The Puppet Inventory Forced Me To Separate Ownership From Grief

“She can't sell Moss,” I said.

Ruth waited until I stopped talking.

“Owning the design doesn't automatically settle who owns every object made from it.”

I looked at the little wooden hands hanging above my bench.

The first Moss had been carved before the marriage. But the stronger touring version, the one I used now, had been built later with money from our joint household account. So had Nell's spare body and the moon porter's rolling case.

Ruth had told me there would be questions my old papers could not answer.

I had hoped she meant smaller ones.

“We're asking for a fair division,” she said. “She can ask too.”

“She's trying to break the tour.”

“Then bring the bookings and the inventory. Show why a sale to you makes practical sense.”

Tessa helped me lay everything out on clean sheets. We listed each puppet, case, and small piece of scenery. I noted which tools and early models were mine before the wedding.

When we reached Moss, I wrote down the repair to his left cheek.

“Do they need that?” Tessa asked.

“The appraiser needs to know his condition.”

I took the red witness thread off his control bar and put it in the tool tin.

An independent appraiser came two days later. She tested the joints and looked for splits in the wood. She priced our used objects as used objects, without including the character rights.

The disputed puppets and portable scenery came to $15,600.

Cressida had asked for $26,000.

At the property hearing, her lawyer said an open sale might bring more. Ruth showed the appraisal and my written offer to pay the full appraised sum into the lawyers' trust account. The money would stand in place of the objects until the final property division.

“The upcoming performances employ three crew members besides Mr. Avery,” Ruth said. “A prompt sale preserves those jobs.”

Cressida leaned toward her lawyer.

“He doesn't have that much cash,” she said. I heard it in the quiet room.

I had the $15,000 from the new license. I could add $600 from savings without touching a dollar of the Richmond payroll deposit.

For once, the exact amount was enough.

After a break, Cressida agreed to the appraised sale. The court approved the written terms. Her claim to a share of the money stayed open; she no longer had a claim to take the listed puppets away.

I signed the payment instruction with both feet flat on the floor.

Outside, Cressida caught up with me.

“You paid fifteen thousand dollars for old wood.”

“Fifteen thousand six hundred.”

“You know what I mean.”

“I have work booked.”

She waited for me to argue about how much I loved Moss. I checked that Ruth had the signed inventory and walked with her to the car.

We moved the puppets to a smaller shop the next week. Its floor sloped, and I had to wedge the workbench legs with scrap wood. The rent was $700 a month.

Tessa taped the paid rehearsal schedule above the sink.

Bea brought a kettle. Owen fixed the buzzing light over the sewing table and put the hour on his time sheet.

I approved it.

Our first rehearsal ran badly. I missed a cue, and Nell turned her back on the audience chairs. Nobody tried to make a speech about fresh starts.

“Again from the door,” Tessa said.

We tried again.

During the break, Owen asked whether the new shop meant we would carry fewer cases.

“Two fewer,” I said. “The painted arch isn't coming.”

Cressida had loved that arch. It framed her opening speech and took forty minutes to build.

Tessa looked at the plan.

“We can use the small door flat.”

We marked the change and cut a full hour from each load-in. I had bought the pieces we needed. I didn't have to drag the whole old show behind us.

At noon, the payroll service sent its first confirmation. Everyone's hours matched. Everyone's check had a date.

Malcolm visited after lunch with the Lexington venue's final approval. The recovered contract meant six school dates could stay on the calendar. A different contract meant Bea could keep her Thursday work hours. Each stack of signed pages changed an actual week of someone's life.

That was easier for me to understand than the lawsuit's total.

By then, Dana had the missing source emails. Ellis had sent Cressida a draft of the false assignment with a note about reusing my signature.

Her reply told him where to place it.

Ruth read the exchange to me over the phone. She had received it through the records production, with the original message files attached.

“Will we have to show it in court?” I asked.

“Unless they agree to terms that protect you.”

The next morning, while I measured a new cheek string, an envelope arrived by courier.

Inside was a settlement request from Cressida's lawyer, marked for Monday.