Page 114 of Resilience on Canvas

Robert sucked in a long inhale to keep his fast-rising anger from blazing out of control. Holy hell, he had half a mind to whirl back around and find that bastard who had knocked into him. Robert wanted to teach that man some manners in the best way he knew how: by beating those manners into him with his fist. But he wouldn’t.Couldn’t.Because then, he’d be proving the fella right. Each of Robert’s blows would be telling that man, as well as every Goddamn onlooker, that Okies like him weren’t worth the pennies they were making on the farms.

So, Robert tried to snuff out the fire of upset that was simmering beneath his skin and continued his way. Luckily, he wasn’t metwith no other hostilities in the grocery store, and he managed to buy a carton of eggs for thirty cents without issue. After Robert paid, he tucked the carton into the beige fabric sack he was carrying and turned to leave, but a flyer near the window caught his eye. In large, blue letters, it said, “Federal Art Project” and then, below it, in red letting, “Work Promotes Confidence.” Coming closer, Robert furrowed his brow as he read the words over for a second time. Art? Maybe the flyer was for some kind of competition that Henry could take part in, one that would surely turn out better than the Goddamn dance marathon had.

When Robert was within a foot of the flyer, he read the smaller black text on the bottom of the page, which said that this was some kind of initiative to provide those possessing “creative talents” with a way to make a steady income. It was one of the programs from the Works Progress Administration. Robert only vaguely remembered what the heck that was. Some kind of thing set up by Roosevelt? Whatever it was, the flyer was promising a wholesalaryto folks like Henry. Holy hell!

Robert snatched the flyer right off of the wall.

“Hey!” the man behind the counter called.

“I’ll bring it back tomorrow!” Robert called back before rushing outside.

Clutching tight to the paper, Robert bounded up the street, only slowing once he remembered he had a whole carton of eggs with him. Despite the fact that Henry—hisHenry—would soon be earning a whole salary for being a talented son-of-a-bitch artist, he probably shouldn’t be so careless with food that had taken hours of work to buy.

Robert’s heart was hammering with excitement by the time he reached the stoop. After hurrying up the stairs, he burst in with a loud cry of nonsensical enthusiasm, one that was then echoed bya metallic clatter coming from the kitchen, followed by a “Darn!” from Rose.

Henry popped out from the kitchen.

“Goodness, Robert, what the heck are you yellin’ for?” he said.

“I found you some work, Hen! Honest-to-Godwork! With a salary and everything!” Robert shouted, his eyes wide and wild as he met Henry in the front room. After setting the fabric sack by his feet, he began shaking the paper back and forth in front of Henry’s face. “It’s the Works Arts Project! Or—or the Federal Art Program! Or...” He scrunched up his nose and turned the front of the paper toward himself. “What the hell was it?” His eyes skimmed the paper. “Right. The Federal Art Project from the Works Administration Program.”

“Art? Are you sayin’ that—”

“You’d be paintin’ for a livin’! Or drawin’. Or whatever. Maybe they’ll want you to make crap out of clay. Doesn’t matter. It says right here on this flyer that Uncle Sam will be sendin’ people Goddamn paychecks every single week in exchange for talents like yers.”

Bewildered, Henry shook his head, his brows furrowed and face scrunched up.

“But . . . why would they wantme?”

“Because of how brilliant you are, Hen! Yer the most talented son of a bitch in the whole city! I mean...” Robert took hold of Henry’s hand and took him to their bedroom where tens of Henry’s charcoal drawings littered every surface. “Look at these. They’re fantastic!”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” Henry said, his cheeks turning pink. He pointed to a sketch he’d made of a bunch of tomatoes in a wicker basket, each of them having turned rancid, topsoil pouring from the rotted-out holes. “Could other people even tell what the heck that is? Gosh, now that it’s been a little while since I madeit, I can see how strange it is, too. I was in a real sour mood when I came up with the idea, and it shows. I couldn’t show that to no federal employee. Why, they’d hit me over the head with it sooner than write me a check.”

“Alright, now yer bein’ silly. ’Cause when you explained that picture to me, I thought it had to be the most... poignant picture I’d ever seen.”

“Poignant,” Henry scoffed with a roll of his eyes. “Come on, it ain’t poignant.”

“Am I not usin’ the right word? I’m tryin’ to say that... that itsayssomethin’. Somethin’ Goddamn important, too. It’s our continued struggle, right? Ain’t that what you said?”

Henry let out a long, exasperated-sounding sigh. “Yeah, it’s what I said.”

“Well,see?” Robert walked over to the paper and punctuated each syllable of his next word by tapping it with his index finger. “Im-por-tant.”

Henry merely wrinkled his nose in response. Robert rolled his eyes. Clearly he had his work cut out for him if he wanted to convince Henry that he was worthy of being part of this Federal Art Project. Dammit, why was Henry so blind when it came to his own self?

Sighing, Robert walked over to Henry. “Look, I know that yer parents weren’t never very supportive of you.” He placed his hands on Henry’s waist. The flyer made a crinkling noise when Robert sandwiched it in between his palm and Henry’s torso. “I know that you spent a lot of time feeling like you weren’t enough for them. But you, Henry Davis, aremore thanenough for me. Not a Goddamn hour passes when I’m not aware of how lucky I am that we found each other. Sometimes I can’t even believe that a sweet little wolf like you fell for a hothead like me.”

“I like that yer a, uhm, a hothead. Yerpassionate, Robert. I wish I could be as—”

“Cut that out,” Robert scolded, tugging Henry closer. He towed their hips together and then started to sway a bit. “Youareas passionate as me.God, Hen, yer one of the most passionate people I’ve ever met. Don’t you remember our first kiss?”

“When I ruined my pants?”

“Exactly! You had so much passion in you that you came without me touching you.”

Henry blushed. “Well, I mean, you sort of touched me alittle.”

“And then, later, you could barely even stop kissin’ me. You were practically beggin’ me to stay in that bell tower with you so that we could keep beingpassionatetogether.”

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