Page 116 of Resilience on Canvas

“I really hope so.”

“I will.” Robert pulled Henry in for one more kiss. “Now, before we return to the kitchen to help Joe and Rose with supper...” He trailed off and let go of the flyer. It fluttered to the floor. Robert hooked two fingers into Henry’s empty belt loops and then pulled on them twice. “What if we enjoy some more private time togetherbefore Uncle Sam starts payin’ you buckets of money for those paintings of yers?”

“Goodness, Robert, it won’t bebuckets.”

Robert tugged on Henry’s belt loops some more, urging him toward the bed.

“Show me how passionate you are, little wolf.”

Henry smiled one more of his bashful smiles, but then caught Robert’s mouth in a kiss.

While they kissed on the way to the bed, Robert peeked open his eyes. He caught sight of one of Henry’s unfinished paintings—the barren fields of Guymon, one tiny sapling sprouting from the fallow ground—and a memory flitted into his mind.

“What are you paintin’?” Robert asked, bending and pressing their cheeks together, while Henry sat in front of the easel.

“Home.”

“Ah, but that looks like Guymon. Don’t we have a new home now?”

“Uhm, yeah, but...” Henry pointed to the sapling with the paintbrush. “But this little crop here, that’s our new home. It’s our life together, you know?”

Robert’s heart stuttered, hope and happiness and elation fluttering in his chest.

He was so Goddamn proud of his little wolf.

Chapter Thirty

Henry

OnSundaymorning,Henryand 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 atthe 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 anartistwas 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-Iwas,” 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.

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