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    The Handmaid's Tale
    The Handmaid's Tale
    The Handmaid's Tale
    Ebook387 pages6 hours

    The Handmaid's Tale

    By Margaret Atwood

    4/5

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    Read preview

    • Power Dynamics

    • Oppression

    • Surveillance

    • Gender Roles

    • Rebellion

    • Forbidden Love

    • Oppressive Government

    • Rebellion Against Authority

    • Oppressive Regime

    • Memory Loss

    • Dystopian Future

    • Handmaid's Tale

    • Female Protagonist

    • Secret Rebellion

    • Totalitarian Regime

    • Oppression of Women

    • Dystopian Society

    • Rebellion & Resistance

    • Identity

    • Survival

    About this ebook

    Now a Hulu series starring Elizabeth Moss. The Handmaid's Tale is an instant classic and eerily prescient cultural phenomenon, from "the patron saint of feminist dystopian fiction" (New York Times)

    The Handmaid’s Tale is a novel of such power that the reader will be unable to forget its images and its forecast. Set in the near future, it describes life in what was once the United States and is now called the Republic of Gilead, a monotheocracy that has reacted to social unrest and a sharply declining birthrate by reverting to, and going beyond, the repressive intolerance of the original Puritans. The regime takes the Book of Genesis absolutely at its word, with bizarre consequences for the women and men in its population.

    The story is told through the eyes of Offred, one of the unfortunate Handmaids under the new social order. In condensed but eloquent prose, by turns cool-eyed, tender, despairing, passionate, and wry, she reveals to us the dark corners behind the establishment’s calm facade, as certain tendencies now in existence are carried to their logical conclusions. The Handmaid’s Tale is funny, unexpected, horrifying, and altogether convincing. It is at once scathing satire, dire warning, and a tour de force. It is Margaret Atwood at her best.

    Editor's Note

    Dystopian classic…

    Atwood’s dystopian classic isn’t just an argument for women’s rights, but more generally a brilliant commentary on the effects of dehumanization, of putting law above love, and of the dangers of picking sides and uncritically sticking with them in the first place.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherHarperCollins
    Release dateFeb 17, 1986
    ISBN9780547345666
    The Handmaid's Tale
    Author

    Margaret Atwood

    Margaret Atwood, whose work has been published in more than forty-five countries, is the author of over fifty books, including fiction, poetry, critical essays, and graphic novels. In addition to The Handmaid’s Tale, now an award-winning television series, her works include Cat’s Eye, short-listed for the 1989 Booker Prize; Alias Grace, which won the Giller Prize in Canada and the Premio Mondello in Italy; The Blind Assassin, winner of the 2000 Booker Prize; The MaddAddam Trilogy; The Heart Goes Last; Hag-Seed; The Testaments, which won the Booker Prize and was long-listed for the Giller Prize; and the poetry collection Dearly. She is the recipient of numerous awards, including the Peace Prize of the German Book Trade, the Franz Kafka International Literary Prize, the PEN Center USA Lifetime Achievement Award, and the Los Angeles Times Innovator’s Award. In 2019 she was made a member of the Order of the Companions of Honour in Great Britain for her services to literature. She lives in Toronto.

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    Reviews for The Handmaid's Tale

    4/5

    13,547 ratings579 reviews

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    • 5/5
      Maybe This Can Help You
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    • 3/5
      Its start can be a bit slow, but its story and social commentary is very interesting and still relevant today. Much of the dialogue lacks quotation marks, making it confusing and hard to distinguish from the narrated text.
    • 5/5
      Great book, interesting story. The narrator did a good job telling the story
    • 4/5
      I waited many years to finally read this. It was disturbing but that is necessary to convey the messages in the book. As we continue to wreck our planet, some science fiction may become true. It is a clarion call to pay attention to our life styles and consumption.
    • 5/5
      Loved this book and the second installment of this series.
    • 2/5
      It was hard to finish. It was very dry and seemed to drag on. I liked the idea of the story, and the television show is what interested me in reading it. The book, however, was not that interesting. I did force myself to finish it, but it was painful. I didn't finish the sequel. Perhaps her writing style is not for me. To each their own.
    • 3/5
      The Handmaid’s Tale sent shivers up and down my back. The whole premise seems to follow the Republican Project 2025. Government controls the life and death of everyone, but mostly women. So many freedoms no longer exist. A lone Commander controls the birth of the population. JD Vance would love this book that explains a woman’s sole purpose rests in creation of the next generation. The women fall into three groups: the breeders or handmaids, the Marthas or those past breeding duties, and the econowives that must do all the work. Very few men exist in the book, just the Commander and the guards. Fear dominates. All must obey or suffer the consequences. Those who disobey are hanged on the wall and left for all to see. A terrible glimpse into what could happen.

