Summer 1998 • Vol. XX No. 3/4 Fiction |

The Houses of Double Women

It was not my idea to sell the farm and buy a moldy Cape Cod in town. A lot of people lived with cancer, I told Rita, without turning their lives inside out like this. We were country people, not used to lawns and sidewalks. Our dog, our woods, our privacy—we were giving them all up. Was moving really necessary? Rita got her way, of course, and come April there I was, just turned sixty, unloading a wing chair from a U-Haul as if I truly believed I could become someone's neighbor. Rita held open the door as I heaved the chair through. "You obviously haven't taken things into account," I puffed as I set it down. "What things?" she said. The jauntiness of the orange scarf she wore like a turban to hide her hairlessness provoked me. "Holland," I said. Could she not feel the eyes watching from behind mini-blinds? "They like tulips around here," I said. "Let's hope they won't mind two old dykes." Rita's eyes suddenly filmed. "Grace," she said. "OK, OK," I said. H

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Isabel

By Chaim Potok

It was not my idea to sell the farm and buy a moldy Cape Cod in town. A lot of people lived with cancer, I told Rita, without turning their […]

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