“Hope they don’t bring back any ugly girls or sluts.”
“It’s one or the other.” Laughs from both checkpoint Angels.
Agnes put her hand on my arm. “Don’t talk back,” she said.
When we’d reached the countryside and were on a highway, the driver handed us a couple of sandwiches: Gilead fake cheese. “I guess this is breakfast,” I said to Agnes. “Toe jam on white.”
“We should give thanks,” said Agnes in her pious Aunt’s voice, so I guess she was still in a snit. It was weird to think of her as my sister; we were so unlike. But I hadn’t really had time to figure any of that out.
“I’m glad to have a sister,” I said, to make peace.
“I’m glad too,” said Agnes. “And I give thanks.” But she didn’t sound very thankful.
“I give thanks too,” I said. Which was the end of that conversation. I thought of asking her how long we had to keep it up, this Gilead way of talking—couldn’t we stop and act natural, now that we were escaping? But then, maybe for her it was natural. Maybe she didn’t know another way.
* * *
—
In Portsmouth, New Hampshire, the driver of our car let us out at the bus station. “Good luck, girls,” he said. “Give ’em hell.”
“See? He’s not a real Guardian,” I said, hoping to get Agnes talking again.
“Of course not,” she said. “A real Guardian would never say ‘hell.’ ”
The bus station was old and crumbling, the women’s washroom was a germ factory, and there was no place we could exchange our Gilead food tokens for anything a person would want. I was glad I’d eaten the orange. Agnes, however, was not squeamish, being used to the crap that passed for food at Ardua Hall, so she bought some kind of pretend doughnut with two of our tokens.
The minutes were ticking; I was getting jittery. We waited and waited, and finally a bus did come. Some people on board nodded at us when we got on, as they might to the military: a salute of the head. An older Econowife even said, “God bless you.”
About ten miles along there was another checkpoint, but the Angels there were super polite to us. One of them said, “You’re very brave, heading into Sodom.” If I hadn’t been so scared I might have laughed—the idea of Canada being Sodom was hilarious, considering how boring and ordinary it mostly was. It wasn’t like there was a non-stop countrywide orgy going on.
Agnes squeezed my hand to tell me she would do the talking. She had the Ardua Hall knack of keeping her face flat and calm. “We are simply doing our service for Gilead,” she said in her underspoken robot Aunt’s way, and the Angel said, “Praise be.”
The ride got bumpier. They must have been keeping their road repair money for roads more people were likely to use: since trading with Canada was practically shut down nowadays, who’d want to go to North Gilead unless you lived there?
The bus wasn’t full; everyone on it was Econoclass. We were on the scenic route, winding along the coast, but it wasn’t all that scenic. There were a lot of closed-down motels and roadside restaurants, and more than one big red smiling lobster that was falling apart.
As we went north, the friendliness decreased: there were angry looks, and I had the feeling that our Pearl Girls mission and even the whole Gilead thing was leaking popularity. No one spat at us, but they scowled as if they would like to.
I wondered how far we had come. Agnes had the map that had been marked up by Aunt Lydia, but I didn’t like to ask her to take it out: the two of us looking at a map would be suspicious. The bus was slow, and I was getting more and more anxious: How soon before someone noticed we weren’t in Ardua Hall? Would they believe my bogus note? Would they call ahead, set up a roadblock, stop the bus? We were so conspicuous.
Then we took a detour, and it was one-way traffic, and Agnes started fidgeting with her hands. I nudged her with my elbow. “We need to look serene, remember?” She gave me a wan smile and folded her hands in her lap; I could feel her taking deep breaths and letting them out slowly. They did teach you a few useful things at Ardua Hall, and self-control was one of them. She who cannot control herself cannot control the path to duty. Do not fight the waves of anger, use the anger as your fuel. Inhale. Exhale. Sidestep. Circumvent. Deflect.
I would never have made it as a real Aunt.
* * *
—
It was around five in the afternoon when Agnes said, “We get off here.”
