TW: The Salvaging will have graphic depictions of violence, torture, and blood. There is also a brief mention of rape near the beginning of the chapter.
I am an iceberg floating in an endless sea waiting for the inevitable demise of whatever ship may be unfortunate enough to pass me by and sink with the weight of terror to the seabed of my memory, past the point where light can penetrate the depths of my mind, to the point where the sheer force of gravity destroys it whole. The water around me is cold and still as a sheet of ice and I am too absorbed in my thoughts to place my fingertip on it to break it, allowing the disturbance to ripple and ruin the momentary tranquility afforded to me in the safety of the porcelain tub.
Paradise.
My father said that my mother was in Paradise. Paradise was a tangible place-a collection of locations-that was the closest to heaven all of us trapped in Gilead would ever see. Of all the things I had forgotten from the brunt force of the butt of a gun meeting my skull and the whips of the cattle prod at the hands of the Aunts, my mother and Paradise were the only two things that I had willed myself to forget-to disremember. I had done well. I hadn't thought of my mother or Paradise since my last day of being my father's daughter or the daughter of a revolutionary.
How did my father know that my mother was in Paradise?
I shut my eyes tightly, so tightly that I see colors, and search through my long unused brain for memories of Paradise.
My mother surrounded by women in her field around the kitchen table, shushing them when I came to the door, and speaking in low whispers once she thought my door had shut. Pressing my ear to the vents to hear the echoes of their distorted voices travel through the vent. War. Revolution. Hiding. Stocking up on weapons. Food. Maps. A friend of a friend.
My mother buried in papers-some maps, others written in chicken scratch like codes, and shoving them away in a drawer when I went to speak to her in her office. Returning there while she was at work and finding that all the cabinets and drawers that were usually left half open with newly ordered locks on them, some with keypads, one with a fingerprint scanner.
Just before the war in the city began being ordered to go to my room-not a friend's house, it's not safe, but she couldn't tell me why because even saying that was unsafe-and hiding behind a slightly cracked door to the linen closet to see men and women of all ages, many of them her students and strangers I had never seen before sneaking in to her office and locking the door behind them.
A man, no-a boy, no more than three years older than myself seeing me spying on him as he took a phone call outside of my mother's office. Ending the call-something about his mother being sick and coming back only for her and not for "you" and telling the other person on the line to stop monitoring him. Silently watching me as I watched him. Silently acknowledging how similar we were but knowing that I was the daughter who was not allowed to know what went on in my mother's office. Placing his index finger over his mouth and whispering, "shh" before entering my mother's office and closing the door.
My father catching me listening and telling me that neither of us can ever get involved-if we knew anything we would be at risk. My father telling me that he didn't even ask my mother what was happening or to meet her new friends so that he wouldn't endanger my mother or himself further.
Knuckles rap at the bathroom door, breaking the silence. I roll my head lazily to watch the door-handle turn. Ever since that night months ago where my skin turned to ice and my breath slow, Daniel wastes no time in waiting for a response from me in fear that one day I will respond with the gurgling of water overtaking my lungs and silencing me forever. He smells strongly of cheap soap, still fresh and damp on his hair. The sleeves of his pajama shirt are rolled up at the shoulders and there's a small tear near the collar. Sometimes I forget that in the privacy of his bedroom and away from watching eyes he is still allowed to wear a pair of flannel pants to bed. It's strange to see him wearing something other than black, so relaxed, in clothes that he wore from the Time Before.
"Your hair is practically dry." He observes questioningly. "Have you been bathing this whole time?" He asks.
I nod silently. Immediately after my father left, Daniel was quiet and understanding as he watched me retreat to my bedroom with a sense of urgency. He expected that I would want to be alone after the time spent with my father, and he'd allowed me nearly two hours of privacy before he felt compelled to check up on me. I silently thank him for not intruding or shortening the time I needed to mull over the events of the day.
"Time to come out, my dear." He is quiet and warm and patient in these moments. He turns to fetch my robe for me as water sloshes, slapping my body like cold needles as I hoist myself up and slowly step out of the tub, patting down my legs and my mid-section. Daniel opens my robe for me, and I shrug it on, tying it loosely just below my breasts. "Come now," he murmurs, leading me over to my vanity and taking a seat behind me to run his fingers through my tangled hair before raking through it with a brush.
We sit in a comfortable silence for a long while. He's nearly brushed through every tangle of my hair when I turn my head back slightly and say, "Thank you, for tonight."
He smiles and I hear him make a contented hum before kissing the damp hair behind my ear. "I know how important seeing him again would be for you." His brush strokes slow down and his hand rests on my shoulder. "I know I may not be a good man-I am prideful and arrogant and not as kind as I was raised to be, how I should be," he says soberly, "But I am not a cold and cruel man. I would never deprive you of having someone so important in your life, even if it can only be for a night. I don't know if I can sneak him here more than once every year or so, but I want you to know that if I could give him a place in this home, I would for you."
I admire his self-awareness, the vulnerability he allows to be honest with himself and me. I only wish that he was this way outside of this room where everyone could see it; that he didn't make me wonder if he was putting on a show for everyone else out there or putting on a show for me in this room.
"I don't mind your pride. Gilead doesn't value your work and I know that it is hard for you to go from a famous person that people obsessed over to…well…this. I would feel the same way. I've never mentioned it, I didn't know if I should, but my father used to watch re-runs of the cop show you starred in. When I was little, he'd let me watch it sometimes."
Daniel chuckles, taken by surprise by this information. "No, you never did." I watch a thin smile spread over his features. "I hated being on that show, to be honest." He blurts.
I laugh softly and reply, "My father told me as much. That's why you left to do other things."
Daniel finishes brushing my hair and leans in. I sense hesitation before he asks, "Did you watch my other works?"
I roll my eyes and reply, "Yes, I did, along with most of the world."
