The Testaments(65)

Then Aunt Estée used her pager to call her own Guardian driver, and we got into her car. “I’m taking you to a safe place,” she said. “You must stay there while I talk to your parents. When we get to the safe place, you must promise me you’ll eat something. Promise?”

“I won’t be hungry,” I said. I was still holding back tears.

“You will be, once you settle in,” she said. “A glass of warm milk, at any rate.” She took my hand and squeezed it. “All will be well,” she said. “All manner of things will be well.” Then she let go of my hand and patted it lightly.

This was comforting to me as far as it went, but I was on the verge of crying again. Kindness sometimes has that effect. “How?” I said. “How can it ever be well?”

“I don’t know,” said Aunt Estée. “But it will be. I have faith.” She sighed. “Having faith is hard work sometimes.”





38


The sun was setting. The springtime air was filled with the golden haze that can often appear at that time of year: dust, or pollen. The leaves of the trees had that glossy sheen, so fresh and newly unfolded; as if they were gifts, each one, unwrapping itself, shaken out for the first time. As if God had just made them, Aunt Estée used to tell us during Nature Appreciation, conjuring up a picture of God waving his hand over the dead-looking winter trees, causing them to sprout and unfurl. Every leaf unique, Aunt Estée would add, just like you! It was a beautiful thought.

Aunt Estée and I were driven through the golden streets. Would I ever see these houses, these trees, these sidewalks again? Empty sidewalks, quiet streets. Lights were coming on in the houses; inside there must have been happy people, people who knew where they belonged. Already I felt like an outcast; but I’d cast myself out, so I had no right to feel sorry for myself.

“Where are we going?” I asked Aunt Estée.

“Ardua Hall,” she said. “You can stay there while I visit your parents.”

I’d heard Ardua Hall mentioned, always in hushed tones because it was a special place for the Aunts. Whatever the Aunts did when we weren’t looking was not our concern, said Zilla. They kept themselves to themselves and we should not poke our noses in. “But I wouldn’t want to be them,” Zilla would add.

“Why not?” I asked her once.

“Nasty business,” said Vera, who was running pork through the meat grinder for a pie. “They get their hands dirty.”

“So we don’t have to,” said Zilla mildly, rolling pie crust.

“They dirty up their minds too,” said Rosa. “Whether they want to or not.” She was chopping onions with a large cleaver. “Reading!” She gave an extra-loud chop. “I never liked it.”

“I didn’t either,” said Vera. “Who knows what they’re forced to dig around in! Filthiness and muck.”

“Better them than us,” said Zilla.

“They can never have husbands,” said Rosa. “Not that I’d want one myself, but still. Or babies either. They can’t have those.”

“They’re too old anyway,” said Vera. “All dried up.”

“The crust’s ready,” said Zilla. “Have we got any celery?”

Despite this discouraging view of the Aunts, I’d been intrigued by the idea of Ardua Hall. Ever since I’d learned that Tabitha wasn’t my mother, anything secret had attracted me. When I was younger I’d ornamented Ardua Hall in my mind, made it enormous, given it magic properties: surely the location of so much subterranean but ill-understood power must be an imposing construction. Was it a huge castle, or was it more like a jail? Was it like our school? Most likely it had a lot of large brass locks on the doors that only an Aunt would be able to open.

Where there is an emptiness, the mind will obligingly fill it up. Fear is always at hand to supply any vacancies, as is curiosity. I have had ample experience with both.



* * *



—

“Do you live there?” I asked Aunt Estée now. “Ardua Hall?”

“All the Aunts in this city live there,” she said. “Though we come and go.”

As the streetlights began to glow, turning the air a dull orange, we reached a gateway in a high, red-brick wall. The barred iron gate was closed. Our car paused; then the gate swung open. There were floodlights; there were trees. In the distance, a group of men in the dark uniforms of the Eyes were standing on a wide stairway in front of a brightly lit brick palace with white pillars, or it looked like a palace. I was soon to learn it had once been a library.

Our car pulled in and stopped, and the driver opened the door, first for Aunt Estée, then for me.

“Thank you,” said Aunt Estée to him. “Please wait here. I’ll be back shortly.”

She took me by the arm, and we walked along the side of a large grey stonework building, then past a statue of a woman with some other women posed around her. You didn’t usually see statues of women in Gilead, only of men.

“That is Aunt Lydia,” said Aunt Estée. “Or a statue of her.” Was it my imagination, or did Aunt Estée give a little curtsy?

“She’s different from real life,” I said. I didn’t know if Aunt Lydia’s visit to me was supposed to be a secret, so I added, “I saw her at a funeral. She’s not that big.” Aunt Estée did not answer for a moment. I see in retrospect that it was a difficult question: you don’t want to be caught saying that a powerful person is small.