Page 62 of Theo of Golden

After a moment, Theo spoke. “Then I propose that we make a trade. Give me that old picture in your head, and take this new one home with you.”

And then, like schoolchildren, they acted out a mime.

Theo held out his hand, palm up.

He nodded toward the top of her head.

She somehow intuited what he wanted her to do.

She raised her hand, fingertips together, to her temple and pretended to pull an object from her mind.

She held her hand over Theo’s and opened her fingers, then dropped the hostile mental image into his palm.

He closed his hand around it and put it in his coat pocket.

With his free hand, he tapped the portrait. “Katherine, never forget. A work of art.”

They stood to their farewells.

Theo promised once again that, when his business in Golden was done, he would call and give her an interview.

She promised once again to keep their secret.

And she did.

CHAPTER 35

Once Theo had gained a circle of acquaintances along the Promenade, his daily strolls became peppered with short, unscheduled conversations. He learned that those visits were called “bumping into” or “running into” someone, though no such collisions were ever involved.

Such encounters typically occurred along the sidewalk or at places like the Chalice, where Theo might hear his name or feel a tap on the shoulder and turn to see a familiar face standing behind him. Brief, friendly exchanges would ensue and, on occasion, real conversation would bubble up.

Theo was not particularly comfortable with small talk. His own active mind and colorful thoughts were so engaging that shallow babble felt at times like an intrusion, an interruption, a subtraction. That said, and all because of his capacious spirit, sidewalk chats became a welcome part of his days. He was a master at adapting the depth and tone of his comments to whomever he was with at a given moment. Be it a twelve-year-old NASCAR fan, a one-armed bartender, a homeless woman, or a disgruntled accountant, he could connect. And he always listened with interest. Genuine interest. Not fakery.

Still his preference was for weighty questions and thoughtful answers, a preference that was rarely obliged.

To compensate for the deficit, he could always resort to books.

On this occasion, Theo bumped into Asher at the Chalice. They were third and sixth in line, waiting to place their morning coffee orders, when Asher called his name. Theo moved back to fifth position in the line.

After greetings, Theo scanned the walls of the room and lowered his voice for the sake of privacy.

“Asher, in every face I detect sadness.”

A crease of curiosity formed between Asher’s eyes. “Why do you say that?”

“Well, it is subtle, and maybe it takes an old man — an expert in sadness — to see it, but it is there in every portrait, in some more than others. It is not gloomy or angry or even terribly obvious. It is like a weariness or an unmet longing or a disappointment; something we inherit from those who lived before us. But to these old eyes, it is in every face, the universal affliction. It is what gives such gravitas to your portraits and makes them so believable. Even when your subjects are smiling, the shadow of sadness is there. And so far, my meetings at the Fedder only confirm my suspicion.”

Asher mulled over Theo’s remarks.

“I never really thought of it that way. I certainly don’t do ‘sadness’ intentionally.”

“Ah,” Theo nodded his affirmation, “the mystery of art.”

Asher leaned in and spoke softly. “So, you’re an expert in sadness?”

Theo shrugged. “I suppose anyone as old as me could say the same. When we’re young, we’re usually too busy or too self-absorbed to see it, but by the time one is almost ninety, this world has beat the sadness into him quite deeply. Every week there is some tragedy or reminder to keep it alive and well.”

It was an unusual subject to discuss while standing in line for coffee. They placed their orders, stepped away from the counter, and continued talking.