“Is this the border?” I said, and she said no, it was where we were supposed to meet our next ride. We took our backpacks off the rack and stepped down out of the bus. The town had boarded-up storefronts and smashed windows, but there was a fuel station and a shabby convenience store.
“This is encouraging,” I said gloomily.
“Follow me and don’t say anything,” Agnes said.
Inside, the store smelled like burnt toast and feet. There was hardly anything on the shelves, only a row of preserved food items with the lettering blacked out: canned goods and crackers or cookies. Agnes went up to the coffee counter—one of those red ones with bar stools—and sat down, so I did the same. There was a dumpy middle-aged Economan working the counter. In Canada, it would’ve been a dumpy middle-aged woman.
“Yeah?” the man said. Clearly he wasn’t impressed by our Pearl Girls outfits.
“Two coffees, please,” said Agnes.
He poured the coffees into mugs and shoved them across the counter. The coffee must have been sitting around all day because it was the worst I’d ever tasted, worse even than at Carpitz. I didn’t want to annoy the guy by not drinking it, so I put in a packet of sugar. If anything, that made it worse.
“It’s warm for a May day,” said Agnes.
“It’s not May,” he said.
“Of course not,” she said. “My mistake. There’s a June moon.”
Now the guy was smiling. “You need to use the washroom,” he said. “Both of youse. It’s through that door. I’ll unlock it.”
We went through the door. It wasn’t a washroom, it was an outside shed with old fishnets, a broken axe, a stack of buckets, and a back door. “Don’t know what took you so long,” said the man. “Fucking bus, it’s always late. Here’s your new stuff. There’s flashlights. Put your dresses in those backpacks, I’ll dump them later. I’ll be outside. We need to get a move on.”
The clothes were jeans and long T-shirts and wool socks and hiking boots. Plaid jackets, fleece pull-on hats, waterproof jackets. I had a little trouble with the left T-shirt sleeve—something caught on the O. I said, “Fucking shit” and then, “Sorry.” I don’t think I’ve ever changed clothes so fast in my life, but once I got the silver dress off and those clothes on I began to feel more like myself.
Transcript of Witness Testimony 369A
63
I found the clothing provided for us disagreeable in the extreme. The underwear was very different from the plain, sturdy variety worn at Ardua Hall: to me it felt slippery and depraved. Over that there were male garments. It was disturbing to feel that rough cloth touching the skin of my legs, with no intervening petticoat. Wearing such clothing was gender treachery and against God’s law: last year a man had been hanged on the Wall for dressing in his Wife’s undergarments. She’d discovered him and turned him in, as was her duty.
“I have to take these off,” I said to Nicole. “They’re men’s garments.”
“No, they’re not,” she said. “Those are girls’ jeans. They’re cut differently, and look at the little silver Cupids. Definitely girls’.”
“They’d never believe that in Gilead,” I said. “I’d be flogged or worse.”
“Gilead,” said Nicole, “is not where we’re going. We’ve got two minutes to join our buddy outside. So suck it up.”
“Pardon?” Sometimes I could not make out what my sister was saying.
She la
ughed a little. “It means ‘be brave,’ ” she said.
We are going to a place where she will understand the language, I thought. And I will not.
* * *
—
The man had a battered pickup. The three of us squashed into the front seat. It was beginning to drizzle.
“Thank you for all you are doing for us,” I said. The man grunted.
“I get paid,” he said. “For putting my neck in the noose. I’m too old for this.”
The driver must have been drinking while we were changing our clothes: I could smell the alcohol. I remembered that smell from the dinner parties Commander Kyle would have when I was young. Rosa and Vera used to finish up what was left in the glasses sometimes. Zilla, not as much.
Now that I was about to leave Gilead forever, I was feeling homesick for Zilla and Rosa and Vera, and for my former home, and for Tabitha. In those early times I was not motherless, but now I felt that I was. Aunt Lydia had been a mother of sorts, although a harsh one, and I would not see her again. Aunt Lydia had told Nicole and me that our real mother was alive and waiting for us in Canada, but I wondered if I would die on the way there. If so, I would never meet her at all in this life. Right then she was only a torn-up picture. She was an absence, a gap inside me.
