CHAPTER 24
henever a portrait was sold and removed from the Chalice, another one, from inventory kept in Shep and Addie’s office,W was put in its place. Within minutes, a face would be freed from storage and brought into public view.
Theo greeted those newcomers enthusiastically. Each one meant another name, another story, and another thread for the living tapestry he was weaving with the bestowals.
What did become obvious early on was that, at the rate of one a week, it would take almost two years to depopulate the Chalice wall of its then-present occupants. Concluding there was no good reason to limit himself in that way, Theo resolved to increase the frequency of his giftings. He could do at least two, maybe three, each week. He had the time, the desire, and the money.
It was Mrs. Gidley who most felt the effects of Theo’s accelerated activity. Addresses of recipients could be difficult to find, especially when Asher used nicknames on the back of the portraits. It took considerable sleuthing, for instance, to ascertain that “Chard”
Dellamore was actually Richard or that “G Dawg” Salter was actually Brian.
Mr. Ponder volunteered to hire additional help, but Mrs. Gidley quickly shot down the proposal. By now, she was fully invested in Theo’s “silly idea.”
After stepping up the frequency of bestowals, Theo’s apartment was inhabited at any given time by three, four, or as many as half a dozen faces, propped up on the couch, leaning on a windowsill in the kitchen, or looking down from a bookshelf. And his calendar began to fill up with appointments. Tuesday, Bob, seven o’clock. Thursday, Hendley, seven o’clock. Monday, Ahmad, seven o’clock. He spent a portion of most days at his dining room table, handwriting invitation letters for Mrs. Gidley to deliver.
One bestowal presented a unique challenge: Ellen.
Even though she was a regular presence on the Promenade, she had no address to which a letter could be mailed.
Shep told Theo what little he knew about her. “She’s homeless, but I think she stays at the Mission sometimes. I’ve heard she sleeps under the bridge a lot and who knows where else.” Shep chuckled and shook his head. “Asher had a devil of a time getting a photograph of her. She kept talking about the goons from Columbia, whoever they are, and he could hardly get her to sit still. He had to take her picture at one of the tables outside. She’s an interesting person. You want me to try to find her for you?”
“I would like to get a letter to her,” Theo explained. “Do you know if she can read?”
“She’s pretty private, and I can’t say I’ve talked to her all that much.
She never actually comes inside the shop. She doesn’t want to leave her bicycle alone. But somebody bought her a cup of hot chocolate one day and took it to her. Now she’ll just come and stand at the window till we see her. We always take her a cup of hot chocolate.
“Sometimes she’s on another planet, but other times she’s pretty clear-headed. I’ve seen books on her bicycle before, and I think she reads them. If you give me the letter, I’ll try to give it to her next time I see her. She passes by here pretty often.”
“Do you know her last name?”
On the back of her portrait, Asher had simply written “Ellen.”
The barista shook his head. “I’ve never heard anyone say her full name. She’s always just been ‘Ellen’ to me.” Shep raised his eyebrows.
“All she has is a first name. Kind of weird, isn’t it?”
They both laughed.
Theo left the letter with Shep. It was shorter than others he had sent and was written with the simplest of words and the shortest of sentences.
Dear Ellen, Mr. Glissen, the artist, drew a very nice picture of you. I saw it in the Chalice, the coffee shop near the fountain. I bought your portrait and would like you to have it. It is a gift. You do not have to pay anything for it or do anything in exchange. If you will, please meet me at the fountain this Thursday at four o’clock in the afternoon, and I will
deliver it to you.
Your portrait, with all its details, are quite beautiful. I am an old man.
I will be wearing a green hat.
I look forward to meeting you.
Sincerely, Theo
Even so simply written, the letter, Theo thought, might be too difficult or possibly intimidating for the unconventional recipient. He was pleased to learn that Shep had not only delivered the letter but also read and explained it to her. She clearly understood it and had only asked Shep to clarify the date and time she was to be at the Fedder.
Shep was cautiously optimistic that Ellen would show up and more than a little interested in how the introduction might unfold.
In anticipation of the meeting, Theo spent considerable time studying the woman’s portrait. Her head tilted slightly forward and down, as if reluctant to look into the camera, as if trying not to be noticed. There was a bashfulness about her attempted smile but clearly, hers was a face that had suffered loss. It bore the road wear and troubling scars of hard-fought survival. The eyes — heavy lids above and flaccid circles below — were tired and unfocused and, even on the page, seemed to be darting about. The skin on her face was furrowed, a swath of corduroy from crown to neck. Her bottom lip protruded, bulldoggish, beyond her upper lip and hinted that she might be missing teeth. Her hair, pulled back and held in place by some hidden means, was wiry and windblown, rebellious against any efforts toward grooming. A bandana hung loosely around her neck.
