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Show Joe had been standing just outside the back door, munching on an unwashed stick of rhubarb from the garden. "You'll get hepatitis," was the f i r s t thing she said, to him. He answered, but she thought he was talking Pig Latin. "He doesn't speak English," her father explained, "Maybe you can teach him." Every day after that, Vanda brought her chalkboard out on the lawn. Joe would snitch strawberries and peas from the garden while she drew pictures of cats and tables and trucks, naming them, spelling the words and making Joe write them. When school started in the f a l l, Joe was put in Vanda's class but by Christmas he had skipped to fifth grade. Vanda sat at the kitchen table eating Angela's spaghetti and wiping her red moustache with a napkin. "I've been craving your cooking ever since I got pregnant," she said. The blue curtains were drawn back with ribbons. Across the field she could just make out the tiny specks that were the combine and dump truck. "Both your men are out there, huh, Angela?" she asked. Joe was probably listening to Conway Twitty tapes in the combine while Mr. Gnicht drove alongside waiting for the truck to f i l l , then covering the barley with tarps before driving to the elevators. Angela nodded her head and said, "You don't worry about them, Vanda. What do they know?" Her chins wobbled as she spoke. "I won't l e t them kick you out." Keek you out, she said. |