Page 26 of Resilience on Canvas

Most of all, he was ashamed of the truth in his father’s words. No matter how much work Robert put into the farmhouse, it still wasn’this. It still belonged to his father. And without his father, he and the children wouldn’t have nowhere to live. Robert had nothing to his own name. No property. Or money. No real work, neither. Maybe he could work as a shop boy soon, but he would never make enough to take care of everyone his own self. Dammit, the only reason they were even getting by was becausesometimesRobert was able to pick enough potatoes or carrots to sell in town and make a couple of cents for food and necessities. Other times, Robert had been forced to resort to selling things, things that weren’t even his to begin with—old farm equipment and family heirlooms and his mother’s clothing and necklaces.

Without his father, Robert had nothing. Without his father, hewasnothing. And he hated it. He hated it so much.

All these things Robert was ashamed of. And he had taken it out on poor Henry Sherwood. He had taken it out on a man who was sweet and soft and cuter than a Goddamn puppy.

With a sigh, Robert sat back in his chair and puffed on his cigarette some more.

How the hell was he supposed to fix things between them?

Someone threw open the window behind him. Robert turned to see Clara poking her head out. She was smiling sweetly, though her eyebrows were turned upward like she was nervous. Robert’s curtness had hurt her, too.

“What d’ya think of me makin’ supper early?” she asked shyly.

“Yeah, sure, that’s fine,” Robert said, though it wasn’t like Clara needed his blessing. But that was Clara. Barely ever making decisions for herself. “Ain’t like you need my permission, though. Make what you want, when you want.”

Clara’s sweet smile broadened the tiniest bit. “Alright. Potatuh pancakes, then? Or, if not, I could head into town. I think we still have a can of peas. I could maybe find some spaghetti noodles. Make a white sauce with the flour and such.” Her eyes flitted over to the field behind him, and her smile faltered. “Not that I want to travel in this. Gosh, I wonder when it’ll clear up.”

“Potatuh pancakes sound good,” he said, before suddenly remembering that Henry liked those as much or even more than he did. “Actually, maybe we could cook ’em together. Do you think we have enough potatuhs to make a few extra?”

“Extra?”

“Yeah, extra. I’m thinking maybe I could bring some over to Henry. I left the car in front of the store. Might as well thank him for helpin’ you with those scones earlier. And thank him for the, uh, the shovelin’ and everything.”

Clara pursed her lips like she was trying to keep herself from smiling too much, and Robert cocked an eyebrow in return. What the heck was that about? Surely Clara wasn’t suspecting nothing with regards to the fluttery, romantic feelings Robert had been feeling for Henry. Was she?

“It's nice to see you tryin’ to make things right,” she said.

Robert let out a breath as relief settled over him. He was in no mood to pretend with Clara. Because pretending with her required a whole lot of effort. She tended to see right through him whenever he was lying. If she ever confronted him about why he hadn’t never tried to find a woman to marry, or why he was becoming friends with Henry, he’d have needed to put on a betterperformance than even the likes of Clark Gable to fool her. And, God, he was much too tired for that right now.

“Yeah, well, Henry’s not as terrible as I thought he was,” Robert said, hoping the faint blush he could feel on his cheeks wasn’t too obvious. “And I need them shifts at the store.”

With a nod, Clara left, closing the window behind her. Robert finished his cigarette.

And then, he went inside to make potato pancakes, excitement fluttering in his belly.

***

About an hour and a half later, Robert was standing in front of Henry’s store with a platter of potato pancakes balanced in his hands, a container of carrot marmalade shoved into his front pocket, and a rag haphazardly covering his nose and mouth, though it was only offering the smallest bit of protection from the swirls of Devil’s snow that were still wafting through Guymon with each rush of wind. Hornets were swarming in Robert’s stomach, their collective buzzing making his entire body hum. Swallowing his nervousness, Robert made his way into the building.

Henry was working behind the counter. Alone.

“Heya, Hen,” Robert said, walking toward the register. “I brought somethin’ for ya.”

Henry just crooked an eyebrow in response.

“Potatuh pancakes.” Robert set the platter on the counter and ripped off the lid. “Just made ’em. I thought maybe you’d behungry.”

“Oh,” Henry said, frowning at the pancakes like he wasn’t too interested in eating them.

Robert reached up to pull off his mask but then paused. Maybe this would be easier from behind the brown fabric.

“I know yer mad,” Robert said. “I thought maybe these pancakes could be like a... like a peace offerin’.”

Henry looked up from the platter and tilted his head.

“Why would I be mad?”

“Well, because I sent you home earlier. And I wasn’t too kind about it, neither.” Robert clicked his tongue once. “I’m sorry I keep bein’ such a bastard to you.” He waited for Henry to say something, but Henry simply looked back at the pancakes for a moment and then up at him again. He started chewing on that beautiful, plump bottom lip of his. Why wasn’t he saying nothing? Couldn’t he see how Goddamn sorry Robert was? Robert had cooked him a whole pile of pancakes for Christ’s sake. With a huff, Robert yanked his mask to his chin. “Ain’t you gonna say nothin’? Jesus, Hen, I’m tryin’ my best here.”

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