Page 45 of Theo of Golden

Their eyes were fixed on the Fedder, the mixture of rainfall and fountain water dancing in a filigree of silver. Streetlights along Broadway had begun to glow faintly to compensate for the cloud cover. The rain finally stopped.

“Mr. Theo, that was the worst thing I ever had to live through. But it was the happiest day of my life.”

And then, without speaking, she stood, straightened her bicycle, put her portrait in a basket between the handlebars, and turned to leave. She looked back toward the bench.

“Mr. Theo, a little while ago, you said when you looked at my picture, I looked ‘motherly,’ right? Is that really what you saw?”

Theo nodded.

“Thank you, Mr. Theo.”

She wiped the rainwater from her cheek and rode away.

CHAPTER 26

On the following Sunday, a crisp, cloudless morning, Theo ate a small breakfast, stopped by the Chalice for a newspaper and a coffee, and then walked to St. James for the eleven o’clock gathering. A sign at the rear doorway asked for silence upon entry. As if to reinforce that request, a psalmic passage was written in elegant script, “Be still and know that I am God.”

Theo entered the sanctuary and took a seat as others trickled in.

The architecture of the place inside and out was a celebration of lines and angles, of stone and wood and glass, of mundane materials used majestically in celebration of order and mystery.

It was a manifesto of beauty.

The designers had made a thousand small decisions to ensure the grandeur and wholeness of the finished work. How many souls had been stilled and comforted in that hallowed space over the decades?

Sitting there, Theo imagined the men who built the structure: the muscles and motives, the sweat and swearing, the tools and tempers that, taken together, had produced so remarkable an edifice. He pondered the stresses that held arches in place, those and other invisible forces that, properly understood and employed, brought grace and symmetry to such spaces.

He gave thought to the history contained in and represented by this single structure: the baptisms and burials, the marriages and messages, the hearts mournful and glad and bored and worshipful that had filled the long benches over the generations.

A reverent hush filled the room as the organist played a prelude to the morning’s service. The music was conducive to contemplation, or sleep, depending on one’s disposition at the moment.

As the last note of the song faded, Father Lundy rose to welcome the congregants and make his opening remarks. He had just begun reading a passage of scripture when, to the complete and utter shock of everyone present, a loud disturbance erupted at the back of the room. The sound of breaking glass, a falling vase, sounded through the high rafters.

That shock was heightened when the words being spoken became audible and distinguishable.

“You get your blue blood hands off of me, you pin-striped whore of Babylon! Touch me again, and I’ll ride this Noble invention right over your hypocritical ass! Get out of my way!”

An usher, fighting an onset of total astonishment and embarrassment, was trying to restrain a wild-eyed woman wearing a blue hat from bringing her bicycle into the sanctuary. She had forced her way through the door, bicycle in tow, and was intent on joining the congregation assembled there.

Or, more precisely, intent on finding and joining Theo.

Every head turned her way. A number of the leaders and others moved immediately toward the disturbance and encircled the intruder. Any semblance of order or sanctity fled the room as Ellen, not to be deterred by another act of bureaucracy, railed against her opposition. She was equal parts prophet and whirling dervish.

“Your sign outside says ‘visitors welcome.’ Well, St. Smartass, I’m a visitor, so get out of my way. You touch my property one more time and see what happens, you throne-sniffing Pharisee. Get the hell out of my way! All of you. Right now!”

Her fist was raised and ready.

St. James had never experienced, and likely never would again, such a display of righteous indignation on its premises. Some of the congregation watched or ducked down cautiously behind their pews, horror-stricken at this unexpected visit from an uninvited guest. After all, there had been killings in churches in recent years. Others, who recognized the woman from having seen her around town, were curious and even amused that an actual sinner had entered the elegant premises of James, the saint. The biblically literate among them might have expected a finger to start writing on the wall at any moment: Mene, mene, tekel, upharsin.

Panicked cell phone calls, many from the sanctuary floor, were made to 911 with the expectation that, in a matter of seconds or minutes, officers would arrive, arrest the troublemaker, and restore dignity to the meeting. In the meantime, Father Lundy implored parishioners to remain seated and be calm. Few paid him any attention. The main event was clearly at the back of the sanctuary. Across the room, people gaped, craned their necks, and whispered excitedly about the scene unfolding before them.

And then came a voice.

“Darling. Ellen. Ellen, darling. Hello, dear. Good morning, dear.” Mrs. Ocie Van Blarcum, her white hair shining like a nimbus, stepped between Ellen and the others and touched her hand. There was no sense of alarm or urgency in her voice. But her forceful presence made it abundantly clear who was now in charge.

Immediately, the confusion began to subside, affirmation that a gentle answer (still) turns away wrath.

“Ellen, please come sit with me, sweetheart. We’ll find a place for your bicycle. Would you like to sit with me and my family?”