Theo questioned the wisdom of his decision to give her a portrait — where would she even keep such a thing? — but as the time for their meeting approached, he found himself anticipating this bestowal more eagerly than any of the previous ones.
He had scheduled his appointment with Ellen for o’clock assuming that ample daylight would lessen any apprehension she might feel about meeting a stranger.
The afternoon was cloudy with a chance of rain — another reason she might not show — but Theo put on his hat, grabbed his large
umbrella, and walked to the rendezvous.
As he approached the Fedder a full half hour before the designated time, he saw her. She was already sitting on the bench, her bicycle within arm’s reach.
If Theo had arrived two hours earlier, he might have witnessed her arrival at the fountain. He would have seen her riding her bicycle, barefoot, from the direction of the Mission. He would have also seen her walk the bicycle to the Fedder, remove a pair of knee-length socks and red high-heel shoes from one of her several plastic bags, and sit to put them on. He would have noticed that she looked around frequently as the clock inched toward four.
The Ellen that Theo finally did see as he approached their meeting was far different from the one in the portrait.
She was wearing a dress, one that she had carefully chosen from the clothing pantry at a homeless shelter. It was the color of wheat, no doubt some wealthy donor’s act of charity, that buttoned at the neck and reached just below her knees. A scarf with a floral motif, bright reds and golds, was draped around her neck and across her shoulders.
She was a kaleidoscope whose every movement brought a shifting pattern of color. She was also wearing thick layers of rouge and cherry- red lipstick and a peacock-blue wide-brimmed velvet hat. It might have been elegant once upon a time and fashionable, but now it was a shapeless, vaudevillian relic, a wilted halo.
It appeared that some attempt might have been made to style her hair, possibly even curl it, before putting on the hat. The attempt was less than successful.
When Ellen saw the green hat walking her way, she sat up straight, patted the lap of her dress with both hands, and watched with riveted eyes as Theo approached. Before he could say anything, and while he was still several steps away, Ellen held up an envelope.
“No man has ever sent me a handwritten letter before.”
It was stated as a simple declaration, maybe even an appreciation, without hostility or ill will.
Theo stepped forward until he was close enough to touch her. He smiled warmly and tipped his hat. “Well, then, I’m happy to be the first.” He bowed slightly, as if addressing royalty. “Ellen, it’s very nice
to meet you.”
She fidgeted and seemed to be on the verge of saying something but then hesitated, as if she’d forgotten lines in a script. Finally, she spoke.
“Oh, now I remember. Do you like my hat?”
Theo nodded approvingly. “It’s lovely. Blue is one of my favorite colors. There are so, so many shades of blue. I think the artists call this
one cerulean blue.”
“How do you know me?” Ellen asked.
Theo discerned already that the ensuing conversation might well be a runaway train of non sequiturs. He was undaunted and pleased that Ellen had shown up at all. Apparently, she had attached some importance to the meeting.
“Ellen, I only know you because of your portrait. I saw it at the Chalice recently with all the others. Have you seen it before?”
Instead of answering, she tapped the envelope containing Theo’s letter with her index finger. She followed that gesture with a statement, pronouncing each word precisely, as if to make a point.
“‘Your portrait, with all its details, are quite beautiful.’ You said ‘are’ in your letter.”
She removed the single page from the envelope, unfolded it, and held it up to Theo. “Look. The subject and the verb in that sentence don’t agree. If you take out the dependent clause, it should read ‘The portrait is quite beautiful.’ I don’t mean to be rude, but we try to use correct grammar.”
Theo looked at the letter, found the offensive sentence, processed Ellen’s observation, and nodded in agreement. “Well, well, you are exactly right. I stand corrected. Thank you. And yes, my grammar leaves much to be desired.” He looked again at the letter. “Yes, of course . . . the portrait is . . . of course.” He noted to himself that the woman had an educated mind, even if it was untethered. And he chided himself for making assumptions about her in advance.
She spoke again with unfiltered abruptness. “Are you a foreigner?” ”I am, but I have lived in your country for many years. My home is now up north.”
“Atlanta is north of here. Are you documented?”
Theo nodded again, smiling and on the verge of laughter. “Yes, I’m
documented.”
