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Synopsis: First published in1985, TheHandmaid's Taleisanovel ofsuch power thatthereader is unable toforget itsimages anditsforecast. Withmore thantwomillion copies inprint, it is Margaret Atwood's mostpopular andcompelling novel.Setinthe near future, it describes lifeinwhat once wastheUnited States, nowcalled theRepublic ofGilead. Reacting tosocial unrest, andasharply declining birthrate,thenew regime hasreverted to — even gone beyond —the repressive toleranceofthe original Puritans. Offredisa Handmaid whomay leave thehome ofthe Commander andhiswife once aday towalk to food markets whosesignsarenow pictures insteadofwords because womenareno longer allowed toread. Shemust lieon her back once amonth andpray thatthe Commander makesherpregnant becausesheisonly valued aslong asher ovaries are viable. Offredcanremember theyears before, whenshelived andmade lovewithher husband, Luke;whensheplayed withandprotected herdaughter; whenshehad ajob, money ofher own, andaccess toknowledge. Butallofthat isgone now.Funny, unexpected, horrifying,andaltogether convincing, TheHandmaid's Taleisat once scathing satire,direwarning, andtour deforce. The Handmaid's Tale Margaret Atwood � 1985 Night CHAPTER 1

We slept inwhat hadonce been thegymnasium. Thefloor wasofvarnished wood,with stripes andcircles painted onit,for the games thatwere formerly playedthere;the hoops forthe basketball netswere stillinplace, though thenets were gone. Abalcony ran around theroom, forthe spectators, andIthought Icould smell, faintly likean afterimage, thepungent scentofsweat, shotthrough withthesweet taintofchewing gum andperfume fromthewatching girls,felt-skirted asIknew frompictures, laterin miniskirts, thenpants, theninone earring, spikygreen- streaked hair.Dances would have been heldthere; themusic lingered, apalimpsest ofunheard sound,styleupon style, anundercurrent ofdrums, aforlorn wail,garlands madeoftissue- paperflowers, cardboard devils,arevolving ballofmirrors, powdering thedancers withasnow oflight. There wasoldsex inthe room andloneliness, andexpectation, ofsomething withouta shape orname. Iremember thatyearning, forsomething thatwas always aboutto happen andwas never thesame asthe hands thatwere onusthere andthen, inthe small ofthe back, orout back, inthe parking lot,orinthe television roomwiththesound turned downandonly thepictures flickering overlifting flesh. We yearned forthe future. Howdidwelearn it,that talent forinsatiability? Itwas inthe air; and itwas stillinthe air,anafter- thought, aswe tried tosleep, inthe army cotsthat had been setupinrows, withspaces between sowe could nottalk. Wehad flannelette sheets, likechildren's, andarmy- issue blankets, oldones thatstillsaid U.S. Wefolded our clothes neatlyandlaidthem onthe stools atthe ends ofthe beds. Thelights were turned downbutnotout. Aunt Sara andAunt Elizabeth patrolled;theyhadelectric cattle prods slungonthongs fromtheirleather belts. No guns though, eventheycould notbetrusted withguns. Gunswereforthe guards, specially pickedfromtheAngels. Theguards weren't allowed insidethebuilding except when called, andweweren't allowed out,except forour walks, twicedaily, twobytwo around thefootball field,which wasenclosed nowbyachain- linkfence topped with barbed wire.TheAngels stoodoutside itwith their backs tous. They wereobjects of fear tous, but ofsomething elseaswell. Ifonly they would look.Ifonly wecould talkto them. Something couldbeexchanged, wethought, somedealmade, sometradeoff, we still had ourbodies. Thatwasourfantasy. We learned towhisper almostwithout sound.Inthe semi- darkness wecould stretch out our arms, whentheAunts weren't looking, andtouch eachother's handsacross space. We learned tolip- read, ourheads flatonthe beds, turned sideways, watchingeach other's mouths. Inthis way weexchanged names,frombedtobed: Alma. Janine. Dolores. Moira.June. Shopping

CHAPTER 2 A chair, atable, alamp. Above, onthe white ceiling, arelief ornament inthe shape ofa wreath, andinthe center ofita blank space, plastered over,liketheplace inaface where theeye hasbeen taken out.There musthave been achandelier, once.They've removed anythingyoucould tiearope to. A window, twowhite curtains. Underthewindow, awindow seatwithalittle cushion. When thewindow ispartly open—itonly opens partly—the aircan come inand make the curtains move.Ican sitinthe chair, oron the window seat,hands folded, andwatch this. Sunlight comesinthrough thewindow too,and falls onthe floor, which ismade of wood, innarrow strips,highlypolished. Ican smell thepolish. There's arug onthe floor, oval, ofbraided rags.Thisisthe kind oftouch theylike:folkart,archaic, madeby women, intheir spare time,fromthings thathave nofurther use.Areturn totraditional values. Wastenotwant not.Iam not being wasted. WhydoIwant? On the wall above thechair, apicture, framedbutwith noglass: aprint offlowers, blue irises, watercolor. Flowersarestillallowed, Doeseachofus have thesame print,the same chair,thesame whitecurtains, Iwonder? Government issue? Think ofitas being inthe army, saidAunt Lydia. A bed. Single, mattress medium-hard,covered withaflocked whitespread. Nothing takes place inthe bed butsleep; orno sleep. Itry not tothink toomuch. Likeother things now,thought mustberationed. There'salot that doesn't bearthinking about. Thinking canhurt your chances, andIintend tolast. Iknow whythere isno glass, in front ofthe watercolor pictureofblue irises, andwhy thewindow opensonlypartly and why theglass initis shatterproof. Itisn't running awaythey're afraidof.We wouldn't get far. It'sthose otherescapes, theones youcanopen inyourself, givenacutting edge. So. Apart fromthese details, thiscould beacollege guestroom, forthe less distinguished visitors;oraroom inarooming house,offormer times,forladies in reduced circumstances. Thatiswhat weare now. Thecircumstances havebeen reduced; forthose ofus who stillhave circumstances. But achair, sunlight, flowers:thesearenottobe dismissed. Iam alive, Ilive, Ibreathe, I put myhand out,unfolded, intothesunlight. WhereIam isnot aprison butaprivilege, as Aunt Lydia said,whowasinlove witheither/or.

The bellthat measures timeisringing. Timehereismeasured bybells, asonce in nunneries. Asinanunnery too,there arefew mirrors. I get upout ofthe chair, advance myfeet intothesunlight, intheir redshoes, flat-heeled to save thespine andnotfordancing. Theredgloves arelying onthe bed. Ipick them up, pull them ontomyhands, fingerbyfinger. Everything exceptthewings around my face isred: thecolor ofblood, whichdefines us.The skirt isankle- length, full,gathered to aflat yoke thatextends overthebreasts, thesleeves arefull. The white wings tooare prescribed issue;theyaretokeep usfrom seeing, butalso from being seen.Inever looked goodinred, it'snot mycolor. Ipick upthe shopping basket,putitover myarm. The door ofthe room —not myroom, Irefuse tosay my—isnot locked. Infact it doesn't shutproperly. Igo out into thepolished hallway,whichhasarunner downthe center, dustypink.Likeapath through theforest, likeacarpet forroyalty, itshows me the way. The carpet bendsandgoes down thefront staircase andIgo with it,one hand onthe banister, onceatree, turned inanother century, rubbedtoawarm gloss. LateVictorian, the house is,afamily house, builtforalarge richfamily. There's agrandfather clockin the hallway, whichdolesouttime, andthen thedoor tothe motherly frontsitting room, with itsflesh tones andhints. Asitting roominwhich Inever sit,but stand orkneel only. At the end ofthe hallway, abovethefront door, isafanlight ofcolored glass:flowers, red and blue. There remains amirror, onthe hall wall. IfIturn myhead sothat thewhite wings framing my face direct myvision towards it,Ican seeitas Igo down thestairs, round, convex, a pier glass, liketheeye ofafish, andmyself initlike adistorted shadow,aparody of something, somefairy-talefigure inared cloak, descending towardsamoment of carelessness thatisthe same asdanger. ASister, dipped inblood. At the bottom ofthe stairs there's ahat- and- umbrella stand,thebentwood kind,long rounded rungsofwood curving gentlyupinto hooks shaped liketheopening frondsofa fern. There areseveral umbrellas init:black, forthe Commander, blue,forthe Commander's Wife,andtheone assigned tome, which isred. Ileave thered umbrella where itis, because Iknow fromthewindow thattheday issunny. Iwonder whether or not theCommander's wifeisin the sitting room.Shedoesn't alwayssit.Sometimes Ican hear herpacing backandforth, aheavy stepandthen alight one, andthesoft tapofher cane onthe dusty- rosecarpet. I walk along thehallway, pastthesitting roomdoorandthedoor thatleads intothe dining room,andopen thedoor atthe end ofthe hall and gothrough intothekitchen. Here thesmell isno longer offurniture polish.Ritaisin here, standing atthe kitchen table, which hasatop ofchipped whiteenamel. She'sinher usual Martha's dress,which is dull green, likeasurgeon's gownofthe time before. Thedress ismuch likemine in

shape, longandconcealing, butwith abib apron overitand without thewhite wings and the veil. She puts onthe veil togo outside, butnobody muchcareswhosees theface of a Martha. Hersleeves arerolled tothe elbow, showing herbrown arms.She'smaking bread, throwing theloaves forthe final brief kneading andthen theshaping. Rita sees meand nods, whether ingreeting orinsimple acknowledgment ofmy presence it'shard tosay, andwipes herfloury hands onher apron andrummages inthe kitchen drawerforthe token book.Frowning, shetears outthree tokens andhands them to me. Herface might bekindly ifshe would smile.Butthefrown isn'tpersonal: it'sthe red dress shedisapproves of,and what itstands for.She thinks Imay becatching, likea disease orany form ofbad luck. Sometimes Ilisten outside closeddoors,athing Inever would havedone inthe time before. Idon't listen long,because Idon't wanttobe caught doingit.Once, though, I heard RitasaytoCora thatshewouldn't debaseherselflikethat. Nobody askingyou,Cora said.Anyways, whatcould youdo,supposing? Go tothe Colonies, Ritasaid. They havethechoice. With theUnwomen, andstarve todeath andLord knows whatall?said Cora. Catch you. They wereshelling peas;eventhrough thealmost- closeddoorIcould hearthelight clink of the hard peas falling intothemetal bowl.Iheard Rita,agrunt orasigh, ofprotest or agreement. Anyways, they'redoingitfor usall, said Cora, orso they say.IfIhadn't ofgot mytubes tied, itcould ofbeen me,sayIwas tenyears younger. It'snot that bad. It'snot what you'd callhard work. Better herthan me,Rita said, andIopened thedoor. Theirfaces weretheway women's faces arewhen they've beentalking aboutyoubehind yourback andthey think you've heard: embarrassed, butalso alittle defiant, asifitwere theirright. Thatday,Cora was more pleasant tome than usual, Ritamore surly. Today, despite Rita'sclosed faceandpressed lips,Iwould liketostay here, inthe kitchen. Coramight comein,from somewhere elseinthe house, carrying herbottle of lemon oiland herduster, andRita would makecoffee —inthe houses ofthe Commanders thereisstill real coffee —and wewould sitatRita's kitchen table,which is not Rita's anymore thanmytable ismine, andwewould talk,about aches andpains, illnesses, ourfeet, ourbacks, allthe different kindsofmischief thatourbodies, like unruly children, cangetinto. Wewould nodourheads aspunctuation toeach other's voices, signaling thatyes, weknow allabout it.We would exchange remediesandtryto outdo eachother inthe recital ofour physical miseries; gentlywewould complain, our voices softand minor keyand mournful aspigeons inthe eaves troughs. Iknow what you mean, we'dsay.Or,aquaint expression yousometimes hear,still,from older people: Ihear where you'recoming from,asifthe voice itselfwere atraveler, arriving from adistant place.Which itwould be,which itis.

How Iused todespise suchtalk.Now Ilong forit.At least itwas talk. Anexchange, of sorts. Or we would gossip. TheMarthas knowthings, theytalkamong themselves, passingthe unofficial newsfromhouse tohouse. Likeme,they listen atdoors, nodoubt, andsee things evenwiththeir eyes averted. I'veheard thematitsometimes, caughtwhiffsof their private conversations. Stillborn,itwas. Or,Stabbed herwith aknitting needle, right in the belly. Jealousy, itmust have been, eating herup.Or,tantalizingly, Itwas toilet cleaner sheused. Worked likeacharm, though you'dthinkhe'doftasted it.Must've been thatdrunk; butthey found heroutallright. Or Iwould helpRitamake thebread, sinking myhands intothat softresistant warmth which isso much likeflesh. Ihunger totouch something, otherthancloth orwood. I hunger tocommit theactoftouch. But even ifIwere toask, even ifIwere toviolate decorum tothat extent, Ritawould not allow it.She would betoo afraid. TheMarthas arenotsupposed tofraternize withus. Fraternize meanstobehave likeabrother. Luketoldmethat. Hesaid there wasno corresponding wordthatmeant tobehave likeasister. Sororize, itwould havetobe, he said. From theLatin. Heliked knowing aboutsuchdetails. Thederivations ofwords, curious usages. Iused totease himabout beingpedantic. I take thetokens fromRita's outstretched hand.Theyhavepictures onthem, ofthe things theycanbeexchanged fortwelve eggs,apiece ofcheese, abrown thingthat's supposed tobe asteak. Iplace theminthe zippered pocketinmy sleeve, whereIkeep my pass. "Tell them fresh, forthe eggs," shesaid. "Notlikethelast time. Andachicken, tellthem, not ahen. Tellthem whoit'sforand then theywon't mess around." "All right," Isay. Idon't smile. Whytempt hertofriendship? CHAPTER 3 I go out bythe back door, intothegarden, whichislarge andtidy: alawn inthe middle, a willow, weeping catkins;aroundtheedges, theflower borders, inwhich thedaffodils are now fading andthetulips areopening theircups, spilling outcolor. Thetulips arered, a darker crimson towards thestem, asifthey have been cutand arebeginning toheal there.

