The Morning Walkthrough Stopped At The Door Of My Growing Room

The man with the tape measure reached for the handle of Room Two.

"Please wash your hands first," I said.

He looked at Kao.

"It's just a storage room," Kao told him.

"It's a growing room. Those bags have living blocks inside."

I stood between them and the door. Behind its small window, gray oyster caps rose from rows of pale sawdust blocks. One dirty sleeve could bring in mold that cost me a whole rack.

The man lowered his hand.

"I was told the place was vacant."

Naly unrolled her plan on my packing table. She wanted a licensed meal kitchen, with a place to teach cooking classes. There were sinks along one wall and a bright little classroom where my fruiting racks stood.

"Dad said your lease ended when Uncle Seng died," she said.

"My lease is with Dry Wash Mushrooms LLC. It has six years left."

"We can discuss technical things later," Kao said.

"The rent is a technical thing too. You cash it every month."

Naly rolled her plan closed.

The man offered to return after the tenants had agreed. I thanked him. Kao watched his truck leave as if I had sent away a paying customer.

"You humiliated me," he said.

"You brought him here."

I locked the office before leaving for Choua's appointment. My worker, Elena, stayed to pack the restaurant orders. I told her nobody could move a rack or change a lock.

"Even family?" she asked.

"Especially anyone without my written approval."

Choua worked at a small community lending office near a bus route. She was forty-seven, Hmong American like me, and spoke so softly that people often leaned forward to argue with her.

That never helped them.

She placed a pad beside my envelope.

"What money did you lend?"

"One hundred sixty-eight thousand dollars."

"Where did it come from?"

"The sale of my mother's little house in Minnesota. My share was two hundred fourteen thousand."

"And whose account held it?"

"Mine. The separate account you asked me to keep."

She nodded once.

Four years earlier, Choua had helped us gather papers for a possible business loan. That loan had fallen through. I had offered my inheritance instead. She had insisted we pay a lawyer to write the private loan and mortgage.

Now she asked permission to compare her old file with mine.

The wires went straight to the cold-room builder and the electrical contractor. Kao had signed as borrower and as the sole owner of the warehouse. Seng and I had signed the company's lease separately.

"People mix those things together," Choua said. "We won't."

The agreement charged four percent simple interest. All principal and interest came due after four years, on May thirty-first. Kao had wanted time to get his other rentals in order. I had agreed.

The due date had passed before the memorial supper.

Choua wrote the numbers slowly.

"Six thousand seven hundred twenty dollars each year. Four years. Twenty-six thousand eight hundred eighty in interest."

She drew a line.

"At maturity, one hundred ninety-four thousand eight hundred eighty dollars. Has anyone paid any part?"

"No."

"Did you forgive any part in writing?"

"No."

"Did Seng have authority to forgive your loan?"

"No. He told Kao we'd discuss time after his treatment. We never did."

She turned the mortgage toward me. My name appeared above the county recording stamp.

"You hold a debt secured by his land. That isn't the same as owning the land. A lawyer needs to handle enforcement."

It felt good to hear a limit stated as plainly as a right.

Before I left, she told me something else.

Kao had asked her office about a seventy-five-thousand-dollar improvement loan for Naly. He had described an empty warehouse with no debt.

"I have disclosed that I helped with your old file," she said. "Another officer will review his application. I won't decide it."

She asked whether she could give that officer the mortgage's recording number. I said yes.

Outside, I called Kao.

"You need to speak with my lawyer about the unpaid loan. I'll send the contact information."

"What loan?"

"The hundred sixty-eight thousand dollars for the growing rooms. I kept the signed agreement. And the recorded mortgage."

For a moment, I heard only his turn signal clicking.

"That was family money."

"It was my money. You borrowed it."

His voice changed.

"You should have thought about family before digging that up."

"I didn't dig. I opened a cabinet."

He stopped making even the small sounds of a man driving.

Then he said, "You're too late, Zoua. The deed went to my daughter yesterday."