Hershie thought of Thomas, and of the rent, and of his mother, and of all the people at the Belquees who'd stared mistrustfully at him. "Have them call me," he sighed. "I'll talk to them."
He got to his feet, the toe of his boot squelching out more dirt pudding.
#
"Hershie?"
"Yes, Mama?" She'd caught him on the way home, flying high over the fleabag motels on the old Highway 2.
"It's Friday," she said.
Right. Friday. He told her he'd come for dinner, and that meant getting there before sunset. "I'll be there," he said.
"Oh, it's not important. It's just me. Don't hurry on my account — after all, you'll have thousands of Shabbas dinners with your mother. I'll live forever."
"I said I'll be there."
"And don't wear that costume," she said. She hated the costume. When the Department of Defense had issued it to him, she'd wanted to know why they were sending her boy into combat wearing red satin panties.