NOVEL NEXT Chapter 1: Arrival
The high-pitched whine of a handheld vacuum blends with the soft patter of sand grains hitting plastic in the cramped interior of the shiny black Mercedes. I can feel the grip of a migraine slowly crawling up my spine. Hunched over the back seat of the sunbaked car, my back muscles spasm from the awkward angles I've been forcing myself into with the vacuum. Sweat drips into my eyes, and vomit threatens the back of my throat, but I swallow the bile down and push a damp strand of hair out of my eyes. I'm inclined to rush the job to escape this pressure cooker, but a half-assed job isn't an option. The wrath of my mistress if she spots even a single grain of sand in the upholstery of the car isn't worth it. Heatstroke be damned. Serna Joy Waterford is one thing, but Fred Waterford and his holier-than-thou bullshit is the real deterrent. I can see him now, passing back and forth in front of his oversized desk, lecturing me on a job well done, being a representation of my faith and how Gilead needs men like me to strive for excellence. I'd rather pull out my teeth than spend the next month kowtowing to them over a bit of sand.
Minutes feel like hours as I contort myself into crazy configures, so I don't have a good sense of how long I've been at this, but the sound breaks well past their prime pulls me into the present. It sounds like we have company, which is as good of an excuse as any to take a break. I flip the vacuum off and crawl out of the back seat. My back crampw as I stand, the muscles protesting being put back into their rightful place. I stretch and bend, working out the knots, and enjoy a breeze that cuts through my sweat-soaked shirt. Running my forearm across my brow, I stroll down to the end of the driveway to see who's arrived. It's a red van. My stomach drops. I wasn't aware this was happening today.
I swallow back some bile as the van's backdoor opens, and an Aunt in her dull brown coat and long skirt jumps down onto the pavement. She's pressed and neat, not that the regime would allow untidiness, but her clothes appear to be so heavily starched they don't crease when the plump woman inside them moves around. That getup has got to be hotter than hell in this heat, I contemplate, but she appears unfazed. I wait with bated breath. A pale hand emerges from the depths of the van, a small red suitcase dangling from it. The aunt takes the piece of luggage and steps back a few feet. I know what comes next, but I wish I didn't. My mouth goes dry. I want to look away, but my body refuses to cooperate. I wish I were ignorant about what happened the last time a red van showed up here, but I'm not. Wishes are worth shit in Gilead; if they held any weight at all, the color red would just be one of the seven in the rainbow. Gilead's fucked up that color for me for the rest of my life.
As I watch, her foot appears first, followed by her entire figure as she steps gracefully onto the street from the back of the transport. As she stands there, a red smudge against a blue sky, the wind catches one of the "modesty" panels of her dress, sending it floating out behind her. It looks like a cape, like one a superhero in the before would've worn. A small hand reaches up and finds purchase on top of her head, holding the ridiculous white hat called "wings" in place. With her other hand, she reclaims the small case from the Aunt. From where I stand I'm too far away to make out specific details about the new arrival. Still, while I can't tell what color her eyes are or the symmetry of her face, I can see that despite her modest red dress, she has a figure that women would envy and most men would trip over themselves for.
"Shit," I mutter under my breath. I've been praying this day wouldn't come. I've hoped that the Waterfords would be waitlisted or banned after what happened to the first woman who showed up here in that van, but the ways of men are not the ways of God. To those who matter in Gilead, Fred Waterford is likened to God, so Fred gets what Fred wants.
My eyes follow the red-clad figure and the Aunt as they make their way up the front stairs. It's impossible not to notice the new arrivals' unintentional feminine stride. I groan. I already know that Fred will not be able to resist her. Her body, her walk- they're nothing like his wife, and he'll fall over himself to have a piece of it. She will become his plaything; it is just a matter of time. Turning my eyes to the sky, "Fuck! Really? You couldn't send a gangly one with a boyish figure? " I mumble in pseudo prayer. I let out a long breath and let my eyes slide closed in disgust. It's easy to blame God for all this, but men are responsible for Gilead, not God. I am one of those men. I helped bring this world into existence when I chose to fight a war that birthed this nation. My ignorance of how it would play out in reality doesn't matter now. And it certainly doesn't matter to this woman or the one who came before her who chose death over continuing to live in her own personal hell.
The Waterfords, Fred particularly, are dangerous people. This brutal class system we all live in was his and Sernea's brainchild, but Fred gets all the credit for the handmaids. He rose to more power on the graves of those he and his cronies' deemed "undesirables." Priests, homosexuals, and resistance leaders all have gone to the wall on his call. And despite being the reason the last handmaid hung herself from the light in her room, he holds no guilt in her demise. He is a narcissistic psychopath. His entire existence is dedicated to justifying his power and self-interest, no matter the cost. Death and disenfranchisement of others be damned. Fred openly shows the world who he is and is proud of it, so I do not doubt that he will continue as he always has. So, call it contrition or penance, but I plan to ensure this woman stays alive long enough to be moved to her next posting and away from him.
"Nick?" a voice calls from up the driveway, pulling me from my thoughts.
I turn reluctantly from the view of the red center van and head back up the drive. It's Rita, the household Martha, standing at the top of a set of stone stairs, a hand on her hip. "The kitchen sink is backed up again," she states matter-of-factly.
My thoughts take a back seat for the moment, work calls. "Let me grab the snake," I state. I quickly retrieve the tool, and when I exit the garage, I find Rita leaning against the Benz, worrying her bottom lip with her teeth. "They sent an even prettier one this time," she mutters, her usual hard stare full of concern.
I dip my head, and a sad sigh escapes my chest. "It was inevitable. Fred's got too much pull. He was bound to get the cream of the crop," I utter under my breath. These words could get us both killed, but really, what's a bit of treason between two conscripted workers? I trust Rita with my thoughts, and she trusts me with hers. We live this existence together, after all.
She shuffles her feet and looks down, kicking a rock with the toe of her shoe. "It's just…so soon."
All I can do is give a defeated shrug. "No amount of time would feel right," I counter.
She crosses her arms over her chest and sighs heavily.
"Is the sink really plugged?" I question, suddenly, skeptically, of her motives.
Rita rolls her eyes, "Yes, Guardian Blaine, it is," she smirks, lightening our dark moods a little.
Despite everything, the corner of my mouth turned slightly. Her tough-as-nails persona is one of my favorite things about Rita. Her hatred of Gilead is my second.
Turning on her heels, she makes for the house. "I got some lemonade for you when you're done. You look like you're about to pass out, Nick," she states as she marches up the stone steps.
I smiled full-on at her retreating form. "Well- Praise be."