyes'll run. Anyway there isn't time. Shove over." This she says to the two women on the sofa, her usual peremptory rough-cut slapdash manner, and as usual she gets away with it.

"My break's up anyway," says one woman, who's wearing a baby-blue laced-up  Merry  Widow  and  white  stockings.  She  stands  up,  shakes my hand. "Welcome," she says.

The other woman obligingly moves over, and Moira and I sit down. The first thing we do is take off our shoes.

"What the hell are you doing here?" Moira says then. "Not that it isn't great to see you. But it's not so great for you. What'd you do wrong? Laugh at his dick?"

I look up at the ceiling. "Is it bugged?" I say. I wipe around my eyes, gingerly, with my fingertips. Black comes off.

"Probably," says Moira. "You want a cig?"

"I'd love one," I say.

"Here," she says to the woman next to her. "Lend me one, will you?" The woman hands over, ungrudging. Moira is still a skillful borrower. I smile at that.

"On  the  other  hand,  it  might  not  be,"  says  Moira.  "I  can't  imagine they'd  care  about  anything  we  have  to  say.  They've  already  heard most of it, and anyway nobody gets out of here except in a black van. But you must know that, if you're here."

I pull her head over so I can whisper in her ear. "I'm temporary," I tell  her.  "It's  just  tonight.  I'm  not  supposed  to  be  here  at  all.  He smuggled me in."

"Who?" she whispers back. "That shit you're with? I've had him, he's the pits."

"He's my Commander," I say.

She  nods.  "Some  of them  do  that,  they  get  a  kick  out  of it.  It's like screwing  on  the  altar  or  something:  your  gang  are  supposed  to  be such chaste vessels. They like to see you all painted up. Just another crummy power trip."

This   interpretation   hasn't   occurred   to   me.   I   apply   it   to   the Commander, but it seems too  simple  for him, too  crude.  Surely his motivations  are  more  delicate  than  that.  But  it  may  only  be  vanity that prompts me to think so.

"We don't have much time left," I say. "Tell me everything."

Moira shrugs. "What's the point?" she says. But she knows there is a point, so she does.

This  is  what  she  says,  whispers,  more  or  less.  I  can't  remember exactly, because I had no way of writing it down. I've filled it out for her as much as I can: we didn't have much time so she just gave the outlines. Also she told me this in two sessions, we managed a second break together. I've tried to make it sound as much like her as I can. It's a way of keeping her alive.

"I  left  that  old  hag  Aunt  Elizabeth  tied  up  like  a  Christmas  turkey behind the furnace. I wanted to kill her, I really felt like it, but now I'm  just  as  glad  I  didn't  or  things  would  be  a  lot  worse  for  me.  I couldn't  believe  how  easy  it  was  to  get  out  of  the  Center.  In  that brown outfit I just walked right through. I kept on going as if I knew where I was heading, till  I was out of sight. I didn't have any great plan;  it  wasn't  an  organized  thing,  like  they  thought,  though  when they were trying to get it out of me I made up a lot of stuff. You do that,  when  they  use  the  electrodes  and  the  other  things.  You  don't care what you say.

"I kept my shoulders back and chin up and marched along, trying to think of what to do next. When they busted the press they'd picked up a lot of the women I knew, and I thought they'd most likely have the rest by now. I was sure they had a list. We were dumb to think we could  keep  it  going  the  way  we  did,  even  underground,  even  when we'd moved everything out of the office and into people's cellars and back rooms. So I knew better than to try any of those houses.

"I  had  some  sort  of  an  idea  of  where  I  was  in  relation  to  the  city, though I was walking along a street I couldn't remember having seen before. But I figured out from the sun where north was. Girl Scouts was some use after all. I thought I might as well head that way, see if I  could  find  the  Yard  or  the  Square  or  anything  around  it.  Then  I would know for sure where I was. Also I thought it would look better

for me to be going in towards the center of things, rather than away. It would look more plausible.

"They'd  set  up  more  checkpoints  while  we  were  inside  the  Center, they were all over the place. The first one scared the shit out of me. I came on it suddenly around a corner. I knew it wouldn't look right if I turned around in full view and went back, so I bluffed it through, the same as I had at the gate, putting on that frown and keeping myself stiff and pursing my lips and looking right through them, as if they were festering sores. You know the way the Aunts look when they say the  word  man.  It  worked  like  a  charm,  and  it  did  at  the  other checkpoints, too.

"But the insides of my head were going around like cra/.y. 1 only hud so much time, before they found the old bat and sent out the alarm. Soon enough they'd be looking for me: one fake Aunt, on foot. I tried to think of someone, I ran over and over the people I knew. At last I tried   to   remember   what   I   could   about   our   mailing   list.   We'd destroyed it, of course, early on; or we didn't destroy it, we divided it up among us and each one of us memorized a section, and then we destroyed it. We were still using the mails then, but we didn't put our logo on the envelopes anymore. It was getting far too risky.

"So I tried to recall my section of the list. I won't tell you the name I chose,  because  I  don't  want  them  to  get  in  trouble,  if  they  haven't already.  It  could  be  I've  spilled  all  this  stuff,  it's hard  to  remember what you say when they're doing it. You'll say anything.

"I  chose them because  they were a married  couple, and  those  were safer   than   anyone   single   and   especially   anyone   gay.   Also   I remembered  the  designation  beside  their  name.  Q,  it  said,  which meant  Quaker.  We  had  the  religious  denominations  marked  where there  were  any,  for  marches.  That  way  you  could  tell  who  might turnout to what. It was no good calling on the C's to do abortion stuff, for instance; not that we'd done much  of that lately. I remembered

their address, too. We'd grilled each other on those addresses, it was important to remember them exactly, zip code and all.

"By this time I'd hit Mass. Ave. and I knew where I was. And I knew where  they  were  too.  Now  I  was  worrying  about  something  else: when  these  people  saw an Aunt coming  up the walk, wouldn't  they just  lock  the  door  and  pretend  not  to  be  home?  But  I  hadto  try  it anyway, it was my only chance. I figured they weren't likely to shoot me.  It  was  about  five  o'clock  by  this  time.  I  was  tired  of  walking, especially that Aunt's way like a goddamn soldier, poker up the ass, and I hadn't had anything to eat since breakfast.

"What I didn't know of course was that in those early days the Aunts and  even  the  Center  were  hardly  common  knowledge.  It  was  all secret at first, behind barbed wire. There might have been objections to what they were doing, even then. So although people had seen the odd  Aunt  around,  they  weren't  really  aware  of  what  they  were  for. They must have thought they were some kind of army nurse. Already they'd stopped asking questions, unless they had to.

"So these people let me in right away. It was the woman who came to the  door.  I  told  her  I  was  doing  a  questionnaire.  I  did  that  so  she wouldn't look surprised, in case anyone was watching. Bui as soon as I was inside the  door, I took  off the headgear and  told  them who  I was.  They  could  have  phoned  thepolice  or  whatever,  I  know  I  was taking a chance, but like I say there wasn't any choice. Anyway they didn't. They gave me some clothes, a dress of hers, and  burned the Aunt's outfit and the pass in their furnace; they knew that had to be done  right  away.  They  didn't  like  having  me  there,  that  much  was clear, it made them very nervous. They had two little kids, both under seven. I could see their point.

"I went to the can, what a relief that was. Bathtub full of plastic fish and so on. Then I sat upstairs in the kids' room and played with them and  their  plastic  blocks  while  their  parents  stayed  downstairs  and

decided what to do about me. I didn't feel scared by then, in fact I felt quite  good.  Fatalistic,  you  could  say.  Then  the  woman  made  me  a sandwich  and  a  cup  of  coffee  and  the  man  said  he'd  take  me  to another house. They hadn't risked phoning.

"The other house was Quakers too, and they were pay dirt, because they were a station on the Underground Femaleroad. After the first man left, they said they'd tryto get me out of the country. I won't tell you  how, because some of the stations may still be operating. Each one of them was in contact with only one other one, always the next one  along.  There  were  advantages  to  thatit  was  better  if  you  were caughtbutdisadvantages  too,  because  if  one  station  got  busted  the entire  chain  backed  up  until  they  could  make  contact  with  one  of their couriers, who could set up an alternate route. They were better organized  than  you'd  think,  though.  They'd  infiltrated  a  coupleof useful places; one of them was the post office. They had a driver there with one of those handy little trucks. I made it over the bridge and into  the  city proper  in  a mail  sack.  I  can tell you  that  now  because they  got  him,  soon  after  that.  He  ended  up  on  the  Wall.  You  hear about  these  things;  you  hear  a  lot  in  here,  you'd  be  surprised.  The Commanders tell us themselves, I guess they figure why not, there's no  one  we  can  pass  it  on  to,  except  each  other,  and  that  doesn't count.

"I'm  making  this  sound  easy  but  it  wasn't.  I  nearly  shat  bricks  the whole time. One of the hardest things was knowing that these other people were risking their lives for you when they didn't have to. But they said they were doing it for religious reasons and I shouldn't take it  personally.  That  helped  some.  They  had  silent  prayers   every evening. I found that hard to get used to at first, because it reminded me too much of that shit  at the Center. It made me feel sick to my stomach, to tell you the truth. I had to make an effort, tell myself that this  was  a  whole  other  thing.  I  hated  it  at  first.  But  I  figure  it  was

what kept them going. They knew more or less what would happen to them  if  they  got  caught.  Not  in  detail,  but  they  knew.  By  that  time they'd started putting some of it on (he TV, the trials and so forth.

"It  was  before  the  sectarian  roundups  began  in  earnest.  As  long  as you said you were some sort of a Christian and you were married, for the first time that  is, they were still leaving you pretty much  alone. They were concentrating first on the others. They got them more or less under control before they started in on everybody else.

"I  was underground  it  must  have been eight  or nine months. I  was taken from one safe house to another, there were more of those then. They weren't all Quakers, some of them weren't even religious. They were just people who didn't like the way things were going.

"I almost made it out. They got me up as far as Salem, then in a truck full  of  chickens  to  Maine.  I  almost  puked  from  the  smell;  you  ever thought  what  it  would  be  like  to  be  shat  on  by  a  truckload  of chickens,  all  of them carsick?  They  were planning  to  get  me  across the border there; not by car or truck, that was already too difficult, but by boat, up  the coast.  I didn't know  that  until  the actual  night, they never told you the next step until right before it was happening. They were careful that way.

"So  I  don't  know  what  happened.  Maybe  somebody  got  cold  feet about  it,  or  somebody  outside  got  suspicious.  Or  maybe  it  was  the boat,  maybe  they  thought  the  guy  was  out  in  his  boat  at  night  too much. By that time it must have been crawling with Eyes up there, and everywhere else close to the border. Whatever it was, they picked us up  just  as we  were coming  out  the  back  door to  go  down  to  the dock. Me and the guy, and his wife too. They were an older couple, in their  fifties.  He'd  been  in  the  lobster  business,  back  before  all  that happened  to  the  shore  fishing  there.  I  don't  know  what  became  of them after that, because they took me in a separate van.

"I thought it might be the end, for me. Or back to the Center and the

attentions  of  Aunt  Lydia and  her  steel  cable.  She  enjoyed  that,  you know. She pretended to do all that love-the-sinner, hate-the-sin stuff, but she enjoyed it. I did consider offing myself, and maybe I would have if there'd been any way. But they had two of them in the back of the van with me, watching me like a hawk; didn't say a hell of a lot, just sat and watched me in that walleyed way they have. So it was no go.

"We didn't end up at the Center though, we went somewhere else. I won't go into what happened after that. I'd rather not talk about it. All I can say is they didn't leave any marks.

"When  that  was  over  they  showed  me  a  movie.  Know  what  it  was about? It was about life in the Colonies. In the Colonies, they spend their   time   cleaning   up.   They're   very   clean-minded   these   days. Sometimes it's just bodies, after a battle. The ones in city ghettos are the  worst,  they're  left  around  longer,  they  get  rottener.  This  bunch doesn't  like  dead  bodies  lying  around,  they're  afraid  of  a  plague  or something. So the women in the Colonies there do the burning. The other Colonies are worse, though, the toxic dumps and the radiation spills. They figure you've got three years maximum, at those, before your nose falls off and your skin pulls away like rubber gloves. They don't  bother  to  feed  you  much,  or  give  you  protective  clothing  or anything, it's cheaper not to. Anyway they're mostly people they want to get rid of. Theysay there're other Colonies, not so bad, where they do  agriculture:  cotton  and  tomatoes  and  all  that.  But  those  weren't the ones they showed me the movie about.

"It's old womenI bet you've been wondering why you haven't seen too many  of  those  around  anymoreand  Handmaids  who've  screwed  up their  three  chances,  and  incorrigibles  like  me.  Discards,  all  of  us. They're sterile, of course. If they aren't that way to begin with, they are after they've been there for a while. When they're unsure, they do a little operation on you, so there won't be any mistakes. I'd say it's

about  a  quarter  men  in  the  Colonies,  too.  Not  all  of  those  Gender

Traitors end up on the Wall.

