By the time Preston drove us to the TV station, Mama was already in makeup. “What are you doing here?” I asked.

“I’m here to tell America you’re my love child,” said Mama. “I don’t know what all the fuss is about. Black folk and white folk have been getting it on since before they discovered America. Hasn’t anybody read Othello?”

“I think Othello takes place after Columbus discovered America,” I said, “although Avie would know for sure. Besides, it’s far from the ideal love story.”

“Othello was president of Spain,” said Mama. “If the Spaniards can do without racism in 1492, why can’t America today, in 1984?”

I thought Othello was a Moorish general who had lived about a century later, but I didn’t feel I should correct Mama any further. She was already convinced I was becoming an over-educated, overly-critical snob.

In any case, I had to agree with her. What did outing me as Ms. Megaton Man on live TV—or covering it up—have to do with politics? President Harry Foster Lime was losing the racist vote and quite possibly his reelection bid because America’s White Nuclear-Powered Hero had slept with my African-American woman nearly a quarter-century ago, and I was the result. Served him right for appealing to white-trash groups in the first place. If they weren’t going to support him now because they found out his loyal Megahero turned out to be a miscegenator, they were too stupid to vote anyway. Better for the other side to win.

After makeup, Preston walked us out into the TV studio which was flooded with harsh light. Pammy was already seated on the set, going over her notes, next to four empty chairs. She stood up and greeted us. Although a print journalist, she looked comfortable on the set, like she’d been doing television for years.

“Pammy, have you ever done broadcast journalism?” I whispered.

“Just a few interviews on my book tour,” she said. “The first segment will just be with you two,” she said to me and Mama. “Then, after the break, we’ll bring on our special guests.”

I wanted to ask who the special guests were, but the director told us to hush and gave us a countdown. In a few seconds, we were going on air.

The opening credits rolled. The director gave Pammy a cue.

“This is controversial columnist Pamela Jointly,” she said. “I’m here on the eve of an important presidential election for our nation with two ordinary citizen whose lives have been turned upside-down recently by allegations that black people and white people can fall in love in America. I’d like to introduce them to you now: Clarissa James and her mother, Alice.”

There was applause. I squinted out beyond the lights. “Oh, look—there’s a studio audience.”

“Alice, what do you do for a living?” asked Pammy.

“I manage a Civix Savings and Loan in Detroit,” said Mama.

“And Clarissa,” asked Pammy. “Is it true that you’re a Megahero?”

“Who has the time?” I said quite honestly. “I’m a full-time grad student at Warren Woodward University.”

“Hmm,” said Pammy. “We’ll return to that question in a moment. Now, Alice,” she said to Mama, “you fell in love with a white man in 1960, when in much of the country that was still against the law. Tell me, what was that like?”

“It was one of those Happenings, you know,” said Mama. “We were young and carefree—I was living in the Village. That’s Greenwich Village, in New York. As I say, it was one of those poetry-reading, jazz-beatnik art hangouts. I suppose you could say I was a Bohemian in those days. There were all kinds of jazz musicians and Beatniks and such. And in walks this young man in a military uniform, very handsome …”

“That would be Lieutenant Colonel Clyde Phloog,” said Pammy. “Did you have any idea at the time that he was a Megahero?”

“No,” said Mama. “Although I knew later he became an astronaut …”

“We’ll be right back after this commercial break,” said Pammy.

***

During the break, in walked my father, the Silver Age Megaton Man, with his massive, over-muscled physique and primary-colored uniform, along with Mama’s Counterpart from another reality, Alice2, the Mod Puma, both in their Megahero uniforms.

“What are you doing here?” I whispered.

“What do you think we’re doing here?” said Alice Too. “We’re trying to clear your name.”

“My name doesn’t need to be cleared,” I said. “I don’t see where this is going.”

By the time they settled into their chairs, the director cued Pammy and we were back on the air.

“Now I’d like to welcome America’s Nuclear-Powered Hero and his sidekick, the Mod Puma,” said Pammy.

“I am no sidekick,” said Alice Too regally. “We are partners in crime fighting.”

“My apologies,” said Pammy. “Now, Silver Age Megaton Man, you’re real name is Clyde Phloog, is it not?”