"It's so strange to think that before we met you grew up knowing me, isn't it?" I nod. Never did I think as a child or a teenager watching Daniel onscreen fighting evil-doers or kissing models that I would end up in the same room as him or in his bed, carrying his child. "Did you have a celebrity crush on me?" He asks, satisfaction oozing from his pores as he wraps his arms around me and rests his chin on my shoulder, so his breath tickles my neck.
I giggle and place my hand over my face. "I wouldn't call it a crush, but yes, me and every other person who has eyes swooned over you at least once." I say, hoping that my vague but not entirely true answer would sate him.
It doesn't.
His voice is thick as fog rolling over morning dew as he asks me lowly, "Did you ever think of me? In bed at night when everyone was asleep but your body aching and your hands restless?" I shudder as his words drip down my body and pool beneath my stomach, a coil tightening in my abdomen. In truth, I never had, but I imagine myself doing it now as he loosens his hold around me and glides his hands downward to rest on my thighs, his fingers brushing against the silk of my robe like matches on the striking surface of my body. He takes my silence as the answer he wants, though it is untrue, and continues, "What did you imagine? That you were the woman you had watched me in scenes with? Or did you imagine that I was in the room with you, in your bed, beneath the sheets," his smooth hands slip beneath my robe and draw it back, his fingertips igniting heat on my flesh there as he probes the soft skin of my inner thigh. I open my legs wider for him and lean back into him, so his mouth touches the curve of my ear. "Touching you where others had only prayed to touch you? Did you put your hand over your mouth so no one could hear you?" As if in revolt, a moan stretches through my throat and claws its way out of my mouth agape.
He leans in closer now, his taunting mouth an earpiece to drown out the world and his hand hovering just above my labia so it aches, and my sex begins to weep for him to touch it. "Did you come?" His question rumbles past the blood rushing in my ear like thunder, crackling through the bundles of nerves across my body, lightning strikes the swollen bud of my sex that throbs. I want to scream yes, yes, because I am imagining myself back in my bedroom, riddled with the hormones of a teenage girl and suffocating a cry as my toes curl and an orgasm rips through my body. "Shall I make you come?" He hisses. I try to say 'yes', but only a whimper comes out as I shift my body, trying to force his hand to touch me. I reach back to pull his mouth towards the crook of my neck, but he slips out of my reach. "Answer me." He orders gruffly, and I feel his hand retreat.
"Yes-yes!" I exclaim, hoping that my voice doesn't carry to the ears of the Marthas.
"Yes, what?" He teases.
"Yes, I want you to make me come!" I hiss breathlessly, my body trembling.
Self-loathing knots in my stomach disturbing the miraculous moment of ecstasy that is being allowed to me. How many of the Handmaids, the women I used to call my sisters, would never get this feeling ever again? How many of them would feel the rough and calloused fingers of their Commander or another man between their legs in their most private area, restricted by law but taken without consent or care? How many were, at this very moment across the entire Republic of Gilead, being forced behind the closed door of their Commander's bedroom or study to perform sexual acts on him in fear of being maimed or killed for disobeying? How many were being held down between the legs of a Wife, the same women that I now hold status with, as a Commander forced himself between her legs to impregnate her as she cried silently?
No. I won't think of this now. I will think of this tomorrow. Even if tomorrow brings more shame.
Daniel kisses my ear and buries is face in the crook of my neck, my head rolling backwards and my fingers grasping his hair like reins to hold him there. The moment one finger brushes against the swollen bud of my sex I mewl, and Daniel wraps his free hand around mine with the quick motion of a whip and cuffs it over my mouth to silence me. Feeling how urgent my need for release is, Daniel wastes no time in rolling his fingers about the sensitive bundle of nerves so roughly and quickly that I am sure the adrenaline running through his body morphed into electricity when he met my body. I cry and moan beneath his hand over mine and almost cry with joy as I feel how quickly my orgasm is approaching. My breath is so heavy and strong that my entire body moves with each breath I gasp for and Daniel only moves his fingers faster. My back arches and for a moment I am completely still, my senses overwhelmed after being on overdrive, and I swear that the bud of my sex is the head of a match underneath Daniel's striking fingers. A white-hot sensation scorches my sex and a high-pitched whine escapes through my mouth and tickles my hand, slipping through Daniel's fingers as he slows down his pace to let me ride out my orgasm. Just like the flame of a match, I burn out and crumple in Daniel's arms. I whimper when Daniel attempts to remove his hand from my sex and he leaves it there, lingering, until my body cools down and can bare being exposed completely.
Breathing heavily like a runner after completing a marathon, I murmur, "I'll need time…before I can…do anything for you…" My e's and my a's fall short on delivery, rolling in my mouth like marbles.
Daniel hums in response and nuzzles his face against my hair. "If I did my job right, you'll pass out the moment you reach your bed."
I smile, grateful that he doesn't expect me to return the favor and peck the tip of his nose. "You're forgetting one thing." I say. Daniel hums, questioning me. I smile and say, "My legs feel like ribbons." Daniel laughs and hoists me up, bouncing me once in his arms to ensure he has a good enough hold on me, and carries me to the bed. He jokingly asks me to turn off the bathroom light and I oblige, weakly flicking the light switch with the tip of my nose and laughing. "Not on my back, please." I say. The bigger I get, the more it hurts to lay on my back with my belly sitting on my body like an anchor.
"Do you want me to put on your nightgown for you?" Daniel asks dotingly. His sweetness makes every moment without it taste sour in my mouth. I almost hate him for being this sweet and wonder if it would be easier if he had stayed distant after our wedding.
"No, not tonight." I murmur, resting on my side and grunting as I shove a pillow beneath my stomach.
Pulling the sheets over us, Daniel lays opposite me so he can look at my stomach and fluffs the pillow. Laughing he asks, "So, should I be expecting you mother soon?"
There's that sour taste. I close my body more and avert my gaze. Daniel utters a combination of a groan and a sigh, seeing that his well-intention question was not the right one to ask. "No, she's not here." I answer with finality that should indicate that I no longer want to discuss this topic.
