The Final Payment Cleared Before We Opened the Gate for Class

The bank name had been on my records all along.

I found its stamp on the back of a rent check I had written in the spring. Perry had carried that money to his account when I was still sanding the bus shelves.

Mara used the bank information in court papers to collect the judgment. I paid $76 in added filing and service costs from the work I had done since the move.

This time, I knew exactly what the payment bought.

After the papers were served, the bank held funds under the court process. Perry called me that afternoon.

“You've tied up my money,” he said.

I stood in the bus doorway. Beyond the gate, a boy rode slowly past on a bike with one pedal clicking.

“Please speak to Mara.”

“I can send you $2,000 today. You'll spend the rest chasing the balance.”

“Please speak to Mara.”

“I gave you your start.”

I looked at my press. I had bought it from a retiring binder with money saved from two years of evening shifts.

“You rented me gravel,” I said. “I paid for it.”

Then I ended the call.

I wrote down the time and sent Mara a note. After that, every message from Perry went to her. His voice no longer set my work hours.

The bank's response showed enough money to cover what was due. When the collection process was finished, $3,376 came through the court: the judgment and the added costs.

Mara took the unpaid $680 fee from the recovered money under our agreement. The rest reached my business account after the funds cleared.

She sent me the filed paper showing the judgment had been paid. I saved a copy in the metal box and another with my business records.

Perry's claims were over. He had no right to my bus, my tools, the Bibles, or a share of my work. His proposed sale was canceled, the buyer had his money, and the listing was gone.

I did not write Perry a letter about how it felt.

I paid my next month's rent to Lenora and bought a whole box of screws.

On the morning of our first class, I swept the bus steps. The air smelled of wet leaves. From somewhere toward the river came the low sound of a train.

Lenora unlocked the old laundry room. Selma put six chairs around the table and laid a blunt needle at each place.

“Any rules?” she asked.

“Keep paste off the thread. Ask before cutting. No one has to show the inside of a personal book.”

“That last one belongs on the wall.”

I wrote it on a card.

Six students paid $25 each. I gave them receipts. One woman brought her grown son, who had signed up because he wanted to fix his grandfather's fishing notebook someday.

“Not today,” I told him gently. “Today we learn on blank paper.”

I set the little practice bindings down the center of the table. Thirty-one from the dashboard, the green one I had weighted with beans, and the yellow copy I had carried to court.

“You made all these?” the woman asked.

“One from every new leather offcut.”

“Some are crooked.”

“Those taught me the most.”

Selma chose the crooked yellow one to hold while I showed the first stitch.

The room grew quiet in the good way. Thread slipped through paper. Someone dropped a needle and found it without panic. A man laughed when he realized he had sewn his sleeve to his book.

We freed him without cutting the sleeve.

At the end, six small books stood on the table. None matched. Every one opened.

Mrs. Bell stopped by after class with a note from her sister. It thanked me for saving the fern. She gave me permission to pin the note beside my workbench, where only its blank back faced the window.

“The Bible's home,” she said. “We read from it last Sunday.”

All nine books had their owners again. That was the number I had most wanted to finish counting.

After everyone left, I checked the day's receipts and put the needles away. My new cookbook job waited under a clean weight. Monday already had work in it.

I hung the filed payment notice inside the cupboard with my title copy. Outside, Lenora's gate stood open to the sidewalk. I had a key for when it needed closing.

At dusk, Selma arrived with tea and one clean square of blue leather for my next tiny book. I set it beside the warm cup while the paste on six new spines dried in peace.