Page 4 of Resilience on Canvas

One hour later, Henry closed the store. And then he walked back home, to his parents’ home, the home he still lived in even though he was twenty-six years old.

And he tried not to fixate on the fact that he should have been living on his own by now.

Worse, he should have been married . With a kid or two and a family dog or something.

His parents were waiting for him in the kitchen when he arrived.

“Hey, son,” Henry’s father said, looking up from the newspaper. “How was work?”

“Fine,” Henry said, trying to keep his expression neutral so as not to show how rattled he still was.

“Mmm . . .”

When Henry’s father looked back at the paper, Henry felt a small pang of relief. Hopefully he could put off telling his parents that he wasn’t interested in marriage. At least a little longer. He took a step toward his room, but his mom stopped him, her hand settling atop his shoulder.

“We were thinkin’ that maybe we should have Clara over sometime. Get to know her a little better. We’ve barely spoken to her outside of church.”

Henry licked his lips as he considered how to respond. Part of him wanted to chastise her for entertaining the engagement. Why would you promise your son to someone you barely even knew? Why agree to this?

But Henry knew why.

It was because he was twenty-six.

Twenty-six and unmarried. Even though he was handsome. Even though he had a job.

And people were starting to talk.

Henry’s insides twisted into a knot, making him feel nauseated. Shifting his weight from one foot to the other, he shrugged off his mother’s hand and raked his fingers through his hair.

“Gee, I wouldn’t want it to be no trouble,” he said .

“It wouldn’t be,” his mother said, smiling brightly. “Why, I could make some potatuh pancakes. Everybody likes those. We can serve ’em with marmalade.”

Henry’s father chimed in. “ Real marmalade. I bet Clara’s family only serves that carrot marmalade stuff like most everybody else. But we’re lucky that we can buy the real thing.”

“Oh! We could buy some bread too! From the baker!” Henry’s mom said, clasping her hands together in front of her chest.

Henry’s father smiled. “It’ll be nice to have her over. Remind her how lucky she is to be marryin’ you.”

Henry had to fight back a scoff. Lucky? Clara wouldn’t feel so lucky if she knew of Henry’s proclivities.

Maybe the Sherwoods were one of the few families that still had money for necessities—food and clothes and things—thanks to his mother being one of the schoolteachers in Guymon, and maybe they still had a considerable amount of savings from before the bank that his father had been working at had closed, but Clara marrying a man who secretly liked other men wasn’t lucky, no matter how much bread she might receive in exchange.

Henry must have been making some kind of sour expression, because his mother’s face fell, her smile vanishing and brows turning up.

“Henry, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Except...” Good Lord, this was it. He had to tell them. “I can’t marry Clara.”

His mother sucked in a breath. “Oh, honey...”

His father set his newspaper on the table and sat back in his chair.

“What? Of course you can.” He cleared his throat and said, “You can, and you will. You’re too old to be livin’ here, son. Grown up with no family of your own. It’s time.”

“No, I... I can’t,” Henry said, his throat tightening. “I’m sorry.”

His father let out a long sigh, running a hand over his face.

“Dammit, now what am I supposed to tell Robert?”

Henry’s cheeks warmed. “Robert?”

“Yeah, he’s the one who came to me with this. Not Raymond.”

Henry’s cheeks burned hotter. Well, no wonder Robert was so upset before. And, God, that made Henry’s fixation with Robert even more pathetic, didn’t it? While Robert had been trying to marry Henry off to his sister, Henry had been busy thinking of being with Robert in a filthy way instead.

“I never meant to hurt no one,” Henry said.

His mother shook her head sadly. “Clara will be heartbroken.”

Henry’s chest clenched. Hopefully Clara wouldn’t be heartbroken .

It wasn’t her fault that Henry was the way that he was.

Him calling off the marriage hadn’t a thing to do with her.

She was one of the sweetest people in town.

