The New Lock Hung Beside My Old Delivery Marks

The new lock shone like a gold tooth against our gray kiosk door.

I had arrived at North Channel Ice before six. Lake Erie snow blew under the loading roof and stuck to my trouser cuffs. Inside my boots, one wool sock was plum and the other was mustard. I never removed my mismatched wool socks, even when I changed shoes at work.

I was a short, brown-skinned Filipino American woman of thirty-four, with broad shoulders, dark eyes, and black hair cut just below my chin.

My name was Liza Mendoza. I sharpened skates for a living. I could read a blade edge with my thumbnail, sliding it gently across the steel to feel which lip sat high. I kept my hands away from the length of the edge. Steel punished guessing.

So did Everett Crane, though I had learned that more slowly.

Through the kiosk window, I saw the empty patch where our larger grinder had stood.

Everett opened the door four inches.

Everett was a tall white man of forty, with sandy hair, pink cheeks, and a smile that showed one crooked front tooth.

"We need a cooling-off period," he said.

"Where's the long-bed machine?"

"Morning to you, too."

Behind him, two youth hockey bags sat beneath our pickup shelf. Saturday was two days away. We had thirty-one prepaid appointments booked.

I put my boot against the door before he closed it.

"My keys worked last night."

"The lease is being sorted. Miriam knows."

Miriam Keene managed the building for its owner. Everett called everyone by their first name when he wanted them to sound like witnesses.

While we waited, a father came looking for his son's gloves. Everett found them and tucked a peppermint into the cuff.

"Tell Max I saved his scoring hand," he said.

The father laughed. Everett remembered every child's name. I had once been glad that he made people feel welcome.

"Then call her down here."

He glanced at my tool roll.

"Liza, you do excellent bench work. But I handle accounts. Parents know me. You can't pay lawyers with a good hollow."

A hollow was the shallow curve ground into the bottom of a skate blade. A child could feel a bad one before an adult could explain it.

"Where's the machine?" I asked again.

He closed the door against my boot until I stepped back.

Miriam came down at seven with a paper coffee cup. She listened while Everett explained that I had become "uncomfortable with growth."

"The grinders came with the shop," he said. "They're attached equipment. They belong with the premises."

"They came through that loading door," I said. "I took pictures."

"Delivery pictures don't settle a business breakup," Miriam said.

She sounded tired, not cruel. That made her easier for Everett to use.

He pointed toward the remaining grinder through the glass.

"It's wired in."

"It plugs into an outlet. The bolts go into its stand."

Miriam held up a hand.

"I won't release anything while ownership is disputed. Send me documents."

Everett gave a little shrug. His wool coat looked new.

"That's fair."

He thought documents meant the customer list on his laptop, the bank login he had stopped sharing, and the lease folder he carried under his arm.

Mine were in a yellow sleeve at home.

Across the top, in Pavel Novak's block writing, were the words RETAINED TITLE. Below them were two serial numbers and the legal name of my small company.

I had also kept the final payment receipts. Pavel made me keep everything.

"A sharp edge has two sides," he used to say. "A deal should, too."

I left without raising my voice.

At my kitchen table, I set Pavel's little brass level on the yellow sleeve. He had given it to me after my first clean set of figure blades. Its green bubble rested between two black lines.

I watched until my own hands stopped shaking.

Then I called him.

"Crane changed the lock," I said.

"Did you break it?"

"No."

"Good. Locks are cheaper than lawyers. What did he move?"

"The long bed. Serial MN-614."

For a moment, all I heard was his shop radio.

Pavel was sixty-three, Czech American, retired from machine work, and still exact about everything from wheel speed to the size of a sandwich.

"Bring the yellow sleeve," he said. "And your pictures."

"I have $683 until Monday."

"I asked for paper, not your bank balance."

Before I left, I opened our booking page. Everett had changed the contact line to his number. Under Saturday's schedule, he had typed: Full Service Continues.

I saved a copy with the date visible.

On the list was a boy whose father worked nights at the hospital. He left their skates before his shift and collected them after breakfast. Another family drove down from Harborcreek with three pairs in a laundry basket. They had paid early so winter would contain one less bill.

I wrote down their phone numbers before Everett could lock that page, too.

Then I opened the delivery photographs. There I was beside MN-614, plum sock showing above one boot, signing for a machine Everett now said belonged to a building.

My phone buzzed while I enlarged its metal serial plate.

A message came from someone named Noreen Bell.

Are you the person who services the grinder Everett sold us? Ash Bend Ice needs its manual.