Chapter Eleven
Yesterday morning Offred is escorted by a Guardian in a red‑arm‑band car to a modern clinic for her mandatory monthly check‑up. She rides alone, “solitaire,” while the Guardian sits in the front seat. In the elevator she watches his reflection in a black‑mirror wall. At the clinic the Guardian waits in the hallway with other Guardians on designated chairs. The waiting room holds three other women in red, all awaiting the same specialist. A nurse records their names and pass numbers on the Compudoc.
The doctor is described as six feet tall, about forty, with a diagonal scar on his cheek, large hands, and a pistol in a shoulder holster. When Offred is called she enters an inner examination room that is stark white except for a folding screen of red cloth stretched on a frame, bearing a gold eye, a snake‑twined sword and other broken pre‑Gilead symbols. She uses a small bottle in a washroom, undresses behind the screen, folds her clothes on a chair, and lies on a disposable paper sheet on the examination table. A second cloth sheet covers her body, and a third sheet hangs from the ceiling at neck level, ensuring the doctor never sees her face; only her torso is exposed. She pulls a lever on the table’s right side, a bell rings unseen, and the doctor enters.
The doctor is unusually talkative, greeting her “How are we getting along?” He conducts the exam with a cold, rubber‑clad finger, probing her breasts and abdomen, commenting that there is “nothing wrong with you.” He calls her “honey,” asks if she feels any pain, and then, in a lowered voice, whispers, “I could help you.” Offred asks what he means; he urges her to be quiet, explains that the door is locked and no one will know, and says that most older men are either dead or “sterile.” The word “sterile” shocks her, because officially men are declared infertile. He tells her many women “do it,” and if she wants a baby he can provide it in a minute, offering his own services. He warns that the penalty for sexual intercourse is death, requiring two witnesses, and notes the room might be bugged. He also threatens that he could falsify her test results, report infertility or cancer, and have her shipped to the Colonies.
Offred trembles, considers the offer, but ultimately declines, saying it is too dangerous. The doctor, with moist compassionate eyes, steps back, pats her thigh, and says “Next month.” She redresses behind the screen, her hands shaking, reflecting on the terror of the choice—though she has crossed no boundary, the prospect of a possible salvation frightens her. She leaves the office, the Guardian waiting outside, and returns to her daily routine, haunted by the doctor's proposition and the implication that fertile men still exist.