Threading the Needle

by Marie Bostwick

  The next step up, a fiberboard container embossed with blue-gray cloth, was also designed for cremation, but at least it looked like a casket. I would have preferred to go with that, but it would have added another thousand dollars to the bill.

  “A cardboard box,” I said after hanging up with Mr. D’Amato. “It’s just so sad. Everything about this is so sad.”

  Tessa knit her brows together sympathetically and handed me a glass brimming with red wine. “Don’t be hard on yourself, Madelyn. You’re doing the best you can.”

  “I suppose. But I wish . . .” I lifted the glass to my lips and drank deeply, giving myself time to think. “I just wish I could afford something nicer, with flowers and music. I owe him that much, surely.”

  “Do you?”

  Tessa had this way of asking the questions no one else dared to, of cutting through the bull and to the chase. I had forgotten.

  “Not any more than he owed me, so I guess we’re even. I just want to do the right thing. It should have been better, you know? It all should have been better.”

  No one knew where I was.

  The reporters were still staked out in front of Beecher Cottage, hoping to catch me coming in or going out. Even without me, they were having a field day, filming stand-ups on my lawn, dredging up the details of Sterling’s meteoric rise and fall and the grisly minutiae of his last days. One reporter went so far as to find an exact replica of the belt Sterling hanged himself with. He held it up to the camera and, in somber tones, speculated as to what Sterling’s thoughts had been when he’d expelled his final breath and gone, far from gently, into that good night.

  “Did he think of redemption? Of relief? Of the many lives he’d ruined and crimes he’d committed? Or . . . of Madelyn? His wife of thirty years who, according to Baron’s attorney, Eugene Janders, had refused to testify as a character witness at his sentencing. Was the rejection of the woman he’d loved the straw that finally broke the spirit of the man who had once been known as ‘the Prince of Wall Street’? The world will never know, and Madelyn Baron,” he said, pausing dramatically as the camera panned the exterior of Beecher Cottage, “the Wall Street Widow,” another dramatic pause, “isn’t talking.”

  Gene. That snake. He couldn’t resist one last chance to make my life miserable. And it would be his last chance. I was never going to speak to him again, never. Good thing I’d followed my instincts and lied when he asked about the location of the funeral parlor. Otherwise, there was no doubt in my mind that a cadre of reporters would have been stationed outside of D’Amato’s Mortuary, awaiting my arrival.

  As it was, things went according to plan. Jake borrowed a van from his sister, one of the old, full-sized numbers that don’t have windows on the sides, and drove me to the funeral home. Lee and Tessa came separately and picked up the Reverend Tucker along the way. The reverend was standing next to Mr. D’Amato when I arrived.

  The funeral director shook my hand and ushered us into a white-walled, industrial-looking room with a large metal furnace at the end—the crematory.

  Not far from that, there were a few chairs set up in a row—very few, but still more than we would need. In front of that was a long table draped with a white cloth that held the “alternative container.” Lying on top of that was an enormous blanket of white roses, so large it entirely covered the cheap cardboard casket that held my husband’s body.

  I turned around to look at Tessa, Lee, and Jake.

  “You didn’t even know him.”

  Tessa looked at Jake, who shook his head.

  Reverend Tucker cleared his throat. “The flowers are from Abigail Spaulding. I believe her first husband, Woolley Wynne, knew your husband. She wanted to pay her respects and she asked me to tell you how genuinely sorry she is—for everything.”

  I felt a catch in my throat. “Please tell her I said thank you and that . . . I appreciate her condolences.”

  There was no eulogy. How could there be? I was the only person present who knew Sterling well enough to deliver one. Reverend Tucker led a prayer, read something from a worn black Bible, one of the psalms, I think. I don’t remember his words, just the sound of his voice, clear and rhythmic, his pitch leaning toward treble, mournful and keening. Even if he didn’t mean it, I was glad that someone besides me at least seemed to be mourning Sterling’s untimely death and wasted life.

  When I die, who will mourn me?

