Paloma Watched the Locksmith Close My Own Front Door

Nora sent Dennis a warning before Sunday. She copied the lawyer he had hired after the lender called him.

At eleven fifty that morning, I went downstairs for milk. Paloma walked with me. She had been helping copy the repair books, and she carried a folder under her arm.

We came back to find a locksmith at the foot of my stairs.

Dennis stood beside him.

"That's her," he said. "She's moved out."

"I went for milk."

The locksmith lowered his drill.

"You told me the apartment was empty."

"She's a guest," Dennis said.

Paloma stepped beside me.

"She has a lease. I watched her leave fifteen minutes ago. Her coat is still upstairs."

The locksmith looked at Dennis, then at the folder Paloma opened.

She held out the lease copy. Her voice stayed as warm as it had been when she offered children cheese rolls. Her feet did not move.

"You should read that before you touch another lock."

He had already changed the side entrance cylinder. My key no longer turned it.

"Give her the new key," the locksmith told Dennis.

"I paid for it."

"Then I'll refund you and put the old cylinder back."

Dennis grabbed the key from his hand and went inside. The door shut in our faces.

I called Nora. Paloma called no one. She wrote the time on a receipt and asked the locksmith for his business card.

"You can tell the court exactly what you saw," she said.

He gave her his card.

I slept on Paloma's couch that night. I had my medicine because she had made me pack it. My rice cooker, Jun's photograph, and my favorite slippers were locked upstairs.

Her son left a blanket folded at my feet.

"Mom said nobody should have to ask for this," he told me.

I thanked him and turned my face toward the couch until I could speak again.

Nora filed an urgent request at the county courthouse. At the hearing, Dennis wore the blue suit he usually saved for funerals.

His lawyer said there had been a family misunderstanding.

"Is there a written lease?" the judge asked.

"There is a document," the lawyer said.

Nora handed up the signed lease and the cleared checks.

The judge read without speaking. The room seemed much quieter than a bowling alley, but I felt the same strain as when a motor stayed on after the rack jammed.

Dennis said the rent was too low to count.

"It was the rent you agreed to," the judge said.

Paloma took the witness chair. She gave her name and described our trip for milk, the changed cylinder, and Dennis taking the key.

"Are you related to Mrs. Mori?" the judge asked.

"No. I run a bowling league there."

"Do you have a financial interest in her loan?"

"No. I have an interest in what I saw."

She did not add anything. She did not need to.

The locksmith's written account matched hers. Dennis's lawyer stopped calling it a misunderstanding.

The temporary order required access restored that day, barred another lock change that kept me out, and set a later hearing. The rent still had to be paid. I had never asked otherwise.

Nora would seek my lockout expenses and fees when the full case was heard.

In the hall, Dennis caught up to me.

"Was it worth dragging our name through here?"

I took my wedge from my pocket. I had packed it with my medicine, without thinking.

"You locked the door," I said.

His lawyer touched his elbow and drew him away.

By four, I had a new key. I tested it twice before climbing the stairs. Nothing in my apartment had been thrown away.

The milk had spent Sunday in Paloma's refrigerator. She brought it over with a loaf of bread and did not joke about my expensive trip to the store.

"Would you like me to stay?" she asked.

"For tea."

She understood. I wanted company, and I wanted to spend the night in my own bed. Neither wish needed a long defense.

There was one change. The bulb in the little hallway light outside my door was gone.

I photographed the empty socket, sent Nora the picture, and put in a bulb from my own box. I was tired of dark steps.

That night, Paloma helped me put the copied receipts in date order. We had sixteen charges, but two were hard to read.

"I can ask Lena," I said. "She kept the alley books before Dennis cut her hours."

I left a message asking only whether she could help explain the bills.

At nine, she arrived carrying a flat carton tied with string.

"He gave me these when he cleared my desk," she said. "Keiko, every repair bill had two versions."