The Testaments (17 page)

“I am not convinced that’s wise,” said Vidala. “Letting them run their own affairs to that extent. Women are weak vessels. Even the strongest of them should not be allowed to—”

Commander Judd cut her off. “Men have better things to do than to concern themselves with the petty details of the female sphere. There must be women competent enough for that.” He nodded at me, and Vidala shot me a look of hatred. “The women of Gilead will have occasion to be grateful to you,” he continued. “So many regimes have done these things badly. So unpleasantly, so wastefully! If you fail, you will fail all women.
As
Eve did. Now I will leave you to your collective deliberations.”

And so we began.

During these initial sessions, I took stock of my fellow Founders—for as Founders we would be revered in Gilead, Commander Judd had promised. If you are familiar with school playgrounds of the rougher sort, or with henyards, or indeed with any situation in which the rewards are small but the competition for them is fierce, you will understand the forces at work. Despite our pretense of amity, indeed of collegiality, the underlying currents of hostility were already building. If it’s a henyard, I thought, I intend to be the alpha hen. To do that, I need to establish pecking rights over the others.

In Vidala I had already made an enemy. She had seen herself as the natural leader, but that view had been challenged. She would oppose me in every way she could—but I had an advantage: I was not blinded by ideology. This would give me a flexibility she lacked, in the long game ahead of us.

Of the other two, Helena would be the easiest to steer, as she was the most unsure of herself. She was plump at that time, though she has dwindled since; one of her former jobs had been with a lucrative weight-loss company, she told us. That was before she’d segued into
PR
work for a high-fashion lingerie company and had acquired an extensive shoe collection. “Such beautiful shoes,” she mourned before Vidala shut her down with a frown. Helena would follow the prevailing wind, I decided; and that would work for me as long as I was that wind.

Elizabeth was from a higher social sphere, by which I mean very obviously higher than mine. It would lead her to underestimate me. She was a Vassar girl, and had worked as an executive assistant to a powerful female senator in Washington—presidential potential, she had confided. But the Thank Tank had broken something in her; her birthright and education had not saved her, and she was dithery.

One by one I could handle them, but if they combined into a mob of three I would have trouble. Divide and conquer would be my motto.

Keep steady, I told myself. Don’t share too much about yourself, it will be used against you. Listen carefully. Save all clues. Don’t show fear.

Week by week we invented: laws, uniforms, slogans, hymns, names. Week by week we reported to Commander Judd, who turned to me as the spokeswoman of the group. For those concepts he approved, he took the credit. Plaudits flowed his way from the other Commanders. How well he was doing!

Did I hate the structure we were concocting? On some level, yes: it was a betrayal of everything we’d been taught in our former lives, and of all that we’d achieved. Was I proud of what we managed to accomplish, despite the limitations? Also, on some level, yes. Things are never simple.

For a time I almost believed what I understood I was supposed to believe. I numbered myself among the faithful for the same reason that many in Gilead did: because it was less dangerous. What good is it to throw yourself in front of a steamroller out of moral principles and then be crushed flat like a sock emptied of its foot? Better to fade into the crowd, the piously praising, unctuous, hate-mongering crowd. Better to hurl rocks than to have them hurled at you. Or better for your chances of staying alive.

They knew that so well, the architects of Gilead. Their kind has always known that.

I will record here that, some years later—after I had tightened my grip over Ardua Hall and had leveraged it to acquire the extensive though silent power in Gilead that I now enjoy—Commander Judd, sensing that the balance had shifted, sought to propitiate me. “I hope you have forgiven me, Aunt Lydia,” he said.

“For what, Commander Judd?” I asked in my most affable tone. Could it be that he might have become a little afraid of me?

“The stringent measures I was forced to take at the outset of our association,” he said. “In order to separate the wheat from the chaff.”

“Oh,” I said. “I am sure your intentions were noble.”

“I believe so. But still, the measures were harsh.” I smiled, said nothing. “I spotted you as wheat, right from the beginning.” I continued to smile. “Your rifle contained a blank,” he said. “I thought you would like to know.”

“So kind of you to tell me,” I said. The muscles of my face were beginning to hurt. Under some conditions, smiling is a workout.

“I am forgiven, then?” he asked. If I hadn’t been so keenly aware of his preference for barely nubile young women, I’d have thought he was flirting. I plucked a scrap from the grab bag of the vanished past: “To err is human, to forgive divine.
As
someone once remarked.”

“You are so erudite.”

Last evening, after I’d finished writing, had tucked my manuscript away in the hollow cavern within Cardinal Newman, and was on my way to the Schlafly Café, I was accosted on the pathway by Aunt Vidala. “Aunt Lydia, may I have a word?” she said. It is a request to which the answer must always be yes. I invited her to accompany me to the café.

Across the Yard, the white and many-pillared home base of the Eyes was brightly lit: faithful to their namesake, the lidless Eye of God, they never sleep. Three of them were standing on the white stairway outside their main building, having a cigarette. They didn’t glance our way. In their view, the Aunts are like shadows—their own shadows, fearsome to others but not to them.

