Chapter 5: Blue (During Season 5 05, "Fairytale")
Love your enemies, do good to those who hate you, bless those who curse you, pray for those who abuse you. (Luke 6:27-28)
Rita Blue stared at the neat handwriting on the half-sheet of paper in her hand. It had taken several months for her to summon up the courage to ask the US Consulate for information about her lost relatives, and another few weeks before she got any response. Now, here it was, right in front of her. Her only living relative in Canada: her mother-in-law. The least favorite of her family members.
Rita had never been especially close to Marcus's parents. She was never quite good enough for their only son. Not quite Black enough, not quite educated or militant enough. Too Christian, too passive. Raised by her British-born mom more than her African-American dad, Rita constantly felt judged by the Blues as the token biracial family member. Rita talks white. Thinks white. Cooks white. Every holiday get-together degenerated into a litany of complaints: Rita, why can't you just be more…?
She rolled her eyes. What she was, was none of their damn business. Marcus had loved her just as she was, despite his parents' criticisms. Besides, her mellow character had kept her alive in Gilead. 'Loud and proud' would have gotten her killed or sent to the Colonies years ago. Marcus, for example, had tried to become deferential overnight, going from fuck all y'all to yes sir, right away sir as soon as Gilead was established. It hadn't worked. He'd been arrested and relocated somewhere…to the radioactive Homelands, Rita assumed. She never saw him again. Rachel Tapping hadn't found a death certificate for him, but then again, Gilead didn't issue them for residents of the southern Homelands. Too hard to keep up with all the deaths.
Her son Matthew was the truly uppity one in the family, always outspokenly anti-Christian, anti-government, anti-capitalist. Rita and Marcus had butted heads with him constantly in that last year. Lots of slamming doors. He drove them crazy then; now Rita would give twenty years of her life just to be able to talk with her son one last time, to argue or apologize or just tell him she adored and admired him.
Matthew's combativeness was normal teenage behavior, the parents knew, and the stubbornness would eventually be tempered by wisdom. Coming of age during a revolution, though, was just plain bad luck. And so he had volunteered for the local American-loyalist militia as soon as the Sons of Jacob declared martial law. Smugly overconfident, he'd been killed within days. That bottomless pain was buried in Rita's heart in a spot she kept very carefully sealed up. She had told almost no one about Matthew—oddly, Serena Waterford was the first and only person she'd confided in. After Mrs. Waterford told her she was "humbled by his sacrifice," Rita clammed up, never to mention him again. Matthew hadn't sacrificed himself for goddamned Gilead. He had died fighting against it.
Marcus's parents had gone to Canada just before the revolution. "If these fucking Christo-fascists take over," his mom had warned them, "you know they're coming for the Black and Brown folks first. Us, the gays, and the Jews. That's how it's always been." Marcus had indulged his parents to their face, then privately told Rita he disagreed. She had brushed them off, considering their attitude paranoid.
Clearly, she owed the Blues an apology for that one.
She stopped mulling over memories, took a sip of Diet Coke, and regarded the paper in her hand. Harriet Sawyer-Blue, Montreal (Hampstead district), 514-862-4404. Where was her husband Trevor? He was about seventy-five now…but healthy, as far as Rita knew. Maybe gone, maybe dead, maybe just not on the mortgage that Rachel had found. Whatever. Call her, Rita, she ordered herself.
"Hello?"
Rita swallowed. "Hi, um, is this Harriet?" Of course it was. She sounded exactly the same as always.
"Yeah, who's this?" Harriet's tone was impatient, like she had someplace else to be at nine o'clock on a Monday evening.
"It's Rita. Marcus's wife."
There was a long moment of silence. "Rita, you're still alive? Aren't you in Gilead somewhere?"
"I was. I'm out now." She resisted the urge to say 'praise be' to that. "Thank God, I escaped with the Angels' Flight. I live in Toronto now. How are you, Harriet?"
"Well, I didn't spend the last six years in godforsaken Gilead, so I'm just fine. Did Marcus get out with you?" She suddenly sounded hopeful. "The American Consulate here don't have a thing on him. I don't even know if he's still alive."
Rita paused. "I don't know, either. We got separated about five months after the revolution. Guardians took our whole neighborhood to Fenway Park for relocation; I think Marcus was sent to the Homelands."
"Where's that?"
"The Deep South. Alabama, Mississippi, maybe Louisiana. I don't really know. I just know he didn't stay in Boston."
"But you did."
"Yes, I was…I became a Martha."
"A maid in some rich white guy's house?" Jesus, she hasn't changed a bit. She still sounds so judgmental.
"That's right." About right.
"And Matthew came with you?"
"No, he…he joined the militia, to fight the takeover. Just after the revolution. He was killed. Shot by a Guardian…a Gilead soldier, I mean."
Silence again. Finally: "He was seventeen. Just a baby. You let him go fight? What the fuck were you thinking, Rita?"
"I, uh, I honestly didn't think Americans would shoot American children. I did try to keep him home, keep him safe, but you know how teenagers can be. Matthew had a mind of his own, and he was absolutely unwilling to live under a dictatorship. He would never have fit in under Gilead's regime. At least he died standing tall." Rita thought Harriet might like that last sentence.
"Standing tall or lying down, he's still dead."
Guess she didn't like it after all. We are discussing my son, for Christ's sake. Would a little tact be too much to ask for? "Trust me, Harriet, I know that. You don't think I know that?" Don't get defensive. Calm. Focus.
"I told you three to leave Boston with us. You could have left."
