Marriage is strange. Marriage is even stranger after a one-night stand. Is it considered a one-night stand if both participants in the night aforementioned are married to each other?
Normalcy, or what I know of it, should not be so unusual of an occurrence as it is at breakfast. Even though I slept in Daniel's bed last night and shared a long shower with him less than an hour earlier, Daniel acts as if nothing is out of the ordinary and has vanished almost completely behind his newspaper. My Husband has taken my Lover's place.
Another Martha, Lena I think her name is, delivers our breakfast to the table. Lena is about sixty years old and very pale papery skin that sags awkwardly from her neck and her arms like that of an old turkey. Rare as it is to hear someone with an accent in Gilead, Lena's accent reminds me of an old nurse at school who was born in Cork. The longer Lena lives across the pond the more of it fades away. There are little signs of her pre-Gileadean life left behind but the intensity of her pale skin is the strongest and most obvious indication. Judging by the way she carries herself she was a maid before she became a Martha; the type of maid that strictly enforces the separation of employer and employee so staunchly that she barely has a presence in the room with us.
Frowning, I ask, "Is Peggy still feeling unwell?"
"No, Mrs. Tarleton." Lena replies, her eyes down and away from me. Resisting the urge to glare at me for my sudden change in social status, I presume. "She went to Milk and Honey this morning. She will be back shortly."
That's right. The Wives don't do the shopping. What the hell am I supposed to do all day?
"I have to go to work today. I don't know for how long." My husband announces behind his newspaper, drawing me away from my thoughts.
He never speaks about work in detail. From what I understand, he still performs at the old opera house in plays that revolve around sacred stories that glorify the mission of Gilead. Though it is no longer the city I used to know, I doubted that the people who remained from the city would give up theatre and the arts. I wonder if he works with travesties. It would be impossible for theatre to continue without men playing female characters, but then again, Gilead believes women should be invisible in all ways.
"You should visit some of the other new Wives; get out of the house and get to know the neighborhood." His suggestion sounds prompted, like an official of Gilead or an Aunt is whispering instructions in his ear. It sounds like a chore he has assigned me. Will I get a sticker?
"I will be happy to." I reply obediently, hoping that if I say the word "happy" that maybe I soon will be.
"I am so happy you called!"
Jane is sitting across from me on the patio, lounging in a white metal chair decorated with flowers as we sip on tea in the shade. Her hair is made up in spaced out, thin braids tied back sweetly into a bun. She appears much more grown up in her blue dress and baby blue heels-low and chunky for modestly without losing the essential trait of femininity.
"I'm happy you answered." I feel bad for not returning her excitement. She is so young and innocent; not a care in the world. "My husband has work to attend to and encouraged me to socialize. You are the first person that comes to mind."
She is very pleased at that remark. I can tell how lonely she's been since the wedding ceremony. "My husband is out today, too. He's so dedicated to his work." She tries her best to sound proud despite her disappointment of her short-lived honeymoon. I wonder if her husband even wanted to get married.
"God paired you with an honorable man."
"Oh yes," she nods fervently. "John is very smart and hard-working. He provides so much for me and the city."
Sensing a lingering uneasiness, I move closer to her and lower my voice. "Did your first night with him go well?"
A crack appears in the mask of her doll-like face. She forces a smile. It looks painful. "I performed my wifely duties, as God instructs. May he make me worthy."
"Praised be." I mumble. "Was your duty easy to perform?"
The girl's eyes are focused on the ground beneath our feet. She clears her throat the same way I imagine a humming bird would and puts on a less-strainful smile. "I let my husband instruct me. I wept tears of joy. God gives us pain so that we can cherish the pleasure of peace in our blessed union."
I try to sympathize with her. "It takes once or twice for the pain to ease."
"You and your husband did it again?" Jane hisses, shocked at the suggestion of a pregnant woman sleeping with her husband. All formalities have now been pushed aside in the name of gossip.
I swallow the lump in my throat. "We thought that tradition warranted us to consummate the marriage."
"Yes, that sounds about right. God would want this." The girl nods sheepishly, taking a sip of her tea.
