The Handmaids Tale | Page 4

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 edge s, the
flower borders, in which the daffodils are now fading and the tul ips
are opening their cups, spilling out color. The tulips are red, a d arker
crimson towards the stem, as if they have been cut and are beginni ng
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 kne es
on a cushion, a light blue veil thrown over her wide gardening ha t, a
basket at her side with shears in it and pieces of string for lyin g the
flowers into place. A Guardian detailed to the Commander does t he
heavy digging; the Commander's Wife directs, pointing with he r
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 w ay.
Sometimes the Commander's Wife has a chair brought out, and jus t
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 footstoo l,
because of her arthritis. Or knitting scarves, for the Angels a t 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 ac ross
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 child ren.
Sometimes I think these scarves aren't sent to the Angels at al l, 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, t o 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 att ained.
What does she envy me?
She doesn't speak to me, unless she can't avoid it. I am a reproac h to
her; and a necessity.
We stood face to face for the first time five weeks ago, when I arri ved
at this posting. The Guardian from the previous pos?g brought me t o
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 do wn, it's
too soon, everyone is unsure about our exact status. After a wh ile it
will be either all from doors or all back.
Aunt Lydia said she was lobbying for the front. Your in a positi on of
honor, she said.
The Guardianrang the doorbell for me, but before there was time fo r
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 sh e
said so. There is push and shove, these days, over suchtoehold s.
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 th
at
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 cli ck of
the front gate, and I felt as if a protective arm were being withdraw n.
The threshold of a new house is a lonely place.
She waited until the car started up and pulled away. I wasn't lo oking
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 h er cane,
the large diamonds on the ring finger, which must once have
beenfine and was still finely kept, the fingernail at the end o f 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