Chapter 6: Two Letters

Nick drove back to Boston as quickly as possible, high on coffee, chocolate, and the promise of a letter from June. He took the interstates, which he had avoided on the drive north. There were a lot of checkpoints but the highway was still the fastest route. His status as Commander of the Eyes certainly helped speed his journey; the young Guardians at the checkpoints knew he was their boss's boss's boss. So there wasn't a single inspection of his car's trunk. With such lax security, he could drive Hannah across the country, he mused. Or get his household out. Nick spent a lot of the drive hatching escape plans while enjoying the music of Radio Free America.

He returned to a darkened house. It was after eleven. Sarah, who usually chose to stay in their third-floor guest bedroom rather than at the Marthas' barracks, had already retired for the night. Kathryn, heavily pregnant, was surely asleep. So he crept into his bedroom undisturbed. After scrutinizing the new pictures of Nichole one more time, he placed them carefully in his hiding place under a floorboard in the closet. This hiding place was for his most precious possessions. June had given him a long, passionate letter and pictures of their daughter when they'd met at the boarding school. He put the new photos behind the older ones, keeping them chronological. He liked to leaf through them and see Nichole's age progression, a two-dimensional videotape of her first year and a half.

Only then did he unfold the new letter. He sat in the armchair by the lamp, to savor her words like a succulent meal.

Hi Darling,

I'm sorry I couldn't come meet you today. I guess MT told you why. Please, please don't worry. Yes, I'm taking my secret service detail more seriously now, and not trying to ditch them for fun like before. I'll avoid public transportation from now on, too. I can feel you rolling your eyes as I write this: yes, I know you told me so. Just don't worry about me. It was one little fanatical freak with a knife. I'm still much safer here than you are there.

I didn't think it was a good idea, though, to send our little one so close to the border. I'm sure you understand. So I'm sending L. to see you instead—nobody in Gilead cares about him. He wants to have a nice long talk with you. About me, I presume? I hope it goes well. Sometimes I think he hates you more than he hates W, and other times he seems grateful to you, like when I remind him that I would probably not be alive without you. Whatever his current mood, I ordered him to be polite today.

L. doesn't really get me anymore, but he's trying so hard. I still feel for him, just not…it's not romantic love anymore. I don't know what it is. Friendship, I guess. He wants to be a family again—mama, papa, baby, making snowmen and playing with N. It would be so much easier, in some ways, if I could go backwards and just be the woman I used to be. So I've tried. For months now, I've tried to forget everything and revert back to my 28 year-old self. It's impossible, of course, so I fake it. But he knows I'm pretending, and the frustration is driving him crazy.

I'm not 28 anymore. I'm not even the woman you first met at W's house. You know that, you know how I've changed and why. I've tried to explain this to L. too, but he refuses to listen when I tell him you understand me in ways he cannot. (I've wanted to say, but haven't said, "I fake it with you but not with him"—that would send him right over the edge. It's in the top 5 things never to say to a man, according to W's old copy of Cosmo.)

Anyway, enough about L. This isn't the letter I wanted to send you.

Every time I look at N., I see you, and my whole chest aches for you. She scrunches her eyebrows like you do, and looks down and left when she's thinking something over. When we go to the playground, she sits on the sidelines, cautiously, looking over all the bigger kids and trying to figure out whom to avoid, like you would do in a roomful of commanders. She's so thoughtful, never impulsive like I was (okay, like I am). Her hair is getting thicker and I think she's going to have your curls. She laughs a lot, much more than you do, though I'm hopeful that if you make it here, you'll laugh all the time. I'm sending you some new pictures of her; she's smiling in all of them.

N. has your musical tastes. I've made a list of all the record albums you had in your garage apartment—at least, all the ones I remember—and play them for her. She's partial to The Doors and later Beatles albums. But she's also into "What Does the Fox Say?" right now, so her tastes are not exclusively 1960s. Much to my disappointment, though, she doesn't like my 90s dance music. Not even Groove Is In The Heart.

