Chapter 12
In her first official act of employment for Theo, Mrs. Gidley (at Mr. Ponder’s direction) found the addresses of three local residents and mailed Theo’s handwritten letters to them.
She also began a log (again at Mr. Ponder’s direction) to ensure that the letters reached their intended destinations in a timely manner.
Addresses were sometimes difficult and time consuming to obtain, and the somewhat demeaning task did nothing to elevate Theo’s place in Mrs. Gidley’s mind.
Still, she did the work, did it well, and was paid handsomely in return.
Why on earth is this old man giving away free portraits? She wondered. Very suspicious.
She did have to admit, however, that she had never seen such beautiful handwriting before. Not exactly the penmanship of a con man, but one never knew.
Theo’s second, third, and fourth recipients all showed up at the fountain on time, talkative, curious, and appreciative of what the gentle old man was doing.
Bestowal number two was Junior Perryman, a mixologist at the Bowleg Bar and Grill.
Years earlier, in a previous career, Junior had lost an arm in an accident at a local textile mill.
In his portrait, a prominent scar from the same accident was visible over his left eye, and his nose was slightly misaligned.
He was on his way to work (his shift began at eight) when he strolled up to the fountain, introduced himself to Theo, sat down, and entered into friendly, unhurried conversation, not terribly different than the thousands he’d had over the years while serving whiskey and beer at the Bowleg. Junior personified the gift of gab.
“Some people call me a bartender, but I’m really a therapist, like Dr. Phil or something. You’d be amazed at some of the stories I hear. I just mix up drinks to make the medicine go down. You probably wonder how I mix a drink with only one arm, don’t you?”
The question had crossed Theo’s mind.
“Well, you’ll just have to come down sometime, and I’ll show you how it’s done. I’ll mix you one of my specials.”
Junior pointed to the fountain. “Mr. Theo, you might already know this, but this fountain is called the Fedder. You want to know how it got its name?”
“Yes, thank you, please tell me.”
“OK. Well, a long time ago, like in the 1880s, they had a big dedication ceremony when the fountain was built.”
Theo’s eyes studied the impressive structure in front of them. It reminded him of the Bethesda Fountain in New York’s Central Park. That one, too, featured an angel with open wings.
“A preacher was saying a prayer, and there was a little kid on the platform — I think it was the mayor’s grandson.
While the prayer was going on, a pigeon flew off the statue, and a feather fell onto the preacher’s robe.
So the little kid hollered, ‘Papa, look a peeth a fedder fell off the angel.’ He said ‘peeth a fedder,’ but he meant ‘piece of feather.’ That ended up in the newspaper, and everybody started calling the fountain the ‘Peeth a Fedder,’ but now it’s just called ‘the Fedder.’ Sometimes for fun at work, I’ll bet a free beer to anyone who can say ‘piece of feather’ five times real fast without messing up.
It’s hard enough sober, but a few beers make it near ‘bout impossible.”
Junior nodded toward the fountain and chuckled. “I’ve had to pull some of my customers out of that water before.”
It was approaching eight o’clock when Theo finally uncovered the portrait and handed it to Junior.
“Mr. Junior, when I saw this face, I had a feeling this was a special man, a wise and good man. Now I know. And a good storyteller as well. I’m very glad I get to be in the world with you.”
Junior took the portrait in his hand.
“Thank you. So, you’re just going to give this to me?” He spoke as one who expected to be asked for something in return.
Theo bowed his head and put a hand over his heart. “It is my honor.
Thank you for letting me do this.”
Junior studied the drawing closely. “That guy is pretty amazing, isn’t he? The artist.”
“He is indeed. Do you know Mr. Glissen?”
Junior shook his head. “Naw, he’s not the Bowleg sort, I don’t think.”
They talked until it was time for Junior to report to duty.
“Well, Mr. Theo, I better head to work. Thank you again for the nice picture. I think I’ll give it to my mama. Come down some night, and I’ll mix you one of my specials. On the house. And when you’re by yourself, try it sometime. Piece of feather. Real fast, five times.”