"I'm sorry," He whispers, searching my eyes for something. "Did she pass?" He wonders tenderly.
What about your mother, and your father? I wonder indignantly. The question may still be one that I am not allowed to ask him, but that makes me want to ask him about it more. Would his answer be as guarded and loaded with hurt and bad memories as mine? I hope so. He asks so much of me, but I still feel unwelcome to ask for a fraction of him and his memories. Marriage be damned.
"No." I say surely, before adding, "Well, I don't know. But if she's alive, she wouldn't be here." What a monstrous world I live in that I must wonder if my mother is alive or dead.
"What makes you say that?" Daniel brushes away a strand of hair from my face, the same hair that my mother gave to me.
I clench my jaw, wishing that Daniel would drop the questioning. "She was a professor of feminist theory at the local college. She was vocal about her opposition of Gilead and the Sons of Jacob."
My mother taught me to read the works of Gloria Steinem and Audre Lorde in place of the bible and played Joan Jett and the Runaways while she cleaned. She worshipped Stonewall and Marsha P. Johnson instead of the church and their idols, introduced me to Miss Major instead of Miss Piggy and Kermit the Frog, and painted words of protest in big red letters on poster board while I stapled bright yellow letters to my science fair board. She never forced me to join her or think like her. She knew that it would be hard for a child to understand so many things and know so many of the injustices of this world and still have a happy childhood, but my childhood was just that: happy. She taught me compassion and understanding from birth, and how to oppose someone and argue with them while still being respectful and open-minded. My father is old fashioned and supported my mother, but never put himself beside her in those ways. It wasn't because he didn't care in what she believed in or he thought he was better than her, but because he knew that his strengths lay elsewhere, and he didn't want to hinder my mother's ability make a name for herself by being seen as the doctor's wife.
"Esther," she said to me one day as we were combing through potential colleges, "Your name means 'star', did you know that? You are named after a queen, too. Your father and I will support you no matter where you decide to go or what you decide to do. If you want to be an artist or a lawyer or a librarian, it doesn't matter as long as you're happy. If you want to work your entire life and never settle down, or that being a housewife and a mother is what you're called to do, then do it. The only thing your father and I ask of you is that you always care for people and respect them, even in the face of adversity or opposition. You will always be a star in the sky and a queen in our eyes, Esther. Never forget that."
My mother instilled a confidence in me that didn't feel like my own when she spoke such things. She would say things that were so supportive and open-minded that I still felt enormous pressure to please her and my father, and I never felt that I achieved my aim of making them proud. That day on campus when the riot broke out, I felt like an utter failure for not doing something or saying something like my mother would have.
"I will answer any question you have for me, down to the most embarrassing and awful things you can think of, but the one thing I beg of you is to not mention my mother again." I say with an unlikely surge of finality.
"I won't. Promise." my husband replies, placing a tender kiss on my forehead.
That night I dream of Paradise and of my mother calling for me. Then, just before I wake, I hear her voice break as she cries, "I'll see you soon, star."
Days pass by like the blink of an eye. There is an eerie sense of calmness. I know that it won't last for long.
My knitting needles click together, eagerly weaving another blanket for the Little Monster. With perseverance and a stubborn need to be at least satisfactory at simple tasks such as knitting, my skills have improved enough to where the blankets don't look like rags, hats aren't shaped like discs, and the thick yarn that rests in my basket doesn't unfurl and unravel the minute I try to fold up a product of my day's work. Black yarn sits next to the rolls of blue and white like mold, infecting more of my personal space. Wives have been encouraged, no-instructed, to knit hats and gloves and other warm things for the Angels on the front. It's the only act of patriotism that is allowed to resemble that of the Time Before without crossing the line into nostalgia and prompting a revolution against the men who call themselves gods as governors.
I wipe away a small sheen of sweat from my brow and in moving my arms am reminded of the embarrassing dampness at my under arms, shaped like a mouth opening and closing whenever I move my arms upwards. The midsummer sun roasts my skin and transforms the house into a sauna with thick, humid air that swells so heavily that the old and faded evergreen wallpaper crinkles and curls just slightly at the edges where the glue has slowly been wearing away.
I wonder absentmindedly if the Late Wife chose the wallpaper; if this shade of green was her favorite or if she picked it because it corresponded best with the furniture. Was this the last thing she had control over before she lost control of her body? I try to imagine how badly the heat augmented the smell of her sick, hotboxing it in her room or spreading throughout the house so everyone that inhabited it could have even half of the discomfort and disgust that she had every day regardless of the heat. I decide that I don't believe in ghosts, at least not in Gilead where the only spirit was the Holy Spirit. If ghosts were real, the Late Wife would have haunted me into a state of insanity and delirium by now, or at least appeared at the end of my bed groaning "get out of my bed!" and leaving supernatural threats written in blood on the wall. I wonder if she hated me as much as the Wife who assaulted Melanie.
An urgent knock sounds at the door. Setting down her rag and polishing solution, Peggy raises an eyebrow to me, as if to ask if I were expecting someone. She briskly heads to the door, walking with a purpose, and opens the door, belching with a gush of hot air to re-invigorate the airflow in the house.
"Good morning, is Mrs. Tarleton in?" A voice asks cheerfully. Jane.
"Yes, she's seated in the living room." Peggy replies sweetly, directing Jane to where I sit before returning to her polishing of the silverware in the adjoining room.
"Blessed day." I grunt dispassionately.
"Oh, praise be!" Jane gushes. There's an excitement crackling under her skin and pulling at the edges of her mouth. Sun spots freckle her nose and cheeks, wisps of hair plastered to her forehead and temple with perspiration. She has taken to wearing a modest string of pearls around her neck. When did she start to do that? "Did you hear about the Meadows?"
"Who?" I ask, setting down my knitting.
"The Meadows, the family that you friend was stationed with, Ofchris?"
"Oh, no, no I haven't. Do you have news?"
