The Notary Opened His Journal And Kept Both Hands Flat

By eight, I was sitting outside a lawyer's office with my work bag between my shoes.

Ruth Baines arrived carrying a paper sack of biscuits. I had left her a message at six. She waved me inside before she finished unlocking the door.

"Eat," she said. "Then show me the original."

She read every page. I watched her finger stop at the witness lines.

"A notary stamp alone wouldn't make this a valid codicil," she said. "These two witnesses matter. We'll need to confirm how everyone signed."

"Does the old will vanish?"

"No. This changes the gift of the patterns. The rest can stand."

Her retainer was $1,500. My last job had paid $4,200. I wrote the check and stopped thinking of that money as a way to take a month off.

Ruth copied the envelope, front and back, and gave me a receipt for the original.

"We'll file it with the court. Your aunt can't settle ownership by announcing an auction. But a filing doesn't build a fence around the shop. We need the seller and auction house on notice today."

She made calls while I ate half a biscuit.

At ten, I drove to a small office near a strip of live oaks in south Savannah. Ellis Park had agreed to meet me between appointments.

He was forty-two, a Korean American man with narrow shoulders, round glasses, and a shirt buttoned neatly at the wrists. Three pens lay beside his appointment book. All faced the same way.

"I remember your grandfather," he said. "He asked whether my clock was fast."

That sounded like Granddad.

"Was it?"

"Forty seconds."

Ellis brought out a bound journal. He told me he kept it by choice, with a line for every act he performed.

"May I see the March entry?"

He checked my ID, then opened the book. He covered the unrelated entries with two sheets of paper.

March 11. Ten fourteen in the morning. Granddad's name. Three-page codicil and attached sworn statement. Two witnesses, Nina Vale and Cedric Shaw. A fee of $10.

"You were all together?" I asked.

"Yes. Your grandfather signed while the witnesses watched. They signed while he watched. Then I handled the sworn statement."

"Was anyone helping him answer?"

"He answered for himself. He told me you fixed bells for a living. He seemed proud of that."

I looked down at my hands.

Ellis reached for a box of tissues, then seemed unsure whether offering it would embarrass me. He left it halfway between us.

I took one.

His desk phone rang. He glanced at the screen and grew still.

"Your aunt has called twice this morning."

"About the codicil?"

"About a date."

He answered because the ringing had become worse than the thought of speaking.

"Mrs. Zhou. Yes. She's here."

His eyes moved toward me. I shook my head when he reached for the speaker button. He left the call private, but her voice carried across the small desk.

"That was a draft appointment, Ellis. You remember it wrong."

"My journal says execution."

"He was tired. He didn't know what he was signing."

"That isn't what you asked me yesterday. Yesterday you asked whether I could remove the line."

The office went very quiet.

Ellis pressed his palms flat against the desk.

"I won't change a true entry," he said. "Please send any further request in writing."

He ended the call. His neck had turned red above his collar.

"I don't like this," he said.

"Neither do I."

"I mean arguments."

"You didn't argue. You read a line."

He looked at the journal again, as if that made the task smaller.

With his consent, I called Ruth. They arranged a statement and a lawful way to provide the relevant record. I left with the witness names and the weight of something firm beneath my grief.

Nina answered first. She had taught Granddad's evening reading class years earlier. Cedric had been his home nurse. Neither received a gift under either document.

Both remembered the signing. Both agreed to speak to Ruth.

At noon, Ruth called back.

"The auction house has flagged the patterns as disputed. They want proof before they withdraw the lot. Your aunt says you missed the final commission and can't meet the condition."

"I have ninety days."

"Yes. The auction is her deadline. Don't mistake it for his. Still, we need that register before things move."

Ruth had secured an agreement for me to inspect the shop the next morning. Doreen would attend. Nothing could leave during the visit.

I drove past the marsh on my way back to the motel. The tide had pulled away from the grass, leaving dark channels in the mud.

At a red light, a photograph arrived from the auction clerk.

It showed Granddad's open register. The last numbered leaf had been cut away.