Bun Everson, the third beneficiary of Theo’s inspired idea, arrived with a friend, Sara.
They were both students at the University of Golden.
Bun (short for “Abundance,” her grandmother’s name) was enrolled in the graphic design program.
Sara was majoring in English with an emphasis in creative writing.
(It was she who had written the article about Asher in the Gold Standard.)
“We want to start a magazine together when we graduate,” Bun said.
Theo was a flurry of questions. The two girls were a flurry of half-formed answers and fully formed dreams.
He handed the wrapped package to Bun. She opened it and, with Sara’s head almost touching hers, stared at it without comment. They had previously seen the portrait on the Chalice wall and had both been mystified when, one day, it was no longer on display.
Sara said, “I’ve been saving money to buy it for Bun’s parents, but, you know, I’m just a poor college kid. Bun and I both love Mr. Glissen’s work. We had a nice conversation with him when he took our pictures.”
“When he took my picture, he took Sara’s too,” Bun said. “I hope he draws her.”
Theo laughed. “In other words, we might meet here again someday?”
In fact, they did, just a few months later.
Much later, the magazine launched. One of the first articles was about a day when two college students met an old man named Theo.
Bestowal four went to Frankie Knowles. The splayed eyes and crooked mouth did not diminish the brightness of the twelve-year-old’s smile.
When Theo had first told Mr. Ponder about the idea of giving portraits away, Mr. Ponder had offered two strong warnings: Never write a letter directly to a child, and always be careful about giving portraits to women, young women in particular.
He assumed Theo would exercise such discretion without being told to do so, but he also knew, from years of undoing smart people’s fiascos, that it never hurt to state the obvious.
“Either of those can be easily misunderstood and might possibly get you in trouble these days. If you want to give a picture to a child or teenager, write to the parents, and let them decide if they want to accept your offer. And don’t be surprised if the parents show up alone.”
It had crossed Theo’s mind not to give portraits to children at all, especially so early on, but Frankie Knowles’s framed face argued to the contrary.
The boy arrived with his father and mother.
They had been to the Chalice only once in their lives — four-dollar coffee was beyond the reach of their meager income — and they were not even aware that Frankie’s picture had been placed on the wall.
When they received the letter inviting them to the Fedder, they were somewhat suspicious and ill at ease.
But they lived nearby, in one of Golden’s not-so-elegant neighborhoods, and reasoned that, if nothing else, Frankie would enjoy the stroll and benefit from being outdoors.
Fresh air was good medicine for a child confined to a wheelchair.
After introductions — Theo holding both of Frankie’s hands in his — the wheelchair was parked a couple of feet in front of the bench, so that the old man and the little boy were knee to knee, facing one another.
They carried on like old friends for half an hour while Mr. and Mrs. Knowles sat quietly.
All the while, Theo’s focus held fast on Frankie’s face and eyes.
In response to one of Theo’s questions, the boy said, “My favorite sport is NASCAR.”
Theo knew little about race cars, other than what he had learned at the famed competition in Monte Carlo one year, but he was amused by Frankie’s enthusiasm for the sport. Perhaps confinement to a wheelchair made speed a tantalizing possibility and an understandable fantasy for the young boy.
When Frankie peeled the wrapping paper from his portrait, his mother, who had stood to help him, fanned her face with one hand and put the other on her heart.
Her mouth fell open, speechless. Frankie’s father was just as spellbound but less demonstrative.
He too stood, shook his head, grinned, and patted his son’s shoulder.
A short silence, during which all eyes were fixed on the gift, was followed by generous thanks, hugs, laughter.
Theo never saw the Knowles family again. But they spoke of him often and never missed an opportunity to tell others the story of the “genuine portrait that this old man gave us for free at the Fedder.”
The idea was off and running.
A restless accountant.
A gregarious bartender.
An aspiring entrepreneur.
A NASCAR fan.
At least eighty-eight to go.
Theo had struck a motherlode of opportunity. He had stumbled onto his purpose as the newest resident of Golden.