"All of them wear long dresses, like the ones at the Center, only gray. Women and the men too, judging from the group shots. I guess it's supposed  to  demoralize  the  men,  having  to  wear  a  dress.  Shit,  it would  demoralize  me  enough.  How  do  you  stand  it?  Everything considered, I like this outfit better.

"So  after  that,  they  said  I  was  too  dangerous  to  be  allowed  the privilege  of  returning  to  the  Red  Center.  They  said  I  would  be  a corrupting influence. I had my choice, they said, this or the Colonies. Well, shit, nobody but a nun would pick the Colonies. I mean, I'm not a  martyr.  If  I'd  had  my  tubes  tied  years  ago,  I  wouldn't  even  have needed the operation. Nobody in here with viable ovaries either, you can see what kind of problems it would cause.

"So here I am. They even give you face cream. You should figure out some  way  of  getting  in  here.  You'd  have  three  or  four  good  years before  your  snatch  wears  out  and  they  send  you  to  the  bone-yard. The food's not bad and there's drink and drugs, if you want it, and we only work nights."

"Moira,"  I  say.  "You  don't  mean  that."  She  is  frightening  me  now, because  what  I  hear  in  her  voice  is  indifference,  a  lack  of  volition. Have they really done it to her then, taken away somethingwhat?that used to be so central to her? And how can I expect her to go on, with my idea of her courage, live it through, act it out, when I myself do not?

I don't want her to be like me. Give in, go along, save her skin. That is what  it  comes  down  to.  I  want  gallantry  from  her,  swashbuckling, heroism, single-handed combat. Something I lack.

"Don't worry about me," she says. She must know some of what I'm thinking. "I'm still here, you can see it's me. Anyway, look at it this way:  it's  not  so  bad,  there's lots  of women  around.  Butch  paradise,

you might call it."

Now she's teasing, showing some energy, and I feel better. "Do they let you?" I say.

"Let, hell,  they encourage  it. Know  what  they call  this place among themselves?  Jezebel's.  The  Aunts  figure  we're  all  damned  anyway, they've given up on us, so it doesn't matter what sort of vice we get up to, and the Commanders don't give a piss what wedo in our off time. Anyway, women on women sort of turns them on."

"What about the others?" I say.

"Put it this way," she says, "they're not too fond of men." She shrugs again. It might be resignation.

Here is what I'd like to tell. I'd like to tell a story about how Moira escaped, for good this time. Or if I couldn't tell that, I'd like to say she blew up Jezebel's, with fifty Commanders inside it. I'd like her to end with  something  daring  and  spectacular,  some  outrage,  something that would befit her. But as far as I know that didn't happen. I don't know  how  she  ended,  or  even  if  she  did,  because  I  never  saw  her again.

39

The Commander has a room key. He got it from the front desk, while I  waited  on  the  flowered  sofa.  He  shows  it  to  me,  slyly.  I  am  to understand.

We ascend in the glass half egg of the elevator, past the vine-draped balconies. I am to understand also that I am on display.

He  unlocks  the  door  of  the  room.  Everything  is  the  same,  the  very same as it was, once upon a time. The drapes are the same, the heavy flowered  ones  that  match  the  bedspread,  orange  poppies  on  royal blue, and the thin white ones to draw against the sun; the bureau and bedside tables, square-cornered, impersonal; the lamps; the pictures on  the  walls:  fruit  in  a  bowl,  stylized  apples,  flowers  in  a  vase, buttercups  and  devil's  paintbrushes  keyed  to  the  drapes.  All  is  the

same.

I tell the Commander just  a minute, and  go  into the bathroom. My ears are ringing from the smoke, the gin has filled me with lassitude. I wet a washcloth and press it to my forehead. After a while I look to see if there are any little bars of soap in individual wrappers. There are. The kind with the gypsy on them, from Spain.

I breathe in the soap smell, the disinfectant smell, and stand in the white  bathroom,  listening  to  the  distant  sounds  of  water  running, toilets  being  flushed.  In  a  strange  way  I  feel  comforted,  at  home. There is something reassuring about the toilets. Bodily functions at least remain democratic. Everybody shits, as Moira would say.

I sit on the edge of the bathtub, gazing at the blank towels. Once they would  have  excited  me.  They  would  have  meant  the  aftermath,  of love.

I saw your mother, Moira said.

Where? I said. I felt jolted, thrown off. I realized I'd been thinking of her as dead.

Not in person, it was in that film they showed us, about the Colonies. There was a close-up, it was her all right. She was wrapped up in one of those gray things but I know it was her.

Thank God, I said.

Why, thank God? said Moira. I thought she was dead.

She might as well be, said Moira. You should wish it for her.

I  can't  remember  the  last  time  I  saw  her.  It  blends  in  with  all  the others; it was some trivial occasion. She must have dropped by; she did that, she breezed in and out of my house as if I were the mother and  she  were  the  child.  She  still  had  that  jauntiness.  Sometimes, when  she  was  between  apartments,  just  moving  into  one  or  just moving out, she'd use my washer-dryer for her laundry. Maybe she'd come over to borrow something, from me: a pot, a hair dryer. That

too was a habit of hers.

I  didn't  know  it   would   be  the  last  time  or  else  I  would  have remembered it better. I can't even remember what we said.

A  week  later,  two  weeks,  three  weeks,  when  things  had  become suddenly so much worse, I tried to call her. But there was no answer, and no answer when I tried again.

She  hadn't  told  me  she  was  going  anywhere,  but  then  maybe  she wouldn't have; she didn't always. She had her own car and she wasn't too old to drive.

Finally I got the apartment superintendent on the phone. He said he hadn't seen her lately.

I was worried. I thought maybe she'd had a heart attack or a stroke, it wasn't out of the question, though she hadn't been sick that I knew of. She was always so healthy. She still worked out at

Nautilus  and  went  swimming  every  two  weeks.  I  used  to  tell  my friends she was healthier than I was and maybe it was true.

Luke   and   I   drove   across   into   the   city   and   Luke   bullied   the superintendent into opening up the apartment. She could be dead, on the  floor,  Luke  said.  The  longer  you  leave  it  the  worse  it'll  be.  You thought  of  the  smell?  The  superintendent  said  something  about needing a permit, but Luke could be persuasive. He made it clear we weren't  going  to  wait  or  go  away.  I  started  to  cry.  Maybe  that  was what finally did it.

When  the  man got  the  door open  what  we  found  was  chaos.  There was  furniture  overturned,  the  mattress  was  ripped  open,  bureau drawers   upside-down   on   the   floor,   their   contents   strewn   and mounded. But my mother wasn't there.

I'm going to call the police, I said. I'd stopped crying; I felt cold from head to foot, my teeth were chattering.

Don't, said Luke.

Why  not?  I  said.  I  was  glaring  at  him,  I  was  angry  now.  He  stood

there in the wreck of the living room, just looking at me. He put his hands  into  his  pockets,  one  of  those  aimless  gestures  people  make when they don't know what else to do.

Just don't, is what he said.

Your mother's neat, Moira would say, when we were at college. Later:

she's got pizzazz. Later still: she's cute.

She's not cute, I would say. She's my mother. Jeez, said Moira, you ought to see mine.

I think of my mother, sweeping up deadly toxins; the way they used to use up old women, in Russia, sweeping dirt. Only this dirt will kill her. I can't quite believe it. Surely her cockiness, her optimism and energy,  her  pizzazz,  will  get  her  out  of  this.  She  will   think  of something.

But I know this isn't true. It is just passing the buck, as children do, to mothers.

I've mourned for her already. But I will do it again, and again.

1 bring myself back, to the here, to the hotel. This is where I need to be. Now, in this ample mirror under the white light, I take a look at myself.

It's  a  good  look,  slow  and  level.  I'm  a  wreck.  The  mascara  has smudged  again,  despite  Moira's  repairs,  the  purplish  lipstick  has bled,  hair  trails  aimlessly.  The  molting  pink  feathers  are  tawdry  as carnival dolls and some of the starry sequins have come off. Probably they were off to begin with and I didn't notice. I ama travesty, in bad make-up and someone else's clothes, used glitz.

I wish I had a toothbrush.

I could stand here and think about it, but time is passing.

I must be back at the house before midnight; otherwise I'll turn into a pumpkin,   or   was   that   the   coach?   Tomorrow's   the   Ceremony, according to the calendar, so tonight Serena wants me serviced, and if I'm not there she'll find out why, and then what?

And the Commander, for a change, is waiting; I can hear him pacing in the main room. Now he pauses outside the bathroom door, clears his  throat,  a  stagy  ahem.  I  turn  on  the  hot  water  tap,  to  signify readiness or something approaching it. I should get this over with. I wash my hands. I must beware of inertia.

When I come out he's lying down on the king-size bed, with, I note, his shoes off. I lie down beside him, I don't have to be told. 1 would rather not; but it's good to lie down, I am so tired.

Alone at last, I think. The fact is that I don't want to be alone with him,  not  on a bed. I'd  rather have  Serena there too. I'd  rather play Scrabble.

But  my  silence  does  not  deter  him.  "Tomorrow,  isn't  it?"  he  says softly. "I thought we could jump the gun." He turns towards me.

"Why did you bring me here?" I say coldly.

He's stroking my body now, from stem as they say to stern, cat stroke along the left flank, down the left leg. He stops at the foot, his fingers encircling  the  ankle,  briefly,  like  a  bracelet,  where  the  tattoo  is,  a Braille he can read, a cattle brand. Itmeans ownership.

I  remind  myself  that  he  is  not  an  unkind  man;  that,  under  other circumstances, I even like him.

His  hand  pauses.  "I  thought  you  might  enjoy  it  for  a  change."  He knows that isn't enough. "I guess it was a sort of experiment." That isn't enough either. "You said you wanted to know."

He  sits  up,  begins  to  unbutton.  Will  this  be  worse,  to  have  him denuded, of all his cloth power? He's down to the shirt; then, under it, sadly, a little belly. Wisps of hair.

He pulls down one of my straps, slideshis other hand in among the feathers,  but  it's  no  good,  I  lie  there  like  a  dead  bird.  He  is  not  a monster, I think. I can't afford pride or aversion, there are all kinds of things that have to be discarded, under the circumstances.

"Maybe I should turn the lights out," says the Commander, dismayed

and no doubt disappointed. I see him for a moment before he does this.  Without  his  uniform  he  looks  smaller,  older,  like  something being  dried.  The  trouble  is  that  I  can't  be,  with  him,  any  different from the way I usually am with him. Usually I'm inert. Surely there must be something here for us, other than this futility and bathos. Fake it, I scream at myself inside my head. You must remember how. Let's  get  this  over  with  or  you'll  be  here  all  night.  Bestir  yourself. Move your flesh around, breathe audibly. It's the least you can do. XIII

Night

^

40

The heat at night is worse than the heat in daytime. Even with the fan on, nothing moves, and the walls store up warmth, give it out like a used  oven.  Surely  it  will  rain  soon.  Why  do  I  want  it?  It  will  only mean  more  dampness.  There's  lightning  far  away  but  no  thunder. Looking   out   the   window   I   can   see   it,   a   glimmer,   like   the phosphorescence you get in stirred seawater, behind the sky, which is overcast  and  too  low  and  a  dull  gray  infrared.  The  searchlights  are off,  which  is  not  usual.  A  power  failure.  Or  else  Serena  Joy  has arranged it.

I sit in the darkness; no point in having the light on, to advertise the fact  that  I'm  still  awake.  I'm  fully  dressed  in  my  red  habit  again, having shed the spangles, scraped off the lipstick with toilet paper. I hope nothing shows, I hope I don't smell of it, or of him either.

She's here at  midnight, as she said  she'd  be. I can hear her, a faint tapping, a faint shuffling on the muffling rug of the corridor, before her light knock comes. I don't say anything, but follow her back along the hall and down the stairs. She can walk faster, she's stronger than I  thought.  Her  left  hand  clamps  the  banister,  in  pain  maybe  but holding on, steadying her. I think: she's biting her lip, she's suffering.

She wants it all right, that baby. I see the two of us, a blue shape, a red shape, in the brief glass eye of the mirror as we descend. Myself, my obverse.

We go out through the kitchen. It's empty, a dim night-light's left on; it has the calm of empty kitchens at night. The bowls on the counter, the canisters and stoneware jars loom round and heavy through the shadowy light. The knives are put away into their wooden rack.

"I  won't  go  outside  with  you,"  she  whispers.  Odd,  to  hear  her whispering, as if she is one of us. Usually Wives do not lower their voices. "You go out through the door and turn right. There's another door,  it's  open.  Go  up  the  stairs  and  knock,  he's  expecting  you.  No one will see you. I'll sit here." She'll wait for me then, in case there's trouble; in case Cora and Rita wake up, no one knows why, come in from  their  room  at  the  back  of  the  kitchen.  What  will  she  say  to them? That she couldn't sleep. That she wanted some hot milk. She'll be adroit enough to lie well, I can see that.

