CHAPTER 14
r. Ponder handed Mrs. Gidley a list of four more names. She ever so slightly rolled her eyes.M “Mr. Ponder, you have to admit. This is ridiculous and dangerous, approaching total strangers like this. One of these days a policeman or an angry husband is going to show up, and we’re going to be stuck right in the middle of it.”
The venerable consultant did not argue.
“Anita, I’ll admit it’s unusual. But I’m proofing all of his letters to make sure they’re appropriate. And seven o’clock in broad daylight
keeps him pretty safe.”
And so, bestowal number five.
Intuition and appearance (“faces that have suffered loss”) eventually led Theo to the portrait of Kendrick Whitaker.
Theo learned from Shep that the young man worked as a custodian at the university. It was a job for which he was grateful, in which he took pride, and to which he brought an admirable combination of punctuality, diligence, and excellence. Working night shift meant he was invisible to most of those who benefited from his work (he usually left before they arrived at their jobs), but his efforts were noticed, admired, and appreciated.
He had a serious, quiet demeanor that could easily be, and sometimes was, mistaken for sullenness. Beneath the exterior, however, for those able to pierce it, he was a thoughtful and gentle man.
Kendrick rarely patronized the Chalice (there was free coffee at work, after all), but when he did, he said little, rarely smiled, and always ordered a medium brew of the day with room for cream.
Mrs. Gidley sent Theo’s handwritten letter through the university’s custodial department.
Dear Mr. Whitaker,
You and I have never met in person but I saw your portrait recently at the Chalice coffee shop. I bought the portrait and would like to give it to you as a gift. You can do with it as you please.
I understand you work at the university on the night shift, on weekdays.
I would like to meet you at the fountain in the median across from the coffee shop to give you the picture. I will be there at 7:30 this Thursday morning. It should only take a few minutes.
I know this might seem a bit strange. For some reason, I feel that the picture should be with you. If you wish not to have it, I will take good
care of it.
I look forward to meeting you.
Just so you’ll be able to recognize me. I am an old man. I will be
wearing a brown jacket and a green cap.
Wishing you the very best.
Every blessing, Theo
At seven a.m. on Thursday, Theo was sitting at the fountain. The spouts were idle, and the water was calm enough that coins were distinguishable beneath the surface. One red plastic cup, a souvenir from the previous night’s reveling, floated lazily on its side.
To the east, thin, gilded strands of melon-pink clouds highlighted the horizon above buildings along Broadway. Theo imagined flamingoes in repose. He sat facing west with a view of the university administration offices. The town was waking up. The Chalice, no doubt, was already pouring generous amounts of coffee.
Theo looked up and studied the stately old oaks near the fountain.
He pondered how a trunk could become so gnarled. It must have taken a great force to torque such a massive object. Or had some small force early in the tree’s life dictated its course of growth?
You can bend a twig, but not a tree.
Theo tried to imagine how an artist might draw this particular trunk.
It has the look of a twisted towel. Or perhaps a human neck caught mid-scream, muscle and veins taut and protruding. Yes, the old oak is a
permanent scream, a memorial to some horror it might have witnessed long ago. It would take a skilled artist to capture the soul of such a tree.
Theo looked higher up at the branches. They too provoked questions.
Was their symmetry achieved by design, the work of an arborist, or was it purely the result of nature? How did they find water in the midst of so much pavement?
A passerby could not have imagined the traffic of ideas filling the old man’s mind as he waited for Kendrick Whitaker to appear. The portrait was beside Theo on the bench. His hands, fingers laced together, rested in his lap. He glanced from time to time over his shoulder at the large clock on a church spire, barely visible through the buildings of east Broadway. He was mildly nervous, just as he had been for the prior meetings.
At seven thirty, Kendrick had not appeared. By seven forty, no one.
By seven forty-five, Theo wondered how long he should wait. He began to think of reasons why Kendrick might not be able to show. Sickness?
Maybe he didn’t work last night. Maybe he had to work a bit later than usual. Was the letter not delivered? No, any reason but that. Mr. Ponder had assured him it would make it into the hands of Kendrick’s supervisor and eventually to Kendrick himself.
