Here I took a risk. “If it is to be a separate female sphere,” I said, “it must be truly separate. Within it, women must command. Except in extreme need, men must not pass the threshold of our allotted premises, nor shall our methods be questioned. We shall be judged solely by our results. Though we will of course report to the authorities if and when it’s necessary.”
He gave me a measuring look, then opened his hands and turned them palms up. “Carte blanche,” he said. “Within reason, and within budget. Subject, of course, to my final approval.”
I looked at Elizabeth and Helena, and saw grudging admiration. I’d tried for more power than they would have dared to ask for, and I’d won it. “Of course,” I said.
“I am not convinced that’s wise,” said Vidala. “Letting them run their own affairs to that extent. Women are weak vessels. Even the strongest of them should not be allowed to—”
Commander Judd cut her off. “Men have better things to do than to concern themselves with the petty details of the female sphere. There must be women competent enough for that.” He nodded at me, and Vidala shot me a look of hatred. “The women of Gilead will have occasion to be grateful to you,” he continued. “So many regimes have done these things badly. So unpleasantly, so wastefully! If you fail, you will fail all women. As Eve did. Now I will leave you to your collective deliberations.”
And so we began.
During these initial sessions, I took stock of my fellow Founders—for as Founders we would be revered in Gilead, Commander Judd had promised. If you are familiar with school playgrounds of the rougher sort, or with henyards, or indeed with any situation in which the rewards are small but the competition for them is fierce, you will understand the forces at work. Despite our pretense of amity, indeed of collegiality, the underlying currents of hostility were already building. If it’s a henyard, I thought, I intend to be the alpha hen. To do that, I need to establish pecking rights over the others.
In Vidala I had already made an enemy. She had seen herself as the natural leader, but that view had been challenged. She would oppose me in every way she could—but I had an advantage: I was not blinded by ideology. This would give me a flexibility she lacked, in the long game ahead of us.
Of the other two, Helena would be the easiest to steer, as she was the most unsure of herself. She was plump at that time, though she has dwindled since; one of her former jobs had been with a lucrative weight-loss company, she told us. That was before she’d segued into PR work for a high-fashion lingerie company and had acquired an extensive shoe collection. “Such beautiful shoes,” she mourned before Vidala shut her down with a frown. Helena would follow the prevailing wind, I decided; and that would work for me as long as I was that wind.
Elizabeth was from a higher social sphere, by which I mean very obviously higher than mine. It would lead her to underestimate me. She was a Vassar girl, and had worked as an executive assistant to a powerful female senator in Washington—presidential potential, she had confided. But the Thank Tank had broken something in her; her birthright and education had not saved her, and she was dithery.
One by one I could handle them, but if they combined into a mob of three I would have trouble. Divide and conquer would be my motto.
Keep steady, I told myself. Don’t share too much about yourself, it will be used against you. Listen carefully. Save all clues. Don’t show fear.
Week by week we invented: laws, uniforms, slogans, hymns, names. Week by week we reported to Commander Judd, who turned to me as the spokeswoman of the group. For those concepts he approved, he took the credit. Plaudits flowed his way from the other Commanders. How well he was doing!
Did I hate the structure we were concocting? On some level, yes: it was a betrayal of everything we’d been taught in our former lives, and of all that we’d achieved. Was I proud of what we managed to accomplish, despite the limitations? Also, on some level, yes. Things are never simple.
For a time I almost believed what I understood I was supposed to believe. I numbered myself among the faithful for the same reason that many in Gilead did: because it was less dangerous. What good is it to throw yourself in front of a steamroller out of moral principles and then be crushed flat like a sock emptied of its foot? Better to fade into the crowd, the piously praising, unctuous, hate-mongering crowd. Better to hurl rocks than to have them hurled at you. Or better for your chances of staying alive.
They knew that so well, the architects of Gilead. Their kind has always known that.
I will record here that, some years later—after I had tightened my grip over Ardua Hall and had leveraged it to acquire the extensive though silent power in Gilead that I now enjoy—Commander Judd, sensing that the balance had shifted, sought to propitiate me. “I hope you have forgiven me, Aunt Lydia,” he said.
“For what, Commander Judd?” I asked in my most affable tone. Could it be that he might have become a little afraid of me?
“The stringent measures I was forced to take at the outset of our association,” he said. “In order to separate the wheat from the chaff.”
“Oh,” I said. “I am sure your intentions were noble.”
“I believe so. But still, the measures were harsh.” I smiled, said nothing. “I spotted you as wheat, right from the beginning.” I continued to smile. “Your rifle contained a blank,” he said. “I thought you would like to know.”
“So kind of you to tell me,” I said. The muscles of my face were beginning to hurt. Under some conditions, smiling is a workout.
“I am forgiven, then?” he asked. If I hadn’t been so keenly aware of his preference for barely nubile young women, I’d have thought he was flirting. I plucked a scrap from the grab bag of the vanished past: “To err is human, to forgive divine. As someone once remarked.”
“You are so erudite.”
Last evening, after I’d finished writing, had tucked my manuscript away in the hollow cavern within Cardinal Newman, and was on my way to the Schlafly Café, I was accosted on the pathway by Aunt Vidala. “Aunt Lydia, may I have a word?” she said. It is a request to which the answer must always be yes. I invited her to accompany me to the café.
Across the Yard, the white and many-pillared home base of the Eyes was brightly lit: faithful to their namesake, the lidless Eye of God, they never sleep. Three of them were standing on the white stairway outside their main building, having a cigarette. They didn’t glance our way. In their view, the Aunts are like shadows—their own shadows, fearsome to others but not to them.
As we passed my statue I checked out the offerings: fewer eggs and oranges than usual. Is my popularity slipping? I resisted the urge to pocket an orange: I could come back later.
Aunt Vidala sneezed, the prelude to an important utterance. Then she cleared her throat. “I shall take this occasion to remark that there has been some uneasiness expressed about your statue,” she said.
“Really?” I said. “In what way?”
“The offerings. The oranges. The eggs. Aunt Elizabeth feels that this excess attention is dangerously close to cult worship. Which would be idolatry,” she added. “A grave sin.”
“Indeed,” I said. “What an illuminating insight.”
“Also it’s a waste of valuable food. She says it’s practically sabotage.”
“I do so agree,” I said. “No one is more eager than I to avoid even the appearance of a cult of personality. As you know, I support strict rules concerning nutrient intake. We leaders at the Hall must set a high example, even in such matters as second helpings, especially of hard-boiled eggs.” Here I paused: I had video footage of Aunt Elizabeth in the Refectory, secreting these portable food items in her sleeves, but this was not the moment to share. “As for the offerings, such manifestations on the part of others are beyond my control. I cannot prevent unknown persons from leaving tokens of affection and respect, of loyalty and thanks, such as baked goods and fruit items, at the feet of my effigy. However undeserved by myself, it goes without saying.”