Despite the alcohol, the man drove well and quickly. The road was winding, and slick because of the drizzle. The miles went by; the moon had risen above the clouds, silvering the black outlines of the treetops. There was the occasional house, either dark or with only a few lights on. I made a conscious effort to quell my anxieties; then I fell asleep.
I dreamed of Becka. She was there beside me in the front of the truck. I couldn’t see her, though I knew she was there. I said to her in the dream, “So you came with us after all. I’m so happy.” But she didn’t answer.
Transcript of Witness Testimony 369B
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The night slid by in silence. Agnes was asleep, and the guy driving was not what you’d call talkative. I guess he thought of us as cargo to be delivered, and who ever talked to the cargo?
After a while we turned down a narrow side road; water glinted ahead. We pulled in beside what looked like a private dock. There was a motorboat with someone sitting in it.
“Wake her up,” the driver said. “Take your stuff, there’s your boat.”
I poked Agnes in the ribs and she started awake.
“Rise and shine,” I said.
“What time is it?”
“Boat time. Let’s go.”
“Have a good trip,” said our driver. Agnes started thanking him some more, but he cut her off. He tossed our new backpacks out of the truck and was gone before we were halfway to the boat. I was using my flashlight so we could see the path.
“Turn out the light,” the person in the boat called softly. It was a man, wearing a waterproof with the hood up, but the voice sounded young. “You can see okay. Take it slow. Sit on the middle seat.”
“Is this the ocean?” Agnes asked.
He laughed. “Not yet,” he said. “This is the Penobscot River. You’ll get to the ocean soon enough.”
The motor was electric and very quiet. The boat went right down the middle of the river; there was a crescent moon, and the water was reflecting it.
“Look,” Agnes whispered. “I’ve never seen anything so beautiful! It’s like a trail of light!” At that moment I felt older than her. We were almost outside Gilead now, and the rules were changing. She was going to a new place where she wouldn’t know how things were done, but I was going home.
“We’re right out in the open. What if anyone sees us?” I asked the man. “What if they tell them? The Eyes?”
“People around here don’t talk to the Eyes,” he said. “We don’t like snoops.”
“Are you a smuggler?” I said, remembering what Ada had told me. My sister nudged me: bad manners again. You avoided blunt questions in Gilead.
He laughed. “Borders—lines on a map. Things move across, people too. I’m just the delivery boy.”
The river got wider and wider. The mist was rising; the shores were vague.
“There she is,” the man said finally. I could see a darker shadow, out on the water. “The Nellie J. Banks. Your ticket to paradise.”
XXIII
Wall
The Ardua Hall Holograph
65
Aunt Vidala was discovered lying behind my statue in a comatose condition by elderly Aunt Clover and two of her septuagenarian gardeners. The conclusion the paramedics came to was that she’d had a stroke, a diagnosis confirmed by our doctors. Rumour sped round Ardua Hall, sad shakes of the head were exchanged, and prayers for Aunt Vidala’s recovery were promised. A broken Pearl Girls necklace was found in the vicinity: someone must have lost it at some point, a wasteful oversight. I will issue a memorandum about vigilance in regard to those material objects it is our duty to safeguard. Pearls do not grow on trees, I will say, even artificial ones; nor should they be cast before swine. Not that there are any swine at Ardua Hall, I will add coyly.
I paid Aunt Vidala a visit in the Intensive Care Unit. She was lying on her back with her eyes closed and a tube going into her nose and another one going into her arm. “How is our dear Aunt Vidala?” I asked the nursing Aunt on duty.
“I have been praying for her,” said Aunt Something. I can never remember the names of the nurses: it is their fate. “She’s in a coma: that may aid the healing process. There may be some paralysis. They’re afraid her speech might be affected.”
“If she recovers,” I said.