This garden isthe domain ofthe Commander's Wife.Looking outthrough my shatterproof windowI'veoften seenherinit,her knees onacushion, alight blue veil thrown overherwide gardening hat,abasket ather side withshears initand pieces of string fortying theflowers intoplace. AGuardian detailedtothe Commander doesthe heavy digging; theCommander's Wifedirects, pointing withherstick. Many ofthe Wives have suchgardens, it'ssomething forthem toorder andmaintain andcare for. I once hadagarden. Ican remember thesmell ofthe turned earth,theplump shapes of bulbs heldinthe hands, fullness, thedryrustle ofseeds through thefingers. Timecould pass more swiftly thatway. Sometimes theCommander's Wifehasachair brought out, and justsitsinit,in her garden. Fromadistance itlooks likepeace. She isn'there now, andIstart towonder wheresheis:Idon't liketocome uponthe Commander's Wifeunexpectedly. Perhapsshe'ssewing, inthe sitting room,withherleft foot onthe footstool, becauseofher arthritis. Orknitting scarves, forthe Angels atthe front lines. Ican hardly believe theAngels haveaneed forsuch scarves; anyway,the ones made bythe Commander's Wifearetooelaborate. Shedoesn't botherwiththe cross- and-starpattern usedbymany ofthe other Wives, it'snot achallenge. Firtrees march across theends ofher scarves, oreagles, orstiff humanoid figures,boyand girl, boy and girl.They aren't scarves forgrown menbutforchildren. Sometimes Ithink these scarves aren'tsenttothe Angels atall, but unraveled and turned backintoballs ofyarn, tobe knitted againintheir turn. Maybe it'sjust something to keep theWives busy,togive them asense ofpurpose. ButIenvy theCommander's Wife herknitting. It'sgood tohave small goals thatcanbeeasily attained. What doessheenvy me? She doesn't speaktome, unless shecan't avoid it.Iam areproach toher; anda necessity. We stood facetoface forthe first time fiveweeks ago,when Iarrived atthis posting. The Guardian fromtheprevious postingbrought metothe front door. Onfirst days we are permitted frontdoors, butafter thatwe're supposed touse theback. Things haven't settled down,it'stoo soon, everyone isunsure aboutourexact status. Afterawhile itwill be either allfront doors orall back. Aunt Lydia saidshewas lobbying forthe front. Yours isaposition ofhonor, shesaid. The Guardian rangthedoorbell forme, butbefore therewastime forsomeone tohear and walk quickly toanswer, thedoor opened inward.Shemust have been waiting behind it,Iwas expecting aMartha, butitwas herinstead, inher long powder- bluerobe, unmistakable.

So, you're thenew one, shesaid. Shedidn't stepaside tolet me in,she juststood there in the doorway, blockingtheentrance. Shewanted metofeel that Icould notcome into the house unless shesaid so.There ispush andshove, thesedays,oversuch toeholds. Yes, Isaid. Leave iton the porch. Shesaid thistothe Guardian, whowascarrying mybag. Thebag was redvinyl andnotlarge. There wasanother bag,withthewinter cloakandheavier dresses, butthat would becoming later. The Guardian setdown thebag andsaluted her.Then Icould hearhisfootsteps behind me, going backdown thewalk, andtheclick ofthe front gate, andIfelt asifa protective arm were being withdrawn. Thethreshold ofanew house isalonely place. She waited untilthecarstarted upand pulled away.Iwasn't looking ather face, butat the part ofher Icould seewith myhead lowered: herblue waist, thickened, herlefthand on the ivory head ofher cane, thelarge diamonds onthe ring finger, whichmustonce have been fineand was stillfinely kept,thefingernail atthe end ofthe knuckly finger filed toagentle curving point.Itwas likeanironic smile, onthat finger; likesomething mocking her. You might aswell come in,she said. Sheturned herback onme and limped downthe hall. Shut thedoor behind you. I lifted myred bag inside, asshe'd nodoubt intended, thenclosed thedoor. Ididn't say anything toher. Aunt Lydia saiditwas best nottospeak unless theyasked youadirect question. Trytothink ofitfrom theirpoint ofview, shesaid, herhands clasped and wrung together, hernervous pleading smile.Itisn't easy forthem. In here, saidtheCommander's Wife.When Iwent intothesitting roomshewas already in her chair, herleftfoot onthe footstool, withitspetit point cushion, rosesinabasket. Her knitting wasonthe floor beside thechair, theneedles stuckthrough it. I stood infront ofher, hands folded. So,she said. Shehadacigarette, andsheputit between herlips and gripped itthere whileshelitit. Her lipswere thin,held thatway, with thesmall vertical linesaround themyouused tosee inadvertisements forlip cosmetics. Thelighter wasivory- colored. Thecigarettes musthave come fromtheblack market, Ithought, andthisgave mehope. Evennowthatthere isno real money anymore, there'sstillablack market. There'salwaysablack market, there'salways something thatcanbeexchanged. Shethen wasawoman whomight bendtherules. But what didIhave, totrade? I looked atthe cigarette withlonging. Forme, likeliquor andcoffee, theyareforbidden. So old what's- his-face didn't workout,shesaid. No, ma'am, Isaid.

She gave whatmight havebeen alaugh, thencoughed. Toughluckonhim, shesaid. This isyour second, isn'tit? Third, ma'am, Isaid. Not sogood foryou either, shesaid. There wasanother coughing laugh.Youcansit down. Idon't make apractice ofit,but just thistime. I did sit,onthe edge ofone ofthe stiff- backed chairs.Ididn't wanttostare around the room, Ididn't wanttoappear inattentive toher; sothe marble mantelpiece tomy right and themirror overitand thebunches offlowers werejustshadows, then,atthe edges of my eyes. LaterIwould havemore thanenough timetotake them in. Now herface wasonalevel withmine. Ithought Irecognized her;oratleast there was something familiarabouther.Alittle ofher hair was showing, fromunder herveil. Itwas still blond. Ithought thenthatmaybe shebleached it,that hairdyewas something else she could getthrough theblack market, butIknow nowthatitreally isblond. Her eyebrows wereplucked intothinarched lines,which gaveherapermanent lookof surprise, oroutrage, orinquisitiveness, suchasyou might seeonastartled child,but below themhereyelids weretired-looking. Notsoher eyes, which weretheflathostile blue ofamidsummer skyinbright sunlight, ablue thatshuts youout. Hernose must once havebeen whatwascalled cutebutnow wastoosmall forher face. Herface was not fatbut itwas large. Twolines leddownward fromthecorners ofher mouth; between them washerchin, clenched likeafist. I want tosee aslittle ofyou aspossible, shesaid. Iexpect youfeelthesame wayabout me. I didn't answer, asayes would havebeen insulting, ano contradictory. I know youaren't stupid, shewent on.She inhaled, blewoutthesmoke. I'veread your file. AsfarasI'm concerned, thisislike abusiness transaction. ButifIget trouble, I'll give trouble back.Youunderstand? Yes, ma'am, Isaid. Don't callmema'am, shesaid irritably. You'renotaMartha. I didn't askwhat Iwas supposed tocall her, because Icould seethat shehoped Iwould never havetheoccasion tocall heranything atall. Iwas disappointed. Iwanted, then,to turn herinto anolder sister, amotherly figure,someone whowould understand and protect me.The Wife inmy posting beforethishad spent mostofher time inher bedroom; theMarthas saidshedrank. Iwanted thisone tobe different. Iwanted tothink I would havelikedher,inanother timeandplace, another life.ButIcould seealready that Iwouldn't havelikedher,norshe me. She puther cigarette out,halfsmoked, inalittle scrolled ashtrayonthe lamp table

beside her.She didthis decisively, onejaband onegrind, nottheseries ofgenteel taps favored bymany ofthe Wives. As formy husband, shesaid, he'sjustthat. Myhusband. Iwant thattobe perfectly clear. Tilldeath douspart. It'sfinal. Yes, ma'am, Isaid again, forgetting. Theyusedtohave dolls, forlittle girls, thatwould talk ifyou pulled astring atthe back; Ithought Iwas sounding likethat, voice ofa monotone, voiceofadoll. Sheprobably longedtoslap myface. They canhitus, there's Scriptural precedent. Butnotwith anyimplement. Onlywiththeir hands. It's one ofthe things wefought for,said theCommander's Wife,andsuddenly she wasn't looking atme, shewas looking downather knuckled, diamond-studdedhands, and Iknew where I'dseen herbefore. The firsttime wasontelevision, whenIwas eight ornine. Itwas when mymother was sleeping in,on Sunday mornings, andIwould getupearly andgotothe television setin my mother's studyandflipthrough thechannels, lookingforcartoons. Sometimes when I couldn't findanyIwould watchtheGrowing SoulsGospel Hour,where theywould tell Bible stories forchildren andsing hymns. Oneofthe women wascalled Serena Joy. She wasthelead soprano. Shewasashblond, petite,withasnub noseandhuge blue eyes which she'dturnupwards duringhymns. Shecould smileandcryatthe same time, one tear ortwo sliding gracefully downhercheek, asifon cue, asher voice lifted through itshighest notes,tremulous, effortless.Itwas after thatshewent ontoother things. The woman sittinginfront ofme was Serena Joy.Orhad been, once.Soitwas worse than Ithought. CHAPTER 4 I walk along thegravel paththatdivides theback lawn, neatly, likeahair parting. Ithas rained duringthenight; thegrass toeither sideisdamp, theairhumid. Hereandthere are worms, evidence ofthe fertility ofthe soil, caught bythe sun, halfdead; flexible and pink, likelips. I open thewhite picket gateandcontinue, pastthefront lawn andtowards thefront gate. In the driveway, oneofthe Guardians assignedtoour household iswashing thecar. That must mean theCommander isin the house, inhis own quarters, pastthedining room andbeyond, whereheseems tostay most ofthe time.

The carisavery expensive one,aWhirlwind; betterthantheChariot, muchbetter than the chunky, practical Behemoth. It'sblack, ofcourse, thecolor ofprestige orahearse, and long andsleek. Thedriver isgoing overitwith achamois, lovingly.Thisatleast hasn't changed, theway men caress goodcars. He's wearing theuniform ofthe Guardians, buthiscap istilted atajaunty angleandhis sleeves arerolled tothe elbow, showing hisforearms, tannedbutwith astipple ofdark hairs, Hehas acigarette stuckinthe corner ofhis mouth, whichshows thathetoo has something hecan trade onthe black market. I know thisman's name: Nick.Iknow thisbecause I'veheard RitaandCora talking about him,andonce Iheard theCommander speakingtohim: Nick, Iwon't beneeding the car. He lives here, inthe household, overthegarage. Lowstatus: hehasn't beenissued a woman, noteven one.Hedoesn't rate:some defect, lackofconnections. Butheacts as if he doesn't knowthis,orcare, He'stoocasual, he'snotservile enough. Itmay be stupidity, butIdon't thinkso.Smells fishy,theyused tosay; or,Ismell arat. Misfit as odor. Despite myself,Ithink ofhow hemight smell. Notfishordecaying rat;tanned skin, moist inthe sun, filmed withsmoke. Isigh, inhaling. He looks atme, and sees melooking. Hehas aFrench face,lean, whimsical, allplanes and angles, withcreases aroundthemouth wherehesmiles. Hetakes afinal puffofthe cigarette, letsitdrop tothe driveway, andsteps onit.He begins towhistle. Thenhe winks. I drop myhead andturn sothat thewhite wings hidemyface, andkeep walking. He's just taken arisk, butforwhat? WhatifIwere toreport him? Perhaps hewas merely beingfriendly. Perhaps hesaw thelook onmy face andmistook it for something else.Really whatIwanted wasthecigarette. Perhaps itwas atest, tosee what Iwould do.Perhaps heisan Eye. I open thefront gateandclose itbehind me,looking downbutnotback. Thesidewalk is red brick. Thatisthe landscape Ifocus on,afield ofoblongs, gentlyundulating where the earth beneath hasbuckled, fromdecade afterdecade ofwinter frost.Thecolor of the bricks isold, yetfresh andclear. Sidewalks arekept much cleaner thantheyused to be. I walk tothe corner andwait. Iused tobe bad atwaiting. Theyalsoserve whoonly stand andwait, saidAunt Lydia. Shemade usmemorize it.She also said, Notallofyou will make itthrough. Someofyou willfallondry ground orthorns. Someofyou are shallow- rooted.Shehadamole onher chin thatwent upand down whileshetalked.

She said, Think ofyourselves asseeds, andright then hervoice waswheedling, conspiratorial, likethevoices ofthose women whoused toteach balletclasses to children, andwho would say,Arms upinthe airnow; let'spretend we'retrees. Istand on the corner, pretending Iam atree. A shape, redwith white wings around theface, ashape likemine, anondescript woman in red carrying abasket, comesalongthebrick sidewalk towardsme.She reaches me and wepeer ateach other's faces,looking downthewhite tunnels ofcloth thatenclose us. She isthe right one. "Blessed bethe fruit," shesays tome, theaccepted greetingamongus. "May theLord open," Ianswer, theaccepted response. Weturn andwalk together past the large houses, towardsthecentral partoftown. Wearen't allowed togo there except in twos. Thisissupposed tobe for our protection, thoughthenotion isabsurd: weare well protected already.Thetruth isthat sheismy spy, asIam hers. Ifeither ofus slips through thenetbecause ofsomething thathappens onone ofour daily walks, theother will beaccountable. This woman hasbeen mypartner fortwo weeks. Idon't know whathappened tothe one before. Onacertain dayshesimply wasn'tthereanymore, andthisone was there inher place. Itisn't thesort ofthing youaskquestions about,because theanswers arenot usually answers youwant toknow. Anyway therewouldn't beananswer. This oneisalittle plumper thanIam. Hereyes arebrown. Hername isOfglen, and that's about allIknow about her.She walks demurely, headdown, red-gloved hands clasped infront, withshort littlesteps likeatrained pig's,onitshind legs. During these walks shehasnever saidanything thatwas notstrictly orthodox, butthen, neither have I. She may beareal believer, aHandmaid inmore thanname. Ican't taketherisk. "The warisgoing well,Ihear," shesays. "Praise be,"Ireply. "We've beensentgood weather." "Which Ireceive withjoy." "They've defeated moreofthe rebels, sinceyesterday." "Praise be,"Isay. Idon't askherhow sheknows, "Whatwerethey?" "Baptists. Theyhadastronghold inthe Blue Hills. They smoked themout."

