SUPERPOWER

New entries on my CV. This was not at all like the sorority back in university. Back then one's CV had been about one's family - one's Sons of Jacob bona fides. All that had translated into me 'marrying well', and taking one's eventual place as a Wife of Gilead. As one married to an eventual High Commander no less.

Now? Now in Calgary, my amputated fingers played huge. My last known address in Gilead had been 'The Colonies' - that helped immeasurably. 'Wife of a High Commander'? To be determined.

Luckily, unlike Serena Joy Waterford, I'd never formally raped someone. That would look bad on a CV. As far as Canada and the ICC was concerned, Warren had been responsible for Ofwarren's treatment as well as his other 'crimes'.

Even so, I need to confess I've been less than forthcoming in this narrative. I've portrayed myself as 'together' or 'in full command'. I have not been. It hit me when we crossed the border, the line in the prairie that the Fort Peck Indians called, 'The Medicine Line'. Before I had been boarded on to the bus with the other women in Coutts, Alberta (the border town), we'd had an 'initial refugee intake'.

Me, I thought I had answered all their questions. Apparently not. My intake form made no mention of me being a High Commander's Wife. Why? Because I couldn't get the words out. Even if I'd wanted to. In the comments section of the form, it was written: 'another mute one.' (I do remember the perky intake worker at Coutts saying that I was 'typical', but I had not realized that what that referred to was that I had been in PTSD shock! Apparently, eventually even Commander's Wives collapse.)

The bus took us for the full refugee processing, to a large, open warehouse outside of Calgary. It occurred to me by then that I should probably not mention my (former) status in Gilead - that I had been married to a High Commander. I thought I'd just leave it that I was a Colonies survivor. I had feared mentioning anything to do with the Waterfords - initially just left them out of it and accepted my good luck of being deemed a Gilead refugee, as far as Americans-in-exile and Canadians were concerned.

In Calgary, I was a de facto American. Yuck.

So, after being assigned a cot in the large warehouse, I decided I wanted something more than a refugee blanket, as well as a government issue SmartPhone (that I had no clue what to do with) plus Debit Card, and a whole host of other equally mysterious coupons.

I pushed my way back to the processing desks, walking against the signs that pointed to the cots, saying 'one way'.

I walked up to the desk that had just processed me, and the worker said, "Honey, you've already signed in. You've got your blanket. You have to go back to your cot." For the first time, I told someone who I was. She directed me to sit over by the 'To Be Processed' seats, which technically did not apply. But I sat anyway.

I must have dozed off. I awoke to the worker standing over me with a note in her outstretched hand.

She then addressed me by my formal name, "Mrs. Putnam, please call this number in Toronto. I've been directed to stay with you once you've spoken."

Me, I had no idea how to work the SmartPhone in my possession, so handed it to the worker and said in my best Wife's voice, "Please be a dear and call for me."

Which she did. After a second, she said into the phone, "I have a call from Mrs. Naomi Putnam for Mark Tuello. He said that he wanted to be pulled out of his meeting….."

After another second, she simply said, "Ok, yes, she's right here. Hold on."

She handed me the phone, I said, "Naomi Putnam here."

Mark Tuello apologized profusely. He'd just an hour previous been told that I'd been part of a refugee group who had crossed into Canada from the Fort Peck Reservation in Montana. He said that that had caught, 'The American Government by surprise, as we had lost track of your whereabouts in Gilead.' He asked if I had remembered him from my visit to Serena Joy in the ITWC prison, which I confirmed I had.

He then asked if there was anything in particular that I needed. Looking over to the cot area where 100s of people were settling in for whatever duration awaited, I said, "Mr. Tuello, it would be nice to take a hot bath in a hotel room."

He then told me to 'sit tight', which seemed ludicrous, because what else was I going to do. He then asked that the phone be given back to the refugee worker. The two briefly spoke, then she hung up, returned my phone and said, "The Consul General will relate directly to you from now on."

An hour later, I was in a taxi to the Hilton Garden Inn, a hotel two blocks from the Calgary American Consulate, all arranged by a Consul General with the unusual name of Waeger-Monster.

An hour after that I was in a hot bath. The maid service took my clothes, promised them back cleaned and pressed before the morning. They'd not got out all of the Colonies' stains. The only embarrassing part was that my room-service meal was delivered while I was in the bath! I made a mental note to 'speak to the hotel manager' about his employee who came into my room while I was in a compromised position. Oh yes, and the stains still in my clothes.

However, this west facing 12th floor room had a gorgeous view of the Canadian Rockies in the distance, silhouetted by a beautiful sunset. Any 'panic' I had had at Coutts, any mutism (as they had called it) was now all gone. The fluffy bathrobe was all I needed.

THE GHOST OF FRED WATERFORD

Then I discovered that discussing the Waterfords was a verboten subject in Canada. As such, I brought them up as often as I could.

The media here had savaged both the Canadian government, as well as Americans-in-exile who had 'bungled the Waterford file', as they had put it. The media had called the Canadian Prime Minister, 'complicit in an extra-judicial killing'. Even Oprah on the Voice of America, had had to read a veiled apology for Fred's demise, broadcast into Gilead.

