46

My bottle of blue drawing ink, my fountain pen, my notebook pages with their margins trimmed to fit within their hiding place: through these I entrust my message to you, my reader. But what sort of message is it? Some days I see myself as the Recording Angel, collecting together all the sins of Gilead, including mine; on other days I shrug off this high moral tone. Am I not, au fond, merely a dealer in sordid gossip? I’ll never know your verdict on that, I fear.

My larger fear: that all my efforts will prove futile, and Gilead will last for a thousand years. Most of the time, that is what it feels like here, far away from the war, in the still heart of the tornado. So peaceful, the streets; so tranquil, so orderly; yet underneath the deceptively placid surfaces, a tremor, like that near a high-voltage power line. We’re stretched thin, all of us; we vibrate; we quiver, we’re always on the alert. Reign of terror, they used to say, but terror does not exactly reign. Instead it paralyzes. Hence the unnatural quiet.

* * *

—

But there are small mercies. Yesterday I viewed—on the closed-circuit television in Commander Judd’s office—the Particicution presided over by Aunt Elizabeth. Commander Judd had ordered in some coffee—excellent coffee of a kind not normally available; I avoided asking him how he had come by it. He added a shot of rum to his and asked if I would like some. I declined. He then said that he had a tender heart and weak nerves and needed to brace himself, as he found it a strain on his system to watch these bloodthirsty spectacles.

“I do understand,” I said. “But it is our duty to see justice done.” He sighed, drank up, and poured himself another shot.

Two condemned men were to be Particicuted: an Angel who’d been caught selling grey market lemons smuggled in through Maine, and Dr. Grove, the dentist. The Angel’s real crime was not the lemons, however: he’d been accused of taking bribes from Mayday and aiding several Handmaids in their successful flights across our various borders. But the Commanders did not want this fact publicized: it would give people ideas. The official line was that there were no corrupt Angels, and certainly no fleeing Handmaids; for why would one renounce God’s kingdom to plunge into the flaming pit?

Throughout the process that was now about to end Grove’s life, Aunt Elizabeth had been magnificent. She’d been in college dramatics, and had played Hecuba in The Trojan Women—a factoid I’d gathered during our early conferences when she and Helena and Vidala and I had been hammering out the shape of the special women’s sphere in the nascent Gilead. Camaraderie is fostered under such circumstances, past lives are shared. I took care not to share too much of mine.

Elizabeth’s onstage experience had not failed her. She’d booked an appointment with Dr. Grove, as per my orders. Then, at the appropriate moment, she’d scrambled out of the dentist’s chair, ripped her clothing, and shrieked that Grove had tried to rape her. Then, weeping distractedly, she’d staggered out into the waiting room, where Mr. William, the dental assistant, was able to witness her dishevelled appearance and ravaged state of soul.

The person of an Aunt is supposed to be sacrosanct. No wonder Aunt Elizabeth was so upset by this violation, was the general opinion. The man must be a dangerous lunatic.

I’d obtained a photographic sequence secured through the mini-camera I had positioned within an attractive diagram of a full set of teeth. Should Elizabeth ever attempt to slip the leash, I could threaten to produce it as proof that she had lied.

Mr. William testified against Grove at the trial. He was no fool: he’d seen immediately that his boss was doomed. He described Grove’s rage at the moment of discovery. Fucking bitch was the epithet applied to Aunt Elizabeth by the fiendish Grove, he claimed. No such words had been uttered—in fact, Grove had said, “Why are you doing this?”—but William’s account was effe

ctive at the trial. Gasps from the listeners, which included the entire population of Ardua Hall: to call an Aunt such vulgar words was next door to blasphemy! Under questioning, William reluctantly admitted that he’d had some reason to suspect his employer of irregularities in the past. Anaesthetics, he said sadly, could be such a temptation in the wrong hands.

What could Grove say in his own defence except that he was innocent of the charge and then quote the Bible on the subject of that well-known false-rape accuser, Potiphar’s wife? Innocent men denying their guilt sound exactly like guilty men, as I am sure you have noticed, my reader. Listeners are inclined to believe neither.

Grove could hardly admit that he would never have laid a lecherous finger on Aunt Elizabeth since he was only aroused by underage girls.

* * *

—

In view of Aunt Elizabeth’s exceptional performance, I felt it more than fair that she be allowed to conduct the Particicution proceedings at the stadium. Grove was the second to be dispatched. He had to watch as the Angel was kicked to death and then literally torn apart by seventy shrieking Handmaids.

As he was led out to the field, arms pinioned, he screamed, “I didn’t do it!” Aunt Elizabeth, the picture of outraged virtue, sternly blew the whistle. In two minutes Dr. Grove was no more. Fists were raised, clutching clumps of bloodied hair torn out by the roots.

The Aunts and Supplicants were all present, to support the vindication of one of Ardua Hall’s revered Founders. Off to one side were the newly recruited Pearls; they’d arrived only the day before, so this was a baptismal moment for them. I scanned their young faces but at that distance could not read them. Revulsion? Relish? Repugnance? It is always good to know. The Pearl of the greatest price was among them; right after the sporting event we were about to witness, I would place her in the dwelling unit that would be best for my purposes.

While Grove was being reduced to a slurry by the Handmaids, Aunt Immortelle fainted, which was to be expected: she was always sensitive. I expect she will now blame herself in some way: however despicably he behaved, Grove was nevertheless cast in the role of her father.

Commander Judd switched off the television and sighed. “A pity,” he said. “He was a fine dentist.”

“Yes,” I said. “But sins must not be overlooked simply because the sinner is skilled.”

“Was he really guilty?” he asked with mild interest.

“Yes,” I said, “but not of that. He would not have been capable of raping Aunt Elizabeth. He was a pedophile.”

Commander Judd sighed again. “Poor man,” he said. “It is a severe affliction. We must pray for his soul.”

“Indeed,” I said. “But he was ruining too many young girls for marriage. Rather than accepting wedlock, the precious flowers were deserting to the Aunts.”

“Ah,” he said. “Was that the case with the girl Agnes? I thought there must have been something like that.”

He wanted me to say yes because then her aversion would not have been to him personally. “I can’t be sure,” I said. His face fell. “But I believe so.” It doesn’t do to push him too far.

Tags: Margaret Atwood The Handmaid's Tale Fiction
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