For lunch she stops at the local diner, Club Six, to eat with her girlfriends, mostly waitresses. It is called Club Six because it is at the top of the hill at the sixth stoplight before the turnpike. They each order something different and share so that everyone has a little bit of the menu, plus the daily special that always has something whipped or mashed. If they run out of things to talk about, which is seldom, they play the card game 21 over a pot of coffee. If one of them has man trouble they play a short game before leaving just to cut the steam. Sometimes they talk girl talk but mostly men and never children, housework or relatives, unless of course, the relatives are men. Once in a while truck drivers coming through town buy the whole table that day's homemade pie. The women never refuse and, ordering it a la mode, wave their manicured nails in front of their painted faces like fans in thanks. When they leave, each drops, one by one, a fresh napkin with a blotted kiss of lipstick in the trucker's lap.

Wanda's afternoon is peaceful as she returns home to the mobile park where hers is the largest double-wide in flamingo pink. General Hospital is her favorite afternoon drama and the others she might catch parts of if she doesn't give in to what she calls a beauty nap . . . an hour or so of sleep with thinly sliced cucumbers resting over her eyes to fight unsightly puffiness.

By suppertime her small family gathers for their favorite Swanson Hungryman Dinners on metal TV trays in front of Jeopardy. Another homemade favorite is macaroni-and-cheese casserole with franks and Bonanza reruns. Dessert is on Wednesdays only, because of Wanda's figure. It is a parfait of strawberry Jell-O with canned fruit cocktail floating about and just one squirt of Redi-Whip on top. This time together gives everyone a chance to relax before they do their chores and Jackson and Wanda retire to their room. That is when Wanda takes part in her exercise. I wish I could describe the look on the female faces next to us when she finished sharing her daily agenda. It's just not possible.

After awhile I didn't pay much attention to her outfits . . . except for the jewelry. Each ball game was a different show and hard not to notice because of the sparkle, size, color or sound as pieces clinked together like cans tied to the back of a newlywed's car. She said that it's the little decorations, like the ornaments of a plain Christmas tree, that make a woman dazzle the daylights out of a man.

It was not until the middle of July that I met Jackson. Wanda said he was addicted to fishing and that when the salmon run he's gone till sundown. This sporstman was nothing at all like I had imagined. His head was as bald as a bowling ball and he was shorted than Wanda. His voice was gravely and deep and he wore a brown polyester suit that was too big for him. The only jewelry on his body was a Timex that had stopped ticking. He looked like maybe her brother . . . not her husband and certainly never her lover. My puzzlement ended when the two looked at each other and he asked if she needed anything. His munchkin face was that of a child looking at a miracle in progress. She lowered her laden hand of baubles and, stroking his smooth head, said in a velvet voice, not a thing darlin' . . . not a thing.