The Handmaid's Tale(73)

One morning while we were getting dressed, I noticed that Janine was still in her white cotton nightgown. She was just sitting there on the edge of her bed.

I looked over towards the double doors of the gymnasium, where the Aunt usually stood, to see if she’d noticed, but the Aunt wasn’t there. By that time they were more confident about us; sometimes they left us unsupervised in the classroom and even the cafeteria for minutes at a time. Probably she’d ducked out for a smoke or a cup of coffee.

Look, I said to Alma, who had the bed next to mine.

Alma looked at Janine. Then we both walked over to her. Get your clothes on, Janine, Alma said, to Janine’s white back. We don’t want extra prayers on account of you. But Janine didn’t move.

By that time Moira had come over too. It was before she’d broken free, the second time. She was still limping from what they’d done to her feet. She went around the bed so she could see Janine’s face.

Come here, she said to Alma and me. The others were beginning to gather too, there was a little crowd. Go on back, Moira said to them. Don’t make a thing of it, what if she walks in?

I was looking at Janine. Her eyes were open, but they didn’t see me at all. They were rounded, wide, and her teeth were bared in a fixed smile. Through the smile, through her teeth, she was whispering to herself. I had to lean down close to her.

Hello, she said, but not to me. My name’s Janine. I’m your wait-person for this morning. Can I get you some coffee to begin with?

Christ, said Moira, beside me.

Don’t swear, said Alma.

Moira took Janine by the shoulders and shook her. Snap out of it, Janine, she said roughly. And don’t use that word.

Janine smiled. You have a nice day, now, she said.

Moira slapped her across the face, twice, back and forth. Get back here, she said. Get right back here! You can’t stay there, you aren’t there any more. That’s all gone.

Janine’s smile faltered. She put her hand up to her cheek. What did you hit me for? she said. Wasn’t it good? I can bring you another. You didn’t have to hit me.

Don’t you know what they’ll do? Moira said. Her voice was low, but hard, intent. Look at me. My name is Moira and this is the Red Centre. Look at me.

Janine’s eyes began to focus. Moira? she said. I don’t know any Moira.

They won’t send you to the Infirmary, so don’t even think about it, Moira said. They won’t mess around with trying to cure you. They won’t even bother to ship you to the Colonies. You go too far away and they just take you up to the Chemistry Lab and shoot you. Then they burn you up with the garbage, like an Unwoman. So forget it.

I want to go home, Janine said. She began to cry.

Jesus God, Moira said. That’s enough. She’ll be here in one minute, I promise you. So put your goddamn clothes on and shut up.

Janine kept whimpering, but she also stood up and started to dress.

She does that again and I’m not here, Moira said to me, you just have to slap her like that. You can’t let her go slipping over the edge. That stuff is catching.

She must have already been planning, then, how she was going to get out.





CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR


The sitting space in the courtyard is filled now; we rustle and wait. At last the Commander in charge of this service comes in. He’s balding and squarely built and looks like an aging football coach. He’s dressed in his uniform, sober black with the rows of insignia and decorations. It’s hard not to be impressed, but I make an effort: I try to imagine him in bed with his Wife and his Handmaid, fertilizing away like mad, like a rutting salmon, pretending to take no pleasure in it. When the Lord said be fruitful and multiply, did he mean this man?

This Commander ascends the steps to the podium, which is draped with a red cloth embroidered with a large white-winged eye. He gazes over the room, and our soft voices die. He doesn’t even have to raise his hands. Then his voice goes into the microphone and out through the speakers, robbed of its lower tones so that it’s sharply metallic, as if it’s being made not by his mouth, his body, but by the speakers themselves. His voice is metal-coloured, horn-shaped.

“Today is a day of thanksgiving,” he begins, “a day of praise.”

I tune out through the speech about victory and sacrifice. Then there’s a long prayer, about unworthy vessels, then a hymn: “There is a Balm in Gilead.”

“There is a Bomb in Gilead,” was what Moira used to call it.

Now comes the main item. The twenty Angels enter, newly returned from the fronts, newly decorated, accompanied by their honour guard, marching one-two one-two into the central open space. Attention, at ease. And now the twenty veiled daughters, in white, come shyly forward, their mothers holding their elbows. It’s mothers, not fathers, who give away daughters these days and help with the arrangement of the marriages. The marriages are of course arranged. These girls haven’t been allowed to be alone with a man for years; for however many years we’ve all been doing this.