Ellen nodded at the space beside her. “Well, then, do you want to sit down? I know it’s hard for old people to stand up for very long.”
Theo chuckled, then stepped forward and sat beside Ellen, careful to leave some room between them.
He was about to ask her a question, hoping he might be able to steer their dialog in a somewhat coherent direction, but he was too slow.
“You look like a Jew,” she said, looking him full in the face. “So, I want to ask you something. Could Jesus eat pork? He was a Jew, you know. And people down here love barbecue.”
Theo did not make light of the question. He looked into the fountain, pondering his reply before responding with slow, deliberate words.
“That . . . is . . . a very . . . interesting . . . question. I’ve never thought about it. What do you think? Could the Messiah eat pork?”
Her head wobbled at the ridiculousness of the question. “I think he could do anything he damn well pleased. You know who he was, don’t you?”
“Oh, yes, I’ve read all about him and I—”
“But he could change things too. You do know he changed water into wine, don’t you? So, if he wanted to, he could pick up a piece of pork and change it to fish right before it went into his mouth. Or even while he was chewing it.”
Theo nodded in agreement and then attempted a diversionary turn.
“Ellen, thank you for coming to meet me. I just moved to Golden a few weeks ago, and I don’t know many people here yet, so I’m happy for the chance to make a new friend.”
Ellen blushed and smiled, a lazy grin under sleepy eyes. She sat up straight and patted her dress. “I’ve never gotten a handwritten letter before. Your penmanship is immaculate. The coffee man gave it to me.”
“Ah, yes, Mr. Shep. He helped me out. Since I couldn’t find a mailing address, I didn’t know how to deliver it.”
Theo winced inwardly, afraid he might have inadvertently and rudely brought her homelessness into the conversation, but she appeared unbothered and gladly explained her situation.
“Well, I sort of live in different places, since I’m homeless. But sometimes I stay at the Mission. Are you from Israel?”
Theo’s laugh was audible this time. “No. Actually, I grew up in
Portugal, in a small town near Porto.”
“They have Jews in Portugal?”
“No, no. I mean, yes, there are Jewish people in Portugal, and some are very dear to me, but I am not Jewish myself.”
“Well, then, do you go to a church building?”
“I do. In fact, you see that low steeple over there?” Theo pointed to the barely visible top of a spire a couple of blocks away. “Sometimes I go to that church building on Sunday mornings.” He had pointed at St.
James, a landmark known for its opulent windows and ivy-covered exterior walls.
“That’s right next to the post office, isn’t it?” Ellen said. “I’ve never been inside there before. Have you read Eudora Welty?”
“I have indeed.” Theo did not make the connection until later that Mrs. Welty had written a popular story about a post office. “But Ellen, could you tell me a bit about your bicycle?”
She dropped her forehead again and tucked her chin into her chest, so she had to roll her eyes upward to look him in the face. She seemed somewhat offended.
“Mr. Theo, I hardly even know you. I’m sorry, but I can’t really trust you with my personal information yet.”
Theo placed his hand over his heart, supplicating her. “Oh, please forgive me. It was very inappropriate of me to ask a question like that.
I’m so sorry.”
In response to Theo’s apology — Ellen was not used to such deference — her chin lifted, and her eyes relaxed.
“It’s really not that big a deal. And since you seem sort of lonely, I’ll just go ahead and tell you. My bicycle is called the ‘Noble Invention.’
Do you know William Saroyan?”
Theo frowned. “I don’t believe I do.”
“Well, he’s dead anyway. But you should know him. You look sort of like him except for his big mustache. He was a writer from California.
He was Armenian.”
“Ah, yes, that William Saroyan.” Theo was struck by Ellen’s literacy and surmised, correctly, that books were her language, her neighborhood, her connection to reality.
“Well, Mr. Saroyan said ‘the bicycle is the noblest invention of man.’ And in ‘Rescue the Perishing,’ that story, the little boy did not want a new bicycle. He liked the one he had. It cost him $27.50 of his own money. Well, I don’t want a new bicycle either. The Mission tried to give me one, some old thing made in China. No, sir, don’t even think about it. I like mine perfectly fine. Can you ride a bicycle, or are you
too old?”
Theo chuckled once again at her candor.
“Ellen, I will have you know that, as a boy, I rode my bicycle many times from Pinhão to Lamego and once all the way from Pinhão to Porto. It has been a long time, but maybe I should try again. Maybe you could teach me.”
