​about an old guy
a novel about friendship, redemption and facing the past

 Copyright © 2025 Cecile Beaulieu
  All rights reserved
No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical,
photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of Cecile Beaulieu.
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​

the appointment

  

An old man’s reflection taunts Murray from the mirror. Murray tries to reason how the old guy got there. There’s supposed to be a young fellow full of piss and vinegar smiling back at him, not this grumpy old dude. It must be a trick mirror.

He studies the features of the face in the glass. The skin is wrinkled, the eyes are sunken, the nose bulbous, sagging jowls are ashen and creased. Large gnarly ears add to the impression of a sad face with half its clown makeup rubbed off.

If he were standing in a hall of mirrors, he would choose a different looking-glass, a smoky one to soften edges, lighten shadows and launder the past. It would conceal the parts he prefers remain hidden, like the pulpy birthmark above his left eyebrow.

Murray scratches his head, mussing a tuft of snow-white strands, then combs them through with clammy fingers. He’s annoyed when the reflection does the same. He wants to show the stranger a fist, but Murray doesn’t want to chance the fellow may have been a prizefighter in his early days.

Before the guy gets a chance to flex his dukes, the clock on the wall sounds off. The cuckoo’s tinny chirping jars Murray from his reverie, and he loses concentration on the mug in the mirror. He blinks once, waggles his jaw and remembers he needs socks.

That’s why Murray’s standing in front of the bureau ogling his reflection, but the damn drawer won’t open. It’s stuck again. Murray fumbles with it, yanking hard, knocking a tin of photos from the dresser top to the floor. The lid pops off the canister, spilling the contents at his feet. He ignores the mishap and fixates on finding a pair of socks instead.

He releases his grip on the knob, sits on the edge of his bed and contemplates a better approach ― or a surrender. He rests ― elbows on knees, head hung, hands clasped. He draws a breath through pursed lips, trying but failing to calm his impatience.

Blinking twice, he notices, as if for the first time, the disarray of snapshots strewn across the floor. Next to his right foot, a little cowboy in an ancient photo grins up at him. A gap between two front teeth gives away his age ― about six years old.

The picture was taken decades ago, and Murray remembers the boy, who is his son, who became the man that he no longer recognizes.

He picks it up, fingers the image, and closes his eyes. It holds him captive, like a moving picture show rolling back years to a forgotten life. Memories of the youngster flood his thoughts, much as he tries to fight them down, but they won’t leave him alone.
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​Billy
 
When the boy was born, they named him ‘Bill’, not ‘William’. Murray’s wife, Sharon, went into labour on the first day of the Calgary Stampede in 1949. It was a bit of a shit show getting to the hospital with Stampede festivities raging through the downtown. So, it was no coincidence that little Bill grew to embrace the spirit of rodeo.

The year the boy learned to walk, Santa gave him a hobby horse for Christmas. There was no more walking for Billy ― if he was going somewhere, he rode his horse.

You couldn’t leave a cowboy hat lying around, or Billy would don it and claim it as his own. No matter that it was man-sized, wobbling loosely on his head, blocking his vision, Billy was proud to wear it.

And he had heroes ― cowboys like Wild Bill Hickok, Buffalo Bill and Billy the Kid. He aimed to live up to their celebrity, perhaps earn himself a brand ― Rodeo Bill or Bronco Billy.

For his sixth birthday, his grandpa bought him a pair of real cowboy boots, so unlike the fake ones made of rubber that he was used to wearing. Billy had to be coerced into taking them off at bedtime or before stepping into the bathtub.

On the day of the Calgary Stampede Parade, he was decked out in proper garb ― boots, Wrangler jeans and shirt. He wore a snug-fitting kid’s cowboy hat minus the toy whistle ― no self-respecting cowboy wore a whistle with his hat.

While sitting on the curb waiting for the parade to start, Billy posed for his father to take a picture. It was a proud and happy time for both of them. Then the act of living drove the memory into the deep, dark past.

Murray returns the photo to the tin and covers it with the rest of the snapshots scattered on the floor. He sets the lid on top, pops it shut and stashes it on the floor under the bureau. He decides it’s easier to focus on socks.
​
He tries the bureau again, this time with even more force. The drawer flies open, and he rummages through it, hoping to find a pair that doesn’t have gaping holes at the toe. He finds tube socks that look to be in good enough condition and pulls them on. He slips his socked feet into the sneakers he bought at the SAAN store the week before.

He checks the time, walks the hall outside his bedroom and eyes the stairs leading up to the main floor. The climb is hard ― his long legs don’t work the way they used to. Pain in his hip sometimes makes it difficult to navigate the stairwell. By the ninth step, he’s winded. He leans against the handrail to catch a breath.

He isn’t a huge man, but tall and bony with slender limbs. His hands are big, with fingers like bird claws, especially when he neglects to clip his nails. He isn’t interested in grooming now that he’s eighty years old ― primping days are long gone. He has enough challenges to face without complicating his life further.

Murray reaches the landing and pauses. To his left, two more steps lead to the main floor. The door is normally closed. He doesn’t often feel welcomed there, other than to collect his meals and take them downstairs. It’s his choice to eat alone. Dining upstairs can be awkward and downright unpleasant sometimes. The climate in his bedroom is less contentious, so he chooses to eat in peace.

He stands on the landing facing an open closet filled with coats. A rack of shoes and boots spans the closet floor, and the door to go outside is on his right. As usual, he leaves the house before breakfast. Today is no different, except that he has an appointment.

Murray steps out into warm sunlight that softens the chill of dank basement from his bones. The summer heat feels good, and the air is always fresh in the Alberta foothills.

The best decision Murray ever made was to move to the small community of Elkridge, Alberta, where the people are friendly and the pace is relaxed. There isn’t much in the way of crime, but its proximity to Calgary attracts the occasional criminal element looking for easy pickings. Most residents look out for each other, so people feel safe ― even old guys who walk alone.
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Murray’s street is quiet, as most residential neighbourhoods are. Matching bungalows line the road like a row of tiny homes on a Monopoly gameboard.

Most of the dwellings were erected after the war, when soldiers came home, got married and started families. The construction industry responded to demand. Soon after, clotheslines laden with wet diapers flapped in the wind of every backyard.

No one hangs wet laundry out anymore ― they have electric clothes dryers to do that work. Many of the homes don’t house entire families either, since the kids have all grown up and moved anyway. Aging parents, now grandparents, keep the home fires burning as they anticipate the next generation dropping in for a visit.

Murray looks up and down the street, absorbing the quiet. A stray cat basks in the sun in the front yard. She’s not yet concerned with the old man closing in on her space.

Murray notices her on the grass. He crouches, holds out his hand and calls, “Here, kitty, kitty.”
The tabby ignores him, preferring to lick its paw, so Murray steps closer, but his encroaching proximity begins to alarm her. She scrunches her face, heeding the old man’s movements with apprehension.

He reaches down to pet her, but she scowls and hisses once before bolting across the road. He watches as she ducks under a fence, perhaps finding a more private location to resume her morning toilette.