Chapter 2: Submission

"You misunderstand me, Commander Blaine. I don't want you hanged. I want your help. I want you to get my wife and daughter out, the way you got yours out."

As Nick's jaw dropped open, Putnam clarified. "I don't really care which laws you've broken, or even if you formally belong to some terrorist organization. You obviously have some extralegal contacts, and I would like you to use them to get Naomi and Angela to Canada. Of course, if you tell anyone what we're about to discuss, I'll just release all the dirt I have on you…and you will be, as you said, hanged by dinnertime."

Blaine pursed his lips. "You're giving me a lot more credit than you should. I've never arranged to get anyone out of Gilead, despite all your sleuthing. You've got a few details right, but you've come to some really wrong conclusions. Still, I do know some people who can get Naomi and Angela to Canada, if you want. Your passes are a great help; you can travel almost anywhere. If you can drive them north near No Man's Land, the last little bit wouldn't be much of a problem. I can set it up."

"Really?"

"Really."

"That'd be great," Putnam said, casually relieved, as if Nick were going to pick up his kid from daycare for him. He obviously had been expecting a positive response from the younger commander. "Naomi has never really loved Angela," he mused. "She's my child, you know. A real Billah birth. But I guess you've heard that my, uh, relationship with the handmaid went a little beyond what was required." He glanced at his empty sleeve, the price of his adultery. He felt his missing arm twitch in phantom pain. "Naomi looks at the baby as the product of an extramarital affair more than the product of the sacred Ceremony. I did it all for my wife—she'd always wanted to be a mother. But wanting a baby and seeing the reality of surrogate conception were two different things for her. She still resents Angela's presence. I still pray she'll learn to love the child one day. In the meantime, I do love my daughter. I want her to have a good life, a Christian life but normal, with school and friends and movies. And choices. You understand, right? Isn't that what you want for Baby Nichole?"

Blaine kept his face carefully blank. "Her name is Nichole. Just Nichole."

He pressed on. "You must have felt about her mother the way I did about Ofwarren. Janine. Whatever her name is now. She was just a handmaid—not a lover, of course, just a girl I was given. A tool to use for my pleasure. Nowhere near my intellect or Naomi's elegance and beauty. But Ofwarren became the carrier of my child, and as her belly got bigger, I developed a certain fondness for her. Isn't that how you feel about Osborne?"

"No."

"Really. I thought you liked her. I mean, at first, reading through all the files, it seemed you were only motivated by a desire to get your child to Canada; the pregnant handmaid was just the vessel for the baby. That made sense to me. But that business after the kidnapping of the eighty-six—that had nothing at all to do with Baby Nichole. Pardon me, Nichole. You volunteered to hunt Osborne down, you arrested her, and then you argued to the Council that she should be kept alive rather than executed. Right? Question her, get all the information about her contacts, then farm her out to a Magdalene Colony: that was your suggestion to us. Instead, she was loose in Chicago a day later. A disaster or a miracle, depending on the standpoint." He swallowed the rest of his whiskey. "You helped her—not the child, just her. I still don't understand why you, as you said so directly, would stick your neck out for that girl. She'd already served her purpose as your surrogate; why not let her just rot in prison? Or, if the sex was that good, why didn't you just take her in as your household's handmaid? There were legal ways to handle this. Instead, you risked execution by helping her escape."

"If that's all true, I must be an idiot," Blaine muttered. "Or suicidal."

'We're being stupid,' he had told her. 'You know we're being stupid. We're going to end up on the Wall.'

Nick took a long sip of his drink as he reflected. "You know the problem with the commanders, and the reason Gilead is gonna come crashing to an end? You underestimate women. Badly. You think I got Nichole and June out? Or those eighty-six children? Or blew up the Rachel and Leah Center, or beat Waterford to death?" He shook his head. "Mayday is at least ninety percent female. They've got the maternal instincts, they're the ones who are constantly being abused, and they've got nothing much to lose but their worthless lives. I didn't get Nichole out, Warren. Or her mother, either. Women did."

"So June Osborne is pulling all the strings?"

Nah, she just pulls my strings. And I love to let her. "No, of course not. She's a small part of a big organization."