"Do I!" My friend squeals, sitting beside me and holding my sweaty hands in hers. "Today is the day of their Salvaging. In an hour."
I hear Peggy grumble something under her breath with dismay. Maybe she hoped that I would be excused from going to the Salvaging being a pregnant woman and that in turn she could excuse herself from going in order to monitor me-I can't ever be truly alone in the house.
For women, Salvagings are announced over the radio or the television and through word of mouth at the least. Usually they are announced a day in advance for people to brace themselves and remember to not eat in the morning. I, however, don't listen to the radio regularly and the only tv on the main floor is in the kitchen for the Marthas to listen to idly as they prepare meals or clean. I am slightly upset with the Marthas, particularly Peggy whom has what can only be labelled as a close relationship with me, for not taking the time to notify me of the Salvaging.
'Unsettling' didn't quite encompass the uncharacteristically enthusiastic way Jane, the girl took the time to relocate an insect or arachnid rather than kill it, announced the Salvaging taking place in only an hour. Yes, this was the most exciting thing to happen within the city so everyone who could took the chance to show up, but for someone like Jane to be so giddy about it make me feel queasy, or that I was missing some crucial information. Was she cheerful and enthusiastic because she knew something I didn't? The look of carnal eagerness in Jane's childlike eyes sent a shiver up my spine and sucked the air from the room. Eager as I was to see my friend's abusers be punished for their crimes, I felt the same intense anxiety twisting around my stomach as I did before any Salvaging or Particicution was to be carried out.
I ordered Peggy to make the driver bring the car around before I could stop myself, anticipation and dread battling for dominance and pushing those words out in the process. The blood rushing through my ears deafened the instructions Jane gave the driver of where to go. The car ride there was uncomfortably silent, with Jane sitting up straight in her seat, almost on the edge, as if ready to pounce the moment we reached our destination. Unfortunately for the Marthas, they were resigned to find their way to the Salvaging on foot.
Down the street, past the old churches that were gradually being torn down brick by brick, was an empty lot with overgrown grass and weeds covering the expanse like a persistent rash. It used to be a small market, but it got burned down by a group of middle-school kids playing with matches and lighter fluid. The kids got off fairly easy, probation for the next six years but no time in juvie. The owner of the store and his wife, however, were not so lucky. They never made it out. Ten years or so had passed since that day and no one really remembered what used to be in the spot. Yet somehow, as if the Earth had muscle memory, it became a spot for death once more.
A thick wooden platform had been erected at the edge of the lot where it ran into the chain-link fence. A microphone stood in front of the platform, waiting to be clutched in an Aunt's hand and used to project the fire and brimstone message of the Republic of Gilead and the need for Salvagings.
Six Aunts flank four rows of Handmaids, sitting silently with their hands folded in their laps and their eyes down like sitting ducks waiting for themselves to be slaughtered. They kneel on white cushions-something I never understood, as it was so impractical to place white fabric on grass and dirt. Some of the handmaids resemble the porcelain figurines that used to make up a majority if not all Hallmark stores in the Time Before-big, sad eyes, solemn expressions, pale skin that you were afraid to touch for fear of breaking it or leaving a crack.
Behind them are the Wives, some wearing their Sunday best as if this were a social function or a party and fanning themselves with intricately decorated paper fans behind wide-brimmed summer hats fit for the Kentucky Derby. They lounged lazily in folded out chairs and fussed with their veils, something I had forgotten to wear. I always imagined that the Wives were too sophisticated and delicate to attend events like these, but here they swarm in the crowd like sharks who smell blood in the water. What made it more appealing to them, that it was the death of a man who had ruined his wife's life and caused her to go insane, or was it the opposite-that it was one of them to be killed, and they had an excuse and even encouragement to spit poison at her as she suffered for giving fellow Wives a bad name?
Amidst the sea of blue, I see shades of pink, the color of tulips, and white, the color of innocence and baby's breath. The Daughters here are few, but they are present. So few are they that you have to focus very hard and search for the color. The Daughters in pink-the ones not yet of age to marry-have been excused for an hour from their schooling with the Aunts and allowed to sit near their mothers, many of whom ignore the fact that they are event there. The Daughters in white, however, are squeezed and pinched and fawned over by their mothers and their mother's friends, causing them to blush and smile nervously. No one cares about them until they are bathed in white. I see the Aunts switching their gaze between the Handmaids and the Daughters, clearly indicating who in their ranks are responsible for the schooling of faith and etiquette of the Daughters.
Jammed behind them are the Econopeople, who could not entrust or pay someone else to watch their children and resorted to bringing them along to watch the horror unfold. Almost every Salvaging was segregated by gender, but this one allowed men to take part in the audience.
Near one of the Aunts sits a woman in black with a gauzy veil over her face and flowing down her back that is so thickly woven it makes her faceless. Black covers every inch of her skin, even in this heat. The collar is stiff and high, ending past the nape of her neck and where her hairline begins. A black bonnet holds up her hair tightly and secures her veil in place, dull black arm length gloves stretch out past the cuffs of her dress. Why would a Widow be standing so closely to an Aunt, I wonder? A Widow is not given to the Rachel and Leah center after she loses her husband-she is either allowed to live in the house of her husband until the money runs out and she is sent to live with her old family or his until another husband is found for her. I study the absolute stillness of her body and the obedient way she stands next to the Aunt with her hands clasped behind her back and realize that the woman in black is no Widow-it must be Melanie.
"Excuse me," I say, at a volume far too loud for a woman and especially a Wife to speak at.
The Econopeople part like the red sea when they see me, some mumbling and hissing behind their gloved hands that I must be the Handmaid-turned-Wife as I pass them.