      1 person found this helpful

    • 4/5
      Shocking tale
    • 5/5
      I re-read this, because I had nominated it for our town's One Book selection, though it didn't get chosen. I originally read it in the mid- to late-90's and found it very intense. Now, it's even more intense, considering all the dystopian novels that are prominent in this day and age. It was just as great of a read as I'd remembered. The movie is fabulous, as well, but I prefer the book.
    • 4/5
      Fascinating. It is an interesting look at how society falls apart, so scary.
    • 5/5
      Unnerving especially in light of Trump's election. I read it the summer he was campaigning and it made my skin crawl.

      1 person found this helpful

    • 4/5
      [reread] after rereading this, i think i got so much more out of it (so much i upped the rating 0.5 stars). the 'stream of consciousness' writing style is somewhat reminiscent of sally rooney's (even though i know this was published before). i love that so much of the novel is up for interpretation (even though possible 'clues' are left throughout), as it think it only enhances what offred and the handmaid's must feel re. not knowing for certain what is going on / what really happens at the end of the main narrative.
    • 4/5
      When I first read this book in the 1980s, I was a literature and writing major in college. The entire canon and political field of my studies was about feminism but it was the kind of feminism that warns about men taking over and restricting the movement of women in society. This book fell right in line with that way of thinking. It seemed to show a world that could so easily happen if men are put in charge and make decisions. However, this view is now outdated and overly simplistic. But those early ideas shaped the way I read this book several other times in the past decades.

      After watching some of the Hulu series and feeling less than enamored with it because of some emotional connection to the novel, I decided I should reread the book with the intention of giving the series another go. What I felt when reading the book this time is that there were generations of women absolutely complicit in the rise of Gilead. The narrator's mother takes her young daughter to and participates in a book burning. She does this in some twisted sense of making the world a better place by removing items that denigrate women (namely pornographic magazines). But what seems to have happened is that in an effort to be "more feminist" the door was opened and the proverbially slippery slope was created. From there things quickly escalate and an unwillingness to create waves allows the events of the novel to unfold.

      What is really important about this book is perhaps reading it in the context of women's recent history. Although this is a book by a Canadian author, we cannot dismiss US history as that is where this novel is presumably set. After all, abortion only became a right about 50 years ago AND into the 1980s women still needed a spouse to get bank loans and credit cards in some instances. Without vigilance, we can so easily slip backwards in the strides that women have made as is evidenced by the recent overturning of Roe v. Wade, which is actually about so much more than just abortion. And there are plenty of women who supported that action which only undermines any real feminism. We run the risk of losing sight and control of the very things that make women so unique from men.
    • 4/5
      Good dystopian story
    • 4/5
      I know I read this in the late 1980s when it came out but frankly, I couldn't remember anything about it except how physically ill it made me feel. I was younger and more innocent the first time around but damn, I thing it was worse reading it now, when we are nearly living in these times.
    • 4/5
      Clearly I'm the last person on Earth to read this book - I haven't even seen the series! - but although I admired the writing and thought the plot to be a scarily plausible commentary on men ... I wasn't bowled over, I have to admit. In fact, for a relatively short novel, the first half kept sending me to sleep. And from what I already knew of the story, I was surprised that the worldbuilding was neither as futuristic or historical as I imagined, unless the 80s counts as history.

      Offred the unreliable narrator and the fractured narrative were almost poetical, and even when I didn't understand what was happening, I was captivated by the words. The thought of women existing just to have children is a nightmare scenario for me - I would rather have been sent to the Colonies or strung up! - but this line really shocked me: 'After the books were transferred they were supposed to go to the shredder, but sometimes I took them home with me.' Imagine destroying the original after making a notoriously ephemeral digital copy!

      I don't think I'll bother with the TV adaptation, but I am tempted to continue with Offred's story in The Testaments.
    • 5/5
      This was my third reading of The Handmaid's Tale by Margaret Atwood, and it gets better and more powerful each time I read it. In my opinion, it is one of the finest novels ever crafted, and the two last paragraphs of the story itself (excluding the conference scene at the end) are my favourite ending of any book I've ever read.

      I read this novel first in a course I took at the University of Toronto. Assigned readings can be ghastly, and I had recently struggled with Atwood's novel Surfacing, so it was a wonderful surprise to find The Handmaid's Tale so compulsively readable, so terrible in its scope, so dystopian, so intelligent. I ran out of adjectives to describe how much I liked the book the first time around. It was not the first dystopian novel I had read; years earlier, in high school, there had been John Wyndham's The Chrysalids, but it was certainly early on in my discovery of post-apocalyptic fiction, and certainly a major stepping-stone on the path that has made me a great fan of the genre.

