Chapter Twelve

Chapter 131,802 wordsCompleted

The bathroom attached to Offred’s bedroom is described in blue flowering paper, a blue mat, and a fake‑fur toilet seat cover. The mirror above the sink has been removed and replaced with a tin panel, the door lacks a lock, and there are no razors. Aunt Lydia’s earlier warning that a bathtub is a place of vulnerability haunts Offres as she prepares the bath. She runs the water, lets it steam, and strips off all her garments—overdress, white shift, petticoat, red stockings, cotton pantaloons—while recalling Aunt Lydia’s dictum that a woman’s hair must be long but covered and that “Saint Paul said it’s either that or a close shave.”

Offred bathes, feeling the water “soft as hands,” and imagines a woman from her past (a ghost child) joining her, recalling the child’s disappearance from a supermarket cart when the child was eleven months old. She reflects on other lost memories: pictures of herself holding the baby, a lock of the child’s hair, and the later looting of their belongings. She muses on the idea that the ghost could be dead, wonders whether she exists in that child’s mind, and considers Aunt Lydia’s admonition to avoid material attachment and cultivate “poverty of spirit.”

After the bath Offred dries herself, puts on a red terrycloth robe, and notes the tattoo on her ankle—a four‑digit number and an eye, a reversed passport meant to ensure she can never disappear because she is a “national resource.” She removes the red veil (her hair is still long and unshaven) because she will not go out that evening.

Cora enters with a covered tray of supper, knocks before entering, and briefly smiles before turning away. Offred sets the tray on a small white‑painted table and discovers the meal: an overcooked chicken thigh, a baked potato, green beans, salad, and canned pears for dessert. Aunt Lydia’s voice is recalled again, warning that vitamins and minerals are necessary and that coffee, tea, and alcohol are forbidden. Offred feels sick, worries about the food in her stomach, and decides not to use the toilet. She covertly tears a corner of a paper napkin, wraps the leftover butter, and slips it into the toe of her right shoe from an extra pair, planning to use it later that night when the smell of butter would be inappropriate. She crumples the napkin, hides it, and composes herself, noting that her “self is a thing I must now compose, as one composes a speech.” The chapter ends with her sitting, having hidden the butter, and feeling the weight of her composed, manufactured identity.