Crazy Old Coot

CRAZY OLD COOT

by Cathy Pelletier

Part 1

My past-their-prime Wellies made a pleasing splish-splash sound on the slick pavement as I headed to the pub. I smiled, realizing I'd timed my gait to the ongoing refrain in my brain: No more classes. No more classes.

Not a pub-goer by nature, I'd felt obliged to attend the night's festivities after my students invited me to celebrate their final week of high school. And in my case, blessed, long-awaited retirement.

The familiar guffaws and giggles of my late-adolescent charges greeted me as soon as I pried open the heavy oak door.

“Evenin', Miss Gaul,” shouted Willy, sporting his usual sly, creepy grin as he straddled the tall barstool. In my forty years of teaching at Esme Academy, he was the smarmiest student, ever.

As my eyes adjusted to the pub's dim lighting, I spied several familiar faces and waved, my boots squeaking a watery path toward the table.

“Looks like you lot are in your cups,” I said, spotting a sea of empty glasses. For emphasis, I flashed my trademark raised eyebrow, which all my students knew meant business.

Marigold's doe-eyed, adoring glance at Willie confirmed my suspicion: my favourite student had fallen for my least favourite.

“Remember, Marigold,” I said pointedly, “trust your instincts,” raising both eyebrows for added punch.

Buntyville residents were expert gossips, since many were inter-related, or had an uncle, dentist, or veterinarian who knew everyone else's business. Generations of teens had been taught basic ethics in my classroom, while generations of adults had sought legal help from my brother, Stuart. For me, it meant an unrelenting, hellish invasion of privacy; people prying into our pathetic lives.

A noisy chorus erupted from some pub patrons nearby. And though I couldn't make out the in-between words, their sentences were punctuated with the sounds we Buntyvillians knew well, ranging from “Flutternut” to “Butterbutt” to “Nuttershmuck.” Always accompanied by “Crazy old coot.”

It was a local game, inventing goofy nicknames for Oscar Clutterbuck, the town's stuffiest, richest resident; my once-upon-a-time fiance. In our ancient high school yearbook, he'd been voted “Most likely to yell, 'Get off my lawn'!”

Heir to his father's fortune, the “buck” part of his name was apt, and I, more than most, knew roughly how many bucks he had.

“He's on his deathbed,” blurted Nigel. “And lost his speech. Poor crazy old coot.”

“Gold-digger left him,” added Clover. “Disappeared without sayin' goodbye; hasn't been seen since.”

I felt an urgent need to flee to the loo, to try to come to terms privately with this startling new information.

Shedding my rain-soaked scarf inside the stall, I was annoyed to feel hot tears flowing freely at the prospect of his demise.

For the millionth time, a flood of happy and bitter memories washed over me in the dingy darkness, savagely re-breaking my continuously aching heart.

I'd profoundly loved him, once. Fortune or no fortune. And he'd loved me. Then came the super-young gold-digger he'd quickly married, after abruptly and without explanation ending our long relationship. The cruel bastard had simply discarded me, with seemingly no more thought than hauling trash to the curbside. The decades of public humiliation that followed haunted me still; forcing me into a shadowy hermit-like existence, while the uber-rich Clutterbucks appeared cozy in their new marriage.

During that painful period, I became drawn increasingly to the bottle. It's been said that the opposite of love is not hate but indifference. How I yearned for sweet indifference; how much easier it'd be than to alternately love and hate him, in a never-ending vicious cycle.

One dark, drunken night, I'd sunk to what I recognized as my personal rock bottom: sneaking onto his property in a near-blackout haze and releasing his beloved sheepdog, Archie, who was never seen again.

The shameful incident spurred my subsequent recovery, and new passion: teaching ethics. From deep within my core, I yearned to spare other women similar heartache, while also proving to myself that most people were basically decent. Teaching integrity and kindness, along with volunteering at the Buntyville women's shelter, forged the path to my salvation, and sobriety.

However, if four decades of devotedly teaching ethics taught me anything, it's that not a single soul is one hundred per cent good, or evil. You don't spend the bulk of forty years in a classroom without acquiring a few survival skills. I was nothing if not wily. But it had taken its toll, feeling my heart repeatedly break, heal, then harden, till I was genuinely shocked that it still functioned at all.

Upon Oscar's death, I envisioned the sordid details of our aged failed romance resurfacing, running rampant in the rumour mills to torment me once again.

Feeling helpless, now in full victim mode, I wondered: was I eternally doomed to endure loving and hating a man who most deemed merely laughable?

Panicking, and desperate to quell decades of emotional torment, a dark plan took root in my brain and began sprouting swiftly.

“After what Gold-digger did to him, I'd be doing him a favour,” I convinced myself, grappling with my rapidly deteriorating conscience.

I'd learned that prisoners, especially, and people, in general, frequently justify atrocities they commit by blaming others for their life circumstances. Apparently, I was no different.

Marvelling at this surge of newfound meanness, slightly drunk with power, I defiantly tossed my tartan over my shoulder, flinging my grey hair in the mirror; resisting the urge to rub my hands together, cartoon villain-style. I conjured up a lacklustre evil laugh before sauntering to the table to rejoin my drunken students.

