5. Chapter Five

Chapter Five

Floyd

On Saturday, Floyd was pacing back and forth in the living area, counting the minutes until Ollie was supposed to arrive. He kept fiddling with his shirt, unbuttoning the second and third buttons from the top, only to refasten them moments later. He wasn't sure why he was fretting so much about his appearance. It wasn't like Ollie hadn't seen him like this before. He had worn nearly the same exact outfit to work many times.

Except that this particular shirt was a plaid pattern of sky blue and steel gray rather than a single muted color like most of his work ones. Floyd had chosen it on purpose since Ollie had kind of implied that he thought Floyd would look nice in these colors. And, well, as such...

Floyd blew out a forceful sigh, one that had him puffing out his cheeks. After a moment, he settled on leaving the top three buttons of the shirt unfastened, telling himself that it looked more casual that way. Besides, it was hot outside. He wouldn't want to be uncomfortable.

He continued to pace. Josephine was out with their neighbor's boy, William, probably playing in the woods, while Effie was scrubbing the stove. Earlier, Floyd had urged Effie to see one of her friends instead. It was only fair that she have some fun, too. But Effie was Effie. If she had set her heart on scrubbing the stove, then that's what she would do.

"You're about to wear a hole in our floor," she said.

Floyd stopped. "Sorry."

"Don't worry about it. I know how you can be."

"What do you mean?"

"When you're sweet on someone."

"What?" Floyd asked, feigning surprise, though both Effie's bluntness and the truth in what she had said sent the blood rushing to his cheeks. "I ain't sweet on Ollie."

"It's sweet that you got a nickname for him already."

Floyd scoffed and said, "We're friends."

But he knew that Effie would see right through him.

"Uh-huh. You know, I swear I seen Oliver making eyes at you, too."

"Don't start. Ollie ain't like that."

"He might be."

Floyd's heart sped up— a lot . Ever since the pool hall, Floyd had come to accept the way Oliver could make his heart pitter-patter with all that handsomeness of his. But that had been the extent of it. He hadn't never allowed himself to consider the possibility of Oliver liking him back. It made no sense to entertain silly fantasies like that. Men liking other men wasn't exactly common. Or, if it was, no one ever seemed to talk about it. Besides, the thought of maybe starting something with Ollie, it was enough to wake that copperhead in his stomach. Somehow, the snake had been calm ever since the pool hall. But if Ollie and him ever...

No. Ollie and him could never be more than friends. He had a family.

"So what if he is? Did you forget that we're married?"

Effie said, "We could figure something out," like it would be the simplest thing in the world.

Her words sent little tremors of fear rolling through Floyd's body. For years, he had been keeping his heart safe. Ever since he had lost his most important person all them years ago, Floyd hadn't never allowed himself to even consider being romantic with someone else. His palms started to sweat, painful images flashing in his mind—thick black plumes of coal powder and the enormous pile of rubble.

"Effie, stop," Floyd shot back, unable to let himself think of a relationship with Ollie right now. He had to steady himself. Ollie was supposed to arrive any minute.

Effie held up her hands innocently. "Alright, I won't bother you no more."

Floyd startled from the knock at the door.

"Go ahead," Effie said with a playful chuckle.

Floyd tried to ignore the strange new fear he was feeling, but with every step toward the door, his heart was hammering a tiny bit faster, his worriment becoming so intense that he had to pause and take a few breaths to calm himself before turning the knob.

Thankfully, as soon as Floyd opened the door, Ollie's silly smile and even sillier outfit tempered some of his nervousness, calming his racing heart and releasing some of the tension in his muscles.

"What in the tarnation?" Floyd laughed. "Why are you dressed like that?"

"What do you mean?" Ollie asked, looking down at his own outfit. "I look nice, right?"

Of course, Ollie looked nice. He looked so nice, in fact, that if Floyd let himself think about it too hard, he'd have to steal some private time in Effie's little sewing room (which was more like an oversized closet) later, probably in the middle of the night, but nice wasn't what Floyd was reacting to. Ollie was wearing a slightly off-white suit, paired with a brown vest and a blue-and-yellow striped tie. And, typical for Ollie, he was wearing a hat, too—a straw boater, one with a silky brown ribbon encircling the base, the color an exact match for the shade of his vest.

