Eli Brought The Letter That Had Buried Me Alive

Eli arrived at Lila Grant's office with his bass case and a grocery bag full of mail.

"Didn't know which one you'd want," he said.

I stood too fast. My knee caught, and he waited while I found my balance. He didn't grab me. That small kindness nearly broke me.

Then I hugged him.

"You were dead," I said into his coat.

"Been feeling better lately."

His laugh still had that little squeak at the end.

At seventy-four, he had lost most of his hair and none of his habit of bringing too much. He set the bass against the wall.

"In case there's work after," he told Lila.

She made room for the grocery bag.

Inside were birthday cards, returned envelopes, and a letter on Franklin's old booking stationery. The letter was dated six years earlier.

Odessa can no longer manage contact with former associates. Please respect the family's privacy during her decline.

I read it twice.

Six years earlier, I had been teaching June's grandson to play scales. I had also been told Eli's heart had stopped while he slept.

"I called," Eli said. "He said you wouldn't know my voice."

"I would know your bass through a brick wall."

He looked down.

"I should've come."

"He made it sound kind," I said. "He was good at that."

Lila let us sit a moment. Then she pulled a yellow pad toward her.

"We need to separate what hurts from what we can prove. We can do something about both. Today we start with the papers."

I gave her Ruth's agreement, the sale company's name, and the account number.

"Did you authorize your husband to sell these recordings?"

"No."

"Did you sign any change in payment instructions?"

"No."

"Has he handled live bookings for you?"

"Yes. Ten percent of a job. Never ownership."

She wrote that down.

My collection records arrived while we were there. Lila printed them with my permission. Thirty-six months of receipts filled seventeen pages.

Gross license fees: $86,400.

Collection charge, five percent: $4,320.

Net sent out: $82,080.

Every net payment had gone to Bell Lantern Holdings LLC.

"He said the tapes earned nothing," I whispered.

The changed payment form listed Franklin as manager. A box marked Rights Owner contained my name. Beneath it sat a signature that looked like mine from across a room.

Up close, the final loop was wrong.

I had learned to leave that loop open after my thumb began to lock. This signature had a tight little knot.

"That's not mine."

Lila did not call it proof by itself. She asked for dated samples and the original electronic record. She also asked who could have used my old signature.

"The man who filed every tax return," I said.

Eli pulled another paper from his bag. It was our band agreement, four names above four signatures.

Eight percent of net recording income went to him. Celia and Nessa each got six percent. I kept the rest.

"We need all three of you accounted for," Lila said. "Money recovered for the catalog may include money owed to them."

"It does," I said. "Write that first."

Ruth sat back with her arms folded. I knew that look. It was the one she used when a singer finally found the note.

Lila sent a notice to the buyer that afternoon. It disputed Franklin's authority, demanded that the recordings stay unreleased, and asked them to preserve every sale document.

She sent a separate demand to Franklin and his company.

I also signed a notice ending any authority he still had to book work or handle money for me. Lila sent copies to the collector, the archive, and the buyer.

"He'll say I'm being ungrateful," I said.

"He can say it," she replied. "It won't change this notice."

I asked for a copy to keep. She handed it to me, without first offering it to anyone else.

Her retainer was $3,000. I could not pay it all at once. She agreed to a written payment plan, and Ruth offered to lend the first installment.

"Put my loan on paper too," Ruth said. "We're having a theme."

By five, Franklin had called me fourteen times.

I answered the fifteenth on speaker.

"Where are you?" he asked.

"With my lawyer."

"You have confused some people, Odessa."

"I'm getting less confused."

He drew a slow breath.

"The buyer has a signed release. You'll embarrass yourself. Come home before this costs us everything."

Lila asked him to send the release to her office.

He hung up.

I stayed with Ruth that night. I told him where I would be, then turned off the sound on my phone.

At nine, an email from the buyer arrived. Lila forwarded the attachment with one line: We will examine this together.

The page bore my real signature.

Above it were words I had never agreed to: PERMANENT TRANSFER OF ALL MASTER RIGHTS.