Page 119 of Resilience on Canvas

“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.

Henry pulled out the little eight-by-eight-inch canvas and handed it to his father. He fought a wince the moment the canvas left his hand, and his eyes fell to the pavement. They found a crack in the brick walkway, and Henry tried to keep them there so he wouldn’t have to watch his father’s reaction to the painting of Robert’s farm—barren except for the little sapling sprouting from the powdery topsoil. Henry had improved on the painting he’d started weeks back, texturizing the ground some more and including Robert’s farmhouse in the background.

“Henry Sherwood.” Henry’s stomach clenched from the sound of his father’s voice. “Did you really paint this?”

Keeping his head low, Henry tilted his chin up, barely meeting his father’s eyes.

“Yes?”Are you asking him? Or telling him?“Sorry, yes. Yes, I painted it. It took me... a whole twenty hours maybe. Not, uhm, not all at once, of course. Just, you know, a few days?”

His father whistled.

“Robert wasn’t kidding. It’s better than half the paintings I’ve seen in the city so far. Definitely better than what we have hanging in the bank. Hell, I swear it’s even better than some of the paintings they have in that museum on the fourth floor of the Veterans Building.”

Henry balked. “Oh, that’s... that’s nice of you to say, Pop, but it ain’tthatgood.” Chewing on his lip, Henry came over to his father’s side and pointed to one of the leaves of the sapling. “I mean, see how I ruined this part here? It’s my brushwork. I’m still learnin’. I had only ever tried to paint a couple of times back when we were still in Oklahoma City, but then I never managed to find the right paints when we were in Guymon. I managed to misplace my old brushes, too, in the move. So, I’m still... sloppy sometimes.”

“Jesus Christ, son,” his father said with a roll of his eyes. “Don’t be so hard on yourself.”

Henry’s cheeks burned. How could he not be? It was the only thing he knew.

Or, well, it had been. Until he’d met Robert.

Immediately, Robert’s many compliments started replaying in Henry’s head at once, round and round like a carousel, and Henry’s first instinct was to try to force them away. But when he then caught sight of the majestic-looking City Hall building—only feet from where they were—he remembered that heneededto be more confident in himself, especially now. Because, holy heck, him and Robert’s whole future hinged on him being confident enough to convince the people running the special federal program that he ought to be considered for it. And so, Henry let Robert’s compliments keep playing, the lovely words ringing in his head like the chime of a bell.

Finally, they were starting to ring true.

Straightening his posture, Henry took the canvas back from his old man and studied it for a moment.

“Yeah, maybe it is kind of a nice painting.” He let his eyes linger on the scene—the browns and greens and golds—and found himself smiling the tiniest bit. It wasn’t a bad painting. Not at all. He shuffled closer to his father and traced the sapling withhis index finger. “Do you see the little plant here? It’s supposed to be, uhm, symbolic, you know? Of our future here. Or, of me and Robert’s future, I mean. It’s the hope we both have to build somethin’ special together.”

Henry’s father’s brow creased, his eyes narrowing as he continued to stare at the picture. Henry wondered if he’d still like the painting now that he knew what it represented to his son.

“You really are in love with Robert,” his father said. “Aren’t you?”

Henry’s stomach fluttered. Did his father actually want to know the truth? Because this... this wasnotsomething Henry could lie about.

Gathering his courage with his next breath, he said, “Yeah, I am, Pop. I love him so much. So, so much. I love him so much that... that I think of him as my husband, in a way. I know that’s not what you want for me, but... but it’s whatIwant for me.”

Henry watched his father’s lips purse as he thought on Henry’s words. All the while, Henry’s stomach continued to churn as his heart beat faster and faster, his blood pulsing in his ears.

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