other reappeared with a plate laden with brisket, tsimmis, and kasha.
She set it down in front of him.

"We'll talk later, OK?" Hershie said.

"But what about DefenseFest?"

"It's complicated," Hershie began. His mother scooped up the plate of brisket
and headed back to the kitchen. She was muttering furiously. "I have to go," he
said and closed his comm.

Hershie chased his mother and snatched the plate from her as she held it
dramatically over the sink disposal. He held up his comm with the other hand and
made a show of powering it down.

"It's off, Mama. Please, come and eat."

#

"I've been thinking of selling the house," she said, as they tucked into slices
of lemon pound-cake.

Hershie put down his fork. "Sell the house?" While his father hadn't exactly
_built_ the house with his own hands, he had sold his guts out at his discount
menswear store to pay for it. His mother had decorated it, but his father's
essence still haunted the corners. "Why would you sell the house?"

"Oh, it's too big, Hershie. I'm just one old lady, and it's not like there're
any grandchildren to come and stay. I could buy a condo in Florida, and there'd
be plenty left over for you."

"I don't need any money, Mama. I've got my pension."

She covered his hands with hers. "Of course you do, bubbie. But fixed incomes
are for old men. You're young, you need a nest egg, something to start a family
with." Her sharp eyes, sunk into motherly pillows of soft flesh, bored into him.
He tried to keep his gaze light and carefree. "You've got money problems?" she
said, at length.

Hershie scooped up a forkful of pound-cake and shook his head. His mother's
powers of perception bordered on clairvoyance, and he didn't trust himself to
speak the lie outright. He looked around the dining room, furnished with faux
chinoise screens, oriental rugs, angular art-glass chandeliers.

"Tell Mama," she said.

He sighed and finished the cake. "It's the new Minister. He won't give me my
pension unless I tell him my secret identity."

"So?" his mother said. "You're so ashamed of your parents, you'd rather starve
than tell the world that their bigshot hero is Hershie Abromowicz? I, for one
wouldn't mind -- finally, I could speak up when my girlfriends are going on
about their sons the lawyers."

"Mom!" he said, feeling all of eight years old. "I'm not ashamed and you know
it. But if the world knew who I was, well, who knows what kind of danger you'd
be i