"The  Commander's  in  his  bedroom  upstairs,"  she  says.  "He  won't come down this late, he never does." That's what she thinks.

I open  the kitchen door,  step out, wait  a moment  for vision. It's so long since I've been outside, alone, at night. Now there's thunder, the storm's  moving  closer.  What  has  she  done  about  the  Guardians?  I could   be   shot   for   a   prowler.   Paid   them   off   somehow,   I   hope: cigarettes, whiskey, or maybe they know all about it, her stud farm, maybe if this doesn't work she'll try them next.

The door to the garage is only steps away. I cross, feet noiseless on the  grass,  and  open  it  quickly,  slip  inside.  The  stairway  is  dark, darker than I can see. I feel my way up, stairby stair: carpet here, I think of it as mushroom-colored. This must have been an apartment once, for a student, a young single person with a job. A lot of the big houses around here had  them. A  bachelor, a studio, those were the names  for  that  kind  of  apartment.  It  pleases  me  to  be  able  to

remember this. Separate entrance, it would say in the ads, and that meant you could have sex, unobserved.

I  reach  the  top  of  the  stairs,  knock  on  the  door  there.  He  opens  it himself, who  else was I expecting?  There's a lamp on, only one but enough light to make me blink. I look past him, not wanting to meet his  eyes.  It's  a  single  room,  with  a  fold-out  bed,  made  up,  and  a kitchenette counter at the far end, and another door that must lead to the bathroom. This room is stripped down, military, mini

I I

mal.  No  pictures  on  the  walls,  no  plants.  He's  camping  out.  The blanket on the bed is gray and says U.S.

He steps back and aside to let me pass. He's in his shirt sleeves, and is holding a cigarette, lit. I smell the smoke on him, in the warm air of the room, all over. I'd like to take off my clothes, bathe in it, rub it over my skin.

No  preliminaries;  he  knows  why  I'm  here.  He  doesn't  even  say anything, why fool around, it's an assignment. He moves away from me,  turns  off  thelamp.  Outside,  like  punctuation,  there's  a  flash  of lightning; almost no  pause  and  then the  thunder. He's undoing  my dress, a man made of darkness, I can't see his face, and I can hardly breathe, hardly stand, and I'm not standing. His mouth is on me, his hands, I can't wait and he's moving, already, love, it's been so long, I'm alive in my skin, again, arms around him, falling and water softly everywhere, never-ending. I knew it might only be once.

I made that up. It didn't happen that way. Here is what happened.

I reach the top of the stairs, knock on the door. He opens it himself. There's a lamp on; I blink. I look past his eyes, it's a single room, the bed's made up, stripped down, military. No pictures but the blanket says U.S. He's in his shirt sleeves, he's holding a cigarette.

"Here," he says to me, "have a drag." No preliminaries, he knows why

I'm here. To get knocked up, to get in trouble, up the pole, those were all names for it once. I take the cigarette from him, draw deeply in, hand it back. Our fingers hardly touch. Even that much smoke makes me dizzy.

He says nothing, just looks at me, unsmiling. It would be better, more friendly,  if  he  would  touch  me.  I  feel  stupid  and  ugly,  although  I know I am not either. Still, what does he think, why doesn't he say something? Maybe he thinks I've been slutting around, at Jezebel's, with the Commander or more. It annoys me that I'm even worrying about what he thinks. Let's be practical.

"I don't have much time," I say. This is awkward and clumsy, it isn't what I mean.

"I could just squirt it into a bottle and you could pour it in," he says. He doesn't smile.

XIV Salvaging

^

41

I wish this story were different. I wish it were more civilized. I wish it showed me in a better light, if not happier, then at least more active, less hesitant, less distracted by trivia. I wish it had more shape. I wish it  were  about  love,  or  about  sudden  realizations  important  to  one's life, or even about sunsets, birds, rainstorms, or snow.

Maybe it is about those things, in a way; but in the meantime there is so  much  else  getting  in  the  way,  so  much  whispering,  so  much speculation about  others, so much gossip  that cannot be verified,so many unsaid words, so much creeping about and secrecy. And there is so much time to be endured, time heavy as fried food or thick fog; and  then  all  at  once  these  red  events,  like  explosions,  on  streets otherwise decorous and matronly and somnambulent.

I'm  sorry  there  is  so  much  pain  in  this  story.  I'm  sorry  it's  in

fragments,  like  a  body  caught  in  crossfire  or  pulled  apart  by  force. But there is nothing I can do to change it.

I've  tried  to  put  some  of  the  good  things  in  as  well.  Flowers,  for instance, because where would we be without them?

Nevertheless it hurts me to tell it over, over again. Once was enough: wasn't once enough for me at the time? But I keep on going with this sad and hungry and sordid, this limping and mutilated story, because after all I want you to hear it, as I will hear yours too if I ever get the chance, if I meet you or if you escape, in the future or in heaven or in prison   or   underground,   some   other   place.   What   they   have   in common is that they're not here. By telling you anything at all I'm at least believing in you, I believe you're there, I believe you into being. Because  I'm  telling  you   this   story   I   will   your   existence.  I   tell, therefore you are.

So I will go on. So I will myself to go on. I am coming to a part you will not like at all, because in it I did not behave well, but I will try nonetheless to leave nothing out. After all you've been through, you deserve  whatever  I  have  left,  which  is  not  much  but  includes  the truth.

This is the story, then.

I  went  back  to  Nick.  Time  after  time,  on  my  own,  without  Serena knowing. It wasn't called for, there was no excuse. I did not do it for him, but for myself entirely. I didn't even think of it as giving myself to him, because what did I have to give? I did not feel munificent, but thankful, each time he would let me in. He didn't have to.

In  order  to  do  this  I  became  reckless,  I  took  stupid  chances.  After being with the Commander I would go upstairs in the usual way, but then I  would  go  along the  hall  and  down  the  Marthas' stairs at  the back  and  through  the  kitchen.  Each  time  I  would  hear  the  kitchen door click shut behind me and I would almost turn back, it sounded so metallic, like a mousetrap or a weapon, but I would not turn back.

I would hurry across the few feet of illuminated lawnthe searchlights were back on again, expecting at any moment to feel the bullets rip through me even in advance of their sound. I would make my way by touch  up  the  dark  staircase  and  come  to  rest  against  the  door,  the thud of blood in my ears. Fear is a powerful stimulant. Then I would knock softly, a beggar's knock. Each time I would  expect  him to  be gone; or  worse,  I would  expect  him  to  say I  could  not  come  in. He might say he wasn't going to break any more rules, put his neck in the noose,  for  my  sake.  Or  even  worse,  tell  me  he  was  no  longer interested. His failure to do any of these things I experienced as the most incredible benevolence and luck.

I told you it was bad. Here is how it goes.

He  opens  the  door.  He's  in  his  shirt  sleeves,  his  shirt  untucked, hanging  loose;  he's  holding  a  toothbrush,  or  a  cigarette,  or  a  glass with   something   in   it.   He   has   his   own   little   stash   up   here, black-market stuff I suppose. He's always got something in his hand, as  if  he's  been  going  about  his  life  as  usual,  not  expecting  me,  not waiting.  Maybe  he  doesn't  expect  me,  or  wait.  Maybe  he  has  no notion of the future, or does not bother or dare to imagine it.

"Is it too late?" I say.

He shakes his head for no. It is understood between us by now that it is never too late, but I go through the ritual politeness of asking. It makes me feel more in control, as if there is a choice, a decision that could be made one way or the other. He steps aside and I move past him and he closes the door. Then he crosses the room and closes the window. After that he turns out the light. There is not much talking between us anymore, not at this stage. Already I am half out of my clothes. We save the talking for later.

With the Commander I close my eyes, even when I am only kissing him  good-night.  I  do  not  want  to  see  him  up  close.  But  now,  here,

each time, I keep my eyes open. I would like a light on somewhere, a candle   perhaps,   stuck   into   a   bottle,   some   echo   of   college,   but anything  like  that  would  be  too  great  a  risk;  so  I  have  to  make  do withthe  searchlight,  the  glow  of  it  from  the  grounds  below,  filtered through his white curtains which are the same as mine. I want to see what can be seen, of him, take him in, memorize him, save him up so I can live on the image, later: the lines of his body,the texture of his flesh, the glisten of sweat on his pelt, his long sardonic unrevealing face. I ought to have done that with Luke, paid more attention, to the details,  the  moles  and  scars,  the  singular  creases;  I  didn't  and  he's fading.  Day  by  day,  night  by  night  he  recedes,  and  I  become  more faithless.

For this one I'd wear pink feathers, purple stars, if that were what he wanted; or  anything  else,  even  the  tail  of  a  rabbit.  But  he  does  not require  such  trimmings.  We  make  love  each  time  as  if  we  know beyond the shadow of a doubt that there will never be any more, for either  of us, with  anyone, ever.  And  then  when  there  is,  that  too  is always a surprise, extra, a gift.

Being here with him is safety; it's a cave, where we huddle together while the storm goes on outside. This is a delusion, of course.

This room is one of the most dangerous places I could be. If I were caught there would  be no quarter, but I'm beyond caring. And how have I come to trust him like this, which is foolhardy in itself? How can I assume I know him, or the least thing about him and what he really does?

I dismiss these uneasy whispers. I talk too much. I tell him things I shouldn't.  I  tell  him  about  Moira,  about  Ofglen;  not  about  Luke though. I want to tell him about the woman in my room, the one who was there before me, but I don't. I'm jealous of her. If she's been here before me too, in this bed, I don't want to hear about it.

I tell him my real name, and feel that therefore I am known. I act like

a  dunce.  I  should  know  better.  I  make  of  him  an  idol,  a  cardboard cutout.

He on the other hand talks little: no more hedging or jokes. He barely asks questions. He seems indifferent to most of what I have to say, alive only to the possibilities of my body, though he watches me while I'm speaking. He watches my face.

Impossible to think that anyone for whom I feel such gratitude could betray me.

Neither of us says the word love, not once. It would be tempting fate;

it would be romance, bad luck.

Today there are different flowers, drier, more denned, the flowers of high  summer:  daisies,  black-eyed  Susans,  starting  us  on  the  long downward  slope  to  fall.  I  see  them  in  the  gardens,  as  I  walk  with Ofglen, to and fro. I hardly listen to her, I no longer credit her. The things she whispers seem to  me  unreal. What  use are they, for me, now?

You could go into his room at night, she says. Look through his desk. There must be papers, notations.

The door is locked, I murmur.

We could get you a key, she says. Don't you want to know who he is, what he does?

But the Commander is no longer of immediate interest to me. I have to make an effort to keep my indifference towards him from showing. Keep on doing everything exactly the way you were before, Nick says. Don't   change   anything.   Otherwise   they'll   know.   He   kisses   me. watching me all the time. Promise? Don't slip up.

I

I put his hand on my belly. It's happened, I say. I feel it has. A couple of weeks and I'll be certain.

This I know is wishful thinking.

He'll love you to death, he says. So will she.

But it's yours, I say. It will be yours, really. I want it to be. We don't pursue this, however.

I can't, I say to Ofglen. I'm too afraid. Anyway I'd be no good at that, I'd get caught.

I scarcely take the trouble to sound regretful, so lazy have I become. We  could  get  you  out,  she  says.  We  can  get  people  out  if  we  really have to, if they're in danger. Immediate danger.

The fact is that I no longer want to leave, escape, cross the border to freedom. I want to be here, with Nick, where I can get at him.

Telling this, I'm ashamed of myself. But there's more to it than that. Even  now,  I  can  recognize  this  admission  as  a  kind  of  boasting. There's   pride   in   it,   because   it   demonstrates   how   extreme   and therefore justified it was, for me. How well worth it. It's like stories of illness and near-death, from which you have recovered; like stories of war. They demonstrate seriousness.

Such seriousness, about a man, then, had not seemed possible to me before.

Some days I was more rational. I did not put it, to myself, in terms of love. I said, I have made a life for myself, here, of a sort. That must have been what the settlers' wives thought, and women who survived wars, if they had a man. Humanity is so adaptable, my mother would say.Truly amazing, what people can get used to, as long as there are a few compensations.

It  won't  be  long  now,  says  Cora,  doling  out  my  monthly  stack  of sanitary   napkins.   Not   long   now,   smiling   at   me   shyly   but   also knowingly.  Does  she  know?  Do  she  and  Rita know  what  I'm  up  to, creeping   down   their   stairs   at   night?   Do   I   give   myself   away, daydreaming,  smiling  at  nothing,  touching  my  face  lightly  when  1 think they aren't watching?

Ofglen  is  giving  up  on  me.  She  whispers  less,  talks more about  the weather. I do not feel regret about this. I feel relief.

