Chapter 34
Though Theo did his best to keep the bestowals a secret, word began to circulate about the curious benefactor of Broadway.
When he wished to buy a portrait or portraits, he would do so when the shop was empty or uncrowded.
On other occasions, he might write a note or whisper instructions to Shep who, on his own time, would remove the designated portrait or portraits from the wall, wrap them in brown paper, and, later, hand them over to Theo as inconspicuously as possible.
From the outset, Shep had promised confidentiality, as did Asher and Tony once they learned of Theo’s intent.
And yet, despite those measures to keep his kindness below the radar, it could not be entirely unnoticed.
The portraits themselves ended up in an interesting assortment of places.
Most were displayed on prominent wall space in homes throughout the city.
One, of a softball coach, was placed in a high school trophy case.
One, of a little boy, was mailed overseas to his father, a soldier who was doing a tour of duty in Syria.
Another, of an old woman, was placed in the casket of her husband at his passing.
One, by special permission, was sent, unframed, to a death row inmate. It was the portrait of a woman who had been his foster parent when he was a teenager. She had continued to write him letters until the week before her passing.
Most of the people who received portraits from Theo believed themselves to be the sole objects of his generosity and, hence, never suspected they were part of a larger endeavor. All would have been at least a little surprised to learn how many others eventually met Theo at the Fedder.
Word of “this old man who gives away portraits” eventually reached the desk of a local newspaper reporter.
When she contacted Theo about doing a story and a blog post, he shuddered at the prospect, imagining some cringeworthy article about ‘a clandestine portrait fairy flitting through the fountains of the Promenade,’ or worse.
Instead of declining her request, however, he scheduled a meeting two weeks out at the Fedder. He requested that she come alone. And, emphatically, no photographer. She agreed.
When she arrived, a very full-sized woman in her forties, Theo greeted her — Katherine Lesker — with a bow and a smile. After introductions and before she could turn on a recorder or launch into her intended interview, he took charge of the conversation. His voice was soft but authoritative.
“Ms. Katherine, might I tell you a wee bit of my story first, off the record? I have a favor to ask of you, and you will understand it better if you let me explain.”
She leaned forward with all the attentiveness expected of one in her profession as Theo shared the sparsest of details about his life and then explained what he’d been doing with the portraits.
While he spoke, she was composing a story in her mind, a local-interest, feel-good story.
Accordingly, she was more than a little disappointed when he asked, almost pleaded, that she not write about it in the newspaper.
He explained, “I never did this to be noticed, and I fear that, if you write about it, I will not be able to continue my work. The anonymity and unexpectedness of the gifts are almost as important as the portraits themselves. Does that make sense?”
“I suppose so.” The letdown was obvious in her voice. “But the story is so interesting, and I know people would enjoy it. They would be inspired by your example. We need some positive stories these days. Wouldn’t you like to inspire others?”
“What I want is to bless the ones I give the portraits to.” He paused.
“When you’re as old as me, Ms. Katherine, you’ll have seen lots of very good intentions end up very badly, intentions that might have been better served if they had been acted on quietly.
There are some, of course, whose generosity is inspiring, but so many others, tsk, tsk, tsk… ”
Katherine offered no argument.
Theo continued, “I would guess you’ve read Mr. Wordsworth, perhaps in a literature class at some point in your studies.
He once wrote that the best portion of a good person’s life is ‘the little, nameless, unremembered acts of kindness and love.’ Tintern Abbey, yes?
Little. Nameless. Unremembered. I think it has never been our nature to think that way, but especially now, we like ‘big’ and ‘viral’ and all that. But I think Mr. Wordsworth was right.
“At this point, the handful of people who’ve gotten their portraits — on this very bench, in fact — only know that a stranger, for some strange reason, gave them a gift.
If those people read an article that focuses on me the least bit then, whether you mean for it to be or not, the gift would be diminished somehow. ”
Katherine tried to follow his reasoning.
She was used to interviewing people — praise-seekers and applause-junkies — who were all too eager to talk about themselves.
And while she appreciated the old man’s humility and selflessness, she hated to lose such an interesting story.
Their conversation had already provided enough material for a readable piece, and Minnette, who had brought Theo to Katherine’s notice, could provide background and context for the article.
“There is another teaching about kindness,” Theo said.
“ ‘Do not let your left hand know what your right hand is doing.’ In other words, do good, but try to do it without notice or hope of reward. Ms. Katherine, I’m trying to live by that rule.