I want you here so badly. I want us to be a family. I want you to be the one to introduce her to new music, to teach her how to brush her teeth, to tell her stories at night. Every time she learns a new word or does something for the first time, I miss your presence. I want to share it all with you. I've decided not to take her to the beach until you get here: you get the privilege of introducing her to the ocean.

MT got me a couple of pictures of you (surveillance photos, I guess, since you're wearing Gilead black) which are framed and hang in her room. "Your first daddy," I call you. I tell her stories about you, and we say good night to your picture before bed. L. does not participate in that little tradition. He says it confuses N. It doesn't, though. She remembers getting that doll from you, and I'll damn well make sure she knows who you are.

I miss you. I dream about you pretty much every night—some nightmares, some everyday dreams, and some deliciously hot ones too. (And apparently I talk in my sleep. Part of the reason L. sleeps in a different room.) When I'm alone in the car, I make up conversations we could be having. I turn my pillows sideways and imagine you snuggling next to my body in bed. I ache for your arms and lips and voice and your forehead pressed against mine. It's hard for me to enjoy anything here, because I feel guilty that you're not with me. I understand why you're staying where you are, but…I still hope.

I love you and always will.

J

PS: After you mentioned Detroit-style pizza at our last rendezvous, I went hunting and actually found a restaurant that specializes in it. So the next time I see you, I'm bringing you a square deep-dish. If that's not a reason to drive your sweet ass all the way to me, I don't know what is.

Dear Warren,

Well, I arrived safely. But things aren't going that well so far. It's very, very difficult being a refugee.

The US Consulate provided me with a 'welcoming box'—a smartphone pre-paid for a year, $800 cash, clothes. They also gave me a few toys, a toddler bed, and a stroller for Angela. I was debriefed for 6 hours a day for the first three days. They want to know everything about every aspect of life in Gilead. Not that I know any state secrets, but I still felt like a traitor talking to them at all. That was "the deal," they told me. The only good things about these sessions were the food—they ordered whatever I wanted, including fantastic deep dish pizza—and the free babysitting. They took Angela to the Consulate's daycare center, which was a very welcome reprieve from her constant babbling.

After my interrogations, they offered me a tiny two-bedroom apartment in Little America. Thin walls, used furniture, threadbare carpeting. I guess my information wasn't worth very much to them. The whole place smells like garlic—I can only imagine what sort of people used to live here. My first purchases were bleach and rubber gloves to scrub the toilet and shower, and new bedsheets. God only knows what I might catch.

Please send me more money, a lot more, so your daughter and wife can live in a proper apartment.

Little America is NOTHING like Gilead. Lots of red, white, and blue flags, and not a single Gilead banner. They're all "ex-pats," but they still call themselves Americans. Many homosexuals and darker people who left during the Revolution. Some women and deserters who ran north later…I guess that includes me. But they're so different from us, Warren. Full of anger, resentment, even hatred for Christian values. Nobody goes to church; I can't even find a church nearby. They dress so immodestly—did we really used to dress that way?! I remember wearing shorts and even tank tops, but now it's just shocking to me. Since it's hot now, there are a lot of outdoor barbeques, which did make me feel a tiny bit nostalgic. But nobody invited me to join them.

As you suggested, I tracked down the Waterford Martha. She also lives in this American ghetto—though when I went to her apartment, I noticed it was spotlessly clean and smelled like fresh bread and lemons. Serena was right: she's an excellent housekeeper. The smell of warm bread…it hit me hard, a painful memory. I miss Gilead so much, I miss our home, our pool, my garden. Anyway, I suppose you don't want to know about that. The Martha—her name is Rita—laughed in my face when I asked if I might employ her. She recognized me right away, but that didn't help at all. If anything, it made her more hostile. Apparently, she has no fond memories of the Waterford household. I promised I could be a better Wife than Serena, and I'd even pay her. But she told me to go f* myself, and tossed me out.

