I Opened The Ledger Drawer And Found Our First Promise

Helena arrived before the doors opened to the public.

She stood beneath the barn light, read my face, and handed me a dry scarf from her bag.

"Put that on, dear. Then tell me the facts in order."

I did. Garrett came out halfway through and said we were having a private dispute.

"You warranted that you could deliver this show," Helena said. "That makes the equipment question a festival matter."

"She has performed with us for years. Of course we can use it."

"Tonight, after you removed her? Show me the permission that covers that."

He had no paper to show her.

Helena postponed the performance. The volunteers offered refunds or a place at another festival event. I helped the grandfather with the yellow-booted girl find the tent where a fiddle group was playing.

"Will the river puppets come tomorrow?" she asked.

"I hope so," I said.

I did not promise something I could not yet deliver.

At home, my kitchen window looked black above the sink. I put Not Yet beside the bread box and turned the brass key in my desk drawer.

The company ledger had a green cloth cover. One corner was rubbed pale from years in my touring bag.

On its first page, Garrett had written our names in his big, happy hand.

Under them, in mine, were the amounts we had each put in.

Garrett: $1,200, operating cash.

Emi: $8,400, personally owned equipment made available for company use.

We had both signed below those lines.

I remembered that afternoon. We had eaten crackers over the open book because neither of us had bought plates for the new workroom.

"This keeps friendship out of the money," Garrett had said.

I had thought it would keep money from harming the friendship.

I spread the records over my kitchen table. The ledger went on the left. Bank statements went in the middle. Receipts went on the right, sorted by the numbers carved into the bottom edge of each figure.

There were thirty-seven finished puppets in the rig. Each had a card showing its wood, cloth, paint, hinges, and rods. My labor was not a store receipt, but the supplies were there, bought from my own account.

The screen frame, lamps, control rails, sound unit, cases, and small trailer had their own receipts. Over eight years, my equipment purchases had reached $18,960.

Last winter, an equipment appraiser had put the rig's replacement value at $31,480.

That report was useful. It was not what made the rig mine.

I found Schedule A in a brown envelope under our partnership agreement.

Three pages. Both our signatures on the last page. Our initials beside the list on each earlier page.

The opening sentence read: Equipment listed here remains the sole property of Emi Takahashi.

The next line allowed Lantern Fold to use it during our joint performances. A sale or transfer required my separate written consent.

There had never been a transfer.

I read it twice anyway.

Then I cried, sitting very straight so I would not drip on the ink.

My phone rang at 9:18. Tess was calling.

"I didn't know he'd locked you out," she said.

"I believe you."

"He told me you'd agreed to direct from home. That's why I was trying your cues."

"Did you touch the flood rail?"

"Only to check the marks. Then Helena stopped us."

I let out a breath I had been holding since the barn door shut.

"Don't pack anything tonight," I said. "Leave it as it is."

"Emi, the program was wrong. I told him that."

There was a long pause.

"I should have told you too."

"You have now. Thank you."

After we hung up, I made copies. I photographed every original and wrote a short list of what had happened, with times. I kept it plain. Locked out at 6:42. Permission withdrawn by phone at 6:47. Performance postponed.

I did not write what I wished Garrett would feel.

I put a clean sheet over the table before making tea. There were rings from old mugs on the ledger cover, and one burn where we had once tested a lamp too close. I knew every mark. None of them changed what we had signed.

At ten, Helena emailed the contract he had signed. The festival had agreed to pay $7,200 for three shows. It had already paid him a $3,600 advance.

I had approved the dates. I had never seen that contract, or that advance in our books.

"Please review the attached ownership document Garrett has just supplied," Helena wrote. "Bring yours tomorrow."

I opened the second attachment.

It looked like Schedule A. Same title. Same crooked staple shadow at the top.

But its first page now said all touring equipment belonged to Lantern Fold Theater.

The last page still carried my signature.