42

The bell is tolling; we can hear it from a long way off. It's morning, and today we've had no breakfast. When we reach the main gate we file  through  it,  two  by  two.  There's  a  heavy  contingent  of  guards, special-detail Angels, with riot gearthe helmets with the bulging dark Plexiglas visors that make them look like beetles, the long clubs, the gas-canister gunsin cordon around the outside of the Wall. That's in case of hysteria. The hooks on the Wall are empty.

This  is  a  district  Salvaging,  for  women  only.  Salvagings  are  always segregated.  It  was announced  yesterday. They tell you  only the  day before. It's not enough time, to get used to it.

To  the  tolling  of  the  bell  we  walk  along  the  paths  once  used  by students, past buildings that were once lecture halls and dormitories. It's very strange to be in here again. From the outside you can't tell that  anything's  changed,  except  that  the  blinds  on  most  of  the windows are drawn down. These buildings belong to the Eyes now. We file onto the wide lawn in front of what used to be the library. The white   steps   going   up   are   still   the   same,   the   main   entrance   is unaltered.  There's  a  wooden  stage  erected  on  the  lawn,  something like the one they used every spring, for commencement, in the time before. I think of hats, pastel hats worn by some of the mothers, and of the black gowns the students would put on, and the red ones. But this stage is not the same after all, because of the three wooden posts that stand on it, with the loops of rope.

At the front of the stage there is a microphone; the television camera is discreetly off to the side.

I've  only  been  to  one  of  these  before,  two  years  ago.  Women's Salvagings are not frequent. There is less need for them. These days we are so well behaved.

I don't want to be telling this story.

We  take  our  places in  the  standard  order:  Wives  and  daughters  on

the folding wooden chairs placed towards the back, Econowives and Marthas around the edges and on the library steps, and Handmaids at the front, where everyone can keep an eye on us. We don't sit on chairs,  but  kneel,  and  this  time  we  have  cushions,  small  red  velvet ones with nothing written on them, not even Faith.

Luckily the weather is all right: not too hot, cloudy bright. It would be miserable kneeling here in the rain. Maybe that's why they leave it so late to tell us: so they'll know what the weather will be like. That's as good a reason as any.

I kneel on my red velvet cushion. I try to think about tonight, about making love, in the dark, in the light reflected off the white walls. I remember being held.

There's a long piece of rope that winds like a snake in front of the first row  of  cushions,  along  the  second,  and  back  through  the  lines  of chairs, bending like a very old, very slow river viewed from the air, down to the back. The rope is thick and brown and smells of tar. The front end of the rope runs up onto the stage. It's like a fuse, or the string of a balloon.

On  the  stage,  to  the  left,  are  those  who  are  to  be  salvaged:  two Handmaids, one Wife. Wives are unusual, and despite myself I look at this one with interest. I want to know what she has done.

They have been placed here before the gates were opened. All of them sit on folding wooden chairs, like graduating students who are about to be given prizes. Their hands rest in their laps, looking as if they are folded  sedately.  They  sway  a  little,  they've  probably  been  given injections or pills, so they won't make a fuss. It's better if things go smoothly. Are they attached to their chairs? Impossible to say, under all that drapery.

Now  the  official  procession  is  approaching  the  stage,  mounting  the steps at the right: three women, one Aunt in front, two Salvagers in their black hoods and cloaks a pace behind her. Behind them are the

other  Aunts.  The  whisperings  among  us  hush.  The  three  arrange themselves, turn towards us, the Aunt flanked by the two black-robed Salvagers.

It's  Aunt  Lydia.  How  many  years  since  I've  seen  her?  I'd  begun  to think  she  existed  only  in  my  head,  but  here  she  is,  a  little  older.  I have a good  view, I can see the deepening furrows to either side of her nose, the engraved frown. Her eyes blink, she smiles nervously, peering to left and right, checking out the audience, and lifts a hand to fidget with her headdress. An odd strangling sound comes over the PA system: she is clearing her throat.

I've begun to shiver. Hatred fills my mouth like spit.

The  sun  comes  out,  and  the  stage  and  its  occupants  light  up  like  a Christmas creche. I can see the wrinkles under Aunt Lydia's eyes, the pallor of the seated women, the hairs on the rope in front of me on the grass, the blades of grass. There is a dandelion, right in front of me, the color of egg yolk. I feel hungry. The bell stops tolling.

Aunt Lydia stands up, smooths down her skirt with both hands, and steps  forward  to  the  mike.  "Good  afternoon,  ladies,"  she  says,  and there  is  an  instant  and  earsplitting  feedback  whine  from  the  PA system. From among us, incredibly, there is laughter. It's hard not to laugh, it's the tension, and the look of irritation on Aunt Lydia's face as she adjusts the sound. This is supposed to be dignified.

"Good  afternoon,  ladies,"  she  says  again,  her  voice  now  tinny  and flattened. It's ladies instead of girlsbecause of the Wives. "I'm sure we are all aware of the unfortunate circumstances that bring us all here together on this beautiful morning, when I am certain we would all rather be doing something else, at least I speak for myself, but duty is a hard taskmaster, or may I say on this occasion taskmistress, and it is in the name of duty that we are here today."

She goes on like this for some minutes, but I don't listen. I've heard this speech, or one like it, often enough before: the same platitudes,

the  same  slogans,  the  same  phrases:  the  torch  of  the  future,  the cradle of the race, the task before us. It's hard to believe there will not be polite clapping after this speech, and tea and cookies served on the lawn.

That was the prologue, I think. Now she'll get down to it.

Aunt  Lydia  rummages in  her pocket,  produces  a crumpled  piece  of paper.  This  she  takes  an  undue  length  of  time  to  unfold  and  scan. She's  rubbing  our  noses  in  it,  letting  us  know  exactly  who  she  is, making us watch her as she silently reads, flaunting her prerogative. Obscene, I think. Let's get this over with.

"In the past," says Aunt Lydia, "it has been the custom to precede the actual Salvagings with a detailed account of the crimes of which the prisoners  stand  convicted.  However,  we  have  found  that  such  a public account, especially when televised, is invariably followed by a rash, if I may call it that, an outbreak I should say, of exactly similar crimes. So we have decided in the best interests of all to discontinue this practice. The Salvagings will proceed without further ado."

A  collective  murmur  goes  up  from  us.  The  crimes  of  others  are  a secret language among us. Through them we show ourselves what we might be capable  of, after all. This is not a popular announcement. But you would never know it from Aunt Lydia, who smiles and blinks as if washed in applause. Now we are left to our own devices, our own speculations.  The  first  one,  the  one  they're  now  raising  from  her chair,   black-gloved   hands   on   her   upper   arms:   Reading?   No, that'sonly a hand cut off, on the third conviction. Unchastity, or an attempt  on  the  life  of  her  Commander?  Or  the  Commander's  Wife, more  likely.  That's  what  we're  thinking.  As  for  the  Wife,  there's mostly  just  one  thing  they  get  salvaged  for.  They  can  do  almost anything to us, but they aren't allowed to kill us, not legally. Not with knitting  needles  or  garden  shears,  or  knives  purloined  from  the kitchen,   and   especially   not   when   we   are   pregnant.   It   could

be-adultery, of course. It could always be that. Or attempted escape.

"Ofcharles,"  Aunt  Lydia  announces.  No  one  I  know.  The  woman  is brought forward; she walks as if she's really concentrating on it, one foot,   the   other   foot,   she's   definitely   drugged.   There's   a   groggy off-center  smile  on  her  mouth.  One  side  of  her  face  contracts,  an uncoordinated  wink,  aimed  at  the  camera.  They'll  never  show  it  of course,  this  isn't  live.  The  two  Salvagers  tie  her  hands,  behind  her back.

From behind me there's a sound of retching. That's why we don't get breakfast.

"Janine, most likely," Ofglen whispers.

I've  seen  it  before,  the  white  bag  placed  over  the  head,  the  woman helped up onto the high stool as if she's being helped up the steps of a bus,  steadied  there,  the  noose  adjusted  delicately  around  the  neck, like a vestment, the stool kicked away. I've heard the long sigh go up, from around me, the sigh like air coming out of an air mattress, I've seen  Aunt  Lydia  place  her  hand  over  the  mike,  to  stifle  the  other sounds  coming  from  behind  her,  I've  leaned  forward  to  touch  the rope  in  front  of  me,  in  time  with  the  others,  both  hands  on  it,  the rope hairy, sticky with tar in the hot sun, then placed my hand on my heart to show my unity with the Salvagers and my consent, and my complicity  in the death  of this woman.  I have  seen  the  kicking feet and the two in black who now seize hold of them and drag downward with  all  their  weight.  I  don't  want  to  see  it  anymore.  I  look  at  the grass instead. I describe the rope.

43

The  three  bodies  hang  there,  even  with  the  white  sacks  over  their heads  looking  curiously  stretched,  like  chickens  strung  up  by  the necks in a meatshop window; like birds with their wings clipped, like flightless birds, wrecked angels. It's hard to take your eyes off them.

Beneath  the  hems  of  the  dresses  the  feet  dangle,  two  pairs  of  red shoes,  one  pair  of  blue.  If  it  weren't  for  the  ropes  and  the  sacks  it could  be  a  kind  of  dance,  a  ballet,  caught  by  flash-camera:  midair. They look arranged. They look like show biz. It must have been Aunt Lydia who put the blue one in the middle.

"Today's Salvaging is now concluded," Aunt Lydia announces into the mike. "But?

We turn to her, listen to her, watch her. She has always known how to space  her  pauses.  A  ripple  runs  over  us,  a  stir.  Something  else, perhaps, is going to happen.

"But you may stand up, and form a circle." She smiles down upon us, generous,  munificent.  She  is  about  to  give  us  something.  Bestow.

"Orderly, now."

She is talking to us, to the Handmaids. Some of the Wives are leaving now, some of the daughters. Most of them stay, but they stay behind, out of the way, they watch merely. They are not part of the circle.

Two  Guardians  have  moved  forward  and  are  coiling  up  the  thick rope,  getting  it  out  of  the  way.  Others  move  the  cushions.  We  are milling  around  now,  on  the  grass  space  in  front  of  the  stage,  some jockeying for position at the front, next to the center, many pushing just  as  hard  to  work  their  way  to  the  middle  where  they  will  be shielded. It's a mistake to hang back too obviously in any group like this;  it  stamps  you  as  lukewarm,  lacking  in  zeal.  There's  an  energy building  here,  a  murmur,  a  tremor  of  readiness  and  anger.  The bodies tense, the eyes are brighter, as if aiming.

I  don't  want  to  be  at  the  front,  or  at  the  back  either.  I'm  not  sure what's coming, though I sense it won't be anything I want to see up close. But Ofglen has hold of my arm, she tugs me with her, and now we're in the second line, with only a thin hedge of bodies in front of us. I don't want to see, yet I don't pull back either. I've heard rumors, which I only half believed. Despite everything I already know, I say to

myself: they wouldn't go that far.

"You know the rules for a Particicution," Aunt Lydia says. "You will wait  until  I  blow  the  whistle.  After  that,  what  you  do  is  up  to  you, until I blow the whistle again. Understood?"

A noise comes from among us, a formless assent.

"Well then," says Aunt Lydia. She nods. Two Guardians, not the same ones that have taken away the rope, come forward now from behind the  stage.  Between them  they  half  carry,  half  drag a  third  man. He too is in a Guardian's uniform, but he has no hat on and the uniform is  dirty  and  torn.  His  face  is  cut  and  bruised,  deep  reddish-brown bruises;  the  flesh  is  swollen  and  knobby,  stubbled  with  unshaven beard. This doesn't look like a face but like an unknown vegetable, a mangled  bulb  or  tuber,  something  that's  grown  wrong.  Even  from where I'm standing I can smell him: he smells of shit and vomit. His hair is blond and falls over his face, spiky with what? Dried sweat?

I stare at him with revulsion. He looks drunk. He looks like a drunk that's been in a fight. Why have they brought a drunk in here?

"This man," says Aunt Lydia, "has been convicted of rape." Her voice trembles with rage, and a kind of triumph. "He was once a Guardian. He  has  disgraced  his  uniform.  He  has  abused  his  position  of  trust. His  partner  in  viciousness  has  already  been  shot.  The  penalty  for rape, as you know, is death. Deuteronomy 22:23-29. I might add that this crime involved two of you and took place atgunpoint. It was also brutal. I will not offend your ears with any details, except to say that one woman was pregnant and the baby died."

A sigh goes up from us; despite myself I feel my hands clench. It is too much, this violation. The baby too, after what we go through. It's true, there is a bloodlust; I want to tear, gouge, rend.

We jostle forward, our heads turn from side to side, our nostrils flare, sniffing  death,  we  look  at  one  another,  seeing  the  hatred.  Shooting was too good. The man's head swivels groggily around: has he even

heard her?

Aunt Lydia waits a moment; then she gives a little smile and raises her whistle to her lips. We hear it, shrill and silver, an echo from a volleyball game of long ago.

