The Testaments (32 page)

The next morning, Nicole and I slipped quietly out of Doorway C. The clouds in the east were pink and gold, the birds were chirping, the early-morning air was still fresh. There was no one else about. We walked quickly and quietly along the pathway in front of Ardua Hall, towards the statue of Aunt Lydia. Just as we got to it, Aunt Vidala came around the corner of the adjacent building, walking resolutely.

“Aunt Victoria!” she said. “Why are you wearing that dress? The next Thanks Giving isn’t until Sunday!” She peered at Nicole. “And who is that with you? That’s the new girl! Jade! She isn’t supposed to—” She reached out her hand and grabbed Nicole’s strand of pearls, which broke.

Nicole did something with her fist. It was so fast I hardly saw it, but she hit Aunt Vidala in the chest. Aunt Vidala crumpled to the ground. Her face was pasty white, her eyes were closed.

“Oh no—” I began to say.

“Help me,” said Nicole. She took Aunt Vidala by the feet and dragged her behind the base of the statue. “Fingers crossed,” she said. “Let’s go.” She took me by the arm.

There was an orange on the ground. Nicole picked it up and put it into her Pearl Girls dress pocket.

“Is she dead?” I whispered.

“Don’t know,” said Nicole. “Come on, we need to hurry.”

We reached the gate, we showed our passes, the Angels let us out. Nicole was holding her cloak shut so no one would see that her pearls were missing. There was a black car farther up the street to the right, as Aunt Lydia had said there would be. The driver did not turn his head as we got in.

“All set, ladies?” he said.

I said, “Yes, thank you,” but Nicole said, “We’re not ladies.” I nudged her with my elbow.

“Don’t talk to him like that,” I whispered.

“He’s not a real Guardian,” she said. “Aunt Lydia’s not a moron.” She took the orange out of her pocket and began peeling it. The crisp scent of it filled the air. “Want some?” she asked me. “You can have half.”

“No thank you,” I said. “It’s not right to eat it.” It had been a sacred offering of a kind after all. She ate the whole orange.

She’ll make a misstep, I was thinking. Someone will notice. She’ll get us arrested.

I was feeling sorry that I’d punched Aunt Vidala, though not very sorry: if I hadn’t hit her, she would have yelled and then we’d have been stopped. Even so, my heart was pounding. What if I’d actually killed her? But once they’d found her, dead or alive, there would be a hunt for us. We were in it up to the neck, as Ada would say.

Meanwhile, Agnes was acting offended in that silent, pinch-mouthed way the Aunts had of letting you know you’d crossed one of their lines. Most likely it was the orange. Maybe I shouldn’t have taken it. Then I had a bad thought: dogs. Oranges are really scented. I started worrying about what to do with the peels.

My left arm had begun to itch again, around the
O
. Why was it taking so long to heal?

When Aunt Lydia was sticking the microdot into my arm, I’d thought her plan was brilliant, but now I felt it might not have been such a good idea. If my body and the message were one, what would happen if my body didn’t make it to Canada? I could hardly cut off my arm and mail it.

Our car went through a couple of checkpoints—passports, Angels peering in the window to make sure we were us—but Agnes had told me to let the driver do the talking, and he did: Pearl Girls this and that, and how noble we were, and what sacrifices we were making. At one of them, the Angel said, “Good luck on your mission.” At another one—farther out of town—they joked among themselves.

“Hope they don’t bring back any ugly girls or sluts.”

“It’s one or the other.” Laughs from both checkpoint Angels.

Agnes put her hand on my arm. “Don’t talk back,” she said.

When we’d reached the countryside and were on a highway, the driver handed us a couple of sandwiches: Gilead fake cheese. “I guess this is breakfast,” I said to Agnes. “Toe jam on white.”

“We should give thanks,” said Agnes in her pious Aunt’s voice, so I guess she was still in a snit. It was weird to think of her as my sister; we were so unlike. But I hadn’t really had time to figure any of that out.

“I’m glad to have a sister,” I said, to make peace.

“I’m glad too,” said Agnes. “And I give thanks.” But she didn’t sound very thankful.

“I give thanks too,” I said. Which was the end of that conversation. I thought of asking her how long we had to keep it up, this Gilead way of talking—couldn’t we stop and act natural, now that we were escaping? But then, maybe for her it was natural. Maybe she didn’t know another way.

In Portsmouth, New Hampshire, the driver of our car let us out at the bus station. “Good luck, girls,” he said. “Give ’em hell.”

“See? He’s not a real Guardian,” I said, hoping to get Agnes talking again.

