The Handmaid's Tale(56)

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 were 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 mikes, 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 anyway.”

“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 any more, 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 grey 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 inside also 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.





CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT


I don’t feel like a nap this afternoon, there’s still too much adrenalin. I sit on the window seat, looking out through the semi-sheer 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.