"Praise be." Sometimes Iwish shewould justshut upand letme walk inpeace. ButI'mravenous for news, anykind ofnews; evenifit's false news, itmust mean something. We reach thefirst barrier, whichislike thebarriers blocking offroadworks, ordug- up sewers: awooden crisscross paintedinyellow andblack stripes, ared hexagon which means Stop.Nearthegateway therearesome lanterns, notlitbecause itisn't night. Above us,Iknow, therearefloodlights, attachedtothe telephone poles,foruse in emergencies, andthere aremen withmachine gunsinthe pillboxes oneither sideofthe road. Idon't seethefloodlights andthepillboxes, becauseofthe wings around myface. I just know theyarethere. Behind thebarrier, waitingforusatthe narrow gateway, therearetwo men, inthe green uniforms ofthe Guardians ofthe Faith, withthecrests ontheir shoulders andberets: two swords, crossed, aboveawhite triangle. TheGuardians aren'trealsoldiers. They're used forroutine policing andother menial functions, diggingupthe Commander's Wife's garden, forinstance, andthey're eitherstupid orolder ordisabled orvery young, apart from theones thatareEyes incognito. These twoarevery young: onemustache isstill sparse, oneface isstill blotchy. Their youth istouching, butIknow Ican't bedeceived byit.The young onesareoften the most dangerous, themost fanatical, thejumpiest withtheir guns. Theyhaven't yet learned aboutexistence throughtime.Youhave togo slowly withthem. Last week theyshotawoman, rightabout here.ShewasaMartha. Shewasfumbling in her robe, forher pass, andthey thought shewas hunting forabomb. Theythought she was aman indisguise. Therehavebeen suchincidents. Rita andCora knew thewoman. Iheard themtalking aboutit,in the kitchen. Doing theirjob,said Cora. Keeping ussafe. Nothing saferthandead, saidRita, angrily. Shewasminding herown business. Nocall to shoot her. It was anaccident, saidCora. No such thing, saidRita. Everything ismeant. I could hearherthumping thepots around, inthe sink. Well, someone'll thinktwice before blowing upthis house, anyways, saidCora. All the same, saidRita. Sheworked hard.Thatwasabad death. I can think ofworse, saidCora. Atleast itwas quick.

You cansaythat, saidRita. I'dchoose tohave some time,before, like.Toset things right. The twoyoung Guardians saluteus,raising threefingers tothe rims oftheir berets. Such tokens areaccorded tous. They aresupposed toshow respect, because ofthe nature ofour service. We produce ourpasses, fromthezippered pocketsinour wide sleeves, andthey are inspected andstamped. Oneman goes intotheright- hand pillbox, topunch our numbers intotheCompuchek. In returning mypass, theone with thepeach- colored mustache bendshishead totry to get alook atmy face. Iraise myhead alittle, tohelp him,andhesees myeyes andI see his,and heblushes. Hisface islong andmournful, likeasheep's, butwith thelarge full eyes ofadog, spaniel notterrier. Hisskin ispale andlooks unwholesomely tender, like theskin under ascab. Nevertheless, Ithink ofplacing myhand onit,this exposed face. Heisthe one who turns away. It's anevent, asmall defiance ofrule, sosmall astobe undetectable, butsuch moments are therewards Ihold outformyself, likethecandy Ihoarded, asachild, atthe back of a drawer. Suchmoments arepossibilities, tinypeepholes. What ifIwere tocome atnight, whenhe'sonduty alone —though hewould neverbe allowed suchsolitude —and permit himbeyond mywhite wings? WhatifIwere topeel off my red shroud andshow myself tohim, tothem, bythe uncertain lightofthe lanterns? Thisiswhat theymust thinkabout sometimes, asthey stand endlessly beside this barrier, pastwhich nobody evercomes except theCommanders ofthe Faithful in their longblack murmurous cars,ortheir blueWives andwhite- veiled daughters ontheir dutiful waytoSalvagings orPrayvaganzas, ortheir dumpy greenMarthas, orthe occasional Birthmobile, ortheir redHandmaids, onfoot. Orsometimes ablack- painted van, withthewinged Eyeinwhite onthe side. Thewindows ofthe vans aredark- tinted, and themen inthe front seats weardarkglasses: adouble obscurity. The vans aresurely moresilent thantheother cars.When theypass, weavert oureyes. If there aresounds comingfrominside, wetrynot tohear them. Nobody's heartis perfect. When theblack vansreach acheckpoint, they'rewavedthrough withoutapause. The Guardians wouldnotwant totake therisk oflooking inside,searching, doubtingtheir authority. Whatever theythink. If they dothink; youcan't tellbylooking atthem.

But more likelytheydon't thinkinterms ofclothing discarded onthe lawn. Ifthey think of a kiss, theymust thenthink immediately ofthe floodlights goingon,therifle shots. They think instead ofdoing theirdutyandofpromotion tothe Angels, andofbeing allowed possibly tomarry, andthen, ifthey areable togain enough powerandlivetobe old enough, ofbeing allotted aHandmaid oftheir own. The onewith themustache opensthesmall pedestrian gateforusand stands back,well out ofthe way, andwepass through. Aswe walk away Iknow they're watching, these two men whoaren't yetpermitted totouch women. Theytouch withtheir eyes instead and Imove myhips alittle, feeling thefullred skirt sway around me.It'slike thumbing your nose frombehind afence orteasing adog with abone heldoutofreach, andI'm ashamed ofmyself fordoing it,because noneofthis isthe fault ofthese men,they're too young. ThenIfind I'mnot ashamed afterall.Ienjoy thepower; powerofadog bone, passive butthere. Ihope theygethard atthe sight ofus and have torub themselves against thepainted barriers, surreptitiously. Theywillsuffer, later,atnight, intheir regimented beds.Theyhavenooutlets nowexcept themselves, andthat's asacrilege. There arenomore magazines, nomore films, nomore substitutes; onlymeand my shadow, walkingawayfromthetwo men, whostand atattention, stiffly,byaroadblock, watching ourretreating shapes. CHAPTER 5 Doubled, Iwalk thestreet. Though weare nolonger inthe Commanders' compound, there arelarge houses herealso. Infront ofone ofthem aGuardian ismowing thelawn. The lawns aretidy, thefacades aregracious, ingood repair; they're likethebeautiful pictures theyused toprint inthe magazines abouthomes andgardens andinterior decoration. Thereisthe same absence ofpeople, thesame airofbeing asleep. The street isalmost likeamuseum, orastreet inamodel townconstructed toshow theway people usedtolive. Asinthose pictures, thosemuseums, thosemodel towns, thereare no children. This isthe heart ofGilead, wherethewar cannot intrude exceptontelevision. Wherethe edges arewearen't sure,theyvary, according tothe attacks andcounterattacks; but this isthe center, wherenothing moves.TheRepublic ofGilead, saidAunt Lydia, knows no bounds. Gileadiswithin you. Doctors livedhereonce, lawyers, university professors. Therearenolawyers anymore, and theuniversity isclosed.

Luke andIused towalk together, sometimes, alongthesestreets. Weused totalk about buying ahouse likeone ofthese, anold bighouse, fixingitup. We would havea garden, swingsforthe Children. Wewould havechildren. Although weknew itwasn't too likely wecould everafford it,itwas something totalk about, agame forSundays. Such freedom nowseems almostweightless. We turn thecorner ontoamain street, wherethere's moretraffic. Carsgoby, black most of them, somegrayandbrown. Thereareother women withbaskets, someinred, some in the dull green ofthe Marthas, someinthe striped dresses, redand blue andgreen and cheap andskimpy, thatmark thewomen ofthe poorer men.Econowives, they're called. Thesewomen arenotdivided intofunctions. Theyhavetodo everything; ifthey can. Sometimes thereisawoman allinblack, awidow. Thereusedtobe more ofthem, but they seem tobe diminishing. Youdon't seetheCommanders' Wivesonthe sidewalks. Onlyincars. The sidewalks herearecement. Likeachild, Iavoid stepping onthe cracks. 'm remembering myfeet onthese sidewalks, inthe time before, andwhat Iused towear on them. Sometimes itwas shoes forrunning, withcushioned solesandbreathing holes, and stars offluorescent fabricthatreflected lightinthe darkness. ThoughInever ranat night; andinthe daytime, onlybeside well-frequented roads. Women werenotprotected then. I remember therules, rulesthatwere never spelled outbutthat every woman knew: Don't openyourdoor toastranger, evenifhe says heisthe police. Makehimslide his ID under thedoor. Don't stoponthe road tohelp amotorist pretending tobe introuble. Keep thelocks onand keep going. Ifanyone whistles, don'tturntolook. Don't gointo a laundromat, byyourself, atnight. I think about laundromats. WhatIwore tothem: shorts, jeans,jogging pants.WhatIput into them: myown clothes, myown soap, myown money, moneyIhad earned myself. I think about having suchcontrol. Now wewalk along thesame street, inred pairs, andnoman shouts obscenities atus, speaks tous, touches us.Noone whistles. There ismore thanonekind offreedom, saidAunt Lydia. Freedom toand freedom from. In the days ofanarchy, itwas freedom to.Now youarebeing givenfreedom from.Don't underrate it.

In front ofus, tothe right, isthe store where weorder dresses. Somepeople callthem habits, agood wordforthem. Habits arehard tobreak. Thestore hasahuge wooden sign outside it,in the shape ofagolden lily;Lilies ofthe Field, it'scalled. Youcansee the place, underthelily, where thelettering waspainted out,when theydecided that even thenames ofshops weretoomuch temptation forus. Now places areknown by their signs alone. Lilies usedtobe amovie theater, before.Students wentthere alot; every spring they had aHumphrey Bogartfestival, withLauren BacallorKatharine Hepburn,womenon their own, making uptheir minds. Theyworeblouses withbuttons downthefront that suggested thepossibilities ofthe word undone. Thesewomen couldbeundone; ornot. They seemed tobe able tochoose. Weseemed tobe able tochoose, then.Wewere a society dying,saidAunt Lydia, oftoo much choice. I don't know when theystopped havingthefestival. Imust have been grown up.SoI didn't notice. We don't gointo Lilies, butacross theroad andalong aside street. Ourfirststop isat a store withanother wooden sign:three eggs, abee, acow. MilkandHoney. There's a line, andwewait ourturn, twobytwo. Isee they have oranges today.Eversince Central America waslosttothe Libertheos, orangeshavebeen hardtoget: sometimes theyare there, sometimes not.The warinterferes withtheoranges fromCalifornia, andeven Florida isn'tdependable, whenthereareroadblocks orwhen thetrain tracks havebeen blown up.Ilook atthe oranges, longingforone. ButIhaven't brought anycoupons for oranges. I'llgo back andtellRita about them,Ithink. She'll bepleased. Itwill be something, asmall achievement, tohave made oranges happen. Those who've reached thecounter handtheirtokens acrossit,to the two men in Guardian uniformswhostand onthe other side.Nobody talksmuch, though thereisa rustling, andthewomen's headsmovefurtively fromsidetoside: here, shopping, is where youmight seesomeone youknow, someone you'veknown inthe time before, or at the Red Center. Justtocatch sightofaface likethat isan encouragement. IfIcould see Moira, justsee her, know shestillexists. It'shard toimagine now,having afriend. But Ofglen, besideme,isn't looking, Maybeshedoesn't knowanyone anymore. Maybe they have allvanished, thewomen sheknew. Ormaybe shedoesn't wanttobe seen. She stands insilence headdown. As we wait inour double line,thedoor opens andtwomore women comein,both inthe red dresses andwhite wings ofthe Handmaids. Oneofthem isvastly pregnant; her belly, under herloose garment, swellstriumphantly. Thereisashifting inthe room, a murmur, anescape ofbreath; despite ourselves weturn ourheads, blatantly, tosee better; ourfingers itchtotouch her.She's amagic presence tous, anobject ofenvy and desire, wecovet her.She's aflag onahilltop, showing uswhat canstillbedone: wetoo can besaved. The women inthe room arewhispering, almosttalking, sogreat istheir excitement.

"Who isit?" Ihear behind me. "Ofwayne. No.Ofwarren." "Show- off,"avoice hisses, andthisistrue. Awoman thatpregnant doesn'thavetogo out, doesn't havetogo shopping. Thedaily walkisno longer prescribed, tokeep her abdominal musclesinworking order.Sheneeds onlythefloor exercises, thebreathing drill. Shecould stayather house. Andit'sdangerous forher tobe out, there mustbea Guardian standingoutsidethedoor, waiting forher. Now thatshe's thecarrier oflife, she is closer todeath, andneeds special security. Jealousy couldgether, it'shappened before. Allchildren arewanted now,butnotbyeveryone. But thewalk maybeawhim ofhers, andthey humor whims, whensomething hasgone this farand there's beennomiscarriage. Orperhaps she'soneofthose, Pileiton, Ican take it,amartyr. Icatch aglimpse ofher face, asshe raises itto look around. Thevoice behind mewas right. She's comeheretodisplay herself. She'sglowing, rosy,she's enjoying everyminute ofthis. "Quiet," saysoneofthe Guardians behindthecounter, andwehush likeschoolgirls. Ofglen andIhave reached thecounter. Wehand overourtokens, andoneGuardian enters thenumbers onthem intotheCompubite whiletheother gives usour purchases, the milk, theeggs. Weputthem intoourbaskets andgoout again, pastthepregnant woman andherpartner, whobeside herlooks spindly, shrunken; aswe alldo. The pregnant woman'sbellyislike ahuge fruit.Humungous, wordofmy childhood. Her hands restonitas ifto defend it,or as ifthey're gathering something fromit,warmth and strength. As Ipass shelooks fullatme, intomyeyes, andIknow whoshe; is.She wasatthe Red Center withme,one ofAunt Lydia's pets.Inever likedher.Hername, inthe time before, was Janine. Janine looksatme, then, andaround thecorners ofher mouth thereisthe trace ofa smirk. Sheglances downtowhere myown belly liesflatunder myred robe, andthe wings coverherface. Ican seeonly alittle ofher forehead, andthepinkish tipofher nose. Next wegointo AllFlesh, whichismarked byalarge wooden porkchop hanging from two chains. Thereisn'tsomuch ofaline here: meatisexpensive, andeven the Commanders don'thave itevery day.Ofglen getssteak, though, andthat's thesecond time thisweek. I'lltell that tothe Marthas: it'sthe kind ofthing theyenjoy hearing about. They arevery interested inhow other households arerun; such bitsofpetty gossip give them anopportunity forpride ordiscontent.