“It is if you spell it P-f-l-u-g,” said my father. “I get that all the time—people confusing me with the astronaut. I’ve hardly been outside the East Coast, let alone in orbit.” He chuckled.

“So the idea that you are Clarissa’s father is completely erroneous,” said Pammy, mildly confused.

My father patted Alice Too’s arm. “Unfortunately, the Mod Puma and I have never been blessed with any Little Pumas—or Little Nukes.”

Pammy looked at her notes but determined they would be of no help.

“Silver Age Megaton Man, you’ve made a number of reckless and irresponsible statements during this presidential campaign,” said Pammy. “For example, ‘The only good liberal is a dead liberal.’ You’ve also stated that ‘Hippie bleeding-heart tree huggers’ ought to go back to ‘Hippie Bleeding-Heart Tree-Hugging Land, where they came from.’ How do you square such repulsive, reactionary views with the fact that you’re in an open relationship with an African American woman?”

“You forgot, ‘The No-Nuke crowd can pry my multiple warheads from my cold, dead, fingers,’” said Clyde. “Besides, that was just a little harmless campaign-trail rhetoric. Don’t tell me we’re going to start holding people accountable for hate speech—what next? Making shouting ‘Fire!’ in a crowded theater against the law?’ That would be un-American.”

“What do you say to that, Mod Puma?” asked Pammy.

“What can I say?” said Alice Too, patting my father’s arm. “Opposites attract.”

“Can you elaborate on that?” asked Pammy.

“Well, I feel some responsibility,” said Alice Too. “I used to be by his side all the time, moderating some of his most outlandish sentiments. We’ve been trying to do the long-distance thing for the past several months, and boys will be boys. But that’s going to change.” She patted his arm. “I’ll be returning to Megatropolis with him.”

“We have to take another break,” said Pammy.

***

I was appalled at the Mod Puma. “Mama, how can you enable him like that?” I demanded.

“You’re talking to Alice Too,” said Mama. “I’m your Mama.”

“I meant, Mod Puma,” I said. “I know she’ not my Mama…”

“What’s enabling?” asked Alice Too. “I knew all along it was a desperate cry for help. Whenever Clyde starts with the cranky rightwing rhetoric, I know that he misses me.”

“You’re rewarding his extremist views by getting back together with him?” I said, incredulous.

“He’s really an old softy, deep down,” said Alice Too. “Believe me, Clarissa, I know your father a good bit better than you do.”

While this exchange was going on, the Silver Age Megaton Man was apologizing to Pammy that he had to urgently get back to Megatropolis, and ran off the stage. This took the Mod Puma a bit by surprise. “We’ll visit before we leave town,” she whispered to me. Then, she excused herself too.

“I still had more questions about their years in an alternate reality,” said Pammy, disappointed.

Before the station break was over, my father returned, only this time in his Civilian physique, wearing his Air Force uniform. Backstage, Clyde must have taken one of Dr. Joe’s blue capsules—the ones that temporarily suppressed his Megaheroic Megapowers.

For a fleeting moment, I saw that Mama was visibly moved. After all, this was the man she had fallen for to conceive me—not the over-muscled, goggle-wearing goon.

“Hi, Alice, Clarissa,” Clyde said to us politely.

Mama folded her arms. “I liked Clyde better when he was lost in another dimension all those years,” she whispered to me. “Now I just feel like he’s two-timing me with myself.”

***

Back on the air now, Pammy introduced Lieutenant Colonel Clyde Phloog. “So, you’re Clarissa’s father, is that right? And you were, um,”—she looked incredulously at her notes—“held in a Viet Cong prisoner-of-war camp for much of the past twenty years …”

Clyde looked off stage to Preston Percy, who stood in the wings and shrugged. “I guess so,” he said. “If that’s the cover story the State Department came up with, I’m sticking to it.”

Preston winced.

“This is definitely the man I fell for,” said Mama. “What was I thinking?”

“Isn’t it a remarkable coincidence that you would happen to resurface in American culture at the exact same moment as the Silver Age Megaton Man—and that we never see the two of you in the same place at the same time?”

“I don’t know,” said Clyde, smiling. “Are astronauts and Megaheroes supposed to hang out together?”

Pammy seemed to be listening to someone talking to her through her earpiece. She looked at her notes again, perplexed. “Now, I’m told, we have an even more surprise guest.”