As
we passed my statue I checked out the offerings: fewer eggs and oranges than usual. Is my popularity slipping? I resisted the urge to pocket an orange: I could come back later.

Aunt Vidala sneezed, the prelude to an important utterance. Then she cleared her throat. “I shall take this occasion to remark that there has been some uneasiness expressed about your statue,” she said.

“Really?” I said. “In what way?”

“The offerings. The oranges. The eggs. Aunt Elizabeth feels that this excess attention is dangerously close to cult worship. Which would be idolatry,” she added. “A grave sin.”

“Indeed,” I said. “What an illuminating insight.”

“Also it’s a waste of valuable food. She says it’s practically sabotage.”

“I do so agree,” I said. “No one is more eager than I to avoid even the appearance of a cult of personality.
As
you know, I support strict rules concerning nutrient intake. We leaders at the Hall must set a high example, even in such matters as second helpings, especially of hard-boiled eggs.” Here I paused: I had video footage of Aunt Elizabeth in the Refectory, secreting these portable food items in her sleeves, but this was not the moment to share. “
As
for the offerings, such manifestations on the part of others are beyond my control. I cannot prevent unknown persons from leaving tokens of affection and respect, of loyalty and thanks, such as baked goods and fruit items, at the feet of my effigy. However undeserved by myself, it goes without saying.”

“Not prevent them ahead of time,” said Aunt Vidala. “But they might be detected and punished.”

“We have no rule about such actions,” said I, “so no rule has been broken.”

“Then we should make a rule,” said Aunt Vidala.

“I will certainly consider it,” I said. “And the appropriate punishment. These things need to be tactfully done.” It would be a pity to give up the oranges, I reflected: they are intermittent, given the undependable supply lines. “But I believe you have more to add?”

By this time we had reached the Schlafly Café. We seated ourselves at one of the pink tables. “A cup of warm milk?” I asked. “I’ll treat you.”

“I can’t drink milk,” she said peevishly. “It’s mucus-forming.”

I always offer Aunt Vidala a warm milk at my expense, which displays my generosity—milk not being a part of our common rations, but an elective, paid for with the tokens we are given according to our status. She always declines irascibly.

“Oh, sorry,” I said. “I’d forgotten. Some mint tea, then?”

Once our drinks were in front of us, she got down to her main business. “The fact is,” she said, “I personally have witnessed Aunt Elizabeth placing food items at the foot of your statue. Hard-boiled eggs in particular.”

“Fascinating,” I said. “Why would she be doing that?”

“To create evidence against you,” she said. “That is my opinion.”

“Evidence?” I’d thought Elizabeth had merely been eating those eggs. This was a more creative use for them: I was quite proud of her.

“I believe she’s preparing to denounce you. To divert attention from herself and her own disloyal activities. She may be the traitor within us, here at Ardua Hall—working with the Mayday terrorists. I have long suspected her of heresy,” said Aunt Vidala.

I experienced a jolt of excitement. This was a development I hadn’t anticipated: Vidala snitching on Elizabeth—and to me of all people, despite her long-standing loathing of me! Wonders never cease.

“That is shocking news, if true. Thank you for telling me,” I said. “You shall be rewarded. Though there is no proof at present, I shall take the precaution of communicating your suspicions to Commander Judd.”

“Thank you,” said Aunt Vidala in turn. “I confess that I once had doubts as to your fitness as our leader, here at Ardua Hall, but I have prayed about it. I was wrong to have such doubts. I apologize.”

“Everyone makes mistakes,” I said magnanimously. “We are only human.”

“Under His Eye,” she said, bowing her head.

Keep your friends close but your enemies closer. Having no friends, I must make do with enemies.

I was telling you about the moment when Elijah said that I wasn’t who I thought I was. I don’t like remembering that feeling. It was like having a sinkhole open up and swallow you—not only you but your house, your room, your past, everything you’d ever known about yourself, even the way you looked—it was falling and smothering and darkness, all at once.

I must have sat there for at least a minute, not saying anything. I felt I was gasping for breath. I felt chilled through.

Baby Nicole, with her round face and her unknowing eyes. Every time I’d seen that famous photo, I’d been looking at myself. That baby had caused a lot of trouble for a lot of people just by being born. How could I be that person? Inside my head I was denying it, I was screaming no. But nothing came out.

“I don’t like this,” I said at last in a small voice.

“None of us likes it,” said Elijah kindly. “We would all like reality to be otherwise.”

“I wish there was no Gilead,” I said.

“That’s our goal,” said Ada. “No Gilead.” She said it in that practical way she had, as if no Gilead was as easy as fixing a dripping tap. “You want some coffee?”

I shook my head. I was still trying to take it in. So I was a refugee, like the frightened women I’d seen in SanctuCare; like the other refugees everyone was always arguing about. My health card, my only proof of identity, was a fake. I’d never legally been in Canada at all. I could be deported at any time. My mother was a Handmaid? And my father…“So my father’s one of those?” I said. “A Commander?” The idea of part of him being part of me—being inside my actual body—made me shiver.