Gosh, Clara Davis heartbroken. All because of him. How horrible it would be!

Henry’s father started to stand. “Well, I better head over there and break the news.”

“Wait,” Henry spluttered. “I’ll tell her. Tomorrow. I’ll tell her myself. After church.”

Henry had to make sure Clara knew the real reason.

Even if it might mean catastrophe for him and for his family.

Because Clara Davis, the nice and mild-mannered woman who came to his shop with a cheery smile every day, the lovely person who spoke to him in such a kind way when she purchased the things she needed from him, she was owed the truth.

Good God.

“Alright,” Henry’s father said. “I wish you’d reconsider the marriage, though. We want you to find someone. We need you to find someone. You’re a handsome man. Well spoken, too. People are... well, they’re wonderin’ why you haven’t even tried to find a wife.”

“Henry,” his mother said, her voice stern and pleading, “ please think on it.”

“I . . .” Henry’s stomach lurched. “I will.”

Oh, the lie tasted so bitter on his tongue.

Henry had only said yes to the marriage because he’d wanted his folks to be happy.

He’d known that their patience with him was waning.

Plumb near everyone in Guymon was wondering why the heck Charles and Lillian Sherwood’s only son wasn’t carrying on the family name.

And now, not only was Henry smashing his parents’ hopes of putting the whispering to rest, but he was smashing some poor woman’s heart, too.

Seconds of tense silence followed while Henry tried not to let his eyes well up with tears.

Finally, his mother said, “I’m makin’ some rabbit for supper. Do you want to help?”

“Naw, I, uhm, I want to be by myself for a while,” Henry choked out.

He considered saying sorry one more time.

If only so that he could hear his parents say that they weren’t mad.

But even if they weren’t mad, Henry knew they weren’t exactly happy with him right now, either.

Apologizing some more for not marrying Clara would either result in more silence or, more likely, false reassurances, neither of which he wanted to sit through.

Without uttering one more peep, Henry headed upstairs to his bedroom, and once he was by himself, he knelt by his bed to fish for his charcoal pencils and sketch pad that he kept beneath his mattress.

Drawing had never once failed to take his mind off of whatever might be bothering him.

Hopefully it’d work tonight. Otherwise, how would he even eat supper?

Guilt was still making his stomach churn .

Once Henry had his supplies, he checked to see that the lock on the door was set, and then he sat on his mattress with his back resting against the headboard.

Flipping through the pages, Henry spent a few seconds scrutinizing each of his sketches.

He found flaws in every single one. Sometimes he thought that a tree’s leaves weren’t realistic enough or a barn owl’s eyes were too small, its feathers too rigid-looking to even really resemble feathers.

But when Henry reached his favorite page—the one with a sketch of Robert on his farm—he smiled a little.

Even though it barely looked like Robert—the face only a rough outline, lacking much detail—it was close enough.

Henry ran his fingertips over the charcoal.

Closing his eyes, he traveled back to the time he had seen Robert in the field pulling dandelion root one or two months back, probably to make a salad.

Henry had slowed the Model A to a crawl so that he could watch him for a few extra seconds before speeding back to town.

Golly, Robert had looked so... so beautiful, then.

Robert was the very picture of a man who would never let the world break him, who would never let himself be conquered by black blizzards or economic hardships.

And, boy, was that something. Henry was so impressed by him.

After opening his eyes, Henry turned to a blank page, and then, he started sketching.

His mind still holding tight to that memory, Henry started drawing a dandelion.

Midway through, he realized that the flower itself looked a little like a lion’s mane.

At least, this one did. Which was pretty perfect, wasn’t it?

Because Robert was like a lion. Proud. Determined. Courageous.

When Henry was finished, he blew off the excess shavings and heaved a sigh.

Robert Davis was a lion. But Henry... he was a scared little lamb. And if Robert tore him to shreds once he called off the wedding, Henry wouldn’t blame him.

Not one bit.