The Handmaids Tale | Page 3

to say, and wipes her floury han ds
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 stand s for.

She thinks I may be catching, like a disease or any form of bad lu
ck.
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 wa nt 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 how l. 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. I f I
hadn't of got my tubes tied, it could of been me, say I was ten ye ars
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 face s 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 a lso
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 li ke to stay
here, in the kitchen. Cora might come in, from somewhere else in th e
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 R ita's any
more than my table is mine, and we would talk, about aches and
pains, illnesses, our feet, our backs, all the different kind s of mischief
that our bodies, like unruly children, can get into. We would no d our
heads as punctuation to each other's voices, signaling that y es, we
know all about it. We would exchange remedies and try to outdo e ach

other in the recital of our physical miseries; gently we would
complain, our voices soft and minor key and mournful as pigeon
s 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 f rom
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 wa s 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 the ir eyes
averted. I've heard them at it sometimes, caught whiffs of thei r
private conversations. Stillborn, it was. Or, Stabbed her with a
knitting needle, right in the belly. Jealousy, it must have be en, eating
her up. Or, tantalizingly, It was toilet cleaner she used. Work ed 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 s oft
resistant warmth which is so much like flesh. I hunger to touch
something, other than cloth or wood. I hunger to commit the ac t 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 Martha s are
not supposed to fraternize with us.
Fraternize means to behave like a brother. Luke told me that. He sa id
there was no corresponding word thathat meant to behave like a
sister. Sororize, it would have to be, he said. From the Latin. He l iked
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 pict ures
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 t
hem in
the zippered pocket in my sleeve, where 1 keep my pass.
"Tell them fresh, for the eggs," she any. "Not like the last tim e. And a
chicken, tell them, not a hen. Tell them who It's for and then t hey
won't mess around."
"All right," I