Page 17 of Our Own Light

“What?” Floyd asked.

“Nothing.” Oliver shrugged. “I’m having fun.”

“Yeah. Me, too.”

Their conversation was interrupted when Roy and John came into the pool hall.

“Hey, Floyd. We ain’t seen you in here before,” Roy said, sounding pleased rather than accusatory, which made Floyd realize that his work buddies probably wouldn’t prod him about his seemingly inexplicable outing too much; they were simply happy to see him. “Who won?”

“We only took some practice shots,” Floyd answered.

“Oh yeah? Why?”

“Oliver’s too good a pool player.”

Oliver cut in with a dismissive wave of his hand.

“I’m only so-so.”

Roy smiled wolfishly. “How about we play each other then?”

“Yeah, sure,” Oliver said.

Floyd had half a mind to cut in and say that Oliver was being too modest, but he sort of liked the thought of Oliver wiping the smug smile off Roy’s face for some reason.

Over the next half hour, Oliver and Roy played each other, and even though Floyd had been upset about Oliver’s talent earlier in the evening, he now felt a sense of pride watching Oliver make Roy look like he’d never even played pool before.

After some time, John tapped Floyd on the shoulder.

“Did you hear the latest from Mingo County?”

John wasn’t the type to talk for the sake of talking. He wasn’t someone who liked to spread rumors neither. But John had been real interested in the talk of unionizing lately, probably because he thought the trouble might bring him a better life. He was struggling to make enough to provide for his family—four kids, three of them girls. His boy, Richard, was only seven, like Josephine. Not yet old enough to help earn more money.

“No, what?”

John answered in a hushed voice. “Some sort of skirmish between the union and non-union miners. And the sheriff deputies and members of the National Guard, too.”

Floyd’s heart started beating faster. He hated these stories. Because it was a struggle to keep his emotions hidden well enough whenever he caught wind of them. What if that sort of violence came to Rock Creek someday? Thinking of the possibility of being forced to leave—either to flee from the fighting or to simply look for new work—was making his palms sweat.

“Was anybody hurt?” Floyd asked, shoving his hands in his pockets to hide the evidence of his upset.

“I reckon so.”

“Mmm...” Floyd hummed, trying to choose his next words carefully. Even though he was none too happy about the prospect of potential fighting in Logan someday, he never wanted to let the other miners know his opinion, especially John, who he knew would welcome the change the United Mine Workers of America might bring. Even if that change wouldn’t come easy. “Do you think we’ll see some issues over here?”

“What, the fighting?”

“Yeah.”

“Probably not. Not so long as Chafin’s men are watching our trains. Ain’t no way the UMWA will ever take hold here.” John nodded toward Oliver. “I’m surprised they even let him come here looking like that. He looks like one of them union fellas, like one of their leaders.”

Floyd huffed a laugh as though the notion was silly, but he’d had the same thought back when he had first seen Oliver in the company store. He had to wonder whether Oliver had been properly checked by Chafin’s people or not.

Turning back toward the pool table, Floyd tried to pay attention to the balls moving across the felt but kept thinking back on John’s comments instead. If the United Mine Workers of America—the UMWA—ever tried to recruit folks from Rock Creek, Floyd knew he’d feel a lot of pressure to support them. But if Fred Donohue ever threw him and his family out of their home, Floyd knew, too, that he couldn’t let them stay holed up in some tent colony. He reckoned he’d have to come up with the money they’d need to move somewhere else—to another coal company, probably, but one that was far, far away. Or, heck, what if he'd have to leave the coal industry completely? Unease continued to claw at Floyd’s insides, making it harder and harder to breathe.

All of a sudden, Roy tossed his cue onto the table.

“God dang it!” Roy shouted. “He beat me!”

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