Here comes Kenneth, ambling along the path of the local park lake where we often encounter each other. It’s a warm, early autumn morning; mallards glide along the placid water. Kenneth is limping his way toward me as usual, only slower. He’s a tall, lanky older man who wears thick glasses and Levi’s that are worn and frayed at the pockets where he keeps his hands tucked into, and a flannel shirt, no matter the weather. It could be eighty degrees with ninety percent humidity or close to freezing; it wouldn’t matter. The only difference is how far his shirt is unbuttoned. Today, the top two buttons are open. Only when it gets down to single-digit temperatures does Kenneth bother to put on a jacket or overcoat.

We pause to chat and exchange niceties. As I prepare to resume my morning stroll, Kenneth says, “Hey, did I tell you we got a new dog?”

“You did not,” I say. “What kind?”

“Miniature schnauzer. Same as the others.”

He pulls out his phone to show me a picture.

“Cute,” I say. “What’s his name?”

“Her name,” he corrects. “Bella.”

He sticks his phone back into his back pocket. “Wife wanted to keep with the western names, like the other ones.”

Their other dogs are named Annie and Miss Kitty.

“I told her the only Bella I know is Bela Lugosi.”

I laugh. “Maybe she wants to get into horror movies now.”

“Nah, she was thinking of Belle Starr.” Kenneth shrugs. “I told her I’m fine with it.”

“Smart man.”

“After forty years, I’ve learned not to cross her.”

“You ought to get a male dog,” I tell him. “Then you’d have more choices for a western name.”

“I think we’re done with the dogs,” he says. “But if we did get a boy, I’d probably name him Randolph Scott.”

“That’s a good one,” I say.

“Yeah. He’s probably my favorite western movie actor. I’ve got an old movie poster of him hanging up at the house.”

Kenneth shifts, his bum knee probably locking up or otherwise giving him trouble.

“I remember there’s a song about him. ‘Whatever Happened to Randolph Scott?’ I think it was called.”

“Yep,” Kenneth says. “The Statler Brothers did that one.”

“That’s what I thought. But I couldn’t remember if it was them or the Oak Ridge Boys,” I say. “I always get them mixed up.”

“The Oak Ridge Boys did ‘Elvira,’” Kenneth says.

“There’s another name for a female dog, if you ever decide to get another,” I say, though in my mind I associate that name with Elvira, Mistress of the Dark, a campy, vampy character of the late-night television of my youth, not the heartthrob subject of some country and western song.

“There you go,” Kenneth says.

“You’re welcome,” I say. “Don’t say I never gave you anything.”

*

The next day, I see Kenneth again, hobbling his way toward me. I say, “You know, I was thinking I’ve never seen a Randolph Scott movie. But I’ve seen a lot of other old westerns. Mostly John Wayne.”

“Yeah, he was a good one. True Grit is probably my favorite.”

“Mine, too,” I say. “Too bad it was the last movie he made.”

Kenneth shakes his head one time and gives me a blank look. “Nope. That would be Rooster Cogburn.”

“Ah. Right, right,” I say, attempting to disguise my ignorance of John Wayne movie chronology.

To redirect the conversation, I say, “When I was a kid, my pals and I would go to these all-day western marathons of the old Clint Eastwood movies. A Fistful of Dollars and For a Few Dollars More and The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly, movies like that. All for a buck or two. It was a good way for our moms to get us out of the house.”

Kenneth nods. “I remember those movies.”

“They called them ‘spaghetti westerns’ because they were all made in Italy,” I say, hoping that fact will reestablish my credibility as somewhat knowledgeable of westerns.

“That’s right,” Kenneth says, and his nod tells me I am again in good standing with him.

“They don’t make movies like that anymore,” he adds.

“Hey, have you watched Yellowstone? I hear it’s pretty good.”

Kenneth looks down at the sidewalk. “Nah,” he says. “I’d rather watch reruns of Gunsmoke. I like the old ones best.”

