Page 61 of Resilience on Canvas

Chapter Thirty

Henry

On Sunday morning, Henry and Robert were making their way to Henry’s parents’ house on foot. Henry’s heart was hammering, the violent beats intensifying, as they traversed the city. Good Lord, he could barely stand to think about what was to come.

Earlier, when Henry and Robert had been getting ready for church, Henry had finished buttoning his nicest shirt only to turn and see the myriad of unfinished paintings that were littering the bedroom through suddenly changed eyes, the papers and canvases having transformed from merely a fun way to pass the time into symbols of his future livelihood.

And as a result, Henry had been struck with the realization of what might have been his worst flaw as an artist: most of his paintings weren’t even complete.

Right then and there, Henry had decided that he ought to spend his spare time over the next week finishing some of those paintings, as well as creating a few others.

Because who the heck would hire someone to paint if that someone couldn’t finish what they were working on?

When Henry had voiced his concerns to Robert, they had made the decision for Henry not to join the family at church or at the Sherwoods’ house afterward.

Robert would cook the potato pancakes with Clara instead.

May and the twins would have to play on their own, rather than occasionally pestering Uncle Henry, too.

Instead, Henry would get started working on some more pieces that he might bring with him to City Hall the following week.

But, of course, they needed to break the news to Henry’s folks first.

Rounding the corner nearest to the Sherwoods’ home, Henry’s stomach began to churn.

Imagining Charles Sherwood’s inevitable reaction to learning that his only son was hoping to earn money as an artist was truly more terrifying than Henry could have ever predicted.

His father was sure to think that he was wasting his time.

Government paycheck or not, Henry’s folks weren’t likely to see Henry’s work as valuable, not when it wouldn’t be contributing to society in the same way as a farmer or a schoolteacher.

Would his folks even believe that he had the talent to warrant it? Very likely not.

Henry’s whole body tensed while Robert knocked on the front door. Clara answered in under a minute.

“Mornin’,” she said, first pulling Robert in for a hug and then Henry. “I can’t wait for pancakes later. You brought the flour and eggs?”

Robert lifted up the fabric sack. “Yep,” he said. “Taters, too.”

Clara’s smile broadened as she turned to Henry. “Are you lookin’ forward to eatin’ a little piece of Oklahoma?”

“Uhm, I-I was ,” Henry replied, reaching up to rub the back of his neck.

Clara tilted her head. “Was?”

“Well, I, uhm, won’t be goin’ to church today. Or comin’ back here after y’all finish at church.”

“Oh. Why not?”

Before Henry could reply, his father came up behind Clara and clapped a friendly hand on her shoulder .

“Don’t you want to invite the poor boys in?” he teased.

Smiling, Clara rolled her eyes as she stepped out of the way to let Robert and Henry pass by into the living room.

“You’re really makin’ potatuh pancakes, huh?” Henry’s father said, eyeing the sack that Robert was carrying. “We have flour and eggs here in the house, you know.”

Robert nodded. “Yeah, I know, but you and Lillian made it clear that you weren’t too keen on wastin’ either of those on the pancakes, so...”

He trailed off and held up the sack. Henry’s father rocked back on his heels, raising both his eyebrows in tandem. It was an expression that Henry knew meant he was biting his tongue.

“Well, I’ll take these from you, then,” he said, his tone slightly bitter.

Robert handed Henry’s father the sack. Henry’s mother came over to greet them, wrapping both of them up in one simultaneous hug.

Even though Henry wasn’t as worried that his mother might have a horrible reaction to his potential employment with the Works Progress Administration, her warm embrace still sparked a tiny, icy current of fear in his heart.

Goodness, for years now, he had failed to live up to her hopes for him, first by not being interested in college and then by not being interested in marriage.

Would she be upset with him for this too?

When they pulled back out of the hug, everyone headed toward the kitchen. On the way, Robert nudged Henry with his elbow.

“Do you need me to tell them?” he asked.

Henry swallowed, forcing the saliva through the tightness in his throat. “No, I-I can.”

“Alright, little wolf. I’ll leave and help Clara with—”

“No!” Henry spluttered. He winced upon hearing the pathetic worry in his own voice and took a moment to steady himself. “I thought maybe you could stay with me? In case I need the, uhm, the reassurance?”

