Nolan Changed The Locks While The Church Committee Waited Outside

The new key stopped halfway into the lock. Behind me, the church committee stood beside a rented bell trailer, holding coffee that had gone cold.

I was a broad-shouldered Cuban American woman of fifty-two, with brown skin, a gray braid, and a pale burn mark above my left wrist. My name was Lourdes Benitez. I restored bells for a living, and I could hear a cracked casting from one strike.

That morning, I could not open my own workshop.

Mavis Wynn, chair of Mercy Prairie Church's building committee, tried the handle.

"Perhaps it sticks in this weather."

It was May in Wichita. Cottonwood fluff blew along the curb like loose stuffing. The lock was new, bright brass against our old steel door.

"It doesn't stick," I said.

Through the wall came a sharp tap, followed by a flat little cough of sound.

Otter Creek's school bell. Its cracked waist killed the note before it could grow. Someone inside was striking a bell plainly marked DISPLAY ONLY.

Then Nolan Beck opened the door.

Nolan was a lean white American man of forty-six, with sandy hair, pink cheeks, and a smile he aimed at whoever was watching.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he said. "Sorry about the delay."

He stepped between me and the door.

"Lourdes handled cleaning. I've finally dismissed her. There have been some issues."

Mavis looked at my hands. Bronze dust had settled in the folds beside my nails. My leather tool roll was tucked under my arm.

"She showed us the crown repair," Mavis said.

"She picked up some terms."

He laughed toward Dale, the church treasurer. Dale did not join him.

For eleven years, I had cut new bushings, fitted headstocks, and worked rusted nuts loose without breaking old iron. Nolan wrote estimates and found customers. Now he had made my whole life into a joke he expected three witnesses to finish.

I set my tool roll on the trailer fender.

"Their bell is B-114. Seven hundred forty pounds. The final $2,500 cleared last Thursday. They paid a $900 deposit in January."

Nolan's smile tightened.

"I know my business."

"Then let them collect their bell."

Behind him, blue wool hung from four clappers. I tied those loops myself. Wool kept a clapper still during work and travel. My first teacher had used red string. I liked blue because I could find it in a dim bell mouth.

One loop was missing.

"You struck the school bell," I said.

"I gave our guests a demonstration."

"That bell has a crack. Its owner ordered a display stand."

He lifted both hands for the committee.

"You see what I've dealt with?"

There it was. He never wanted a quiet disagreement. He wanted a stage, a crowd, and someone smaller than him in the middle.

I wanted my inventory book.

It lived in the narrow cabinet beside the tuning bench. Every bell had a number, an owner, a weight, and a page recording what we were allowed to do. Each customer kept a signed copy.

"I'll get the collection sheet," I said.

"You aren't entering."

"My tools are inside."

"Company property."

"My grandfather's spoon gouge?"

He glanced at Mavis, then lowered his voice.

"Don't make this ugly. You signed the transfer. I'm the owner."

His words hurt less than his certainty. He had been waiting to say them in front of people who might repeat them.

I touched the blue wool loop on my old key ring.

There was one last page that could take my share of Prairie Crown Bell Works away from me. Priya Desai kept it in escrow. It needed my signature after the money arrived.

I had never signed that page.

"May I see the release?" I asked.

"My lawyer has everything."

"Then your lawyer can send it."

Mavis stepped closer to the doorway.

"We'd like our bell, Mr. Beck."

"The lift has a problem. Come back tomorrow."

Our chain hoist hung behind him. Its inspection tag was current. I had tested its brake the day before.

I did not argue. I took a photograph of the new lock, then asked Dale to keep his receipt and their signed intake sheet.

Nolan watched my phone.

"You'll regret making accusations."

"I took a picture of a lock."

Mavis offered me a ride. I thanked her and called Priya instead. While her phone rang, Nolan came back through the door with a folded notice.

He held it out as if handing me my last pay stub.

"Stay away tomorrow. We have business to finish."

Across the top, in heavy black type, were the words COLLATERAL TRANSFER. Below them were four inventory numbers, a warehouse address, and a pickup time of eleven the next morning.

The first number was B-114.