Chapter 3: Love endures all things

Two days later

Aunt Lydia arrived right at seven o'clock, as punctual as a damned cuckoo clock. Nick went outside to open her car door and bring her little leather suitcase up the stairs into the Waterford home. Like every morning, she didn't speak to him: she was the type who didn't notice the hired help. He greeted her politely anyway, trying not to think about the scars on the bottom of June's feet. Scars she got from a whipping by an Aunt. Lydia seemed good-natured enough, but Nick harbored no illusions about her true character. She'd plucked eyes out, ordered beatings, burned hands, removed a clitoris, tortured the handmaids in all sorts of ways. Just another pseudo-religious Gilead psychopath. He eyed the cattle prod hanging from her belt.

Once Aunt Lydia was inside, free to torment the three ladies of the house, Nick headed out to the car to talk with the Red Center's driver and his Mayday friend. There was no update from the Underground Femaleroad, however. A plan was in motion. Slow motion. Be patient, Matteo advised him.

The Lord will fight for you, Nick thought, you need only to be patient. Exodus 14. Or was it 13? Whatever. We've still got three months before the baby arrives. We'll get our own exodus soon enough. He headed back into the kitchen so that June didn't have to be alone with her tormentor. Rita was already there, hovering, apparently with the same desire: protect the handmaid.

Right after June choked down her vile breakfast smoothie, Aunt Lydia briskly informed her that they were going for a walk by the river. Rita and Nick exchanged a worried glance. The main reason to head to the Charles was to look at the new bodies hanging on the Wall. Strange that an Aunt would take June there, though there was nothing he could do about it now. He'd have to debrief with her later.

Nick didn't know who was hanging on the Wall or what that bitch had said to his beloved, but upon her return to the house, June looked dumbstruck, defeated. He followed her outside and tried talking to her as she was leaving for her shopping trip, but all he got in response was "We've been sent good weather" in that Gilead-bullshit, fake little girl voice. Offred's voice, even though they were alone. What the actual fuck…?

Nick tried to get her out of his mind and focus on his chores, at least until nightfall. Serena had been watching them like a hawk for the last few days, to make sure June didn't go out to his apartment again. They hadn't been alone together since then. Nick's arms—as well as his cock, to be honest—had been aching for her. He'd been dutifully trying to stick to the 'let's be more careful' plan, but this new shell-shocked June was unacceptable and needed his immediate attention, Serena be damned. Nick waited until the lights in the Waterfords' bedrooms were out, then snuck into the house.

There was a strange glow coming from the kitchen. He found June by the kitchen sink, in her white nightgown and loose hair, mindlessly burning the letters that she'd risked so much to smuggle out of Jezebel's months earlier. "Hey," he said in surprise. He grabbed the arm she was using to burn the letters; she jumped at his touch. Immediately sorry, he dropped her arm. Never sneak up and grab a trauma victim, he berated himself. He knew better than that.

She didn't even seem to notice, though. "I'm not allowed to have these," she told him blankly.

"June," he began, trying to remind her of her true identity. Nobody had called her June in years except him. He took her hand, gently this time, seeking her eyes. June, June, what's wrong with you, darling? The fire in the sink illuminated one side of her face, lit up her blond hair like a halo.

"I'm not supposed to be out of my room at night," she said in that damn little-girl voice, avoiding his gaze. She shrugged his hand away, then wandered away from him.

June was nowhere to be found. He was talking to Offred.

After putting out the fire and washing away all the fragments of paper, Nick took the bundle of remaining letters to his apartment. He hid them in the wooden linen trunk at the foot of his bed. These were letters from American women, detailing their capture and suffering under the new regime. Their stories deserved to be shared, their families deserved to be informed. June burning the letters was like her denying those handmaids their tales, an act so unlike her that Nick worried seriously about her sanity. He spent the next hours in bed, sleepless, debating whether or not to share his concern with someone in the household who might—might —be willing to help June.

The next morning, Nick found his target in the kitchen. "How was your walk?" he asked Mrs. Waterford with fake cheer. His voice sounded higher pitched than normal. June's tricks were really rubbing off on him.

"It was quite nice, thank you." The driver seemed to be looking past her. Mooning over the handmaid, Serena realized. "Offred, you may go to your room." She was resolved not to let Nick and June breathe the same air, it seemed.

