Chapter 32
The little girl would still have to endure future surgeries and physical therapy, but Dr. Ikande thought it best to keep her hospital stays as short as possible. It was his informed medical opinion that “there is healing power in being at home.”
On the day Lamisha was discharged from the hospital, she asked Theo a question that had been on her mind for days.
“When I get out of the hospital, will you still come see me?”
His response was immediate. “It would be an honor, my dear.”
And so, once a week, Theo would walk to the nearest bus stop (the one Kendrick used), step aboard the number 37 bus (driven by Mr. Gilliard), and make the twenty minute ride to Tilley Street where the Whitakers lived.
He would disembark at the corner and walk a block or so to their front door.
They lived in a modest rental in an old, blighted part of the city, far from any hint of “renaissance.” Peeling paint, missing shingles, cracked windowpanes, and miscellaneous other signs of neglect were standard features on many of the houses along the street.
The Whitaker residence included some of those imperfections.
Their landlord clearly did not spend money on landscaping and curb appeal.
On the inside, however, the house was clean, orderly, and fragrant with the scent of pine oil. The furniture was mismatched, dated, and worn but every piece was polished, dusted, and tidy. Grandmother Whitaker would have it no other way. She did the best she could with what she had.
Theo tried to visit once a week, and did so with rare exception. The early visits had an awkwardness to them — the Whitakers were not used to having guests, especially ones like Theo, in their home — but by his third appearance, a routine had been established, and any sense of unease was gone.
Once there, Theo would visit briefly with Kendrick and Grandmother Whitaker and then give his undivided attention to the little girl. She was clearly the main event in his mind.
When the two of them had first met at the hospital, Lamisha’s shyness quickly gave way to a soft-spoken but free-flowing stream of youthful consciousness, a reward for the tenderness with which the grandfatherly old man engaged the child.
Throughout his life, business dealings had brought Theo into the company of educated, cosmopolitan, refined adults on a regular basis.
He was comfortable and capable, even impressive, among them.
But he was equally, maybe more so, at ease in the company of children, especially a child like Lamisha.
She had not yet learned the skills of pretentiousness and manipulation, and she still maintained enough of her innocence to be called a little girl.
It might be wondered how an old childless man cultivated such a rapport, such a comfortable disposition, such a disarming presence with children like her. His explanation was always the same.
“Two things: I had a very good father, and I used to be a child myself.” (And also, though he rarely said so, “I used to have a child myself.”)
Theo arrived at Lamisha’s each week with a book in hand, acting on the premise that all people, young and old, love stories. He had been pleasantly surprised to find a sizable collection of children’s books at the Verbivore and even more surprised to learn that Tony was a big fan of the genre.
When Tony figured out what Theo was doing with the books — reading and giving them to the little girl — he began to lay aside his own favorites and even to ask young mothers and fathers for recommendations.
Who would have guessed that the crusty old war veteran was as conversant about Narnia and Terabithia as he was about Tet and Saigon?
Or that Aesop and Seuss had firmly established places on his personal list of must-read literature?
The Penny Loafers knew not to make fun of Tony’s affinity for children’s books.
Picture the scene. Theo and Lamisha take their places, side by side and close together at one end of the sofa, what the elderly Mrs. Whitaker called the “davenport.” They hold their book of the week in such a way that both can read the text and see whatever illustrations are on the pages.
And then, with a mild bit of fanfare, Theo delicately turns to page one and introduces the story thusly.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I now present to you, for your listening and viewing pleasure, a reading of…”
And so he begins.
At some passages he lingers and lowers his voice for effect. At others, if the action of the story calls for it, he speaks as fast as his mouth allows.
Sometimes he and Lamisha take turns reading the lines. Theo obviously has an agenda in mind when they do so. He is helping a child improve her reading skills, but he is also teaching a course, as Basil might say, “in magic.”
The magic of story.
The wonder of words.
The fertility of imagination.