I will wait until eight o’clock.
And then there he was, rounding the corner of Light Street and Broadway.
Theo remained seated until Kendrick was just a few yards away. At that point, he stood, smiled, removed his hat, and bowed. The young man, head slightly down and hands in his pockets, stepped toward him.
Theo held out his hand. Kendrick looked at it and paused before realizing it was the offer of a handshake, which he awkwardly accepted.
An hour earlier, Kendrick had stood at a window in the university admin building, looking down at the old man. The absurdity of Theo’s letter, the disquieting thought of having been stalked by a stranger who only gave his first name, and the probability that this was all a hustle or scam had driven Kendrick to the sensible decision not to accept the invitation. But he had walked to the window a second time and then a third, vacillating between fear and fascination, from skepticism to
curiosity.
“Maybe I’ll go.”
He was tired. He was eager to get to the hospital. And so, seven thirty
had come and gone.
And seven forty.
And quarter till.
Kendrick had clocked out of work at his regular quitting time but remained at the window in the admin building to study the solitary figure at the fountain. A frailty or a sadness or something else about Theo softened Kendrick’s apprehension. He left the building and crossed Broadway as the nearby church bells chimed eight times.
He approached Theo cautiously, looking in every direction to ensure that no one else was party to the unusual meeting.
“You are Mr. Kendrick,” Theo said.
It was part question, part declaration. The young man nodded at the old man and then looked away.
There was a brief uncomfortable silence before Theo filled the vacuum.
“Mr. Kendrick, I know you must be tired after working all night, but thank you for meeting me here.”
Kendrick nodded, but only glanced at Theo from the corner of his eye. He caught the accent in the old man’s speech. That fact increased, by a couple of degrees, the oddity of the already-odd encounter. But Kendrick’s uneasiness was somewhat tempered by the gentleness of the voice and the slight bow that Theo maintained as he spoke, as if the young man were someone worthy of respect. Kendrick continued looking away, his head tilted slightly with one ear turned toward Theo.
Morning traffic and street sounds competed with the old man’s voice.
Theo took note of the young man’s features. Medium height. Strong build. Prominent eyes, restless. Small mustache. Strong hands. One tattoo on neck: “Scooby.” Work clothes, pressed and clean. Nervous.
“Mr. Kendrick, I wasn’t sure you would come this morning. If I had been you,” there was a tone of teasing in Theo’s voice, “I think I might have stood at that window in the administration building and spied a bit before coming down to meet an old man with only a first name.”
Smiling boyishly, Theo pointed to the admin building, second floor, to the very window from which Kendrick had studied him minutes earlier.
Obviously, Theo had not only been looking at branches when he had tilted his head back to gaze at the oak trees. “If I had seen an old man like me sitting at the fountain, I don’t think I would have come.”
Embarrassed and rattled that he’d been spied on while spying, Kendrick did not return Theo’s smile. If anything, he felt even more nervous. Theo regretted his ill-timed attempt at humor. His tone became serious.
“But Mr. Kendrick, thank you. I’m glad you’re here.”
The young man’s eyes blinked and narrowed. Should he smile or walk away? Another quick glance gave him some assurance that this Mr. Theo was addled at worst, sane and sincere at best. Kendrick remained silent and wary.
“Well, here’s your portrait.” Theo picked up the wrapped rectangle
and held it out to Kendrick. “Thank you for letting me give it to you.”
“I can’t pay you for this.”
“Nor would I take it if you could, Mr. Kendrick. This is a gift. It has been in the Chalice for weeks now, but it belongs with you, or with someone you love. Please, I think you’ll like it very much.”
Kendrick said nothing, still uncertain of Theo’s intent or the meaning of the moment. He reached out reluctantly and then, as if having touched a live wire, took a step backward.
His eyes widened, and he dropped his hands, both curled into fists, to his sides. He had learned from the streets and had been told as a boy by his grandmother never to take a bag or a box or a bottle from someone without first knowing with total certainty what was in it. The wrapped item that Theo had offered him was suddenly sinister, as welcome as a venomous snake. Kendrick’s face became tense and cautious, his body defensive. He stared at the object in Theo’s hand as if it were a mad dog on a tight chain. Then his eyes darted in every direction. He finally looked back at the befuddled old man.
