Ice

By Azelin Phillips

Disillusioned by the hypocrisy of the adults in his life, a young man severed ties with his family and pursued a lifelong journey on a twisted path of selfishness and depravity. In the end, totally helpless and abandoned by his own children, he died with only his paid caregivers at his bedside.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Dec 20, 2014
• ISBN: 9781496960023

Azelin Phillips

Azelin Phillips was born in Jamaica and immigrated to Canada in 1965. A long-time member of Brampton Writers’ Workshop, her education also includes a certificate in the psychology of human relations from Ryerson University. Although her work has been published in anthologies, Azelin’s first independently published work is a children’s book entitled Quicksilver.

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© 2014 Azelin Phillips. All rights reserved.

Editor: Angela J. Carter

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

This novel is a work of fiction. All of the events, characters, names and places depicted in this novel are entirely fictitious or are used fictitiously. No representation, statement or incident depicted in this novel actually occurred. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

Published by AuthorHouse 01/21/2015

ISBN: 978-1-4969-6003-0 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4969-6002-3 (e)

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

Chapter 1   Old Man Crealey

Chapter 2   John Crealey: The Early Years

Chapter 3   John Crealey: The Young Adult

Chapter 4   Abigail: First Wife

Chapter 5   Beatrice: Second Wife

Chapter 6   Bernadette: Third Wife

Chapter 7   Anne: Fourth Wife

Chapter 8   Evelyn: Fifth Wife

Chapter 9   Sam and Gladys

Chapter 10   The Deathbed

Chapter 11   The Funeral

Chapter 12   Reading of the Will

DEDICATION

To my daughter, Erica Phillips, and my niece, Sylvia Abbott-Richardson.

Thank you

Avril MacDonald

CHAPTER 1

Old Man Crealey

John Albert Fitzgerald Crealey was born in Toronto on October 31, 1913, and died on his birthday 100 years later in the little town of Castlemar, 300 miles from where he was born.

When John moved to Castlemar, he was 72 years old. He married his fifth wife, Evelyn, while living there. Shortly after Evelyn’s tragic death, he became woefully neglectful of his health and refused to see a doctor. He was still relatively tall, although his shoulders sloped and he had lost an inch or two to old age. Like his health, John’s physical appearance was something he no longer paid attention to, and he would often appear disheveled and unkempt.

Following Evelyn’s death, he started smoking a pipe instead of cigarettes, and the pungent smell of pipe tobacco combined with copious amounts of Old Spice would announce his pending arrival long before he actually appeared anywhere. He saw the dentist only when a toothache became unbearable, by which time the tooth could not be saved. By the age of 99 he had become so frail and fragile that when he spoke his lips moved ever so slightly, making it difficult to tell if the one visible brownish-yellowish tooth, partially visible from underneath his straggly, discoloured moustache, was attached to the gum or grew directly out of his lip.

His once piercing steel-blue eyes became a sort of hazy, milky-blue and were partially concealed by thick clumps of white, bushy eyebrows that looked more like a single brow. The hair on his head, once flaming red, became sparse and white with a yellowish tinge. It was interesting to note that as the hair on his head grew sparser, his eyebrows and beard grew thicker and longer. By the time he died, his head was as shiny as a cured and well-polished gourd decorated with two huge ears, one big bushy eyebrow, discoloured moustache, and a long, food-stained beard.

Except for the fact that John had been married five times and was five times a widower, his life on the surface seemed relatively unremarkable. He married his first wife, Abigail, when he was 38, and together they had three sons: Clint, Josh and Edward. Abigail died at the age of 37 after nine years of marriage.

John was 48 when he married his second wife, Beatrice, who brought into the union her two children, Flo and Jeb, from a previous marriage. John and Beatrice had no children together. Beatrice passed away six years later at the age of 51. At age 55, John married his third wife, Bernadette, a 40-year-old widow who had no children. She died four years later. He was 61 when he married his fourth wife, Anne, a 50-year-old who had never been married before. She died on the day of their eighth wedding anniversary, and John remained a widower for six years.

John moved to Castlemar following Anne’s death. He sold the large Victorian house they lived in and bought one almost identical in Castlemar. The house, which stood at the top of a hill, was once owned by a prominent doctor and was empty for a year before John bought it.

Except for the well-kept gardens and the manicured lawn, the house showed very little evidence of life. John, who lived alone, always kept the drapes drawn. The people from the town wondered why an old man living alone would buy such a large house. By then, his sons—Clint, Josh and Edward—and his stepson, Jeb, were living in Toronto. They visited occasionally during the first year but visits tapered off gradually and eventually stopped completely.

The house came to life for a time when John, at age 75, married his fifth wife, Evelyn. She was 32. They had one child together, a daughter named Sarah. Evelyn died when Sarah was four years old.

John did not marry again. He became a private and reclusive man, prone to fits of hysterics if children should so much as try to retrieve an errant ball from his yard. Get off my property, you little rapscallions! he’d screech. You children have no respect for other people’s property or their privacy. Sometimes he would pick up the ball and throw it over the wrought-iron fence back to the frightened children. There, you little beasts! he’d shout, and the children would scatter.

Everyone in Castlemar referred to him as Old Man Crealey or the old man on top of the hill behind his back but in his presence he was respectfully addressed as Mr. Crealey. He was often described as the most despised, miserly curmudgeon ever to walk the earth. One must bear in mind that most of the people in Castlemar had never gone beyond the borders of their little town and, therefore, did not have sufficient worldly experience to appreciatively compare Mr. Crealey’s miserly behaviors with those of any significant number of people on the planet.