      I started my second re-read of the novel a few days ago, during the 2020 US federal election, and it struck me, sadly, how much of this book would be possible if Trump were re-elected and if he and the Christian right-wing of the Republican party were able to curtail female reproductive rights as they threatened to do. It is with great relief to know that Trump was defeated by Joe Biden, but still, the coronavirus continues to devastate the US and is uncomfortably common here in Canada, even in the city where I live, and it has felt like the end of the world. Those days in March when the world shut down, became quiet, where cars going down the street were an exception to the rule, it has felt like the end of everything. So it was a wiser and more frightened, and much older me that read this book, not that much-younger woman who was embracing her coursework and her children and her lovers with such enthusiasm and the sense of invincibility that all of us lose, sadly.

      This book review is more biographical than it is topical. I apologize. When I picked up this book this morning, a hundred pages from the end, I thought that I would read for an hour and then have a busy day. Then my father had a heart attack and then a stroke, and so I read the book to numb myself as I waited for news. Offred's longing for her husband, Luke, brought me to places where I had the capacity to wonder what my world would be like without the father who square-danced with me in Kentucky, and played in the waves with me in South Carolina, and rescued me from river rapids in Virginia.

      I needed this book today and this week. As I write, my father is still breathing, and may yet live through the night. I do not know whether he will step into light or into darkness, but I know I loved re-reading this book, one of my favourites, and it helped me cope with a week and a day filled with uncertainty.
    • 4/5
      Still terrifying, still a warning to be heeded. I was surprised however at the ending. I very clearly remembered Offred escaping, with a whole scene of her being safe. That doesn’t happen in the book.
    • 5/5
      How sad! This was a gut-wrenching story, brilliantly narrated by Clare Danes. I see why this is labeled a modern classic.
    • 4/5
      Margaret Atwood is a literary magpie; her genius is in her ability to assemble pieces of the canon and history into a pastiche that is more effective than if it was purely imaginative. She says in her forward that she wanted everything to be based in reality - no science fiction technology, no dystopian flights of fancy. Gilead resembles some aspects of early puritan society, along with pieces of modern patriarchal dictatorships (Saudi Arabia and Romania under Ceaușescu). What is terrifying is that there is a not-insignificant portion of American apocalyptic evangelicals who want absolute control over women's bodies: enforced pregnancy, women at home, their only purpose to reproduce and raise children.
    • 4/5
      Gripping, chilling and highly disturbing dystopia about a future New England where the country is ruled by a radical Christian government.
    • 3/5
      It took forever for this book to get going, but it turned out to be a pretty gripping paranoid journey through a newly totalitarian state. The 1980s writing perspective adds a Cold War-era flavor to the cultural references.
    • 5/5
      Even in today's political environment I found the story of how this dystopia became established a bit unconvincing. Still, this is a disturbing dystopian novel, showing how easily groups of seemingly empowered people can be so totally enslaved and dehumanized when the wrong people gain unchecked power. I can see why this story has been in the public interest more over the past few years, and it certainly offers an interesting Christian version of what states run by religious extremists are like to live in.
    • 4/5
      Famous book by famous author - both fames well deserved.
    • 5/5
      When I first read this in the late 1980s, I considered it speculative/science fiction. No, it couldn't happen. How, given our current political and social climate, I'm surprised it hasn't happened yet. Every day the world of OfFred seems closer and closer. Maybe it's good to reread books like the Handmaid's Tale to see what could easily happen. The recent audio version featuring Claire Danes is amazing. Highly recommended.

      1 person found this helpful

    • 4/5
      I keep wanting to put this book in the context of "Brave New World" and "1984" but the only thing that concludes from this comparison is that I seem to have liked The Handmaid's Tale better. Even though the writing can be pretty confusing at times, it did make me feel worried for the future more than any dystopian novel has done before.
      I don't know about the ending though, it seemed sudden and unnecessary, but it could just be that it served a purpose that was lost to me at the time (which would not be surprising since I finished the book at 7AM on the plane back from Scotland).
    • 5/5
      4.5 rounded up
      This book was scary! It seems like it could really happen, especially with the happenings over the last few years.
      I loved Offred and Ofglen, and of course, Nick. In spite of myself I really liked the Commander, he didn't seem like a bad dude, just doing what he had to.
    • 4/5
      This is the first of Margaret Atwood's that I have read. The writing is so good: language so spare and precise, like a series of watercolor washes, that I read it straight through in three days despite the bleakness of the story. The story, ah! How painfully it reads in the present political climate. I'm glad I read it, but I'm also glad I finished.
    • 4/5
      The story of how the repression happened was scary to me -- I have an uneasy feeling that our society might just be headed in that direction. As Atwood points out, freedoms are rarely lost in one fell swoop. Instead they are taken away slowly enough that people adjust without much protest, until one day it's too late for protest.

