Margaret Atwood - The Handmaid's Tale - Chapter 14 lyrics

When the bell has finished
I descend the stairs
A brief waif in the eye
Of glass that hangs on the downstairs wall
The clock ticks with it's pendulum
Keeping time my feet in their neat
Red shoes count the way down
The sitting room door is wide open
I go in: so far no
One else is here I don't sit
But take my place, kneeling
Near the chair with the
Footstool where Serena Joy will
Shortly enthrone herself
Leaning on hеr cane while she lowеrs
Herself down possibly she'll put a hand
On my shoulder, to steady herself
As if I'm a piece of
Furniture she's done it before
The sitting room would once have
Been called a drawing room
Perhaps then a living room or
Maybe it's a parlor
The kind with a spider and flies but
Now it's officially a sitting room, because
That's what is done in it, by some
For others there's standing room only the
Posture of the body is important
Here and now: minor
Discomforts are instructive
The sitting room is subdued
Symmetrical it's one of the
Shapes money takes when
It freezes money has trickled through this
Room for years and years
As if through an underground
Cavern, crusting and hardening like
Stalactites into these found, mutely the
Varied, surfaces present themselves:
The dusk-rose velvet of the drawn
Drapes, the gloss of the
Matching chairs, eighteenth century
The cow's-tongue
Hush of the tufted Chinese rug on the floor
With it's
Peach-pink peonies, the suave leather
Of the Commander's chair
The glint of brass on the box beside it
The rug is authentic some things
In this room are authentic
Some are not for instance, two
Paintings, both of women
One on either side of the fireplace both
Wear dark dresses, like the ones
In the old church, though of a later date
The paintings are possibly
Authentic i suspect
That when Serena Joy acquired them
After it became obvious to her that
She'd have to redirect her energies
Into something convincingly domestic
She had the intention of passing them
Off as ancestors or maybe
They were in the house when
The Commander bought it
There's no way of knowing such things
In any case, there they hang
Their backs and
Mouths stiff, their breasts constricted
Their faces pinched
Their caps starched, their
Skin grayish white
Guarding the room with their narrowed eyes
Between them, over the mantel
There's an oval mirror, flanked by two pairs
Of silver candlesticks, with a white
China Cupid centered between them
It's arm around the neck of
A lamb the tastes of Serena Joy are
A strange blend: hard lust for quality
Soft sentimental cravings there's a
Dried flower arrangement
On either end of the mantelpiece
And a vase of real daffodils on the
Polished marquetry end table beside the sofa
The room smells of lemon oil
Heavy cloth, fading daffodils
The leftover smells of
Cooking that have made their way from
The kitchen or the dining room
And of Serena Joy's
Perfume: Lily of the Valley
Perfume is a luxury
She must have some private source i
Breathe it in
Thinking I should appreciate it
It's the scent of pre-pubescent girls
Of the gifts young children used to give
Their mothers
For Mother's Day the smell of white cotton
Socks and white cotton petticoats
Of dusting powder
Of the innocence of female
Flesh not yet given
Over to hairiness and blood it makes
Me feel slightly ill
As if I'm in a closed car
On a hot muggy day with
An older woman wearing too
Much face powder this
Is what the sitting room is like
Despite it's elegance
I would like to steal something from this
Room i would like to take some
Small thing, the scrolled ashtray, the little
Silver pillbox from the mantel perhaps
Or a dried flower: hide
It in the folds of my dress
Or in my zippered sleeve
Keep it there until this
Evening is over, secrete it in my room
Under the bed, or in a shoe
Or in a slit in the hard petit point FAITH
Cushion every once in a while I would
Take it out and look at it it would
Make me feel that I have power
But such a feeling would be an illusion
And too risky my hands stay
Where they are, folded in my lap
Thighs together, heels tucked underneath me
Pressing up against my body head
Lowered in my mouth
There's the taste of toothpaste:
Fake mint and plaster i wait
For the household to assemble
Household: that is
What we are the Commander is the
Head of the household the house is what