“Of course not,” she said. “A real Guardian would never say ‘hell.’ ”

The bus station was old and crumbling, the women’s washroom was a germ factory, and there was no place we could exchange our Gilead food tokens for anything a person would want. I was glad I’d eaten the orange. Agnes, however, was not squeamish, being used to the crap that passed for food at Ardua Hall, so she bought some kind of pretend doughnut with two of our tokens.

The minutes were ticking; I was getting jittery. We waited and waited, and finally a bus did come. Some people on board nodded at us when we got on, as they might to the military: a salute of the head. An older Econowife even said, “God bless you.”

About ten miles along there was another checkpoint, but the Angels there were super polite to us. One of them said, “You’re very brave, heading into Sodom.” If I hadn’t been so scared I might have laughed—the idea of Canada being Sodom was hilarious, considering how boring and ordinary it mostly was. It wasn’t like there was a non-stop countrywide orgy going on.

Agnes squeezed my hand to tell me she would do the talking. She had the Ardua Hall knack of keeping her face flat and calm. “We are simply doing our service for Gilead,” she said in her underspoken robot Aunt’s way, and the Angel said, “Praise be.”

The ride got bumpier. They must have been keeping their road repair money for roads more people were likely to use: since trading with Canada was practically shut down nowadays, who’d want to go to North Gilead unless you lived there?

The bus wasn’t full; everyone on it was Econoclass. We were on the scenic route, winding along the coast, but it wasn’t all that scenic. There were a lot of closed-down motels and roadside restaurants, and more than one big red smiling lobster that was falling apart.

As
we went north, the friendliness decreased: there were angry looks, and I had the feeling that our Pearl Girls mission and even the whole Gilead thing was leaking popularity. No one spat at us, but they scowled as if they would like to.

I wondered how far we had come. Agnes had the map that had been marked up by Aunt Lydia, but I didn’t like to ask her to take it out: the two of us looking at a map would be suspicious. The bus was slow, and I was getting more and more anxious: How soon before someone noticed we weren’t in Ardua Hall? Would they believe my bogus note? Would they call ahead, set up a roadblock, stop the bus? We were so conspicuous.

Then we took a detour, and it was one-way traffic, and Agnes started fidgeting with her hands. I nudged her with my elbow. “We need to look serene, remember?” She gave me a wan smile and folded her hands in her lap; I could feel her taking deep breaths and letting them out slowly. They did teach you a few useful things at Ardua Hall, and self-control was one of them.
She who cannot control herself cannot control the path to duty
.
Do not fight the waves of anger, use the anger as your fuel
.
Inhale. Exhale.
Sidestep. Circumvent. Deflect.

I would never have made it as a real Aunt.

It was around five in the afternoon when Agnes said, “We get off here.”

“Is this the border?” I said, and she said no, it was where we were supposed to meet our next ride. We took our backpacks off the rack and stepped down out of the bus. The town had boarded-up storefronts and smashed windows, but there was a fuel station and a shabby convenience store.

“This is encouraging,” I said gloomily.

“Follow me and don’t say anything,” Agnes said.

Inside, the store smelled like burnt toast and feet. There was hardly anything on the shelves, only a row of preserved food items with the lettering blacked out: canned goods and crackers or cookies. Agnes went up to the coffee counter—one of those red ones with bar stools—and sat down, so I did the same. There was a dumpy middle-aged Economan working the counter. In Canada, it would’ve been a dumpy middle-aged woman.

“Yeah?” the man said. Clearly he wasn’t impressed by our Pearl Girls outfits.

“Two coffees, please,” said Agnes.

He poured the coffees into mugs and shoved them across the counter. The coffee must have been sitting around all day because it was the worst I’d ever tasted, worse even than at Carpitz. I didn’t want to annoy the guy by not drinking it, so I put in a packet of sugar. If anything, that made it worse.

“It’s warm for a May day,” said Agnes.

“It’s not May,” he said.

“Of course not,” she said. “My mistake. There’s a June moon.”

Now the guy was smiling. “You need to use the washroom,” he said. “Both of youse. It’s through that door. I’ll unlock it.”

We went through the door. It wasn’t a washroom, it was an outside shed with old fishnets, a broken axe, a stack of buckets, and a back door. “Don’t know what took you so long,” said the man. “Fucking bus, it’s always late. Here’s your new stuff. There’s flashlights. Put your dresses in those backpacks, I’ll dump them later. I’ll be outside. We need to get a move on.”

The clothes were jeans and long T-shirts and wool socks and hiking boots. Plaid jackets, fleece pull-on hats, waterproof jackets. I had a little trouble with the left T-shirt sleeve—something caught on the
O
. I said, “Fucking shit” and then, “Sorry.” I don’t think I’ve ever changed clothes so fast in my life, but once I got the silver dress off and those clothes on I began to feel more like myself.