Her eyes registered doubt. “Well . . . maybe. You’re pretty old, and I don’t want to get sued. Ambulance chasers are everywhere these days.
Probably bicycle chasers too.”
Theo tsked three times before responding.
“Yes, that is a problem. But I promise not to sue you if something happens. How did you get your bicycle?”
“I found it at the Promenade. It was just lying there on the sidewalk, totally neglected. There was this skinny little kitten beside it too. I waited for an hour. I don’t know whose it was, but I said, ‘Well, if I’m going to take care of your cat, I’m taking your damn bicycle too.’ When the kitten got bigger, it ran away. A dog would never do that.
“I’ve had the Noble Invention for ten years. Every day for ten years, we’ve been together. That’s longer than a lot of marriages. Everything I own is on my bike. Travel light. Like Mother Teresa. Did you see ET?
He rode his bike all the way to heaven. That’s what I plan to do. Are you somebody important?”
With that, the weave and bob of their conversation continued. No single line of thought held for more than a few sentences. As soon as Theo thought they were on a similar wavelength, she would inject an altogether unrelated idea, at least from his perspective, and move into uncharted territory. But he was neither frustrated nor unsettled by this tendency. Not in the least. He accommodated, as best he could, whatever change of direction she proposed and accepted that he would have to learn about her in bits and pieces.
He did eventually get around to the portrait, which had been sitting on the bench between them as they talked.
“Ellen, I don’t mean to take so much of your time.”
“Don’t be sorry. I don’t have anywhere to be.”
“Well, here is the portrait that I promised you. Would you like to see it?”
She nodded hesitantly, bottom lip prominently forward. Her eyes were fixed on his hands as he unwrapped the picture. Paper gone, he rested the frame on his knee so that Ellen could see her likeness.
Her reaction at first was subdued, as if sizing up a strange dog to make sure it was safe. She gazed, tilted her head, and then smiled timidly, good-naturedly, satisfied the dog was nothing to be afraid of.
She approved.
“Do you think it’s nice?” she asked.
“I do think the portrait, with all its details, is lovely.”
Ellen straightened up once again and patted her dress. For a stretch of seconds, she sat with her hands on her knees, studying the face in the frame. Theo held it out to her, and she accepted it with the gentleness of a mother receiving a child for the first time. She continued to gaze, sometimes pulling it close to observe a detail, more than once touching the glass as if to feel skin, cheekbone, hair.
“Ellen, when I first saw your portrait, I asked myself, what is this person like? And I thought, she is a most interesting person. In her eyes . . .”
She immediately focused on that part of the drawing.
“In her eyes I saw someone who is wise and tested. I think she is very strong but very motherly too. Yes, very motherly.”
Ellen turned her face toward Theo, lowered her forehead again in what was obviously her gesture of thoughtfulness, and stared into his eyes. He continued speaking, trusting that some of what he said made sense and hoping that none of it offended her.
“I think that some people misunderstand her, but she is a good woman, a kind woman, a woman with a tender heart. She could be a saint, this woman. It is in her, I’m sure. This could quite possibly be a portrait of St. Ellen of the Promenade. Do you like it?”
She nodded. Then she began to speak to an unidentified “you.”
“Well, you always said I had a crooked nose. Here’s your proof, framed for all the world to see.”
Her shoulders shook with silent laughter.
A raindrop, and then another, fell onto the frame. Ellen covered it quickly with the wrapping paper, reached for her bike, and grabbed a plastic bag, of which she had an abundance. She wrapped the portrait carefully as Theo raised his umbrella over their heads. The rain stopped after a few seconds, but the clouds remained heavy and threatening.
“Ellen, if you need to be somewhere, please don’t let me keep you too long.”
“Where would I need to be? I’m homeless.”
She said it in good humor. And Theo, realizing she wanted to be there at least a little while longer, took a chance on real conversation.
“Ellen, do you have a favorite color?”
“Yes, I do. Blonde. Like a little girl’s hair.”
“Ah, yes, that is a beautiful color. Have you noticed sometimes the sunrise is blonde, and the dogwood blossoms are blonde? And the fellow who plays his guitar on the sidewalk? Mr. Basil, I think. Would you say his guitar is blonde? A blonde guitar?”
His voice softened. “I know a special little girl with blonde hair. I told her once upon a time that she spread gold dust into the air every time she brushed her hair.” He paused. “Yes, blonde is a beautiful color.”
Ellen listened as if in a spell, her face turned ever so faintly toward
him.