      Very interesting book, especially the unusual ending.
    • 4/5
      This is the second time I'm reading this book. I have not watched the series...yet. The first time I read it was shortly after it was first published in 1985. I was 23 or 24 and an unapologetic feminist, which had only intensified after 4 years at an all women's college. I wish I could remember exactly what I thought of the book but I do remember anger. Anger at exactly what? I can't remember. Maybe anger at the Reagan administration and the catering to the religious right, as they were known in those days. And how all too possible this dystopian future seemed to be at the time.

      Here we are nearly 35 years later and a future like this STILL seems like even more of a distinct possibility. My book club students recommended that we read this book which I find admirable; they are reading outside their comfort zone of YA literature. But are they? It is, after all, a dystopian novel.

      It is still an important book and I look forward to reading Atwood's sequel.

    Book preview

    The Handmaid's Tale - Margaret Atwood

    Night

    1

    We slept in what had once been the gymnasium. The floor was of varnished wood, with stripes and circles painted on it, for the games that were formerly played there; the hoops for the basketball nets were still in place, though the nets were gone. A balcony ran around the room, for the spectators, and I thought I could smell, faintly like an afterimage, the pungent scent of sweat, shot through with the sweet taint of chewing gum and perfume from the watching girls, felt-skirted as I knew from pictures, later in miniskirts, then pants, then in one earring, spiky green-streaked hair. Dances would have been held there; the music lingered, a palimpsest of unheard sound, style upon style, an undercurrent of drums, a forlorn wail, garlands made of tissue-paper flowers, cardboard devils, a revolving ball of mirrors, powdering the dancers with a snow of light.

    There was old sex in the room and loneliness, and expectation, of something without a shape or name. I remember that yearning, for something that was always about to happen and was never the same as the hands that were on us there and then, in the small of the back, or out back, in the parking lot, or in the television room with the sound turned down and only the pictures flickering over lifting flesh.

    We yearned for the future. How did we learn it, that talent for insatiability? It was in the air; and it was still in the air, an afterthought, as we tried to sleep, in the army cots that had been set up in rows, with spaces between so we could not talk. We had flannelette sheets, like children’s, and army-issue blankets, old ones that still said U.S. We folded our clothes neatly and laid them on the stools at the ends of the beds. The lights were turned down but not out. Aunt Sara and Aunt Elizabeth patrolled; they had electric cattle prods slung on thongs from their leather belts.

    No guns though, even they could not be trusted with guns. Guns were for the guards, specially picked from the Angels. The guards weren’t allowed inside the building except when called, and we weren’t allowed out, except for our walks, twice daily, two by two around the football field, which was enclosed now by a chain-link fence topped with barbed wire. The Angels stood outside it with their backs to us. They were objects of fear to us, but of something else as well. If only they would look. If only we could talk to them. Something could be exchanged, we thought, some deal made, some tradeoff, we still had our bodies. That was our fantasy.

    We learned to whisper almost without sound. In the semidarkness we could stretch out our arms, when the Aunts weren’t looking, and touch each other’s hands across space. We learned to lip-read, our heads flat on the beds, turned sideways, watching each other’s mouths. In this way we exchanged names, from bed to bed:

    Alma. Janine. Dolores. Moira. June.

    II

    Shopping

    2

    A chair, a table, a lamp. Above, on the white ceiling, a relief ornament in the shape of a wreath, and in the center of it a blank space, plastered over, like the place in a face where the eye has been taken out. There must have been a chandelier, once. They’ve removed anything you could tie a rope to.

    A window, two white curtains. Under the window, a window seat with a little cushion. When the window is partly open—it only opens partly—the air can come in and make the curtains move. I can sit in the chair, or on the window seat, hands folded, and watch this. Sunlight comes in through the window too, and falls on the floor, which is made of wood, in narrow strips, highly polished. I can smell the polish. There’s a rug on the floor, oval, of braided rags. This is the kind of touch they like: folk art, archaic, made by women, in their spare time, from things that have no further use. A return to traditional values. Waste not want not. I am not being wasted. Why do I want?

    On the wall above the chair, a picture, framed but with no glass: a print of flowers, blue irises, watercolor. Flowers are still allowed. Does each of us have the same print, the same chair, the same white curtains, I wonder? Government issue?

    Think of it as being in the army, said Aunt Lydia.