June walked straight past Nick without even a glance. Normally, she would have smiled at him, even brushed his hand if they were feeling daring. But today, not a glance. Her expression was stony, her eyes vacant.

That ended the debate in Nick's mind. As soon as June had gone upstairs, he confronted the mistress of the household. "Mrs. Waterford, has Offred, uh." He began again. "I'm worried about…the handmaid." Don't say her name.

"The doctor said she's in perfect health."

A muscle in his cheek twitched. "I mean her mental state."

"Her mental state," the Wife echoed.

This was the hard part, the illegal part. "Maybe you should take her to see a different kind of doctor," he suggested softly.

"Did Offred ask you to talk to me?"

"No, ma'am." She hadn't talked at all. That, in fact, was the problem.

Serena shrugged. "Well, I don't know what to tell you." She began walking away.

Nick blocked her way, quite deliberately. Serena looked at him with some alarm, as if he might hit her again. "She doesn't have anyone to look out for her," he said with some urgency. There's something really wrong with her. Can't you see that?

She held his gaze. "It appears that she does." After a beat, she added, "The handmaid is not your concern."

Fuck you, Serena, he thought as she walked away from him.

Rita ate lunch with him in the kitchen. June stayed in her bedroom, supposedly resting.

"She doesn't look well, Nick."

He looked up from his soup. "Who?"

Rita started to say "Offred," then changed her mind. "June," she mouthed very quietly. Might as well use her true name. It fit her personality better than Offred, anyway.

He stared at her, eyebrows knitted. "Yeah, Aunt Lydia said something to her, did something, I'm not sure what. She hasn't been herself since yesterday morning."

"I noticed—she's talking like a robot. That's not what I mean, though. She looks pale. Sick."

Nick looked down. To his soup, he muttered, "I'll try to…" He trailed off. Try to what? Fix her? Shake her until she's back to her old self? "I'll talk to her after her nap."

"Serena talked about you with the Commander today," she whispered at him.

"About what?"

"How you were waiting for her after her walk with Offred. How concerned you were about the handmaid, and how 'sweet' you were being."

"Really," Nick tried to sound noncommittal. Shit.

"He looked angry about it. And she's got something up her sleeve, Nick. I can feel it when she's hatching a plan. Watch yourself."

Nick's plan to talk to June fell apart half an hour later. Waterford ordered him to drive him to the Chancellery; the Commander wanted to speak with Andrew Pryce about something. Nick hoped it wasn't about him, but he suspected it was. He'd have to talk to Pryce himself, try to undo whatever damage Waterford had caused.

He didn't have to wait long, since Pryce came looking for him. He found Nick in the servants' waiting room, where the drivers milled about, drank ersatz coffee and gossiped until their masters finished their Chancellery business.

"Nick," the High Commander began affably enough, "let's walk."

Andrew Pryce was Nick's long-time mentor, the man who'd bought him lunch in Ypsilanti, Michigan one fateful afternoon and encouraged Nick to attend a Sons of Jacob meeting. He'd gotten Nick off the dead-end career path he was on…and right onto an even worse, homicidal path. His association with the Sons of Jacob had kept him alive during the Revolution—soulless, but alive—and had later made Nick Blaine a trusted Eye for Pryce. One of his little protégés. Or snitches, depending on your point of view.

"I'm leading a prayvaganza in your district this afternoon at three o'clock. I'd like you there."

"Of course, sir." Not what Nick had been expecting. So far, so good.

"I'm going to be calling special attention to some of our most loyal Guardians, including you. A promotion, of sorts. So wear your formal blacks. Shoulder lapels, too."

Surprise competed with wariness on Nick's face. "I'm very honored, Commander."

Pryce smiled warmly. He had always seemed genuinely fond of Nick. "Proverbs 14: all hard work brings a profit." With a pat on the back, he said, "You deserve it, son."

I fucking hate being called 'son.'

June woke up late from her nap, then spent an unusual amount of time in her bath. Rita covered for her with the mistress: the handmaid looks pale. The weather must be changing. Perhaps a touch of the flu.

Serena patiently went out to the greenhouse to do a little gardening until June had finished lunch. Then she sprang her plan. "I hope you're not too tired to go to the prayvaganza," she told her handmaid. "You still would like to go, wouldn't you?"