"I thought I was learning you how to shoot," Floyd said. "You look like you're heading to the pictures."

"We could?" Ollie suggested, which made Floyd roll his eyes.

"We could what? See a picture? In Charleston ?!"

"Yeah, maybe we'd have had to plan that better. Oh well. I'm sure I can shoot in these, though. I mean, you're wearing a nice shirt yourself. Don't think I haven't noticed the colors."

Ollie smiled in a flirtatious way, tipping his head slightly, one side of his mouth twisted up higher than the other. It was playful and sweet and knowing—like he knew exactly why Floyd had chosen that shirt; like he knew exactly why Floyd had left the top buttons unfastened; like he knew everything .

Floyd swallowed against the rising fear of being seen.

Did Ollie know of Floyd's feelings for him?

"Leave your suit jacket here," Floyd said, purposefully ignoring Ollie's comment or compliment or whatever it was. "Your hat, too."

Even though Ollie started to shrug off his suit jacket, he said, "But I like my hat. It'll protect my head from the sun."

"Fine. Bring your hat."

"What about your hat?" Ollie asked, handing Floyd the jacket, which Floyd then tossed over the back of the rocking chair.

"Why would I wear my hat?"

"I'll look less silly if you wear yours, too."

"No, if I wear mine, I'd only look more silly." Floyd pointed outside. "Get."

"Sheesh," Ollie said, turning around.

Floyd looked back to wave to Effie. "Be back for supper."

"Have fun," Effie called in a sing-song voice that made Floyd's cheeks flush.

Out on the porch, Floyd picked up the poke he had packed earlier with a whole mess of empty Coke bottles. Then, he went around back to fetch his rifle from the shed. Afterward, he and Oliver started into the woods.

While they walked, Ollie kept tripping on various rocks and tree roots. To keep himself from laughing too much about Ollie's plight, Floyd focused on telling the story of when he had first learned to shoot. Floyd's father had taught him when he was twelve. At that time, Floyd had been working as a breaker boy for the coal company, and as such, he and his father hadn't been spending as much time together, not like back when Floyd had been helping out on their farm every single morning. And so, his father had taught him to shoot so that they could have something to share on the weekends when there wasn't too much farm work. Floyd had taken to it immediately.

While Floyd was telling the story, Ollie kept looking over at him, which was probably making his tripping even worse, and the way Ollie was continuously looking at Floyd—like he wanted to keep his eyes on him even at the expense of his own safety—was making Floyd's body buzz with energy, each of Ollie's smiles sending little blips of electrical current through his body.

When they were nearing the area Floyd wanted to use for Ollie's lesson, Floyd breathed a sigh of relief, relaxing a bit. Finally, something else for them to both focus on.

Oliver tripped over another tree root.

"Why'd you dress so fancy?" Floyd asked, looking at Ollie's brown leather shoes. "Did you really want us to see a picture?"

"No, not really. Just, well, I like clothes. I like looking nice." Ollie scrunched up his face. "I'm sorry if that's strange."

"Nah, everyone has their own things they like."

Truthfully, Floyd really liked Ollie's outfits, but he couldn't make himself say that.

"Are you coming to church tomorrow?" Floyd asked. "It won't be strange to wear a suit there."

"Yeah, I think so. I hope that's alright?"

"Of course."

Which meant that, if Ollie kept coming to church, Floyd would see Ollie near every day. The possibility of being with Ollie so often filled Floyd's chest with the most tender warmth.

Once the two reached the spot Floyd had picked out—a clearing free of trees and shrubbery, save for some stumps here and there—Floyd instructed Ollie to line up the Coke bottles atop a stump some one hundred yards away while he took out his 1870/87/15 Vetterli and checked it over. Floyd was finishing up loading the bullets when Ollie came up beside him.

"I can't believe you're teaching me how to use that," Ollie said. "I want to ask if it's safe, but it's a weapon, so..."

Ollie's unease tugged at Floyd's heart. It was strange, in some ways, how Ollie could seem so worldly, and yet so innocent, too.

"It's safe enough." Floyd said reassuringly. "You know, a lot of folks around here like a Winchester. It's a newer type of rifle gun. I heard some not-to-nice stuff about it, though, like that it ain't easy for loading and unloading the bullets. Couple of men have lost their fingers. Sometimes, I catch myself thinking I'd be too smart to maim myself like that and consider buying one, but it ain't worth chancing. Not when I have this here Vetterli, which is plenty safe. Accurate, too." Floyd clapped Ollie on the shoulder. "You'll be safe, Ollie. I won't let you blow your fingers off."