I take thechicken, wrapped inbutcher's paperandtrussed withstring. Notmany things are plastic, anymore. Iremember thoseendless whiteplastic shopping bags,fromthe supermarket; Ihated towaste themandwould stuffthem inunder thesink, untiltheday would comewhentherewould betoo many andIwould openthecupboard doorand they would bulgeout,sliding overthefloor. Lukeusedtocomplain aboutit.Periodically he would takeallthe bags andthrow themout. She could getone ofthose overherhead, he'dsay.Youknow howkidsliketoplay. She never would, I'dsay. She's tooold. (Ortoosmart, ortoo lucky.) ButIwould feelachill of fear, andthen guiltforhaving beensocareless. Itwas true, Itook toomuch forgranted; I trusted fate,back then. I'llkeep them inahigher cupboard, I'dsay. Don't keepthem at all, he'd say.Wenever usethem foranything. Garbagebags,I'dsay. He'd say... Not here andnow. Notwhere people arelooking. Iturn, seemysilhouette inthe plate glass window. Wehave come outside, then,weare onthe street. A group ofpeople iscoming towards us.They're tourists, fromJapan itlooks like,a trade delegation perhaps,onatour ofthe historic landmarks orout forlocal color. They're diminutive andneatly turned out;each hashisorher camera, hisorher smile. They lookaround, bright-eyed,cocking theirheads toone side likerobins, theirvery cheerfulness aggressive,andIcan't helpstaring. It'sbeen along timesince I'veseen skirts thatshort onwomen. Theskirts reach justbelow theknee andthelegs come out from beneath them,nearly naked intheir thinstockings, blatant,thehigh- heeled shoes with their straps attached tothe feet likedelicate instruments oftorture. Thewomen teeter ontheir spiked feetasifon stilts, butoffbalance; theirbacks archatthe waist, thrusting thebuttocks out.Their heads areuncovered andtheir hairtooisexposed, inall its darkness andsexuality. Theywearlipstick, red,outlining thedamp cavities oftheir mouths, likescrawls onawashroom wall,ofthe time before. I stop walking. Ofglenstopsbeside meand Iknow thatshetoocannot takehereyes off these women. Wearefascinated, butalso repelled. Theyseem undressed. Ithas taken so little time tochange ourminds, aboutthings likethis. Then Ithink: Iused todress likethat. That wasfreedom. Westernized, theyused tocall it. The Japanese touristscometowards us,twittering, andweturn ourheads awaytoolate: our faces havebeen seen. There's aninterpreter, inthe standard bluesuitand red-patterned tie,with thewinged- eye tiepin. He's theone who steps forward, outofthe group, infront ofus, blocking our way. Thetourists bunchbehind him;oneofthem raises acamera.

"Excuse me,"hesays toboth ofus, politely enough. "They're askingifthey cantake your picture." I look down atthe sidewalk, shakemyhead forno. What theymust seeisthe white wings only,ascrap offace, mychin andpart ofmy mouth. Nottheeyes. Iknow better than tolook theinterpreter inthe face. Mostofthe interpreters areEyes, orso it's said. I also know better thantosay yes. Modesty isinvisibility, saidAunt Lydia. Neverforgetit. To beseen —tobe seen —isto be —her voice trembled —penetrated. Whatyou must be,girls, isimpenetrable. Shecalled usgirls. Beside me,Ofglen isalso silent. She'stucked herred- gloved handsupinto hersleeves, to hide them. The interpreter turnsbacktothe group, chatters atthem instaccato. Iknow whathe'llbe saying, Iknow theline. He'll betelling themthatthewomen herehave different customs, that tostare atthem through thelens ofacamera is,for them, anexperience of violation. I'm looking down,atthe sidewalk, mesmerized bythe women's feet.Oneofthem is wearing open-toedsandals, thetoenails paintedpink.Iremember thesmell ofnail polish, theway itwrinkled ifyou putthesecond coatontoo soon, thesatiny brushing of sheer pantyhose againsttheskin, theway thetoes felt,pushed towards theopening in the shoe bythe whole weight ofthe body. Thewoman withpainted toesshifts fromone foot tothe other. Ican feelhershoes, onmy own feet. Thesmell ofnail polish hasmade me hungry. "Excuse me,"says theinterpreter again,tocatch ourattention. Inod, toshow I'veheard him. "He asks, areyou happy," saystheinterpreter. Ican imagine it,their curiosity: Arethey happy? Howcanthey behappy? Ican feeltheir bright blackeyesonus, the way they lean alittle forward tocatch ouranswers, thewomen especially, butthemen too:weare secret, forbidden, weexcite them. Ofglen saysnothing. Thereisasilence. Butsometimes it'sasdangerous nottospeak. "Yes, weare very happy," Imurmur. Ihave tosay something. WhatelsecanIsay? CHAPTER 6

A block pastAllFlesh, Ofglen pauses, asifhesitant aboutwhich waytogo. We have a choice. Wecould gostraight back,orwe could walkthelong wayaround. Wealready know which waywewill take, because wealways takeit. "I'd like topass bythe church," saysOfglen, asifpiously. "All right," Isay, though Iknow aswell asshe does whatshe's really after. We walk, sedately. Thesunisout, inthe sky there arewhite fluffyclouds, thekind that look likeheadless sheep.Givenourwings, ourblinkers, it'shard tolook up,hard toget the fullview, ofthe sky, ofanything. Butwecan doit,alittle atatime, aquick move of the head, upand down, tothe side andback. Wehave learned tosee theworld in gasps. To the right, ifyou could walkalong, there's astreet thatwould takeyoudown towards the river. There's aboathouse, wheretheykeptthesculls once,andsome bridges; trees, green banks, whereyoucould sitand watch thewater, andtheyoung menwith their naked arms,theiroarslifting intothesunlight asthey played atwinning. Onthe way to the river aretheolddormitories, usedforsomething elsenow, withtheir fairy-tale turrets, painted whiteandgold andblue. When wethink ofthe past it'sthe beautiful things wepick out.Wewant tobelieve itwas alllike that. The football stadium isthat way too,where theyhold theMen's Salvagings. Aswell as the football games. Theystillhave those. I don't gotothe river anymore, orover bridges. Oron the subway, although there'sa station rightthere. We're notallowed on,there areGuardians now,there's noofficial reason forustogo down those steps, rideonthe trains under theriver, intothemain city. Why would wewant togo from here tothere? Wewould beuptono good andthey would knowit. The church isasmall one,oneofthe first erected here,hundreds ofyears ago.Itisn't used anymore, exceptasamuseum. Insideityou canseepaintings, ofwomen inlong somber dresses, theirhaircovered bywhite caps, andofupright men,darkly clothed and unsmiling. Ourancestors. Admissionisfree. We don't goin,though, butstand onthe path, looking atthe churchyard. Theold gravestones arestillthere, weathered, eroding,withtheir skulls andcrossed bones, memento mori,theirdough- facedangels, theirwinged hourglasses toremind usofthe passing ofmortal time,and,from alater century, theirurnsandwillow trees,for mourning. They haven't fiddledwiththegravestones, orthe church either.It'sonly themore recent history thatoffends them. Ofglen's headisbowed, asifshe's praying. Shedoes thisevery time.Maybe, Ithink, there's someone, someoneinparticular gone,forher too; aman, achild. ButIcan't entirely believeit.Ithink ofher asawoman forwhom everyactisdone forshow, is

acting ratherthanareal act.She does suchthings tolook good, Ithink. She's outto make thebest ofit. But that iswhat Imust lookliketoher, aswell. Howcanitbe otherwise? Now weturn ourbacks onthe church andthere isthe thing we've intruth come tosee: the Wall. The Wall ishundreds ofyears oldtoo; orover ahundred, atleast. Likethesidewalks, it's red brick, andmust once havebeen plainbuthandsome. Nowthegates havesentries and there areugly newfloodlights mountedonmetal postsabove it,and barbed wire along thebottom andbroken glasssetinconcrete alongthetop. No one goes through thosegateswillingly, theprecautions areforthose tryingtoget out, though tomake iteven asfar asthe Wall, fromtheinside, pasttheelectronic alarm system, wouldbenext toimpossible. Beside themain gateway therearesixmore bodies hanging, bythe necks, theirhands tied infront ofthem, theirheads inwhite bagstipped sideways ontotheirshoulders. There musthave been aMen's Salvaging earlythismorning. Ididn't hearthebells. Perhaps I'vebecome usedtothem. We stop, together asifon signal, andstand andlook atthe bodies. Itdoesn't matterif we look. We're supposed tolook: thisiswhat theyarethere for,hanging onthe Wall. Sometimes they'llbethere fordays, untilthere's anew batch, soasmany people as possible willhave thechance tosee them. What theyarehanging fromishooks. Thehooks havebeen setinto thebrickwork ofthe Wall, forthis purpose. Notallofthem areoccupied. Thehooks looklikeappliances for the armless. Orsteel question marks,upside- downandsideways. It's the bags overtheheads thataretheworst, worse thanthefaces themselves would be. Itmakes themen likedolls onwhich thefaces havenotyetbeen painted; like scarecrows, whichinaway iswhat theyare,since theyaremeant toscare. Orasiftheir heads aresacks, stuffed withsome undifferentiated material,likeflour ordough. It'sthe obvious heaviness ofthe heads, theirvacancy, theway gravity pullsthem down and there's nolife anymore tohold them up.The heads arezeros. Though ifyou look andlook, aswe are doing, youcanseetheoutlines ofthe features under thewhite cloth, likegray shadows. Theheads aretheheads ofsnowmen, withthe coal eyes andthecarrot noses fallenout.The heads aremelting. But onone bagthere's blood,whichhasseeped through thewhite cloth, where the mouth musthave been. Itmakes another mouth,asmall redone, likethemouths painted withthick brushes bykindergarten children.Achild's ideaofasmile. Thissmile of blood iswhat fixestheattention, finally.Thesearenotsnowmen afterall.

The men wear white coats, likethose wornbydoctors orscientists. Doctorsand scientists aren'ttheonly ones, thereareothers, butthey must have hadarun onthem this morning. Eachhasaplacard hungaround hisneck toshow whyhehas been executed: adrawing ofahuman fetus.Theyweredoctors, then,inthe time before, when such things werelegal. Angel makers, theyused tocall them; orwas thatsomething else? They've beenturned upnow bysearches throughhospital records, or,or— more likely, sincemosthospitals destroyed suchrecords onceitbecame clearwhatwasgoing to happen —by informants: ex-nurses perhaps, orapair ofthem, sinceevidence froma single woman isno longer admissible; oranother doctor,hopingtosave hisown skin; or someone alreadyaccused, lashingoutatan enemy, oratrandom, insome desperate bid forsafety. Though informants arenotalways pardoned. These men,we've beentold,arelike war criminals. It'snoexcuse thatwhat theydidwas legal atthe time: theircrimes areretroactive. Theyhavecommitted atrocitiesandmust be made intoexamples, forthe rest. Though thisishardly needed. Nowoman inher right mind, these days,would seektoprevent abirth, should shebesolucky asto conceive. What weare supposed tofeel towards thesebodies ishatred andscorn. Thisisn'twhat I feel. These bodies hanging onthe Wall aretime travelers, anachronisms. They'vecome here fromthepast. What Ifeel towards themisblankness. WhatIfeel isthat Imust notfeel. What Ifeel is partly relief,because noneofthese menisLuke. Lukewasn't adoctor. Isn't. I look atthe one redsmile. Theredofthe smile isthe same asthe red ofthe tulips in Serena Joy'sgarden, towards thebase ofthe flowers wheretheyarebeginning toheal. The redisthe same butthere isno connection. Thetulips arenottulips ofblood, thered smiles arenotflowers, neitherthingmakes acomment orthe other. Thetulip isnot a reason fordisbelief inthe hanged man,orvice versa. Eachthingisvalid andreally there. Itis through afield ofsuch validobjects thatImust pickmyway, every dayand in every way.Iput alot ofeffort intomaking suchdistinctions Ineed tomake them. Ineed to be very clear, inmy own mind, I feel atremor inthe woman besideme.Isshe crying? Inwhat waycould itmake her look good? Ican't afford toknow, Myown hands areclenched, Inote, tightaround the handle ofmy basket, Iwon't giveanything away. Ordinary, saidAunt Lydia, iswhat youareused to.This maynotseem ordinary toyou now, butafter atime itwill, Itwill become ordinary.

Night CHAPTER 7 The night ismine, myown time, todo with asIwill, aslong asIam quiet. Aslong asI don't move. Aslong asIlie still. The difference betweenlieand lay.Lay isalways passive. Evenmenused tosay, I'dlike toget laid. Though sometimes theysaid, I'dlike to lay her. Allthis ispure speculation. Idon't really knowwhatmenused tosay. Ihad only their words forit. I lie, then, inside theroom, under theplaster eyeinthe ceiling, behindthewhite curtains, between thesheets, neatlyasthey, andstep sideways outofmy own time. Outoftime. Though thisistime, noramIout ofit. But thenight ismy time out.Where should Igo? Somewhere good. Moira, sittingonthe edge ofmy bed, legscrossed, ankleonknee inher purple overalls, one dangly earring, thegold fingernail shewore tobe eccentric, acigarette betweenher stubby yellow-endedfingers. Let'sgofor abeer. You're getting ashesinmy bed, Isaid. If you'd make ityou wouldn't havethisproblem, saidMoira. In half anhour, Isaid. Ihad apaper duethenext day,what wasit?Psychology, English, economics. Westudied thingslikethat, then. Onthe floor ofthe room there werebooks, open facedown, thisway andthat, extravagantly. Now, saidMoira. Youdon't need topaint yourface, it'sonly me.What's yourpaper on?I just didone ondate rape.

