The Testaments(71)

“Like what?” I asked.

“Some people say ‘God bless you.’?”

Neil would’ve been shocked if I’d ever said such a thing. “That would be a lie. If I don’t believe in God.”

“Okay then. ‘Thanks’ will do,” he said patiently. “Or ‘Have a nice day.’?”

“I can’t say those,” I said. “It’s hypocritical. I don’t feel thankful, and I don’t care what kind of an asshole day they have.”

He laughed. “Now you’re worried about lying? Then why not change your name back to Nicole?”

“It’s not my name of choice. It’s bottom of the freaking list, you know that.” I crossed my arms on my knees and turned away from him. I was getting more childish by the minute: he brought it out in me.

“Don’t waste your anger on me,” said Garth. “I’m just furniture. Save it for Gilead.”

“You all said I had to have attitude. So, this is my attitude.”

“Here come the Pearl Girls,” he said. “Don’t stare at them. Don’t even see them. Act like you’re stoned.”

I don’t know how he’d spotted them without seeming to look, they were way down the street. But soon they were level with us: two of them, in their silvery grey dresses with long skirts, their white collars, their white hats. A redhead, from the wisps of her hair that were showing, and a brunette, judging from the eyebrows. They smiled down on me where I sat against the wall.

“Good morning, dear,” the redhead said. “What’s your name?”

“We can help you,” said the brunette. “No homeless in Gilead.” I gazed up at her, hoping I looked as woeful as I felt. They both were so prim and groomed; they made me feel triple grubby.

Garth put his hand on my right arm, gripped it possessively. “She’s not talking to you,” he said.

“Isn’t that up to her?” said the redhead. I looked sideways at Garth as if asking for permission.

“What’s that on your arm?” said the taller one, the brunette. She peered down.

“Is he abusing you, dear?” the redhead asked.

The other one smiled. “Is he selling you? We can make things so much better for you.”

“Fuck off, Gilead bitches,” Garth said with impressive savagery. I looked up at the two of them, neat and clean in their pearly dresses and their white necklaces, and, believe it or not, a tear rolled down my cheek. I knew they had an agenda and didn’t give a shit about me—they just wanted to collect me and add me to their quota—but their kindness made me go a little wobbly. I wanted to have someone lift me up, then tuck me in.

“Oh my,” said the redhead. “A real hero. At least let her take this.” She thrust a brochure at me. It said “There Is a Home in Gilead for You!” “God bless.” The two of them left, glancing back once.

“Wasn’t I supposed to let them pick me up?” I said. “Shouldn’t I go with them?”

“Not the first time. We can’t make it too easy for them,” said Garth. “If anyone’s watching from Gilead—it would be too suspicious. Don’t worry, they’ll be back.”





43


That night we slept under a bridge. It crossed a ravine, with a creek at the bottom. A mist was rising: after the hot day, it was chilly and damp. The earth stank of cat piss, or maybe a skunk. I put on the grey hoodie, easing the arm down over my tattoo scar. It was still a little painful.

There were four or five others under the bridge with us, three men and two women, I think, though it was dark and it was hard to tell. George was one of the men; he acted as if he didn’t know us. One of the women offered cigarettes, but I knew better than to try to smoke one—I would cough and give myself away. A bottle was being passed around too. Garth had told me not to smoke or drink anything, because who knew what might be in it?

He’d also told me not to talk to anyone: any of these people could be a Gilead plant, and if they tried to ferret out my story and I slipped up, they’d smell a rat and warn the Pearl Girls. He did the talking, which was mostly grunts. He seemed to know a couple of them. One of them said, “What is she, retarded? How come she doesn’t talk?” and Garth said, “She only talks to me,” and the other one said, “Nice work, what’s your secret?”

We had several green plastic garbage bags to lie down on. Garth wrapped his arms around me, which made it warmer. At first I pushed his top arm away, but he whispered into my ear, “Remember, you’re my girlfriend,” so I stopped wriggling. I knew his hug was acting, but at that moment I didn’t care. I really did feel almost as if he was my first boyfriend. It wasn’t much, but it was something.

The next night Garth got into a fight with one of the men under the bridge. It was a quick fight and Garth won. I didn’t see how—it was a short, swift move. Then he said we should relocate, so the next night we slept inside a downtown church. He had a key; I don’t know where he got it. We weren’t the only people sleeping in there, judging by the junk and crap under the pews: discarded backpacks, empty bottles, the odd needle.

We ate in fast-food places, which cured me of junk food. I used to think it was slightly glamorous, probably because Melanie disapproved of it, but if you eat it all the time you get a sickly bloated feeling. That’s also where I went to the washroom, in the daytime, when I wasn’t squatting in one of the ravines.