Free Wedding of the Two-Headed Woman by Alice Mattison

participated so far. “What is the meaning ?” he said.
    Somebody explained the headline. We were working up to a wedding, we said. “We’re searching for the story,” Katya offered, easing herself to the floor. “There will be a process of decision making later.”
    â€œIs it about prejudice ?” Jonah persisted. “I think it’s about prejudice.”
    â€œYou mean race?” said Muriel. “I’m tired of talking about race.”
    â€œHer race, or maybe her handicap?” Jonah said. “I’m just asking.”
    Chantal said, “No, no, nothing like that. I think it’s about not being able to make up your mind. Some days I feel like I have two heads.”
    To my astonishment, I was suddenly angry; I felt the kind of anger that burns the veins in your arms. I almost said, “But I brought the headline!” as if that made me the boss. I knew the two-headed woman had nothing to do with indecision, and I thought she had nothing to do with prejudice either. I was surprised to be angry, because I didn’t know I cared about the play at all. All I could say was “That’s too simple, don’t you see?” They looked at me. They did not see. “We’re talking about having two heads. Don’t you see how interesting that is? Having two heads is—having two heads. It’s not like anything.” To myself, I sounded childish and obvious, and everyone looked at me with careful politeness.
    â€œThen why do it?” Jonah said. “Nobody really has two heads. It’s about being anyone who’s looked down on. We need reminders about that.”
    â€œI guess I think it’s something like that, too,” Katya said.
    â€œNo,” I said from my mat, pressing my hands into my thighs. “I have no interest in that.”
    â€œYou don’t think it’s important that people are prejudiced?” Denise said.
    â€œOf course it’s important.” I couldn’t explain further because I didn’t know what I meant. All I could think of was Pekko saying that Gordon saw things as they were. I wanted to look at that two-headed person, at the two-headedness of her. “Comparing her to anything, ” I said, struggling to control my voice, “is disrespectful. She’s not like anything.”
    Â 
    G ordon had changed our appointment so he wouldn’t be late, but he was late. I thought of Ellen as I again stood waiting on steps, but this time I had no key, and the day was colder, though it was later in the spring. At last I saw him coming quickly toward me down the other side of Temple Street, past the gray stones of the back of St. Mary’s Church. He was not just hurrying but running, the bottom of his jacket flapping. He crossed with a glance at the traffic and stopped, puffing, at the foot of the stairs I stood on. “It’s worth it, because I have more time than I thought. I can stay a little.”
    I didn’t need him to stay. I had learned enough to get started, which probably meant sitting and reading at random. But once we were inside I began to talk about how I usually worked. I was unsure of myself, uncomfortable because I’d expected him to leave, and so I found myself talking about Ellen, the client who made me feel unsure and uncomfortable. “I’ve got a client now who doesn’t want to keep anything she has,” I said. “She just thinks she ought to. I can’t deal with conscience.”
    â€œConscience isn’t the usual reason for clutter?” His pointed eyebrows moved up and down, and he stroked the doorjamb.
    â€œNo, avarice,” I said. I was trying to sound provocative; I had no idea what the usual reason for clutter is, but I wished I hadn’t mentioned Ellen.
    He said, “You’re thinking I’m the greedy kind, or you wouldn’t talk about her.”
    â€œNo, no.”
    â€œSo what’s she