I’ve not always been that way. Years ago, when I lived in another city, I made a gift to a local school.
They put my name on the building — it is there even now — and they had a big celebration.
For some reason, at the end of that day, I felt a big emptiness.
I have wished many times since then that I had done it some other way.
“For me, for now, today, ‘little, nameless, unremembered’ sounds right. I wish we could teach that to our children. Do you have children, Katherine?”
Katherine nodded. “I do. Teenagers. A boy and a girl. And you’re right. They could use a dose of what you’re talking about.”
“Ms. Katherine, I don’t know how long I’ll be here in your city. Maybe not for long. But I will make you a promise. Before I leave, if you still want an interview, I will give you, only you, an interview that you can print when I’m gone. Will that work?”
She pretended a smile. “You don’t have to make me a promise. If you don’t want to do an interview, your secret is safe with me.” She snickered. “You’ll hardly ever hear a reporter say those words. And if you do, don’t be too quick to believe them.”
“Katherine, I have a question for you. Have you ever wondered what it would be like to work as a street musician?”
“Not really. Why?”
“There is a young fellow who plays on the sidewalk near the Chalice.
I’ll bet he would be an interesting story. And he might appreciate the attention.”
She chuckled. “Maybe a feel-good story?”
She put her recorder away and prepared to leave. Theo reached beside himself on the bench. “Katherine, have you got a few minutes more?”
He handed her the wrapped package and gestured for her to open it.
Katherine had never once thought of herself as pretty. Not once in her entire life.
Not as a child. Not as a teenager. Not as a woman.
Her childhood had been a minefield of taunts about her size and plainness. She grew up avoiding mirrors and cameras. Being a journalist as an adult had allowed her to work in the cloistered isolation of empty rooms where her physical appearance was of little importance and safely out of view.
How Theo had obtained a recent photograph of her, from which Asher was able to render a drawing, was his and Mr. Ponder’s secret.
When Katherine peeled back the wrapping paper and realized what she was holding, she attempted to speak, visibly caught her breath, and blushed.
Her eyes filled, and she tried to smile through awkwardly quivering lips.
The realization that someone had paid such attention to her face — her face — that someone had drawn her with such tenderness, had deemed her worthy of such meticulous effort and artistry, reduced her to meaningful silence.
She and Theo gazed at the portrait as she gathered enough composure to speak.
“I don’t even know what to say. It’s, umm…” She hesitated, fearful of flattering herself. “He did a beautiful job.”
“Well, the artist simply drew what he saw, and what he saw — who he saw — is a work of art.”
More silence.
Katherine turned to look at Theo. “So, this is what you do?”
Theo raised his eyebrows and nodded.
“And moments like this are what you’d like me not to write about?”
He nodded again. “Ms. Katherine, I fear that no matter what you write, it would put this all in jeopardy, no matter how carefully you choose your words. I am amazed at the effect these portraits have on people. Your reaction is typical of what happens each time I do this. No credit to me, mind you. It is a gift of God. And this Asher Glissen has a remarkable ability — one little appreciated, I’m afraid — for helping people see themselves for who they really are. Thank you for understanding.”
Katherine’s eyes remained on the portrait.
“Mr. Theo, when I was a little girl in grade school, here in Golden, my father lost his job. We were never very well off to begin with, but for a couple of years, we were really poor. We lived in a rented trailer in a rough part of the city. It shamed my dad that he couldn’t take care of us, even though he did everything he could.
He’d had a really hard life, and I realize now he was probably a very sick man.
As a little girl, I didn’t understand or know anything about that.
“For two years, I never got new clothes or shoes. I was already a fat little girl. You’d think poor kids would all be as skinny as rails, but somehow, I just got bigger and bigger, and my clothes got tighter and tighter.
I was easy prey for kids looking for somebody to pick on.
I think my dad knew me and my siblings were suffering in our own ways, but he was powerless to help, and he was suffocating in his own disgrace.
“So, one day, he just up and left us. Just disappeared. We never heard from him again. I don’t know to this day if he’s even alive.
I’ve always feared the worst. But for a young girl who already feels badly about herself, it cuts pretty deep for your dad to walk out on you.
After he left, my mother worked as a waitress and washed people’s laundry at a laundromat, but we were always behind on everything.
“I’ve spent my whole life being a little girl in those too-small clothes in that rundown trailer park. That’s the picture of myself that’s stuck in my head, and it doesn’t look at all like this one.” She gestured toward the portrait.
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.