The two Guardians let go of the third man's arms and step back. He staggersis he drugged?and  falls to  his knees. His eyes  are shriveled up  inside  the  puffy  flesh  of his  face,  as  if  the  light  is  too bright  for him. They've kept him in darkness. He raises one hand to his cheek, as though to feel if he is still there. All of this happens quickly, but it seems to be slowly.

Nobody moves forward. The women are looking at him with horror, as if he's a half-dead  rat  dragging itself across a kitchen floor.  He's squinting  around  at  us,  the  circle  of  red  women.  One  corner  of  his mouth moves up, incrediblea smile?

I  try  to  look  inside  him,  inside  the  trashed  face,  see  what  he  must really look like. I think he's about thirty. It isn't Luke.

But  it  could  have  been,  I  know  that.  It  could  be  Nick.  I  know  that whatever he's done I can't touch him.

He says something. It comes out thick, as if his throat is bruised, his tongue huge in his mouth, but I hear it anyway. He says, "I didn't? There's a surge forward, like a crowd at a rock concert in the former time,  when  the  doors  opened,  that  urgency  coming  like  a  wave through  us.  The  air  is  bright  with  adrenaline,  we  are  permitted anything  and  this  is  freedom,  in  my  body  also,  I'm  reeling,  red spreads everywhere, but before that tide of cloth and bodies hits him Ofglen isshoving through the women in front of us, propelling herself with  her  elbows,  left,  right,  and  running  towards  him.  She  pushes him  down,  sideways,  then  kicks  his  head  viciously,  one,  two,  three times,  sharp  painful  jabs  with  the  foot,  well  aimed.  Now  there  are sounds,  gasps,  a  low  noise  like  growling,  yells,  and  the  red  bodies tumble forward and I can no longer see, he's obscured by arms, fists,

feet. A high scream comes from somewhere, like a horse in terror.

I keep back, try to stay on my feet. Something hits me from behind. I stagger. When I regain my balance and look around, I see the Wives and  daughters  leaning  forward  in  their  chairs,  the  Aunts  on  the platform  gazing  down  with  interest.  They  must  have  a  better  view from up there.

He has become an it.

Ofglen is back beside me. Her face is tight, expressionless.

"I saw what you did," I say to her. Now I'm beginning to feel again: shock,  outrage,  nausea.  Barbarism.  "Why  did  you  do  that?  You!  I thought you?

"Don't look at me," she says. "They're watching."

"I don't care," I say. My voice is rising, I can't help it.

"Get control of yourself," she says. She pretends to brush me off, my arm and shoulder, bringing her face close to my ear. "Don't be stupid. He  wasn't  a  rapist  at  all,  he  was  a  political.  He  was  one  of  ours.  I knocked  him  out.  Put  him  out  of  his  misery.  Don't  you  know  what they're doing to him?"

One of ours, I think. A Guardian. It seems impossible.

Aunt Lydia blows her whistle again, but they don't stop at once. The two Guardians move in, pullingthem off, from what's left. Some lie on the  grass  where  they've  been  hit  or  kicked  by  accident.  Some  have fainted.  They  straggle  away,  in  twos  and  threes  or  by  themselves. They seem dazed.

"You will find your partners and re-form your line," Aunt Lydia says into the mike. Few pay attention to her. A woman comes towards us, walking as if she's feeling her way with her feet, in the dark: Janine. There's  a  smear  of  blood  across  her  cheek,  and  more  of  it  on  the white of her headdress. She's smiling, a bright diminutive smile. Her eyes have come loose.

"Hi there," she says. "How are you doing?" She's holding something,

tightly, in her right hand. It's a clump of blond hair. She gives a small giggle.

"Janine," I say. But she's let go, totally now, she's in free fall, she's in withdrawal.

"You  have a nice day,"  she  says, and  walks on  past  us, towards the gate.

I look after her. Easy out, is what I think. I don't even feel sorry for her, although I should. I feel angry. I'm not proud of myself for this, or for any of it. But then, that's the point.

My hands smell of warm tar. I want to go back to the house and up to the  bathroom  and  scrub  and  scrub,  with  the  harsh  soap  and  the pumice, to get every trace of this smell off my skin. The smell makes me feel sick.

But  also  I'm  hungry.  This  is  monstrous,  but  nevertheless  it's  true. Death  makes  me  hungry.  Maybe  it's  because  I've  been  emptied;  or maybe it's the body's way of seeing to it that I remain alive, continue to repeat its bedrock prayer: I am, I am. I am, still.

I want to go to bed, make love, right now. I think of the word relish.

I could eat a horse.

44

Things are back to normal.

How  can  I  call  this  normal?  But  compared  with  this  morning,  it  is normal.

For lunch  there was a cheese  sandwich, on  brown bread, a glass of milk,   celery   sticks,   canned   pears.   A   schoolchild's   lunch.   I   ate everything up, not quickly, but reveling in the taste, the flavors lush on my tongue. Now I am going shopping, the same as usual. I even look  forward  to  it.  There's  a  certain  consolation  to  be  taken  from routine.

I go out the back door, along the path. Nick is washing the car, his hat

on sideways. He doesn't look at me. We avoid looking at each other, these days. Surely we'd give something away by it, even out here in the open, with no one to see.

I wait at the corner for Ofglen. She's late. At last I see her coming, a red and white shape of cloth, like a kite, walking at the steady pace we've all learned to keep. Isee her and notice nothing at first. Then, as  she  comes  nearer,  I  think  that  there  must  be  something  wrong with  her.  She  looks  wrong.  She  is  altered  in  some  indefinable  way; she's not injured, she's not limping. It's as if she has shrunk.

Then when she's nearer still I see what it is. She isn't Ofglen.

She's the  same  height,  but  thinner,  and  her  face  is  beige,  not  pink. She comes up to me, stops.

"Blessed be the fruit," she says. Straight-faced, straight-laced.

"May the Lord open," I reply. I try not to show surprise.

"You must be Offred," she says. I say yes, and we begin our walk.

Now what, I think. My head is churning, this is not good news, what has  become  of  her,  how  do  I  find  out  without  showing  too  much concern?  We  aren't  supposed  to  form  friendships,  loyalties,  among one another. I try to remember how much time Ofglen has to go at her present posting.

"We've been sent good weather," I say.

"Which I receive with joy." The voice placid, flat, unrevealing.

We  pass the first  checkpoint  without saying anything further. She's taciturn, but so am I. Is she waiting for me to start something, reveal myself, or is she a believer, engrossed in inner meditation?

"Has Ofglen been transferred, so soon?" I ask. But I know she hasn't. I saw her only this morning. She would have said.

"I am Ofglen," the woman says. Word perfect. And of course she is, the new one, and Ofglen, wherever she is, is no longer Ofglen. I never did  know  her  real  name.  That  is  how  you  can  get  lost,  in  a  sea  of names. It wouldn't be easy to find her, now.

We go to Milk and Honey, and to All Flesh, where I buy chicken and the new Ofglen gets three pounds of hamburger. There are the usual lines.  I  see  several  women  I  recognize,  exchange  with  them  the infinitesimal  nods with which we show each otherwe are known, at least  to  someone,  we  still  exist.  Outside  All  Flesh  I  say  to  the  new Ofglen, "We should go to the Wall." I don't know what I expect from this;  some  way  of  testing  her  reaction,  perhaps.  I  need  to  know whether  or  not  she  is  one  of  us.  If  she  is,  if  I  can  establish  that, perhaps she'll be able to tell me what has really happened to Ofglen.

"As you like," she says. Is that indifference, or caution?

On the Wall hang the three women from this morning, still in their dresses, still in their shoes, still with the white bags over their heads. Their arms have been untied and are stiff and proper at their sides. The blue one is in the middle, the two red ones on either side, though the  colors  are  no  longer  as  bright;  they  seem  to  have  faded,  grown dingy, like dead butterflies or tropical fish drying on land. The gloss is off them. We stand and look at them in silence.

"Let that be a reminder to us," says the new Ofglen finally.

I  say  nothing  at  first,  because  I  am  trying  to  make  out  what  she means.   She   could   mean   that   this   is   a   reminder   to   us   of   the unjust-ness  and  brutality  of the  regime.  In that  case  I  ought  to  say yes. Or she could mean the opposite, that we should remember to do what we are told and not get into trouble, because if we do we will be rightfully  punished.  If  she  means  that,  I  should  say  praise  be.  Her voice was bland, toneless, no clues there.

I take a chance. "Yes," I say.

To this she does not respond, although I sense a flicker of white at the edge of my vision, as if she's looked quickly at me.

After   a   moment   we   turn   away   and   begin   the   long   walk   back, matching  our  steps  in  the  approved  way,  so  that  we  seem  to  be  in unison.

I think maybe I should wait before attempting anything further. It's too soonto push, to probe. I should give it a week, two weeks, maybe longer, watch her carefully, listen for tones in her voice, unguarded words, the way Ofglen listened to me. Now that Ofglen is gone I am alert again, my sluggishness has fallen away, my body isno longer for pleasure only but senses its jeopardy. I should not be rash, I should not  take  unnecessary  risks.  But  I  need  to  know.  I  hold  back  until we're past  the final checkpoint  and  there are only blocks to  go, but then I can no longer control myself.

"I didn't know Ofglen very well," I say. "I mean the former one."

"Oh?" she says. The fact that she's said anything, however guarded, encourages me.

"I've  only  known  her  since  May,"  I  say.  I  can  feel  my  skin  growing hot, my heart speeding up. This is tricky. For one thing, it's a lie. And how do I get from there to the next vital word? "Around the first of May I think it was. What they used to call May Day."

"Did they?" she says, light, indifferent, menacing. "That isn't a term I remember. I'm surprised you do. You ought to make an effort? She pauses. "To clear your mind of such? She pauses again. "Echoes." Now I feel cold, seeping over my skin like water. What she is doing is warning me.

She isn't one of us. But she knows.

I  walk  the  last  blocks  in  terror.  I've  been  stupid,  again.  More  than stupid.  It  hasn't  occurred  to  me  before,  but  now  I  see:  if  Of-glen's been caught, Ofglen may talk, about me among others. She will talk. She won't be able to help it.

But  I  haven't  done  anything,  I  tell  myself,  not  really.  All  I  did  was know. All I did was not tell.

They  know  where  my  child  is.  What  if  they  bring  her,  threaten something to her, in front of me? Or do it. I can't bear to think what they  might  do.  Or  Luke,  what  if  they  have  Luke.  Or  my  mother  or

Moira or almost anyone. Dear God, don't make me choose. I would not be able to stand it, I know that; Moira was right about me. I'll say anything they like, I'll incriminate anyone. It's true, the first scream, whimper even, and I'll turn to jelly, I'll confess to any crime, I'll end up hanging from a hook on the Wall. Keep your head down, I used to tell myself, and see it through. It's no use.

This is the way I talk to myself, on the way home.

At the corner we turn to one another in the usual way.

"Under His Eye," says the new, treacherous Ofglen.

"Under His Eye," I say, trying to sound fervent. As if such playacting could help, now that we've come this far.

Then she does an odd thing. She leans forward, so that the stiff white blinkers on our heads are almost touching, so that I can see her pale beige eyes up close, the delicate web of lines across her cheeks, and whispers,  very  quickly,  her  voice  faint  as  dry  leaves.  "She  hanged herself," she says. "After the Salvaging. She saw the van coming for her. It was better."

Then she's walking away from me down the street.

45

I stand a moment, emptied of air, as if I've been kicked.

So she's dead, and I am safe, after all. She did it before they came. I feel a great relief. I feel thankful to her. She has died that I may live. I will mourn later.

Unless this woman is lying. There's always that.

I breathe in, deeply, breathe out, giving myself oxygen. The space in front of me blackens, then clears. I can see my way.

I  turn,  open  the  gate,  keeping  my  hand  on  it  a  moment  to  steady myself, walk in. Nick is there, still washing the car, whistling a little. He seems very far away.

Dear God, I think, I will do anything you like. Now that you've let me off,  I'll  obliterate  myself,  if  that's  what  you  really  want;  I'll  empty

myself, truly, become a chalice. I'll give up Nick, I'll forget about the others,  I'll  stop  complaining.  I'll  accept  my  lot.  I'll  sacrifice.  I'll repent. I'll abdicate. I'll renounce.

I  know  this  can't  be  right  but  I  think  it  anyway.  Everything  they taught at the Red Center, everything I've resisted, comes flooding in. I don't want pain. I don't want to be a dancer, my feet in the air, my head a faceless oblong of white cloth. I don't want to be a doll hung up on the Wall, I don't want to be a wingless angel. I want to keep on living,  in  any  form.  I  resign  my  body  freely,  to  the  uses  of  others. They can do what they like with me. I am abject.

I feel, for the first time, their true power.

