Page 47 of Theo of Golden

Theo’s tone and expression likewise lost its humor, but not its warmth, as he told Tony both stories: the Thursday afternoon bestowal at the Fedder and the Sunday morning disruption at St. James. In doing so, his references to Ellen were never deprecating, discourteous, or demeaning. Nor were his references to the parishioners or the clergy of St. James.

Theo told the story of Sunday, in fact, as if the occurrence were nothing out of the ordinary, as if he didn’t quite understand what all the fuss was about. He had, after all, seen lots of Ellens in New York City.

As Theo spoke, Tony listened with an occasional nod, an articulation of understanding (“uh huh”), a pursing of the lips, or a raising of the brow. A time or two, he said “really,” more as an exclamation than a question. He puffed on his cigarette. Given that Tony actually had been inside St. James more than once, usually for funerals, he could picture the scene of the disturbance frame by frame in his bookish, cinematic mind. And despite his wry wit and tendency toward irreverence, the incident came to life in his imagination more as romance than comedy.

“I’m glad you were there, Theo,” Tony said when Theo was finished. “That old girl’s had a tough go. I don’t know much about her, but I’m thinking she’s had some Vietnams of her own.”

The thought hung in the air between them before Tony continued. “She comes by here a lot. She loves to read. Did she tell you that? And some of it’s pretty deep stuff. She used to go to the library, but something or a lot of somethings happened, and they took her card away from her. I guess I can see the library’s side of it. She can really cause a scene when she wants to. I guess you saw that for yourself yesterday.”

Theo nodded knowingly. Tony continued.

“She scares the hell out of the children, too, and she smells pretty awful in the summertime. I think she piled up some hefty fines for overdue books, and she had some run-ins with the staff, so they put her out. Somebody told me it really upset her when they took her card away. They had to call the police to make her leave.”

Another short pause as Tony took a drag of his cigarette. His voice brightened as he carried on.

“So Theo, you know what we did? We gave her a library card to the Verbivore. She’s the only member. She can check out three books at a time and keep them for a month. There have only been a couple times she didn’t bring ‘em back. But she swears they disappeared. Probably got stolen or something.

“Theo, If you haven’t figured it out yet, the Promenade tries to keep an eye on her. She sort of belongs to all of us. You’ll get good reviews for helping her yesterday. Not that you did it for that reason, of course. You know I don’t buy all the ‘heaven’ stuff, but I do admit what happened at St. James sounds sort of… well… you know…”

Theo said nothing, merely smiled.

“So, Theo, tell me one more time. That usher? What did she call him? St. Smartass? That’s what I heard. Man, I wish I’d been there. And what was the other one? Pin-striped whore of Babylon? Damn, I wish I’d been there. Where does she come up with that stuff? I bet the management is gonna have quite a meeting this morning. Uh, uh, uh.”

Tony took a long pull on his cigarette, careful to blow the smoke away from Theo.

And with that, the mischievous spark, never far from the surface, shone in Tony’s eyes again.

Before leaving the Verbivore that morning, Theo asked Tony if he had any books by William Saroyan in stock. He did, a thick paperback anthology, which Theo purchased for a few dollars.

Later that day at home, Theo found and read “Rescue the Perishing,” the story that Ellen had referenced in their conversation at the Fedder.

The little boy’s bicycle really did cost $27.50, and it was true that he did not want a new one. And Saroyan really did say, in another essay, that the bicycle is the noblest invention of man. His justification for that opinion? “Because I say so.”

CHAPTER 28

Basil Cannonfield strummed the final chords of a familiar Paul McCartney song, removed the coins and bills from his guitar case, gently laid his old Martin in the crushed velvet, then closed the latches and called it a day.

This was his workplace, a slice of sidewalk a few paces to the right of the Chalice entrance. He had chosen the spot because of its predictable foot traffic. It was there, three, four, and sometimes five nights a week, that he serenaded the pedestrians of Broadway. His open guitar case lay on the pavement beside him like a beggar’s pleading maw. “Tips welcome.”

On many nights from his balcony, Theo had listened, as best he could, to the street musician’s songs. Even to his trained, cultured ear, the soulful, folksy voice was a pleasant addition to the sounds of the Promenade.

On a typical evening, most people walked by Basil without breaking stride. They were careful to avoid eye contact with him or even to look in his direction for fear that it might create an obligation to put something in the open case. Chalice patrons sitting at the tables on the sidewalk carried on conversations as if he were nothing more than piped-in background noise. Occasionally, someone actually did pay attention, or better, stopped and listened to a song or two.

Singing was a total-body experience for Basil Cannonfield. His shoulders rose and fell, his neck bobbed rhythmically, and his knees bent as feet tapped or shuffled vigorously in service of the songs. He was pulled like a marionette by the strings of music in his head.

From time to time, he smiled at a familiar pedestrian, even called them by name, and spoke or sang to them in the middle of a performance. It was hard to tell if he actually enjoyed the work, but there was no doubt he was fully engaged in it.

When Basil returned home that night, around eleven o’clock, he emptied his money pouch onto the kitchen table. This ritual was the agony and the ecstasy of working for tips. On good nights, when coins were many but bills were more, the term “grand total” had a kingliness to it. On other, more ordinary nights, Basil could only be glad that his girlfriend, Katrina, had a steady job. On bad nights, he wondered if it might be time to return to his job as a schoolteacher at McLemore Elementary.

The night had been a good one. The traffic flow had been steady and strong and unusually generous. Springtime and Springsteen had a liberating effect on people’s wallets.

The evening harvest was mostly one-dollar bills, with a welcome complement of fives and tens.

But there was something else.

An envelope bearing his name, elegantly handwritten.

Earlier that evening, shortly after dark, Theo had left his balcony, walked downstairs to the sidewalk, and stood as covertly as possible listening to the music. In the middle of one particularly energetic song, Theo joined the scrum of pedestrians, walked past Basil, and dropped the envelope into the open guitar case. This time Theo would spare Mrs. Gidley the trouble of delivery.