Page 84 of Resilience on Canvas

Close to suppertime, Robert and Joe both pulled their vehicles off the road, the tires kicking up plumes of sand and topsoil and whatever else on the way. Once they stopped, Henry climbed out to search the truck bed for the provisions they had brought for their journey—cans of beans and some pickled vegetables and whatever else Clara had thought to toss into one ofthe worn leather packs. Meanwhile, Joe and Rose found a place to sit, and Robert walked over to join them.

“Drivin’ has been kinda nice so far,” Joe said, settling cross-legged on the ground. “Gave me and Rosie a lot of time to chat.”

Rose placed a pillowcase on the ground next to Joe and sat too. She took out a box of crackers, along with a can of beans.

“We were trying to figure out where we should live once we reach San Francisco,” she said.

Henry sat next to Robert, brown leather pack in tow.

“I’m sure you two wouldn’t have no trouble rentin’ a nice place. Not with the money you have from the marathon,” Henry said. “Me and Robert, though, we have to hope that someone’ll have a room for rent in a boardin’ house or somethin’. At least for a little while.”

Henry flipped open the pack and took out two cans of beans, along with a can opener. He handed one of the cans to Robert and then started opening his own.

“I’m sure we’ll find some way to make money soon enough, Hen,” Robert said, taking care to project some confidence in his tone. “Couple of strong men like us.”

After Henry finished prying his can open, he passed the opener to Robert.

“I sure hope so.” Henry blew out a nervous breath as Robert opened his can. “I’m worried, though. Because of what my... uhm, what my father said.”

“What’d he say?” Joe asked through a mouthful of crackers.

“He thinks me and Robert won’t find enough work to live on our own for a while. Or to pay them back for the funeral, neither. Besides that, I think he wants me and Robert to stay with them rather than in our own place because... well, because, then, he can keep us from sharin’ a room. Maybe he hopes that eventually,me and Robert will tire of ‘whatever the heck we think thisthingbetween us is.’” Squeezing his eyes shut, Henry shook his head and said, “Those were his words. Not mine.”

Robert’s stomach roiled from the pain in Henry’s voice. He reached into the pack for a fork, taking the opportunity to steady himself, lest he say something biting in front of Henry’s friends. Robert couldn’t have Joe and Rose thinking that he was a selfish son of a bitch like his father had been, taking money from the Sherwoods for the funeral and then insulting them behind their backs. But, Christ Almighty, him and Henry weren’t hurting nobody by being together. Henry’s Goddamn parents needed to mind their own business. Why couldn’t Charles Sherwood let Henry make his own way in life? Why couldn’t he let his son be happy? Charles wanting to try to shape Henry’s life into what hehimselfwanted for his son was why Charles had agreed to Robert’s Goddamn marriage scheme back in the wintertime. Now that Robert knew Henry enough to understand the type of father-son relationship the two of them had, it wasn’t no surprise that his little wolf hadn’t pushed back. Of course he hadn’t said no to marrying Clara. Probably Henry hadn’t even had it in him to think of saying no to his father back then. Not ’til the worry over the wedding night became overwhelming, anyway. Poor Henry hadn’t known how much courage he had in him. Courage to seize the life he wanted. Henrystillcouldn’t seem to see the courage he had within him. But Robert had seen it. He had seen it plenty of times.

Before Robert could manage to say something comforting, Henry excused himself from their little picnic, saying he had to relieve himself, his voice wavering like he was trying not to show how emotional he was over recounting those words his father had said.

Gritting his teeth, Robert tried to calm himself by taking a couple of long breaths through his nose while Henry walked away.

Joe said, “Good Lord, I can’t believe his father sometimes.”

“I can,” Rose said. “Emily’s parents were like that. I think maybe even most parents would be.”

“Emily?” Robert asked, crooking an eyebrow.

“Oh...” Rose’s cheeks reddened, and she reached up to fix one of her hair pins. “Emily was... well, she was my companion in New York.” She looked away. “Romantic companion.”

Robert’s eyebrows shot up. Henry hadn’t never told him that Rose liked women in that kind of way. Or, well, she was with Joe, and they seemed happy enough, so it seemed like she must like both men and women, then. Robert hadn’t never met someone like that before.

“I wasn’t sure if you knew,” Rose said, meeting Robert’s eyes again. “I’m sorry if I seem uncomfortable. It isn’t that I’m worried I can’t trust you. I know I can. But I still feel funny telling people about her sometimes.”

Sympathy bloomed in Robert’s chest, and he found himself smiling a little.

Rose returned his warm smile with one of her own. “Anyway, I’m not surprised that Henry’s father isn’t being very kind with regards to your relationship.” She trailed off and let out a sorrowful sigh. “Still, I feel so sad for poor Henry. I wish we could cheer him up somehow.”

“Yeah, me too,” Robert said. “I’m hopin’ that him helpin’ me with my family—the two of us takin’ care of everybody together—will make him happy. I know he feels like he disappointed his parents in other ways, too. Not only because they know about our relationship, I mean.” He heaved a sigh. “Sometimes I think Henry only sees himself as a stockboy or somethin’. But he’s so much more than that.”

“He really is,” Rose said. “He’s kindand funny and smart and—”

“Anda talented artist,” Joe said, scooping up a forkful of beans. Just before shoveling them into his mouth, he said, “Extremely talented, in fact. I bet you that he could sell some of them pictures of his someday out on the coast.”

Robert tilted his head. “Artist?”

“Oh my God! He hasn’t shown you his drawings yet?” Rose said, her eyes popping.

Robert shook his head. “Never.” He heard the crunching sound of Henry’s footsteps behind him and turned. “Henry Sherwood, when the hell were you gonna tell me that yer an artist?”

Henry stopped in his tracks. “Oh! Uhm . . .”

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