  When he finished reading, the reverend closed his Bible, leaving a finger in the pages to mark his place. Mr. D’Amato, assisted by Jake, Lee, and a somber-suited associate, lifted the rose-camouflaged casket and carried it to the crematory.

  None of this seems quite real. I know it is, it must be. But it doesn’t seem that way. Maybe it will in a day or two, after I get some sleep . . . if I’m ever able to sleep again.

  The bed in Tessa’s guest room is comfortable, but when I lie down on it, I can’t sleep. Instead, I lie there thinking, trying not to think, not crying, and wishing I could cry. Last night, around three, worn out and sick of myself, I got up and crept down the hallway past Tessa and Lee’s bedroom quietly, but not as quietly as I could have. Part of me hoped that Tessa would hear me and get up to keep me company, but she didn’t. They are sound sleepers, those two. Why wouldn’t they be? Their consciences are clear.

  But I couldn’t sleep.

  I made myself a cup of tea, carried it into the living room, and curled into Tessa’s easy chair, the one that belonged to her mother, the old blue velvet now replaced with beige chenille. Thinking I’d read for a bit, I picked up the Bible Tessa left on the table. I flipped through it, hoping to come across something dry and dull enough to induce sleep. Instead, I happened upon a story about a rich man who, as any rich man would, inquired about the price of admission to heaven and found it too high.

  As I stood before the open door of the crematory and watched the pallbearers slide the casket into the narrow brick-lined chamber that would soon be fired to a temperature that would reduce Sterling’s body to fragments and memories—my memories—I found myself thinking about what I’d read the night before, one line in particular. “It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of God.”

  That was the most depressing thing I’d ever read, but even worse was what came after: “With people it is impossible, but not with God; for all things are possible with God.”

  I don’t know if I believe in God, much less heaven or hell. But I’d like to believe that during our lives, we’re not—that I’m not—doomed to endlessly repeat my mistakes, to live and die and disappear. Those words, if they are even a little bit true, seem to say that it’s at least possible, hard but not hopeless.

  But not for Sterling. Not now.

  In choosing to end his life, he also chose to sever himself from even the barest hope that someday, somehow, things might be better, that even from the inside of a prison cell, he might yet have made his life count for something—or someone. It’s hard to imagine how that might have played out, but surely there was at least the slimmest of possibilities of something better to come, as slim as a camel that could thread itself through the eye of a needle, which sounds impossible, but . . . what if it’s not?

  What if?

  Tessa plucked a single rose from the blanket covering the casket and handed it to me. Mr. D’Amato shut the heavy metal door and nodded to his assistant to ignite the flame as Reverend Tucker began to intone the words “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust . . .” and tears for the death of hope flowed down my cheeks.

  Right now I’ve got more questions than answers, but I’m certain of one thing: I do not want my life to end without at least the possibility of hope.

  I want something better. I want to change.

  32

  Madelyn

  It was decided that Lee and Tessa would take the reverend home and I’d drive with Jake. “You really didn’t have to do this,” I said as I buckled my seat belt. “I could have gone in the ot
her car.”

  Jake turned the key in the ignition and pumped the gas a couple of times. “I don’t mind.”

  “Well, thanks. I didn’t relish the idea of riding back with Lee. I’m sure the feeling is mutual.”

  Jake checked his rearview mirror before pulling away from the curb. “Yeah?”

  “Don’t get me wrong, he hasn’t said anything or been rude. But I get the feeling he holds me personally responsible for the banking crisis, the housing slump, the Wall Street meltdown, and the decline of Western civilization.”

  “All that, huh? Wow.” Jake glanced over at me. “Lee’s all right. He’s just having a hard time right now. Lotta people are.”

  “I know. It was nice of Lee and Tessa to take me in.”

  I turned my head and stared into the darkness as we drove past rows of houses, peering past curtains into warmly lit living rooms, like sets in a play, some peopled with performances in progress, others vacant and expectant, waiting for the actors to make their entrance. In the glow of lamplight every home we passed looked safe and peaceful. I wondered if they were.

