Mrs. Dunning turned around. She looked at Isaac for a long moment.
"You," she said. "I told you no."
"Yes, ma'am. You did."
"I told you no in August, in my own kitchen, and I meant it."
"I know you meant it."
"And you did it anyway. Six weeks. Behind my back." Her voice was not soft. "You had that child forging a store card. Do you know I wrote those people a letter? I wrote Fairmont Market a thank-you letter on my good stationery, two pages, about how they were the only company left in America that remembered an old woman. I told her, I said, Delphine, put this in the mail for me, and she said she'd do it, and I'll bet you anything that letter is in her bureau drawer right now."
"It's in my math binder," the girl said through her hand.
Mrs. Dunning closed her eyes.
For a moment nobody said anything. The fluorescent tube buzzed. Out in the lobby somebody came in the front door, stamped wet feet, stopped, and then, apparently thinking better of whatever was going on in the package room, went on to the stairs.
"Week six," Mrs. Dunning said, with her eyes still shut. "I thought that was a strange thing for a store to put on a card." She opened them again. "Pick up those groceries, Delphine. All of them. Put them in my bag. The cookies too. And bring your schoolbooks, you're going to do your homework at my table." She turned to Isaac. "And you're going to carry that chicken up to my kitchen, and then you and I are going to have a conversation, and I am not going to enjoy it, and neither are you."