“Who are you? What do you want with me?”
Kendrick would later wonder why he did not run away at that moment.
Theo’s smile vanished, replaced by a look of utter confusion. Until that moment, it had never occurred to him that a wrapped package might evoke suspicion or have the appearance of a sting or entrapment.
Kendrick knew about such things.
Theo hastened to put the young man’s mind at ease. “No, no. You misunderstand. Please. Look.”
Theo peeled back the plain brown paper as quickly as he could, then held up the portrait in both hands.
The young man looked hard at the picture, only once taking a glance around to be assured of his safety. His hands gradually relaxed, his eyes focused, and, without knowing he’d done it, he took a step toward Theo.
Kendrick had seen the portrait once, from across the room at the Chalice. He had been struck by the likeness the face bore to his own, but he could not imagine it was really him being taken seriously by a real artist. He had never gotten near enough in the Chalice to conclude
that it was, indeed, himself.
He did remember someone taking a photograph of him in the coffee shop one day. It had made him uncomfortable, and he did not fully understand what the purpose was.
But now, up close, he could see that someone had taken great effort and given painstaking attention to every detail, every line, every shadow in his face. Someone had deemed him worthy of their time.
Worthy enough to be matted, under glass, and framed.
Theo gushed with apology. “Mr. Kendrick, please, please forgive me.
I didn’t mean to alarm you.”
Kendrick nodded.
Theo asked, “Have you seen this before?”
“I’m not sure.”
The frown and the furrows receded from Kendrick’s face. He leaned forward and gazed at the portrait cradled in the crook of Theo’s arm.
His eyes were bright with wonderment. He remained silent, as did
Theo, for a matter of seconds.
Kendrick studied the drawing.
Theo studied Kendrick.
“It’s yours if you’d like it, Mr. Kendrick. I assure you, I mean no harm. It is simply a gift.”
Kendrick received it delicately. His head bobbed as if to exhale words that were stuck in his throat.
Theo broke the silence. “You like it, yes?”
Kendrick nodded. He finally looked at Theo. “Why are you doin’ this? Who are you? How do you know me?” Theo returned his gaze, soft eyes above a closed smile.
“Mr. Kendrick, I’m an old man with a long story. And I don’t know anything about you except the portrait. I moved here recently and saw your picture at the coffee shop one day.” Theo nodded toward the Chalice. “I saw all the portraits there and was told they were for sale. I don’t know where the idea came from —maybe heaven? — but I wanted you to have your portrait. In fact, I hope to give all of them away. So, I bought yours — did you know your name is on the back? — and I wrote you the letter and, well, here we stand.”
Kendrick listened intently. His countenance, while relaxed, still tilted
toward apprehension.
“Mr. Kendrick, do you know the saying, ‘It is more blessed to give than to receive’?”
Kendrick nodded. His grandmother had quoted that scripture verse to him many times.
Theo leaned in. “I tell you, it’s true.”
Kendrick’s eyes were fixed on the portrait. Finally, he spoke “I’m gonna give it to my baby. I’m on my way to see her right now.”
“Your girlfriend?”
“No, sir. My baby. My little girl.”
With those words, “my little girl,” sweetness overcame any lingering distrust that Kendrick might have felt toward the old man. He smiled, eyes and mouth, at the prospect of giving such a gift to his daughter.
“Today’s her birthday.”
“Maravilhoso!” Theo gestured dramatically, both hands shoulder high, palms open and upward. “How old?”
“Eight years old today. I’m going to the hospital to see her right now.
The bus’ll be here in just a few minutes.”
Kendrick pointed to a nearby corner, where public transport collected passengers. A small knot of people was huddled at the pick-up point.
Theo’s smile disappeared and his expression changed from one of celebration to concern.
“I hope she’s OK, your daughter. She’s in the hospital? I don’t mean to be impolite, but is she alright?”