Econowives are truly the absolute worst people in Gilead. I know, how unlady-like and rude of me, blah blah blah-but if you had to interact with them you would understand. The Econowives pictured themselves as Wives, above everyone else, because they had to carry out the role as wife, handmaid, and Martha, but these facts made them less than us all in reality. The caste system ensured this. The Econowives thought that they were the hardest working-and they probably are-and that this made them worthier of respect and honor than the Wives and Handmaids and Marthas combined. For this reason, they hated us all equally. They called Handmaids "easy" and turned up their noses to them as if they were Jezebels for their role. I once heard Peggy complaining to Lena about an interaction she had with an Econowife whom was trying to brag about her position, droning, "What does she want? A medal?"
I see some of the men with a phone to their ear or moving their thumbs rapidly over the little keys. Men are still allowed mobile phones, if they can afford them. Women are confined to the telephone lines in the home without caller ID. We are allowed to "read" numbers and dial them, as that isn't any threat to the men. However, if we miss a phone call and a Martha picks it up, she cannot write down a message for us or a number to call back to.
I don't watch over my shoulder to see if Jane is following me, I merely assume that I know her well enough at this point to expect that she is heeling behind me like a well-trained show-dog. I know that she is wondering what I am doing and where I am going but I am a pregnant woman walking as if on the war path and no one can stop me now. When I come in view of the other Wives, I ignore their startled voices and their efforts to greet me. I sense that Jane is still following me closely, but I hear her mutter quick greetings of "praised be" and "blessed day" to the Wives as she tries to keep up with me.
As I finally get close to Melanie, Aunt Dorothy swoops in like a hawk and places herself between Melanie and me. Her icy blue eyes peek out of narrowed eyelids, warning me. The sides of her mouth are weighed down in a frown so heavy and deeply set in her face that it could have been carved into her stony face with a hammer and chisel. She does not hold a hand above her forehead or blink away the sunlight that is shining directly into her eyes, nor does she take her eyes away from mine to acknowledge the timid woman behind me. Melanie is unfazed, statuesque and still as if she were frozen in time.
"My ward is in mourning, Mrs. Tarleton. She will speak to no one until her grief is abetted." the old woman says with finality, saying my married name with distaste. I say nothing, but the Aunt begins to speak again, challenging me to disobey her. "I mean it, girl." She hisses lowly. She calls me girl on purpose, to hurt me, to remind me that while I may be a Wife with a child on the way, but I will always be the same Handmaid to her, and she will always have more authority than me and ultimately authority over me if I ever misbehave.
"I understand, Aunt Dorothy." I reply bitterly through gritted teeth. "All I ask is to be able to stand beside her, even in silence, to support her during this ordeal."
A corner of Aunt Dorothy's mouth turns up at that, almost to laugh and sneer at me. "She has the Lord, my dear, to guide her and support her. She needs no earthly servants of the Lord to support her. Do you think that you can support her in a greater capacity than the Lord our God?"
Yes.
I blink. "If God is all one needs during their time of suffering, why is there a crowd of women and children waiting to watch the ultimate suffering of the two people who caused Melanie's suffering?" I ask defiantly, trying to hide how pleased I am with my retort like a child after twisting the words of their parent trying to scold them.
Aunt Dorothy takes one large step forward so her beak-like nose is only inches away from mine and I can smell the sweat on her sagging skin. "Public viewing is meant to be a lesson and an example to all who dare to defy the laws of God and the Sons of Jacob, girl. Don't be so dull and thick-headed to think that the color of your dress of the child in your womb will ever prevent me from taking joy in having you dragged out of this lot by the Guardians of the Faith so you can await punishment for subordination of an Aunt. This is your last warning-move." Her order is final-I know that she isn't bluffing.
I tear my eyes away from the menacing glare of Dorothy's and glance at Melanie, who is still standing with her head bowed and not a muscle moved. I find myself glaring at her in a moment-angry that Melanie has reverted to the sheepishly obedient and subservient slave to Gilead that I thought the blade of the knife tore out of her with her child. If Melanie objected or even cared, she would have tilted her head or fidgeted. She would have done something to show me that she disagreed with the situation even if she resigned to being compliant.
"If you think the temperature out here today is hot, just wait for how it feels when you get to Hell."
I step back and resign to the edge of the crowd with the Wives who had been craning their necks to see and hear what had taken place between the Aunt and me. As soon as they see me nearing them, they snap their heads back into place and pretend as if they were enthralled in a long conversation, avoiding eye contact with both Jane and me.
After a long silence my companion clears her throat. "You can't talk to an Aunt that way, Esther, no matter how mad you are. It isn't going to help you or your friend. It will only make matters worse."
I grind my teeth even harder, seething with anger, knowing that she is right but too riled up to open my mouth and agree with her for fear that the minute I move my lips a scream will escape, and I'll truly cause a scene worthy of cause to be dragged out by Guardians. Every so often my eyes dart over to Melanie, wondering if any part of her has moved even an inch. Each time I grow more frustrated-with what or at who I cannot decide-and trigger the memory of being a child and spying on my toys when I thought they "weren't looking" to see if they moved when I wasn't there. They never did. Melanie never does. They are both things that I am no longer allowed to touch.
Soon Marthas begin to filter in and stand on the perimeter of the lot with their arms folded and their hips popped out, relieved that they have a chance to get out of the house and gossip with other Marthas out of earshot of their employers. Out of the corner of my eye I see Peggy standing in view of me, Lena grumbling unhappily that Peggy has chosen to stand so close to me and in direct sunlight. I see Peggy roll her eyes and say something to Lena dismissively before returning her attention back to me and making eye contact. Her mouth turns up ever so slightly, not in a smile, but a sign of reassurance. I feel protected by Peggy, guarded and safe. I assume she worries about me being at a Salvaging in my condition and in this heat. I realize now that I had to be given breakfast unlike everyone else in attendance, and Peggy was standing in wait to hide my face if I got sick.
Our eye contact is held for an awkward and inappropriate amount of time before I see her take in her surroundings. I am still watching her when I see her face drain of color, her brown eyes locked on an Aunt with a similar complexion and facial features standing near the stage. She stares openly at the woman in brown, longing for the gaze to be returned. When the Aunt finally notices the woman staring at her she freezes, startled, and shares Peggy's expression for a split moment before allowing her eyes to pull away. She stares toward the stage with her chin upwards and stands stiffly with her body turned away from Peggy. Peggy's lip quivers and I see her eyes gloss over. They weren't simply friends or acquaintances from the Time Before, they used to be family. Used to. Not anymore.
