The Heart Goes Last

by Margaret Atwood

  It isn't at all hard for her to smile back. Not like the past weeks, when she was exiled to Towel-Folding, when she felt so lonely and isolated and her own smile felt cracked, as if there was a broken cement sidewalk right behind her teeth, and her mouth felt shrunken and clogged, and the other women spoke to her in sentences of two words because they didn't know what kind of disgrace she was in.

  Charmaine couldn't blame them, since she didn't know that herself. She tried her utmost to believe it was just a trivial mistake: you always had to try your utmost to believe the positive, because what did believing the negative ever get you except depressed? Whereas with the positive you found the strength to carry on.

  And she had carried on.

  Though it had been hard, because she'd been so scared. What were they really planning for her? She's sure there's more than one of them. The only one they actually show much of is Ed, but there has to be a whole bunch of them behind the scenes, talking everything over and making important decisions.

  Have they been sitting in their boardroom, discussing her? Do they know she's been cheating on Stan? Have they got photos of her, or voice recordings, or, even worse, videos? She'd said that to Max once - "What if there's a video?" - but he'd only laughed and said why would there be a videocam in an abandoned house, and he only wished there was so he could relive the moment. But what if he has been reliving the moment, and those other men have been reliving it too?

  It makes her blush all over to think of them watching her and Max in those vacant houses. She wasn't herself with Max, she was some other person - some slutty blonde she wouldn't speak to if they were standing in a checkout line together. If that other Charmaine tried to strike up a conversation with her she'd turn away as if she hadn't heard, because you're known by the company you keep and that other Charmaine is bad company. But that Charmaine has been banished, and she herself - the real Charmaine - has been restored to good standing, and she has to keep it that way no matter what.

  She gazes down the table at the rows of women in their orange boiler suits. She doesn't know them very well because they've basically not been speaking to her, but their faces are familiar. She scans their features as they chew away at their lunches: isn't this a warm, fuzzy, grateful feeling she's getting, because each one of them is a unique and irreplaceable human being?

  No, this is not a warm, fuzzy, grateful feeling. To be honest, she doesn't like these women much. Grandma Win would say she wouldn't trust any of them as far as she could throw them, which isn't very far since most of them are overweight. They should burn more energy, take the dancercise classes, or work out in the Positron gym, because sitting on their fat butts knitting those stupid blue bears plus eating the desserts is piling the pounds onto them and they're blowing up like blimps. And deep down she doesn't give a crap about each of them being a unique and irreplaceable human being, because they didn't treat her like one. They treated her like something that got stuck on their shoe.

  But that's the past, and she must not look back in anger or hold on to grudges, because such behaviour is toxic, as the girl in the pink outfit says on the TV yoga show, so now she's dwelling on blessings. How blessed they all are to be tucked in here when so many other people are having a bad time outside the wall, where - according to Ed - everything's going to ratshit. Even more ratshit than it was going to when she lived out there.

  The lunch is chicken salad. It's made with chickens raised right here at Positron Prison, in healthy and considerate surroundings, over at the men's wing; and the lettuce and arugula and radicchio and celery are grown here as well. Though not the celery, now that she thinks of it - that comes in from outside. But the parsley's grown here. And the spring onions. And the Tiny Tim tomatoes. Despite her lack of appetite she picks away at the salad, because she doesn't want to look ungrateful. Or, worse, unstable.

  Here comes the dessert. They've set it out on the table at the far end of the room; the women get up in order, row by row, and stand in line for it. Plum crumble, the women murmur to one another, made with red plums from Positron's very own orchard. Though Charmaine has never worked in that orchard herself or even talked to anybody who's worked in it, so how would she know if it even exists? They could be bringing those plums in here in cans and nobody but whoever opens the cans would be any the wiser.

  These skeptical notions about Positron are coming to her more frequently. Don't be so stupid, Charmaine, she tells herself. Change the channel, because why would you even care about where the plums come from? And if they want to fib about plums to make us all feel better, what's the harm?

