Page 46 of Our Own Light

“Oh, I see,” Ollie said. “Well, she wasn’t entirely wrong about Charleston. It’s a little like a circus. All cities are.”

Floyd could tell by now when Oliver was fixing to say something funny.

“How’s that?” he asked, happy to indulge his friend.

“They’re run by clowns,” Oliver said with a silly smile. “Or wait, circuses aren’t run by clowns, are they? Sorry, I hadn’t really thought this through.”

“I like it.”

“So, for Logan County, is Don Chafin a clown, then?”

Floyd tried not to let on how funny he thought this was. He pursed his lips to keep himself from chortling.

“I reckon so.”

“You’ve never met him?”

“No,” Floyd said. “I met a couple of them people he has working for him, though. I had two over for supper once. Not intentionally. We had a bunch of train delays. I saw the men milling around the company store and knew they probably hadn’t eaten a proper meal since breakfast.”

“So you invited them, these horrible men, into your home and served them supper.”

Floyd shrugged. Oliver had a way of twisting things. No wonder he liked them pretzels.

“They weren’t that bad, considering.”

Oliver sighed. “You’re too nice, Floyd.”

Floyd wasn’t sure how to respond to that.

“Why were you in Charleston?” he asked instead.

“I went to see my Aunt Betty.”

“How was it?”

“It was fine. I can’t tell whether she likes me or not.”

Floyd snorted. “I ain’t sure how anyone couldn’t like you, Ollie.”

Ollie smiled wider, but only for a moment. Quick as the wind, he started to have a sadness about him, his smile falling away and shoulders slumping forward. Maybe Floyd had said something he ought not have.

Minutes passed. Floyd waited for Ollie to respond, but Ollie only sat there, silently staring off into the night. Normally, Floyd liked silence. But this silence was hard. It made him understand why Ollie often liked to fill up the air with conversation.

During this time, Floyd thought about how much he liked Ollie. And how much that liking had taken him by surprise. Before Ollie had come to town, Floyd had promised himself that he’d never again let himself like someone in this way. He had spent years cultivating a big barrier between that part of himself—the part that found men attractive—and the rest of him. But, funnily enough, Ollie had mowed into Floyd’s life like that sulky-type plow they’d had back at the farm, the one made by the Oliver Company, and he had cleared away each stalk of Floyd’s defenses. Now, thanks to Ollie, new seeds of affection had been able to sprout, and even though it was probably foolish, Floyd wanted those saplings to thrive. He wanted the two of them to be something, even if them being something meant that the stupid copperhead would keep writhing around in his stomach, making him feel sick sometimes.

He’d tolerate the sick feeling for Ollie.

After another few moments, Ollie spoke.

“Do you think we could forget about what I said yesterday? About me liking you?”

It took Floyd a moment to accept what Ollie had said. It seemed to Floyd that maybe he had been right about Ollie feeling ashamed on account of them both being men.

“Yeah,” Floyd forced himself to say. “We could.”

But how could he ever forget something so special?

Heartache rose inside of him, stronger than the rain shower, or even a summer thunderstorm, and Floyd knew, then, that if he stayed, he’d probably start to cry. And he hadn’t cried for a long, long time.

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