“God is a real friend, not an imaginary one,” said Becka. There was as much anger in her voice as she was capable of revealing.
“Sorry if I disrespected your cultural belief,” Jade said, which did not improve things in the eyes of Becka: saying God was a cultural belief was even worse than saying he was an imaginary friend. We realized that Jade thought we were stupid; certainly she thought we were superstitious.
“You should have that tattoo removed,” Becka said. “It’s blasphemous.”
“Yeah, maybe you’re right,” said Jade. “I mean, Yes, Aunt Immortelle, thank you for telling me. Anyway, it’s itchy as hell.”
“Hell is more than itchy,” said Becka. “I will pray for your redemption.”
When Jade was upstairs in her room, we would often hear thumping noises and muffled shouts. Was it a barbarian form of prayer? I finally had to ask her what she was doing in there.
“Working out,” she said. “It’s like exercising. You have to keep strong.”
“Men are strong in body,” said Becka. “And in mind. Women are strong in spirit. Though moderate exercise is allowed, such as walking, if a woman is of child-bearing age.”
“Why do you think you need to be strong in body?” I asked her. I was becoming more and more curious about her pagan beliefs.
“In case some guy aggresses you. You need to know how to stick your thumbs in their eyes, knee them in the balls, throw a heartstopper punch. I can show you. Here’s how to make a fist—curl your fingers, wrap your thumb across your knuckles, keep your arm straight. Aim for the heart.” She slammed her fist into the sofa.
Becka was so astonished that she had to sit down. “Women don’t hit men,” she said. “Or anyone, except when it’s required by law, such as in Particicutions.”
“Well, that’s convenient!” said Jade. “So you should just let them do whatever?”
“You shouldn’t entice men,” said Becka. “What happens if you do is partly your fault.”
Jade looked from one to the other of us. “Victim-blaming?” she said. “Really?”
“Pardon?” said Becka.
“Never mind. So you’re telling me it’s a lose-lose,” Jade said. “We’re screwed whatever we do.” The two of us gazed at her in silence; no answer is an answer, as Aunt Lise used to say.
“Okay,” she said. “But I’m doing my workouts anyway.”
Four days after Jade’s arrival, Aunt Lydia called Becka and me to her office. “How is the new Pearl getting along?” she asked. When I hesitated, she said, “Speak up!”
“She doesn’t know how to behave,” I said.
Aunt Lydia smiled her wrinkly old-turnip smile. “Remember, she is freshly come from Canada,” she said, “so she doesn’t know any better. Foreign converts are often like that when they arrive. It is your duty, for the moment, to teach her safer ways.”
“We’ve been trying, Aunt Lydia,” said Becka. “But she’s very—”
“Stubborn,” said Aunt Lydia. “I am not surprised. Time will cure it. Do the best you can. You may go.” We went out of the office in the sideways manner we all used when leaving Aunt Lydia’s office: it was impolite to turn your back on her.
The crime files continued to appear on my desk at the Hildegard Library. I could not decide what to think: one day I felt it would be a blessed state to be a full Aunt—knowing all the Aunts’ carefully hoarded secrets, wielding hidden powers, doling out retributions. The next day I would consider my soul—because I did believe I had one—and how twisted and corrupted it would become if I were to act in that way. Was my soft, muddy brain hardening? Was I becoming stony, steely, pitiless? Was I exchanging my caring and pliable woman’s nature for an imperfect copy of a sharp-edged and ruthless man’s nature? I didn’t want that, but how to avoid it if I aspired to be an Aunt?
Then something happened that changed my view of my position in the universe and caused me to give thanks anew for the workings of benign Providence.
Although I’d been granted access to the Bible and had been shown a number of dangerous crime files, I hadn’t yet been given permission to access the Bloodlines Genealogical Archives, which were kept in a locked room. Those who’d been in there said this room contained aisles and aisles of folders. They were arranged on the shelves according to rank, men only: Economen, Guardians, Angels, Eyes, Commanders. Within those categories, the Bloodlines were filed by location, then by last name. The women were inside the folders of the men. The Aunts didn’t have folders; their Bloodlines weren’t recorded because they wouldn’t be having any children. That was a secret sadness for me: I liked children, I’d always wanted children, I just hadn’t wanted what came with them.
All Supplicants were given a briefing about the Archives’ existence and purposes. They contained the knowledge of who the Handmaids had been before they were Handmaids, and who their children were, and who the fathers were: not only the declared fathers, but the illegal fathers also, since there were many women—both Wives and Handmaids—who were desperate to have babies in any way they could. But in all cases the Aunts recorded the Bloodlines: with so many older men marrying such young girls, Gilead could not risk the dangerous and sinful father-daughter inbreeding that might result if no one was keeping track.
But it was only after I’d done my Pearl Girls missionary work that I would have access to the Archives. I’d longed for the moment when I’d be able to trace my own mother—not Tabitha, but the mother who’d been a Handmaid. In those secret files, I’d be able to find out who she was, or had been—was she even still alive? I knew it was a risk—I might not like what I discovered—but I needed to try anyway. I might even be able to trace my real father, though that was less likely since he had not been a Commander. If I could find my mother, I would have a story instead of a zero. I would have a past beyond my own past, though I would not necessarily have a future with this unknown mother inside it.
One morning I found a file from the Archives on my desk. There was a small handwritten note paper-clipped to the front: Agnes Jemima’s Bloodline. I held my breath as I opened the file. Inside was the Bloodlines record for Commander Kyle. Paula was in the folder, and their son, Mark. I wasn’t part of that Bloodline, so I wasn’t listed as Mark’s sister. But through Commander Kyle’s line I was able to discover the true name of poor Crystal—of Ofkyle, who’d died in childbirth—since little Mark was part of her Bloodline too. I wondered whether he would ever be told about her. Not if they could help it, was my guess.
At last I found the Bloodline on myself. It was not where it should have been—inside Commander Kyle’s folder, in the time period relating to his first Wife, Tabitha. Instead it was at the back of the file in a sub-file of its own.
There was my mother’s picture. It was a double picture, like the kind we’d see on Wanted posters for runaway Handmaids: the full face, the profile. She had light hair, pulled back; she was young. She was staring right into my own eyes: what was she trying to tell me? She wasn’t smiling, but why would she smile? Her picture must have been taken by the Aunts, or else by the Eyes.
The name underneath had been blanked out, using heavy blue ink. There was an updated notation, however: Mother of Agnes Jemima, now Aunt Victoria. Escaped to Canada. Currently working for Mayday terrorist intelligence. Two elimination attempts made (failed). Location currently unknown.