  She picks up her helping of plum crumble in its sturdy pressed-glass dish. There's cream added, from Positron's own cows; not that she's ever seen those cows either. She nods and smiles at the other women as she files past them, sits back down at her place, stares at her crumble. She can't help thinking it looks like curdled blood, but she draws a marker across that thought, blacks it out. She should try to eat just a bit: it might steady her nerves.

  She's been away from the Medications Administration job so long. Maybe she's lost her touch. What if she makes a shambles of the Special Procedure the next time she does it? Gets cold feet? Misses the sweet spot in the vein?

  When you're actually doing the Procedure you don't have big-picture worries, you exist in the moment, you only want to get it right and do your duty. But over the past two months she's been at a distance, and from a distance what she does in Medications Administration doesn't always look the same as what she ought to do, supposing she was just a person.

  Are you having qualms, Charmaine? asks the little voice in her head.

  No, silly, she answers. I'm having dessert. Plum crumble.

  The women at her table are making mmm sounds. Red crumbs cling to their lips.

  HOOD

  Stan tries again. He uses all his strength, pushing up with his arms and thighs against the straps - they must be straps, though he can't see them. No dice. What is this, Jocelyn's warped idea of another kinky sex game?

  "Charmaine," he tries to call. His throat slurs, his tongue is like a cold beef sandwich. Why's he calling her anyway, as if he can't find his socks, as if he needs help with his top shirt button? What kind of a help-me-mommy-wife-whine is that? Maybe part of his brain is dead. Dumbass, he tells himself: Charmaine can't hear you, she isn't in the room. Or not so far as he can see, which isn't far.

  Oh, Charmaine. I love you, baby. Get me out of this!

  Wait a minute: now he remembers. According to Jocelyn, Charmaine is supposed to kill him.

  --

  Two o'clock. The first Procedure of the afternoon is scheduled for three. After leaving the dining area, Charmaine heads back to her cell to spend a little quiet time alone. She needs to prepare herself, both physically and mentally; and also spiritually, of course. Do some deep breathing, the way they show it on TV. Fix her makeup, which is energizing. Calmness, positive energy: that's what she needs.

  But when she opens the door to her cell, there's someone already in it. It's a woman, in the standard orange boiler suit but with a hood over her head. She's sitting on the bed. Her wrists are attached together in front with plastic handcuffs.

  "Excuse me?" says Charmaine. If it weren't for the hood and the cuffs, she would have pointed out that this is her cell, and as far as she knows there hasn't been a new cell assignment. And then she would have said, Please leave.

  "Don't...," says the woman's voice, muffled by the hood. Then there's something else that Charmaine doesn't catch. She goes over to the bed - risky, because what if this is a maniac who might snap at her or something - and lifts the hood up and back.

  This is a shock. This is definitely a shock. It's Sandi. It can't be Sandi! Why would it be Sandi? She stares at Charmaine with watery, blinking eyes. "Charmaine, Christ," she says. "Put the hood back on! Don't talk to me!"

  Charmaine is confused. Sandi never did bad things, apart from the hooking, but that was instead of a job, so why would she ne
ed to do it in Consilience? Her hair's a wreck. Her cheekbones are more prominent than they were: maybe she's had work done. Has she maybe been pushing? Talking to a journalist? But how?

  "Sandi! What are you doing in my cell?" she says. That doesn't sound very gracious, but it's not as if she meant it meanly. Sandi's leg is chained to the bedframe, her ankles are shackled. This is serious.

  "Don't talk loud," Sandi whispers. "They must've fucked up, stuck me in the wrong place. Pretend you don't know me! Or you might get in trouble."

  "Are you a, you know. A criminal element?" Charmaine asks - has to ask, though maybe she shouldn't. Sandi's a nice girl at heart, she can't be a criminal element, and anyway the criminal elements she's used to dealing with at Medications Administration have all been men. She can't see Sandi murdering anyone, or doing any of the other things that get you strapped down five ways on a gurney. "What did you do? I mean, did you do anything?"

  "I tried to get out," Sandi whispers. "I tried to get myself smuggled through the wall in a bag of trash, where they send it down that chute to the truck outside. I had sex with one of those trash guys, the ones in the green vests, you know the ones. He ratted on me but not until after the sex, the fucker."

