Threading the Needle by Marie Bostwick

tonight,” I said, thinking of Lee and his interview. Tonight I wanted to be with my husband. “But soon. You’ve convinced me.”

9
    Madelyn
    R eturning to New Bern has aged me—on many levels. I’m long overdue for a round of Botox, but that sort of thing is far out of my budget now. Maybe it’s just as well. It never worked on that deep frown line between my eyebrows anyway. And another thing: Those injections hurt. They do. Don’t let anybody tell you different. I don’t miss that part one bit.
    But I do miss my hairdresser. Deeply. My roots look awful. I can get away with backcombing over my part for another week or so, but then I’m going to have to pick up a bottle of dye at the drugstore or something. There are limits to how far I’m willing to succumb to the “natural look.” But for today an altered appearance suits my purpose.
    When I called to schedule a Friday morning appointment at the bank, I gave my name as Beecher. Eventually the bank manager is bound to figure out my connection to Sterling, but I’m hoping to buy myself some time before that happens—time enough to win him over and convince him that, my unfortunate marital status notwithstanding, I’m a good risk. I need a loan. I need it badly.
    Just because I don’t pay a mortgage on Beecher Cottage doesn’t mean that I get to live here for free. The property taxes are high, and according to a letter I received from the town last week, they’ll be higher next year. Utilities for such a large house aren’t cheap either. The estimate for my winter heating oil nearly stopped my heart!
    And then there’s maintenance. Over the last few years of her life, I doubt Edna spent ten cents maintaining Beecher Cottage, preferring to leave that legacy to future generations—i.e., me. I’ve already spent over a thousand dollars on plumbing. I’m not talking about remodeling the dated bathrooms; this is money I’ve had to spend just to make sure the toilets flush. Don’t even ask about the roof; I wish I hadn’t. But those watermarks on the upstairs walls and ceiling are there for a reason. We’ve had a dry summer and fall, but come spring, when the snow melts on the eaves and April showers start to shower, what am I going to do?
    In its current condition, Beecher Cottage is all but unlivable. But performing even the most basic and necessary repairs on the house will empty my bank account by a third—I’ve got estimates to prove it. With zero money coming in and lots of zeros going out for taxes, utilities, and repairs, how am I supposed to live?
    I’ve got to sell Beecher Cottage; I’ve just got to. It’s the only solution. But I’ve no hope of selling the house at any price unless I remodel it first. Remodel, not repair. New roof, new bathrooms, new kitchen, new appliances, new paint, wallpaper, and carpets—new everything. And, as everyone knows, new everything doesn’t come cheap.
    And so, with her crow’s feet and worry lines in full flower, her hair backcombed and swept into a ponytail to hide the gray, and wearing the most nondesigner, nondescript outfit she owns, Madelyn Beecher is walking downtown to try to borrow one hundred thousand dollars from the New Bern National Bank.
    The bank sits two blocks south of the Green, about a mile’s walk from my house. The stone exterior is solid and serious, the interior cool and formal, with tall ceilings, ornate woodwork, wrought-iron teller cages, and marble floors that echo when walked upon. Employees work at desks on the outer walls of the lobby, their activities overseen by the bank manager, whose walnut desk sits on a raised platform in the center of the room surrounded by a carved wooden railing with a swinging gate that subordinates must unlatch before entering this holy of holies. Everything about the structure is designed to inspire confidence and a certain level of