    A bed. Single, mattress medium-hard, covered with a flocked white spread. Nothing takes place in the bed but sleep; or no sleep. I try not to think too much. Like other things now, thought must be rationed. There’s a lot that doesn’t bear thinking about. Thinking can hurt your chances, and I intend to last. I know why there is no glass, in front of the watercolor picture of blue irises, and why the window opens only partly and why the glass in it is shatterproof. It isn’t running away they’re afraid of. We wouldn’t get far. It’s those other escapes, the ones you can open in yourself, given a cutting edge.

    So. Apart from these details, this could be a college guest room, for the less distinguished visitors; or a room in a rooming house, of former times, for ladies in reduced circumstances. That is what we are now. The circumstances have been reduced; for those of us who still have circumstances.

    But a chair, sunlight, flowers: these are not to be dismissed. I am alive, I live, I breathe, I put my hand out, unfolded, into the sunlight. Where I am is not a prison but a privilege, as Aunt Lydia said, who was in love with either/or.

    The bell that measures time is ringing. Time here is measured by bells, as once in nunneries. As in a nunnery too, there are few mirrors.

    I get up out of the chair, advance my feet into the sunlight, in their red shoes, flat-heeled to save the spine and not for dancing. The red gloves are lying on the bed. I pick them up, pull them onto my hands, finger by finger. Everything except the wings around my face is red: the color of blood, which defines us. The skirt is ankle-length, full, gathered to a flat yoke that extends over the breasts, the sleeves are full. The white wings too are prescribed issue; they are to keep us from seeing, but also from being seen. I never looked good in red, it’s not my color. I pick up the shopping basket, put it over my arm.

    The door of the room—not my room, I refuse to say my—is not locked. In fact it doesn’t shut properly. I go out into the polished hallway, which has a runner down the center, dusty pink. Like a path through the forest, like a carpet for royalty, it shows me the way.

    The carpet bends and goes down the front staircase and I go with it, one hand on the banister, once a tree, turned in another century, rubbed to a warm gloss. Late Victorian, the house is, a family house, built for a large rich family. There’s a grandfather clock in the hallway, which doles out time, and then the door to the motherly front sitting room, with its flesh tones and hints. A sitting room in which I never sit, but stand or kneel only. At the end of the hallway, above the front door, is a fanlight of colored glass: flowers, red and blue.

    There remains a mirror, on the hall wall. If I turn my head so that the white wings framing my face direct my vision towards it, I can see it as I go down the stairs, round, convex, a pier glass, like the eye of a fish, and myself in it like a distorted shadow, a parody of something, some fairy-tale figure in a red cloak, descending towards a moment of carelessness that is the same as danger. A Sister, dipped in blood.

    At the bottom of the stairs there’s a hat-and-umbrella stand, the bentwood kind, long rounded rungs of wood curving gently up into hooks shaped like the opening fronds of a fern. There are several umbrellas in it: black, for the Commander, blue, for the Commander’s Wife, and the one assigned to me, which is red. I leave the red umbrella where it is, because I know from the window that the day is sunny. I wonder whether or not the Commander’s Wife is in the sitting room. She doesn’t always sit. Sometimes I can hear her pacing back and forth, a heavy step and then a light one, and the soft tap of her cane on the dusty-rose carpet.

    I walk along the hallway, past the sitting room door and the door that leads into the dining room, and open the door at the end of the hall and go through into the kitchen. Here the smell is no longer of furniture polish. Rita is in here, standing at the kitchen table, which has a top of chipped white enamel. She’s in her usual Martha’s dress, which is dull green, like a surgeon’s gown of the time before. The dress is much like mine in shape, long and concealing, but with a bib apron over it and without the white wings and the veil. She puts on the veil to go outside, but nobody much cares who sees the face of a Martha. Her sleeves are rolled to the elbow, showing her brown arms. She’s making bread, throwing the loaves for the final brief kneading and then the shaping.

    Rita sees me and nods, whether in greeting or in simple acknowledgment of my presence it’s hard to say, and wipes her floury hands on her apron and rummages in the kitchen drawer for the token book. Frowning, she tears out three tokens and hands them to me. Her face might be kindly if she would smile. But the frown isn’t personal: it’s the red dress she disapproves of, and what it stands for. She thinks I may be catching, like a disease or any form of bad luck.

    Sometimes I listen outside closed doors, a thing I never would have done in the time before. I don’t listen long, because I don’t want to be caught doing it. Once, though, I heard Rita say to Cora that she wouldn’t debase herself like that.

    Nobody asking you, Cora said. Anyways, what could you do, supposing?

    Go to the Colonies, Rita said. They have the choice.

    With the Unwomen, and starve to death and Lord knows what all? said Cora. Catch you.

