BEHIND GILEAD'S PICKET FENCE

When she answered the door, Kathryn presented quite the sight. My sergeant was standing there on the stoop, two cases of Maine micro-brewery ale (one in each hand), with his mouth open. In front of him was my wife, all of 13 years old and heavily pregnant. My sergeant had seen a lot, but he was not prepared for this version of placid domestic life. He was from Detroit, and an econo-family!

Kathryn had got to the door first, which had caused the confusion. When I got there, my sergeant said, "As I was telling your daughter here…." To which she cut him off in a huff, "I'm his Wife!" She took the two cases of ale and disappeared into the house. The last thing she said was, "Shall I bring you each one?" Which she did without us even replying.

Standing there, I invited him in. I took his coat, hung it on the hook beside mine, and asked, "What brings you here? I mean, you guys are supposed to be on leave!"

He said, "My wife, back in Detroit, she got called in for a shift at the car-assembly plant. I'm gone a lot, don't know the neighbours. So I thought I'd head back here. See some Boston sights." I asked how he managed the clearances needed to traverse the city. "I have my Guardian I.D. and a trunk filled with Maine ale." I asked where he'd scored the micro-brew. His answer? "Don't ask."

Kathryn had brought in a bottle each. I asked as politely as I could if the next ones could be cooled. She just glared at me, giving the right impression I wanted my sergeant to see - that I didn't lord it over her. Too much.

Feeling a little defensive, I said, "Look, sarge, let's drop rank. Ok?"

He paused. "That sounds like enough rope to hang myself."

I said, "No I'm serious. You know that I owe you my life, twenty times over. Tonight, I'm not your boss. We're just sitting around with a cool one, sharing war stories."

"Ok," he said tipping the bottle back a bit. "Let's start with Mrs. Blaine. Unless you think we should revert to rank, that is."

"No, no, no," I assured him, that was precisely why I wanted to talk turkey with him. "She's Commander Reilly's daughter. Ok, true, marrying a Reilly is upward mobility in my world of Commanders, I'll give you that. But she was pregnant before I even met her. I don't know what it is in the econo-world, but me marrying her saved the Reilly's a pile of work."

"Ok," the sarge let slide slowly out his mouth, which he replaced with a sip of ale. "You're right, boss, that's not how it's done in Detroit, not in my neighbourhood."

We talked about the rest of the guys in my special unit, the one that Putnam had assembled. It's how I knew Putnam was my patron, the quality of the men - not to mention this guy seated in front of me.

We talked of how he had got into the military. His father had been a Sons of Jacob, albeit in the mid-West. It had been their dad who'd been the religious one. His older brother had joined Sons of Jacob militia forces, and had been killed in a skirmish with Canadians across the St. Clair River. That's when he, himself, had joined, lying about his age.

I asked if he had any ambitions to get a military commission. He was a born leader. Loyal to a fault. Skilled. I said, "If you want, I could pull in a few favours. I bet you'd be a Colonel by the end of the week."

All he said was, "No, sir. Me, all I want is to work for a living." Fair enough.

This was wonderful, truly the first time I could remember just sitting tossing the bull too and fro. With a buddy, with a colleague. Without stupid Gilead politics ever at the forefront.

Until he asked, "Hey, has rank still been stowed?" After three ales, I assured him it had.

He leaned forward, "Ok, this might be a work related question. But while we're working, it's not my place to ask." He sat back, put his ale down, perhaps anticipating that his next line of inquiry might get him thrown out.

"Colonel, ah, er, Commander. What's with the Mayday chick? The lady from the prison?"

I put down my ale, and smiled at him, "Well, you have to admit, she's more my age!" Thankfully he smiled back. But he also remained silent. I knew him well enough - him as a born tactician - to know that he had set his ordnance where he wanted it, and was just waiting for it to go off.

So I said, "I'm not shitting you about Kathryn and Commander Reilly. That's the skinny on that."

So I picked up the last of my third ale and said, "June Osborne. An acquired taste."

THE JUNE OSBORNE SOLILOQUY

Ok, I'm going to write the next part as if my sergeant was not in the room. But like I say, I know why he'd asked - he takes care of me.

Before I begin, he'd put the whole thing in the proper perspective. He'd said, "You know, dude, there is no Mayday. There is no resistance. Every once in a while someone gets pissed off about Gilead, and they grab a gun. Then they start shooting at people like me. That's it." I asked him to explain the Rachel and Leah bombing. He said, "Busy work. For wanna-be resistance fighters."