I express my appreciation with a nod and say, “I’ll tell you what was a good recent western,” then immediately I forget the name of the movie. “It came out a few years ago. Probably a decade ago by now. It was the one with, oh, what’s his name …”

Kenneth laughs. “Now you’re sounding like me. Like a forgetful old fart.”

“Haha, yeah. It’s happening more and more,” I say. I look skyward in hopes that the name of that movie will somehow reveal itself among the glistening orange and golden autumn leaves. “It was the one with Kurt Russell who played that sheriff, and Val Kilmer played his sidekick.”

Kenneth shrugs. “Don’t think I know that one.”

“Damn,” I say. “I can’t remember his name either.”

“It’ll come to you,” he says. “Probably in the middle of the night when you get up to take a piss.”

He waves and turns, signaling the end of our conversation. “Stay out of trouble,” he says.

*

It’s a cloudy fall day. A strong breeze knocks maple, hickory, and catalpa leaves to the ground like confetti. The brown oak leaves, rumpled up like old paper bags, cling to the branches despite the harsh gusts. Kenneth is hobbling badly today. He’s wearing a heavy duster, the color of deerskin, and pulls it close as he walks.

“I remembered that movie,” I tell him.

“What movie?”

“That western I was telling you about yesterday. It’s called Tombstone.”

Kenneth looks skyward, as though trying to recall whether he’s seen that movie, or our conversation, or both. “Don’t think I’ve ever seen that one,” he says.

“Really? It’s about Wyatt Earp and Doc Holliday. And Tombstone, Arizona. In the last days of the Wild West.”

“Hm,” he says. “It sure don’t ring a bell.”

“It’s a good one,” I say. “I think you’d like it. You should check it out if you ever get a chance.”

He nods, standing, wobbling a bit as a strong gust barrels through the trees, scattering leaves around us. The wind stirs up the lake, causing the ducks to squawk and swim toward a thicket of cattails.

I nod toward his bad leg. “You gonna get that thing looked at?”

“Ah, she wants me to,” Kenneth says. “She’s got some appointment scheduled for me for next week. I told her I don’t want surgery, though.”

“Hey, a lot of people have had knee surgery and come out just fine from it,” I say.

“Well, I guess we’ll see what the doctor says.”

*

It took a week for the DVD of Tombstone to show up, but what can you expect when you go with the free shipping option? I haven’t seen Kenneth on the trail since he’d told me about his doctor’s appointment and wonder if he’s laid up at home after knee surgery. Or maybe he’s been sick. But I’m sure I’ll see him today, or maybe tomorrow, so I stick the DVD into the inside coat pocket and head toward the park for my morning walk with plans to give the DVD to Kenneth as an early Christmas present. Thanksgiving is still a week away, but as it always is these days, the stores and radio stations are in full Christmas mode. Along the walking trail, the trees are winter bare, skeletal branches exposed, displaying drab green blotches of lichen like liver spots. All but the stubborn oaks, which cling to their rust-colored leaves in their denial of the change of season.

No Kenneth today. No Kenneth the next day, either. On the third day, I ask a mutual walking acquaintance, the Vietnam veteran whose name I can never remember, if he’s seen Kenneth.

“He’s been laid up because of his chemo treatments,” he tells me.

“Chemo?”

“Yeah,” says the veteran. “Stage four cancer. He started treatments a little over a week ago, I think.”

“Oh, wow,” I say. “I had no idea.”

“He didn’t want anyone to know.”

“Damn,” I say, looking at the ground. The vet and I step aside as a young couple jogs past. “I thought he was going to have knee surgery or something.”

The vet shakes his head. “I saw him yesterday,” he says. “He looks pretty weak. No hair. No real interest in much. He’s just sitting in his recliner all wrapped up in a quilt and watching Gunsmoke.”

“Oh, man. Is he up for company? I’ve got something for him, but I don’t even know where he lives.”

The vet shakes his head. “His wife’s pretty protective of him. Their son and his family are coming down early for Thanksgiving. They don’t know if it will be his last one or not, but his wife told me she doesn’t think he’ll make it to Christmas.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” I say. “Do you think you’ll be visiting him again soon?”

