I must be losing it.
The changes, they happened overnight. At least that's what I thought.
Others, some of the other women claimed to have caught on earlier. Me, I had missed it. I must be getting old.
Yet backhoes and excavators eventually were hard to ignore. As were the full-sized dumptrucks, many with those tandem, dump-pups, as I found out their trailers were called…. all of that gave it away. Something was happening to this hell-hole that could not be ignored.
To the north of our cow-shed barracks, the excavators and backhoes were preparing for the eventual concrete trucks - which when they came, came by the dozens. Rebar grids to hold the concrete in place. Even I knew enough to figure it out - I'd seen enough medical money poured into hospital construction - physical buildings that they wouldn't bother to staff…..
But, I digress. The concrete trucks and workmen, they were laying the foundation of something. Something big. Something quite unknown and foreign to this hellhole.
Want to know what else?
Soon after that, we women - we unwomen - we were all given little squeeze-bottles of antibiotic topical medication. Real antibiotics. I'm not trying to be funny. Antibiotics didn't touch the radiation related lesions and such, but man oh man, secondary infections were being cleaned up. Like crazy.
Then our ten hour days - they were reduced to four. Four. It made me wonder if there'd been yet another revolution back in Washington, D.C.
Not only was our work day now only four hours, it **started** with when our little bus left the cow-shed barracks we were in. Buses. That's right, our day started and **ended** at the cow-shed, not **after** a one hour march there, which also did not include the one hour march back. Buses.
For us unwomen, our twelve hours, had been reduced to four.
Our garden space - Dr. Emily Malek would have loved this - the space to grow things was quadrupled…. quintupled….. If I knew the terms for larger increases in size, I'd use them.
The trough inside the cow-shed from which we drew our contaminated water, it now was closed off, with a 'skull and bones' danger notice attached to each tap. For the foreseeable future, we unwomen were to draw our water from large trucks parked outside - we were told that the water was now potable, and had been passed as uncontaminated. At least that's what the sign on the side of the truck said.
In fact, I'd caught myself reading that sign in disbelief - out loud. I was standing beside an Aunt, who heard me as I recited what I should not have been reading!
Instead of a beating? Being beaten for reading?
All the Aunt did was slap her prod into the palm of her other hand, and then she 'harrumphed', a real 'harrumph'. That's all I got from an Aunt, for reading.
A dirty look.
What the fuck was going on?
MCII
Signage eventually went up. Real words, lots of words that we couldn't help but read. When the foundation for whatever it was they were building was finished, workers came in to install ground-level connections…. which looked like it was for power, water….. and one marked 'sewage'. A big sign, 'Sewage'!
Holy fuck. They were doing something about public health here. Were we still in the Bootheel Colony? Not even the resident Aunts, not even the squadron of Guardians had had sewage - as they constantly reminded us. (Saying to us unwomen, that they were as much a prisoner here as we were, because they had to shit into dirt holes.)
Then the massive trucks arrived, with portables - in sections, like a massive lego project. A crane lifted those portables, placed them like jig-saws onto the new foundation, with all the connections from below now connected.
That was when I first remembered seeing it.
MCII.
At first I thought that that was Latin numbers for 1,102. There were more unwomen here than that! How wrong I was.
The only 'improvement' for us that didn't catch on? The failure of one, single upgrade coincided with the last - the very last beating one of us unwomen were to get.
We were all given a rudimentary, but personal radiation detector. It would be tied to our belt, or affixed somehow if the belt had long since rotted away.
It was simple enough. If a little red dimple popped out of the tube, you were done for the day - radiation-wise. It didn't matter if you hadn't done your four hours, an Aunt would escort you back to the cow-shed and you'd be alone with all that fresh water out in the trucks.
One unwomen, she discovered she could pick at that dimple until it popped out on its own! Her mistake? She'd managed to pick it out just after getting off of the bus, then gleefully showed her work to an Aunt.
She was beaten to within an inch, just like old times. After that those portable radiation detectors were taken away - and man oh man, that night? That night we were called to gather around the expanding vegetable garden to witness….. that Aunt, stripped naked and tied to a post, being whipped by a very large Guardian. An Aunt. Beaten. To our glee and hoots and hollers!
It was the damnedest thing I ever saw. (But she being naked, I saw that the radiation lesions were as prolific on her as on any of us.)
Then we got gray smocks, all of us now matching, all of us in clean clothing for the first time in…. geez, how long?
COMMANDER MACKENZIE SPEAKS
A raised dais had been build outside the cow-shed. None of us knew what it was for, until one of the vegetable gardeners came in with a worried excitement, "girls! Girls!" she yelled, "you're being summoned. Outside."
Yet we stood there in front of that dais, regretting our instinct to obey. It was cool that evening. Even in our new gray, some of us were shivering. Even though our meals had also had a marked improvement, there were some back inside who would not have survived even this modest discomfort.
This - it was still the Boothell Colony. Whatever it was we were waiting for, it was still us shivering in the cold.
At that, the lights within that new facility, they came on. We heard applause, again from inside the facility. You could now see the words written above the obvious front steps, an entrance one could tell was supposed to be something grand - but was still modest, considering where it was.
Above the front door was the inscription: "Mackenzie Correctional Institution Incorporated."
At that, the large front doors underneath the sign opened, and a Commander strode out. Turning he headed for the dais, it was obvious were were being assembled to find out what was what - what the hell was going on. There, in our fancy new gray smocks.
Unwomen of MCII, I have chosen it to be me to tell you of the changes here. My intent is to let you in on a new future for Gilead, in our approach to Corrections. As such, I thank you for your patience - but now, that patience will be rewarded.
To be clear, this is still a penal colony. Do not ever - ever - forget that. All of your sentences will be carried out here without fear or favour. Gilead, we Commanders are not going soft. Stifle that thought right now, this instant. Got it?