"Thank God for that," Ollie said, his voice still sounding a tad unsteady.

Ollie's innocence was making Floyd feel tingly inside. Little bursts of protective energy were rippling over his skin, and Floyd had to force himself to ignore it.

"Mind if I impress you before I move on to the lesson?" Floyd asked.

"Definitely not."

Floyd brought the rifle up to his shoulder, lined up the shot, and fired, shattering one of the bottles.

"Not bad, huh?"

"Jesus."

Floyd laughed. "Not the name I'd expect someone to say after watching me obliterate a Coke bottle."

"Yeah, well, you're—wow," Ollie said, as though he couldn't think of a response. "Can I try now?"

"Yep. But first, let me explain how it works."

Floyd pulled up and back on the extractor to expel the spent casing and launched into his lesson on the mechanics, telling Ollie how the Vetterli worked the best he could, and once he was finished, he handed the rifle over to him. Next, Floyd tried to explain to Ollie how to aim properly, but Ollie eagerly lifted the rifle and fired before Floyd could say much. He missed the target by a mile.

"Damn," Ollie sighed.

"What'd you expect? It was your first shot."

"Yeah, I suppose. You made it look easy, though."

"Well, it ain't."

"I can see that now."

Ollie struggled to ready the rifle for the next shot. Floyd opened his mouth to try to explain how he could hold it better, but Ollie fired again. Floyd could tell that Ollie's pride was hurting a little bit, which seemed kind of silly to him, especially since Ollie couldn't seem to hold still long enough for a proper lesson. Floyd considered reminding Ollie that learning something new takes both time and patience, but in the end, he thought that maybe Ollie wouldn't like that.

So, Floyd stood back and watched Ollie struggle. He watched him struggle with dislodging the casing. He watched him struggle with firing the next shot. And the next. And the next. And when it came time for Ollie to reload, he watched Ollie struggle with the clip.

After one more round of this, Ollie still hadn't hit a single bottle. His cheeks had become a pinkish red, whether from shame or anger, Floyd didn't know, but either way, Floyd could sense what was about to happen before Ollie even turned away from the targets.

"Alright, let's head back," Ollie said, holding out the rifle. "Here."

Looking at the Vetterli, Floyd's mouth set to a frown. He thought about how Ollie tended not to finish things. Like college. Or books. Which was a shame. Because Ollie had a real potential inside of him.

"Nope," Floyd said. "We can head back once you hit one of them bottles."

"Well, then I hope you like living in the woods," Ollie said, sarcastic-like.

"It takes practice, is all."

"I've been practicing."

"You only fired a couple of rounds."

"More than a couple," Ollie said, starting to raise his voice. "I'm shit at this, Floyd. I can't aim right."

"You ain't sh—" Floyd caught himself. "You ain't that. Like I said, you need practice. Look how fast you're taking to mining. Don't sell yourself short, Ollie." Floyd came up beside him. "I can help you. Ready your shot."

Ollie brought up the rifle, and Floyd came up behind him. Floyd helped adjust Ollie's positioning, lifting the butt a little higher so it would rest closer to his shoulder, rather than the fleshy part near his armpit, where he'd been steadying it before. Next, Floyd pressed Ollie's elbows in and instructed him to keep them that way.

All the while Floyd's heart was hammering ferociously in his chest again, and the intensity of it—the pure energy of it—made him think of an old Model T. It was like every touch between the two of them was one more turn of the hand crank, each one building upon the other 'til a spark of fierce yearning had roared to life inside of him. Desire continued to rumble, the force of it nearly causing Floyd's body to shake.

"Alright, now you need to relax your body," Floyd said, as much to himself as to Ollie. Backing off, he said, "Try to control your breathing. Slow and steady."

Ollie fired. And missed. He lowered the rifle.

Before Ollie could protest, Floyd came up behind him and forced Ollie to lift it by raising his arms.

"Ollie, you can do this," Floyd said close to Ollie's ear, his voice low and stern. "I want you to try one more time."

