I Finished The Wigs While Gavin Tried To Empty My Bench

Gavin's notice claimed eighteen canvas blocks were missing. It said I would be responsible for their replacement cost of $1,260.

I counted our empty shelves, then the blocks holding work.

Eighteen were missing. That part was true.

"When did you last see them?" Leena asked by phone.

"Before Gavin rearranged stock last month."

"Write that down. Don't guess about the rest."

I started a dated work log in an ordinary school notebook. Nine fifteen: arrived. Nine twenty: photographed shelves. Nine thirty: began setting the widow's wig.

It was dull work. It helped me breathe.

Gavin came down carrying a cardboard box.

"Personal tools only," he said. "I'll pack them if you won't."

I slid my drawer shut.

"Our lawyers agreed on access."

"They agreed you could come in. They didn't agree you could poison my staff."

June looked up from the sink.

"She asked me where the clean towels were."

His face changed. The little joke he'd been building had nowhere to land.

He left the box on my bench.

I folded it flat and put it beside the recycling.

The hair supplier wouldn't release our order until the $2,680 balance was paid. Gavin said the account would be fixed soon. The first of those five orders was due on a bus leaving Friday.

I called Leena before I used my own money.

"I won't put cash into a drawer again," I said.

She had his lawyer confirm in writing that my payment would be a company debt to me, separate from my ownership. Then I paid the supplier directly and saved the receipt.

It hurt to spend it. It would have hurt more to let a touring crew carry his failure into a loading dock at midnight.

Bernice arrived Thursday with a tray of sandwiches and a printed correction from her company office.

They had stopped the payment Gavin wanted sent to his new billing desk. Future payments would go only to Lantern Lace, under written instructions approved by both members.

"Nobody pays twice," she said.

"They shouldn't have to."

She took a sandwich to June before taking one herself.

We worked late. Bernice checked labels and head charts while I dressed the wigs. She didn't touch the hair unless I asked. I didn't touch her freight forms without asking either.

That was what trust looked like when it had a job to do.

June waited until Gavin's office door closed before she spoke.

"Should I be looking for another job?"

I wanted to promise her more than I knew.

"Your hours are on the sheet," I said. "Keep your own copy. If anything changes, I'll tell you what I know as soon as I know it."

She nodded and tucked a copy into her bag.

I had spent too many years calling silence kindness. June needed facts she could use to pay her rent. I checked her hours with her before we went back to work.

At eleven, I placed the widow's wig under the bright lamp. The lace lay flat. The part looked like skin. I cut its three yellow basting stitches and pulled them free.

"Ready?" Bernice asked.

"Ready."

She signed the acceptance slip. I kept the carbon copy.

Gavin appeared in the stairwell.

"Make sure you get a picture of yourself being the hero."

I held out the shipping list.

"Check the count."

He didn't take it.

Bernice read each number aloud. June checked each box. When the truck came in the morning, every piece on that shipping list was there.

I slept four hours that afternoon. When I woke, my shoulders felt bruised from sitting, but my phone held a message from the tour.

All received. First fitting good.

I saved that too.

The ten business days in our agreement ran out the next Tuesday.

Gavin's answer arrived as a three-page summary. No bank statements. No check images. No records from Rusk Touring Hair.

One line listed my $42,000 as an old worker advance. Another said it had been repaid through weekly checks.

I stared at the page.

Those checks had paid for years of ventilating hair, washing pieces, and staying late. Gavin was trying to count my wages as the purchase of my own share.

Leena asked for my pay records and tax forms.

"I have every year," I said.

"Bring them. We're asking the court for access, preserved records, and a proper accounting."

For a moment, the word court made me think of television. Shouting. People standing at the wrong time.

Then I looked at my work log. Dates. Counts. Who had said what.

I could do dates and counts.

The following week, I returned to the shop for my payroll folder. A woman waited outside with a paper to hand me. She confirmed my name and served Gavin's filed counterclaim in the case Leena had opened.

He claimed I had never owned a share and had walked away with eighteen wig blocks.

At the bottom was a demand for damages, with my name typed as the person who owed them.