The Empty Laundry Yard Gave Me Somewhere to Take My Work

Lenora Pike met us beside a shuttered laundry building in Fulton. The yard behind it had a wide gate, firm pavement, and a sycamore dropping curled brown leaves.

“The indoor room has a sink,” she said. “Power outside was checked last month. I'll show you the report.”

Selma glanced at me.

“Documents on the first date,” she said. “Promising.”

Lenora laughed, then handed me a plain rental sheet.

I walked the drive twice. A tow truck could turn there. Rain would run toward the drain, away from the bus. Customers could reach the gate from the sidewalk without crossing a loading lane.

“Three hundred fifty a month,” Lenora said. “Same amount as a deposit. You can hold classes in the room by arrangement.”

“My bus stays mine.”

“Of course.”

“I need that written down.”

She passed me her pen.

We added the vehicle number, my right to remove it, and the fact that customers owned the books inside. We also wrote down hours, utility use, and who would clear leaves from the drain.

I paid $700. The receipt felt like a small bridge laid over deep water.

I still couldn't cross it. My bus remained behind Perry's chain.

Mara called as we left.

“He won't agree to release anything. I'm filing today and asking for a hearing before Friday. Can you come sign your sworn statement?”

At her office, I read every line before I signed. Monday's dates, the cleared rent, the chain, his offer, and the sale listing all went into the packet.

“There's one more sheet,” I said.

I gave her the receipt for the spare key Perry held. It allowed entry for fire or a burst pipe. He had signed across the seal of its envelope.

“Those listing pictures were taken inside,” Mara said.

“He never asked permission.”

She added the receipt to the exhibits.

Then we looked at his utility bill. He wanted $190 a month for twelve months. My rental had lasted twelve months. Water and power were included in each payment.

“Ask him what each charge covers,” I said.

“I did. He called it an adjustment.”

“That's a large word for charging twice.”

Mara almost smiled.

She asked the court to stop the sale and protect access while the ownership dispute was heard. Her assistant arranged formal service. I paid $140 in filing and service costs, then checked my balance again.

Numbers could be calm even when I wasn't.

Back at the library, Selma helped me build a table. Month, rent due, rent paid, check number. Beside it, we set Perry's new charges. Every row showed the same problem.

“Nine books,” she said. “Twelve payments. One bus. We can count all of them.”

My phone rang. The caller introduced himself as Silas Denton, the man in the van.

“Whitcomb gave me your number. Said you might do a day's training after the sale.”

I gripped the edge of the desk.

“There is no sale I approved.”

He went quiet.

“He said he'd bought you out.”

“He offered. I refused. I own the titled vehicle. My customers own those Bibles.”

“I've paid him a $1,400 deposit.”

I asked him to send his receipt to Mara. He agreed, but his voice had gone flat with worry.

Twenty minutes later, Mara forwarded it to me.

Perry had signed as owner. Under Included Items, he had written nine antique Bibles, restoration tools, shelving, vehicle. Pickup Friday, ten in the morning.

“Please don't send the rest,” I told Silas when he called back.

“I won't. I'm not buying somebody's trouble.”

He had come close to buying several families' history instead.

That afternoon, one customer canceled her $360 repair. Mrs. Doss needed the Bible for a family gathering and had found another binder who could meet the date if she got it back soon. I returned her $120 deposit.

“I'm sorry,” she said.

“You didn't chain the gate.”

I kept her email and wrote down the $31 in supplies I would no longer use. Mara had told me to track actual losses, not guesses.

After dinner, I found a leather scrap in my coat pocket. It was green, left from a hymnal cover. I folded six little pages and sewed them together at my kitchen table.

For the first time in years, I had to finish a practice binding without my press.

I weighted it with a can of beans.

At eight, Mara called.

“The hearing is Thursday morning. He has notice.”

While she spoke, another message appeared on my screen. Perry had sent a photograph of the bus with a red SOLD card tucked under its wiper.

His text read: Last chance to act like a neighbor.