Old Betty

There were three things that Paul Williams loved the most on this earth: sex, cigars, and his family. Cigars he’d given up to please his late wife Judy, and sex had been snatched from him when she died. Without his two favourite carnal pleasures, all that remained to him was his family: namely, his son, Paul Junior.

The graying but still handsome older man closed his eyes and inhaled, letting the tobacco-scented air linger in his lungs. It was one of the perks he had of working a second job at Tunney’s tobacco shop. Another perk it turned out, was the access it had given him to the adjoining jewelry store.

One night while working late, Paul walked into the shared stock room, to overhear the jewelry store owner speaking on the phone. The connecting door was slightly ajar, so the words carried with ease.

The store had been robbed a month before. The estimated loss was valued at $1.8 million. Apparently that loss had not been a loss at all. The owner had staged the robbery in order to pocket the insurance money and was searching for someone to fence the stolen goods.

Later that night, Paul's plan began to take form. Was it really stealing if the object of issue didn't exist? Paul didn't think so. The only person who would know the jewelry was missing was the owner, and he couldn't very well do anything about it as it was already reported stolen.

That night Paul took out his black notebook and began planning.

Back in the present, Paul turned to look at his son, who was busy finding a power outlet for the concrete saw that was their ticket to a new life.

“Do you smell that?” His wizened face was bright with excitement.

The younger Williams glanced up at his father. “What? You mean the smell of early emphysema?” He hid a smile. His heart felt lighter seeing his father’s excitement. It had been missing since his mother's death two years ago. He knew what they were doing was crazy and that he should’ve talked his dad out of it, but he’d become desperate to find the father he once knew.

He missed the man who’d spent every spare moment at his Remington Rand typewriter he called Old Betty. He would pound away at Nicholas Sparks-style love stories which he loved to read to Paul and his mother after dinner, a glass of quality pinot noir in one hand. Now, his father spent most days sitting in a rocking chair like some old man waiting to die. To the dismay of his girlfriend, Paul Junior had moved back home to take care of his father.

Paul laughed, distracting his son from his thoughts. “No, Buddy. The smell of freedom.” He’d been planning this heist for six months. If the members of his church group could see him now, they wouldn't believe it. How could this possibly be the same mild-mannered man they knew? But Paul’s transformation was logical. There was no way he could pay off his wife’s medical bills on the salary he made as a columnist in The Woodhaven Herald.

Yes, things had gotten off-track when he'd had a falling out with his partner in crime, but his son had stepped in and picked up the slack. Every now and then, the guilt he felt at involving Paul Junior surfaced, but he pushed it back with thoughts of purchasing his son the rare car dealership he’d been dreaming of owning.

“Stand back, Dad.” Paul Junior pulled his goggles down over his eyes and readied himself to saw through the wall.

Suddenly, his dad stumbled into him, knocking the saw from his hand as he reached out to grab him.

“Dad, are you okay? What’s wrong?”

His father looked confused. “My leg must have fallen to sleep. Don’t mind me. Get through that wall. We've got to get out of here before that guard comes back around in twenty minutes.”

Paul Junior stared at his dad for a couple seconds more, then pulled the goggles back around his eyes.

########

Junior sauntered through the hallway of the nursing home, his step lighter than it had been since his father’s stroke.

“Hey, Amy,” he greeted the director of nursing. “How's Dad doing? I really think we can finish writing the book today.”

Amy rushed from behind the desk, looking flustered. She placed a hand on his arm. “Paul, I've been trying to reach you all morning.”

“Sorry, I was in a meeting. I must have forgotten to turn my phone back on. What's wrong?”

Amy hesitated. “It's your father, Paul. I'm sorry. He passed away a few hours ago.”

Paul stumbled backwards. Since his father’s stroke three years before, the fear of another stroke had dissipated, giving Paul what now appeared to be a false sense of security. He felt numb. A tentative hand patted his shoulders.

“Can I have some water, please?” His throat was dry. It took an effort to swallow.

“Sure. Let’s go into my office.”

After Paul had regained his composure, he asked if there was anything he needed to do.

“No. We already have instructions from your father. He did, however, leave something for me to give you.”

She reached behind her desk to pull out his father’s old Remington. “He wanted you to have this, and this.”

She handed Paul a thick manila envelope. “It's the manuscript. He finished it last night.”

She hesitated before continuing. “I hope you don't mind me asking, but he let me read it. It’s good. Is any of that true?”

Paul smiled, putting the glass on the desk. “Amy, you couldn’t possibly think my father and I are a couple of robbers, do you? My father was a respected church goer.”

Amy looked relieved but dismayed she’d asked the question. “Of course not. I was just kidding.”

Paul smiled as he got up to leave.

“By the way, Paul. My husband wanted to come by and check out the car selection at your dealership. It’s not like he can afford any, but I told him I'd ask you.”

“Sure, Amy. Anytime.”

“What's the name of the place?”

Paul winked at her with a sad smile as he walked out the door. “Freedom.”