Theo of Golden: A Novel by Allen Levi - 48

Duty called, and there were matters that could only be handled in New York, none terribly urgent but all in need of Theo’s close attention.

He left Golden in early December, intent on spending the Christmas holidays and New Year’s Eve in the city.

When he got off of the plane at LaGuardia, he waded through a bouillabaisse of humanity before stepping out of the terminal and into a hard-falling snow. The moderate and occasional chill of Golden was quickly forgotten in the fierce and settled cold of New England.

As freezing air spread through his old bones, Theo longed for the climate of the Promenade.

And already he missed his neighbors there.

It is rumored that some people take long trips at Christmas simply to get away from the burden of obligatory gift giving and the seasonal rush of activity at home. The strategy seems a sane response to an otherwise insane time of year.

When Theo left Golden in early December, he might have appeared to be one of those people, a refugee from the excesses of the holidays. In fact, and much to the contrary, he had taken pains to somehow remain present with friends in Golden during his absence, meaning that he bought gifts well in advance to be delivered while he was away.

Three days before Christmas, Mrs. Gidley walked to the Verbivore and passed through the gauntlet of Penny Loafers; the temperatures were still mild enough that, on sunny days, one could sit comfortably outdoors in a sweater or light jacket. She entered the chaos of the Verbivore, stepped over and around stacks of books, and found Tony at his desk, doing paperwork.

“Good morning. Mr. Wilcox?” she asked hesitantly.

“Call me Tony. Yes, ma’am, what can I do for you?”

“My name is Anita Gidley.”

“And you work at Ponder House. It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Gidley. I’ve seen you going in and out of that building for years.”

“Thank you. And it’s nice to meet you too. Yes, it’s hard to believe we’ve been neighbors all these years and never spoken.”

Tony might have pointed out that Mrs. Gidley had walked by the Verbivore several thousand times over the years without so much as a glance in his direction, but he bit his tongue.

They shook hands. She held out a box to him. It was elegantly and precisely gift wrapped, deep-green paper and burgundy ribbon. Tony could not help but wonder why this woman, a stranger just thirty seconds ago, would give him a Christmas gift.

”I’m delivering this at the request of a friend,” she explained. “And there’s a note for you too.”

Tony cleared a space on his desk and took the box. “Well, thank you, or thank whoever. This is quite a surprise.”

“I’m just the messenger, but I’ll pass along your thanks. I think you’ll be pleased.” She smiled warmly. “Merry Christmas.”

She glanced around the room at Tony’s cluttered desk and floor. He read her thoughts, laughed, and scratched his head. “It’s a mess, isn’t it?”

She had no reply for his statement of indisputable fact. She just raised her eyebrows, tilted her head, and grinned.

Tony was going to make his poverty spiel — “Please buy a book; I’m only a week or so from closing my doors” — but thought better of it. She might not understand his humor. She didn’t seem the type. Instead, he thanked her once more, invited her to stop by again sometime, and wished her a good holiday .

When she left, Tony looked at the typed note. “Do not open until Christmas morning.”

From the Verbivore, Mrs. Gidley went to the music school at the college in search of Simone. She found him easily enough, practicing a cello piece in one of the rehearsal rooms. She introduced herself, apologized for the interruption, and gave him a box and an envelope. Simone, as Tony had been, was surprised, curious, and grateful for the anonymous generosity. He flew home the next day and took the gift with him.

Over the course of two days, Mrs. Gidley delivered gifts to Theo’s considerable circle of friends, a dozen or more. In the process, their surprise and happiness became hers. She wondered if she was feeling, in some measure, the pleasure that Theo had tried to describe to her about the portrait bestowals.

She was using muscles in her face, and expressions, that she had not used in a long time. More than once she was hugged. And on Christmas, a cold, gray, stormy day in Golden, when the recipients opened the gifts, she was at home imagining their delight and vicariously sharing it with them.

And with Theo.

Every gift was accompanied by a handwritten letter. Theo had composed each one to include words of gratitude, words of encouragement, and words about the Christ child. Each was specific to the recipient.

Simone was not totally surprised, given the length of the gift box, that he was the owner of a new bow for his cello. He was surprised, however, by the excellence of the item, a genuine Emil Werner made of Pernambuco wood from Brazil. Exactly the sort he had hoped to own someday. Exactly the sort he had mentioned offhandedly to Theo when they drank coffee at the Chalice and talked about the cello.

The note, in Theo’s elegant script, included an encouragement:

There are songs in this bow that only you can play. Play well. For the angels .

Eight-year-old Lamisha unwrapped her package carefully, slowly, giddily. It was a large box in which were three smaller boxes. One was filled with paints, brushes, pencils, drawing pads, and a jeweler’s loupe. One was filled with all four volumes of The Wingfeather Saga by Andrew Peterson. The third was a pair of shoes, as blue as morpho, with short heels, made of patent leather, à la Dorothy’s in the story of the Wizard. (It was not a terribly practical gift, but what kind of Scrooge gives only practical gifts anyway?)

Lamisha also received a note:

There never was, there never will be another like you, dear child. You are fearfully and wonderfully made, a princess, a daughter of the King. Merry Christmas.

Adoringly, Theo

And Ellen, the inventor of featherwood? What gift would be appropriate for her?

