"So the whole time—" She had to stop. "The whole time I've been playing that tape for her. And it's warbling. And it's going to snap. You had a box of them, Augie."
"Yes."
"Why didn't you tell me?"
He made himself look up. She could see him do it, like a man lifting something heavy. "Because the minute I told you, you'd know I could have helped you the first day. In this store. And I didn't, because I was embarrassed about a kazoo solo. And then every day after that it got worse, because every day it was one more day I'd let you play that tape." He swallowed. "I was a coward. That's the whole reason. There's no better one. I'm sorry, Frankie."
She looked at him for a long time.
"And Chicago?" she said.
He closed his eyes briefly. "A station called WVRB. Overnights. Real money, a dental plan. They want me to start April first. The program director's going to listen to a live show on the eighth, and if he likes it, it's mine." He opened his eyes. "I didn't tell you because I didn't want it to be real yet. Because if it was real, I'd have to decide something."
Frankie breathed out, a long breath that fogged a little in the cold store.
"Okay," she said. "My turn, then. Stan wants to move Babcia to a home in Duluth. Her money runs out in April. There's a bed at the end of March. He needs an answer by the first. I didn't tell you either." She pulled one hand from her pocket and rubbed her eyes. "So I guess we're both cowards. That's something to have in common. Besides Galaga."
He laughed, a short broken sound, and she almost did too.
"I'm still mad," she said.
"I know."
"I'm going home now. I need a day. Maybe two. That's not me leaving. That's me needing a day." She went to the door, and turned back with her hand on it. "Augie. I want to see the box."
"Saturday," he said. "My mother's in Roseville. I'll drive."
VIII.