“I’m going to try. Today is his chemo day, and it usually takes a day or so for him to recover, but I’m going to try to stop by tomorrow or the next day.”

“Would you do me a favor?” I reach my hand into my inside coat pocket to produce the DVD. “Would you give him this for me?

The veteran examines the DVD package: an image of Tombstone’s four mustachioed main actors—Sam Elliott, Val Kilmer, Kurt Russell, Bill Paxton—looking apocalyptic with fierce stares, walking toward the camera like the Four Horsemen in black and gray felt hats and black dusters.

The vet taps the case against his palm. “Good movie,” he says. “I’m sure he’s seen it.”

“Well, he may have,” I say, “but the other day he told me it didn’t ring a bell.”

“Ah, you know how we old guys get,” the vet says. He shoves the DVD into his coat pocket. “I’ll get this to him.”

*

It’s Thanksgiving morning. I’m out early for my walk just before sunrise, to avoid the turkey trotters who will run a 5K around the lake in a few hours. About a mile in, I hear someone shouting my name. It comes faintly through the distance. I turn to see the Vietnam veteran walking toward me. I can tell from his frosty breath that he’s huffing and puffing.

“Wasn’t sure I’d see you today,” he says as he approaches. He’s holding something rolled up, like a long scroll, in his hand.

“I gave Kenneth the DVD,” he says. “He was pretty out of it, but his wife assured me he would watch it later.”

I nod. “Thank you.”

“Then his wife called me yesterday and asked me to come over. She handed me this and told me Kenneth wanted you to have it.”

He hands me the long scroll, which is sealed with two thin red rubber bands, one on each end. I look at him curiously. “What’s this?”

“No idea,” he says. “I didn’t look at it.”

“Well, let’s have a look,” I say, and motion toward a nearby bench. We sit, and I remove the rubber bands from the scroll. Unfurling it, I see “RANDOLPH SCOTT” emblazoned across the top. Below is a headshot of the movie star in the foreground. He’s holding a six-shooter just below his strong jaw, his steel-blue eyes alert below brown brows, and his half-smile revealing a row of perfect teeth, impossibly white even though the poster is yellowed by time and cigarette smoke. In the sepia-toned background, a stagecoach is trying to outrun an Indian war party. To the actor’s left are smaller black-and-white images of a woman—most likely the hero’s love interest—and a man kneeling with rifle held up, preparing to aim it. Below Randolph Scott’s chin comes the promo copy: When the Lone Star State was split wide open—he linked it together with lead! Then the movie title “FORT WORTH.”

I marvel at the display, a relic from a time long gone. “Randolph Scott,” I say. “Kenneth’s favorite actor.”

“That’s what he told me, too,” says the veteran. “He must think a lot of you to give you that poster. It was on the wall of their living room forever. But his wife was probably happy to be rid of it.”

We both chuckle at that.

“Well, I’d better get this into a better climate. It’s pretty frail.”

The veteran nods. “Yeah, and I need to get my walk in before the runners take over our trail.”

“Please thank Kenneth for me. Please tell him I really appreciate it.”

“Will do,” says the veteran, and with a quick nod and wave, he turns and walks on down the trail, toward the rising sun.

I guess if this story were a western, the vet would mount a horse and ride off into the sunset. But it’s morning, the dawning of a new day—Thanksgiving, even—and I’m sure he has a home and family awaiting his return. As for me, I head back to my one-bedroom apartment with the rolled-up poster.

On the walk back, I think about getting a dog. Maybe next week I’ll go to the pound to find a male in need of a good home. I have just the name for him.

---

Andrew Careaga is a recovering marketing and public relations executive-turned-writer from Rolla, Missouri. His fiction and nonfiction appear in The Argyle, Bulb Culture Collective, Club Plum, MoonLit Getaway, The Orange Rose Literary Magazine, Roi Faineant, Spillwords, Syncopation Literary Magazine, and elsewhere.