Page 52 of Theo of Golden

The fisher-painter continued working without further comment. The canvas was almost full of color, and the act of benevolent larceny, stealing a sunset, was almost done. A small portion of the canvas, at what should have been the river’s western shoreline, remained unpainted.

The fisherman stepped slightly in front of the easel, knelt down, and pushed the handle of the paintbrush into the soft ground beside the water. He pushed his finger into the gray sediment and scooped out a dollop of sludge. He stood, returned to the easel, and began to rub the mud into the unpainted spot on the canvas.

“Use what you have. Now you. Give me your hand.”

Theo obeyed. The fisherman put river dirt on the boy’s right thumb. “Now paint.”

Theo stood motionless, uncertain. The fisherman, a bit more insistently but not unkindly, repeated his instruction.

“Paint. Here, do as I do.”

By way of example, he dragged his finger left to right, careful not to press too heavily into the canvas. Then he took Theo’s hand and guided his muddy thumb along the painting’s surface.

The fisherman leaned back and chuckled. “Well done. You are now an artist.”

Theo smiled shyly.

“Now, boy, your dear mom is going to be worried if you don’t get home soon. If she’s upset with you, give her this, and tell her you were painting.”

The fisherman took the canvas from the easel, handed it to the boy, instructed him to be mindful of the wet paint, then patted his shoulder and pushed him along.

Theo walked home with the sunset in his hands. When he turned away from the river and into the streets of the town, he looked back a final time to see a small but strong figure in the distance, pulling oars against the current of nickel-plated water.

For weeks after that evening, Theo returned to the river, expecting and hoping that he might meet the artist again. It was not to be, and Theo wondered if the evening, and the bestowal, had ever really happened.

Most assuredly, it had.

On the wall behind his desk in New York City, a framed canvas of western sky and Portuguese riverbank was tangible proof that fishermen paint sunsets and angels are real.

CHAPTER 31

From his wicker throne in front of the Verbivore, Tony had a clear line of sight to the Fedder. More specifically, to the bench on the south side of the fountain where Theo carried out his bestowals.

Tony had seen Theo and Minnette when they sat there together.

And Theo and Kendrick.

And Theo and Ellen.

And Theo with Basil, Junior, Bun, Frankie, and others.

It was obvious to Tony that the téte-à-tétes were not accidental, but he kept his questions to himself for a while. The little he knew of Theo satisfied him that, whatever the old fellow was doing, it must be something useful, good, or, at worst, harmless.

Eventually, he did ask Theo about the fountain encounters.

It was a sunny morning. The two of them were sitting alone outside the Verbivore. Tony was well into his second cigarette of the day.

“Theo, explain something to me. I’ve got a clear view of the fountain from here, and I see you over there a lot. You’re always with somebody, and y’all always seem to be talking about something important. So, if you don’t mind me asking, what are you doing over there?”

Theo nodded. “I don’t mind at all, but would you keep it between the two of us?”

“Sure.”

“Actually, Tony, you already know. I told you already about giving Ellen her portrait. Remember? Well…”

Theo told Tony the story of the epiphany in the Chalice. “Giving the portraits is my life’s work at this point.”

Even Tony the contrarian couldn’t help but be touched by the old man’s thoughtfulness. He shook his head in mild disbelief, patted Theo’s knee, and strung together a litany of phrases and questions that were intended to be compliments. “Well, that beats all. I’ll be damned. Who on earth thinks of something like that? That’s crazy as hell, and it’s awfully nice of you, but Theo, really, I mean, really, why on earth does anybody do something like that?”