The Handmaids Tale | Page 6

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 thoug ht I was
sounding like that, voice of a monotone, voice of a doll. She p robably
longed to slap my face. They can hit us, there's Scriptural preced ent.

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 he r
before.
The first time was on television, when I was eight or nine. It wa s
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. Sh e
was ash blond, petite, with a snub nose and huge blue eyes whic h
she'd turn upwards during hymns. She could smile and cry at the
same time, one tear or two sliding gracefully down her cheek, a s 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 s ide is
damp, the air humid. Here and there are worms, evidence of the
fertility of the soil, caught by the sun, half dead; flexible a nd pink,
like lips.
I open the white picket gate and continue, past the front lawn a nd
towards the front gate. In the driveway, one of the Guardians
assigned to our household is washing the car. That must mean th e
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 Ch ariot,

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 leas t hasn't
changed, the way men caress good cars.
He's wearing the uniform of the Guardians, but his cap is tilted a t 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 cigarett e
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 stupi d-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. N ot fish
or decaying rat; tanned skin, moist in the sun, filmed with smo ke. 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 mout h
where he smiles. He takes a final puff of the cigarette, lets it d rop to
the driveway, and steps on it. He begins to whistle. Then he win ks.
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 w as the
cigarette.
I'erhaps it was a test, to see what I would do. i I'erhaps he is an E ye.

I open the front gate and close it behind me, looking down but no
t
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 cleane r tan
they