  "But, honey, why would you want to get out?" Charmaine whispers. That's mystifying to her. "It's so much better -"

  "Yeah, it was at first, it was going great, I was helping at the gym and then they picked me to make those yoga videos, I got some work done, cheekbones mostly, and they did the makeup, and all I had to do was put on that pink suit and read the script and do a few poses."

  "I thought it was you," Charmaine says untruthfully. "You were great, it looked like you were an expert!" She's a little jealous. What an easy job, and with star power too. Not like her own job. But hers is more important.

  "So then Veronica came back one day," Sandi whispers. "We were sharing a condo, she was training at the prison hospital, and she was all excited, they'd offered her a promotion, to this special unit they have there."

  "What was it?" Charmaine says. Maybe something bland, like Pediatric.

  "It was in Medications Administration," says Sandi. "She went the next day to start the training. But when she came back she was upset. Veronica never gets upset normally." Sandi pauses. "You mind scratching my back?"

  Charmaine scratches. "A little to the left," says Sandi. "Thanks. So she said, 'Basically they want me to kill people. Underneath all the bullshit, that's what it is.' "

  "Oh gosh," says Charmaine. "Not really!"

  "No shit," says Sandi. "So she told them no, she couldn't do it. And the next day she was gone. Just gone. Nobody knew where she went, or else they wouldn't say. I asked at her work, and they looked at me in this weird way and said that information was not available. It was creepy! So I wanted out."

  "You're not allowed out!" Charmaine whispers. "Remember what we signed! Couldn't you just explain to them..." She knows this is futile, because rules are rules, but she wants to hold out hope.

  "Forget it," says Sandi. "I'm fucked." Her teeth are chattering. "No free lunch for me, I should've known. Now you need to put the hood back on and call a guard, and say why is this person in your cell, and they'll clear me out of your way."

  "But I can't just...," says Charmaine. "What will happen to you?" She's going to cry. This is wrong, it has to be wrong! The chains, the handcuffs...Maybe they'll only put Sandi in Towel-Folding or something. But she can't get herself to believe that. There's a dark light rippling around Sandi, like dirty water. Charmaine puts her arms around her. She's so cold. "Oh, Sandi," she says. "It will be okay!"

  "Just do it," says Sandi. "You don't have the choice."

  CHERRY PIE

  The white ceiling is even more boring than Consilience TV. Hardly anything's going on up there, though there has been a fly, which has helped to pass the time. Scram, fly, Stan thought at it, to see if he could control it by broadcasting his mental electrical waves. But he couldn't.

  The other thing on the white ceiling is a small, round silver circle. It's either a sprinkler or a videocam. He closes his eyes, then opens them: he should stay awake if possible. He concentrates on the chain of causes and effects and lies and impostures - some of them his - that has stranded him in this tedious or possibly terrifying cul-de-sac.

  Which will terminate with Charmaine in a lab coat walking in here in about five minutes, or at least he hopes it's that soon because he really needs a piss. The poor mouse will think she's about to send some serial killer or child murderer or old-person batterer to the next life. But when she approaches the gurney he's strapped onto, it won't be an unknown criminal element waiting for her: it will be him.

  What will she do then? Scream and run away? Throw herself onto his body? Tell Positron there's been a terrible mistake?

  Maybe she'll flick a hidden switch to turn off the videocam, then unstrap him, and they'll hug each other, and she'll whisper, "I'm so sorry, can you ever forgive me for cheating, you're the one I really love," and so on, though there won't be time for the drawn-out grovelling and cringing he has the right to expect. But he'll squeeze her reassuringly, and then she'll show him - what? A trapdoor? A secret tunnel? A set of clothes to wear as a disguise?

  He's watched way too much TV, over the years. On TV there are last-minute escapes, and tunnels, and trapdoors. This is real life, numbnuts, he tells himself. Or it's supposed to be.

  But there has to be some last-minute plot flip like that, because Charmaine would surely never stick the death drug into him, or whatever it is she does. She'd never go the whole hog. She's too tender-hearted.