“When she recovers,” the nurse said reproachfully. “We don’t like to voice anything negative within the hearing of our patients. They may appear to be asleep, but frequently they are fully aware.”
I sat beside Vidala until the nurse had gone. Then I made a rapid inspection of the pharmaceutical aids available. Should I up the anaesthetic? Tamper with the tube feeding into her arm? Pinch off her oxygen supply? I did none of these. I believe in effort, but not in unnecessary effort: Aunt Vidala was most likely negotiating her exit from this world all on her own. Before leaving the Intensive Care Unit, I pocketed a small vial of morphine, foresight being a cardinal virtue.
* * *
—
While we were taking our lunchtime places in the Refectory, Aunt Helena commented on the absence of Aunt Victoria and Aunt Immortelle. “I believe they are fasting,” I said. “I glimpsed them in the Hildegard Library Reading Room yesterday, studying their Bibles. They are hoping for guidance during their upcoming mission.”
“Commendable,” said Aunt Helena. She continued her discreet head-counting. “Where is our new convert, Jade?”
“Perhaps she is ill,” I said. “A female complaint.”
“I will go and see,” said Aunt Helena. “Perhaps she needs a hot water bottle. Doorway C, is it?”
“How kind of you,” I said. “Yes. I believe hers is the garret room on the third floor.” I hoped Nicole had left her elopement note in a prominent location.
Aunt Helena hurried back from her visit to Doorway C, giddy with the excitement of her discovery: the girl Jade had eloped. “With a plumber named Garth,” Aunt Helena added. “She claims to be in love.”
“That is unfortunate,” I said. “We shall have to locate the pair, administer a reprimand, and make sure that the marriage has been properly performed. But Jade is very uncouth; she would not have made a reputable Aunt. Look on the bright side: the population of Gilead may well be augmented by this union.”
“But how could she have met such a plumber?” said Aunt Elizabeth.
“There was a complaint about a lack of bathwater this morning from Doorway A,” I said. “They must have called in the plumber. Clearly it was love at first sight. Young people are impetuous.”
“No one in the Hall is supposed t
o take baths in the morning,” said Aunt Elizabeth. “Unless someone has been breaking the rules.”
“That is not out of the question, unfortunately,” I said. “The flesh is weak.”
“Oh yes, so weak,” Aunt Helena agreed. “But how did she get out through the gate? She doesn’t have a pass, it wouldn’t have been allowed.”
“Girls of that age are very agile,” I said. “I expect she climbed over the Wall.”
We continued with lunch—dry sandwiches and something ruinous that had been done to tomatoes, and a dessert of runny blancmange—and by the end of our humble meal the girl Jade’s premature flight, her acrobatic feat of Wall-climbing, and her headstrong choice to fulfill her womanly destiny in the arms of an enterprising Economan plumber were general knowledge among us.
XXIV
THE NELLIE J. BANKS
Transcript of Witness Testimony 369B
66
We pulled up beside the ship. On the deck were three shadows; a flashlight shone briefly. We climbed up the rope ladder.
“Sit on the edge, swing your feet over,” said a voice. Someone took my arm. Then we were standing on the deck.
“Captain Mishimengo,” said the voice. “Let’s get you inside.” There was a low hum and I felt the ship moving.
We went into a little cabin with blackout curtains on the windows and some controls and what was likely a ship’s radar, though I didn’t have a chance to look at it closely.
“Glad you made it,” said Captain Mishimengo. He shook our hands; he had two fingers missing. He was stocky, about sixty, with tanned skin and a short black beard. “Now here’s our story, supposing you’re asked: this is a cod schooner, solar, with fuel backup. Flag of convenience is Lebanon. We’ve delivered a cargo of cod and lemons by special licence, which means the grey market, and now we’re heading back out. You’ll need to stay out of sight during the day: I heard from my contact, via Bert who dropped you at the dock, that they’re bound to be looking for you soon. There’s a place for you to sleep, in the hold. If there’s an inspection, coast guard, it won’t be thorough, it’s guys we know.” He rubbed his fingers together, which I knew meant money.
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