Page 56 of Theo of Golden

But the war never quite left the room. It hung like a fog around them, unmentioned any further but clearly present.

Muted street noise leaked in from the sidewalk, evidence that night life on the Promenade was well underway. For some out there, the night was still young. For Theo, it had exceeded one day’s energy.

He reached across the small table and patted Tony’s arm.

“Tony, I’m very grateful to know you. Thank you for sharing some of your story with me. I hope I didn’t ask too much.”

Tony nodded. “I don’t think you asked anything at all. I’m afraid I totally lost control. I thought we were going to talk about those secret meetings you’ve been having at the Fedder. And I was going to ask you to talk about heaven, right?”

“Ah, yes. Maybe next time?”

“I guess if you talk about heaven, you’re going to talk about hell too.”

Theo raised a brow. “I have a feeling you might be able to teach me something about that yourself. I think you’ve had a big taste of hell already. I fear you believe that’s all there is. You seem much less convinced about the other possibility.”

Another short, thoughtful silence descended.

“You need some help getting home?” Tony asked. “Those three flights of stairs might be tricky.” It was a dubious offer from a man who was probably incapable of walking a straight line himself.

“It’s OK, Tony. If I can get out of this chair, I think I can waddle home by myself. If I can’t, I’ll sleep on a bench by the fountain. Thank you for letting me join you tonight. Next time we’ll meet at my place and I will introduce you to a wonderful bottle of port from my hometown.”

They said their farewells as Tony unlocked the door to the shop. Theo stepped out into the night and walked home to the sound of Basil’s music. Tony stepped back inside the Verbivore, noticed a bit of brandy in Theo’s glass, drained it dry, and turned off the light.

CHAPTER 32

By the time Lamisha was released from Crossway Medical Center, a month after her eighth birthday, Theo had become a regular and welcome visitor to room 626.

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.