    They were shelling peas; even through the almost-closed door I could hear the light clink of the hard peas falling into the metal bowl. I heard Rita, a grunt or a sigh, of protest or agreement.

    Anyways, they’re doing it for us all, said Cora, or so they say. If I hadn’t of got my tubes tied, it could of been me, say I was ten years younger. It’s not that bad. It’s not what you’d call hard work.

    Better her than me, Rita said, and I opened the door. Their faces were the way women’s faces are when they’ve been talking about you behind your back and they think you’ve heard: embarrassed, but also a little defiant, as if it were their right. That day, Cora was more pleasant to me than usual, Rita more surly.

    Today, despite Rita’s closed face and pressed lips, I would like to stay here, in the kitchen. Cora might come in, from somewhere else in the house, carrying her bottle of lemon oil and her duster, and Rita would make coffee—in the houses of the Commanders there is still real coffee—and we would sit at Rita’s kitchen table, which is not Rita’s any more than my table is mine, and we would talk, about aches and pains, illnesses, our feet, our backs, all the different kinds of mischief that our bodies, like unruly children, can get into. We would nod our heads as punctuation to each other’s voices, signaling that yes, we know all about it. We would exchange remedies and try to outdo each other in the recital of our physical miseries; gently we would complain, our voices soft and minor key and mournful as pigeons in the eaves troughs.I know what you mean, we’d say. Or, a quaint expression you sometimes hear, still, from older people: I hear where you’re coming from, as if the voice itself were a traveler, arriving from a distant place. Which it would be, which it is.

    How I used to despise such talk. Now I long for it. At least it was talk. An exchange, of sorts.

    Or we would gossip. The Marthas know things, they talk among themselves, passing the unofficial news from house to house. Like me, they listen at doors, no doubt, and see things even with their eyes averted. I’ve heard them at it sometimes, caught whiffs of their private conversations. Stillborn, it was. Or, Stabbed her with a knitting needle, right in the belly. Jealousy, it must have been, eating her up. Or, tantalizingly, It was toilet cleaner she used. Worked like a charm, though you’d think he’d of tasted it. Must’ve been that drunk; but they found her out all right.

    Or I would help Rita make the bread, sinking my hands into that soft resistant warmth which is so much like flesh. I hunger to touch something, other than cloth or wood. I hunger to commit the act of touch.

    But even if I were to ask, even if I were to violate decorum to that extent, Rita would not allow it. She would be too afraid. The Marthas are not supposed to fraternize with us.

    Fraternize means to behave like a brother. Luke told me that. He said there was no corresponding word that meant to behave like a sister. Sororize, it would have to be, he said. From the Latin. He liked knowing about such details. The derivations of words, curious usages. I used to tease him about being pedantic.

    I take the tokens from Rita’s outstretched hand. They have pictures on them, of the things they can be exchanged for: twelve eggs, a piece of cheese, a brown thing that’s supposed to be a steak. I place them in the zippered pocket in my sleeve, where I keep my pass.

    Tell them fresh, for the eggs, she says. Not like last time. And a chicken, tell them, not a hen. Tell them who it’s for and then they won’t mess around.

    All right, I say. I don’t smile. Why tempt her to friendship?

    3

    I go out by the back door, into the garden, which is large and tidy: a lawn in the middle, a willow, weeping catkins; around the edges, the flower borders, in which the daffodils are now fading and the tulips are opening their cups, spilling out color. The tulips are red, a darker crimson towards the stem, as if they have been cut and are beginning to heal there.

    This garden is the domain of the Commander’s Wife. Looking out through my shatterproof window I’ve often seen her in it, her knees on a cushion, a light blue veil thrown over her wide gardening hat, a basket at her side with shears in it and pieces of string for tying the flowers into place. A Guardian detailed to the Commander does the heavy digging; the Commander’s Wife directs, pointing with her stick. Many of the Wives have such gardens, it’s something for them to order and maintain and care for.

    I once had a garden. I can remember the smell of the turned earth, the plump shapes of bulbs held in the hands, fullness, the dry rustle of seeds through the fingers. Time could pass more swiftly that way. Sometimes the Commander’s Wife has a chair brought out, and just sits in it, in her garden. From a distance it looks like peace.

    She isn’t here now, and I start to wonder where she is: I don’t like to come upon the Commander’s Wife unexpectedly. Perhaps she’s sewing, in the sitting room, with her left foot on the footstool, because of her arthritis. Or knitting scarves, for the Angels at the front lines. I can hardly believe the Angels have a need for such scarves; anyway, the ones made by the Commander’s Wife are too elaborate. She doesn’t bother with the cross-and-star pattern used by many of the other Wives, it’s not a challenge. Fir trees march across the ends of her scarves, or eagles, or stiff humanoid figures, boy and girl, boy and girl. They aren’t scarves for grown men but for children.

