Page 62 of Resilience on Canvas

Robert nodded back. “And once Henry’s hired for this Federal Art Project, everyone in San Francisco will see how Goddamn talented he is. Even you. ”

Henry’s father closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose.

After a moment, he let out a long sigh, the exhale sending the little bits of Henry’s fleeting self-love scattering, like a swift wind ripping off the fuzzy white seeds of a dandelion.

Henry lowered his head, waiting on the inevitable harsh words that would follow.

Henry’s father looked up and said, “I’m only tryin’ to help you, son.

Guidin’ you to make smart choices—to make the right choices—that’s part of bein’ a parent.

I held my tongue when you said that you weren’t interested in banking way back when we first moved to Guymon.

And I held my tongue when you said you weren’t interested in college, either.

Hell, Henry, I even held my tongue when you called off the marriage to Clara, but now that you’re insisting on living out here in this big city on your own, I need to make sure that the next job you take will provide you with some economic stability.

” He sighed. “I suppose this would be better than the working in the valley, but... will you at least keep lookin’ for other work?

If you’re hired for this Federal Art thing, take your paycheck from Uncle Sam, sure, but make sure you keep your eyes peeled for something. .. real.”

Henry’s lip trembled as self-loathing twisted his insides together.

Keep your eyes peeled for something real.

He couldn’t stand the thought of being hired for the Federal Art Project only to leave for work in some printing press or bank or textile mill.

Now that he knew it was possible, he wanted to create .

Drawing and painting for a living... Lord Almighty, it would be the perfect thing!

Henry squeezed his eyes shut. Why couldn’t his father support him?

Why hadn’t he ever supported him? Couldn’t his father see that him not working in a bank had been the right choice way back when?

If Henry had been a bank teller, he’d have been out of work at the same time as his father.

Uncle Bob would have had someone else working for him in the store by then.

Consequently, Henry wouldn’t have had no work at all.

Clearly not working in banking had been the right choice.

Even if Henry hadn’t made it for the “right” reasons.

Not marrying Clara had been the right choice too.

Couldn’t his father see that Henry wouldn’t have made her happy?

And Henry himself wouldn’t have been happy, neither.

But Henry was happy now. He was happy with Robert.

And if he could earn a paycheck by turning his beloved hobby into a real job, that would make him even happier.

Why wasn’t his happiness important to his own father?

All of these thoughts were spiraling in Henry’s head like a tornado, the winds so strong and turbulent that Henry thought he might faint right then and there.

Robert’s hand slipped into his, as though Robert had known exactly what Henry needed, and he took a big, calming breath to steady himself.

Upon the first inhale, Henry immediately started feeling better, and by the second, he could reopen his eyes.

Robert squeezed Henry’s hand and said, “Workin’ for the Federal Art Project would be real work, Charles. Jesus, yer son is so Goddamn talented, there’s no way he won’t keep earnin’ a livin’ that way, even once they closed the program. Not once people see what he’s capable of.”

Henry’s throat tightened, another swell of emotion slamming into him. Father in Heaven, he had the most incredible husband in the whole entire world.

“Fine,” Henry’s father said, his voice softer but still severe. “I’ve said my piece. Do what you want.”

Robert rubbed Henry’s hand with the back of his thumb as Henry’s father left the kitchen. Henry turned to him with tears still shimmering in his eyes. When he saw the warmth and love on Robert’s face, it took everything Henry had to stop himself from crying.

He inhaled a shaky breath and murmured a fast “Thank you. ”

Robert said, “Of course, little wolf. I know how much this type of work would mean to you. I won’t let no one talk you out of tryin’ for a spot in that program, and once they hire you, I won’t never let you quit, even for a fancy job at a bank.

” He nodded back over his shoulder toward the living room. “Go on home and start paintin’.”

Henry sniffled and nodded. “Will you be okay, though? Here with him?”

“I’ll be fine. I promise.”

“Alright.” Henry tried to smile. “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” Robert replied, smiling back. “I’ll see you tonight, okay?”

“Yeah,” Henry said. “I’ll have somethin’ to show you then, I hope. I’ll start workin’ on a new paintin’ as soon as I can. Somethin’ real nice. Somethin’ that’ll make you proud.”

