Page 11 of Resilience on Canvas

Chapter Six

Henry

Early the next morning, Henry was up before everyone else.

He headed out into the kitchen and paused in front of the cupboards, thinking that he might make breakfast for everyone.

His mind raced through the possibilities as he tried to decide what to make.

Robert had said before that he liked sweet things.

But Henry wasn’t sure he knew many sweet recipes.

Maybe he could make a porridge? Did the Davis family have the ingredients for that?

Tentatively, Henry started searching the cupboards.

It was strange to rummage through someone else’s house like this.

But he couldn’t stand the thought of waking Robert to ask.

Henry was reaching for a half-empty sack of rolled oats tucked neatly into one corner of the cupboard when the sound of feet shuffling nearby made him pause.

“Mornin’, Henry,” Clara said as she came into the kitchen, clutching her robe tight to hold it shut. “I think the twins will be up soon. May likes to sleep in, so it’ll be a while before she’s out.”

“Mornin’.” Henry’s eyes flitted back over to the cupboard. “I was thinking of makin’ breakfast for everyone.”

“Ah, that’s kind of you. Don’t make oats, though. I’m the only one who likes ’ em.”

“Oh. What . . . uhm . . .”

“Do you want to know what Robert likes?” she asked with the faintest hint of a knowing smile.

Henry’s cheeks began to burn, and her smile fell away.

After briefly nibbling on her bottom lip, she leaned in close, and then, in a hushed tone, she said, “I’m sorry.

I was trying to be funny. Or friendly. Or both, maybe.

Gosh, I-I thought maybe I saw you watchin’ him in church a few times.

And then, because of what you told me yesterday.

.. Oh, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said nothin’. ”

Henry’s cheeks burned hotter as the conversation that he’d had with Clara began replaying in his head. But with that sense of shame and embarrassment, there was something else, too—a wonderful, tender warmth that flickered to life in his chest.

Standing outside the church, Henry checked to confirm that nobody else was nearby. He swallowed thickly and braced himself for what was to come.

“Clara, I can’t marry you,” Henry finally said, his heart pounding hard and fast in his chest, his voice shaking like a leaf in the wind. “I’m so sorry.”

“Oh...” Tears started to pool in Clara’s brown eyes. “I’m sorry if it was somethin’ I said. Or somethin’ I — ”

“No! No, it wasn’t nothin’ you said. Nothin’ you did, neither.

” Henry’s own eyes started tearing up then, too.

He took a breath. “I know you’ll probably hate me for this.

Heck, the whole town will hate me. But I have to say it.

” Several tears escaped, and Henry wiped them away with his fingers.

“I, uhm, I like men,” he choked out. “I like them like... in a romantic way and... and in other ways, too. I can’t fix it.

I mean, I-I’m not sure if I even want to fix it.

” Henry squeezed his eyes shut. “And, so, if you want to tell everyone and run me out of Guymon, or, or, even out of Oklahoma, I packed my suitcase already. I can leave. No problem. But I had to tell you the truth. Because, Clara, you’ve been so nice to me, brightenin’ my shifts in the store with that smile of yers. And I owed you the truth.”

Clara sniffled. Henry turned to leave, but before he could, she stepped closer and wrapped him up in a hug.

“Goodness, Henry, I’m so sorry you’ve been carryin’ that on yer shoulders.” She rubbed his back, and each of her strokes made Henry’s chest ache. “Yer one of the kindest men I’ve ever met. How could I ever hate you?”

“But . . . but the church says — ”

“I know what the church says. But I know yer heart, too, Henry Sherwood.” She squeezed him tighter. “And I know it’s a good one. Gosh, you’ve been keepin’ my family from starvin’ over the past few months. All those free cans of food you’ve been sneakin’ me. What a godsend you’ve been.”

“Ain’t you mad that I lied to you and broke my promise?”

“Nah,” she said. “I was only tryin’ to make Robert happy when I said yes to the marriage myself.”

Henry smiled through the tears that were still coming, pouring from his eyes like a steady stream.

“And I was only tryin’ to make my parents happy,” he said.

“Well, then, this is for the best, I think,” she said. “God saw fit to make you this way, Henry. I figure we ought to trust Him. And I hope we both find happiness elsewhere.”

While Clara’s kind voice echoed in Henry’s mind, the warm tenderness in his chest continued to burn, its comforting heat making him feel safer than he had ever felt before in his whole life. And with that safety, he found he had the courage to be honest with Clara once more.