When I'd asked Ms. Waeger-Monster, the Consul General, about Serena, she'd immediately changed the subject. Spreading my elbows to indicate my 'customer dissatisfaction', I pressed. I'd asked, "Surely you can tell me if she's had her baby?" She blamed the Canadians for putting a media black-out on Mrs. Waterford's status. I pressed again, she parried. I tried another tack, she obfuscated. Waeger-Monster would have survived a Wives-tea, she was that good!

She was a woman I could do business with.

My lone meeting with a Canadian official, he blamed the Canadian courts. I said, "Can you at least tell me if she's still in Canada? Or was she deported like her husband, Commander Waterford?" He seemed insulted at the insinuation, as he should have been. The Canadian said that there'd been a 'publication ban', then referred me back to Calgary's consul general, and it started all over again.

When the reporter came to my hotel room at the Hilton Garden Inn (a short walk from Ms. Waeger-Monster's offices), I made a point of eschewing gloves - so that he could see my three missing fingers. Me, I'd made my peace with those injuries, especially when I found that Canadians were suckers for hard luck stories…

…... I told the reporter that Ms. Waeger-Monster kept saying that her Consulate was 'run properly', not like that 'clown show in Toronto.' East-West resentments in Canada had seeped into the way the American government acted in the country. The reporter lapped it up. All this was like a Wives-tea back in New Gilead, listening for sore-points, picking at old scabs. This world I could manage. So when in Rome…..

Which was perhaps the strangest thing for me. The Calgary Herald reporter, he referred to me as an American-refugee, rather than as a Gileadean, it took a minute to get my bearings.

Me, I had to stow my real feelings - that despite its flaws, Gilead was the only Divinely-ordained country in the world that was doing something about infertility. Ok, ok, I neglected to tell the reporter, my husband had been salvaged and my daughter had been kidnapped, but every country had excesses.

Me, I told the reporter everything. He then said he'd walk with me the two blocks for my meeting at the Consulate. I was told to avoid the unruly line of refugees outside the front, to come to the back. The reporter knew the way. If there were two US Marines standing outside a nondescript alley-way door, they would let me in.

There was a Tim Horton's coffee and donut shop in-between. The reporter suggested we go in - I got the feeling he was extending his time with me as much as he could. He wanted more 'goop' about Americans not getting along. My Canadian-issue smart-phone allowed me to stay on top of Gilead stuff while enjoying what he called, 'a double-double'. The government issue debit-card was still working so what the hell? I bought him his order.

I spotted a women's clothing store, and made a note that I had to stop there. I also needed better shoes.

Twenty minutes later, I was greeted by Ms. Waeger-Monster in her office, she waving a sheaf of expense papers. Without so much as a 'hello', she started in, "Mrs. Putnam, we need to chat about your room-service bills. You've blown our monthly budget for refugees in total, all of them, and you've only been there two days!"

Without asking I sat down, took off my gloves to make sure she could see my injuries and then said in my best Wife-voice, "expense accounts bore me. The Colonies, they didn't have hairdressers, so I thought I'd get one up to my room." She held up the bill for the mani-pedi. I just shrugged, then said, "Well, don't blame me that I couldn't get a 30% discount because of the amputations!"

That quieted her. I then brought up what I wanted her to address, gesturing with the hand which was missing two of the three fingers…..

"Ms. Waeger-Monster, what progress have you made about my Angela?"

MARK TUELLO

Ms. Waeger-Monster said that any information about Angela Putnam was being handled by the Toronto Consulate. Fortunately for me and her, she said, Mr Tuello was flying in that evening.

"He said he'd texted you about it," she said. I asked, 'texted? What's that?'

I then gestured with my three-fingered hand, and said, "If someone like me is baffled about all this new stuff, what do you imagine it's like for a martha or an econo-wife?" I wondered aloud if the Calgary Herald knew that. I told her that she should really 'go to school' on what it was like to be a woman in Gilead. I then added, "Say, if you just give me Serena Joy's number, maybe I'll just skip the hired help and text her directly."

I swear she didn't even try to muffle her voice when she mumbled, "Tuello can't get here fast enough."

That night I was in the hotel dining room, waiting for Mr. Tuello. I'd already ordered long before he was scheduled to arrive, but I'd sent back the first order for being too cold. We'd eat together after all.

The waiter was hovering over me for my second order when Mr Tuello arrived. So I dismissed the waiter, and waited for Mr. Tuello to settle himself.

"I'm sorry for the late supper, Mrs. Putnam. The flight from Toronto was delayed. Have you ordered?"

I told him which entrée to avoid. "I'd ordered it, but they serve it here cold." I then neatly placed my hands on the table between us, so that my missing fingers were obvious. After an exchange of pleasantries, Mr. Tuello got to the point. Two points, really.

"Mrs Putnam, on behalf of the American Ambassador, welcome to Canada. As the Wife of a High Commander of Gilead - Canada does not recognize diplomatic immunity for you, but right now you're covered under their Refugees legislation."

Before he could continue, I asked, "Does that include you being silent about Serena Joy Waterford and where she is? She is my friend you know. Are you THAT embarrassed by what happened to Commander Waterford? Is THAT what happened to Serena?"

I didn't wait for him to speak, I quickly added, "Does that include frustrating me in my search for my daughter?" When he sat there thinking about his next move I concluded, "Or should I be talking directly with the US Ambassador?"