Date rape, Isaid. You're sotrendy. Itsounds likesome kindofdessert. Daterape. Ha- ha, said Moira. Getyour coat. She gotitherself andtossed itat me. I'mborrowing fivebucks offyou, okay? Or inapark somewhere, withmymother. Howoldwas I?Itwas cold, ourbreaths came out infront ofus, there werenoleaves onthe trees; graysky,twoducks inthe pond, disconsolate. Breadcrumbs undermyfingers, inmy pocket. That'sit:she said wewere going tofeed theducks. But there weresome women burning books,that'swhatshewas really therefor.Tosee her friends; she'dliedtome, Saturdays weresupposed tobe my day. Iturned away from her,sulking, towards theducks, butthefiredrew meback. There weresome men,too,among thewomen, andthebooks weremagazines. They must have poured gasoline, becausetheflames shothigh, andthen theybegan dumping themagazines, fromboxes, nottoomany atatime. Some ofthem were chanting; onlookers gathered. Their faces werehappy, ecstatic almost.Firecandothat. Even mymother's face, usually pale,thinnish, lookedruddyandcheerful, likeaChristmas card;andthere was another woman, large,withasoot smear downhercheek andanorange knittedcap,I remember her. You want tothrow oneon,honey? shesaid. Howoldwas I? Good riddance tobad rubbish, shesaid, chuckling. Itokay? shesaid tomy mother. It she wants to,my mother said;shehad away oftalking aboutmetoothers asifI couldn't hear. The woman handed meone ofthe magazines. Ithad apretty woman onit,with no clothes on,hanging fromtheceiling byachain wound around herhands. Ilooked atit with interest. Itdidn't frighten me.Ithought shewas swinging, likeTarzan fromavine, on the TV. Don't lether see it,said mymother. Here,shesaid tome, toss itin, quick. I threw themagazine intotheflames. Itriffled openinthe wind ofits burning; bigflakes of paper cameloose, sailedintotheair,still onfire, parts ofwomen's bodies,turningto black ash,inthe air,before myeyes. But then what happens, butthen what happens?

I know Ilost time. There musthave been needles, pills,something likethat. Icouldn't havelostthat much time without help.Youhave hadashock, theysaid. I would comeupthrough aroaring andconfusion, likesurf boiling. Ican remember feeling quitecalm. Ican remember screaming, itfelt like screaming thoughitmay have been onlyawhisper, Whereisshe? What haveyoudone withher? There wasnonight orday; onlyaflickering. Afterawhile there werechairs again, anda bed, andafter thatawindow. She's ingood hands, theysaid. Withpeople whoarefit.You areunfit, butyou want the best forher. Don't you? They showed meapicture ofher, standing outsideonalawn, herface aclosed oval. Her light hairwas pulled backtightbehind herhead. Holding herhand wasawoman I didn't know. Shewasonly astall asthe woman's elbow. You've killedher,Isaid. Shelooked likeanangel, solemn, compact, madeofair. She waswearing adress I'dnever seen,whiteanddown tothe ground. I would liketobelieve thisisastory I'mtelling. Ineed tobelieve it.Imust believe it. Those whocanbelieve thatsuch stories areonly stories haveabetter chance. If it's astory I'mtelling, thenIhave control overtheending. Thentherewillbeanending, to the story, andreallifewill come afterit.Ican pick upwhere Ileft off. It isn't astory I'mtelling. It's also astory I'mtelling, inmy head; asIgo along. Tell, rather thanwrite, because Ihave nothing towrite withandwriting isin any case forbidden. Butifit's astory, eveninmy head. I must betelling itto someone. Youdon't tellastory onlytoyourself. There'salways someone else. Even when thereisno one. A story islike aletter. DearYou,I'llsay. Justyou, without aname. Attaching aname attaches youtothe world offact, which isriskier, morehazardous: whoknows whatthe

chances areoutthere, ofsurvival, yours?Iwill say you, you,likeanold love song. You can mean morethanone. You canmean thousands. I'mnot inany immediate danger,I'llsay toyou. I'll pretend youcanhear me. But it'snogood, because Iknow youcan't. Waiting Room CHAPTER 8 The good weather holds.It'salmost likeJune, whenwewould getoutour sundresses and oursandals andgofor anice cream cone.There arethree newbodies onthe Wall. One isapriest, stillwearing theblack cassock. That'sbeenputonhim, forthe trial, even though theygave upwearing thoseyearsago,when thesect wars firstbegan; cassocks made themtooconspicuous. Thetwoothers havepurple placards hungaround their necks: Gender Treachery. Theirbodies stillwear theGuardian uniforms.Caught together, theymust have been, butwhere? Abarracks, ashower? It'shard tosay. The snowman withthered smile isgone. "We should goback," Isay toOfglen. I'malways theone tosay this. Sometimes Ifeel that ifIdidn't sayit,she would stayhere forever. Butisshe mourning orgloating? Istill can't tell. Without aword sheswivels, asifshe's voice- activated, asifshe's onlittle oiled wheels, as ifshe's ontop ofamusic box,Iresent thisgrace ofhers. Iresent hermeek head, bowed asifonto aheavy wind.Butthere isno wind. We leave theWall, walkback theway wecame, inthe warm sun. "It's abeautiful Mayday," Ofglen says.Ifeel rather thanseeherhead turntowards me, waiting forareply. "Yes," Isay. "Praise be,"Iadd asan afterthought. Maydayusedtobe adistress signal, a long timeago, inone ofthose warswestudied inhigh school. Ikept getting them mixed up,butyou could tellthem apart bythe airplanes ifyou paid attention. Itwas Luke

who toldmeabout mayday, though.Mayday, mayday,forpilots whose planes hadbeen hit, and ships —was itships too?—atsea. Maybe itwas SOS forships. Iwish Icould look itup. And itwas something fromBeethoven, forthe beginning ofthe victory, inone of those wars. Do you know whatitcame from? saidLuke. Mayday? No, Isaid. It'sastrange wordtouse forthat, isn'tit? Newspapers andcoffee, onSunday mornings, beforeshewas born. There werestill newspapers, then.Weused toread them inbed. It's French, hesaid. From m'aidez. Help me. Coming towards usthere's asmall procession, afuneral: threewomen, eachwitha black transparent veilthrown overherheaddress. AnEconowife andtwoothers, the mourners, alsoEconowives, herfriends perhaps. Theirstriped dresses areworn- looking, asare their faces. Someday,when timesimprove, saysAunt Lydia, noone will have tobe anEconowife. The firstone isthe bereaved, themother; shecarries asmall black jar.From thesize of the jaryou cantellhow olditwas when itfoundered, insideher,flowed toits death. Two or three months, tooyoung totell whether ornot itwas anUnbaby. Theolder onesand those thatdieatbirth have boxes. We pause, outofrespect, whiletheygoby. Iwonder ifOfglen feelswhatIdo, pain likea stab, inthe belly. Weputour hands overourhearts toshow these stranger womenthat we feel with them intheir loss. Beneath herveil thefirst one scowls atus. One ofthe others turnsaside, spitsonthe sidewalk. TheEconowives donot like us. We gopast theshops andcome tothe barrier again,andarepassed through. We continue onamong thelarge empty- looking houses, theweedless lawns.Atthe corner near thehouse whereI'mposted, Ofglenstops,turnstome. "Under HisEye," shesays. Theright farewell. "Under HisEye," Ireply, andshegives alittle nod. Shehesitates, asifto say something

more, butthen sheturns away andwalks downthestreet. Iwatch her.She's likemy own reflection, inamirror fromwhich Iam moving away. In the driveway, Nickispolishing theWhirlwind again.He'sreached thechrome atthe back. Iput mygloved handonthe latch ofthe gate, open it,push inward. Thegate clicks behind me.The tulips along theborder areredder thanever, opening, nolonger wine cups butchalices; thrustingthemselves up,towhat end? Theyare,after all,empty. When theyareoldthey turnthemselves insideout,then explode slowly,thepetals thrown outlike shards. Nick looks upand begins towhistle. Thenhesays, "Nice walk?" I nod, butdonot answer withmyvoice. Heisn't supposed tospeak tome. Ofcourse some ofthem willtry,said Aunt Lydia. Allflesh isweak. Allflesh isgrass, Icorrected her in my head. Theycan'thelpit,she said, Godmade themthatway butHedid not make you that way. Hemade youdifferent. It'suptoyou toset the boundaries. Lateryouwill be thanked. In the garden behindthehouse theCommander's Wifeissitting, inthe chair she's had brought out.Serena Joy,what astupid name. It'slike something you'dputonyour hair, in the other time,thetime before, tostraighten it.Serena Joy,itwould sayonthe bottle, with awoman's headincut- paper silhouette onapink ovalbackground withscalloped gold edges. Witheverything tochoose frominthe way ofnames, whydidshe pick that one? Serena Joywas never herreal name, noteven then. Herreal name wasPam. I read thatinaprofile onher, inanews magazine, longafter I'dfirst watched hersinging while mymother sleptinon Sunday mornings. Bythat time shewas worthy ofaprofile: Time orNewsweek itwas, itmust have been. Shewasn't singing anymore bythen, she was making speeches. Shewasgood atit.Her speeches wereabout thesanctity ofthe home, abouthowwomen shouldstayhome. Serena Joydidn't dothis herself, shemade speeches instead,butshe presented thisfailure ofhers asasacrifice shewas making for the good ofall. Around thattime, someone triedtoshoot herand missed; hersecretary, whowas standing rightbehind her,was killed instead. Someone elseplanted abomb inher car but itwent offtoo early. Though somepeople saidshe'd putthebomb inher own car,forsympathy. That'show hot things weregetting. Luke andIwould watchhersometimes onthe late- night news. Bathrobes, nightcaps. We'd watch hersprayed hairand herhysteria, andthetears shecould stillproduce at will, and themascara blackening hercheeks. Bythat time shewas wearing more makeup. Wethought shewas funny. OrLuke thought shewas funny. Ionly pretended to think so.Really shewas alittle frightening. Shewasinearnest. She doesn't makespeeches anymore.Shehasbecome speechless. Shestays inher home, butitdoesn't seemtoagree withher.How furious shemust be,now thatshe's been taken ather word.

She's looking atthe tulips. Hercane isbeside her,onthe grass. Herprofile istowards me, Ican seethat inthe quick sideways lookItake ather asIgo past. Itwouldn't doto stare. It'snolonger aflawlesss cut-paper profile, herface issinking inupon itself, andI think ofthose towns builtonunderground rivers,where houses andwhole streets disappear overnight,intosudden quagmires, orcoal towns collapsing intothemines beneath them.Something likethis must have happened toher, once shesaw thetrue shape ofthings tocome. She doesn't turnherhead. Shedoesn't acknowledge mypresence inany way, although she knows I'mthere. Ican tellshe knows, it'slike asmell, herknowledge; something gone sour,likeoldmilk. It's not thehusbands youhave towatch outfor, said Aunt Lydia, it'sthe Wives. You should always trytoimagine whattheymust befeeling. Ofcourse theywillresent you.It is only natural. Trytofeel forthem. AuntLydia thought shewas very good atfeeling for other people. Trytopity them. Forgive them,forthey know notwhat theydo.Again the tremulous smile,ofabeggar, theweak- eyedblinking, thegaze upwards, throughthe round steel-rimmed glasses, towardstheback ofthe classroom, asifthe green- painted plaster ceilingwereopening andGod onacloud ofPink Pearl facepowder werecoming down through thewires andsprinkler plumbing. Youmust realize thatthey aredefeated women. Theyhavebeen unable— Here hervoice broke off,and there wasapause, duringwhichIcould hearasigh, a collective sighfrom those around me.Itwas abad idea torustle orfidget during these pauses: AuntLydia might lookabstracted butshe was aware ofevery twitch. Sothere was only thesigh. The future isin your hands, sheresumed. Sheheld herown hands outtous, the ancient gesture thatwas both anoffering andaninvitation, tocome forward, intoanembrace, an acceptance. Inyour hands, shesaid, looking downather own hands asifthey had given hertheidea. Butthere wasnothing inthem. Theywereempty. Itwas ourhands that were supposed tobe full, ofthe future; whichcouldbeheld butnotseen. I walk around tothe back door, openit,go in,set mybasket downonthe kitchen table. The table hasbeen scrubbed off,cleared offlour; today's bread,freshly baked, is cooling onitsrack. Thekitchen smellsofyeast, anostalgic smell.Itreminds meofother kitchens, kitchensthatwere mine. Itsmells ofmothers; althoughmyown mother didnot make bread. Itsmells ofme, informer times,whenIwas amother. This isatreacherous smell,andIknow Imust shutitout. Rita isthere, sitting atthe table, peeling andslicing carrots. Oldcarrots theyare,thick ones, overwintered, beardedfromtheirtimeinstorage. Thenew carrots, tenderand

pale, won't beready forweeks. Theknife sheuses issharp andbright, andtempting. I would liketohave aknife likethat. Rita stops chopping thecarrots, standsup,takes theparcels outofthe basket, almost eagerly. Shelooks forward toseeing whatI'vebrought, although shealways frowns while opening theparcels. NothingIbring fullypleases her.She's thinking shecould have done better herself. Shewould ratherdothe shopping, getexactly whatshewants; she envies methe walk. Inthis house weallenvy each other something. "They've gotoranges," Isay. "AtMilk andHoney. Therearestillsome left."Ihold out this idea toher like anoffering, Iwish toingratiate myself.Isaw theoranges yesterday, but Ididn't tellRita; yesterday shewas toogrumpy. "Icould getsome tomorrow, ifyou'd give methe tokens forthem." Ihold outthechicken toher. She wanted steaktoday, but there wasn't any. Rita grunts, notrevealing pleasureoracceptance. She'llthinkabout it,the grunt says, in her own sweet time.Sheundoes thestring onthe chicken, andtheglazed paper.She prods thechicken, flexesawing, pokes afinger intothecavity, fishesoutthegiblets. The chicken liesthere, headless andwithout feet,goose pimpled asthough shivering. "Bath day,"Ritasays, without looking atme. Cora comes intothekitchen, fromthepantry atthe back, where theykeep themops and brooms. "Achicken," shesays, almost withdelight. "Scrawny," saysRita,"butit'llhave todo." "There wasn'tmuchelse," Isay. Ritaignores me. "Looks bigenough tome," says Cora. Isshe standing upfor me? Ilook ather, tosee ifI should smile;butno,it'sonly thefood she's thinking of.She's younger thanRita; the sunlight, comingslantnowthrough thewest window, catchesherhair, parted anddrawn back. Shemust have been pretty, quiterecently. There'salittle mark, likeadimple, in each ofher ears, where thepunctures forearrings havegrown over. "Tall," saysRita,"butbony. Youshould speakup,"shesays tome, looking directlyat me forthe first time. "Ain't likeyou're common." Shemeans theCommander's rank.But in the other sense, hersense, shethinks Iam common. Sheisover sixty, hermind's made up. She goes tothe sink, runsherhands brieflyunderthetap, dries them onthe dishtowel. The dishtowel iswhite withblue stripes. Dishtowels arethesame asthey always were. Sometimes theseflashes ofnormality comeatme from theside, likeambushes. The ordinary, theusual, areminder, likeakick. Isee thedishtowel, outofcontext, andI catch mybreath. Forsome, insome ways, things haven't changed thatmuch. "Who's doingthebath?" saysRita,toCora, nottome. "Igot totenderize thisbird."