He holds to have and to hold
Till death do us part
The hold of a ship hollow
Cora comes in first, then Rita
Wiping her hands on her apron they too have
Been summoned by the bell, they resent it
They have other things to do
The dishes for instance but they
Need to be here, they all need to be
Here, the Ceremony demands it we are
All obliged to sit through this
One way or another
Rita scowls at me before slipping in
To stand behind me it's my
Fault, this waste of her time
Not mine, but my body's
If there is a difference
Even the Commander is subject to it's whims
Nick walks in, nods to all three of us
Looks around
The room he too takes his place behind me
Standing he's so close that the tip of his
Boot is touching my foot is this
On purpose? Whether it is or
Not we are touching
Two shapes of leather i feel my shoe
Soften, blood flows into it, it grows warm
It becomes a skin i move my foot slightly
Away "Wish he'd hurry up, " says Cora
"Hurry up and wait, " says Nick he laughs
Moves his foot so it's touching mine again
No one can see
Beneath the folds of my outspread skirt
I shift, it's too warm in here
The smell of stale perfume makes me feel a
Little sick i move my foot away
We hear Serena coming, down the
Stairs, along the hall
The muffled tap of her cane on the rug
Thud of the good foot she hobbles
Through the doorway, glances at us, counting
But not seeing she nods, at
Nick, but says nothing she's in
One of her best dresses
Sky blue with embroidery
In white along the edges of the veil:
Flowers and fretwork even at her
Age she still feels the urge to
Wreathe herself in flowers no use
For you, I think at her, my face
Unmoving, you can't use them anymore
You're withered they're the genital organs of
Plants i read that somewhere, once
She makes her way to her chair
And footstool, turns, lowers herself
Lands ungracefully she hoists her left
Foot onto the stool, fumbles
In her sleeve pocket i can hear the rustling
The click of her lighter, I smell the hot
Singe of the smoke, breathe it in
"Late as usual
" she says we don't answer there's a clatter
As she gropes on the lamp
Table, then a click
And the television set runs
Through it's warm-up
A male choir, with greenish-yellow skin
The color needs adjusting they're singing
"Come to the Church in the
Wildwood" Come, come, come, come
Sing the basses serena clicks
The channel changer waves, colored zigzags
A garble of sound: it's
The Montreal satellite
Station, being blocked then
There's a preacher
Earnest, with shining dark eyes
Leaning towards us across a desk these days
They look a lot like businessmen
Serena gives him a few seconds
Then clicks onward several blank channels
Then the news this is what
She's been looking for
She leans back, inhales deeply i
On the contrary lean forward
A child being allowed up late with
The grown-ups this is the one
Good thing about these evenings
The evenings of the Ceremony: I'm allowed
To watch the news it seems
To be an unspoken rule in this household: we
Always get here on time, he's always late
Serena always lets us watch the news
Such as it is: who knows if any
Of it is true? It could
Be old clips, it could be faked
But, I watch it anyway
Hoping to be able to read beneath it
Any news, now, is better than none
First, the front lines they are not lines
Really: the war seems to be going
On in many places at once
Wooded hills, seen from above
The trees a sickly yellow i
Wish she'd fix the color
The Appalachian Highlands, says
The voice-over, where the
Angels of the Apocalypse, Fourth Division
Are smoking out a
Pocket of Baptist guerillas
With air support from
The Twenty-first Battalion
Of the Angels of Light we
Are shown two helicopters
Black ones with silver
Wings painted on the sides below them
A clump of trees explodes
Now a close shot of a prisoner
With a stubbled and dirty face
Flanked by two Angels
In their neat black uniforms
The prisoner accepts
A cigarette from one of the Angels
Puts it awkwardly to his lips with his
Bound hands he gives a lopsided
Little grin the announcer
Is saying something, but I don't
Hear it: I look into this man's eyes
Trying to decide what he's
Thinking he knows the camera is on
Him: is the grin a
Show of defiance, or is it
Submission? Is he embarrassed
At having been caught?
They only show us victories
Never defeats who wants bad news?