Just as the crowd begins to grow restless, a noose is hung on the top of the wooden platform and the long, gnarled braid of the rope is rolled out like a red carpet down the narrow aisle of the lot. There is a change in tone, almost cheering amongst the Wives, the excitement of what is to come finally coming to a head.
Aunt Dorothy gets the honor today of leading the Salvaging. She walks with the piousness of a nun but the purpose and rigidity of a soldier up to the microphone and turns it on. Though everyone can clearly see that she is at the microphone, smiling in wait, her face presses in an angry line when she notices that the audience, and particularly the Wives, are still chattering away aimlessly.
"Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen!" She caws without a hint of politeness or warmth.
"Good afternoon, Aunt Dorothy." The Handmaids say in unison. I hear myself speak with them flatly, and the Wives around me flutter in laughter, mocking me for speaking with the Handmaids.
Old habits die hard.
"Now, I know that on this hot summer day we would all rather be doing something else, especially in the shade, but if I am speaking for myself as an Aunt and a faithful servant of God and the Republic of Gilead, I am honored but not happy to be here today with all of you."
Aunt Dorothy begins her lengthy prologue to the afternoon events and sends menacing glares to anyone in the audience she spies whispering behind gloved hands. "As you all know, Salvagings are regularly segregated by the crimes and criminals we must punish for their sins against the Lord and our great nation. However, the crimes committed that will be punished today were committed in unison by not only a man and a woman, oh no," she preaches energetically, "But by a husband and wife!"
As if the crime had been previously unknown, the crowd takes it upon themselves to gasp and cry out in shock and awe to add drama. I roll my eyes.
"Near me is a woman who was previously a Handmaid, now a woman in mourning, who suffered most greatly from the crimes of the sinners we have today. Bring them out!"
The heavy clank of doors opening sounds from the street and from two separate black vans emerge a man and a woman with a white sack over their heads-the Meadows. They have been changed out of their orange prison jumpsuits and back into their usual wardrobe of black and blue to further signify how awful a sin they committed and what a shame they have caused on their social class. They have both been drugged and sedated to prevent any further acts of hysteria and to make the Salvaging go smoothly. Two Guardians have their arms circled about either side of the couple, dragging them down the narrow aisle so they can feel the rope.
Why is there only one rope?
Once they are placed on the platform, Aunt Dorothy begins again.
"We have a duty as servants of God and members of the righteous Republic of Gilead to uphold the laws of our Lord and punish those who break them and endanger the safety and tranquility of our nation. These two have committed the most heinous crimes I have ever heard of, ladies and gentlemen, and their suffering will continue for an eternity in the fiery pits of Hell."
Removing a small bible from her pocket, Aunt Dorothy makes a show of flipping through the pages that she, and only she, is allowed to read and note, until she finds the scripture she is searching for. "Jeremiah 13:27-your adulteries and lustful neighings, your shameless prostitution! I have seen your detestable acts on the hills and in the fields. Woe to you, Jerusalem! How long will you be unclean?" Her eyes search the crowd accusingly, skillfully reaching the pupil of each person in attendance, including myself, but not Melanie. Flipping through her bible again, she booms, "Hosea 6:8-Gilead is a city of evildoers, stained with footprints of blood. How long shall we disgrace God and Gilead and infect our city, our nation, and the land that God has promised to us? How long!" She cries. "Your feet may be covered now so that mortal eyes as mine cannot see the residue of filth and corruption that has stained them, but God can see all. God can see where your physical body walks and where your souls walk-and He will punish all who stray from his path and leave footprints of blood on the fields of Gilead."
"Those of you here who were so unlucky to endure the pits of sin that once overran the city that we now inhabit in the name of God will remember that this city was infamous for its corruption and sin, that it was also the human trafficking capital of the entire region, if not the nation! Yes, it is true! Still, sin infects our great city to remind us of the battles we must wage against those who oppose God and his teachings, and the temptations presented to us, His Children, to reject in favor of the attention of God and His love."
It is no secret that the Sons of Jacob who created the Republic of Gilead did not follow their own rules and in fact did the complete opposite. The Underground, referred to as Sodom officially, wouldn't thrive or even exist as it does without the Sons of Jacob knowing about it. How else would they supply the black market that ran through it, feed the Jezebels that they selected to be their concubines, and keep the doors to the Underground under lock and key? In the city that used to be Chicago, I had no doubt that the Sons of Jacob knew that the Underground thrived vibrantly and with more success than in any other location throughout Gilead. They would expect no less from the Windy City in what used to be the state whose name became synonymous with corruption and bribery. I wondered if the Sons of Jacob knew how badly they fucked up and the lasting consequences that would ripple across the nation. If the Underground was endangered in a place such as this, nowhere else would be safe. The Underground would cease to exist as they know it.
"This man not only committed adultery against his wife, but he did so in Sodom with the whores of Babylon and with Jezebels-the dirty succubui who are rife with disease-and passed on a disease of not only sin but true sickness onto him. Not only did he infect himself, ladies and gentlemen, but he acquired this disease before he completed his first Ceremony with his Handmaid. This disease was passed onto the Handmaid and was only discovered when the Handmaid became pregnant and was found to have contracted the disease and shame of his sin, which he willfully allowed to fester within her and her womb-tainting the Child of God that she was honored to carry!"
Another gasp of horror from the crowd. I peer over at Melanie and wonder if she is even awake. She is so still that I wonder if she has mastered the art of falling asleep while standing up on her own two feet.