“Luckily not,” said Elijah. “Or not according to your mother, though she doesn’t wish to endanger your real father by saying so, as he may still be in Gilead. But Gilead is staking its claim to you via your official father. It’s on those grounds they’ve always demanded your return. The return of Baby Nicole,” he clarified.

Gilead had never given up on the idea of finding me, Elijah told me. They’d never stopped looking; they were very tenacious. To their way of thinking I belonged to them, and they had a right to track me down and haul me across the border by whatever means, legal or illegal. I was underage, and although that particular Commander had disappeared from view—most likely in a purge—I was his, according to their legal system. He had living relatives, so if it came to a court case they might well be granted custody. Mayday couldn’t protect me because it was classed internationally as a terrorist organization. It existed underground.

“We’ve planted a few false leads over the years,” said Ada. “You were reported in Montreal, and also in Winnipeg. Then you were said to be in California, and after that in Mexico. We moved you around.”

“Was that why Melanie and Neil didn’t want me going to the march?”

“In a way,” said Ada.

“So I did it. It was my fault,” I said. “Wasn’t it?”

“How do you mean?” said Ada.

“They didn’t want me
seen
,” I said. “They got killed because they were hiding me.”

“Not exactly,” said Elijah. “They didn’t want pictures of you circulating, they didn’t want you on
TV
. Gilead might conceivably search the images of the march, try to match them. They had your baby picture; they must have an approximate idea of what you might look like now. But as it turned out, they’d suspected independently that Melanie and Neil were Mayday.”

“They might have been following me,” said Ada. “They might have connected me with SanctuCare, and then with Melanie. They’ve placed informants inside Mayday before—at least one fake escaped Handmaid, maybe more.”

“Maybe even inside SanctuCare,” said Elijah. I thought of the people who used to go to those meetings at our house. It was sickening to think one of them might have been planning to kill Melanie and Neil, even while they were eating the grapes and the pieces of cheese.

“So that part had nothing to do with you,” said Ada. I wondered if she was just trying to make me feel better.

“I hate being Baby Nicole,” I said. “I didn’t ask to be.”

“Life sucks, end of story,” said Ada. “Now we have to work out where to go from here.”

Elijah left, saying he’d be back in a couple of hours. “Don’t go out, don’t look out the window,” he said. “Don’t use a phone. I’ll arrange for a different car.”

Ada opened a tin of chicken soup; she said I needed to get something inside me, so I tried. “What if they come?” I asked. “What do they even look like?”

“They look like anybody,” Ada said.

In the afternoon, Elijah came back. With him was George, the old street guy I’d once thought was stalking Melanie. “It’s worse than we thought,” said Elijah. “George saw it.”

“Saw what?” said Ada.

“There was a
CLOSED
sign on the shop. It’s never closed in the day, so I wondered,” said George. “Then three guys came out and put Melanie and Neil into the car. They were kind of walking them as if they were drunk. They were talking, making it look social, like they’d been having a chat and were just saying goodbye. Melanie and Neil just sat in the car. Looking back—they were slumping, as if they were asleep.”

“Or dead,” said Ada.

“Yeah, could be,” said George. “The three guys went off. About one minute later the car blew up.”

“That’s way worse than what we thought,” said Ada. “Like, what did they tell before, inside the store?”

“They wouldn’t have said anything,” said Elijah.

“We don’t know that,” said Ada. “Depends on the tactics. Eyes are harsh.”

“We need to move out of here fast,” George said. “I don’t know if they saw me. I didn’t want to come here, but I didn’t know what to do so I called SanctuCare and Elijah came and got me. But what if they were tapping my phone?”

“Let’s trash it,” said Ada.

“What kind of guys?” Elijah asked.

“Suits. Businessmen. Respectable-looking,” said George. “They had briefcases.”

“I bet they did,” said Ada. “And they stuck one of them in the car.”

“I’m sorry about this,” George said to me. “Neil and Melanie were good people.”

“I need to go,” I said because I was going to start crying; so I went into my bedroom and shut the door.

That didn’t last long. Ten minutes later there was a knock, then Ada opened my door. “We’re moving,” she said. “Toot sweet.”

I was in bed with the duvet pulled up to my nose. “Where?” I said.

“Curiosity got the cat in trouble. Let’s go.”

We went down the big staircase, but instead of going outside we went into one of the downstairs apartments. Ada had a key.

The apartment was like the one upstairs: furnished with new things, nothing personal. It looked lived in, but just barely. There was a duvet on the bed, identical to the one upstairs. In the bedroom was a black backpack. There was a toothbrush in the bathroom, but nothing in the cabinet. I know because I looked. Melanie used to say that 90 percent of people looked in other people’s bathroom cabinets, so you should never keep your secrets in there. Now I was wondering where she actually did keep her secrets, because she must have had a lot of them.

“Who lives here?” I asked Ada.

“Garth,” she said. “He’ll be our transport. Now, quiet as mice.”

“What are we waiting for?” I asked. “When’s something going to happen?”

“Wait long enough and you won’t be disappointed,” said Ada. “Something will happen. Only you might not like what it is.”