The Handmaids Tale | Page 8

said Rita, angrily. She was minding h er 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, an y 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, befo re, like.
To set things right.

The two young Guardians salute us, raising three fingers to the rim
s
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 lit tle,
to help him, and he sees my eyes and I see his, and he blushes. Hi s
face is long and mournful, like a sheep's, but with the large ful l eyes
of a dog, spaniel not terrier. His skin is pale and looks
un-wholesomely tender, like the skin under a scab. Neverthele ss, 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 undete ct-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? T his is
what they must think about sometimes, as they stand endlessl y
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 th e
occasional Birthmobile', or their read Hand-maids, on foot. O r
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 obscuri ty.

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 no t
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. Whatev er 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 o n the
lawn. If they think of a kiss, they must then think immediatel y of the
floodlights going on, the rifle shots. They think instead of d oing their
duty and of promotion to the Angels, and of being allowed possi bly 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 u s
and stands back, well out of the way, and we pass through. As wew alk
away I know they're watching, these two men who aren't yet
permitted to touch women. They touch with their eyes instead a nd I
move my hips a little, feeling the full red skirt sway around me. I t's
like thumbing your nose from behind a fence or teasing a dog wit h 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 youn g. Then
I find I'm not ashamed after all. I enjoy the power; power of a do g
bone, passive but there. I hope theyget hard at the sight of us an d
have to rub themselves against the painted barriers, surreptitiou sly.
They will suffer, later, at night, in their regimented beds. The y have
no outlets now except themselves, and that's a sacrilege. The re are no
more magazines, no more films, no more substitutes; only me and
my shadow, walking away from the two men, who stand at attentio n,
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