Chapter 6 of 13Sign Where the Tabs Are

A warm rush of air, smelling faintly of coffee and Roy’s particular aftershave, preceded him into the kitchen. He always moved like a front coming through. He set a large Speedway coffee cup, still steaming, onto the counter next to the grocery list and slid a thick clip of papers across the granite.

“Morning, hon,” he said, already shrugging into his Cardinal Comfort Systems jacket. “Service weekend’s starting early. Got a few things I need you to sign before I go.” He tapped a finger against the stack. “Insurance renewals, the license stuff, the bonding. Just sign where the tabs are. I’m late.”

A year ago, Margaret Ackerman would have signed without a thought. Two days ago, before she read the loan binder she had typed herself, she still might have.

“Oh, for Pete’s sake,” Margo said, pulling her reading glasses from her chain. She pushed them up onto her nose, then slid them back down. “My eyes are shot, Roy. I can barely read the expiration dates on the milk these days, let alone the fine print on these documents.” She fanned herself with the papers, not for show. The early October sun was bright on the window over the sink, heating the room, and she felt the familiar warmth behind her ears. “What is all this, anyway? Looks like a whole pile, not just 'a few things'.”

He waved a hand. “Just the usual year-end push, Marg. You know how it is. Nothing you haven’t seen a dozen times. Why the sudden fuss?”

“Fuss? Goodness, you make it sound like I enjoy paperwork,” Margo replied, tapping the stack. “After all these years, I just thought I’d be able to sign my name without needing a magnifying glass. A new pair of bifocals will set me back two hundred dollars, and still won’t help if the light’s bad.”

Margo made a show of squinting at the first page, a standard liability policy renewal. She fanned the papers slowly, letting the breeze settle the warmth on her face, flipping past pages that seemed ordinary. “These insurance renewals look standard. And the OCILB license, of course, that’s important.” Her thumb caught on the corner of page nine. “What’s this ‘Dealer Agree’ section? Seems awfully comprehensive this year.”

“It’s just the new terms, Marg,” Roy said, checking his watch again. “Cardinal updated their agreements across the board. Nothing to worry about.”

“And this ‘Spousal Consent’?” Margo asked, her voice level. “Is that a new requirement too?”

“Standard procedure for a few of these,” Roy replied, a little too quickly. “Just part of the package.”

Margo noted the distinct, firm handwriting on the tab: “Dealer Agree.” The fourth, "Spousal Consent." There it was, tucked neatly under the Cardinal Comfort Systems dealer agreement, its own short page: a spousal consent and quitclaim. It transferred the Miller Pike building from Ackerman Properties LLC into Ackerman Comfort Group LLC. Just like that. A simple signature, filed with the county recorder, and the land her father had worked, the land her signature on the deed and guarantee still protected, would be gone.

“Well,” she said, folding the fan flat and tapping the stack. “As I said, I can’t see a thing this morning. My glasses must need changing. Honestly, these tabs are practically blurring together.” She pushed the papers back across the counter. “I’ll look these over tonight. You’ve got those two no-heat calls out past the fairgrounds, don’t you? That’s almost thirty miles in the truck, and it’s getting later by the minute.”

He hesitated, keys jingling against his belt loop. “It’s important, Marg. Gotta get it in before year-end. Are you sure you can’t just power through it now?”

“I know, I know,” she replied. “Just leave them. I’ll review them properly this evening. We can’t have the license lapse, goodness gracious. We’ve got Nick out there on the rotation this weekend, and you know how particular the county is about those things.”

He nodded, already halfway out the door. “Alright, hon. Just make sure they get signed. Don’t want any holdups.”

Then he was gone, the back door closing with a solid thud. Margo stood in the silent kitchen. She picked up the thick clip of papers. Page nine. The tab, marked in his hand, still reading “Spousal Consent.”

She walked to the small utility room off the kitchen, where the old, reliable desktop copier sat. The machine whirred to life. Margo carefully placed page nine on the glass, ensuring every line of the quitclaim was visible. She made two copies, the paper warm from the machine. One copy went into the accordion file she kept hidden in the back of the hall closet, under a stack of old Sunday bulletins from St. Boniface. The second copy, she wrapped in a paper towel, secured with a rubber band, and tucked into the bottom of her purse, a spare set of reading glasses in a case lying on top. The original stack of papers, all twenty-three pages, she left on the kitchen counter, just where he had placed them. Unsigned.

The building transfer was stalled. Roy Ackerman would not get his clean exit today. She had his intent, in his own handwriting, on a small, ordinary tab.

In the shop parking lot on Miller Pike, Roy Ackerman stood by his truck, the large Speedway coffee forgotten on the dashboard. He checked his watch against the calendar app on his phone, scrolling past two upcoming deadlines, both marked year-end. The passenger seat, where the stack of papers had ridden that morning, was empty. The originals were still with Margo, unsigned.