Page 66 of Theo of Golden

Theo nodded but made no comment.

Derrick looked at his watch. “I hate to hurry off but Minnette is waiting for me, and I need to run. Would you like me to walk you home?”

“No, thank you. I am OK. I am just upset. I’ll be fine.”

“You’re sort of pale, Mr. Theo. I could call an officer and have them take you home. I’ll be happy to.”

“No, no. Really, I’m fine. But thank you. And please give my love to Minnette.”

Derrick agreed and said goodbye. After he crossed Broadway, he turned to look back at the fountain. Theo was on his bench, eyes downcast, fixed on the mangled work of Asher Glissen.

As he walked home, still rattled by the confrontation, Theo questioned the wisdom of doing further bestowals. Should he stop? Might he be putting himself in harm’s way? Or worse, might he be putting others in harm’s way?

In short order, he dismissed those concerns. After all, he had known, and had been warned by Mr. Ponder, that his generosity might be misunderstood. One bad bestowal was no reason to derail the project. Theo concluded that he should, he must, continue the bestowals.

He would consult with Mr. Ponder and Mrs. Gidley about how to move forward. But move forward he would.

Later that night, he stood in his kitchen and removed the torn brown paper that still enshrouded the portrait. Shards of glass fell onto the countertop. The frame was broken in multiple places, and the drawing itself was torn, creased, and punctured.

On the cheek of the beautiful, unsmiling, cautious face, a boot print was visible, like a fresh bruise.

Theo took the drawing out of the frame and threw away the broken hardware, holding the face before him. Desecration. It is a desecration, he thought. He opened a drawer and laid the portrait down with the solemnity of a burial. Then he closed the drawer.

I have now met a Southerner whom I do not like.

CHAPTER 38

Simone and his cello had been doing battle for days with a challenging section of a toccata capricciosa. It was a mere forty seconds of music, but it had already cost him hours of practice and fine tuning.

It was another late night, midnight, and he was alone in the rehearsal studio. The college was all his at such an hour, quiet and ideal for concentration.

What does one do, or more to the point, what does a young cellist striving for perfection do when faced with a complex, daunting task that leads to frustration and defeat?

He closes the score and plays something familiar from memory, something he has previously mastered, something to reestablish his confidence, even if it is as simple and commonplace as a children’s melody or a beginner’s piece.

Simone chose a song he had learned during his university days in Washington, when he was part of an ensemble that played for a production of Porgy and Bess.

The sultry, sweat-dripping notes of “Summertime” echoed down the hallway as Simone, eyes closed, swayed to the languid melody.

Mr. Gershwin would have been very pleased at the slow, weary voice with which the cello drew out the notes and evoked a muggy night in Charleston. Simone channeled Louis and Ella themselves as he droned the well-known tune.

Blues on a cello?

Simone reached the final note of the song and pulled the bow to the last possible millimeter of sound.

The room went silent. Almost.

From down the hall came a voice, as if the last note from the cello was reversing course and returning to Simone in reply. It was the sound of singing. Not loud. Obviously not meant to be heard but heard nonetheless.

“And yo’ mama’s good lookin’.”

Simone’s trained ear could tell that the voice was on pitch, that it possessed feeling, and that it knew the song well. All this at a barely audible volume.

He put down his cello, walked to the door, and looked down the hallway.

A cart, laden with various brooms and cleaning supplies, stood unattended.

Simone was aware that custodians cleaned the classrooms at the end of each day. He often heard the sounds of vacuum cleaners, floor buffers, and trash cans being emptied on the late nights when he practiced alone.