"Yes, Mrs. Waterford," June replied like an automaton.

"Good. Finish that up"—she indicated the hateful smoothie, this time dutifully drunk—"and we'll be on our way." She sounded as cheerful as Serena ever could, Rita thought. "A second walk! Aunt Lydia would be so proud of us." She continued muttering to herself about the stupid term 'prayvaganza.' She was happy about something. Rita was worried.

Even more worried when the handmaid almost swooned getting up from her chair. Rita put a finger on hers. "Are you okay?" It was the first time she'd ever touched the girl. Ever. She'd never touched the first Offred, never even talked to her…and maybe that isolation contributed to her suicide, a path that June here seemed to be on as well. Are you okay? Rita repeated in her mind.

June stared blankly straight ahead. "I'm fine, thank you," she finally replied in her high-pitched vacant voice. Not at all like the playful breakfast with the banana just a few days ago. What the hell happened to her? Rita fretted.

Nick found himself on the altar—more like a stage, really, not religious at all, despite the organ music—as the congregation clapped for him and the other black-clad men. He hunted for his favorite person and found her in the sea of red, pale but composed. At least now June was looking at him, rather than through him. Maybe the change of location had lifted her spirits.

"We praise your service," Commander Pryce was saying to the assembled Guardians, "and we reward your sacrifice." A little boy in a suit and tie gave Nick a little box. He opened it. A medal?

No. Fuck. Fuckfuckfuck.

Wedding rings.

He was to be 'rewarded' with a girl. The white-draped children were led out, faces covered by veils. They had to be children; they were all short. Skinny. No hips, no breasts. Nick tried to keep his face placid and serene, rather than murderous or panicky. Pryce was reciting Genesis now. The origins of woman.

Serena worked fast, Nick had to give her that. The bitch couldn't let anything go, not a night shared between a couple, not a punch. Certainly not love. Fuck Serena and Fred and this whole massive mountain of Gilead bullshit. These are little girls and June is right in front of me.

June was staring straight at him the whole time, face carefully neutral. He tried to match her expression. But as he repeated "I do" after Commander Pryce, Nick stared straight back at her. He could see Serena, seated directly in front of June and fully aware of his brazen look. He ignored the Wife. Fuck Serena, he thought for the hundredth time today.

June blinked as he put cheap gold wedding bands on the child's hand and his own. Other than that blink, she looked absolutely expressionless. Serena had a big grin on her face. Waterford looked snide. Nick's hands longed for a rifle. He really just wanted to shoot up the place, starting with his two owners.

"I now pronounce you man and wife." Not husband and wife. No change in status for him; just for her. He lifted the veil. Brown doe eyes. Fourteen, maybe. Should be a high school freshman. The girl looked at him, modest but curious. He ignored her, turned his head towards June instead. That was his wife, the only wife he wanted, his true soul mate. But June didn't meet his gaze for long and instead closed her eyes, a signal at him to quit looking up at the balcony. We have to be more careful: that's what they'd decided. Now they were staring at each other in front of the entire neighborhood. Stop looking at her, Nick ordered himself.

"I give you the happy couples," Pryce announced cheerfully. Everyone clapped. Right. Happy as a clam.

Nick led the teenager right past the assembled handmaids. He didn't feign happiness. This was his wedding day, but all he could think about was June. She was clapping along with the congregation, slowly, her left hand sometimes missing her right palm. Her smile looked pleasant enough, but her blue eyes were shining with tears and her face was, as Rita had mentioned earlier, very pale. God damnit, this is not what she needs right now. This is actually the very last thing she needs. She's fragile enough right now; this is going to break her. I have got to talk to her.

"Why don't you choose a passage to read to her, Nick?" Waterford suggested that evening. He unlocked the Bible from its mantlepiece cabinet, the same Bible that he'd get out before a Ceremony. Same room, same assembled household. The only changes were that Nick was seated now, not off to the side next to Rita, and rather than kneeling on the ground, June was standing right behind him. Also, unlike a Ceremony, tonight wasn't going to end with June getting raped. If Nick had his way, no one would have to suffer that tonight.