  Jake broke the silence. “Do you miss him?”

  “No. Not really. I know that sounds terrible, but we’d lived separate lives for so long. I talked to Sterling’s secretary more often than I talked to Sterling.”

  “There had to be something between you,” Jake said. “You were married for a long time.”

  “We were. After a fashion.”

  “Did you love him?”

  “I don’t know anymore. We were definitely attracted to one another, especially at the beginning. I mean, we both understood what we wanted out of the relationship—I wanted security and he wanted a beautiful woman by his side—but that wasn’t all. I admired him, I suppose. Sterling was handsome, powerful, charming. Woolley was, too, but Woolley was married. We had to sneak around, meet at hotels far off the beaten path, eat our dinners from the room-service menu rather than risk being seen together in the restaurant.

  “It wasn’t like that with Sterling. He seemed proud of me, as if he wanted to show me off. He took me places—parties, restaurants, concerts—and introduced me to people, important people, celebrities and politicians and socialites, as if I were some sort of prize he’d won.” I smiled bleakly, remembering my younger self.

  “It wasn’t all bad, you know, being a trophy wife. Not at first. It was wonderful to be prized, paraded about in front of glamorous and celebrated people, becoming glamorous and celebrated myself. Of course, a lot of people didn’t like me. They only tolerated me because of Sterling. Even so, it was exciting. And Sterling was . . . I thought he . . . Well, he wasn’t so hard in those days.

  “There was something between us,” I said, sounding a little more defensive than I’d intended. “Something more than the money. If it had been only about money, then I’d have been satisfied with what I had, wouldn’t I? There was certainly enough money, more than enough. Sterling never denied me anything that could be paid for by cash or credit.” I sniffed and looked down, pressing my chin into my shoulder. “I wanted more. I wanted love. But Sterling didn’t love me, not ever.”

  “Then why did you stay with him?”

  “Money. Status. Lack of imagination, I suppose. By that time I couldn’t imagine living any other way. You’d be surprised what you can learn to put up with, what you can convince yourself not to see, in the name of self-preservation. Also, I was afraid. Afraid of being alone, of reverting gloriously to type, of becoming what everyone always thought I was, a gold digger reduced to grasping divorcée, the stuff of courtroom dramas and sensational stories in the tabloids.” I let out a hollow laugh. “Which is what happened anyway.

  “But,” I said, “and, believe me, I know how naïve this sounds, there was also a part of me that just kept hoping that it would get better. Even at the very end, during our last weekend together, I wondered if it might not be possible.”

  Keeping his eyes on the road, Jake said, “That sounds human, not naïve. I mean, if you don’t have hope, what’s the point? Nobody wants to end up divorced. Even after my first wife cheated on me, I considered taking her back. People thought I was crazy, but if she’d been willing to work things out, I’d have tried.”

  “And your second wife?”

  “Rhonda? Well,” he said, drawing out the word, “it’s hard to patch things up after your wife tries to run you over with your own car, but . . . yeah, if she’d wanted to try again, I might have. At least half of what was wrong with us was really what was wrong with me.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like I didn’t listen. Or put my dishes in the dishwasher,” he said, smiling faintly before his expression turned serious again. “And I didn’t make her feel safe. She was a jealous woman, but I gave her reason to be. I didn’t cheat, not ever, but when other women flirted with me, I’d flirt back. I told myself it was just harmless fun, that I wasn’t hurting anybody, but I hurt Rhonda something awful.”

  “Did you know it at the time?”

  “I should have. But I blamed her, said she was the problem. We’d fight. I’d end up sleeping on the sofa, feeling sorry for myself. I was an incredible jerk.”

  As he talked I found myself nodding; I could have written that script myself.

  Sterling and I after a party, him a little drunk, me screaming at him for flirting with some Flavor of the Week, him screaming at me for being jealous, not trusting him. Insults, denials, curses, slamming of doors. Sterling storming off in search of more genial female company. Me waking the next day and seeing his side of the bed with sheets unrumpled and pillow undented.