  Unhuhuh, he says to the ceiling. Because now he's not so sure about her tender-heartedness. He's not sure of anything. And what if something has fucked up, and the Positron spooks have caught up with double-dealing Jocelyn and arrested her, or maybe even shot her?

  And what if, when the door opens, it isn't Charmaine who walks through it?

  They're probably watching him right now, through that silver circle. They've probably tortured Jocelyn, made her cough up her entire subversive plan. They probably think he's in on it.

  I didn't know! It wasn't me! I've done nothing! he screams in his head.

  Unhuhuhuh.

  Shit. He's wet his pants. But it doesn't seep, it doesn't trickle. Have they got him in diapers? Crap. Not a good sign.

  So he can't be the first person who's been here and done the pant-wetting thing. You can't say they don't cover the angles.

  --

  It takes Charmaine a while to regain her calm after the two guards have hauled Sandi away. By the armpits, because she couldn't walk very well, what with the shackles.

  "No need to mention this to anyone," the first guard had said. The second one gave a kind of barky laugh. Neither of them was anyone Charmaine had ever seen before.

  She takes some yogic breaths, she clears her mind of negative vibrations. Then she washes her hands, and after that she brushes her teeth: it's like a cleansing ritual, because she likes to feel pure in heart when going into a Procedure. She checks herself in the mirror: there she is, the same sweet, roundish baby-face she's always relied on at home and school; she hasn't changed that much since being a teenager, though she's a little dark under the eyes. She pulls a few strands of her blond hair forward to frame her face. But she's thinner. She's lost weight over the past while, slightly too much weight, and she's looking pale. She's been so worried, and she's still worried, because even though her name's been cleared and she has her job again, what will the future bring? Once she's back at the house.

  The very worst - well, almost the worst - would be if they told Stan about Max. Then what will happen when she sees Stan? He'll be really mad at her. Even if she cries and says she's sorry, and how can he ever forgive her, and he's the one she really loves, he still might want a divorce. The mere possibility makes her tearful. She'd feel so unsafe without Stan, and people would gossip about her, and she'd be all alone in Consilience, forever, because you
can't get out. But she might not feel very safe with Stan, either.

  As for Max, yes, she does remember hoping he might leave his wife for her so they could be together and she could be crushed in his embrace like a stepped-on blueberry muffin every minute of every day. He'd say, "There's no one like you, bend over," while nibbling on her ear, and she'd melt like toffee in the sun.

  But on some level she's always known that would be impossible. She's been a distraction for him, but not a necessity of life. More like a super-strong mint: intense while it lasted but quickly finished. And, to be fair, he's been the same thing for her, and if he was offered to her on a serving platter in exchange for Stan, she would say no thanks, because she could never depend on Max: he's too fast with his mouth, he's like a TV ad, pushing something dark and delicious but bad for you. Instead she would say, "I choose Stan." She does feel quite certain that this is the choice she would make.

  Though what if Stan rejects her, despite her new, virtuous intentions? What if he throws her out, tosses her clothes onto the lawn for everyone to see, and then locks the door on the inside? Maybe it will happen at night, and she'll be outside in the rain, scratching on the window like a cat, begging to be taken back. Oh, I've ruined everything, she'll wail. Her eyes water up just picturing it.

  But she'll refuse to think about that, because you make your own reality out of your attitude, and if she thinks about it happening, then it will. Instead she'll think about Stan's arms going around her and him saying how miserable he's been without her and how happy he is that they're finally together once more. And she'll stroke him, and cuddle him, and it will be like old times.

  Because the days will fly past and it will be switchover in a couple of weeks, and she can finally leave Positron for her month as a civilian again. She'll be working at her Consilience job in the bakery, and she won't have to think about screams or women with hoods chained to her bed, and she'll smell like cinnamon from the cinnamon buns, such a cheerful smell, and not like the floral scent of the fabric softener from Towel-Folding in Positron, which if you have to breathe it all day is truly chemical and sickly. She won't use that fabric softener on her own laundry any more, ever. She'll be back in her own house, with her pretty sheets and the bright kitchen where she cooks such nice breakfasts, and she'll be with Stan.