“She got hurt real bad in a wreck. Her mama died, and she been in and out of the hospital since it happened. Her leg isn’t healing right, so they had to do another surgery.”
Theo stood with his hands in his pockets, gazing steadily at the young father.
“I work night shift and stay with her in the daytime. My grandmama works day shift and stays with her at night. My grandmama is sick, too; she’s got ‘sugar,’ but she loves that little girl.”
“Sugar,” Theo found out later, was diabetes.
“Who is the doctor at the hospital?”
Kendrick shook his head. “I have a hard time sayin’ his name. He’s
not from here, so I just call him ‘doctor.’ And they change her doctors a lot, so there might be a new one when I go up today. I hope not. But I
gotta take what they give me.”
“What is her name, your daughter?”
“Lamisha. But I call her Scooby. She likes to draw.” Kendrick looked closely at his portrait. “Uh, uh, uh. She is gonna love this. He did this with pencils or what?”
“Pencils. It’s amazing, isn’t it? It looks just like you.”
“Shoot, it looks more like me than I do.” Kendrick smiled, even laughed a little. “Well, it can’t look more like me than I do, but it’s something’ else.”
“Mr. Kendrick, I tell you what I saw when I first looked at your picture. I thought, ‘This is a strong man.’ I could see worry and some hurt in the eyes, but still, I said to myself, there is kindness in this face.
And now I know it is the face of a good father.” Theo nodded toward the frame. “Yes, I could tell, this is the face of a man who can do much good in the world. The artist captured it all so clearly. Mr. Kendrick.
I’m honored to meet you.”
Again, not knowing how to respond, Kendrick simply nodded. He was not used to being praised, especially by those so unlike him, but he didn’t feel that the old man was being patronizing or insincere. He was relieved to see the bus approaching. “There’s my ride. It only comes once a hour, so I gotta go. Yes, sir, my little girl is gonna love this.” He held the portrait up with both hands. “Now, what’s your name again?
Mr. Theo? Am I sayin’ that right? Theo?”
“That’s perfect!”
“Well, thank you for the picture. That’s really nice. Thank you.”
Kendrick turned and hurried toward the bus stop, a mixed gait of walking and jogging, as Theo stood at the fountain with his hands behind his back, leaning slightly toward the water.
Kendrick boarded the bus, cradling the picture to his chest. He took a seat beside a window. From there as the bus pulled away, he could see the old man standing at the Fedder. Two things dominated Kendrick’s thoughts: Scooby will be happy, and hardly anyone ever calls me “Mister.”
Late that afternoon, there was a knock on the door of room 626 on
the orthopedic floor of the Crossway Medical Center. Kendrick woke from a light sleep, crossed the room, and opened the door. A young man, a uniformed courier of some sort, stood beside a cart. It held a birthday cake, a small arrangement of fresh flowers, and a large wrapped box.
“These are for Miss Lamisha Whitaker,” the young man said.
“From who?” Kendrick’s voice was tinged with suspicion.
“I don’t know, sir. I’m just supposed to deliver it. It doesn’t say who sent it. But here’s a card.” The young man handed two envelopes, one pink and one white, through the sliver of the open door.
“Do I have to pay for this?”
“No, sir. Somebody sent it to you.”
Kendrick looked at the envelopes. His name, with “Mr.” before it, was on the white one. On the pink one, in beautiful flowing script, were the words, “Happy 8th birthday, Scooby.”
The next morning, when his work shift was over, Kendrick walked to the fountain, hoping the old man might be there. He wanted to thank Mr. Theo for the birthday gifts. The box of art supplies — pens and pencils, paints and brushes, pastels and pads — had awakened a gladness in Lamisha’s face that her dad had not seen since the accident.
Kendrick also wanted to ask again why the man was being so generous to total strangers. Such largesse was unsettling, even a bit frightening. But something bigger, undefinable, gave Kendrick hope that the old man meant nothing but good.
Theo was not at the Fedder. Other than a couple of students, coffees in hand, the benches around the fountain were empty. Kendrick turned and caught the number 37 bus to the hospital.