“I'm coming for you, Butterbutt,” I muttered; “Crazy old coot.”

Part 2

Buntyville's rumour mill was rife, detailing Oscar's descent from snooty, snappy dresser to corncob-pipe-smoking bumpkin. Those with extra vivid imaginations alleged he'd been eating nothing but haggis for breakfast, lunch and dinner.

My desire to see him one last time was driven by a deep need for closure, while also finding out whether the rumours were true.

Feeling every one of my 65 years—and then some—I arrived at his mansion after an exhausting sleepless night; constantly floundering between loving and hating the old sod, as I'd been doing for four miserable decades.

It was disarming, seeing him lying there in an advanced state of inert decrepitude. I was astounded to feel my fool heart actually skip a beat, something I'd only previously read about in novels.

Bloody hell.

I cursed the betrayal of my body parts once again, and his ability to somehow still put me at an emotional disadvantage, even in his near-coma state. Soon he was slightly upright, thanks to his ardent health care worker, Bonnie. As I crept slowly closer to his bedside, I watched helplessly as she re-adjusted his pillow, speaking softly in his ear in an attempt to rouse him. Fuelled by his belaboured breathing, the unmistakable aroma of haggis wafted on his breath.

In slow motion, his eyes opened and seemed to settle on me at last. Were those tears in the crusty old coot's eyes? And where was his blasted gold-digger? Shouldn't she be by his bedside?

Secretly, of course, I was relieved she wasn't. How could I possibly explain visiting after all these years?

“I just came to see how you're doing,” I said, sounding ridiculous.

After a profoundly awkward silence, in which no appropriate words came to mind, I added, “Hope you feel better,” and made my hasty exit.

Did Bonnie know our history, I wondered, relieved when she followed me down the stairs.

“Where's Mrs. Clutterbuck?” I asked, casually affecting what I hoped was an air of innocence.

In perhaps the thickest Scottish brogue I've ever heard, which is saying a great deal, having spent my life in Buntyville, she answered, barely audibly: “Aye, that's the question.”

After a slight pause, during which she appeared to be deciding how much to divulge, she stated simply, “She left.”

“Oh,” I said, not knowing what to say when she didn't elaborate. Finally, I asked: “How's he doing?”

“Pretty shugly, poor old fella. Doc says his ticker's on its last legs.”

Then, moving so close that our bodies were nearly touching, she whispered, still somehow managing to roll her r's: “The morning after Mrs. C. left, in the middle of the night, Mr. C. told me, 'I'm tired. It's time to die'.”

I felt only slightly sympathetic that Gold-digger had ditched the old coot in his dotage; mostly I was glad he now knew what it felt like, being dumped.

Tears made a downward winding trail on Bonnie's freckled cheek. Reflected in her caring green eyes, I caught a glimpse of myself at her age. It made my blood boil, seeing that sweet young woman so devoted to that mean-spirited old sod.

Impulsively, I hugged her before bolting out the door.

Safely out of earshot, I cried, “Good riddance, Haggis-Breath,” and daring to hope that my heart might heal at last, called my lawyer to launch my brilliant plan for revenge.

Part 3

“Maggie, you've flipped,” said my brother, Stuart, from the driver's seat of his parked BMW.

“Why?” I asked, as if it were perfectly reasonable to expect someone to meet them in a deserted motel parking lot at 3:30 in the morning.

“What you're asking me to do is insane! Not to mention, damned illegal.”

Feeling desperate, I resorted to tactics I despised in others: I played the victim.

“You, more than anyone, know what that bloody bastard did to me.”

On countless occasions, my loyal brother had consoled me during lonely bouts with drunkenness.

“Aye, but this could cost me my career!”

“Don't be daft,” I said, raising both eyebrows, summoning my big-sister voice. “No one'll ever find out.”

“They'll connect you with the shelter.”

“Hundreds of people volunteer there,” I argued, sounding as self-assured as possible.

“What if Gold-digger disputes the will?”

“She may,” I conceded, calmly. “No judge in the world will buy her weeping widow act. She left without a word in the middle of the night; her husband on his deathbed.”

“Maybe, but how can we convince the court the crazy old coot was of sound mind when he allegedly changed the will?”

“According to Willie, he was sharp as a tack till the cat got his tongue. And that only happened the day after Gold-digger left, last week.”

“How the hell does Willie know?” Stuart asked, incredulous.

“You know freaking Buntyville. Willie's brother-in-law is the postman. And he remembers chatting with the old coot when he delivered his Fortune magazine last week. You know he'll testify, if needed.”

As Stuart paused, I sensed he was softening, running out of objections. Time to go for the jugular.

“Stuart,” I said, affectionately placing my arthritic hand on his. “All those years I worked putting you through legal school ... I never asked you to repay me. Gold-digger gets the mansion. We're just moving money from her grubby paws to help battered women and their kids. What's better than that?”

Dropping his hand from his forehead, which he'd been rubbing for the past half hour, Stuart began banging his head dramatically against the padded steering wheel.