Tomorrow, I'll go back to the Consulate, I guess, and ask them for referrals for a housekeeper / nanny. I can't take care of Angela single-handedly. The last three days have been a nightmare. I'd rather leave her at-

The insistent knock on the office door interrupted Warren Putnam's reading. "Sir?" the Martha asked. "Commander Blaine is here to see you."

He put the half-finished letter down in frustration. When had Naomi become such a snobby, whiny bitch? He searched his memory, found only images of her pre-war, smiling at him in their backyard, playing croquet in jean shorts and a pink polo shirt, barbequing on the deck, or playing with Jacques, their French bulldog.

"Send him in, please," Putnam called to his Martha. He tucked the letter under a pile of files, took a sip of his lemonade. Morning sunlight streamed into his office, highlighting dust motes in the air.

"I thought we had an agreement." No preamble, no pleasantries. There was a stormy look on Nick Blaine's face as he slammed the office door shut behind him.

"Blessed morning, Commander," Putnam offered.

"You ordered the assassination of June Osborne?"

"Ah, that's what's got you so worked up. We've been sent beautiful weather, Nick. Calm down. Would you like some lemonade? My Martha makes the most fantastic-"

"I don't want your frigging lemonade, Warren. I want to know why you're trying to kill Canadian residents. You don't want to start a war over one runaway handmaid."

"Don't worry, neither the Canadians nor their allies would go to war over that. Besides, we have the moral high ground here: we lost eighty-six children, plus Marthas and handmaids. The death of one woman seems like a fair trade for that." He tilted his head as he regarded Blaine. "How did you hear about that assassination attempt, anyway?"

Nick sat, tried to calm his voice. "The American State Department man told me about it when I dropped off your wife and child at the border. It took me almost a week to figure out who actually gave the order. But your assassin failed, and now June's gone. Out of Toronto."

"Oh, we'll find her eventually."

"Canada's a big country, Warren. Bigger than Gilead, even. She's out of reach. So I want you to call your Eyes back and cancel the hit. It's a waste of resources; we could spend Gilead's money in more effective ways than combing a continent for one small woman."

"Well, arresting and trying her would be a psychological victory for the people. And this is really not your call, Nick. You don't get to tell me what to do."

His eyes narrowed. "We had an agreement."

"Did we? I thought the agreement was that I'd keep my mouth shut about your treason, and you'd get Naomi and Angela out. June Osborne wasn't part of the deal."

"Well, let's make a new deal, then. What else do you need me to do for you?"

Putnam leaned back in his chair. "Well, I'd like Osborne dead and Baby Nichole brought back triumphantly to Gilead. But something tells me that if I sent you up to Canada to do that, I'd never see you again." Blaine stared at him, poker face on. "So," he continued. "How about this. There are several members of the Council who'd like my job, who'd take me down at the first opportunity. I want to know who's plotting against me. Keep your friends close but enemies closer, all that. The Council members mostly trust you, or else see you as the naïve newbie. So get into their conversations, find out who wants me dead, report back to me. I want to stay in power, and stay safe."

"Sure, I could write you a report on half of them right now. And I will, just as soon as you cancel the order to go after June and Nichole. Or June's husband Luke Bankole. In any way: killing, kidnapping, whatever. And not just the official order you sent to the Eyes through Commander Sorenson. I mean the unofficial, off-the-record, 'nobody can know this came from me' order. It only took me five days to find out it was from you, as you can see. I've got friends in a lot of places."

"Including in Canada, it seems."

"Indeed." Nick waited a beat, then clarified: "So, do we have a deal? I'll keep you safe, you keep June and Nichole safe."

Putnam smiled triumphantly. "So, you are in love with her! I thought so. I knew she had your help all along—no woman is that lucky in Gilead. Yes, we have a deal. So this is what you do, Nick? Threaten or negotiate with everyone, just to keep your lover out of danger?"

He shrugged and stood. "I'm a team player, Warren. I like to make deals and do favors for anyone on my team. But here's a promise for you: the day June gets killed will be your last day on Earth. I'll slit your throat, and nobody will ever pin it on me."