Behind me at the main building of the MCII, is your new home. Each to their own cell, two to a room. A proper kitchen, where some of you will work. An infirmary, where the injuries which are a natural by-product of your sentence, where medicines can be meted out to you.
At that point he seemed to looking right at me. Given my obstetrician background which had landed me here, I didn't cherish being singled out, not at something like this.
But apparently, he was looking at me for another reason.
Okay, none of you are stupid. You are sluts, that it true, you are unwomen who in reality are grateful that the full weight of Gilead has never descended upon you. Me, I have personally received some of your gratitude. I cannot take full credit for the mercy shown to you - you need to thank our Living Lord for that. It is he who watches over you - just as the Living Lord tasks us Commanders with your correction.
Okay, to the point. In the coming days, maybe in a week, maybe two, you will be receiving visitors. The international community, they are interested in Gilead's gains, especially the salvation God offers through Gilead about the fertility crisis.
We Commanders, we have sacrificially agreed that they can inspect how we rehabilitate our criminals, how we correct abhorrent and criminal behaviour.
So, listen up. Me, I will only say this once. Some of the Swiss, Mexicans, French, Albanian or other United Nations personnel, we have agreed to let them have one-on-ones with some of you. You will have your chance to speak in private with a small number of them.
So it is I remind you of your crimes. I remind you of the people you've left behind in your districts, from the New Gilead District in the east, to the Northern District, or the Southwest District out on the Pacific. With your conversations - I'm saying this only once - do not put your loved ones in danger.
And…. we are housing you in the new facility in stages. Half of you will remain in your present lodgings. The other half remain where you are, just in case disorder breaks out. Have you got that? Half of you, will be responsible for the safety of the other half, those not with you.
Do I make myself clear?
At that I was among the favoured group, told to leave my possessions behind and immediately relocate into the MCII facility.
I found my cell - one with a real bed and fresh running water - and a flush toilet! I then reported to the infirmary as ordered.
ME, I GOT MEXICANS
Our privacy with the international group, it was guaranteed. 'Guaranteed', Gilead style. They must have known they were taking a risk letting it be me to be one of those interviewed.
Sticking it 'to the man', that had even been a phrase shot at me - read from an Eye-file about me back in Boston, as they were practising bastinado on the soles of my feet.
As it was, Ambassador Castillo she looked at me, over the marble surface of the conference table we'd been given. During her pleasantries, she indicated she'd recently been to Massachusetts. It was a way to establish rapport with me, I guess.
She then said, "Dr. Maddox, I am from Xipica. It's the same size as your Boston. I'm sure you've never heard of it. But there hasn't been a child born alive in Xipica in six years. My country, it is dying."
She then said, "I won't patronize you. Our Boston trip was to explore the feasibility of their Bilhah program. I even had the chance to talk with one of their handmaids. She initially told me that she'd ' found happiness' in her situation."
Me, stuck for something to say. If this had been an encounter with an establishment power broker 'back in the day', I really would have given her a piece of my mind.
Yet right now, Commander Mackenzie's words, they were fresh. His threats. Empty threats to my family, because they had made it to Canada. To my sisters back at the cowshed.
It must have been my silence which alerted them.
"Look, Dr. Maddox," her assistant, Mr. Flores, said using my real name, "we are not without sympathy. But please know that Mexico is in dire straights. My wife, she has had six miscarriages. So is Switzerland in trouble, so is France. So is Canada, and they are also bearing the brunt of American refugees. They cannot do that forever."
The two Mexicans then looked with worry at each other, then Flores continued. "Look, we get the sexism of this place. Your Commanders, they keep insulting Ambassador Castillo, they will address me, not her, because I am male."
Castillo then said, "so we know, Dr. Maddox. We were in the company of a handmaid, when she was with her Commander. We asked her name, she told us only 'Offred'. He then interrupted, saying that that patronymic was part of their culture, that the woman had adopted by choice."
Flores then said, "Me, I couldn't believe it was her, Offred. Only a week previous, I'd met her husband, in Toronto, at the American consulate. I couldn't forget him, he kept shouting at me. To do something. He'd shouted that her name, 'It is not fucking Offred!', was what he said."
It still didn't click for me. Then Mr. Flores dropped the floor from underneath me.
"Her name wasn't Offred, it was June. Her husband, he was Luke Bankole. She did not even know that he was alive, living in Toronto. That's how monstrous this place is, Gilead. Me, I got word to him that she was alive. At least they now both know. When we heard that Mexico was sending us here, we purposely asked for you."
The ambassador then looked at me, seeing how much in a state of shock I was. "That's why we're telling you, Dr. Maddox. I won't claim that she is doing well, but she is alive. A handmaid, in Boston."
AND THE HITS, THEY JUST KEPT COMING
Mr. Flores then filled the silence, "Hannah Bankole is, now, 'Agnes Mackenzie'. Your granddaughter is Commander Mackenzie's daughter now. He's that man, he's the Commander now eating a meal prepared for you women, you unwomen. He's eating it with utensils you will soon use, and he's doing it, mugging for the foreign press."
The Ambassador then pleaded, "I beg you, just hang on to this knowledge. Don't do anything, especially not now. It will endanger both me and Mr. Flores. It will endanger you. It will endanger your own daughter."
"And your granddaughter, Dr. Maddox. Hannah Bankole. Your son-in-law, he won't shut up about Hannah. It seems that they both now know, June and Luke, they both now know about their daughter. To me, both of them, they are the heroes."
I must admit that as my mind was racing, I blamed Luke. "How in hell did he allow this to happen?"
I am getting old, so old. No good to anyone. I felt alone. So so alone. I could shit in a toilet and drink proper water, but I was now alone.