  “You sound pretty enlightened now, Jake. How did that happen?”

  “Beth,” he said, as though the mere mention of her name made everything clear.

  “We met on a blind date; friends introduced us. We went to a movie at the Red Rooster, dinner after. It was nice, you know, but not spectacular. I was dating several women at the time.”

  “I’ve heard that about you. Word around town is you’re quite the ladies’ man.”

  He grimaced. “Don’t believe everything you hear. I like women. They like me. But that doesn’t necessarily mean I’m a ‘ladies’ man.’ ”

  “Doesn’t necessarily mean you’re not.”

  He shot me a look. “Can I finish my story?”

  “Sorry. Go on.”

  “Anyway, Beth seemed nice and I found her attractive, so when I walked her to her door after dinner, I asked if I could come in.”

  “As in come in and stay the night?”

  “Yeah, pretty much. She said no. Didn’t even think about it before answering, didn’t even pretend to think about it. Didn’t flirt or invent a story about not wanting to wake up her roommate, something that might have salved my bruised ego. She just said no.”

  “And you weren’t used to hearing that?” I said with a teasing smile, already knowing the answer. Jake wasn’t just handsome and a good conversationalist, which is a pretty rare combination all by itself. He could also operate a floor sander and fix a leaky faucet. Of course women said yes to even his most suggestive suggestions.

  He shook his head. “She wasn’t mean or unpleasant about it. In fact, she said she would love to see me again but that I was not invited in, not that night or any night.

  “Well, I was ticked. I wrote her off—so I told myself. But I couldn’t get her off my mind. I called and asked her out again. By the third date, I was hooked.”

  I groaned and rolled my eyes. “And that’s what hooked you? The fact that she wouldn’t sleep with you?” It was Woolley and Abigail all over again. Men are such morons, such easily manipulated morons.

  “No,” he said firmly, “it wasn’t that. It was her confidence that drew me. So many women are so desperate, willing to agree to anything because they think having a man will validate them as a woman. Desperation is not attractive. Not to me.

  “Beth wasn’t looking to me or anybody else to ‘complete’ her. She was already complete
and she knew her value. She made me court her and, in the process, taught me about romance, and intimacy, and respect, and what real love looks like.”

  The headlights of an oncoming car illuminated Jake’s face and I glanced over to see if he was crying, but his eyes were dry.

  “She helped me realize that the real thing is worth the wait.”

  I looked out the window, relieved to note we were nearly there. I wasn’t in the mood to hear any more about Saint Beth. It was nice that Jake’s third marriage had been happy, but weren’t we supposed to be talking about my grief?

  Jake made a right turn onto the street that led to the farm. “Beth didn’t let me get away with anything, but she was also very gentle. She showed me how to be her hero, then treated me like I already was that guy—even when I fell short.”

  “She sounds wonderful,” I said brightly, hoping to bring the subject to a close. I was starting to suspect that Jake’s mental trip down memory lane was really a subtle tactic to bring the conversation around to my own shortcomings and perhaps he had a point, but really? Was this the time? I’d just cremated my husband.

  I shifted in my seat and crossed my left knee over my right. “You were very lucky.” I sighed. “Sterling was never supportive. All he knew how to do was—”

  Jake kept talking as though he hadn’t even heard me. “I was lucky, very. You know, Madelyn, it’s the easiest thing in the world to tell somebody what they want to hear, but it takes a real friend to tell somebody what they need to hear.”

  There it was. I knew it.

  I should have driven back with Lee and Tessa after all. I didn’t care for this conversation and was trying to communicate that through my words and body language, but Jake wasn’t taking the hint. So much for subtlety.

  “All right, Jake. Come out with it. What are you trying to say?”

  Jake frowned as he turned the van onto the farm’s gravel driveway. “Nothing,” he said with an utterly unconvincing expression of innocence. “I was talking about Beth.”