I gave Clyde and Mama a searching look. Each seemed to be as in the dark as I was.

From backstage, in walked Ms. Megaton Man.

“Clarissa Too!” I said, reflexively.

We all stood up, and she gave each of us a hug. Then she took the empty seat next to Pammy.

“So, you’re the Burgundy Blur,” said Pammy. “You’re the Megaheroine everyone has been looking for.”

“You can just call me Ms. Megaton Man, Ms. Jointly,” said Ms. Megaton Man.

“You deny that you’re Clarissa James?” asked Pammy.

Ms. Megaton Man leaned over to look at me—I was sitting at the opposite end of the row of chairs. “No, I’m not that girl, if that’s what you mean,” she said. “I mean, how can I be in the same place at the same time as my secret identity?”

“I’m asking myself the very same thing,” I said.

“And the Silver Age Megaton—I suppose you’re going to claim he’s not your father,” said Pammy.

“He’s not—nor is this man,” she said, referring to Clyde. “I’ll swear to that on a stack of Bibles!”

My brain was still reeling, but strictly speaking, I suppose she was telling the truth. Clarissa Too’s father was Clyde Phloog’s Counterpart in the Civilian reality; he’d been an Air Force test pilot but never an astronaut, let alone the Silver Age Megaton Man.

Pammy seemed even more exasperated. “I give up,” she said, tossing her notes up in the air. “So, who are you supporting in tomorrow’s election?” The question was directed at both Clyde and Clarissa Too. “Let’s start with Clyde.”

“I’m sticking with our President,” said Clyde.

“Ladies?” Pammy asked.

Me, Mama, and Ms. Megaton Man all said in unison, “Not Harry Foster Lime.”

***

Backstage, Pammy was fuming at Preston. “You set me up!”

“What do you mean?” said Preston, wounded. “You did great. I gave you the story of the year, on a silver platter. From all this exposure, you’ll have a million job offers from the broadcast and cable networks—this could mean a whole new career for you.”

“And whatever shred of journalistic integrity I still had left is out the window,” said Pammy. She pointed at me. “I know Clarissa James is Ms. Megaton Man,” she said. “Only, I can’t prove it. But now, the gloves are coming off.”

“What am I?” asked Clarissa Too. “Chopped liver?”

Pammy groaned and stormed off.

“Ah, she’ll get over it,” said Preston, lighting a cigarette. “The important thing is, we’ve kept this whole business from interfering with the election. Americans can go to the poles and vote their consciences, their prejudices, and their innate xenophobia without having to think about issues like race and the sanctity of marriage.”

“Most importantly,” said Mama, “my Clarissa can go about her college studies without questions about her being a Megahero hanging over her head.”

I turned to Clarissa Too. “Where on Earth did you come from? You’re not the Ms. Megaton Man in this reality. I am.”

“Where do you think?” she replied. “From the Civilian reality you visited last summer.”

“Yes, but how did you get here? The Time Turntable? The Dimensional Doorway? The Heteroreality Helmet? I don’t know if you realize, but there are negative consequences and untold ramifications when you use artificial means to cross the Dimensional Threshold.”

“I did what you did,” said Ms. Megaton Man. “I just astrally-projected myself here. Your friend Jasper in New York sent me some telepathic message saying you were in trouble. I came to help.”

I could see Jasper having some gizmo to contact the Civilian reality, since he’d worked with the Multimensional Transceiver. “You did help,” I said. “but I can’t do astral projection without the guidance of Doctor Messiah. Besides,” I said, touching Ms. Megaton Man’s arm, “you’re not astral at all; you’re here in the too, too solid flesh.”

My Counterpart from another dimensions shrugged her shoulders. “Maybe you can do it, too, Clarissa—you just never tried. Ever since I got zapped by the Cosmic Cue-Ball, all of this Megahero stuff is new to me.” She looked at Mama. “So, are we going out to eat?”

The Mod Puma, who hadn’t really left the studio, emerged from a dressing room in Civilian attire and joined Clyde.

“Aren’t you expected back in your own reality?” asked Clyde.

“I’m not in any hurry,” said Ms. Megaton Man. “I was the only Megahero there. It got to be kinda lonely. Frankly, I thought I’d hang out in this reality with some of you Megaheroes for a while.”