I found the clothing provided for us disagreeable in the extreme. The underwear was very different from the plain, sturdy variety worn at Ardua Hall: to me it felt slippery and depraved. Over that there were male garments. It was disturbing to feel that rough cloth touching the skin of my legs, with no intervening petticoat. Wearing such clothing was gender treachery and against God’s law: last year a man had been hanged on the Wall for dressing in his Wife’s undergarments. She’d discovered him and turned him in, as was her duty.

“I have to take these off,” I said to Nicole. “They’re men’s garments.”

“No, they’re not,” she said. “Those are girls’ jeans. They’re cut differently, and look at the little silver Cupids. Definitely girls’.”

“They’d never believe that in Gilead,” I said. “I’d be flogged or worse.”

“Gilead,” said Nicole, “is not where we’re going. We’ve got two minutes to join our buddy outside. So suck it up.”

“Pardon?” Sometimes I could not make out what my sister was saying.

She laughed a little. “It means ‘be brave,’ ” she said.

We are going to a place where she will understand the language, I thought. And I will not.

The man had a battered pickup. The three of us squashed into the front seat. It was beginning to drizzle.

“Thank you for all you are doing for us,” I said. The man grunted.

“I get paid,” he said. “For putting my neck in the noose. I’m too old for this.”

The driver must have been drinking while we were changing our clothes: I could smell the alcohol. I remembered that smell from the dinner parties Commander Kyle would have when I was young. Rosa and Vera used to finish up what was left in the glasses sometimes. Zilla, not as much.

Now that I was about to leave Gilead forever, I was feeling homesick for Zilla and Rosa and Vera, and for my former home, and for Tabitha. In those early times I was not motherless, but now I felt that I was. Aunt Lydia had been a mother of sorts, although a harsh one, and I would not see her again. Aunt Lydia had told Nicole and me that our real mother was alive and waiting for us in Canada, but I wondered if I would die on the way there. If so, I would never meet her at all in this life. Right then she was only a torn-up picture. She was an absence, a gap inside me.

Despite the alcohol, the man drove well and quickly. The road was winding, and slick because of the drizzle. The miles went by; the moon had risen above the clouds, silvering the black outlines of the treetops. There was the occasional house, either dark or with only a few lights on. I made a conscious effort to quell my anxieties; then I fell asleep.

I dreamed of Becka. She was there beside me in the front of the truck. I couldn’t see her, though I knew she was there. I said to her in the dream, “So you came with us after all. I’m so happy.” But she didn’t answer.

The night slid by in silence. Agnes was asleep, and the guy driving was not what you’d call talkative. I guess he thought of us as cargo to be delivered, and who ever talked to the cargo?

After a while we turned down a narrow side road; water glinted ahead. We pulled in beside what looked like a private dock. There was a motorboat with someone sitting in it.

“Wake her up,” the driver said. “Take your stuff, there’s your boat.”

I poked Agnes in the ribs and she started awake.

“Rise and shine,” I said.

“What time is it?”

“Boat time. Let’s go.”

“Have a good trip,” said our driver. Agnes started thanking him some more, but he cut her off. He tossed our new backpacks out of the truck and was gone before we were halfway to the boat. I was using my flashlight so we could see the path.

“Turn out the light,” the person in the boat called softly. It was a man, wearing a waterproof with the hood up, but the voice sounded young. “You can see okay. Take it slow. Sit on the middle seat.”

“Is this the ocean?” Agnes asked.

He laughed. “Not yet,” he said. “This is the Penobscot River. You’ll get to the ocean soon enough.”

The motor was electric and very quiet. The boat went right down the middle of the river; there was a crescent moon, and the water was reflecting it.

“Look,” Agnes whispered. “I’ve never seen anything so beautiful! It’s like a trail of light!” At that moment I felt older than her. We were almost outside Gilead now, and the rules were changing. She was going to a new place where she wouldn’t know how things were done, but I was going home.

“We’re right out in the open. What if anyone sees us?” I asked the man. “What if they tell them? The Eyes?”

“People around here don’t talk to the Eyes,” he said. “We don’t like snoops.”

“Are you a smuggler?” I said, remembering what Ada had told me. My sister nudged me: bad manners again. You avoided blunt questions in Gilead.

He laughed. “Borders—lines on a map. Things move across, people too. I’m just the delivery boy.”

The river got wider and wider. The mist was rising; the shores were vague.

“There she is,” the man said finally. I could see a darker shadow, out on the water. “The
Nellie J. Banks
. Your ticket to paradise.”