I go along past the flower beds, the willow tree, aiming for the back door. I will go in, I will be safe. I will fall on my knees, in my room, gratefully  breathe  in  lungfuls  of  the  stale  air,  smelling  of  furniture polish.

Serena  Joy  has  come  out  of  the  front  door;  she's  standing  on  the steps. She calls to me. What is it she wants? Does she want me to go into the sitting room and help her wind gray wool? I won't be able to hold my hands steady, she'll notice something. But I walk over to her anyway, since I have no choice.

On the top step she towers above me. Her eyes flare, hot blue against the shriveled white of her skin. I look away from her face, down at the ground; at her feet, the tip of her cane.

"I trusted you," she says. "I tried to help you."

Still I don't look up at her. Guilt pervades me,I've been found out, but for what? For which of my many sins am I accused? The only way to find  out  is  to  keep  silent.  To  start  excusing  myself  now,  for  this  or that,  would  be  a  blunder.  I  could  give  away  something  she  hasn't even guessed.

It might be nothing. It might be the match hidden in my bed. I hang my head.

"Well?" she asks. "Nothing to say for yourself?"

I look up at her. "About what?" I manage to stammer. As soon as it's out it sounds impudent.

"Look," she says. She brings her free hand from behind her back. It's her cloak she's holding, the winter one. "There was lipstick on it," she says. "How could you be so vulgar? I told him" She drops the cloak, she's  holding  something  else,  her  hand  all  bone.  She  throws  that down as well. The purple sequins fall, slithering down over the step like snakeskin, glittering in the sunlight. "Behind my back," she says.

"You could have left me something." Does she love him, after all? She raises her cane. I think she is going to hit me, but she doesn't. "Pick up that disgusting thing and get to your room. Just like the other one. A slut. You'll end up the same."

I stoop, gather. Behind my back Nick has stopped whistling.

I want to turn, run to him, throw my arms around him. This would be foolish. There is nothing he can do to help. He too would drown.

I  walk  to  the  back  door,  into  the  kitchen,  set  down  my  basket,  go upstairs. I am orderly and calm.

XV Night

^

46

I sit in my room, at the window, waiting. In my lap is a handful of crumpled stars.

This could be the last time I have to wait. But I don't know what I'm waiting for. What are you waiting for? they used to say. That meant hurry  up.  No  answer  was  expected.  For  what  are  you  waiting  is  a different question, and I have no answer for that one either.

Yet  it  isn't  waiting,  exactly.  It's  more  like  a  form  of  suspension. Without suspense. At last there is no time.

I am in disgrace, which is the opposite of grace. I ought to feel worse

about it.

But I feel serene, at peace, pervaded with indifference. Don't let the bastards  grind  you  down.  I  repeat  this  to  myself  but  it  conveys nothing. You might as well say, Don't let there be air; or, Don't be.

I suppose you could say that.

There's nobody in the garden. I wonder if it will rain.

Outside, the light is fading. It's reddish already. Soon it will be dark. Right now it's darker. That didn't take long.

There are a number of things I could do. I could set fire to the house, for instance. I could bundle up some of my clothes, and the sheets, and strike my one hidden match. If it didn't catch, that would be that. But if it did, there would at least be an event, a signal of some kind to mark my exit. A few flames, easily put out. In the meantime I could let loose clouds of smoke and die by suffocation.

I could tear my bedsheet into strips and twist it into a rope of sorts and  tie  one  end  to  the  leg  of my bed  and  try to  break  the  window. Which is shatterproof.

I could go to the Commander, fall on the floor, my hair disheveled, as they say, grab him around the knees, confess, weep, implore. Nolite te bastardes carborundorum, I could say. Not a prayer. I visualize his shoes, black, well shined, impenetrable, keeping their own counsel. Instead I could noose the bedsheet round my neck, hook myself up in the closet, throw my weight forward, choke myself off.

I could hide behind the door, wait until she comes, hobbles along the hall, bearing whatever sentence,  penance, punishment, jump  out at her, knock her down, kick her sharply and accurately in the head. To put her out of her misery, and myself as well. To put her out of our misery.

It would save time.

I could walk at a steady pace down the stairs and out the front door and  along the street, trying to look  as if I knew  where I was going,

and see how far I could get. Red is so visible.

I could go to Nick's room, over the garage, as we have done before. I could  wonder  whether  or  not  he  would  let  me  in,  give  me  shelter. Now that the need is real.

I consider these things idly. Each one of them seems the same size as all the others. Not one seems preferable. Fatigue is here, in my body, in my legs and eyes. That is what gets you in the end. Faith is only a word, embroidered.

I  look  out  at  the  dusk  and  think  about  its  being  winter.  The  snow falling,  gently,  effortlessly,  covering  everything  in  soft  crystal,  the mist  of  moonlight  before  a  rain,  blurring  the  outlines,  obliterating color. Freezing to death is painless, they say, after the first chill. You lie back in the snow like an angel made by children and go to sleep. Behind me I feel her presence, my ancestress, my double, turning in midair under the chandelier, in her costume of stars and feathers, a bird  stopped  in  flight,  a  woman  made  into  an  angel,  waiting  to  be found.  By  me  this  time.  How  could  I  have  believed  I  was  alone  in here? There were always two of us. Get it over, she says. I'm tired of this melodrama, I'm tired of keeping silent. There's no one you can protect, your life has value to no one. I want it finished.

As  I'm  standing  up  I  hear  the  black  van.  I  hear  it  before  I  see  it; blended  with  the  twilight,  it  appears  out  of  its  own  sound  like  a solidification, a clotting of the night. It turns into the driveway, stops. I can just make out the white eye, the two wings. The paint must be phosphorescent.  Two  men  detach  themselves  from  the  shape  of  it, come up the front steps, ring the bell. I hear the bell toll, ding-dong, like the ghost of a cosmetics woman, down in the hall.

Worse is coming, then.

I've been wasting my time. I should have taken things into my own hands while I had the chance. I should have stolen a knife from the kitchen,  found  some  way  to  the  sewing  scissors.  There  were  the

garden  shears,  the  knitting  needles;  the  world  is  full  of  weapons  if you're looking for them. I should have paid attention.

But it's too late to think about that now, already their feet are on the dusty-rose carpeting of the stairs; a heavy muted tread, pulse in the forehead. My back's to the window.

I expect a stranger, but it's Nick who pushes open the door, flicks on the light. I can't place that, unless he's one of them. There was always that  possibility.  Nick,  the  private  Eye.  Dirty  work  is  done  by  dirty people.

You shit, I think. I open my mouth to say it, but he comes over, close to me, whispers. "It's all right. It's Mayday. Go with them." He calls me by my real name. Why should this mean anything?

"Them?" I say. I see the two men standing behind him, the overhead light  in  the  hallway  making  skulls  of  their  heads.  "You  must  be crazy."  My  suspicion  hovers  in  the  air  above  him,  a  dark  angel warning me away. I can almost see it. Why shouldn't he know about Mayday?  All  the  Eyes  must  know  about  it; they'll  have  squeezed  it, crushed it, twisted it out of enough bodies, enough mouths by now.

"Trust me," he says; which in itself has never been a talisman, carries no guarantee.

But I snatch at it, this offer. It's all I'm left with.

One in front, one behind, they escort me down the stairs. The pace is leisurely, the lights are on. Despite the fear, how ordinary it is. From here I can see the clock. It's no time in particular.

Nick is no longer with us. He may have gone down the back stairs, not wishing to be seen.

Serena  Joy  stands  in  the  hallway,  under  the  mirror,  looking  up, incredulous. The Commander is behind her, the sitting room door is open.  His  hair  is  very  gray.  He  looks  worried  and  helpless,  but already withdrawingfrom me, distancing himself. Whatever else I am to  him,  I  am  also  at  this  point  a  disaster.  No  doubt  they've  been

having a fight, about me; no doubt she's been giving him hell. I still have it in me to feel sorry for him. Moira is right, I am a wimp.

"What has she done?" says Serena Joy. She wasn't the one who called them, then. Whatever she had in store for me, it was more private.

"We can't say, ma'am," says the one in front of me. "Sorry."

"I need to see your authorization," says the Commander. "You have a warrant?"

I could scream now, cling to the banister, relinquish dignity. I could stop  them,  at  least  for  a  moment.  If  they're  real  they'll  stay,  if  not they'll run away. Leaving me here.

"Not  that  we  need  one,  sir,  but  all  is  in  order,"  says  the  first  one again. "Violation of state secrets."

The Commander puts his hand to his head. What have I been saying, and to whom, and which one of his enemies has found out? Possibly he will be a security risk, now. I am above him, looking down; he is shrinking. There have already been purges among them, there will be more. Serena Joy goes white.

"Bitch," she says. "After all he did for you."

Cora and Rita press through from the kitchen. Cora has begun to cry. I was her hope, I've failed her. Now she will always be childless.

The van waits in the driveway, its double doors stand open. The two of them, one on either side now, take me by the elbows to help me in. Whether this is my end or a new beginning I have no way of knowing: I have given myself over into the hands of strangers, because it can't be helped.

And so I step up, into the darkness within; or else the light. Historical Notes

Jezebels

^

Historical Notes

Historical Notes on The Handmaid's Talc

Being   a   partial   transcript   of   the   proceedings   of   the   Twelfth

Symposium on Gilead-

ean Studies, held as part of the International Historical Association

Convention

held at the University of Denay, Nunavit, on June 25, 2195.

Chair: Professor Maryann Crescent Moon, Department of Caucasian

Anthropology, University of Denay, Nunavit.

Keynote           Speaker:           Professor          James   Darcy   Pieixoto,           Director, Twentieth and Twenty-first-Century Archives, Cambridge University, England.

CRESCENT  MOON:  I  am  delighted  to  welcome  you  all  here  this morning, and I'm pleased to see that so many of you have turned out lor Professor Pieixoto's, I am sure, fascinating and  worthwhile talk. We  of  the  Gileadean  Research  Association  believe  that  this  period well   repays   further   study,   responsible   as   it   ultimately   was   for redrawing the map of the world, especially in this hemisphere.

But before we proceed, a few announcements. The fishing expedition will go forward tomorrow as planned, and for those of you who have not   brought   suitable   rain   gear   and   insect   repellent,   these   are available for a nominal charge at the Registration Desk. The nature walk and Outdoor Period-Costume Sing-Song have been rescheduled for the day after tomorrow, as we are assured by our own infallible Professor Johnny Running Dog of a break in the weather at that time. Let meremind  you of the other events sponsored by the Gilead  ean Research Association that are available to you at this convention, as part  of  our  Twelfth  Symposium.  Tomorrow  afternoon,  Professor Gopal   Chatterjee,   of   the   Department   of   Western   Philosophy, University   of   Baroda,   India,   will   speak   on   "Krishna   and   Kali Elements in the State Religion of the Early Gilead Period," and there is a morning presentation on Thursday by Professor Sieg-linda Van Buren from the Department of Military History at the University of

San Antonio, Republic of Texas. Professor Van Buren will give what I am  sure  will  be  a  fascinating  illustrated  lecture  on  "The  Warsaw Tactic:  Policies  of  Urban  Core  Encirclement  in  the  Gileadean  Civil Wars." I am sure all of us will wish to attend these.

I must also remind our keynote speakeralthough I am sure it is not necessaryto keep within his time period, as we wish to leave space for questions, and I expect none of us wants to miss lunch, as happened yesterday. (Laughter.)

Professor  Pieixoto  scarcely  needs  any  introduction,  as  he  is  well known  to  all  of  us,  if  not  personally  then  through  his  extensive publications. These include "Sumptuary Laws Through the Ages: An Analysis of Documents" and the well-known study "Iran and Gilead: Two   Late-Twentieth-Century   Monotheocracies,   as   Seen   Through Diaries." As you all know, he is the co-editor, with Professor Knotly Wade,  also  of  Cambridge,  of  the  manuscript  under  consideration today,  and  was  instrumental  in  its  transcription,  annotation,  and publication.  The  title  of  his  talk  is  "Problems  of  Authentication  in Reference to The Handmaid's Tale."

Professor Pieixoto. Applause.

PIEIXOTO: Thank you. I am sure we all enjoyed our charming Arctic Char  last  night  at  dinner,  and  now  we  are  enjoying  an  equally charming Arctic Chair. I use the word "enjoy" in two distinct senses, precluding, of course, the obsolete third. (Laughter.)

But let me be serious. I wish, as the title of my little chat implies, to consider   some   of   the   problems   associated   with   the   soi-disant manuscript which is well known to all of you by now, and which goes by the title of The Handmaid's Tale. I say soi-disant because what we have before us is not the item in its original form. Strictly speaking, it was not a manuscript at all when first discovered and bore no title. The  superscription  "The  Handmaid's  Tale"  was  ap  pended  to  it  by

Professor Wade, partly inhomage to the great Geoffrey Chaucer; but those  of  you  who  know  Professor  Wade  in-formally,  as  I  do,  will understand  when  I  say  hat  i  am  sure  allpuns  were  intentional, particularly that having to do with the ar-chaic vulgar signification of the  word  tail;  that  being,  In  some  extent,  the  bone,  as  it  were,  of contention,  in  that  phase  of  Gileadean  society  of  which  our  saga treats. (Laughter, applause.)

