I Matched Each Yellow Price Card To A Signed Inventory Page

At eight Monday morning, Emil backed a borrowed van toward the side door. He laid moving blankets over the floor as if he were making beds.

I carried two folders and a roll of blue wool.

Gwen stood behind the counter with a man in a brown jacket.

"This is Cal," she said. "He's helping with the sale."

"I price used furniture," he said. "I don't know these instruments."

"Then this should be simple," I said.

I placed a copy of the schedule on the counter.

Gwen didn't pick it up.

"I already know what that is."

"Good. Page one says I kept ownership of the listed instruments and tools. Page two says they were lent to the company for display and repair work."

Cal leaned forward.

"There's also a removal clause," I said. "Written notice gives me the right to collect them the next day. An unauthorized sale offer ends the loan at once."

I had emailed notice the night before. I set down the printed email with its time showing.

Gwen folded her arms.

"You can't take the whole business."

"I'm taking twelve instruments and the tools on these pages. The company chairs, counter, sign, and computer stay. Customer repairs stay until we arrange their return."

"Those tools were used here."

"So was your coat."

Emil coughed into his hand. Cal looked at the floor.

I opened my other folder.

The first receipt came from a retired dairy farmer's estate. It listed a walnut accordion, serial 2086, for $875. My bank statement showed the payment from my personal account.

I lifted the yellow card from M-11.

"Serial?" I asked.

Emil read it aloud.

"Two, zero, eight, six."

Cal checked the photograph on the schedule.

"Same chip at the corner," he said.

I tied a fresh blue loop beside the old one and placed the instrument in its case.

Gwen followed us to the side door.

"If that gets scratched, don't expect the business to pay."

"It won't," Emil said.

We worked through the morning that way. Receipt. Number. Picture. Case.

A red button accordion came from an auction near Kiel. A small student instrument had cost me $140 in a church basement outside town. A silver grille belonged to an accordion I had bought with three loose keys in a paper bag.

Each one had a blue loop.

By eleven, seven cases rested in the van.

Gwen stopped speaking to me. Instead, she told Cal about the years she had carried the rent, the heat, and my difficult nature.

He kept reading the pages.

At my bench, I counted the tuning files, reed blocks, valve punches, and bellows clamps. The little brass reed gauge had come from my first teacher. His widow had sold it to me for $60 because she knew I would use it.

Gwen put her hand on its box.

"That stays."

I turned to the right page and pointed to the photo.

She moved her hand.

I felt no rush of victory. I felt tired. Every tool had done useful work here, and now I had to prove it was mine to touch.

"Where's the black concert instrument?" I asked.

Its stand stood empty.

"Being shown privately," Gwen said.

"To whom?"

"I don't report every customer visit to you."

"You do when you send out my property."

The front bell rang before she answered.

A woman in a green winter coat entered with a stiff cardboard folder. Snow crystals shone in her hair.

"Gwen? I'm here about the accordion. You said I could collect it today."

Gwen walked toward her too quickly.

"Mara, let's talk outside."

"Why?"

The woman looked at the empty stands, then at the cases Emil was carrying.

"Is something wrong?"

"Which accordion?" I asked.

"The black one. For my son's music program."

She pulled a printed invoice from the folder.

The top said Harbor Bellows Workshop. Below it were the words Paid In Full: $6,800.

I saw the serial number before I saw anything else.

4417.

"When did you pay?" I asked.

"Thursday. Gwen said another buyer was coming, so I sent the whole amount."

"It wasn't available for sale."

Mara's face changed. She looked back at Gwen.

"You said the owner approved it."

"I am an owner," Gwen said.

"Of the building," I said.

Mara held out the second page. Near the bottom, a short line read Instrument Owner Approval.

My name sat beside it in a cramped, slanted signature.

My real signature was broad and plain. I made the Z in two strokes. Whoever had written that one had curled it like a ribbon.

Emil set his empty hands flat on the counter.

"Zofia," he said softly. "Take a picture before anyone folds that page."

Mara did more than hold it still.

She handed me the invoice, and beneath my false signature was the bank account where Gwen had told her to send the money.