Six Families Brought Receipts To A Meeting Without Cookies

Mara called the demolition contractor while I watched her finger move down the receipt.

"I am the trustee," she said. "There is no approval to remove that building. Do not send a crew."

She followed the call with written notice and proof of her role. The contractor's office replied that the $4,800 only held space on its calendar. No machines would move without a signed work order and the required permits.

I let my shoulders drop.

"A date on paper isn't a wrecking ball," Haruto said. "But we still cross it out properly."

Mara asked for cancellation and a refund. Anika asked the city for the property file. A demolition application had been started under Beatrice's name, but no permit had been issued. Mara sent the city written notice that Beatrice no longer represented the owner.

Then we called the theater board.

Its chair, Alma Price, arrived with her meeting book clamped against her chest.

"I thought we were discussing the roof," she said.

"So did I," I told her.

The nonprofit had five board members. None had voted for demolition. Alma read the minutes from every meeting since Ellis died. There were school visits, insurance renewals, and a long fight over whether the goose needed shoes.

There was no vote to replace our theater with shops.

Alma opened her calendar and showed us the next school visit. Thirty-two children were due on Wednesday.

"Shall I cancel?" she asked.

"Is the building unsafe?" I asked.

"No."

"Then let them come. We can keep one promise while we sort out the others."

"We need an accountant," Mara said.

The board approved $1,850 for an independent review. Della Ruiz, who kept books for several small arts groups, agreed to trace the receipts and report in writing.

I called the six families listed on the workshop forms. All six had paid $650. All six had been told to send money to Beatrice's separate business account because the theater's payment system was being updated.

There had been no update.

We invited them to the theater on Saturday. I put water on the folding table. Cookies would have felt like an attempt to sweeten something that deserved to stay bitter.

"I can't promise dates for refunds yet," Mara said. "I can promise each payment will be listed and followed."

A father in a work shirt pushed a receipt toward her.

"That was my overtime."

"I understand," I said.

"Do you? My daughter thinks she's learning to make a horse."

I brought out a small wooden horse from the workshop. Its legs folded beneath it as I lowered the control bar.

"She still can," I said. "But you must get your money back whether she comes or not."

He watched the horse stand again.

"Don't use the kids to cover the money," he said.

"I won't."

That hurt. It was also fair.

After they left, I tied a blue tag to the horse. I named it Overtime. It needed a new shoulder pin before any child could work it.

Micah found me drilling the hole.

"Bea says you made her look like a thief."

"Where is the money?"

"She's pulling things together."

"That isn't a place."

He rubbed his neck. There was gray in his hair that I had not noticed before.

"She thought a new building would bring steady income. You could still have a little puppet room."

"Did you know about this?"

"A sketch. Months ago."

"Did you ask whether I agreed?"

"She said you needed time."

I set down the drill.

"You knew I wasn't being asked. That's what needing time meant."

"I didn't want another fight after Dad."

"Then you left me alone in one."

He looked toward the stage, where he had hung lights since high school.

"I can help with the records."

"Tell Anika what you saw. All of it. Don't tidy it first."

He nodded, but he did not take out his phone.

That evening, Beatrice came to the locked office door. Mara's temporary manager had changed the locks after saving copies of the files. Beatrice's personal things were boxed for pickup with a witness present.

"My handbag is in there," she said.

"Then we'll get your handbag."

"You cannot shut me out like a stranger."

"Your job ended. Your things are still yours."

She held her chin high.

"People will ask whether you were fit to make that decision."

"Let them read it."

"You think a few old pages protect you from everything?"

"No," I said. "That's why we are keeping the new ones."

On Monday morning, a process server arrived at my workshop.

Beatrice had sued Mara and me to challenge her removal. She wanted an emergency order restoring her access. Her sworn statement said the theater board had approved redevelopment at a meeting in February.

Attached was a set of minutes Alma had never seen.