composed elderly woman I had known for eight years.
Guilt.
“Because of a conversation I overheard.”
My stomach tightened.
“What conversation?”
“Last spring.
You were upstairs cleaning.
Your phone rang.”
I remembered.
“You answered in the hallway.
You were speaking to someone at the bank.”
My face burned.
I knew exactly which call she meant.
I had applied for a small mortgage.
Nothing fancy.
Just enough to maybe buy a modest place outside town before rent swallowed us completely.
The bank had turned me down.
My income was too inconsistent.
Too much of it came from cash cleaning jobs.
My credit had been damaged during the separation.
That afternoon, I had sat on Mrs.
Whitaker’s upstairs landing and cried for perhaps thirty seconds before wiping my face and returning to work.
I had thought no one saw.
Mrs.
Whitaker had.
“You said something after the call,” she said.
I could
