"And you? Duluth?"
"I don't know yet." She held the box tighter. "I've got till Saturday to tell Stan."
Saturday. March the first. And a week after that—
"The eighth," Augie said. "My show for Artie. It's at seven o'clock."
"It's her birthday," Frankie said. "I know. It's okay. I'll be at St. Casimir's. I'll bring the Magnavox if I have to, now I've got a record that doesn't sound like it's being played through a sock." She smiled at him sideways. "You can make it up to me after you're famous."
He didn't answer. He was frowning at the road with the particular concentration of a man doing arithmetic in his head.
"Augie?"
"St. Casimir's," he said slowly. "The dayroom. Does it have a phone jack?"
"I don't know. Why?"
"No reason," said Augie Nyquist, and she could see, in the green glow of the dashboard, that he was very nearly smiling.
IX.
On the first of March, Frankie called Duluth at seven o'clock, after 60 Minutes, and told her brother she needed one more week.
"One week," Stan said. "Frankie, the bed—"
"Come down for her birthday. All of you. Carol and the boys. Come to St. Casimir's on the eighth, at seven, and see her. Then we'll decide. Together. In the same room, not on the phone." She took a breath. "I'm not saying no. I'm saying come and look first."
There was a long pause on the line, full of long-distance crackle and, faintly, a dog named Kowalski barking at something.