At one point she pulled a necklace from beneath the collar of her dress, unclasped it, and held it in her free hand. She was silent for a matter of seconds. There was something akin to peacefulness, at least for a moment, in her face.
And then Theo asked a simple question. “Ellen, did you grow up here in Golden?”
As if he had touched a lit match to a fuse, Ellen’s face grew tense and agitated. The fragile peacefulness that “blonde” had ushered in was suddenly and inexplicably gone. Ellen had stepped on some mental landmine that triggered an avalanche of incoherent thought.
She looked over her shoulder with short, convulsive movements, as if dodging bullets, and clenched the tip of her tongue between her teeth.
Her lip bent into a snarl, and her eyes blinked in spastic fits and starts as she launched into a rambling, disjointed narrative of short, incomplete sentences. Her fingers fidgeted and pulled at the fabric of her dress. Her voice took on the frightened tone of a victim recounting a crime, dry-mouthed and breathless. She never answered Theo’s question, but she made reference, in no discernible order, to the war in Vietnam, a grandmother who was a fortune teller, a policeman, a nurse who gave her an Easter basket, Carson McCullers, the price of housing insulation, someone named William, and the goons from Columbia.
Her stream of consciousness had taken only a couple of minutes, but by the time Ellen finally went silent, it felt as if the air around the Fedder had been entirely depleted. Spittle had gathered at the corners of her mouth. Her tongue moved aimlessly over her lips as if seeking a place to rest. She stared into the middle distance.
An uncomfortable silence followed. Theo had no idea how to safely resume their conversation, but finally, he spoke.
“Ellen, my dear. I know it must be hard to talk about.”
“Yes it is, actually, and if I were you, I certainly wouldn’t enlist. But if you do, don’t tell them your real name.”
More silence followed. Ellen’s hands quivered, and her head made small involuntary jerks — aftershocks — until, like a vehicle running out of fuel, she coasted slowly into stillness. The episode of sudden derangement — whatever it was — had left her winded and pale. She
took a deep breath and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.
Theo said nothing, in hopes that her excited thoughts would dissipate if disturbed no further.
Perhaps it was time to conclude their first conversation. And yet, Ellen seemed in no hurry to leave.
Theo wondered what he might say or do to draw her back to the present moment. Speaking barely above a whisper, he directed her attention to the portrait.
“Ellen, I think the artist did an excellent job of drawing your eyes.”
She removed the portrait from the plastic bag and looked again at her face in the frame. The avalanche appeared to be under control.
Ellen’s head trembled involuntarily one last time, like a faintly disturbed bobblehead doll. She tapped the frame with her finger.
“I’ve seen a lot through those eyes. A thousand stories are in those eyes. Yours too.”
She looked at Theo sideways. “One time, those eyes saw a little boy fall into this fountain. He had on a blue shirt, and he wanted some money. So, he leaned over, but his legs were too short, and he fell in. He cried and didn’t even get any money. His mommy and daddy were with him. And when they pulled him out, they laughed and were so sweet to him. I went in the water and got him two quarters. And we all laughed.
Except the little boy.”
The fog in Ellen’s mind continued to lift as she told the story, and an awkward, lethargic grin lightened her countenance. Her hands rested on the portrait.
“Ellen, you’re a good storyteller. You know, I like to sit at places like this and think about all the people who’ve walked and sat and talked here. There must be lots of stories about Broadway. People everywhere seem to like fountains.”
Theo was thinking Paris and Rome, Central Park and Rio. Ellen looked at the ground around her feet.
“Mr. Theo, do you think I’m nice? Am I making a good first impression? Mrs. Ocie Van Blarcum has been helping me with that.
She helped me pick out this dress.” Ellen patted the blonde fabric.
She felt Theo’s smile without even looking his way.
“I do indeed. You are very nice to sit with an old man like me.” He
meant it.
Ellen’s gaze returned to the portrait. “Do you think my nose is a little crooked? Be honest.”
“I think your nose is just right. And noses that are crooked can be much more interesting than straight ones anyway. Crooked noses have stories.”
“Kind of like crooked people,” Ellen quipped. She laughed at her play on words. Theo was struck by her profundity and chuckled along with her. He searched his mind for a question that would gain entrance to hers without setting off the rockslide again. He imagined a sensitive set of scales in her psyche that could shift from tenuous sanity to utter
disorder in a second.
He decided to take a chance.
“Ellen, the story of the little boy is a happy story. Could you tell me another one? Or maybe this: could you tell me about . . . the happiest day of your life?”