“Alright.” Robert reached out to squeeze Henry’s shoulder. “Yeah, I’ll stay with you.”

Together, Henry and Robert caught up with Henry’s parents in the kitchen. Immediately, Henry noticed that his mother had taken out their only remaining jar of carrot marmalade to serve with the pancakes later. His stomach tightened. It was now or never.

“So, I, uhm, I won’t be comin’ back for lunch later?

” he said, hating how his voice had hitched up like that.

Are you asking them? Or telling them? Henry tried once more.

“I have to head back home right now. I need to... paint?” Darn.

One more try. Henry cleared his throat. “I have to spend some time paintin’ so that I—”

“Paintin’?” His father seemed to balk at the concept, and Henry felt another of them cold shivers run through him. “Why?”

“Uhm, there’s this... initiative from the President,” Henry said. “It’s the Works Progress Administration?”

“Oh.” His father furrowed his brow. “Are you creatin’ flyers for them?”

“No, I, uhm...” Henry looked over at Robert who offered an encouraging nod. “I want to work for them. See, they have this new program for creative types. Artists, you know? And they’re willin’ to pay folks a weekly salary to make stuff for them. Uhm, like for the government.”

Henry’s father narrowed his eyes. “Roosevelt wants to pay people to... paint?”

“Y-yeah.”

“And you want them to hire you?”

Biting down on his bottom lip, Henry managed a small nod .

Henry’s father blew out a forceful breath, one that caused his cheeks to puff out. Henry braced himself for the verbal beating of a lifetime.

“Doesn’t the Works Progress Administration have other types of positions?”

“Maybe,” Henry said, heat coloring his cheeks.

“I haven’t checked or nothin’. I mean, I haven’t not checked for other work elsewhere.

Me and Robert, we’re never not readin’ the pamphlets and flyers in the stores and whatnot in case they might say there’s a company lookin’ for workers.

But we haven’t seen nothing like that lately.

I thought this might be better than the, uhm, the fruit pickin’. Money-wise.”

“I sure hope so.”

Henry winced. He knew that remark must have been hurting Robert something fierce.

Slowly, Henry turned to check on his husband, expecting to find him red as a tomato, simmering with rage, but Robert was standing there steely-eyed, his posture proud but relaxed.

Goodness, he was bursting with confidence.

If only Henry could find that same tenacity within himself.

Henry’s father took a shuffled step forward.

“Henry, while I can see how you might think that pursuing something like this could be a good idea, I think you ought to keep trying to find real work somewhere else. I haven’t seen your paintings, but building up a real skill might be a better plan.

Something that’ll help you start your own business someday.

Or maybe you can find some work with one of the companies out here.

Heck, I still think that you ought to consider college.

We have the money for it. I know many places haven’t been hiring lately, which is why I haven’t been harping on you for pursuing this temporary farm work, but they’ll need people once the economy starts recovering.

Everything will change. Whatever this program is, it won’t be here forever. And when they cut the funding— ”

“We’ll be fine,” Robert clipped. “Henry will find something else when that happens. He’ll paint portraits. Or... or sell his work somewhere. Hell, maybe he can even sell it out of our house.”

Henry’s father shook his head. “Robert, he’ll never make enough—”

“Or teach! He’ll show people how to paint. He’ll teach folks how to use charcoal pencils, how to make scenes come to life with them.”

“It’s a nice thought, but—”

“It’s more than a nice thought,” Robert said. “Christ, Charles, you haven’t even seen his work. How can you know that he won’t make enough from sellin’ it? How can you know that people wouldn’t pay to learn from him?”

“Well—”

“You can’t .” Robert huffed, his cheeks reddening.

Holy heck, Henry wished he could kiss him right then and there.

“Look, Henry came in here to tell you that he has to spend the week making a couple more things that he can show them people over in City Hall. He wasn’t lookin’ for yer blessin’.

He has no need for it. He has mine. Most importantly, he has his own.

Now, I know you’ve probably been tryin’ to verbally beat the confidence out of him his whole life, but Henry knows how talented he is.

Or, he’s startin’ to know it. Ain’t you, Hen? ”

Henry swallowed thickly, tears welling up in his eyes as a small bit of self-love bloomed in his heart. At that moment, Henry could see himself the way Robert saw him, and the image was so strange and so powerful and so beautiful, he could hardly speak. Instead, he responded with one tiny nod.