Possibly he's an actor
The anchorman comes on now
His manner is kindly, fatherly
He gazes out at us from the screen, looking
With his tan and
His white hair and candid eyes
Wise wrinkles around them, like everybody's
Ideal grandfather what he's telling us
His level smile implies, is for our own good
Everything will be all right soon
I promise there will be
Peace you must trust you must go to sleep
Like good children he tells us what we long
To believe he's very convincing
I struggle against him he's like an
Old movie star, I tell myself, with false
Teeth and a face job at the
Same time I sway towards him
Like one hypnotized if only it were
True if only I could believe
Now he's telling us that
An underground espionage ring
Has been cracked by a team of Eyes
Working with an inside informant the
Ring has been smuggling
Precious national resources over the
Border into Canada
"Five members of the heretical
Sect of Quakers have
Been arrested, " he says, smiling blandly
"and more arrests are anticipated"
Two of the Quakers appear onscreen, a man
And a woman they look terrified
But they're trying to preserve
Some dignity in front of the camera the man
Has a large dark mark
On his forehead the woman's veil
Has been torn off
And her hair falls in strands over her
Face both of them are about fifty
Now we can see a city
Again from the air this used to be
Detroit under the voice of the
Announcer there's the thunk of artillery from
The skyline columns of smoke ascend
"Resettlement of the Children of
Ham is continuing on
Schedule, " says the reassuring pink face
Back on the screen "Three
Thousand have arrived
This week in National Homeland One
With another two thousand in
Transit" How are they transporting that
Many people at once? Trains
Buses? We are not shown any pictures
Of this national Homeland One
Is in North Dakota
Lord knows what they're supposed to do
Once they get there farm, is the theory
Serena Joy has had enough of the
News impatiently she clicks the button
For a station change, comes up
With an aging bass baritone
His cheeks like emptied udders
"Whispering Hope" is
What he's singing serena turns him off
We wait, the clock in the hall
Ticks, Serena lights another cigarette, i
Get into the car it's a
Saturday morning, it's a September
We still have a car other people have
Had to sell theirs my name
Isn't Offred, I have another name
Which nobody uses now
Because it's forbidden i tell
Myself it doesn't matter
Your name is like your telephone number
Useful only to
Others but what I tell myself is wrong
It does matter i keep the knowledge
Of this name like something hidden
Some treasure I'll come back to
Dig up, one day i think of this name as
Buried this name has an aura around it
Like an amulet
Some charm that's survived from
An unimaginably distant past
I lie in my single bed at
Night, with my eyes closed
And the name floats
There behind my eyes, not quite within reach
Shining in the dark
It's a Saturday morning in September
I'm wearing my shining name the
Little girl who is
Now dead sit's in the back seat, with
Her two best dolls, her stuffed rabbit
Mangy with age and love i
Know all the details they
Are sentimental details but I
Can't help that i
Can't think about the rabbit too much though
I can't start to
Cry, here on the Chinese rug
Breathing in the smoke that
Has been inside Serena's body
Not here, not now, i can do that later
She thought we were going on a picnic
And in fact there is a
Picnic basket on the back seat, beside
Her, with real food in it, hard-boiled eggs
Thermos and all we didn't want her
To know where we were
Really going, we didn't want her to
Tell, by mistake, reveal anything
If we were stopped
We didn't want to lay upon her
The burden of our truth
I wore my hiking boots
She had on her sneakers the laces
Of the sneakers had a design
Of hearts on them, red
Purple, pink, and yellow it was warm
For the time of year
The leaves were turning already, some
Of them Luke drove, i sat beside
Him, the sun shone, the sky was blue
The houses as we passed them looked
Comforting and ordinary
Each house as it was left
Behind vanishing into past time
Crumbling in an instant as if it
Had never been, because I would
Never see it again, or so I thought then
We have almost nothing with us
We don't want to look as if
We're going anywhere far or permanent
We have the forged passports
Guaranteed, worth the price we couldn't
Pay in money, of course
Or put it on the Compucount:
We used other things, some
Jewelry that was my grandmother's
A stamp collection Luke inherited from
His uncle such things can
Be exchanged, for money
In other countries when we get to the
Border we'll pretend we're just going over
On a day trip the fake visas
Are for a day before that
I'll give her a sleeping pill so she'll
Be asleep when we cross that
Way she won't betray us you can't
Expect a child to lie convincingly
And I don't want her to feel frightened
To feel the fear that is now tightening my
Muscles, tensing my spine
Pulling me so taut that I'm certain I would
Break if touched every stoplight is an
Ordeal we'll spend the night at
A motel, or, better
Sleeping in the car on a side road
So there will be no
Suspicious questions we'll cross
In the morning, drive over
The bridge, easily
Just like driving to the supermarket
We turn onto the freeway, head north
Flowing with
Not much traffic since the war started
Gas is expensive and in
Short supply outside the city we
Pass the first checkpoint
All they want is a look at the license
Luke does it well the license matches
The passport: we thought of that
Back on the road, he squeezes my hand
Glances over at me you're white as a sheet
He says that is how I feel: white, flat
Thin i feel transparent surely they will
Be able to see through
Me worse, how will I be able to hold on
To Luke, to her, when I'm so flat, so
White? I feel as if there's not much left
Of me they will slip through my arms, as if
I'm made of smoke, as if I'm a mirage
Fading before their eyes don't
Think that way
Moira would say think that way
And you'll make it happen cheer up
Says Luke he's driving a little
Too fast now the adrenaline's
Gone to his head now he's singing
Oh, what a beautiful morning, he sings
Even his singing worries me we've been
Warned not to look too happy