Putnam tilted his head. "But you know how she got out. You knew, and you stayed silent if you didn't actively participate. Are you in love with her? I'm not going to tell anyone. Frankly, I'm just curious. I've never been able to talk honestly about my feelings towards my handmaid before."

"She was never my handmaid," he said flatly. "It's not the same."

"Yes, I know you were forced into it, as the Waterford file says. But surely you must believe God blessed your endeavor, since He saw fit to make her conceive."

Nick had had enough of this conversation. Pseudo-religious hypocrites were among his least favorite people, always had been. And Putnam in particular was completely full of shit, from 'I screwed my handmaid for my wife' to 'Ofwarren was a tool for me to use' and 'God blessed our endeavor.' He sighed resignedly. "You know what, I'm not talking to you about June Osborne. I'll help you get your wife and daughter to Canada, because you've got me over a barrel so I have no choice. But we're not friends, and I'm not explaining my life to you."

The next day, Naomi Putnam ordered her Martha to bring out the good china for teatime. Her friend Leah Chambers had come calling and brought her four year-old son along. Naomi tolerated the boy, even though he was obnoxiously loud and boisterous like his father. The children could play in the nursery—hopefully out of earshot. It would keep Angela occupied, at least. And if the boy became aggressive with her, as he had a tendency to do, she could just practice her biting skills. At two years of age, Angela still had not grown out of that nasty habit. Like her birth mother, the baby had a bit of a vampire streak.

Even in the sitting room, the women could still hear the shrieking of the children upstairs. After a few minutes of that unpleasantness, Naomi had the Martha bring the trays of tea and muffins to the swimming pool area. There, the two wives could really relax, leaning back on lounge chairs, in silence, shoes off.

Naomi inspected her friend. Her blond hair was beginning to turn gray, despite the use of black-market hair dyes. Wrinkles creased her eyes. "You look tired," she suggested. There were only a few women in Gilead whom she trusted enough to be nearly-honest; Leah was one of them.

Leah took a sip of tea, then blurted out, "Derek has his eyes on a younger woman. A girl, really. Alexa Simpson's girl, you know her? She's still a teenager. But almost every Saturday nowadays we go to their house for dinner, and I can tell what he's thinking."

"No, he'd never do that. He's a good man, a man of God." Naomi remembered talking to the men on the Council about what she thought Warren's punishment for adultery should be. She'd pushed for a strict sentence. It had been Commander Chambers who suggested an amputation. He'd looked aghast at the thought of Warren's transgression; Naomi couldn't believe that he might now be indulging in the same sort of affair. "Leah, remind him of the duties of a husband. To be faithful, to take care of you. But you also have to remember your place: we submit ourselves to our husbands as to God. There must be some sort of compromise to be made."

Leah shook her head. He wasn't having an affair, she thought. He just wanted to possess that girl, maybe make her a handmaid in their household. This was ridiculous: the daughters of commanders never fell that low. But Leah was worried nonetheless. And although Naomi tried to soothe her friend, there was no balm in Gilead for her troubled mind.

Warren Putnam took his wife's hand in his own, a romantic gesture he almost never used. He hoped she was understanding the gravity of this conversation. "You have to listen to me on this. I need you and Angela to go north. Raise her to be a good, moral girl, away from the dangers of life here."

Naomi stared at her husband as if he'd grown antlers. "There are plenty of dangers of life there, too. Atheists, liberals, gender traitors and all sorts of deviants. I can't believe you want us gone. You'd have me be a single mother in a land full of heathens, while you…what? Try to avoid the blame for our disappearance? You'll get hanged. And we'll be miserable." She shook her head vehemently. "I'm not going."

"Yes, you are. I've worked it out with a trusted associate. He'll get you across."

"No." She rarely contradicted her husband outright, but she felt this was justified. "I'm not going. What if he's not as trustworthy as you think? If I get caught, I'll be sent to the Colonies, at best. Shot in the head or hanged, otherwise. And Angela will be given to another family. We can't take that risk, Warren. No way. We're safe here."

"Nobody's safe here, not really. Let's be honest. I've got a dozen men on the Council, all of whom would gladly take my place by knocking me off." There wasn't a single member of that group that he'd trust not to stab him in the back—literally if not figuratively.

"We are safe. You're the High Commander now, praise be. Everyone looks up to you."