I wonder pitifully if the girl has ever allowed herself to have an original thought or opinion. Anyone of higher rank than her could tell her that the sky is purple, and she would nod and insist to herself that she has been wrong this whole time.
"I have to ask you a somewhat embarrassing question." I mutter, my index finger dancing along the rim of my teacup.
"Me?" She asks incredulously. I almost smile. I've made her feel wanted. Meaningful. Worthy of answering a question.
"You see, the Wife before me was bedridden and before that I was at the Rachel and Leah center. I don't know what is expected of me as a Wife, day-to-day." I rest my hands about my stomach, wondering if I am allowed to do much of anything as a Wife in my state.
Jane beams with pride. An older woman asking for her help instead of talking down to her. "It's quite simple, really. You tend to your garden, do needlework, have tea parties, go to Prayvaganzas, stuff like that."
"The Wife before me was unable to tend to a garden. How do I start one?"
Shit. This is a bad idea.
Walking down the street with Jane instead of my old partner is strange and feels almost sinful. I have unwittingly exchanged my one confidant for another woman in a higher class than the previous. I am committing a sin that is practically impossible: social climbing.
Jane rambles endlessly besides me about something trivial as not one but two guardians flank us. Being a pregnant woman in Gilead already makes me a spectacle. Even in my blues, my swollen stomach is a convex branding that blazes my skin. I am a walking attraction, ready to burst or be killed by an infertile woman gone insane at any moment.
Handmaids who walk by almost pause. I have betrayed their bond and married the enemy. I became the very thing that traps them- a married woman to a man with social standing, wearing the same colors that pool around their white bonnets while they are raped by monsters in black. I have abandoned them against my will.
Then I wonder, if I had been given the choice to stay a Handmaid, would I have accepted? Surely, I would make the same decision as they would: choose the life of warm beds, parties, and a name. In either situation, I am still a prisoner to this society. In this situation, my shackles are lighter and plated with silver. I know that they are still shackles.
We will never beat them. Assimilate or die.
As we walk down the sidewalk the other Wives stalk past us. They are worse in their attitude on the street than my old friends. I see them slow their pace, focusing their eyes on me like a predator stalking their prey. They hiss behind gloved hands about us-the naïve new Wife and the pregnant handmaid-turned Wife in their ranks. Not without a fight, they promise to each other. They laugh and jest at Jane, simply for her age and her genuine piousness, while they curse me for being everything they yearn to be. Their details on me, I am sure of it, are inflated so far from the truth that they are flying away from reality or are completely invented by their bored minds. They make no indication of wanting to engage us in conversation.
They hate me. Truly, they absolutely despise me, and the offensive swell of my abdomen being hidden under the same colors that they wear. Why does it feel like they have put an invisible scarlet "A" on my chest? I have not "earned" this status symbol as they believe they have. They have endured nothing that I had. They have been obedient wives and been repaid with infertility. Ha. Yet I, youthful and pure and untouched by the sins of the pre-Gileadean world had opened my legs just once for a married man and had not only given him a child but had become his new Wife when the other one expired.
Just because I wear the uniform of the Wives does not mean that I will ever belong.
I feel bad for Jane. The Wives seem to laugh at her with their eyes alone. Maybe it was for her association with me more than her young age and purity. No, it is crueler than that. It is the resemblance she bares to a child playing dress-up in her mother's clothes. The clothes had been tailored and styled to her body, but still appeared to be ill-fitting in some way that couldn't be described.
The Garden of Eden, while it is a shop that any Martha or Handmaid could be sent to, is infested with Wives. It is a VIP club of sorts for those who are married. The Wives still leer at the Econowives in grey, sprinkled around the shop and as much of an eyesore to the women in blue as mold in their soil. We have entered the lioness's den, and we are unwelcome. The Garden of Eden is like hell on Earth.
The stout clerk who greets us at the entrance of the flower shop is clearly dissatisfied by the state of his life, the dull grey clothes he wears signifying his lowly position and doing nothing to distract from the sickly pallor of his sagging skin.
"Blessed day." He sounds akin to that sad blue donkey from that children's book…I cannot remember the name. I cannot read to book to remember. I cannot read the book to my child, either.
"Praised be, the sun is bright today!" Jane replies cheerfully. Her optimism does not influence the mood of our clerk.