“Don’t be sorry, Clara,” he said, keeping his voice barely above a whisper. “Ain’t like you were wrong or nothin’. I mean, I had been watchin’ yer brother. Sometimes. ”

“Oh.” Clara’s small smile returned, a faint pink blush coloring her cheeks. “I see.”

Henry’s cheeks were still on fire. But he kind of liked it. He liked being seen. Never before had he ever felt bold enough to say something like that out loud.

With a clearing of his throat, he said, “Yeah, so, uhm, if Robert has a favorite breakfast or something...”

“Scones,” Clara said, her smile broadening and eyes brightening.

“We like to make ’em with a mix of potatuh flour and regular.

Fry ’em in bacon fat.” She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear.

“Truthfully, it’s been a couple of weeks since we’ve cooked ’em.

I’ve been rationing the fat. But it’s a special enough occasion with you bein’ here. ”

“Oh, I ought to bring you some from the store soon,” Henry said. “We have the refrigerator. Keeps the fat for a few months.”

“Well, I would love that. Thank you.”

Over the next half hour, Henry and Clara worked together to make the scones.

When they got to the step where they needed to fry the little triangles of dough, Clara took over.

Henry waited nearby, his mind circling back to the end of the previous evening, back to the way that he and Robert had been looking at one another after Henry had let that “interesting” compliment slip.

It had felt to him, then, like there was something else that was being said, too, even though neither of them had really said nothing.

In the faint light from the kerosene lamp, Henry had seen fire in Robert’s eyes, and it wasn’t like the fires he had seen in them before, neither.

It was... some other kind of fire. And for a moment, the want that Henry had been nurturing over the course of what felt like forever had transformed into something else: hope.

But then, Robert had shoved Henry backward a step, and whatever had been between them (or whatever Henry had been thinking was between them) for that fleeting moment had vanished.

Now Henry was left wondering if he had imagined the whole thing.

As Clara removed the last few scones from the greasy skillet, the twins emerged from the bedroom, and the moment they saw Henry, their faces twisted up with confusion.

“Ain’t that the man from the store?” Peter or Thomas asked.

Henry still couldn’t tell them apart.

“It is,” Clara said. “He helped Robert make it back last night.”

“Oh.” When the boy noticed the scones, every trace of confusion vanished from his face, and his eyes went wide. “Scones!”

“Can we have some?” the other boy asked.

“Yes, you may,” Clara said with a smile. “Henry helped me make ’em for y’all.”

The boys hurried to snatch them up, each balancing several scones in their hands. Meanwhile, Clara smiled fondly over at Henry, nothing but acceptance in her eyes. What a sweet soul she was.

While Henry was busy in his head being thankful for his new friendship, Robert came out from his bedroom, his wavy-curly brown locks mussed up and one eye still closed while the other was barely open.

“Mornin’,” he mumbled in a low, raspy voice. “Scones?”

“Henry and I made some,” Clara confirmed, her cheeks turning pink, like maybe she was feeling Henry’s bashfulness over his crush, too.

“Well, that was mighty nice of him,” Robert said, his one open eye wandering over to Henry.

Henry’s heart stuttered, and he found he could no longer remember words.

Robert must have sensed how frazzled Henry was because he let out a snort and said, “Everything’s fine, Hen.” He opened his other eye and stretched. “I’m fine. Yer fine. Let’s have some breakfast. ”

Henry tried for a smile, but it felt more like a grimace.

Hopefully it was convincing enough. Robert and Clara turned to fetch some plates from one of the cupboards, and they started chatting about the work that needed to be completed around the farm that morning.

All the while, Henry was left to ruminate on the meaning of the word “fine.”

Once they all sat down at the table together a couple of minutes later, some of Henry’s unease began to wane, and halfway through his second scone, he finally felt calm enough to taste its flavor—buttery, slightly sweet, and even a little smokey, maybe from the fat they had mixed in.

Moving the half-chewed mush over his tongue, Henry tried to memorize the taste.

Just in case he might ever feel the need to make them himself in the future.

For a certain someone. Someone who was currently sitting not two feet away.

Looking as handsome as ever. Henry couldn’t help but stare a little.

Robert caught him. He popped the last chunk of a scone into his mouth. And winked.

Henry sucked in a breath, taking the last bits of scone into his windpipe, and started coughing like mad. In only a matter of seconds, he was hacking so bad, he felt like his lungs might come up and flop right out on the table. How humiliating it would be to die like this!