Gwen Opened The Preview Before I Had Finished Tuning The Reeds

The first thing I heard was a man pressing every bass button at once.

It made a thick, sick sound. I knew that accordion without seeing it. One reed sat a breath sharp. I had left it that way on Friday so I could bring it down on Monday.

Now it was Sunday, and someone had tied a yellow price card to its handle.

"Please put that down," I said.

The man looked toward Gwen before he looked at me.

"Our bench worker," she told him. "She's careful about things."

I stood in the front door of Harbor Bellows Workshop with sleet melting on my sleeves.

I was thirty-three, a Polish American woman with dark hair cut at my chin, a broad nose, and a white scar across my left thumb.

My name was Zofia Mazur, and I restored accordions. I replaced cracked reed leathers, patched bellows, and loosened buttons that had slept for years. When I tested reeds, I closed my eyes. Sight could make a clean cover seem like a clean sound.

Gwen was forty-one, a white woman with a smooth blond bob, pale gray eyes, and a cream coat she never wore near the glue pot.

She held a paper cup and wore the calm face she used when spending someone else's time.

"It's a liquidation preview," she said. "Don't upset the customers."

Our shop sat in Sheboygan, Wisconsin, a few blocks from the river. That morning, the windows had fogged above rows of my accordions. Yellow cards hung where my repair tags belonged.

The walnut piano accordion wore a price of $4,200. The black concert instrument beside it said $6,800.

Neither was for sale.

"Where are the repair jobs?" I asked.

"In back. This is a business decision."

"We didn't make it."

"I own the building, Zofia."

She said that slowly, like a person explaining winter to a child.

Two years earlier, she had offered me the empty storefront. We formed a small company, owned half each. The company paid her $900 a month in rent. I brought my bench, tools, and collection.

Gwen handled the counter. I handled everything that made sound.

She had first called the place our fresh start. Later, the low rent became a favor. Holding a package became a favor. Letting me use the side door became another.

Each favor gained a price whenever I disagreed with her.

"I carried you through two winters," she said now.

"The company paid the rent."

"Because I allowed it to stay low."

The man put down the walnut accordion. Under its handle, a short loop of blue wool hung against the wood.

I had tied that loop at an estate auction outside Plymouth. Every instrument I bought got one until I entered it in my own book. Sometimes I left it there. My grandmother had used the same blue wool to mend my mittens.

"That one's mine," I said.

Gwen gave a small laugh.

"Everything here belongs to the shop."

I looked at the little paper stuck beneath its yellow card.

M-11.

My number, written in my hand.

There was another copy of that number in a folder at home. The folder held an auction receipt, photographs, and a schedule Gwen had signed when we opened.

She had called the schedule busywork.

I had called it a condition.

The door opened behind me. Emil Kaczmarek stepped inside, carrying his cap in both hands.

At sixty-seven, he still played dance jobs around Sheboygan County. He was Polish American, like me, and could make a hall full of tired people stand up before the soup bowls were cleared.

"Good morning," he said gently. "Is this a sale?"

"Preview only," Gwen said.

Emil looked at the yellow cards.

"Does Zofia know?"

"Zofia does bench work."

His fingers stopped moving around his cap.

He never raised his voice when someone stepped on a craftsperson. He got quieter.

"Then I would like to hear from the bench," he said.

Gwen smiled at the visitors.

"Excuse us a moment."

I walked to the black concert accordion. Its model plate had worn thin, but the serial number, 4417, was clear inside the grille. I had paid $2,100 for it and spent 184 hours bringing it back.

Its blue loop was gone.

I closed my eyes and pressed three notes, low, middle, high. I used those same three notes after every repair.

The middle one still needed work.

"Don't start a performance," Gwen said.

I opened my eyes.

"I'm checking what was touched."

I photographed the display, each price card, and the preview sign. Then I took a picture of the company register on the counter.

Gwen set down her cup.

"You need to leave your keys before you go."

"I'll keep them until our property is sorted."

"We can sort it now."

"We will. On paper."

Emil followed me outside. Across the street, dirty snow had formed a ridge beside the curb.

"What do you need?" he asked.

"A van tomorrow. Clean blankets. Someone who can count."

"I can count very slowly."

At home, I found the folder before I took off my wet boots.

On its first page, beneath the words Owner Property Schedule, was Gwen's full signature.