When I asked about the eighty-six kids which had been trafficked, he'd got silent. "Ok, sometimes they get lucky. Your lady got lucky. A series of about thirty things each of which had to line up perfectly. Not the least of which was that jet. You should get to know your men better. One of the guys had been a Guardian at Jezebels, he knew Billy. Billy, he wasn't to be touched. Got girls for you Commanders. Got jets for marthas and handmaids to traffic in children. That's not Mayday, sir, that's graft."

My sergeant gave me quite the education, especially after I'd challenged his assertion that there was no Mayday, then gave examples of Mayday in action. All he said was, "This is precisely why I have to take care of you!"

So, to the soliloquy. Spoken to my guy. The last thing he said before I began was, "she's damaged goods. Not that great to look at, but then Gilead does that to you. My wife, an econo-wife if you must know, says that handmaids have five good years, then they're done."

I told him it had begun with Offred #1. As I was cutting her down from the light fixture above her bed, it occurred to me that I'd never got a good look at her face. The only thing I was sure of was that the contorted ugliness of her death-mask could not have been what she was really like. Yuck. Did I just type that?

For me it was a mixture of paralyzing guilt - bystander guilt - combined with blinding hatred of the Waterfords. Both of them. Which I did nothing about. What did I do with that guilt and hatred? I swallowed it, spent the next while simply doing my duty. To Gilead. Driving. For people like the Waterfords who'd built the place, then complained about being victims of it.

I'd got enmeshed with Offred #2, mainly because of the fantasy I had, that I would spare her the fate of her predecessor. I'd stowed guilt and hatred, and replaced it with an ineffectual paternal care.

Which, quite frankly, I rarely delivered on. Our martha, Rita, watched out for me, too. She's now in Canada. With June. Back then - I mean, Rita had her own survival to think of. But she kept me apprised of The Commander's abuse - of Offred, abuse that I did not stop. I could have, but didn't.

Then Mrs. Waterford. Made me impregnate June. You guys would think of it as 'getting laid'. (Which, by-the-way, my sergeant bristled at. It was his only interruption, when he called me 'a sexist dick'.)

He was right, my sergeant, there had been no Mayday. But there had been people who could get trucks. I'd tried to get June out, I really did. But she threw it back in my face. Then Nichole was borne. Then I risked everything on another truck. She put Nichole onto the truck, and she - maddeningly - stayed behind.

"You talk about 30 things in a row having to go right, any one foul-up would have meant The Wall!" I mean, I'd pulled my pistol on a Commander of Gilead. Yet Waterford himself was inches from arrest. I mean, I could have arranged it, but for some reason did not. I guess I feared what would happen to Nichole. Whatever.

CHICAGO

I then fled. Fled June, lest she consume me. To Chicago where I'd been a hero. And I met you, my sergeant, some of the finest gentlemen I would hope to call friends - although, I understand. I'm not your friend. I'm your commander.

Then the trafficking. Of the eighty-six. Lord above, that, too, had been June. New Gilead Chancery had to reach outside of its number - meaning me - to go get her. But it meant prison - Aunt Lydia and Lieutenant Stans. It meant putting her other daughter in harm's way.

So you're wondering why I'm feeling guilty? What's more miraculous is what you witnessed at the transfer to the Magdalene Colonies van. I mean, witnessing our reunion (June and my reunion on the bridge), that's when I knew - really knew, that you had my back. In war.

He and I sat silently, for how long I do not know. He finally said, "You handed Waterford over to her, dude. Ok, I think I get that. You owed her. But let me say one last thing, and this is where we pick our ranks back up, put them back onto our shoulders."

I was somewhere else, had not yet come back into the room.

My sergeant stood, albeit still in his civilian clothes. He asked where his coat was, I told him it was hanging by the door. Before he went to get it and leave he said…..

"Ok, here's the deal, Commander. It's my job to tell you when you're being a horse's ass. Literally, that's my only job. Anyone can fire a gun, but someone has to tell the boss when he's going to get us all killed."

I followed him to the door, where he'd put on his coat and opened the door.

With his hand on the knob and the door partially ajar, with the cold coming in he said, "Boss. There is no tactical plan, not from here. You should know that. You would if this was Chicago." He opened the door a little wider, said, "Lose the lady. Quit beating yourself up." He paused. "Sir, I will follow you into the bowels of hell. You're a brilliant commander - in a differing world you'd be a great friend. We can't be friends. Not now."

"But with her there's no happily-ever-after. Just after. She's in Canada, you're reforming Gilead, from here." As he left he said over his shoulder, "I give you my word, though, that I'm with you - so are the men - even when you're being a dick."

"In war, I'm your man. With her, I'll take it day by day." That man, he took care of me.