Page 8 of Theo of Golden

“And how is my beautiful niece?”

“Minnette is fine.”

“Why in the world is a busy lawyer like you calling a lowly artist like me at this hour of the day?”

It was ten o’clock.

“Court’s in recess. I just got out of a hearing on an awful case. You probably heard about it. A guy fell asleep at the wheel, crossed the center line and killed a woman and really messed up a little girl. The driver’s been charged with vehicular homicide. He’s an illegal. Everybody loses on this one. Anyway, I had a few minutes before the next hearing and wanted to run somethin’ by you. It involves one of the portraits you put up at the Chalice. You gotta minute?”

Derrick read the letter to Asher.

Asher responded slowly. “Wow. That is sort of strange. I see why you’d be worried. But Derrick, to answer your question, I don’t know anything about the man and, if this is a joke, I don’t know anything about that either. Taking care of Minnette comes first. But, let me get this right. The guy, this Mr. Theo, wants to meet Minnette on the Promenade, in public, in broad daylight, so he can give her the portrait, right? And if y’all were to accept his invitation, you could see him from a long way off before you actually get to the fountain?”

It was the same conversation Derrick and Minnette had had the night before.

Asher had often wondered how Derrick could work criminal cases day in and day out without becoming totally jaded and distrustful of the entire human race. He understood Derrick’s apprehension, but he was also rather pleased that an old man had dreamt up such a generous scheme, if in fact that’s what it was.

“Derrick, I know you and Minnette will do the right thing. Let me know how it goes.” He chuckled. “Heck, I might need to write the old guy a thank-you note. People like me need people like him.”

“Thanks, Uncle Asher. I’ll keep you posted. Back to the battlefield.”

Asher ended the call and resumed work at his drawing table. Beneath the skylight in the vaulted ceiling of his studio, he was himself a study in light and shadow as rays of morning sun dappled the room.

For him, it was an ordinary day at work.

He was wearing a loose flannel shirt (Payne’s gray, “the color of English rain”) with sleeves rolled up to mid-forearm, tan cotton khaki pants with specks and smudges of color, and sock feet. His brown hair, finger-combed with artistic haphazardness, revealed touches of gray and fell over his ears and shirt collar. A day’s worth of beard, maybe two, highlighted the contours of his face, his prominent jawline and cheekbones.

A slight frown, his expression of attentiveness and concentration, was often present when he worked. His eyes were intent, purposeful, engaged. And yet, for all its seriousness, it was not an unwelcoming face. Children could hold his gaze easily, and older subjects had learned to interpret his studious look as a compliment.

There was nothing wildly bohemian about his appearance, but there was enough to set him apart from his mid-fiftyish contemporaries who reported to banks or law offices or real estate agencies each morning for their daily bread. His wardrobe, unlike many of theirs, suggested a life free of supervision or a need to impress.

Open windows welcomed birdsong into the studio. The avian notes mixed with something orchestral playing on a small stereo nearby.

“Appalachian Spring”? The song was appropriate to the time and place, that room full of simple gifts.

Music was a pleasant companion to the isolation in which he often worked speechlessly for hours at a stretch.

A photograph, placed on an easel an arm’s length in front of him, was the subject of his work that morning.

He sat as he drew. His right hand steadied a thin rectangular lapboard. A pristine piece of ninety-pound cotton paper, Stonehenge white, was affixed by thumbtacks at each corner.

His weapons of choice, all crowded into his right hand as he drew with his left, were 2B and 2H pencils, a stick of charcoal, a well-worn tortillon, and a kneaded eraser. With those simple tools, that arsenal, he waged daily war against mediocrity and was rewarded with masterpiece after masterpiece.

Slowly, as if rising through water, the shape of a head became apparent. Asher filled the outline, heavier lines first, followed by lighter ones and more delicate details. More lines and more lines, and the features — brow, lip, nostrils, crease — began to emerge.

His hand twisted, turned, tapped, danced, hovered, and stroked the page in a choreography that had taken years to perfect.

A man’s face began to emerge from the lines, a man with big, untamed hair, a scruffy beard, a boyish grin, and a class-clown playfulness in his eyes. It was a difficult energy to reproduce on a two-dimensional surface, but Asher wrestled it convincingly to the mat.

He stood from time to time, stepped back, studied his progress, returned, and then resumed.

By the end of the morning, the portrait was complete and ready for the frame.

For the Chalice.

That night, when Derrick got home, he told Minnette about his conversation with Uncle Asher.

It was decided.