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Show Angela had folded hospital corners on the pink bedspread in Vanda's old room. The stuffed tigers were still lying on the bed, propped against the pillows with their whiskers bent. Vanda felt silly looking at them. She looked around the room, deciding where a crib would fit. She lay between the cotton sheets sweating, listening to Joe banging around in the kitchen, heating up the spaghetti. She had pillows tucked beneath both hips, another under her knees, and one behind her head. There was no comfortable way to lie down with that whale stomach in the way. Vanda felt a fluttering ripple across her midsection, then an elbow poking out by her pelvic bone. The next morning Joe woke her at six. "You got a choice," he said. "Either drive the combine or stay here and cook while Angela drives." "Since when did you start calling your mother by her first name?" she demanded, sitting up in bed with great difficulty. "Well, you do," he said. "Don't tell me I'm disrespectful." "What's the matter with you? "You never should have married that guy," Joe said. "Now get up." Vanda chose to cook. She sneaked back to bed after everyone had gone out to the field, then set the alarm for nine o'clock. When she got up, she set Angela's bread dough in greased pans in the sun so it would raise faster, then grated mozzarella, browned meat and simmered bottled tomatoes for lasagna. The house was empty and quiet and hot |