Waterford handed him the leatherbound book. Pick a Bible passage, he thought. Easy choice. His fingers flipped easily to 1 Corinthians. He recited verse 13 from memory, ostensibly to his new 'wife' but aimed at June. He didn't need to look at her to know she understood; he could feel her warm eyes on his back.

"Love is patient, love is kind," he began. June inhaled sharply at his words; the Waterfords were standing too far away from them to notice, but Nick heard her breath. She knows what I'm doing. He continued earnestly, hoping she could internalize every single phrase he was telling her. "It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking. It is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love delights not in evil but rejoices with the truth. It bears all things, believes all things, endures all things. Love never fails."

Fred Waterford handed Nick a crystal goblet filled with whiskey and two large ice cubes. He placed a hand on his driver's shoulder, supposedly in brotherly support. Instead, it felt threatening. "A good woman will lift you up. You'll see."

What the fuck is that supposed to mean? That a 'bad' woman was bringing me down?

He must know about me and June. This is a punishment. An effective one.

"To good women," Waterford toasted.

Nick usually didn't drink liquor—the smell of it reminded him of his father, right before a beating—but tonight, he drank. Maybe he could get drunk. He could only see a few ways to get through the horror of this night, and being blasted might be a good path forward.

"I'm glad this could be arranged so quickly," the commander went on. "I had to pull a few strings, but I couldn't miss the opportunity to show you how much I appreciate all you've done for me."

Yeah, you couldn't stand to let June and me actually be happy for more than a few days. I see exactly how much you appreciate me.

"Thank you, sir. I'm grateful," he said instead.

"You're on your way now, son."

God, I fucking hate it when he calls me 'son.' Him and Pryce both. Someday, he's gonna say that word and I'm just going to punch him as hard as I can. Break his nose, maybe. I'm not his fucking son.

"Gilead values the family, and rewards those who live by those values."

Nick spoke by rote. "By God's grace, I'll have a child of my own someday, sir." Like in about four months. And by God's grace, that baby will be born in Canada, and you'll never lay one slimy hand on her or her mother.

Waterford smiled coldly. "By God's grace." They were both full of shit, but they played their pious parts so well.

After gulping down the rest of the whiskey, Nick put his hand down on the loveseat's elegant armrest, more forcefully than he'd planned. He tightened his fist around the carved wood. He wanted to punch Waterford so badly. His heart was stormy. He hadn't felt this level of violence since before the Revolution.

Finally dismissed by the Commander, Nick went outside, lighting up a cigarette the moment he was out the door. It was pouring with rain, which fit his mood. He walked in circles around the backyard, sucking the cancer-stick hard, unwilling to go anywhere near his apartment. He considered that little room above the garage to be his space, his only property. And his bed was a sacred place for June and him to be themselves, to indulge in freedom and truth, love and passion. They had created their daughter in that bed. It was not to be tainted by some little girl nervously waiting for him to come up and mount her like an animal.

Nick continued to prowl around the yard, a caged panther seeking some escape from captivity. Then he saw the body, half-naked, lying in wet leaves and dirt. He wondered whether someone had truly been murdered in the Waterford backyard, or whether he was just more drunk than he'd thought. He walked over to investigate, his strides lengthening as he realized that corpse with the blond hair looked disturbingly like…

No. His heart clenched. No. This was not happening. Could not be happening.

"June?" he gasped. He turned her over. Her eyes were partially open, unfocused. One bare arm reached out faintly and wrapped around his back. It was the first touch they'd shared in two days. Then she passed out. Her underwear and bare legs were covered in blood. Her blood. She's losing the baby, he realized.

He screamed incoherently for help and was gratified—for the first time ever—to hear the immediate response of scratchy walkie-talkies and the pounding boots of Guardians. At last, those street thugs were good for something.

Did she jump out her bedroom window? Fall out of the window? Did she walk downstairs and outside, in the rain, wearing only her underclothes? None of these choices made any sense at all, none were sane.

My fault, my fault, my fault. I got married right under her nose, she was already in a fragile state, this pushed her right over the edge. My fault.

No, he amended after a few agonizing moments. Fred and Serena's fault. They arranged this. They caused this.

One of the Guardians pounded on the Waterford door. Rita came out, saw June, shrieked in alarm. Only then did the Commander and his wife appear.

One day, June and I will have our revenge on those two.