I see the stout man recognize who we are, and his eyes linger on my stomach for an uncomfortable length of time. I hear the Guardians fidget behind us, hands at the ready in case the greeter is planning something sinister while he studies my stomach.
Clearing his throat and glancing wearily at the Guardians looming behind Jane and me, the man tries to make a polite smile that ends up looking pitiful. "What can I assist you ladies with today?"
No symbols could be created to signify everything that would be needed to select or purchase gardening supplies. Given the circumstances, we were given even less agency and independence in the shop, since we were reduced to relying on the men to help us find what we needed.
"Mrs. Tarleton here is wishing to start a garden!" Jane answers, while the clerk once again stares at my stomach. "It's so exciting!"
The clerk's eyes snap up. "Starting a garden, how wonderful. I'm sure your garden will flourish as you have. May it be fruitful and bountiful."
"Praised be."
When we have finally finished shopping and dodging as many dirty looks as possible, Jane whispers to me that I can put everything I've gathered on my husband's account. I am informed, however, that due to the sickly nature of my predecessor, that there is no account set up under my husband. In an even more embarrassing development, one of my Guardians takes out his phone and calls my husband to ask for permission to open an account at the Garden of Eden. The Guardian must fill out the forms on behalf of myself, who cannot read or write anything on the form, and my husband, who has complete control over finances and my purchases.
My feet are killing me. I almost wish that I was wearing the boots I used to wear that were easier on my ever-increasing weight. The heels I wear are low to the ground and fitted to my shoe size, but I know that my feet will begin to swell. I amuse myself at the thought that wearing high heels, reserved only for Wives, is symbolism for being taller than the other women. Maybe the heels aren't just for being feminine, but so that we are able to look down on others around us.
I invite Jane to walk back to my house for lunch and to help me with planting my various seeds and herbs. She links her arm in mine, and I feel the hesitation in her body. She's so excited to have a friend and to be invited somewhere that there is a peppiness in her steps-the closest she can get to skipping without leaving me behind to cradle my stomach.
I am relieved when Peggy meets us at the door instead of Lena. Her polite smile in greeting falters when she sees the two heavily armed Guardians behind me and my guest. Upon seeing her receive us, the Guardians give a curt nod and walk off to patrol and annoy some other women. As soon as they are gone, Peggy opens the door wider for us.
"Blessed day, ma'am." Peggy says to me and nods to Jane. She cannot speak to anyone outside of the house without being spoken to.
"May the Lord open." I reply, trying not to focus on the throbbing in the balls of my feet. "This is one of our Marthas, Peggy." I say, wincing at the words I spoke for sounding so possessive. "Peggy, this is Mrs. Hamilton."
"May God bless your new union." Peggy replies sweetly.
"Praise his mercy. Mrs. Tarleton has told me so many wonderful things about this house, I am honored and blessed to know such a godly woman."
Peggy and I are both caught off guard by the sincerity of her words. They are unrehearsed and from the heart. It's heartwarming, but there's a tightness to my heart. She won't feel this way for long. She hasn't seen the horrors of Gilead yet.
"Let me take these for you," Peggy says, trying to decipher the symbols on the bags and boxes to determine what may be inside. "Would you like me to prepare lunch for you and Mrs. Hamilton?"
"Yes, thank you."
I realize after Peggy leaves us that I am expected to entertain Jane until lunch is ready. I haven't had a friend come to my home since before Gilead.
"Would you like a tour of the house?"
"Of course I would!" Jane exclaims, peering about our surroundings and taking it all in.
I feel like a tour guide in my own home. There are no family heirlooms with stories behind their value or priceless pieces of art to show off. There are no personal touches to anything that makes the barren hallway we stroll across unique. Nothing we pass is even mine to claim.
I feel relieved when Peggy tells us that lunch is ready. My feet ache so badly that all I want to do is throw off my shoes and soak them in warm water until all the soreness goes away.