Castlemar was a farming community with a population of about two thousand. Years ago it was a thriving community before the sole manufacturing company, which employed hundreds of people, relocated. Job opportunities dried up, and many of the people went to larger cities in search of work. As expected, most of the small stores that prospered from the spin-off business generated by the manufacturing company closed. Empty houses and boarded-up stores deteriorated over time and were in varying states of disrepair. There were two gas stations in the town, two auto-repair shops, one bank, one grocery store and a high school that served other small surrounding communities.

The residents of Castlemar were very religious, and 90 percent were Catholic. There were two Catholic churches, one at each end of Main Street, a small United Church on the south side of the through-highway, positioned close to the Welcome to Castlemar sign, and an even smaller Pentecostal Church at the opposite end, just before the Thank You For Visiting Castlemar sign. God was definitely not under-represented in Castlemar and one could easily come to the conclusion that these four churches were strategically placed as a constant reminder of His divine omnipresence. If indeed it was a calculated decision, it worked well because the God-fearing people of Castlemar lived only in the present with hope of a better life in the hereafter.

Outsiders rarely stayed long enough in Castlemar to call it home. Consequently, the shallow gene pool, in a community of fertile Catholics, resulted in a demographic of gentle folks who could hardly be differentiated one from the other. There was no public transportation in Castlemar and many of the residents never went beyond the borders of their little town, except on special occasions or when some of the young people would pile into pickup trucks on a Saturday evening and venture into a nearby town that had a movie theatre and a liquor store. After a night of damnation, they would return home in the early hours of Sunday morning. A few hours of drunken, restless sleep and they would be up and ready for a morning of salvation at Sunday Mass.

The people did not have anything personally against John Crealey, but they were not accustomed to outsiders moving into their community—especially rich ones who were mean and selfish. The older people spoke so often about the big letdown when the manufacturing company left them that mistrust of outsiders came naturally to the younger generations.

One of John’s earliest contacts with the community occurred one Saturday morning, about six months after he had moved into his big house on the hill. Annabelle Hilton, a distinguished-looking woman of about fifty-something, paid him a visit. Knowing he was there, she persisted in her knocking until Mr. Crealey reluctantly opened the door. Annabelle introduced herself and explained the reason for her visit. She spoke sadly and calmly about the dire circumstances of a neighbor whose husband had recently passed away tragically. The widow and her nine children were penniless and desperately in need of financial help.

Mr. Crealey listened attentively as Annabelle explained the situation. After a minute or two, he asked her if she’d mind stepping inside. Annabelle was thankful; it was a cold, windy fall day, and she had already been knocking on doors for about two hours. Besides, she was dying of curiosity to see how the old man lived. She followed Mr. Crealey into the large sitting room.

Annabelle had never been inside the house, not even when the previous owners lived there. Glancing quickly around the rooms, Annabelle could see that, in addition to the large stained-glass windows, there were small pocket windows of stained glass between the dining room and the sitting room as well as between the butler’s pantry and the dining room. She was impressed by the ornate ceiling and the beautiful furniture and fixtures. The light from the large chandelier in the formal dining room shone brilliantly. The room was warm and inviting. The inside of the home was most impressive, and thoughts of a substantial donation put a smile on her face.

This is a very beautiful home you have, Mr. Crealey.

Thank you, Mrs. Hilton. Would you like to sit down? John asked as her eyes continued to survey and admire the sitting room.

I’d love to, Mr. Crealey. I’ve been on my feet for hours.

John ushered her in the direction of a lovely high-back chair close to a window. She sat down, placed her handbag on the floor and crossed her legs at the ankles. John did not offer to take her coat so she did not take it off.

Well, I’d like to hear some more about the family for whom you seek help, Mrs. Hilton.

I’d be delighted to tell you whatever you need to know, Mr. Crealey, Annabelle said and cleared her throat. What specifically would you like to know? she asked, smiling in anticipation of a considerable donation.

Well, to start, how old is the widow? What are the ages of the children? And how did the unfortunate man come to his demise?

Annabelle straightened up in her chair and cleared her throat again. She realized that this was going to be an interview, unlike the other stops she had made earlier.

Let’s see now. Claire, the widow, is about 34. A very tragic figure herself. She hasn’t been well at all. Been sick on and off since the last child was born. Claire has always been delicate and fragile. She is a direct descendant of the Haffawits. In fact, her great grandfather was the first mayor of Castlemar. The union between her and Daniel Newkom was frowned upon. Even though the Haffawits were no longer affluent in the community, they looked down on someone as poor as Daniel and told their daughter she’d live to regret her choice.

Interesting! remarked Mr. Crealey. Continue, please.

Well, the children range in age from one to 14. There are four boys and five girls, including one set of identical twin girls. The eldest is a girl and the youngest is a boy. One child, a son, died about two years ago. He was two years old—born with a genetic heart condition—and was in and out of hospital for almost all of the two years he was on this earth. The mother became pregnant again shortly after his death and when the youngest, now a year old, was born, Claire became ill. As I mentioned, the father, Daniel, died tragically in a hunting accident last fall. He had gone hunting with friends and a stray bullet struck him in the back of the head. He never even made it to the hospital. Died right there on the spot. He was only 44, bless his soul.

Annabelle crossed herself as she said the last three words and placed her hands, palms down, on her lap.

"What kind of work did he do? What I mean is, how did he support his