Page 38 of Theo of Golden

He took a sip of lukewarm coffee, gathered his thoughts, and then returned to Asher’s question. “But why? You ask me why I do it? Well, as I have said, I feel as if the idea came from elsewhere, as if it was given to me. But regardless, I’m certain, now more than ever, that giving the portraits is a good and loving thing to do. That is a more than adequate reason to do it. Asher, I can’t do what you do, but I can make sure that what you do fulfills its purpose. I confess that at first I did it hoping to make someone else happy. Now I fear that my reasons are almost entirely selfish. I do it because it brings such happiness to me. I don’t know if I’ve ever done anything I enjoy more, and I’m just beginning.”

Asher nodded pensively and smiled. “I’m happy it makes you happy. Which portraits have you bought so far?”

“Just a few, but I have only been here a short while, you know. Minnette, Kendrick, Frankie, some others. I’ll do another tomorrow. I’m thankful you write their names on the back of the frames. It helps me find them. So, only a few thus far, but if I have my way, and if I live long enough, I will empty the Chalice. You just keep working, young man. I’ll buy all the ones there now and then any others you put in their place. At my age, what good is money in the bank?”

Asher said, “Your kindness is not just a gift to them, you know. It means a lot to me.” He paused. “You know, when Shep and Addie and I came up with the idea of putting some art in the Chalice, and I started the portraits, I thought they would sell quickly, like jump-off-the-walls quickly. I priced them really low so that people could afford them. Some of the people I’ve drawn probably don’t have money to buy their pictures — you know, like students and homeless folks — but I know a lot of the others pretty well, and they spend more on a single meal or a concert ticket than the portraits cost. If I’m honest, the project has been a little bit discouraging. I’ve wondered at times if Shep just doesn’t have the heart to pull the plug on it.”

Asher grimaced. “Gosh, Theo, I’m sorry. I know I must sound like I’m whining. I usually just share my frustrations with Brooke. Seems like unmet expectation is one of the hazards of this line of work. From what I can tell, lots of artists and creatives, especially little-known artists, wrestle with it.”

The old man struck a sympathetic tone. “No need to apologize. I think all of us wrestle with those feelings about one thing or another. Unmet expectations have a clever way of showing up at every stage of life. I appreciate your candor.”

“Theo, have you met Basil yet? The guy who plays guitar on the sidewalk near the Chalice?”

Theo’s eyebrows arched upward. “So, that’s his name? I can hear him from my balcony, but I haven’t met him. Basil, like the herb?”

“Yeah, Basil Cannonfield. His portrait’s in the Chalice. Anyway, he told me one time about his life as a musician, about how disappointing and embarrassing and pointless it feels to work so hard for tip money. He’s really good if you ask me. But I know how he feels. My work is more stable and predictable than his — at least I have something tangible I can put a price tag on and sell — but the life of an artist can be pretty deflating at times. It can make you want to cut your ear off.”

They both laughed.

“Maybe you could look at it this way, Asher. If your expectations had worked out as you’d hoped, I would have been denied a great gift. I would never have had the pleasure of buying the portraits, of having meals with the subjects, of finding the people and meeting them at the Fedder. I would never have had the chance to tell them something good and true about themselves. Some wonderful conversations would have been unspoken.

“Perhaps, when you were drawing the portraits, you were drawing them for me, even though you didn’t know me yet. There is a mysterious choreography at work in our lives, yes? Talk about mystique! And now our paths have crossed and we get to do this together. For my sake, selfish as it might seem, I’m sorry for your discouragement, but I’m very happy that the portraits did not sell before I got here.”

Asher smiled.

When Theo finally stood to leave, the slanted light of early morning had become the vertical rays of early afternoon. His legs, a bit stiff from sitting for so long, required some stretching and rubbing before he and Asher walked past the framed letters and the painting of the lone tree in the hallway. They shook hands with a firmness that indicated a desire to seal their new friendship. Each put a free hand on the other’s upper arm and looked one another in the eye. Something deeper than words passed between them.

“Asher, I thank you so very much.”

“And I thank you, Theo. Let’s do this again sometime soon.”

They stepped out of the house onto the porch. Asher walked Theo down the steps, an act of respect and affection, patted him on the back, and then re-entered the house. The old man opened the gate, turned onto the sidewalk, blinked hard, and walked to the river.

There was, and would be, much to ponder.

Much to cherish.

Much to lament.

CHAPTER 23

About the name.

Or, more specifically, the absence of the name. Theo’s last name.

The short answer is that folks just gave up caring about it. Once it became clear Theo wanted to be known by his first and only his first name, most of his new acquaintances capitulated to his wish.

He was a Houdini at evading personal questions and answering only those that were within certain unstated boundaries. The others he sidestepped with the finesse of a river dancer.

It was the same with attempts to learn his last name.

His habitual introduction, “Just call me Theo,” was usually sufficient to circumvent further questions, especially for people who only encountered him once. At the bestowals, for instance.

If someone did ask for a last name, he usually repeated the habitual introduction with such friendly assertiveness that people didn’t ask again. They would have felt impolite doing so.

When pressed, Theo responded with a rambling explanation that confused or exhausted his interrogator into submission.

“I have a strange and difficult Portuguese name that is long and hard to say, so just call me Theo, and I will call you Dan, and that way you won’t have to try to pronounce that hard word because we have some unusual vowels in my country and so, and so… Dan, what sort of work do you do, and have you lived here in Golden all your life?”