Per her instructions, after their “bird tour” months earlier, Theo had filled his gift of featherwood with bird feathers collected one at a time on his walks through town. Being on the lookout each day for stray bits of plumage had proven entirely delightful to him and a healthy exercise in attentiveness. The result was an astonishing array of beauty that became Theo’s favorite objet d’art in his apartment. It would, in fact, have been equally at home, and as impressive, in Mr. Ponder’s office. Its shape, size, color, texture, curvature, and composition rivaled any other piece in the whole of the consultant’s elegant building.

It was featherwood that Theo had in mind when he chose Christmas gifts for Ellen.

Four items seemed most suitable: a foldable handsaw, a compact cordless sander and drill, and a wood burner.

With the saw, she could cut the wood sections she would need. With the sander, she could smooth and buff the ends of the cut sections. The drill would replace the icepick as a tool for putting holes in one end of the wood and, with the wood burner, she could emboss her name or date, or both, on the bottom end.

Theo went to a local hardware store and purchased tools that were simple, lightweight, and safe, having in mind that Ellen would probably want to keep them with her on the Noble Invention. He assumed that, when necessary, she would be able to recharge the batteries at the Mission.

For good measure, Theo also purchased a scarf of Portuguese cashmere to include with the more utilitarian gifts.

Mrs. Gidley entrusted the rather large box to Jason at the bike shop, with the request that he deliver it to Ellen the week before Christmas. He was glad to do so and was able to put the gift in her hands at the Mission on Christmas Eve. Along with the gift, Theo had written a detailed letter that explained the various tools. He added the following suggestion:

In the future, perhaps you could make some of your featherwood pieces available for sale. I think many people would enjoy having one of their own.

It was a tantalizing possibility.

On a separate page of his letter, Theo had sketched a basic logo, a small feather, and the words “Oxbow Featherwood.” It was visible proof of his belief that Ellen, the artist, was capable, with some help, of becoming Ellen, the entrepreneur.

As she read his letter for a second time, at the sentence in which he called featherwood “a stroke of creative mastery,” she straightened up in her chair, smoothed her dress across her lap with her hands palms down, and looked self-consciously at her reflection in a nearby windowpane .

She would not disappoint Mr. Theo’s confidence.

She was also very pleased that, in his letter, all the subjects and verbs agreed.

She spent a considerable part of her rainy Christmas Day figuring out how she might store and transport the tools on her bike.

She also wondered if it might be possible to have her logo embossed on drinking cups like Jason had done.

The Christmas presents Theo chose for his friends had been painstakingly selected. For weeks in advance of the holidays, he listened and looked for clues as to what sort of gift they might like to receive, in hopes of purchasing items that were beautiful or useful or pleasurable to each recipient.

How else could he have known, for instance, that Addie collected antique glass and amber? Or that Grandmother Whitaker enjoyed word-search puzzles? Or that Mr. Ponder was an opera enthusiast?

In New York, on Christmas morning, he imagined each of them in Golden, in their various homes, opening their packages. Bestowals.

For all of them, Theo’s gift would be one among many. Except for Tony. He had no other boxes to open. Only Theo’s.

Tony did not typically “practice” Christmas. Still, he could not help but be childlike with wonder as he opened his single present. It felt a bit awkward, being by himself at the Verbivore, in the same chair where he sat when he and Theo drank brandy. Same dim light.

I must look pretty pitiful sitting here all alone.

He chuckled at the thought.

In a nod to the holiday, he had turned on his radio to the annual broadcast of “A Service in Carols and Readings” from King’s College in Cambridge.

Outside, the rain continued. The Promenade was empty and quiet .

“In the Bleak Midwinter.”

He used a tiny pocket knife to ease the ribbon and paper off the package. He was in no hurry whatsoever.

Inside the box were two smaller boxes, both wrapped. Tony opened one and lifted the lid of a wooden box.

It held a bottle of port, bearing the authenticity seal from Porto. And a note:

To your health and our friendship, both of which are gifts to me.

Gratefully, Theo

Tony whispered an affectionate profanity, and then, only slightly louder, “You good old man. You dear old soul. Merry Christmas, Theo.”

He held the bottle out to examine it.

Vintage 1968.

A choice neither accidental nor random.

1968.

His last combat in Vietnam. Tet. The best cup of coffee he ever drank.

“. . . The roots can only grow in stony, difficult ground. The pruner’s shears cut deeply. The grapes are crushed and kept in the dark for decades. For the sake of the sweetness. For this moment.”

Tony stood, retrieved a wine glass from his desk, returned to his chair, opened the bottle as slowly as he had opened the box, and poured a glass of the garnet liquid. He held it up for a few thoughtful seconds before drinking.

Rain continued to fall heavily and noisily on the sidewalk in front of the store.

The confluence of stillness, kindness, memory, port, and Christmas hymns brought a wave of tenderness to the bookseller’s state of mind, and glimmers of something like hope to a heart that had become almost unbreakable.

He finished the glass of port in no hurry and poured another to sip while he opened the remaining gift.

It was a book. A signed first edition. Ernest Hemingway. An extravagance. With a note.

If all else fails, and you have no choice, sell this for cash to keep the doors open just one more week.

Christmas wishes, The Godfather

For the weeks following Christmas, the apartment atop Ponder House remained dark. But it was not unnoticed. Many were the ones who walked by, glanced up, and looked forward to the day the old man would return.