This itemI hesitate to use the word documentwas uncurl hod on the site of what was once the city of Bangor, in what, at the time prior to the inception of the Gileadean regime, would have been the state of Maine. We know that this city was a prominentway station on what our   author   refers   to   as   "The   Underground   Fe-maleroad,"   since dubbed by some of our historical wags "The Underground Frailroad."

(Laughter,  groans.)  For  this  reason,  our  association  has  taken  a particular interest in it.

The  item  in  itspristine  state  consisted  of  a  metal  footlocker,  U.S. Army  issue,  circa  perhaps  1955.  This  fact  of  itself  need  have  no significance, as it is known that such footlockers were frequently sold as "army surplus" and must therefore have been widespread. Within this footlocker, which was sealed with tape of the kind once used on packages to be sent by post, were approximately thirty tape cassettes, of the type that became obsolete sometime in the eighties or nineties with the advent of the compact disc.

I  remindyou  that  this  was  not  the  first  such  discovery.  You  are doubtless  familiar,  for  instance,  with  the  item  known  as  "The  A.B. Memoirs,"  located  in  a  garage  in  a  suburb  of  Seattle,  and  with  the Diary   of   P.,"   excavated   by   accident   during   the   erection   of   a newmeeting  house  in  the  vicinity  of  what  was  once  Syracuse,  New York.

Professor  Wade  and  I  were  very  excited  by  this  new  discovery. Luckily  we  had,  several  years  before,  with  the  aid  of  our  excellent

resident antiquarian technician, reconstructed a machine capable of playing  such  tapes,  and  we  immediately  set  about  the  painstaking work of transcription.

There  were  some  thirty  tapes  in  the  collection  altogether,  with varying proportions of music to spoken word. In general, each tape begins  with  two  or  three  songs,  as  camouflage  no  doubt;  then  the music is broken off and the speaking voice takes over. The voice is a woman's,  and,  according  to  our  voice-print  experts,  the  same  one throughout. The labels on the cassettes were authentic period labels, dating,  of  course,  from  some  time  before  the  inception  of  the  early Gilead era, as all such secular music was banned under the regime. There were, for instance, four tapes entitled "Elvis Presley's Golden Years," three of "Folk Songs of Lithuania," three of "Boy GeorgeTakes It  Off,"  and  two  of  "Mantovani's  Mellow  Strings,"  as  well  as  some titles  that  sported  a  mere  single  tape  each:  "Twisted  Sisters  at Carnegie Hall" is one of which I am particularly fond.

Although the labels were authentic, they were not always appended to the tape with the corresponding songs. In addition, the tapes were arranged  in  no  particular  order,  being  loose  at  the  bottom  of  the locker; nor were they numbered. Thus it was up to Professor Wade and myself to arrange the blocks of speech in the order in which they appeared to go; but, as I have said elsewhere, all such arrangements are based on some guesswork and are to be regarded as approximate, pending further research.

Once  we  had  the  transcription  in  handand  we  had  to  go  over  it several  times,  owing  to  the  difficulties  posed  by  accent,  obscure referents,  and  archaismswe  had  to  make  some  decision  as  to  the nature of the material we had  thus so laboriously acquired.  Several possibilities  confronted  us.  First,  the  tapes  might  be  a  forgery.  As youknow,  there  have  been  several  instances  of  such  forgeries,  for which publishers have paid large sums, wishing to trade no doubt on

the sensationalism of such stories. It appears that certain periods of history  quickly  become,  both  for  other  societies  andfor  those  that follow  them,  the  stuff  of  not  especially  edifying  legend  and  the occasion for a good deal of hypocritical self-congratulation. If I may be permitted an editorial aside, allow me to say that in my opinion we must        be            cautious            about    passing    moral judgment    upon           the Gil-eadeans. Surely we have learned by now that such judgments are of  necessity  culture-specific.  Also,  Gileadean  society  was  under  a good deal of pressure, demographic and otherwise, and was subject to factors from which we ourselvesare happily more free. Our job is not to censure but to understand. (Applause.)

To return from my digression: tape like this, however, is very difficult to  fake  convincingly,  and  we  were  assured  by  the  experts  who examined  them  that  the  physical  objects  themselves  are  genuine. Certainly  the  recording  itself,  that  is,  the  superimposition  of  voice upon music tape, could not have been done within the past hundred and fifty years.

Supposing, then, the tapes to be genuine, what of the nature of  the account itself? Obviously, it could not have been recorded during the period of time it recounts, since, if the author is telling the truth, no machine  or  tapes  would  have  been  available  to  her,  nor  would  she have  had  a  place  of  concealment  for  them.  Also,  there  is  a  certain reflective quality about the narrative that would to my mind rule out synchronicity.   It   has   a   whiff   of   emotion   recollected,   if   not   in tranquillity, at least post facto.

If we could establish an identity for the narrator, we felt, we might be well on the way to an explanation of how this documentlet me call it that for the sake of brevitycame into being. To do this, we tried two lines of investigation.

First,  we  attempted,  through  old  town  plans  of  Bangor  and  other remaining  documentation,  to  identify  the  inhabitants  of  the  house

that must have occupied the site of the discovery at about that time. Possibly, we reasoned, this house may have been a "safe house" on the Underground Femaleroad during our period, and our author may have  been  kept  hidden  in,  for  instance,  the  attic  or  cellar  there  for some  weeks  or  months,  during  which  she  would  have  had  the opportunity to make the recordings. Of course, there was nothing to rule out the possibility that the tapes had been moved to the site in question after they had been made. We hoped to be able to trace and locate  the  descendants  of  the  hypothetical  occupants,  whom  we hoped  might  lead  us  to  other  material:  diaries,  perhaps,  or  even family anecdotes passed down through the generations. Unfortunately,  this  trail  led  nowhere;  Possibly  these  people,  if  they had   indeed   been   a   link   in   the   underground   chain,   had   been discovered and arrested, in which case any documentation referring to them would have been destroyed. So we pursued a second line of attack. We searched records of the period, trying to correlate known historical personages with the individuals who appear in our author's account.   The   surviving   records   of   the   time   are   spotty,   as   the Gileadean regime was in the habit of wiping its own computers and destroying  print-outs  after  various  purges  and  internal  upheav  als, but some print-outs remain. Some indeed were smuggled to England, for  propaganda  use  by  the  various  Save  the  Women  societies,  of which there were many in the British Isles at that time.

We  held  out  no  hope  of  tracing  the  narrator  herself  directly.  I  was clear  from  internal  evidence  that  she  was  among  the  first  wave  of women recruited for reproductive purposes and allotted to those who both required such services and could lay claim to them through their position  in  the  elite.  The  regime  created  an  instant  pool  of  such women  by  the  simple  tactic  of  declaring  all  second  marriages  and nonmarital  liaisons  adulterous,  arresting  the  female  partners,  and, on the grounds that they were morally unfit, confiscating the children

they already had, who were adopted by childless couples of the upper echelons who were eager for progeny by any means. (In the middle period, this policy was extended to cover all marriages not contracted within the state church.) Men highly placed in the regime were thus able to pick and choose among women who had demonstrated their reproductive   fitness   by   having   produced   one   or   more   healthy children,   a   desirable   characteristic   in   an   age   of   plummeting Caucasian  birthrates,  a  phenomenon  observable  not  only  in  Gilead but in most northern Caucasian societies of the time.

The  reasons  for this decline  are not altogether clear to  us. Some of the failure to reproduce can undoubtedly be traced to the widespread availability  of  birth  control  of  various  kinds,  including  abortion,  in the immediate pre-Gilead period. Some infertility, then, was willed, which may account for the differing statistics among Caucasians and non-Caucasians;  but  the  rest  was  not.  Need  I  remind  you  that  this was  the  age  of the R-strain  syphilis and  also  of  the  infamous AIDS epidemic,   which,   once   they   spread   to   the   population   at   large, eliminated many young sexually active people from the reproductive pool?  Stillbirths,         miscarriages,     and       genetic  deformities        were widespread and on the increase, and this trend has been linked to the various    nuclear-plant    accidents,    shutdowns,    and    incidents    of sabotage  that  characterized  the  period,  as  well  as  to  leakages  from chemical- and biological-warfare stockpiles and toxic-waste disposal sites,  of  which  there  were  many  thousands,  both  legal  and  illegalin some instances these materials were simply dumped into the sewage systemand    to     the    uncontrolled    use    of     chemical    insecticides, herbicides, and other sprays.

But whatever the causes, the effects were noticeable, and the Gilead regime was not the only one to react to them at the time. Rumania, for  instance,  had  anticipated  Gilead  in  the  eighties  by  banning  all forms of birth control, imposing compulsory pregnancy tests on the

femalepopulation,   and   linking   promotion   and   wage-increases   to fertility.

The need for what I may call birth services was already recog-nized in the  pre-Gilead  period,  where  it  was  being  inadequately  met  by

"artificial insemination."

"fertility clinics," and the use of "surrogate mothers," who were hired for  the  purpose,  Gilead  outlawed  the  first  two  as  irreligious  but legitimised  and  enforced  the  third,  which  was  considered  to  have Biblical precedents; they thus replaced the serial polygamy common in   the   pre-Gilead   period   with   the   older   form   of   simultaneous polygamy  practiced  both  in  early  Old  Testament  times  and  in  the former state of Utah in the nine-teenth century. As we know from the study  of  history,  no  new  system  can  impose  itself  upon  a  previous one  withoutincorporating  many  of  the  elements  to  be  found  in  the latter, as witness the pagan elements in medieval Christianity and the evolution  of  the  Russian  "KGB"  from  the  czarist  secret  service  that preceded  it;  and  Gilead  was  no  exception  to  this  rule.  Its  racist policies,  for  instance,  were  firmly  rooted  in  the  pre-Gilead  period, and racist fears provided some of the emotional fuel that allowed the Gilead takeover to succeed as well as it did.

Our  author,  then,  was  one  of  many,  and  must  be  seen  within  the broad outlines of the moment in history of which she was a part. But what else do we know about her, apart from her age, some physical characteristics  that  could  be  anyone's,  and  her  place  of  residence? Not  very  much.  She  appears  to  have  been  an  educated  woman, insofar as a graduate of any North American college of the time may be  said  to  have  been  educated.  (Laughter,  some  groans.)But  the woods, as you say, were full of these, so that is no help. She does not see  fit  to  supply  us  with  her  original  name,  and  indeed  all  official records  of  it  would  have  been  destroyed  upon  her  entry  into  the Rachel and Leah Re-education Center. "Offred" gives no clue, since,

like "Ofglen" and "Ofwarren," it was a patronymic, composed of the possessive   preposition   and   the   first   name   of   the   gentleman   in question. Such names were taken by these women upon their entry into a connection with the household of a specific Commander, and relinquished by them upon leaving it.

The   other   names   in   the   document   are   equally   useless   for   the purposes  of  identification  and  authentication.  "Luke"  and  "Nick" drew blanks, as did "Moira" and "Janine." There is a high probability that  these were,  in  any case, pseudonyms, adopted  to  protect these individuals   should   the   tapes   be   discovered.   If   so,   this   would substantiate our view that the tapes were made inside the borders of Gilead,  rather  than  outside,  to  be  smuggled  back  for  use  by  the Mayday underground.

Elimination of the above possibilities left  us with one remaining. If we  could  identify  the  elusive"Commander,"  we  felt,  at  least  some progress would have been made. We argued that such a highly placed individual   had   probably   been   a   participant   in   the   first   of   the top-secret Sons of Jacob Think Tanks, at which the philosophy and social structure of Gilead were hammered out. These were organized shortly  after the  recognition  of the  superpower arms stalemate  and the signing of the classified Spheres of Influence Accord, which left the superpowers free to deal, unhampered by interference, with the growingnumber of rebellions within their own  empires. The  official records  of  the  Sons  of  Jacob  meetings  were  destroyed  after  the middle-period   Great   Purge,   which   discredited   and   liquidated   a number  of  the  original  architects  of  Gilead;  but  we  have  access  to someinformation   through   the   diary   kept   in   cipher   by   Wilfred Limpkin,   one   of   the   sociobiologists   present.   (As   we   know,   the sociobiological  theory  of  natural  polygamy  was  used  as  a  scientific justification  for  some  of  the  odder  practices  of  the  regime,  just asDarwinism was used by earlier ideologies.)

From  the  Limpkin  material  we  know  that  there  are  two  possible candidates, that is, two whose names incorporate the element "Fred": Frederick  R.  Waterford  and  B.  Frederick  Judd.  No  photographs survive of either, although Limpkin describes the latter as a stuffed shirt, and, I quote, "somebody for whom foreplay is what you do on a golf  course."  (Laughter.)Limpkin  himself  did  not  long  survive  the inception of Gilead, and  we have his diary only because he foresaw his own end and placed it with his sister-in-law in Calgary.