"The Wife of this Godless man, this shame to all who knew him and reported to him, was the one who first broke under the weight of her husband's sin. She knew that the baby, infected with the sin of its father, wouldn't survive long outside of the womb, and if it did, it would be sickly and unable to create pure children of God. So, what did she do? She took a knife and removed the offending organ of her husband that infected her child and their Handmaid, and then-" Aunt Dorothy pauses for dramatic effect and looks away from the crowd and to the sky, blinking away imaginary tears and sniffling, "She became possessed by the vengeful spirits of the Ammonites and tore the child out of the womb of the Handmaid!"
Roars of horror and anguish echo throughout the crowd. More disturbingly, the Handmaids in front of me begin to cry and moan like ghouls, echoing the sounds of pain that Melanie expressed. Worse still the girls did this in complete unison, as if programmed with an audio clip to go off at the same time and for the same duration. I felt my own stomach churn with the Handmaids, compelled by muscle memory, and clutched my stomach, fearing that if I didn't secure the Little Monster in place that he would slip out of me or be torn from me by an invisible knife.
"I know, I know-" Aunt Dorothy coos, speaking into the microphone once more. "This poor, poor servant of God and Gilead was saved by the mercy of our Lord, but the sin of her Commander and his wife maimed her so savagely that she can no longer carry children-yes! Not only did these heathens desecrate their marriage and murder their unborn child, but they stole the countless unborn children that she could have born to Gilead in their sin!"
SAY SOMETHING! I roar within the confines of my own mind, hot tears stinging the corners of my eyes as they burn into the veil over Melanie's face. DO SOMETHING! YOU ARE THE ONE WHOSE LIFE WAS STOLEN BY THEM! YOU ARE THE ONE WHO SHOULD BE PUNISHING THEM!
"After much consideration and prayer, the representatives of the Sons of Jacob in our district have come to the conclusion that both parties, while guilty, are not as equally guilty and not guilty of the same crime. Therefore, this Salvaging shall be carried out in a unique way so that both parties are punished to the full extent for their crimes. Bring out the cradle!" Aunt Dorothy barks.
A Guardian walks down the aisle with an archaic structure in his hand. Upon placing it on the platform, I can see that it is made of metal-perfect to bake under the sun and burn the flesh of anyone who touches it. It is a stool with only three legs, but the seat of it isn't really a seat at all; it is in the shape of a pyramid, sharp edges and all, with the point of it at the top so sharp that it hurts my eyes to even look at.
"Since this woman has maimed the sensitive organ of her husband and desecrated the womb of a handmaid, so too shall she experience the pain tearing through her organs."
The Guardians hauls Mrs. Meadows forward and removes the white sack from her head. The Wife, once distinguished and sophisticated, has red-rimmed and blood-shot eyes glazed over with sedation. There are bruises on her neck and discoloration near her mouth and her cheeks. Her hair, which had been coated in dried blood the last time I saw her, has been freshly washed and even brushed for the occasion. The absent expression on her face and the distant look in her eyes tells me that she is so doped up that she has no real idea of what is going on. She lowers her head slightly and sees the crowd. Upon recognizing her friends in the audience, she smiles weakly and her eyes shoot up in surprise. She tries to move her hand to wave at them, but the Wives look away and the Guardian jerks her hand behind her back roughly, making the woman yelp and wince.
"Samantha Meadows," Aunt Dorothy begins gravely, "for the sins of murder, violence against your husband, and intent to kill a Handmaid and your Husband, you are sentenced to death and an eternity in hellfire by the Judas Cradle."
The woman's face twists in confusion, recognizing bits of words from the older woman's speech. Her mouth moves, as if to question what is happening, but her feet move without hesitation when the Guardians bring her forward. The Guardians hoist her skirts up just high enough to expose the skin of her shins and force her legs apart, with another Guardian, blushing and sweating like a hog in the heat, rifles further up her skirt where we cannot see to arrange an orifice over the sharp point of the cradle. The Guardian nods to the two other ones who are holding the woman up, high enough that she is not yet in contact with the hot metal and begins to place heavy stones in the pockets of her dress. The thin, cheap blue fabric stretches with the increasing weight of the stones in each pocket, and the women around me whisper, speculating if the dress will rip from the weight. Once all the rocks are deposited in the deep pockets of her dress, the blushing Guardian nods to Aunt Dorothy.
In a tone so deep and gravely that it seemed to rumble in my own throat, Aunt Dorothy orders, "Now."
The moment the Guardians let go of the offending criminal's arms, the tearing of tissue and the squelch of bodily fluids can be heard as the woman's orifice is penetrated by the sharp point of the cradle. Over the cries and groans of the crowd, the woman's howling echoes through the humid air and reverberates off the bricked buildings that surround us. Tears flood her face as she exclaims in agony at her body being torn open by the cradle, weighed down further by the stones in her pocket. The pain is so immense that the Guardians stand nowhere near her now, for she cannot even move on the cradle. Her husband, his face still hidden underneath a white sack, is blubbering loudly, his cries so powerful that his entire body is erupting in tremors and the Guardians who had just placed his wife on the cradle now have to hold him upright as he begins to sink to his knees. Blood is dripping down the cradle now in ribbons of crimson, even bubbling when it hits a particularly scalding portion of the metal.
I hear the retching in the audience-what they are expelling from their body evades me since all but me have not been allowed their morning meal-and I hear a woman swoon and faint behind me. Willing myself to keep the contents of my own stomach in check, I steal a glance at Melanie again. Even at the sounds of the crowd and the now pungent smell of blood and other bodily fluids polluting the air, Melanie does not falter in her upright posture and statuesque stance. Hatred and rage unwillingly claw at my throat as I breathe in the nauseating smell of a woman's slow torture and seeing how unaffected a person I once considered to be my closest friend and confidant is by it all.
After what feels like hours, Mrs. Meadows's cries of pain grow quieter as she settles into shock and Aunt Dorothy approaches the microphone stand once more.
"Compose yourselves, all of you." She orders sternly. The audience quiets themselves reluctantly and turns their attention towards the matron, trying to fan away the heat and the smell from their noses. "We will now transition into the Particicution portion of today's events. The audience is invited to stay and observe, especially the men-but only Handmaids may participate."
