An hour later he had the rutabaga hollowed out and peeled, albeit clumsily, and filled with gravy as one might fill a Halloween pumpkin without eyes, nose and mouth. He put the rutabaga in the oven with a warm sense of inventiveness, then showered and shaved with further thoughts of the yellow dress, his wang pointing upwards as he shaved. The upright wang and the gravy secreted in the rutabaga gave him a surge of life. It wasn’t over yet, by god. He owned the future whose face could be made by the touch of his fingertips. He dressed in a special fuchsia linen shirt, white flannel trousers and Mexican sandals. He made a small pitcher of Margaritas, Diana’s favorite, and reread the paper waiting for her return. Something had to be done for these Haitians and Cubans, he mulled.

“Jesus, I’m beat. We had two emergency appendectomies. One had a touch of peritonitis. What a stink.”

“Are they going to make it?” His voice was raspy with distaste.

“Probably. Or I hope so. You’ve got to watch your weight, Johnny. Fat is a big problem on the table.”

“I’ve got the situation in hand, if you don’t mind.”

“I hope so. Try just eating when you’re hungry, rather than out of habit.”

“Is that some more of your slant propaganda? You forget who won the war.”

“Oh for god’s sake. I promise never to mention it again.” She crossed the living room and kissed him, her face aglow with the Margaritas. “What smells good? I’m starved. Is it ready?”

He pushed her off his lap and raced to the kitchen. He poked some sprigs of parsley into the softened rutabaga and hauled it to the dining room with a bottle of cold Chardonnay.

“What is it?” she asked sitting down.

“A rutabaga.”

“My god!”

“That’s not all.”

“All?”

“It’s full of something.” His face glistened with triumph.

“More rutabaga?”

“This is not a joke. Guess.”

“A rutabaga heart?”

“Try to get away from your job.”

“Oh for god’s sake.”

“What’s my favorite?”

“You have so many….”

“My favorite of favorites. I even have it on toast after Thanksgiving.”

“Turkey gravy! But where is it?”

“Voilà!” He slammed down a carving knife, and the dark vault of gravy released itself, perhaps overburdened by sage.

“Smells like our trip to Wyoming. You know, all that purple sage.

“Please taste it, and say something nice.”

“Yummy-yummy.”

“Diana, goddammit. I said nice.”

“Let’s make love after dinner. I’m high. No one died today.”

Chapter 10