"I'll doitlater," saysCora, "afterthedusting." "Just soitgets done," saysRita. They're talkingaboutmeasthough Ican't hear. Tothem I'mahousehold chore,one among many. I've been dismissed. Ipick upthe basket, gothrough thekitchen doorandalong thehall towards thegrandfather clock.Thesitting roomdoorisclosed. Suncomes through the fanlight, fallingincolors across thefloor: redand blue, purple. Istep intoitbriefly, stretch out myhands; theyfillwith flowers oflight. Igo upthe stairs, myface, distant andwhite and distorted, framedinthe hall mirror, whichbulges outward likeaneye under pressure. Ifollow thedusty- pinkrunner downthelong upstairs hallway, backtothe room. There's someone standinginthe hall, near thedoor tothe room where Istay. Thehallis dusky, thisisaman, hisback tome; he's looking intotheroom, darkagainst itslight. I can seenow, it'sthe Commander, heisn't supposed tobe here. Hehears mecoming, turns, hesitates, walksforward. Towards me.Heisviolating custom,whatdoIdo now? I stop, hepauses, Ican't seehisface, he'slooking atme, what does hewant? Butthen he moves forward again,stepstothe side toavoid touching me,inclines hishead, is gone. Something hasbeen shown tome, butwhat isit? Like theflag ofan unknown country, seen foraninstant aboveacurve ofhill. Itcould mean attack, itcould mean parley, it could mean theedge ofsomething, aterritory. Thesignals animals giveoneanother: lowered blueeyelids, earslaidback, raised hackles. Aflash ofbared teeth,whatinhell does hethink he'sdoing? Nobody elsehasseen him.Ihope. Washeinvading? Washe in my room? I called itmine. CHAPTER 9

My room, then.There hastobe some space, finally,thatIclaim asmine, eveninthis time. I'm waiting, inmy room, which rightnowisawaiting room.When Igo tobed it'sa bedroom. Thecurtains arestillwavering inthe small wind, thesun outside isstill shining, though notinthrough thewindow directly. Ithas moved west.Iam trying nottotell stories, oratany rate notthis one. Someone haslived inthis room, before me.Someone likeme, orIprefer tobelieve so. I discovered itthree daysafterIwas moved here. I had alot oftime topass. Idecided toexplore theroom. Nothastily, asone would explore ahotel room, expecting nosurprise, openingandshutting thedesk drawers, the cupboard doors,unwrapping thetiny individually wrappedbarofsoap, prodding the pillows. WillIever beinahotel room again? HowIwasted them,thoserooms, that freedom frombeing seen. Rented license. In the afternoons, whenLukewasstillinflight fromhiswife, when Iwas stillimaginary for him. Before wewere married andIsolidified. Iwould always getthere first,check in. It wasn't thatmany times, butitseems nowlikeadecade, anera; Ican remember whatI wore, eachblouse, eachscarf. Iwould pace,waiting forhim, turnthetelevision onand then off,dab behind myears withperfume, Opiumitwas. Itwas inaChinese bottle,red and gold. I was nervous. HowwasIto know heloved me?Itmight bejust anaffair. Whydidwe ever sayjust? Though atthat time men andwomen triedeach other on,casually, like suits, rejecting whatever didnot fit. The knock would comeatthe door; I'dopen, withrelief, desire. Hewas somomentary, so condensed. Andyetthere seemed noend tohim. Wewould lieinthose afternoon beds, afterwards, handsoneach other, talking itover. Possible, impossible. Whatcould be done? Wethought wehad such problems. Howwere wetoknow wewere happy? But now it'sthe rooms themselves Imiss aswell, even thedreadful paintings thathung on the walls, landscapes withfallfoliage orsnow melting inhardwoods, orwomen in period costume, withchina- dollfaces andbustles andparasols, orsad- eyed clowns, or bowls offruit, stiffand chalky looking. Thefresh towels readyforspoilage, the wastebaskets gapingtheirinvitations, beckoninginthe careless junk.Careless. Iwas careless, inthose rooms. Icould liftthe telephone andfood would appear onatray, food I had chosen. Foodthatwas badforme, nodoubt, anddrink too.There wereBibles in

the dresser drawers, putthere bysome charitable society,thoughprobably noone read them verymuch. Therewerepostcards, too,with pictures ofthe hotel onthem, andyou could writeonthe postcards andsend them toanyone youwanted. Itseems likesuch an impossible thing,now;likesomething you'dmake up. So. Iexplored thisroom, nothastily, then,likeahotel room, wasting it.Ididn't wanttodo it all atonce, Iwanted tomake itlast. Idivided theroom intosections, inmy head; I allowed myselfonesection aday. Thisonesection Iwould examine withthegreatest minuteness: theunevenness ofthe plaster underthewallpaper, thescratches inthe paint ofthe baseboard andthewindowsill, underthetopcoat ofpaint, thestains onthe mattress, forIwent sofar astolift the blankets andsheets fromthebed, foldthem back, a little atatime, sothey could bereplaced quicklyifanyone came. The stains onthe mattress. Likedried flower petals. Notrecent. Oldlove; there's no other kindoflove inthis room now. When Isaw that, theevidence leftbytwo people, oflove orsomething likeit,desire at least, atleast touch, between twopeople nowperhaps oldordead, Icovered thebed again andlaydown onit.Ilooked upatthe blind plaster eyeinthe ceiling. Iwanted to feel Luke lyingbeside me.Ihave them, theseattacks ofthe past, likefaintness, awave sweeping overmyhead. Sometimes itcan hardly beborne. Whatisto be done, whatis to be done, Ithought. Thereisnothing tobe done. Theyalsoserve whoonlystand and wait. Orliedown andwait. Iknow whytheglass inthe window isshatterproof, andwhy they tookdown thechandelier. Iwanted tofeel Luke lyingbeside me,butthere wasn't room. I saved thecupboard untilthethird day.Ilooked carefully overthedoor first,inside and out, then thewalls withtheir brass hooks —how could theyhave overlooked thehooks? Why didn't theyremove them?Tooclose tothe floor? Butstill, astocking, that'sallyou'd need. Andtherod with theplastic hangers, mydresses hanging onthem, thered woollen capeforcold weather, theshawl. Iknelt toexamine thefloor, andthere itwas, in tiny writing, quitefresh itseemed, scratched withapin ormaybe justafingernail, in the corner wherethedarkest shadow fell:Nolite tebastardes carborundorum. I didn't knowwhatitmeant, oreven whatlanguage itwas in.Ithought itmight beLatin, but Ididn't knowanyLatin. Still,itwas amessage, anditwas inwriting, forbidden by that very fact, andithadn't yetbeen discovered. Exceptbyme, forwhom itwas intended. Itwas intended forwhoever camenext. It pleases metoponder thismessage. Itpleases metothink I'mcommuning withher, this unknown woman.Forshe isunknown; orifknown, shehasnever beenmentioned to me. Itpleases metoknow thathertaboo message madeitthrough, toatleast one other person, washed itselfuponthe wall ofmy cupboard, wasopened andread byme. Sometimes Irepeat thewords tomyself. Theygivemeasmall joy.When Iimagine the

woman whowrote them, Ithink ofher asabout myage, maybe alittle younger. Iturn her into Moira, Moiraasshe was when shewas incollege, inthe room nexttomine: quirky, jaunty, athletic, withabicycle once,andaknapsack forhiking. Freckles, Ithink; irreverent, resourceful. I wonder whoshewas oris, and what's become ofher. I tried thatoutonRita, theday Ifound themessage. Who wasthewoman whostayed inthat room? Isaid. Before me?IfI'd asked it differently, ifI'd said, Wasthere awoman whostayed inthat room before me?Imight not have gotanywhere. Which one?shesaid; shesounded grudging, suspicious, butthen, shealmost always sounds likethat when shespeaks tome. So there havebeen more thanone.Some haven't stayedtheirfullterm ofposting, their full two years. Somehavebeen sentaway, forone reason oranother. Ormaybe not sent; gone? The lively one.Iwas guessing. Theonewith freckles. You know her?Ritaasked, moresuspicious thanever. I knew herbefore, Ilied. Iheard shewas here. Rita accepted this.Sheknows theremustbeagrapevine, anunderground ofsorts. She didn't workout,shesaid. In what way? Iasked, tryingtosound asneutral aspossible. But Rita clamped herlips together. Iam like achild here, therearesome things Imust not betold. What youdon't know won'thurtyou, wasallshe would say. CHAPTER 10 Sometimes Ising tomyself, inmy head; something lugubrious, mournful,presbyterian: Amazing grace,howsweet thesound

Could saveawretch likeme, Who once waslost, butnow amfound, Was bound, butnow amfree. I don't know ifthe words areright. Ican't remember. Suchsongs arenotsung anymore in public, especially theones thatusewords likefree. They areconsidered too dangerous. Theybelong tooutlawed sects. I feel solonely, baby, I feel solonely, baby, I feel solonely Icould die. This tooisoutlawed. Iknow itfrom anold cassette tapeofmy mother's; shehad a scratchy anduntrustworthy machine,too,thatcould stillplay such things. Sheused to put thetape onwhen herfriends cameoverandthey'd hadafew drinks. I don't singlikethis often. Itmakes mythroat hurt. There isn'tmuch music inthis house, exceptwhatwehear onthe TV. Sometimes Rita will hum, while kneading orpeeling: awordless humming, tuneless,unfathomable. And sometimes fromthefront sitting roomthere willbethe thin sound ofSerena's voice,from a disc made longagoandplayed nowwiththevolume low,soshe won't becaught listening asshe sitsinthere knitting, remembering herown former andnow amputated glory: Hallelujah. It's warm forthe time ofyear. Houses likethis heat upinthe sun, there's notenough insulation. Aroundmethe airisstagnant, despitethelittle current, thebreath coming in

past thecurtains. I'dlike tobe able toopen thewindow aswide asitcould go.Soon we'll be allowed tochange intothesummer dresses. The summer dressesareunpacked andhanging inthe closet, twoofthem, purecotton, which isbetter thansynthetics likethecheaper ones,though evenso,when it'smuggy, in July andAugust, yousweat inside them.Noworry about sunburn though,saidAunt Lydia. Thespectacles womenusedtomake ofthemselves. Oilingthemselves likeroast meat onaspit, andbare backs andshoulders, onthe street, inpublic, andlegs, not even stockings onthem, nowonder thosethings usedtohappen. Things,theword she used when whatever itstood forwas toodistasteful orfilthy orhorrible topass herlips. A successful lifeforher was onethatavoided things,excluded things.Suchthings donot happen tonice women. Andnotgood forthe complexion, notatall, wrinkle youuplike a dried apple. Butweweren't supposed tocare about ourcomplexions anymore,she'd forgotten that. In the park, saidAunt Lydia, lyingonblankets, menandwomen together sometimes, and atthat shebegan tocry, standing upthere infront ofus, infull view. I'm doing mybest, shesaid. I'mtrying togive youthebest chance youcanhave. She blinked, thelight wastoostrong forher, hermouth trembled, aroundherfront teeth, teeth thatstuck outalittle andwere longandyellowish, andIthought aboutthedead mice wewould findonthe doorstep, whenwelived inahouse, allthree ofus, four counting ourcat, who wastheone making theseofferings. Aunt Lydia pressed herhand overhermouth ofdead rodent. Afteraminute shetook her hand away, Iwanted tocry too because shereminded me.Ifonly shewouldn't eathalf of them first,Isaid toLuke. Don't thinkit'seasy forme either, saidAunt Lydia. Moira, breezing intomyroom, dropping herdenim jacketonthe floor. Gotany cigs, she said. In my purse, Isaid. Nomatches though. Moira rummages inmy purse. Youshould throwoutsome ofthis junk, shesays. I'm giving anunderwhore party. A what? Isay. There's nopoint trying towork, Moira won'tallowit,she's likeacat that crawls ontothepage when you're tryingtoread. You know, likeTupperware, onlywithunderwear. Tarts'stuff.Lace crotches, snap garters. Brasthatpush yourtitsup. She finds mylighter, lightsthecigarette she's

extracted frommypurse. Wantone?Tosses thepackage, withgreat generosity, considering they'remine. Thanks piles,Isay sourly. You'recrazy.Where'd yougetanidea likethat? Working myway through college, saysMoira. I'vegotconnections. Friendsofmy mother's. It'sbig inthe suburbs, oncetheystart getting agespots theyfigure they've got to beat thecompetition. ThePornomarts andwhat have you. I'm laughing. Shealways mademelaugh. But here? Isay. Who'll come? Whoneeds it? You're nevertooyoung tolearn, shesays. Come on,it'llbegreat. We'llallpee inour pants laughing. Is that how welived, then? Butwelived asusual. Everyone does,mostofthe time. Whatever isgoing onisas usual. Eventhisisas usual, now. We lived, asusual, byignoring. Ignoringisn'tthesame asignorance, youhave towork at it. Nothing changes instantaneously: inagradually heatingbathtub you'dbeboiled to death before youknew it.There werestories inthe newspapers, ofcourse, corpses in ditches orthe woods, bludgeoned todeath ormutilated, interferedwith,asthey used to say, butthey were about otherwomen, andthemen whodidsuch things wereother men. None ofthem werethemen weknew. Thenewspaper storieswerelikedreams to us, bad dreams dreamtbyothers. Howawful, wewould say,andthey were, butthey were awful without beingbelievable. Theyweretoomelodramatic, theyhadadimension that was notthedimension ofour lives. We were thepeople whowere notinthe papers. Welived inthe blank whitespaces at the edges ofprint. Itgave usmore freedom. We lived inthe gaps between thestories. From below, fromthedriveway, comesthesound ofthe carbeing started. It'squiet in this area, thereisn'talot oftraffic, youcanhear things likethat very clearly: carmotors, lawn mowers, theclipping ofahedge, theslam ofadoor. Youcould hearashout

