Page 2 of Our Own Light

While Charlie and Oliver picked up bickering over the housing situation, Floyd considered how to help. He couldn’t take listening to this no more.

“What about Fred’s son?” Floyd asked, cutting in as he approached. “Ain’t James got a telephone over at his place?”

Charlie sucked on his teeth, thinking this over.

“Can’t say.”

“Might as well check. He’s probably home. He ain’t never leave Rock Creek except on weekends. Not that I seen, anyway.” Floyd came up next to Oliver. “I can take you.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t want to inconvenience you,” Oliver said.

Floyd wasn’t exactly in the mood for taking some uppity city fella across town, but he hated to think that Oliver might keep on bothering Charlie otherwise.

“It’s a short walk.”

“Oh, thank God,” Oliver said, his shoulders relaxing and face brightening a little.

“Just need to pay for these,” Floyd said before setting his basket on the counter.

While Charlie totaled the prices for the groceries, Floyd rocked back on his heels and tried not to think about the fact Oliver was staring—probably eyeing the coal powder coating near every inch of Floyd’s skin and clothing. It felt strange to be looked at like that—like he was some sort of museum oddity. Floyd wondered whether Oliver had ever even seen a coal miner before.

After Charlie totaled the food items, Floyd reached into his pocket for some scrip—the currency issued by the coal company—and counted out the coins to pay.

Groceries paid for, Floyd took his poke from the counter and said, “Well, we better head out.”

“Fine, yes,” Oliver said, adjusting his hat. “Lead the way.”

“Take care, Floyd,” Charlie said after them.

Floyd held up his hand. “You, too, Charlie.”

On the way out, Oliver stopped to study the hats on one of the hat racks.

“You know, these are pretty nice, considering,” he said.

Considering what? Floyd wanted to ask but stopped himself. He wasn’t exactly keen on listening to whatever Oliver would have to say on that subject. So, Floyd simply stood by while Oliver studied the selection for a bit before plucking one of the flat caps off its hook.

The moment Oliver removed his fedora, Floyd found himself mesmerized by Oliver’s hair—blond like the color of wheat stalks. Not many men had light hair like that. Some kids, maybe, but not men. Just as Floyd started thinking on how soft it looked, Oliver fit the flat cap on his head and Floyd was left wondering where his own head was at.

“Why’re you trying to be a miner?” Floyd asked, feeling the need for conversation.

“Just, you know, starting a new life,” Oliver said before turning to face him. “What do you think? Not bad, right?” Floyd started to fumble through a response, but then Oliver plowed on like he had no real interest in Floyd’s answer. “I noticed that people seem to be wearing flat caps here, not fedoras or bowlers. Maybe I’ll fit in better if I buy one. I might have one already, come to think of it. I honestly can’t remember. I’ll have to check my bags before I purchase one.”

“Bags?”

“They’re scheduled to arrive sometime tonight,” Oliver said, putting the hat back. “Christ, I hope I won’t need to stay in the boarding house. I haven’t a clue where I’d fit everything. It was a real chore to pack so much in so little time. I’m sure I’ll have trouble sorting through the clothes I stuffed into various—”

It was clear by now that Oliver was talking to hear himself talk, not because he wanted to have a conversation. As Oliver prattled on about clothes and hats, Floyd thought back on what he had said about starting a new life. Oliver coming to Rock Creek was a curious thing. Even though Donohue Coal and Steel employed plenty of men who had come from other countries and neighboring communities—farmers who had recently sold their land, young men starting out in life, that sort of thing—not once had Floyd seen someone who looked like Oliver come to Rock Creek to look for work. Someone with that much money—a person who had too many hats to keep track of—ought to have been able to find work elsewhere, like in the city. Why Oliver would want to come to Rock Creek, well, that was a real puzzle.

Floyd couldn’t resist the pull to try to solve it. He thought on it for a while. Oliver was still talking, but Floyd had stopped listening. Could be that Oliver was running away from something. Running away could make people act funny—move to faraway places, take whatever work they could find, try something new. If that was the case, Floyd supposed he couldn’t fault Oliver for not knowing left from right.

“Come on,” Floyd said, interrupting Oliver’s babbling. “If I’m late for supper, my wife’ll nail my ears to the wall.”

Floyd continued toward the entrance, hoping Oliver would follow.

“Ah, was she the one Ivan Karamazov was referring to, then?” Oliver asked, catching up and chuckling like he had said something funny.

“What?”

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