After we eat, Jane eagerly asks me to show her where I plan to put my garden. I lead her outside and show her the small square of soil, not even the length or the width of a kitchen table, that was left to me. Before I could say anything, Jane tells me that she'll do all the physical work of the planting and that I can sit back and listen as she explains everything to me. She takes the seeds and the bulbs into her hand and smiles at them like they were precious diamonds before working her nimble fingers into the soil and lovingly patting her hands atop the newly moved dirt. She describes in great detail how to care for each new plant and how long it will be before they sprout or are fully grown.
As she makes her way to leave, she glances back at the garden like a mother gazing at all the newborns in their cradles at the hospital, wondering what will come of them. I thank her for her time and immediately upon closing the front door I waddle towards my bedroom to kick off my shoes and rest until my husband comes home.
When I wake, the sky is a murderous shade of red, bleeding from the remnants of orange and pink that the sun projects.
As I descend the stairs, I hear a car door close. When I reach the front hallway, I hear the door open and see my husband behind me. I turn on my heels and stop-am I supposed to kiss him on the cheek?
"Have you been waiting for me to come home all day?" he laughs, licking the door behind him.
"I wouldn't enjoy anything more." I reply, not knowing what else to say.
"Is dinner ready?"
"I'm not sure."
"Well let's go find out." He says. As he joins me at my side, he lightly pats my stomach twice without looking in my direction. It's strangely firm, like my stomach is radioactive and he is afraid to touch it for too long.
Walking into the kitchen, I see the Marthas gathering silverware and taking down the glass. "Good evening, Mr. Tarleton." The Marthas say in unison.
"Blessed day." He replies. Walking over to the patio door, he peers out and notices a chair sitting next to the garden. "Did you start your garden today?"
"Yes, I did. Mrs. Hamilton did all the work." I reply.
"If you want more space for gardening, I can arrange that." My husband offers, strolling towards the dining room. I can see in his eyes that he's thinking about his late wife. Whether it is a good memory or a bad thought, I don't know.
After dinner, my husband calls me into his study. I enter it cautiously, fearing that at any moment I will be reprimanded for entering my Husband's domain. Are Wives allowed to enter such a space? Then again, everything in my life is a man's domain now.
There is a large oak desk at the head of the small room with a large reading chair and a love-seat across from it. I try not to look around too much. My attention is supposed to be on him, not of the books and record albums that are arranged by their color instead of alphabetically.
"Sit." He says, indicating towards the love-seat.
I sit down and rejoice at the softness of the pillows. They are certainly more inviting than my own bed. I watch him patiently as he goes towards his bookshelf and swipes his index finger absently over the rainbow of book spines until he finds what he's looking for.
"Do you like to read?"
I did.
"Women are not allowed to read in Gilead." I reply monotonously.
"You know what I mean." He replies flippantly.
"Yes." I mutter. "I enjoyed reading." Past tense. Everything I ever enjoyed is now past tense.
"Did you ever read The Secret Garden?" he holds up a hardcover copy, light blue with gold lettering and pictures of flowers framing the title.
I smile without thinking. "It was my favorite book when I was little."
Daniel smiles back at me, indicating a shared love for the book. He's done something right, picking out this story. He's able to make his ever-unhappy wife smile for a minute. He's a fucking hero.
"I thought that since you started your own little garden today, I could read this to you. It would be our little secret. Would you like that?"
I shouldn't be so shocked at this gesture, a gesture which is now a rare act of kindness and an act of pity. He thinks he's being chivalrous, just like the men who go out of their way and race past a group of people just to open the door for a woman who was perfectly able to open that door herself. They just wanted us to think that we needed someone to help us do such a menial task, that we needed a man to open a fucking door. Here I am, feeling grateful that a man will read to me because while I have the capabilities of reading a child's book or any book, I am not allowed to. I am not allowed to because the same man who is offering to read this book to me is part of a larger group of oppressors who shut those doors they used to open in my fucking face.
Kick. Kick. The baby is reminding me of my place. My thoughts can't bleed into my expression or my voice. Just smile and take it. Smile and make this man feel like a knight in shining armor. Reward him for restricting you.
"Yes."
Daniel sits down next to me and opens the book. I put up no resistance was he hooks an arm around my shoulder and pulls me close to him, my head tilted upwards so I can't even see the text on the page.
I fake a smile to myself until I fall asleep, because I am not allowed to cry myself to sleep.