Robert’s sweet smile broadened. “I’m already proud of you, Hen.”

Henry’s chest swelled as Robert’s lovely words settled in his heart.

***

Henry spent the entire next week becoming as proficient of a painter as he could.

Unsure whether or not the officials overseeing the Federal Art Project in San Francisco would only be interested in seeing his paintings or if they’d want his charcoal drawings too, Henry had spent a portion of his free time the last week creating two brand-new charcoal sketches as well: one of the colorful bell tower in Alva, which was supposed to represent finding love in unexpected places, and the other of a whole field of clubbed rabbits, which was a scene that had been burned into Henry’s memory ever since Guymon’s first rabbit culling.

That one obviously represented society’s ugliness.

Probably everybody would see the bell tower and think that it represented God.

But Henry was fine with that. The real beauty of the bell tower was a secret between him and Robert.

Henry hoped that by bringing that particular piece with him to meet with the Works Progress Administration folks in City Hall, he might remember how proud Robert was of him and how in love the two of them were.

Maybe he could find some temporary confidence that way.

Or that “fire” Robert kept insisting he had within himself.

Henry scooped up his recently finished painting of Robert’s farm and tucked the small canvas into a large well-worn leather backpack before shoving his latest sketchbook in there with it.

As Henry pushed himself to stand and threw on his backpack, his body began buzzing with nervous energy, and he blew out a breath.

If only Robert was there to help calm him.

Earlier that morning, Robert had left to work in the fields.

Henry hadn’t had it in him to ask Robert to come with him to City Hall.

It had felt wrong to ask Robert to forgo the opportunity to make money, no matter how meager the earnings would be.

And so, now Henry was left to face the men who were unknowingly holding him and Robert’s future in their hands alone. Oh, Lord, it was terrifying.

Over the next half hour, Henry walked the fourteen or so blocks east to City Hall, his legs wobbling like jelly.

When Henry reached the courtyard, his breath caught as he took in the magnificence of the building.

San Francisco’s City Hall was so much more spectacular than the one back in Oklahoma City, which had been, if Henry’s memory was correct, a regular old rectangular building.

Official-looking enough, but not a thing of beauty.

San Francisco’s City Hall, however, wow , was it something, with huge white columns running the length of the second and third floors and an enormous cupola, the most impressive Henry had ever seen, even counting the ones he’d found in library books or on Rose’s postcards of New York City.

Walking the brick path toward his fate, Henry’s hands began to tremble.

Halfway to the steps, he paused to stare up at the white building in wonderment. Goodness, it was a sight to behold.

Faintly, Henry heard someone call his name. He turned toward the sound and saw his father sitting on the edge of one of the round fountains nearby. Henry held up his hand to say hello, but his movement was shaky and stilted, nervousness swirling inside him.

“Wait up, son,” his father said as he stood. Henry stayed frozen as his father walked over. “You’re meeting with those Works Progress Administration people this morning, right?”

“Uhm, yeah. How’d you—”

“Clara told me. And if you want to know how she knew, I’m sure Robert was the one to tell her.” Henry’s father cleared his throat. “You know, we missed you at church yesterday.”

Shame flared to life on Henry’s cheeks. “I’m sorry I couldn’t come. I was finishin’ up the paintin’ that I wanted to bring with me today.”

Henry’s father nodded a couple of times. Henry's stomach roiled as he waited for the verbal lashing he just knew was coming. After a few seconds, his father clicked his tongue once and rocked back on his heels.

“Can I see it?” he asked.

“Oh. Uhm.”

Henry reached up to scratch the back of head, his cheeks burning hotter, though now not only from shame but from something else, too. It was strange that his father wanted to see his work. What if he thought it was bad ?

Charles Sherwood let out a long breath. He reached up to scratch the back of his neck, too, mirroring Henry’s position, and they both seemed to notice this at precisely the same time. Henry’s father snorted a laugh, and Henry chuckled with him.

“Well?” his father prodded.

His father’s eyes were wide and hopeful, and even though Henry felt like he might vomit right there on the pavement, he couldn’t bear to say no.

“Yeah, sure,” he relented, removing his backpack from his shoulders.