clearly, orashot, ifsuch noises wereevermade here.Sometimes therearedistant sirens. I go tothe window andsiton the window seat,which istoo narrow forcomfort. There'sa hard littlecushion onit,with apetit point cover: FAITH, insquare print,surrounded bya wreath oflilies. FAITH isafaded blue,theleaves ofthe lilies adingy green. Thisisa cushion onceusedelsewhere, wornbutnotenough tothrow out.Somehow it'sbeen overlooked. I can spend minutes, tensofminutes, runningmyeyes overtheprint: FAITH. It'sthe only thing they've givenmetoread. IfIwere caught doingit,would itcount? Ididn't put the cushion heremyself. The motor turns,andIlean forward, pullingthewhite curtain acrossmyface, likeaveil. It's semisheer, Ican seethrough it.IfIpress myforehead againsttheglass andlook down, Ican seetheback halfofthe Whirlwind. Nobodyisthere, butasIwatch Isee Nick come around tothe back doorofthe car, open it,stand stifflybeside it.His cap is straight nowandhissleeves rolleddownandbuttoned. Ican't seehisface because I'm looking downonhim. Now theCommander iscoming out.Iglimpse himonly foraninstant, foreshortened, walking tothe car. Hedoes't havehishat on,soit's not aformal eventhe'sgoing to.His hair isagray. Silver, youmight callitifyou were being kind.Idon't feellikebeing kind. The onebefore thiswas bald, soIsuppose he'sanimprovement. If Icould spit,outthewindow, orthrow something, thecushion forinstance, Imight be able tohit him. Moira andI,with paper bagsfilledwithwater. Waterbombs, theywere called. Leaning out mydorm window, dropping themonthe heads ofthe boys below. Itwas Moira's idea. What weretheytrying todo? Climb aladder, forsomething. Forourunderwear. That dormitory hadonce been co-educational, therewerestillurinals inone ofthe washrooms onour floor. Butbythe time I'dgot there they'd putthings backtheway they were. The Commander stoops,getsintothecar, disappears, andNick shuts thedoor. A moment laterthecarmoves backward, downthedriveway andonto thestreet, and vanishes behindthehedge. I ought tofeel hatred forthis man. Iknow Iought tofeel it,but itisn't what Ido feel. What I feel ismore complicated thanthat.Idon't know whattocall it.Itisn't love.

CHAPTER 11 Yesterday morningIwent tothe doctor. Wastaken, byaGuardian, oneofthose withthe red arm bands whoareincharge ofsuch things. Werode inared car, himinthe front, me inthe back. Notwin went withme;onthese occasions I'msolitaire. I'm taken tothe doctor's onceamonth, fortests: urine, hormones, cancersmear, blood test; thesame asbefore, exceptthatnow it'sobligatory. The doctor's officeisin amodern officebuilding. Weride upinthe elevator, silently,the Guardian facingme.Inthe black- mirror wallofthe elevator Ican seetheback ofhis head. Atthe office itself,Igo in;he waits, outside inthe hall, withtheother Guardians, on one ofthe chairs placed thereforthat purpose. Inside thewaiting roomthere areother women, threeofthem, inred: thisdoctor isa specialist. Covertlyweregard eachother, sizingupeach other's bellies: isanyone lucky? Thenurse records ournames andthenumbers fromourpasses onthe Compudoc, tosee ifwe are who weare supposed tobe. He's sixfeet tall,about forty,a diagonal scaracross hischeek; hesits typing, hishands toobigforthe keyboard, still wearing hispistol inthe shoulder holster. When I'mcalled Igo through thedoorway intotheinner room. It'swhite, featureless, like the outer one,except forthe folding screen, redcloth stretched onaframe, agold Eye painted onit,with asnake- twined swordupright beneath it,like asort ofhandle. The snakes andthesword arebits ofbroken symbolism leftover from thetime before. After I'vefilled thesmall bottle leftready forme inthe little washroom, Itake offmy clothes, behindthescreen, andleave themfolded onthe chair. When I'mnaked Ilie down onthe examining table,onthe sheet ofchilly crackling disposable paper.Ipull the second sheet,thecloth one,upover mybody. Atneck levelthere's another sheet, suspended fromtheceiling. Itintersects mesothat thedoctor willnever seemyface. He deals withatorso only. When I'marranged Ireach myhand out,fumble forthe small leveratthe right sideof the table, pullitback. Somewhere elseabell rings, unheard byme. After aminute the door opens, footsteps comein,there isbreathing. Heisn't supposed tospeak tome except whenit'sabsolutely necessary. Butthis doctor istalkative. "How arewegetting along?" hesays, some ticofspeech fromtheother time.Thesheet is lifted frommyskin, adraft pimples me.Acold finger, rubber- cladandjellied, slides into me, Iam poked andprodded. Thefinger retreats, entersotherwise, withdraws.

"Nothing wrongwithyou," thedoctor says,asifto himself. "Anypain, honey?" Hecalls me honey. "No," Isay. My breasts arefingered intheir turn, asearch forripeness, rot.The breathing comes nearer. Ismell oldsmoke, aftershave, tobaccodustonhair. Then thevoice, verysoft, close tomy head: that'shim,bulging thesheet. "I could helpyou," hesays. Whispers. "What?" Isay. "Shh," hesays. "Icould helpyou.I'vehelped others." "Help me?"Isay, myvoice aslow ashis. "How?" Doesheknow something, hashe seen Luke, hashefound, canhebring back? "How doyou think?" hesays, stillbarely breathing it.Isthat hishand, sliding upmy leg? He's taken offthe glove. "Thedoor's locked. Noone willcome in.They'll neverknowit isn't his." He lifts thesheet. Thelower partofhis face iscovered bythe white gauze mask, regulation. Twobrown eyes,anose, ahead withbrown haironit.His hand isbetween my legs. "Most ofthose oldguys can'tmake itanymore," hesays. "Orthey're sterile." I almost gasp:he'ssaid aforbidden word.Sterile. Thereisno such thing asasterile man anymore, notofficially. Thereareonly women whoarefruitful andwomen whoare barren, that'sthelaw. "Lots ofwomen doit," hegoes on."You wantababy, don'tyou?" "Yes," Isay. It'strue, andIdon't askwhy, because Iknow. Givemechildren, orelse I die. There's morethanonemeaning toit. "You're soft,"hesays. "It'stime. Today ortomorrow woulddoit,why waste it?It'd only take aminute, honey." Whathecalled hiswife, once; maybe stilldoes, butreally it'sa generic term.Weareallhoney. I hesitate. He'soffering himselftome, hisservices, atsome risktohimself. "I hate tosee what theyputyou through," hemurmurs. It'sgenuine, genuinesympathy; and yethe's enjoying this,sympathy andall.His eyes aremoist withcompassion, his hand ismoving onme, nervously andwith impatience. "It's toodangerous," Isay. "No. Ican't." Thepenalty isdeath. Butthey have tocatch you in the act, with twowitnesses. Whataretheodds, isthe room bugged, who'swaiting just outside thedoor?

His hand stops. "Think aboutit,"hesays. "I'veseen yourchart. Youdon't have alot of time left.Butit'syour life." "Thank you,"Isay. Imust leave theimpression thatI'mnot offended, thatI'mopen to suggestion. Hetakes hishand away, lazilyalmost, lingeringly, thisisnot thelast word as far ashe's concerned. Hecould fakethetests, report meforcancer, forinfertility, have me shipped offtothe Colonies, withtheUnwomen.. Noneofthis has been said,butthe knowledge ofhis power hangs nevertheless inthe airashe pats mythigh, withdrew himself behindthehanging sheet. "Next month," hesays. I put onmy clothes again,behind thescreen, Myhands areshaking. WhyamI frightened? I'vecrossed noboundaries, I'vegiven notrust, taken norisk, allissafe. It's the choice thatterrifies me.Away out,asalvation. CHAPTER 12 The bathroom isbeside thebedroom. It'spapered insmall blueflowers, forget-me-nots, with curtains tomatch. There's ablue bath mat,ablue fake- furcover onthe toilet seat; all this bathroom lacksfromthetime before isadoll whose skirtconceals theextra rollof toilet paper. Except thatthemirror overthesink hasbeen taken outand replaced byan oblong oftin, and thedoor hasnolock, andthere arenorazors, ofcourse. Therewere incidents inbathrooms atfirst: there werecuttings, drownings. Beforetheygotallthe bugs ironed out.Cora sitsonachair outside inthe hall, tosee that noone else goes in. In abathroom, inabathtub, youarevulnerable, saidAunt Lydia. Shedidn't saytowhat. The bath isarequirement, butitis also aluxury. Merely tolift off the heavy whitewings and theveil, merely tofeel myown hairagain, withmyhands, isaluxury. Myhair islong now, un-trimmed. Hairmust belong butcovered. AuntLydia said:Saint Paulsaidit's either thatoraclose shave. Shelaughed, thatheld- back neighing ofhers, asifshe'd told ajoke. Cora hasrunthebath. Itsteams likeabowl ofsoup. Itake offthe rest ofthe clothes, the overdress, thewhite shiftandpetticoat, thered stockings, theloose cotton pantaloons. Pantyhose givesyoucrotch rot,Moira usedtosay. Aunt Lydia would neverhaveused an expression likecrotch rot.Unhygienic washers. Shewanted everything tobe very hygienic. My nakedness isstrange tome already. Mybody seems outdated. DidIreally wear bathing suits,atthe beach? Idid, without thought, amongmen,without caringthatmy

legs, myarms, mythighs andback were ondisplay, couldbeseen. Shameful, immodest. Iavoid looking downatmy body, notsomuch because it'sshameful or immodest butbecause Idon't wanttosee it.Idon't wanttolook atsomething that determines mesocompletely. I step intothewater, liedown, letithold me.The water issoft ashands. Iclose myeyes, and she's therewithme,suddenly, withoutwarning, itmust bethe smell ofthe soap. I put myface against thesoft hair atthe back ofher neck andbreathe herin,baby powder andchild's washed fleshandshampoo, withanundertone, thefaint scent of urine. Thisisthe age sheiswhen I'minthe bath. Shecomes backtome atdifferent ages. Thisishow Iknow she'snotreally aghost. Ifshe were aghost shewould bethe same agealways. One day,when shewas eleven months old,justbefore shebegan towalk, awoman stole heroutofasupermarket cart.Itwas aSaturday, whichwaswhen LukeandIdid the week's shopping, becausebothofus had jobs. Shewassitting inthe little baby seats theyhadthen, insupermarket carts,withholes forthe legs. Shewashappy enough, andI'dturned myback, thecatfood section Ithink itwas; Luke wasover atthe side ofthe store, outofsight, atthe meat counter. Heliked tochoose whatkindofmeat we were going toeat during theweek. Hesaid men needed moremeatthanwomen did, and thatitwasn't asuperstition andhewasn't beingajerk, studies hadbeen done. There aresome differences, hesaid. Hewas fond ofsaying that,asifIwas trying to prove thereweren't. Butmostly hesaid itwhen mymother wasthere. Heliked totease her. I heard herstart tocry. Iturned around andshewas disappearing downtheaisle, inthe arms ofawoman I'dnever seenbefore. Iscreamed, andthewoman wasstopped. She must have been about thirty-five.Shewascrying andsaying itwas herbaby, theLord had given itto her, he'd sent herasign. Ifelt sorry forher. Thestore manager apologized andthey held heruntil thepolice came. She's justcrazy, Lukesaid. I thought itwas anisolated incident, atthe time. She fades, Ican't keep herhere withme,she's gonenow.Maybe Ido think ofher asa ghost, theghost ofadead girl,alittle girlwho died when shewas five. Iremember the pictures ofus Ionce had,meholding her,standard poses,mother andbaby, locked ina frame, forsafety. Behind myclosed eyesIcan seemyself asIam now, sitting beside an

open drawer, oratrunk, inthe cellar, where thebaby clothes arefolded away,alock of hair, cutwhen shewas two, inan envelope, white-blond. Itgot darker later. I don't have those things anymore, theclothes andhair. Iwonder whathappened toall our things. Looted, dumped out,carried away.Confiscated. I've learned todo without alot ofthings. Ifyou have alot ofthings, saidAunt Lydia, you get tooattached tothis material worldandyouforget aboutspiritual values.Youmust cultivate povertyofspirit. Blessed arethemeek. Shedidn't goontosay anything about inheriting theearth. I lie, lapped bythe water, beside anopen drawer thatdoes notexist, andthink about a girl who didnot diewhen shewas five; who stilldoes exist, Ihope, though notforme. Do Iexist forher? AmIa picture somewhere, inthe dark atthe back ofher mind? They musthave toldherIwas dead. That's whattheywould thinkofdoing. Theywould say itwould beeasier forher toadjust. Eight, shemust benow. I'vefilled inthe time Ilost, Iknow howmuch there's been.They were right, it'seasier, tothink ofher asdead. Idon't have tohope then,ormake a wasted effort.Whybash yourhead, saidAunt Lydia, against awall? Sometimes shehad a graphic wayofputting things. "I ain't gotallday," saysCora's voiceoutside thedoor. It'strue, shehasn't. Shehasn't got allofanything. Imust notdeprive herofher time. Isoap myself, usethescrub brush and thepiece ofpumice forsanding offdead skin.Such puritan aidsaresupplied. Iwish to be totally clean, germless, withoutbacteria, likethesurface ofthe moon. Iwill not be able towash myself, thisevening, notafterwards, notforaday. Itinterferes, theysay, and why take chances? I cannot avoidseeing, now,thesmall tattoo onmy ankle. Fourdigits andaneye, a passport inreverse. It'ssupposed toguarantee thatIwill never beable tofade, finally, into another landscape. Iam too important, tooscarce, forthat. Iam anational resource. I pull theplug, drymyself, putonmy red terrycloth robe.Ileave today's dresshere, where Corawillpick itup tobe washed. Backinthe room Idress again. Thewhite headdress isn'tnecessary forthe evening, becauseIwon't begoing out.Everyone in this house knows whatmyface looks like.Theredveil goes on,though, covering my damp hair,myhead, which hasnotbeen shaved. WheredidIsee that film, about the