The Aunts allow a few minutes to pass for the crowd to disperse and return to their homes, with a majority of the crowd opting to leave. Of those who have decided to stay, a majority are men, who feel pressured to stay and watch after Aunt Dorothy's words.
"Chris Meadows, for the sins of adultery, which caused the murder of an unborn child, the intent to murder a Handmaid, and the destruction of a Handmaid's reproductive organs, you are sentenced to death."
The Guardians step forward and lower the noose over the Commander's head, tightening it around his thick neck, and remove his sack. As soon as the sack is removed, the man's face turns to view his wife, and a guttural roar slices through the air from his mouth at the sight of his wife. She is slumped over in shock, bleeding to death but not yet dead. They made her go first so he could torture himself with the sounds of her pain before being made to see it with his own two eyes, the pain that he caused. He screams at the top of his lungs, making his throat raw, and gaining the attention of his wife. She comes alive for a moment out of her haze, her face twisting in pain as she allows her body to fully register the agony of the cradle ripping through her innards and looks at her husband. At first, she looks at him with a mutual sadness, almost with a forgiving gaze, before realizing that he has caused this to happen to her, to them, and emitting a pathetic cry of rage at him with fire in her eyes.
"Now ladies," Aunt Dorothy says sweetly, demanding the attention of the Handmaids. "Separate into two single-file lines on either side of the rope." Turning her attention towards me, a cruel smile appears on her face and she orders, "You too, Ofdaniel. Oh! I mean, Mrs. Tarleton." She says, as if she had forgotten the color of my dress and my station. She does this not only to hurt me, but to make a spectacle out of me in front of the audience.
Once a Handmaid, always a Handmaid. As a former Handmaid, this is something that I am still allowed to partake in. Commander Meadows did hurt a Handmaid who was in relation with me while I was still a Handmaid, and since I conceived as a Handmaid, this is something that concerns me.
Begrudgingly, I shove past Jane and make a show of struggling to waddle with my swollen belly over to the other Handmaids near the rope. I don't know what to expect in joining their ranks again, but they move without hesitation to allow me space between them and move their hands to expose a free length of rope for me to grab onto.
I hear them start to whisper like we used to at the Rachel and Leah Center at such a low tone that only a Handmaid can hear it. We perfected it over the weeks and months. The only way to describe this sacred form of communication between Handmaids would be to imagine if Morse code had a sound, low and almost buzzing.
"We've missed you"
"You're still one of us"
"Don't forget about us"
"We don't hate you"
All these things, directed towards me by different people but as if by group consensus, are said to me in our sacred whisper in the spans of five seconds. I hear Aunt Dorothy approach the microphone again, and as I wrap my gloved hands around the rope I whisper, "I bleed with you". This was what we said when one of us went through pain, or we saw one another after a long period of separation and wanted to acknowledge our sisterhood. It was our way of saying "I love you" but with more spirit, more soul, more empathy. Knowing that they did not hate me or consider my forced marriage as a betrayal was the only thing that kept me from snapping.
"Now ladies, you will pull until I blow the whistle. When I blow the whistle, you will let go of the rope. Anyone caught still pulling the rope or even with their hands on the rope will be punished. Do you all understand?" She asks condescendingly.
"Yes, Aunt Dorothy." we all respond in unison like good little school girls.
"Pull!"
As soon as the word leaves Aunt Dorothy's mouth, all of us-yes, us-begin to pull frantically at the rope with all our might, not caring that the rapid motion and friction of the rope against our palms is burning us and will surely leave blisters or break the tender skin of our hands. After watching him go up into the air mid-way for about ten seconds, just long enough for him to struggle but not long enough for his neck to break-I think the Guardians were ordered to leave the noose just loose enough to ensure his neck would not break-Aunt Dorothy blows the whistle. As if it were on fire, all of us let go of the rope and feel it whip past us through the grass, hissing like a snake, and watch as the Commander's body plummets to the ground with a thud and a crack. His face is a disgusting shade of purple, swollen with blood, and his eyes have nearly rolled back in his head.
"Make a circle."
We quickly make a large circle near the platform and wait as the Commander's limp body is dragged down the steps roughly and placed in the middle of us. I can already hear the Handmaids working themselves up to hysterics, twitching with anticipation, ready to pounce on him at the first chance.
"Child of God, Martyr of Handmaids, please step into the circle."
Craning my head around, I see Melanie spring to life and slowly step forward, hands still behind her back, face still veiled, and break our circle. She circles her prey menacingly, getting closer and closer to him with each completion of her repetition.
"Ladies, as this poor servant of God and Gilead is the person who suffered most greatly, save the unborn child she carried, she will be the first one to touch him. No one else will be allowed to touch him until she gives me the go ahead, is that understood?"
"Yes, Aunt Dorothy."
Crumpled up in pain and still gasping for breath, the Commander shuts his eyes tightly until they are mere lines below his brows. Using her boot, Melanie harshly shoves him in his gut to place him on his back and kicks apart his legs so she can stand between them. Peeling back the thick gauze of her veil, her face is finally revealed but I cannot see it clearly from where I stand. She spits a giant wad of saliva onto his face and watches him wipe it off.
"Look at me!" She barks, sending a shiver through my body and making some of the Handmaids jump backwards in fear. Knowing that he has no other option, he reluctantly looks at her, the sun beating directly into his beady eyes, and waits for what she will do next. Without taking her eyes away from his, she lifts her boot and stomps in down on the stub where his penis used to be, grinding it like a cigarette but beneath her, and listens to him yowl in pain. She stops grinding her foot but puts all her weight on it purposefully, jumping a little bit until we hear the crack of a bone beneath it, and his eyes shoot open wide with new horror, flooded with a pain he never imagined to be any worse than that of his penis being severed. Without taking her eyes away, she nods to Aunt Dorothy.
"KILL HIM!"