Waterford and Judd both have characteristics that recommend them to  us.  Waterford  possessed  a  background  in  market  research,  and was, according to Limpkin, responsible for the design of the female costumes and for the suggestion that the Handmaids wear red, which he seems to have borrowed from the uniforms of German prisoners of war in Canadian "POW" camps of the Second World War era. He seems to have been the originator of the term Particicution, which he lifted from an exercise program popular sometime in the last third of the century; the collective rape ceremony, however, was suggested by ah English village custom of the seventeenth century. Salvagingmay have been his too, although by the time of Gilead's inception it had spread from its origin in the Philippines to become a general term for the elimination of one's political enemies. As I have said elsewhere, there was little that was truly original with or indigenous to Gilead: its genius was synthesis.

Judd,  on  the  other  hand,  seems  to  have  been  less  interested  in packaging and more concerned with tactics. It was he who suggested the  use  of  an  obscure  "CIA"  pamphlet  on  the  destabilization  of foreign governments as a strategic handbook for the Sons of Jacob, and he, too, who drew up the early hit lists of prominent "Americans" of   the   time.   He   also   is   suspected   of   having   orchestrated   the President's   Day   Massacre,   which  must  have  required   maximum infiltration of the security system surrounding Congress, and without

which   the   Constitution   could   never   have   been   suspended.   The National  Homelands  and  the  Jewish  boat-person  plans  were  both his,  as  was  the  idea  of  privatizing  the  Jewish  repatriation  scheme, with  the  result  that  more  than  one  boatload  of  Jews  was  simply dumped into the Atlantic, to maximize profits. From what we know of   Judd,   this   would   not   have   bothered   him   much.   He   was   a hard-liner  and  is  credited  by  Limpkin  with  the  remark,  "Our  big mistake was teaching them to read. We won't do that again."

It is Judd who is credited with devising the form, as opposed to the name, of the Particicution ceremony, arguing that it was not only a particularly   horrifying   and   effective   way   of   ridding   yourself   of subversive elements but that it would also act as asteam valve for the female elements in Gilead. Scapegoats have been notoriously useful throughout history, and it must have been most gratifying for these Handmaids, so rigidly controlled at other times, to be able to tear a man  apart  with  their bare  hands  every  once  in  a  while.  So  popular and effective did this practice become that it was regularized in the middle period, when it took place four times a year, on solstices and equinoxes.   There   are   echoes   here   of   the   fertility   rites   of   early Earth-goddess  cults.  As  we  heard  at  the  panel  discussion  yesterday afternoon,  Gilead  was,  although  undoubtedly  patriarchal  in  form, occasionally  matriarchal  in  content,  like  some  sectors  of  the  social fabric that gave rise to it. As the architects of Gilead knew, to institute an effective totalitarian system or indeed any system at all you must offer  some  benefits  and  freedoms,  at  least  to  a  privileged  few,  in return for those you remove.

In  this  connection  a  few  comments  upon  the  crack  female  control agency known as the "Aunts" is perhaps in order. Juddaccording to the Limpkin materialwas of the opinion from the outset that the best and  most cost-effective way to  control women for reproductive and other purposes was through women themselves. For this there were

many  historical  precedents;  in  fact,  no  empire  imposed  by  force  or otherwise   has   ever   been   without   this   feature:   control   of   the indigenous  by  members  of  their  own  group.  In  the  case  of  Gilead, there were many women willing to serve as Aunts, either because of a genuine  belief  in  what  they  called  "traditional  values,"  or  for  the benefits they might thereby acquire. When power is scarce, a little of it  is  tempting.  There  was,  too,  a  negative  inducement:  childless  or infertile or older women who were not married couldtake service in the Aunts and thereby escape redundancy, and consequent shipment to   the   infamous   Colonies,   which   were   composed   of   portable populations used mainly as expendable toxic-cleanup squads, though if lucky you could be assigned to less hazardoustasks, such as cotton picking and fruit harvesting.

The idea, then, was Judd's, but the implementation has the mark of Waterford upon it. Who else among the Sons of Jacob Think Tankers would  have  come  up  with  the  notion  that  the  Aunts  should  take names derived from commercial products available to women in the immediate  pre-Gilead  period,  and  thus  familiar  and  reassuring  to themthe  names  of  cosmetic  lines,  cake  mixes,  frozen  desserts,  and even medicinal remedies? It was a brilliant stroke, and confirms us in our opinion that Waterford was, in his prime, a man of considerable ingenuity. So, in his own way, was Judd. ; Both of these gentlemen were known to have been childless and thus eligible for a succession of  Handmaids.  Professor  Wade  and  I  have  speculated  in  our  joint paper, "The Notion of 'Seed' in Early Gilead," that bothlike many of the  Commandershad  come  in  contact  with  a  sterility-causing  virus that  was  developed  by  secret  pre-Gilead  gene-splicing  experiments with mumps, and which was intended for insertion into the supply of caviar   used   by   top   officials   in   Moscow.   (The   experiment   was abandoned after the Spheres of Influence Accord, because the virus was  considered  too  uncontrollable  and  therefore  too  dangerous  by

many, although some wished to sprinkle it over India.)

However, neither Judd nor Waterford was married to a woman who was or ever had been known either as "Pam" or as "Serena Joy." This latter appears to have been a somewhat malicious invention by our author.  Judd's  wife's  name  was  Bambi  Mae,  and  Water-ford's  was Thelma.   The   latter   had,   however,   once   worked   as   a   television personality of the type described. We know this from Limpkin, who makes several snide remarks about it. The regime itself took pains to cover  up  such  former  lapses  from  orthodoxy  by  the  spouses  of  its elite.

The evidence on the whole favors Waterford. We know, for instance, that  he  met  his  end,  probably  soon  after  the  events  our  author describes,  in  one  of  the  earliest  purges:  he  was  accused  of  liberal tendencies, of being in possession of a substantial and unauthorized collection   of   heretical   pictorial   and   literary   materials,   and   of harboring a subversive. This was before the regime began holding its trials  in  secret  and  was  still  televising  them,  so  the  events  were recorded in England via satellite and are on videotape deposit in our archives.  The  shots  of  Waterford  are  not  good,  but  they  are  clear enough to establish that his hair was indeed gray.

As for the subversive Waterford was accused of harboring, this could have been "Offred" herself, as her flight would have placed her in this category. More likely it was "Nick," who, by the evidence of the very existence of the tapes, must have helped "Offred" to escape. The way in  which  he  was  able  to  do  this  marks  him  as  a  member  of  the shadowy  Mayday  underground,  which  was  not  identical  with  the Underground Femaleroad but had connections with it. The latter was purely  a  rescue  operation,  the  former  quasi-military.  A  number  of Mayday operatives are known to have infil trated theGileadean power structure  at  the  highest  levels,  and  the  placement  of  one  of  their members  as  chauffeur  to  Waterford  would  certainly  have  been  a

coup; a  double  coup,  as  "Nick"  must  have  been  at  the  same  time  a member of the Eyes, as such chauffeurs and personal servants often were. Waterford would, of course, have been aware of this, but as all high-level Commanders were automatically directors of the Eyes, he would not have paid a great deal of attention to it and would not have let it interfere with his infraction of what he considered to be minor rules. Like most early Gilead Commanders who were later purged, he considered his position to be above attack. The style of middle Gilead was more cautious.

This is our guesswork. Supposing it to be correctsupposing, that is, that  Waterford  was  indeed  the  "Commander"many  gaps  remain. Some of them could have been filled by our anonymous author, had she had a different turn of mind. She could have told us much about the workings of the Gileadean empire, had she had the instincts of a reporter  or  a  spy.  What  would  we  not  give,  now,  for  even  twenty pages   or   so   of   print-out   from   Waterford's   private   computer! However, we must be grateful for any crumbs the Goddess of History has deigned to vouchsafe us.

As for the ultimate fate of our narrator, it remains obscure. Was she smuggled over the border of Gilead, into what was then Canada, and did she make her way thence to England? This would have been wise, as   the   Canada   of   that   time   did   not   wish   to   antagonize   its powerfulneighbor, and there were roundups and extraditions of such refugees.  If  so,  why  did  she  not  take  her  taped  narrative  with  her? Perhaps  her  journey  was  sudden;  perhaps  she  feared  interception. On the other hand, she may have been recaptured. If she did indeed reach  England, why did  she not  make her story public,  as so  many did upon reaching the outside world? She may have feared retaliation against  "Luke,"  supposing  him  to  have  been  still  alive  (which  is  an improbability),  or  even  against  her  daughter;  for  the  Gileadean regime was not above such measures, and used  them to discourage

adverse  publicity  in  foreign  countries.  More  than  one  incautious refugee  was  known  to  receive  a  hand,  ear,  or  foot,  vacuum-packed express, hidden in, for instance, a tin of coffee. Or perhaps she was among those escaped Handmaids who had difficulty adjusting to life in   the   outside   world,   once   they   got   there,   after   the   protected existence they had  led. She may have  become, like  them, a recluse. We do not know.

We can only deduce, also, the motivations for "Nick's" engineering of her   escape.   We   can   assume   that   once   her   companion   Ofglen's association  with  Mayday  had  been  discovered,  he  himself  was  in some jeopardy, for as he well knew, as a member of the Eyes, Offred herself was certain to be interrogated. The penalties for unauthorized sexual activity with a Handmaid were severe; nor would his status as an Eye necessarily protect him. Gilead society was Byzan-tine in the extreme,   and   any   transgression   might   be   used   against   one   by one'sundeclared  enemies  within  the  regime.  He  could,  of  course, have  assassinated  her  himself,  which  might  have  been  the  wiser course, but the human heart remains a factor, and, as we know, both of  them  thought  she  might  be  pregnant  by  him.  What  male  of  the Gilead period could resist the possibility of fatherhood, so redolent of status, so highly prized? Instead, he called in a rescue team of Eyes, who may or may not have been authentic but in any case were under his  orders.  In  doing  so  he  may  well  have  brought  about  his  own downfall. This too we shall never know.

Did our narrator reach the outside world safely and build a new life for herself? Or was she discovered in her attic hiding place, arrested, sent to the Colonies or to Jezebel's, or even executed? Our document, though in its own way eloquent, is on these subjects mute. We may call Eurydice forth from the world of the dead, but we cannot make her answer; and when we turn to look at her we glimpse her only for a moment, before she slips from our grasp andflees. As all historians

know, the past is a great darkness, and filled with echoes. Voices may reach us from it; but what they say to us is imbued with the obscurity of the matrix out of which they come; and, try as we may, we cannot always decipher them precisely in the clearer light of our own day. Applause.

Are there any questions? Biography

Margaret  Atwood  was  born  in  1939  in  Ottawa  and  grew  up  in northern  Ontario,            Quebec,           and            Toronto.           She      received           her undergraduate  degree  from  Victoria  College  at  the  University  of Toronto and her master's degree from Radcliffe College.

The daughter of a forest entomologist, Atwood spent a large part of her childhood in the Canadian wilderness. At the age of six she began to  write  "poems,  morality  plays,  comic  books,  and  an  unfinished novel about an ant." At sixteen she found that writing was "suddenly the only thing I wanted to do."

Throughout  her  career,  Margaret  Atwood  has  received  numerous awards   and   several   honorary   degrees,   including   the   Canadian Governor General's Award, Le Chevalier dans l'Ordre des Arts et des Lettres  in  France,  and  the  National  Arts  Club  Medal  of  Honor  for Literature. She is the author of more than thirty volumes of poetry, nonfiction, and fiction, including children's books and short stories. Her  most  recent  works  include  the  novels  Cat's  Eye  (1989),  The Robber    Bride    (1993), Alias     Grace   (1996), and       The      Blind Assassin(2000);   the   story   collection   Good   Bones   and   Simple Murders  (1994);  and  a  volume  of  poetry,  Morning  in  the  Burned House (1995).

Atwood's   work   has   been   published   in   more   than   twenty-five countries.  She  has  traveled  extensively  and  has  lived  in  Boston, Vancouver, Montreal, London, Provence, Berlin, and Edinburgh. Margaret Atwood now lives in Toronto with novelist Graeme Gibson

and their daughter.

The  Margaret  Atwood  Web  site  at  http://www.io.org/~toadaly  lists her speaking engagements in the United States and Canada.

The   Margaret   Atwood   Society,   whose   main   goal   is   to   promote scholarly  study  of  Atwood's  work,  publishes  an  annual  newsletter with  annotated bibliography, as well  as a midyear issue; and, as an official  MLA  Allied  Organization,  it  meets  annually  in  conjunction with the Modern Language Association convention. For membership, contact  Mary  Kirtz,  Department  of  English,  University  of  Akron, Akron, Ohio 44325.