women, kneeling inthe town square, handsholding them,theirhairfalling inclumps? What hadthey done? Itmust have been along timeago, because Ican't remember. Cora brings mysupper, covered, onatray. Sheknocks atthe door before entering. Ilike her forthat. Itmeans shethinks Ihave some ofwhat weused tocall privacy left. "Thank you,"Isay, taking thetray from her,andsheactually smilesatme, butshe turns away without answering. Whenwe'realone together she'sshyofme. I put thetray onthe small white- painted tableanddraw thechair uptoit.Itake thecover off the tray. Thethigh ofachicken, overcooked. It'sbetter thanbloody, whichisthe other wayshedoes it.Rita hasways ofmaking herresentments felt.Abaked potato, green beans, salad.Canned pearsfordessert. It'sgood enough food,though bland. Healthy food.Youhave toget your vitamins andminerals, saidAunt Lydia coyly. You must beaworthy vessel. Nocoffee ortea though, noalcohol. Studieshavebeen done. There's apaper napkin, asincafeterias. I think ofthe others, thosewithout. Thisisthe heartland, here,I'mleading apampered life, may theLord make ustruly grateful, saidAunt Lydia, orwas itthankful, andIstart to eat thefood. I'mnot hungry tonight. Ifeel sick tomy stomach. Butthere's noplace toput the food, nopotted plants, andIwon't chance thetoilet. I'mtoo nervous, that'swhatitis. Could Ileave iton the plate, askCora nottoreport me?Ichew andswallow, chewand swallow, feelingthesweat comeout.Inmy stomach thefood balls itselftogether, a handful ofdamp cardboard, squeezed. Downstairs, inthe dining room,therewillbecandles onthe large mahogany table,a white cloth, silver, flowers, wineglasses withwine inthem. There willbethe click of knives against china,aclink asshe sets down herfork, withabarely audible sigh, leaving halfthecontents ofher plate untouched. Possiblyshewillsay she hasno appetite. Possiblyshewon't sayanything. Ifshe says something, doeshecomment? If she doesn't sayanything, doeshenotice? Iwonder howshemanages toget herself noticed. Ithink itmust behard. There's apat ofbutter onthe side ofthe plate. Itear offacorner ofthe paper napkin, wrap thebutter init,take itto the cupboard andslipitinto thetoeofmy right shoe, from the extra pair,asIhave done before. Icrumple upthe rest ofthe napkin: noone, surely, will bother tosmooth itout, tocheck ifany ismissing. Iwill use thebutter latertonight. It would notdo,this evening, tosmell ofbutter.

I wait. Icompose myself.Myself isathing Imust nowcompose, asone composes a speech. WhatImust present isamade thing,notsomething born. Nap CHAPTER 13 There's timetospare. Thisisone ofthe things Iwasn't prepared for—the amount of unfilled time,thelong parentheses ofnothing. Timeaswhite sound. Ifonly Icould embroider. Weave,knit,something todo with myhands. Iwant acigarette. Iremember walking inart galleries, throughthenineteenth century:theobsession theyhadthen with harems. Dozensofpaintings ofharems, fatwomen lollingondivans, turbans ontheir heads orvelvet caps,being fanned withpeacock tails,aeunuch inthe background standing guard.Studies ofsedentary flesh,painted bymen who'd neverbeenthere. These pictures weresupposed tobe erotic, andIthought theywere, atthe time; butI see now what theywere really about. Theywerepaintings aboutsuspended animation; about waiting, aboutobjects notinuse. They werepaintings aboutboredom. Butmaybe boredom iserotic, whenwomen doit,for men. I wait, washed, brushed, fed,likeaprize pig.Sometime inthe eighties theyinvented pig balls, forpigs whowere being fattened inpens. Pigballs were large colored balls;the pigs rolled themaround withtheir snouts. Thepigmarketers saidthisimproved their muscle tone;thepigs were curious, theyliked tohave something tothink about. I read about thatinintroduction toPsychology; that,andthechapter oncaged rats who'd givethemselves electricshocksforsomething todo. And theone onthe pigeons, trained topeck abutton thatmade agrain ofcorn appear. Threegroups ofthem: the first gotone grain perpeck, thesecond onegrain every otherpeck, thethird was random. Whentheman incharge cutoffthe grain, thefirst group gaveupquite soon, the second groupalittle later. Thethird group nevergaveup.They'd peckthemselves to death, ratherthanquit.Who knew whatworked? I wish Ihad apig ball.

I lie down onthe braided rug.You canalways practice, saidAunt Lydia. Several sessions aday, fitted intoyour daily routine. Armsatthe sides, knees bent,liftthe pelvis, roll the backbone down.Tuck.Again. Breathe into the count offive, hold, expel. We'd do that inwhat used tobe the Domestic Scienceroom,cleared nowofsewing machines and washer- dryers;inunison, lyingonlittle Japanese mats,atape playing, Les Sylphides. That'swhatIhear now, inmy head, asIlift, tilt,breathe. Behindmyclosed eyes thinwhite dancers flitgracefully amongthetrees, theirlegsfluttering likethewings of held birds. In the afternoons welayonour beds foranhour inthe gymnasium, betweenthreeand four. They saiditwas aperiod ofrest and meditation. Ithought thentheydiditbecause they wanted sometimeoffthemselves, fromteaching us,and Iknow theAunts noton duty went offtothe teachers' roomforacup ofcoffee, orwhatever theycalled bythat name. Butnow Ithink thattherest also waspractice. Theyweregiving usachance to get used toblank time. A catnap, AuntLydia called it,in her coy way. The strange thingiswe needed therest. Many ofus went tosleep. Wewere tiredthere, a lot ofthe time. Wewere onsome kindofpill ordrug Ithink, theyputitin the food, to keep uscalm. Butmaybe not.Maybe itwas theplace itself.Afterthefirst shock, after you'd come toterms, itwas better tobe lethargic. Youcould tellyourself youwere saving upyour strength. I must have been there threeweeks whenMoira came. Shewasbrought intothe gymnasium bytwo ofthe Aunts, inthe usual way,while wewere having ournap. She still had herother clothes on,jeans andablue sweatshirt —her hair was short, she'd defied fashion asusual —so Irecognized heratonce. Shesawmetoo, butshe turned away, shealready knewwhatwassafe. There wasabruise onher leftcheek, turning purple. TheAunts tookhertoavacant bedwhere thered dress wasalready laidout. She undressed, begantodress again, insilence, theAunts standing atthe end ofthe bed, therest ofus watching frominside ourslitted eyes.Asshe bent overIcould see the knobs onher spine. I couldn't talktoher forseveral days;welooked only,small glances, likesips. Friendships weresuspicious, weknew it,we avoided eachother during themealtime line- ups inthe cafeteria andinthe halls between classes.Butonthe fourth dayshewas beside meduring thewalk, twobytwo around thefootball field.Weweren't giventhe white wings untilwegraduated, wehad only theveils; sowe could talk,aslong aswe did itquietly anddidn't turntolook atone another. TheAunts walked atthe head ofthe

line and atthe end, sothe only danger wasfrom theothers. Somewerebelievers and might report us. This isaloony bin,Moira said. I'm soglad tosee you, Isaid. Where canwetalk? saidMoira. Washroom, Isaid. Watch theclock. Endstall, two-thirty. That wasallwe said. It makes mefeel safer, thatMoira ishere. Wecan gotothe washroom ifwe put our hands up,though there'salimit tohow many timesaday, theymark itdown onachart. I watch theclock, electric andround, atthe front overthegreen blackboard. Two-thirty comes duringTestifying. AuntHelena ishere, aswell asAunt Lydia, because Testifying is special. AuntHelena isfat, she once headed aWeight Watchers' franchiseoperation in Iowa, She's goodatTestifying. It's Janine, tellingabouthowshewas gang- raped atfourteen andhadanabortion. She told thesame storylastweek. Sheseemed almostproudofit,while shewas telling. It may noteven betrue. AtTestifying, it'ssafer tomake things upthan tosay you have nothing toreveal. Butsince it'sJanine, it'sprobably moreorless true. But whose faultwasit?Aunt Helena says,holding upone plump finger. Her fault, herfault, herfault, wechant inunison. Who ledthem on?Aunt Helena beams, pleased withus. She did.She did.She did. Why didGod allow suchaterrible thingtohappen? Teach heralesson. Teachheralesson. Teachheralesson. Last week, Janine burstintotears. AuntHelena madeherkneel atthe front ofthe classroom, handsbehind herback, where wecould allsee her, herredface and dripping nose.Herhair dullblond, hereyelashes solight they seemed notthere, thelost eyelashes ofsomeone who'sbeeninafire. Burned eyes.Shelooked disgusting: weak, squirmy, blotchy,pink,likeanewborn mouse.Noneofus wanted tolook likethat, ever. For amoment, eventhough weknew whatwasbeing donetoher, wedespised her. Crybaby. Crybaby.Crybaby. We meant it,which isthe bad part.

I used tothink wellofmyself. Ididn't then. That waslastweek. Thisweek Janine doesn't waitforustojeer ather. Itwas myfault, she says. Itwas myown fault. Iled them on.Ideserved thepain. Very good, Janine, saysAunt Lydia. Youareanexample. I have towait until thisisover before Iput upmy hand. Sometimes, ifyou askatthe wrong moment, theysayno.Ifyou really havetogo that canbecrucial. Yesterday Dolores wetthefloor. TwoAunts hauled heraway, ahand under eacharmpit. She wasn't thereforthe afternoon walk,butatnight shewas back inher usual bed.Allnight we could hearhermoaning, offand on. What didthey dotoher? Wewhispered, frombedtobed. I don't know. Not knowing makesitworse. I raise myhand, AuntLydia nods. Istand upand walk outinto thehall, as inconspicuously aspossible. Outsidethewashroom AuntElizabeth isstanding guard. She nods, signaling thatIcan goin. This washroom usedtobe for boys. Themirrors havebeen replaced heretooby oblongs ofdull gray metal, buttheurinals arestillthere, onone wall, white enamel with yellow stains. Theylookoddly likebabies' coffins. Imarvel againatthe nakedness of men's lives:theshowers rightoutinthe open, thebody exposed forinspection and comparison, thepublic display ofprivates. Whatisitfor? What purposes ofreassurance does itserve? Theflashing ofabadge, look,everyone, allisin order, Ibelong here.Why don't women havetoprove toone another thatthey arewomen? Someformof unbuttoning, somesplit-crotch routine, justascasual. Adoglike sniffing. The high school isold, thestalls arewooden, somekindofchipboard. Igo into the second onefrom theend, swing thedoor to.Ofcourse therearenolonger anylocks. In the wood there's asmall hole,atthe back, nexttothe wall, about waistheight, souvenir of some previous vandalism orlegacy ofan ancient voyeur. Everyone inthe Center knows aboutthishole inthe woodwork; everyoneexcepttheAunts. I'm afraid Iam too late, held upbyJanine's Testifying: maybeMoirahasbeen here already, maybeshe'shadtogo back. Theydon'tgiveyoumuch time.Ilook carefully down, aslantunderthestall wall, andthere aretwo redshoes. Buthow canItell who it is? I put mymouth tothe wooden hole.Moira? Iwhisper. Is that you? shesays. Yes, Isay. Relief goesthrough me.

God, doIneed acigarette, saysMoira. Me too, Isay. I feel ridiculously happy. I sink down intomybody asinto aswamp, fenland, whereonlyIknow thefooting. Treacherous ground,myown territory. Ibecome theearth Iset myear against, for rumors ofthe future. Eachtwinge, eachmurmur ofslight pain,ripples ofsloughed- off matter, swellings anddiminishings oftissue, thedroolings ofthe flesh, these aresigns, these arethethings Ineed toknow about, Eachmonth Iwatch forblood, fearfully, for when itcomes itmeans failure.Ihave failed onceagain tofulfill theexpectations of others, whichmayhave become myown. I used tothink ofmy body asan instrument, ofpleasure, orameans oftransportation, or an implement forthe accomplishment ofmy will. Icould useitto run, push buttons of one sortoranother, makethings happen. Therewerelimits, butmybody was nevertheless lithe,single, solid,onewith me. Now theflesh arranges itselfdifferently I'macloud, congealed aroundacentral object, the shape ofapear, which ishard andmore realthan Iam and glows redwithin its translucent wrapping.Insideitis aspace, hugeasthe sky atnight anddark andcurved like that, though black-redrather thanblack. Pinpoints oflight swell, sparkle, burstand shrivel withinit,countless asstars. Every month thereisamoon, gigantic, round,heavy, an omen. Ittransits, pauses, continues onand passes outofsight, andIsee despair coming towards melike famine. Tofeel that empty, again,again.Ilisten tomy heart, wave uponwave, saltyandred, continuing onand on,marking time. I'm inour first apartment, inthe bedroom. I'mstanding infront ofthe cupboard, which has folding doorsmadeofwood. Around meIknow it'sempty, allthe furniture isgone, the floors arebare, nocarpets even;butdespite thisthecupboard isfull ofclothes. I think they're myclothes, butthey don't looklikemine, I'venever seenthem before. Maybe they'reclothes belonging toLuke's wife,whom I'vealso never seen;onlypictures and avoice onthe phone, lateatnight, whenshewas calling us,before thedivorce. But no, they're myclothes allright. Ineed adress, Ineed something towear. Ipull out dresses, black,blue,purple, jackets, skirts;noneofthem willdo, none ofthem evenfits, they're toobigortoo small.

. . . . . .