My Old Key Stopped Working While The Shrimp Boats Waited

The new lock had a blue plastic cover. That was what I noticed first. My old key had worn a bright half moon in the brass around the old lock, and now even that small mark was gone.

I tried the key once. Then I took it out.

Inside, Maris Bell raised one finger. She was on the phone beside my cutting table.

I was a dark-skinned woman with broad shoulders, close-cropped black curls, and a small pale scar across my right thumb.

At thirty-one, I was a Nigerian American fishing-net repair specialist. I could tie a double sheet bend with one hand while my other hand held torn mesh under strain. That Monday morning, both hands hung empty at my sides.

Maris finished her call and opened the door six inches.

"We need to keep this calm, Nneka."

"Then let me into my shop."

"Our shop has moved past that arrangement."

Maris was a white woman with a smooth blond bob, green eyes, and a narrow gold chain she touched whenever she wanted someone to trust her.

She was thirty-six. She could learn a customer's dog's name in one meeting and forget a bill she had seen every week for three months.

Behind her, a new sign sat on the counter.

NNEKA OKAFOR IS NO LONGER AUTHORIZED TO ACCEPT SHOP PAYMENTS.

Below that, in smaller print, were the words contract pieceworker.

"Take that down," I said.

"You were paid by the job. That's what a pieceworker is."

"Those were repair estimates. I didn't pay myself wages."

She glanced toward the road. A truck had slowed beside the oyster-shell strip we used for parking.

"You have your little notebook," she said. "I have the customers. Please don't make a scene."

Our shop stood in Biloxi, Mississippi, a few blocks from the water. Warm wind carried diesel, wet rope, and the sweet smell from a bakery that opened before the boats moved. I could hear a loose halyard tap a mast beyond the buildings.

For eight months, Maris had called herself my business partner. We had picked the name Sound Mend together. She had ordered the painted sign and called us cofounders at every dock gathering.

I had let her handle the front counter because she liked people and I liked work that could survive a hard pull.

I had kept one packet at home, though. The packet had a closing ledger, a lease, and the exact cost of trusting her promise.

"Who changed the lock?" I asked.

"A licensed man. Don't threaten him."

"I asked a question."

She closed the door.

Oscar Tran got out of the truck. At forty-seven, he had a stiff left knee and the sharp, tired look of a captain who had already checked three weather reports. He was Vietnamese American, and his shrimp boat, Little Lantern, had its main trawl stacked inside my shop.

"Why are you standing out here?" he asked.

"Apparently, I'm a pieceworker."

He read the sign through the glass.

"Apparently, somebody needs a better sign."

Maris opened the door again. Her whole face changed.

"Oscar! We're making a small change in staffing. Your gear is safe."

"Is Nneka doing it?"

"We'll have trained help."

"That's not what I asked."

His fleet planned to leave the following Thursday at five in the evening. Ten days sounded like room until you counted the torn wings, worn seams, and new codend that still needed fitting.

"You can collect your personal needles at four," Maris told me. "I'll have a box ready."

"Netting needles," Oscar said. "And she owns more than needles."

She smiled at him as if he had made a sweet mistake.

A length of scrap twine lay near the step. I picked it up. With my right hand, I made a small bend around two fingers and dressed the knot. My left hand stayed in my pocket.

I had done that since I was a girl learning from my uncle: make one sound thing before deciding what came next.

Oscar watched the knot tighten.

"My crew won't get dragged into this," he said. "They didn't buy your quarrel."

"Nobody asked them to," Maris said.

"Good. Then don't ask them to choose between their pay and their repair woman."

I looked through the door at his bundled net. On its cloth sleeve were three red stitches. I put those on every sleeve after the first inspection. They meant I had counted the damage myself.

The little red marks were still there.

"Don't move that bundle," I told Maris.

"You can't give orders here anymore."

Oscar reached into his shirt pocket.

"Then somebody explain this before I leave."

He unfolded a receipt for $3,200, paid that morning. The shop name was ours. The receiving account was one I had never seen.