"Everyone wants to kill me, Naomi."

"Don't be dramatic." She blew out a frustrated breath. "The chances of getting caught are too high. I can't risk my life like that. I won't."

My life, she said—no thought to their daughter. Warren didn't mention that, though—he was trying to keep her calm, and that conversation had led to plenty of fights in the past. "You can do it, and you will. Trust me, the man who's going to help us, he's completely solid. He's done it before."

"For a woman and toddler?"

He stretched the truth. "Yes, in fact. For his own family. He trusted the network with his own child."

"Network? What network?"

Warren paused. Wives weren't supposed to know of the existence of a rebellion, lest they get any ideas about joining up. "Just…some people. Some are criminals, some just desperate people, like Econopeople and Marthas. I don't know who they are. But it doesn't much matter. We're going to drive up to former Vermont together, supposedly on a family vacation, and then they're going to take you across."

"Why would you not come with us?"

"I can't. I'd be arrested in Canada, like Fred Waterford. Put in jail for human rights abuses. I…I'm not completely safe here, but at least I'm free."

"I'm free here, too. In Canada, who would take care of me? Do you expect me to get a job, support Angela single-handedly with no help at all? Not even a Martha?" She could hear her voice becoming shrill. He seemed completely unconcerned by her growing desperation. Since logical arguments didn't seem to be working on her husband, Naomi switched to flirtatious pleading. She touched his shoulder, ran her hand up his arm to cup his cheek, spoke softly. "I can't, Warren. I don't know how to live without you. Please don't make me leave you." She was prepared to get on her knees over this—either to beg him or blow him, whatever worked better.

He recognized that look on her face, but ignored it for the moment. "You can do this, Naomi. Don't you want to be in Canada, where you can do whatever you want, drive, read, whatever?"

She wondered if this whole conversation was just a test of her loyalty. She'd heard of husbands doing that, wheedling their wives until they got them to admit some forbidden thought, then beating them for it. She therefore stuck to the party line. "No, I certainly do not want to be in Canada. I'm happy here, Warren. We're doing God's work, in a country that truly values and respects women for the people God meant us to be. I love Gilead. It works for us. And Angela is much better off here, with her two parents to watch over her, a safe home, and a Martha to take care of her needs."

"I want Angela to learn to read the Bible. Like Serena said once—remember that? You stood beside her when she made that argument to the Council. For God's sake, Naomi, don't you want to be…" He trailed off, stopped himself from saying the word free. "Able to make different choices? To let Angela go to school?"

"Well, if you're so worried about your precious baby, let your associate take Angela across alone. I'll just stay in Gilead with you. Who needs a toddler who bites and looks like Janine? Let her go to Canada and attend school. Give her to CPS; I'm sure they'd find plenty of Canadian parents who'd like a little girl. I'll stay here with you." Naomi tried a traditional line. "My place is by your side."

"You place is wherever I say it is. And a little girl needs a mother." Warren softened his tone, considering her argument about single motherhood. "I understand your worry about being alone, without me. But look, apparently, there's an entire community of former Gilead residents in Toronto. They call the neighborhood 'Little America.' I'm sure you can find good God-fearing people there to help you. A whole community of Gileadeans in exile. You'll have plenty of money—I'll see to that. And I'm sure Marthas living in Canada miss their former calling. So you should be easily able to find one of them to serve as a maid." Inspiration struck him. "The Waterfords' Martha was among those kidnapped along with the children. She lives in Toronto now. Serena always said she was competent, right? And a good cook, too? You could surely hire her."

Naomi pouted, making her lips as sensuous as possible. "You have an answer for everything."

"I'm serious like a heart attack, Naomi. I want you two safe. It's my duty as a husband and father to protect you, the best I can."

She played her last card. She slipped from the couch to kneel in front of him, nudging his legs apart and placing herself between them. "It's also your duty to take care of my needs, as I take care of yours." She was pleased to see he didn't object as she unzipped his pants. Of course. He never objected. She hated demeaning herself with this sort of unholy, un-Biblical act, but she'd learned—from that goddamned handmaid, actually—what he needed to keep him happy and compliant. So since the handmaid's departure, Naomi had resignedly taken over this particular duty. "Don't send me away," she murmured.