    Sometimes I think these scarves aren’t sent to the Angels at all, but unraveled and turned back into balls of yarn, to be knitted again in their turn. Maybe it’s just something to keep the Wives busy, to give them a sense of purpose. But I envy the Commander’s Wife her knitting. It’s good to have small goals that can be easily attained.

    What does she envy me?

    She doesn’t speak to me, unless she can’t avoid it. I am a reproach to her; and a necessity.

    We stood face to face for the first time five weeks ago, when I arrived at this posting. The Guardian from the previous posting brought me to the front door. On first days we are permitted front doors, but after that we’re supposed to use the back. Things haven’t settled down, it’s too soon, everyone is unsure about our exact status. After a while it will be either all front doors or all back.

    Aunt Lydia said she was lobbying for the front. Yours is a position of honor, she said.

    The Guardian rang the doorbell for me, but before there was time for someone to hear and walk quickly to answer, the door opened inward. She must have been waiting behind it. I was expecting a Martha, but it was her instead, in her long powder-blue robe, unmistakable.

    So, you’re the new one, she said. She didn’t step aside to let me in, she just stood there in the doorway, blocking the entrance. She wanted me to feel that I could not come into the house unless she said so. There is push and shove, these days, over such toeholds.

    Yes, I said.

    Leave it on the porch. She said this to the Guardian, who was carrying my bag. The bag was red vinyl and not large. There was another bag, with the winter cloak and heavier dresses, but that would be coming later.

    The Guardian set down the bag and saluted her. Then I could hear his footsteps behind me, going back down the walk, and the click of the front gate, and I felt as if a protective arm were being withdrawn. The threshold of a new house is a lonely place.

    She waited until the car started up and pulled away. I wasn’t looking at her face, but at the part of her I could see with my head lowered: her blue waist, thickened, her left hand on the ivory head of her cane, the large diamonds on the ring finger, which must once have been fine and was still finely kept, the fingernail at the end of the knuckly finger filed to a gentle curving point. It was like an ironic smile, on that finger; like something mocking her.

    You might as well come in, she said. She turned her back on me and limped down the hall. Shut the door behind you.

    I lifted my red bag inside, as she’d no doubt intended, then closed the door. I didn’t say anything to her. Aunt Lydia said it was best not to speak unless they asked you a direct question. Try to think of it from their point of view, she said, her hands clasped and wrung together, her nervous pleading smile. It isn’t easy for them.

    In here, said the Commander’s Wife. When I went into the sitting room she was already in her chair, her left foot on the footstool, with its petit point cushion, roses in a basket. Her knitting was on the floor beside the chair, the needles stuck through it.

    I stood in front of her, hands folded. So, she said. She had a cigarette, and she put it between her lips and gripped it there while she lit it. Her lips were thin, held that way, with the small vertical lines around them you used to see in advertisements for lip cosmetics. The lighter was ivory-colored. The cigarettes must have come from the black market, I thought, and this gave me hope. Even now that there is no real money anymore, there’s still a black market. There’s always a black market, there’s always something that can be exchanged. She then was a woman who might bend the rules. But what did I have, to trade?

    I looked at the cigarette with longing. For me, like liquor and coffee, they are forbidden.

    So old what’s-his-face didn’t work out, she said.

    No, ma’am, I said.

    She gave what might have been a laugh, then coughed. Tough luck on him, she said. This is your second, isn’t it?

    Third, ma’am, I said.

    Not so good for you either, she said. There was another coughing laugh. You can sit down. I don’t make a practice of it, but just this time.

    I did sit, on the edge of one of the stiff-backed chairs. I didn’t want to stare around the room, I didn’t want to appear inattentive to her; so the marble mantelpiece to my right and the mirror over it and the bunches of flowers were just shadows, then, at the edges of my eyes. Later I would have more than enough time to take them in.

    Now her face was on a level with mine. I thought I recognized her; or at least there was something familiar about her. A little of her hair was showing, from under her veil. It was still blond. I thought then that maybe she bleached it, that hair dye was something else she could get through the black market, but I know now that it really is blond. Her eyebrows were plucked into thin arched lines, which gave her a permanent look of surprise, or outrage, or inquisitiveness, such as you might see on a startled child, but below them her eyelids were tired-looking. Not so her eyes, which were the flat hostile blue of a midsummer sky in bright sunlight, a blue that shuts you out. Her nose must once have been what was called cute but now was too small for her face. Her face was not fat but it was large. Two lines led downward from the corners of her mouth; between them was her chin, clenched like a fist.

