Days and weeks pass in a regimented blur; the only thing that seems to change is the weather: Autumn is nearly upon us. I love the cooler days and colder nights. No snow yet, thankfully; it will be one more thing I'll be expected to handle when it comes. But for now, life remains on its pre-determined course: drive the Commander to appointments, occasionally take Mrs. Waterford on her social outings, maintain the car, fix items around the house, eat, read a little, sleep, only break from the monotony is the Commander's bi-monthly visits to Jezebel's. He scratches his itch while I do the black market trading he requires to make his and his comrade's lives more comfortable. As an Eye embedding with a Commander, I do occasionally have meet-ups with my superior durning these visits. Most of my communication is in writing and passed via the Guardian on the Waterford's block once a week. These nights are the closest I get to freedom. Jezebels is where 80% of the population is serving a life sentence as entertainment playthings. It's ironic that Jezebel's- where everyone is trapped in some way—feels like the only place I can breathe. I let my guard down there, but I hate myself for it—I can't ignore that my freedom is bought with someone else's chains.
Offred's added presence around the house is the only glimmer of change throughout the summer. Now free of her confines, I sometimes see her working in the garden or helping Rita with her tasks. She has also started taking all her meals in the kitchen. I'm not around much for these. The Commander's schedule has been brutal recently, but I've had a few dinners with the newer household member. While the meals tend to be pretty silent affairs, the table talk is confined to safe topics such as the weather, the food, and sometimes news on newly expecting handmaids so that we can pray for the health of the baby, of course. Though our contact is infrequent and sterile in content, she's starting to relax. She's more open, making more eye contact, speaking in her full voice. I should be relieved, but all I feel is dread. I've seen how this plays out before.
It's a bright and sunny day in early September, and I've been tasked with dusting all of the light fixtures on the 2nd floor and changing out light bulbs, never mind that none of them are blown. Sustanablity, my ass. I've just set up my ladder on the landing when I spot Offred skirting out the gate and making her way down the block with her walking partner, Ofglen. I watch them until they are out of sight, recalling my most recent report on the aforementioned walking partner. The rumblings about her have gotten louder over the past couple of weeks. Ofglen was pulled into the handmaid program despite being a "gender traitor." Health ovaries trump their stupid, pious views onappropriatelove. That in and of itself doesn't worry me, there are several handmaids like Ofglen, what's concerning is chatter in the Martha network that some Eye intercepted. There are rumblings about a possible affair between the handmaid and someone at her last posting. The rumor isn't confirmed, but it won't take them long to figure it out. Offred needs to be wary and keep this woman at arm's length. It's not fair. Ofglen is her assigned companion, the only person she's allowed to walk with, and now I need to tell her to keep her distance. Gilead sets them up to fail, a way of punishing them if they are to reach out to anyone.
"Nick, are you nearly done with lights?" Mrs. Waterford asks, pulling me from my thoughts. She sounds irritated, but that is par for the course. The woman is sour 99% of the time.
I straighten up, "Nearly ma'am. This is the last one," I state.
"Okay. When you're done, I need you to move some bags of gardening soil to the greenhouse," she directs.
There isn't another answer besides "Yes ma'am," so I give it and quickly finish the lighting project.
An hour and 15 bags of soil later, I'm finally given leave for a break. I've just passed the dining room, where the Commander is taking his tea and reading some files when I hear him call out to me.
I backtrack to the door, "Yes, sir?"
"Ah, Nick," he starts, his eyes still on the documents before him. "Tomorrow night, Commander Mitchell and I will be taking a meeting across the river. We will need to leave here around eight."
I nod. A meeting across the river is code for Jezebel's. I wish I could say I thought the new Commander Mitchell was above the use of prostitutes, but this is exactly who I thought he was the first time I met him. I scratch my chin and make a mental note to reach out to my contacts to ensure they have the booze and makeup products I ordered are ready for pickup. I turn to head for the kitchen for the drink I was after, but the Commander clears his throat and stands. Collecting his files, he glances up at me for the first time. "Also, let Offred know I need to see her in my office tonight at 9 pm."
My brain grinds to a halt, and my breath catches in my chest. And it begins. The late-night meetings, the whispered orders. It's how it started with the last Offred, and we all know how that ended. My chest tightens, but there's nothing I can do. Nothing anyone can do.
"Nick, son, are you okay?" the Commander asks.
I shake my head, forcing myself to meet his gaze. My heart pounds, but I keep my face neutral. I've gotten good at this—at pretending. He won't see anything I don't want him to. "Uh, yes, sir. Just a little dehydrated, I think."