"Yes," Rita acknowledged quickly, "I know. Not a day goes by that I don't—"
"You wanted to stay. Just you. You had your fine house, your piano, your expensive furniture, your yoga mats and overpriced designer dog. Marcus wanted to leave. He stayed for you. For you and your fucking stuff."
Rita finished off the Diet Coke, wishing she'd poured herself a very stiff drink instead. She hadn't thought of Snoopy in weeks. Months, maybe. Her beloved hypoallergenic Portuguese Water Dog. A mix of black and white, like her. Poor Snoopy. When they were rounded up and taken to Fenway Park, all pets stayed behind. Gilead had very few dogs left; most of the mutts were shot. She hoped Snoopy, as a valuable purebred, had been placed with a commander's family. If children could be reassigned to new families, surely sweet fluffy dogs could be too.
Matthew had grown up with Snoopy. They'd been puppies together. Snoops used to park his fluffy butt right under the high chair, to catch all the Cheerios that the toddler threw down for his best friend.
She ordered herself again to stop thinking of her son and instead focus on Harriet's accusation. She was right. Rita hadn't been able to leave her Stuff. She'd worked too hard to get her home the way she wanted it: functional but elegant furniture, with soothing colors and splashes of brightness. The sturdy piano she'd bought a month after she landed her first good-paying job. The leather couches. Those things weighted her down, anchored her to one spot when she should have been running. Trevor and Harriet, by comparison, had ditched almost all their possessions and fled to Quebec, starting over with just a few suitcases.
"You were absolutely right then," Rita finally said aloud. "I was stupid to stay. I thought the storm would pass and that life would go on pretty much as it had before. I was wrong."
"Yes, you were. And you got your family killed."
"I know that, Harriet."
"Well then." She tried to soften her voice, slightly. "How was your time in Gilead? You always were a great housekeeper, so your employers probably thought you were a godsend."
Rita shook her head. Employers? I wasn't working at fucking Pottery Barn. "Uh, no, they didn't value me at all. Marthas are slaves. I was property. Property of the State, until I was assigned to a household. Then I was the Commander's property. They could do whatever they wanted to us. I can't…I…I risked my life to escape. I can't even begin to explain to you…." She trailed off.
"I am sorry for whatever you went through," Harriet said briskly. "Doesn't sound as bad as what my great-great grandparents—and every single Black American's ancestors—went through. Not as bad as my son's and grandson's deaths. At least you're still alive. So I hope you enjoy your life in Toronto, Rita. But you don't need to call me again. As far as I'm concerned, we are no longer relatives. You're just someone my son used to know."
Rita whispered brokenly, "I'll call you if I find out anything about Marcus."
"Yes, do that. Otherwise, best of luck to you, Rita."
"Goodbye, Harriet."
Rita made herself a gin and tonic, gulped it down. Then another, adding a slice of lime this time. And since it was sinful to waste nine-tenths of a perfectly ripe lime, she kept slicing the lime and refilling her glass until she had no more tonic water. She tried reading Psalms 6 and 7, but found it hard to focus on their meaning, especially after the third gin and tonic.
She had no family pulling her back towards Gilead, and no family in Canada with expectations of her now. She had nobody. Lonely and alone, marooned and unmoored. Maybe this was why she'd been able to integrate into Canadian society better than June or Emily, she mused: nobody wanted her to be anything. Poor June had Luke and Moira pulling her one way, her responsibility to little Nichole warring with her bloodlust for the Waterfords, Hannah and Nick drawing her back towards Gilead. Emily had Syl and Oliver here, hated aunts over there. Rita didn't want to get revenge on anybody, and there was nobody here in Toronto who remembered the creature she used to be. So she could—and would—reinvent herself here. The thought was comforting.
A small cry jolted her out of her drunken musings. Nichole. Holy shit. Rita had completely forgotten that she was on babysitting watch while Luke, June, and Moira made an impromptu visit to the border. Lilly had called; a Guardian had some information about the new 'wife schools,' maybe even some intel on Hannah Bankole. Rita had been given the sacred duty of watching over their daughter.
She went upstairs to comfort the half-asleep toddler. Her little doll had fallen out of the Pack & Play, and Nichole couldn't sleep without Dolly and at least two stuffed animals as well. A fixable problem. She lay Dolly next to Nichole's sweaty brow, wondering idly how June had found a pink-dressed, Gilead-inspired doll in Toronto. And why she would want Nichole to have such a toy. No matter. The child loved it, so it stayed.
Once Nichole settled and went back to sleep, Rita sighed in relief. She had gotten drunk while on babysitting duty, just one more thing to add to her guilty conscience. I will not let this baby down, she resolved, returning downstairs to make herself some decaf. She needed to sober up, lest Nichole wake up again.
She just hoped Luke and June returned from the border soon.
[Spoiler: they do not return from the border soon.]
This one was inspired by the ever-insightful Amanda Brugel, whom I just saw speak at the Paley Center in New York (along with her cast mates: awesome experience!). She mentioned that Rita had integrated better into Canada than other characters because nobody she loved was anchoring her to Gilead, and nobody in Canada expected her to act like she had Before. She also said Rita longed for a family, as well as maybe "a hot guy." She said this while sitting directly next to Sam Jaeger, an obvious top choice for hot single guy. Might have to write another story about that one. (I also like the idea of Rita with Luke, once he realizes that June is nothing like she used to be and they need to just be friends rather than spouses. Hopefully a revelation for season 6.)
Anyway, I loved listening to Amanda. She's bizarrely under-used in season 5, so we need to focus on her now.