“Ah, Lamisha, you read so beautifully, my dear. Do that page one more time for me. And now, once more. What is this big word? ‘Accidentally.’ And tell me, how many syllables are in the word?” He claps out the syllables.
“Ac-ci-den-tal-ly. One, two, three, four, five. And how many vowels? And consonants? Excellent! You read it so well. Once again, please.”
Sometimes they read in unison, Theo suggesting inflection and cadence. They celebrate exclamation points enthusiastically, with increased decibels and animated gestures.
The little girl savors the warmth and expressiveness of the old man’s voice. It is not merely a sound. It is a place. A color. A haven.
And for the old man, the moments are equally enchanted. They bring to mind vivid memories of sitting on a sofa in France, decades earlier, with his own dear child, Tita. They enjoyed some of the same books he now shares with Lamisha.
Some of Theo’s happiest moments long ago were story time with that little girl. Some of his happiest moments now are story time with this little girl. To read with either was to drink from a chalice of gold.
Before long, Lamisha’s dad, initially at her request but eventually on his own, began reading and re-reading stories with her. Sometimes he required the little girl’s help, and sometimes she asked, “How many syllables are in that word?”
The davenport became home to Eeyore and Aslan and Miss Rumphius and Punchinello and a Giving Tree.
In many of those characters, Kendrick was sure he saw glimpses of Mr. Theo.
On one memorable occasion, Theo arrived with a sketchbook in hand.
It contained a story of his own making, painstakingly written in block letters and illustrated with simple pictures that a six-year-old could have drawn: stick figures, lollipop trees, clover-leaf clouds.
He had written the story with a specific child in mind: a little girl with a pronounced limp and a brace on her leg; a little girl afraid of returning to school after almost a year of absence; a little girl self-conscious and fearful of being different than her peers.
The story was called “The Princess of Titalamish.”
Theo insisted that Lamisha learn to pronounce the name correctly. “Like this, one syllable at a time. Tee-tah-lah-meesh. You say it…. Ah yes, wonderful!… And now, once more.”
The word felt exotic and full of romance as it rolled off her tongue.
“Tee-tah-lah-meesh.”
The story was about a little girl who was given a pair of strikingly colorful, magic shoes, a gift from her Papá. Theo described them with gusto.
“These magical shoes were blue, blue, blue. Bluer than blue! Blue as the morpho. Yes, blue as the morpho butterfly! Beautiful blue!”
He would go on to explain however that, though beautiful, the shoes made the little girl different, undeniably so, than all her classmates.
“Because, you see, they all wore red shoes. Red, red, red. Everywhere, red! And because the little girl was not like all the rest of the children, they teased her and called her names and would not sit with her or be her friend. Ah, my goodness, what was the dear little child to do?”
Theo employed every dramatic skill he possessed — gesture, inflection, phrasing, silence, repetition — to bring the story to life for Lamisha. ‘And in response, she listened, spellbound, all the way from “once upon a time” to “happily ever after.1”
When he finished the reading, Theo closed the sketchbook and handed it to his young companion.
“For you, my dear. This is the only copy in all the world.”
That gift would forever be one of Lamisha’s most prized possessions. She kept it beneath another of her most prized possessions — her dad’s portrait — on the end table beside her bed.
Throughout his year in Golden, Theo visited the little girl.
She returned to school, but remained in physical therapy and made regular visits to Dr. Ikande.
Whenever treatment or prosthetics were required, Theo made certain she was provided for as if she were his own, sometimes in open and obvious ways and sometimes quietly through the agency of Mr. Ponder.
Early on, in his weekly rides on bus number 37, Theo looked a bit out of place, but, in time, other passengers who rode the bus daily became accustomed to his presence. Before long, he knew a number of them, and they knew him, by name.
1 The full text of “The Princess of Titalamish,” read by the author, is available at Anyone choosing to read it aloud themselves is advised to do so with a Portuguese accent, in the presence of a child, with appropriate gestures and dramatic pauses.
The truly brave will also attempt to do their own illustrations.