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Show 8 for September. She lay back in an easy chair, feeling like she was inside an oven turned to "Bake" . She packed bread and butter and lasagna and lemonade into the rickety pickup truck, then drove out to the west field. The gear shift knob said "Budweiser." It sat at knee level, sticking up from the floor on a skinny rod wrapped in green tape. It reminded her of a rhododendron stem. Joe complained she hadn't made enough to eat. "We've been working hard out here," he gestured, to the Indians s i t t i n g around on the ground, then to his parents. "We haven't been watching soap operas and polishing our toenails." Everybody laughed when he said t h i s , except Mr. Gnicht, who sat on the running board of the dump truck watching her. Vanda threw her bowl on the ground at Joe's feet, then watched dust and ants covering the stringy cheese and tomato sauce. "Tomorrow," she said, "I'm driving the combine." Joe eyed her and took a bite of bread. "You couldn't f i t behind, the wheel," he said and the men a l l laughed again. Even Angela smiled and shook her head. Vanda spent the afternoon l o l l i n g in the tub, then rubbing cocoa butter on her stretch marks. "Just wonderful," she sighed at her reflection in the mirror. Sometimes she thought her appearance was perfect ~ hair the dull gold of bullion, eyes the green of maidenhair fern. That's how she had described, herself once in a fan l e t t e r to Paul Newman. If she sucked in her cheeks and t i l t e d her nose upward, |