"Ah, I see. Please, don't let me stop you then. Rita said she made some iced tea; perhaps that would help," he suggests.
I nod and leave, the taste of dread bitter in my mouth. I have no choice but to pass along the message. Disobedience isn't an option if you like breathing. It's just another part of my routine. —a routine that's slowly eating away at me.
Satisfied, he pushed away from the table and headed towards his office, leaving me to hate him just a little more than I did 10 seconds ago. I go down the hallway to the kitchen just as Offred steps in the back door. She's dripping wet.
I bite the inside of my cheek and straighten my tie nervously as I meet her in the breakfast room.
"Get caught in the rain?" I ask. Great, Nick. That was another stellar start to a conversation.
She glances up at me as she takes off her wet cloak. "Yes." She says quietly.
Here goes nothing, "You were gone a while," I say, tinkering nervously with an old cigar box on the table.
"Sometimes we walk home along by the river," she explains, removing her boots.
My eyes flick up from the table, and for a second, I catch a glimpse of her bare knee. It's ridiculous how something so simple makes my heart skip, but in Gilead, even a knee feels illicit. I try to look away, but not fast enough. She catches the direction of my gaze. She self-consciously pulls her dress down, and I hate myself for making her feel exposed. I'm such an me for making her feel awkward.I gather my thoughts and push on despite myself. "You need to be careful," I state, persevering as I wander over to the hutch and fixate on it while she finishes up with her boots.
"By the river?" she asks, her confusion evident.
"With her. Ofglen," I clarify, trying to keep my voice , not just with Ofglen. Everything in this place is dangerous; one wrong move can kill you.I want to say, but I don't. Fred's too close. I can't chance him overhearing anything that might sound like subversion. Warning her about Ofglen alone is a gray area. It's unsettling to me that his obsession with his handmaid is what would protect me. He wouldn't want something to happen to his plaything, after all.
Offred pauses for a moment, and I feel her eyes on me. "She's my partner. We shop together." She returns evenly.
I close the drawer I've opened for no other reason but to have something to do with my hands and turn around to lean against the hutch. Keep going."Don't get too close to her, it's dangerous," I instruct, feeling like a dick for being so…male.
She glances up at the serious tone of my voice, concern clear in her eyes. She stands and goes over to the coat hook to hang her cloak.
Okay, one task is done; now for the worst bit. I stand mutely for a second, watching her before finding the guts to relay the Commander's request. "He wants to see you," I manage evenly.
"Who?" She turns, stunned by the sentence.
I don't want to say the words. My throat tightens, 'The Commander,' I manage to say, feeling bile rise in my throat. 'Tonight. In his office.' I'm traitor, sending her into the lion's den knowing full well what's waiting for her.
She looks worried. She should be. "Why?"
Because he's an asshole who only finds pleasure in ruining women's lives. Because he's small and emotionally impotent. Because he loves his games.I think. I choose facts over honesty, "9:00 don't be late." Message delivered, I turn and walk way. I know I'm leaving her to fret over the meeting, but I'm also impotent. I have no power to help her through whatever Fred Waterford has planned.
9 o'clock comes, and I find myself staring out the window of my apartment. Eyes glued on her window, I drum my fingers nervously on my knee. Guilt is a feeling I'm well acquainted with, a feature of my life that I've accepted even, but this feels different. It's much more personal. I promised myself I'd help this woman safe, and the first test of my resolve, I folded like a cheap napkin. I should've done something—anything, but I realized that there is no stopping Fred it short of killing him, and I'm too much of a coward to do that. So here I sit, worrying a lighter with my thumb as if that'll do any good. An hour passes, nothing moves beyond her curtains, and I can barely breathe.
Another thirty minutes and dozens of unpleasant possible scenarios later, I peel myself off the bench and force myself into the shower. I stay in it until the water runs cold, then take even longer to shave the stubble off my chin. Finally dressed for bed, I wander back into the room I live in. I want to avoid the window and go to bed because I'm exhausted, but my feet lead me back to the bench. Hesitantly I look out, expecting nothing to have changed, but Praise fucking be, she is back in her room, sitting in her window. For a second, I imagine she's sitting there for me, letting me know she's okay. It's a stupid thought, but in this place, even the smallest gestures mean everything. I could show myself and let her know I was waiting for her. Maybe she needs that, needs to know that someone cares. But I hesitate. By the time I decide to pull back my curtain, it's too late. She's gone. I missed my chance. I'm Coward. That's what I am. Too scared to stop him, too scared to even show myself. I could've given her a moment of comfort, but I let it slip through my fingers.