    I want to see as little of you as possible, she said. I expect you feel the same way about me.

    I didn’t answer, as a yes would have been insulting, a no contradictory.

    I know you aren’t stupid, she went on. She inhaled, blew out the smoke. I’ve read your file. As far as I’m concerned, this is like a business transaction. But if I get trouble, I’ll give trouble back. You understand?

    Yes, ma’am, I said.

    Don’t call me ma’am, she said irritably. You’re not a Martha.

    I didn’t ask what I was supposed to call her, because I could see that she hoped I would never have the occasion to call her anything at all. I was disappointed. I wanted, then, to turn her into an older sister, a motherly figure, someone who would understand and protect me. The Wife in my posting before this had spent most of her time in her bedroom; the Marthas said she drank. I wanted this one to be different. I wanted to think I would have liked her, in another time and place, another life. But I could see already that I wouldn’t have liked her, nor she me.

    She put her cigarette out, half smoked, in a little scrolled ashtray on the lamp table beside her. She did this decisively, one jab and one grind, not the series of genteel taps favored by many of the Wives.

    As for my husband, she said, he’s just that. My husband. I want that to be perfectly clear. Till death do us part. It’s final.

    Yes, ma’am, I said again, forgetting. They used to have dolls, for little girls, that would talk if you pulled a string at the back; I thought I was sounding like that, voice of a monotone, voice of a doll. She probably longed to slap my face. They can hit us, there’s Scriptural precedent. But not with any implement. Only with their hands.

    It’s one of the things we fought for, said the Commander’s Wife, and suddenly she wasn’t looking at me, she was looking down at her knuckled, diamond-studded hands, and I knew where I’d seen her before.

    The first time was on television, when I was eight or nine. It was when my mother was sleeping in, on Sunday mornings, and I would get up early and go to the television set in my mother’s study and flip through the channels, looking for cartoons. Sometimes when I couldn’t find any I would watch the Growing Souls Gospel Hour, where they would tell Bible stories for children and sing hymns. One of the women was called Serena Joy. She was the lead soprano. She was ash blond, petite, with a snub nose and huge blue eyes which she’d turn upwards during hymns. She could smile and cry at the same time, one tear or two sliding gracefully down her cheek, as if on cue, as her voice lifted through its highest notes, tremulous, effortless. It was after that she went on to other things.

    The woman sitting in front of me was Serena Joy. Or had been, once. So it was worse than I thought.

    4

    I walk along the gravel path that divides the back lawn, neatly, like a hair parting. It has rained during the night; the grass to either side is damp, the air humid. Here and there are worms, evidence of the fertility of the soil, caught by the sun, half dead; flexible and pink, like lips.

    I open the white picket gate and continue, past the front lawn and towards the front gate. In the driveway, one of the Guardians assigned to our household is washing the car. That must mean the Commander is in the house, in his own quarters, past the dining room and beyond, where he seems to stay most of the time.

    The car is a very expensive one, a Whirlwind; better than the Chariot, much better than the chunky, practical Behemoth. It’s black, of course, the color of prestige or a hearse, and long and sleek. The driver is going over it with a chamois, lovingly. This at least hasn’t changed, the way men caress good cars.

    He’s wearing the uniform of the Guardians, but his cap is tilted at a jaunty angle and his sleeves are rolled to the elbow, showing his forearms, tanned but with a stipple of dark hairs. He has a cigarette stuck in the corner of his mouth, which shows that he too has something he can trade on the black market.

    I know this man’s name: Nick. I know this because I’ve heard Rita and Cora talking about him, and once I heard the Commander speaking to him: Nick, I won’t be needing the car.

    He lives here, in the household, over the garage. Low status: he hasn’t been issued a woman, not even one. He doesn’t rate: some defect, lack of connections. But he acts as if he doesn’t know this, or care. He’s too casual, he’s not servile enough. It may be stupidity, but I don’t think so. Smells fishy, they used to say; or, I smell a rat. Misfit as odor. Despite myself, I think of how he might smell. Not fish or decaying rat; tanned skin, moist in the sun, filmed with smoke. I sigh, inhaling.

    He looks at me, and sees me looking. He has a French face, lean, whimsical, all planes and angles, with creases around the mouth where he smiles. He takes a final puff of the cigarette, lets it drop to the driveway, and steps on it. He begins to whistle. Then he winks.

    I drop my head and turn so that the white wings hide my face, and keep walking. He’s just taken a risk, but for what? What if I were to report him?

    Perhaps he was merely being friendly. Perhaps he saw the look on my face and mistook it for something else. Really what I wanted was the cigarette.

    Perhaps it was a test, to see what I would do.

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