“How do I let you talk me into these things?” he asked; fear and panic combining to make his normally high-pitched voice even more shrill.

“Because you love me!” I shouted, wrapping my arms around him; his head still making slow, soft “thud” sounds on the wheel.

“See you soon!” I said, then ran to my car before he could change his mind.

Part 4

I spent the next two and a half hours pacing, frantic with anticipation.

Finally, around 6 a.m., just as dawn was dawning, I heard his car pull into my back laneway.

My eyes were glued to the door, until finally he knocked softly, signalling his placement of the envelope in the mailbox.

Flinging the door open, I glanced around like a wild woman, out of control, checking no one was watching before clutching the manilla envelope and ripping it open in the kitchen.

My hands shook as I flipped through the bulky document, scanning the whereases and mumbo-jumbo legalese till I found the “bequeath” page. I'd been a tad doubtful, but was overjoyed to see that my brave, baby brother had made my requested changes.

Part 5

Immediately following my descent into depravity, I experienced the most extraordinary seven days of my life.

Oscar's death. Graduation. And at long last, my retirement, featuring a lovely surprise party, hosted by my students during lunchtime.

Did I imagine it, or were some of them raising an eyebrow at me as I handed them their diplomas?

Having graduated myself now—to criminal mastermind status—I practiced my reactions in the mirror, making sure my face would register as much surprise as everyone else's when details of Oscar's will hit the streets.

There'd been nary a peep from Gold-digger, thank goodness, so no one seemed to question that Oscar left her the mansion and not the moolah. If she showed up, my bro was ready for her. Meanwhile, shelter workers were ecstatic to receive life-changing money for many grateful women and children.

The college scholarship awarded to Marigold (on my secret recommendation), came as a surprise to everyone, including her. It was my attempt to place her permanently out of the reach of Willie, though I knew I couldn't protect her once she went to college.

It wasn't until after the funeral, as I slowly trudged home in a surreal fog, that it finally hit me.

Oscar was dead.

I'd completely violated his legal will.

I'd screwed over Gold-digger.

I'd broken the law.

I'd coerced my only sibling to break the law, risking his stellar reputation and his livelihood.

Ethics teacher, my arse.

Epilogue

The biggest surprise was yet to come.

Goosebumps rose instantly when I spotted Stuart's law firm's return address on a thin envelope in my mailbox. I tore it open, flabbergasted to find a letter on stationery from my late, ex-fiance, in shaky, sprawling hand-writing:

“From the office of Oscar Clutterbuck,” it read, dated the same week I'd gone to visit him, right before he died.

My heart jumped in my throat from the first line, and I barely breathed until I'd read the final word.

My Dearest Mags,

I'll start by simply saying I am sorry. I know it's not enough but you need to hear it. I'm sorry not only for the way I ended things with you, but also for not having the courage to explain it to you all these years.

My mother was forbidding me from marrying anyone, terrified that a daughter-in-law would squander our family's fortune. The unfortunate timing of your father's death, which sadly launched you, your Mom and Stuart into poverty, coincided with you and I getting engaged. Mother was threatening to “ruin” you publicly; I knew she'd do it. Knowing Buntyville and its gossip, I never told a soul about her threats, or why I left you.

Again, blasted timing that right after our breakup, mother died. I was already inconsolable for having lost you, and undergoing intensive counselling. I wasn't eating or sleeping. It was affecting my work, my health, everything. I heard through the rumour mill that you were also unhappy. How I longed to run to you, to apologize, to attempt to explain what had happened. But on her deathbed, mother had confided in Father Carlyle and at her funeral, he talked me out of it. Said it would kill you if I came anywhere near you. Like a fool, I believed him. He was a priest, for God's sake. My biggest regret is that I listened to him instead of trusting my gut.

One day I was crying in the therapist's waiting room, Vicky walked in, having recently lost her husband, and well, the rest is history. And while it wasn't too terrible for an impulsive rebound relationship, I swear I thought of you every day, wishing with all my heart that you could be my wife.

As soon as my doctor said I was dying, I stupidly decided to tell Vicky the whole truth (and by the way, we both knew the entire town called her 'Gold-digger'). I thought I owed it to her.

Once again, I seem to have made the worst possible decision, wounding my faithful wife of forty years. She left in the middle of the night without a word. And suddenly, I was struck dumb, unable to speak ever since.

When you came to see me, I was so happy. There was so much I longed to tell you, to set the record straight. But I couldn't. So I wrote this letter and asked Bonnie, who I trust implicitly not to tell anyone, to drop it off at Stuart's law office, with a note instructing him to give it to you after my death.

I deeply, deeply regret the pain I caused you, Mags, and wish more than anything we could've spent our lives together.

I sincerely hope you can forgive me, and will live a wonderful, happy life.

With My Love Always, Oscar.

Clutching the letter against my heart, I wiped my eyes, finally feeling vindicated; like I got my life back.

I felt incredibly guilty about Gold-digger, on one hand, but on the other, an actual heavy weight lifted: freedom from floundering. No more hatred, just forgiveness. A single, blessed word came to mind and settled there, comfortably: Closure.

Crazy old coot.