Ollie turned his head slightly, locking eyes with Floyd, and the two of them were close enough that Floyd could feel the warmth of each of Ollie's exhales. He fought to keep his expression neutral, though on the inside, he was feeling what somehow seemed like two hundred crazy emotions at once.

"Alright," Ollie finally said. "One more time."

Floyd nodded curtly and backed away. Ollie took his time readying himself for this one. Floyd could feel a change in him, a tiny flame of determination, one that hadn't been there before. He prayed to God that Ollie would succeed. Golly, how he wanted the two of them to celebrate together.

Ollie pulled the trigger, and then one of the bottles exploded.

"Holy Moses!" Ollie looked excited enough to leap out of his own skin. "I hit one!"

"Nice shot," Floyd responded with a proud smile.

"Thank you," Ollie said before holding out the rifle. "Can we head back now? I'm starving. All that success really worked up my appetite."

"Yeah, we can. Go fetch the rest of them bottles. We can use 'em next time," Floyd said, taking the rifle from him. "Be careful not to cut yourself."

And Floyd's still-hammering heart was happy that Ollie was happy too.

***

Later that evening, Floyd and Ollie were sitting together on the couch while Josephine and Effie finished cooking supper. Josephine liked to help in the kitchen sometimes, which was nice, though sometimes it meant that the food might be either a little too salty or too sweet, depending on what they were making. Floyd hoped that Ollie wouldn't mind. It was just one of them things about having kids, especially when you're someone like Effie, who liked encouraging Josephine's independence and creativity, even at the expense of her taste buds.

"Supper's ready!" Effie called.

They all sat together for some bean stew, which, surprisingly enough, wasn't too overly seasoned, and Floyd was happy to see that Ollie seemed to like it, too. When Josephine caught Floyd's eye, he threw her an appreciative wink, which had her giggling.

Throughout the meal, Ollie talked a little bit (or, well, Ollie was Ollie, so "a little bit" was maybe underselling the amount) about his life in New York City, mostly about the entertainment they had up there, not so much about his home life. He told them about music lounges and baseball games and vaudeville shows. It sounded real magical. Floyd had never been in the habit of coveting somebody else's life, but it was hard not to feel a tad envious of Ollie's time in New York. He had experienced so much in life already. It was a wonder that he had chosen to leave that style of living behind.

Josephine seemed a little bored of the conversation for a while, her eyes wandering to this and that, her shoulder slumping. But then Ollie started talking about the circus he had seen in Charleston, and once that happened, Josephine was visibly buzzing with energy—her eyes brightening and her face lighting up with excitement. Ollie was painting such an incredible picture of the circus with his words, telling them about people flying through the air and elephants performing tricks and even a man who could bend his body into the shape of a pretzel (Ollie had to explain what a pretzel was, which, once he had, made Josephine real eager to try one someday). Apparently, Ollie had seen the performance shortly before meeting with Fred Donohue.

"Daddy, can you take me to the circus someday?" she asked, excitement radiating off her as she wiggled around in her chair.

Floyd's smile faltered. "Uh . . ."

Josephine's eyes widened. "When, when, when?!"

Shame pricked at Floyd's insides. He wasn't too sure how much the circus was, but it probably wasn't cheap. It wasn't something you could keep neither, like a toy or a piece of clothing. It might not be the best use of the savings they had. Not unless Floyd could try to make a little more money to offset it somehow.

Effie answered for him. "We can't afford that right now, baby. Probably not for a while."

Josephine's shoulders slumped forward again, the excitement and happiness rushing out of her in an instant, leaving her looking like a limp balloon.

"I'm sorry, Jo," Floyd said.

"It's fine," she said, even though it was painfully obvious that it was very much not fine. "It sounded magical, is all."

"I know."

Everyone was quiet for a few ticks of the clock. Suddenly, Ollie snapped his fingers.

"Josephine," Ollie began, "you can see magic right here in Rock Creek. There's no need to catch a train to Charleston."

Josephine looked skeptical. "What do you mean?"

Ollie fished around in his pocket and pulled out a quarter, which he then held up for Josephine to see.

"I have magical powers," he said. "Do you believe me?"

Josephine was clearly fighting a smile now. "No."

"I'll prove it to you," Ollie said. "I can make this coin disappear."

"No, you can't!" Josephine protested, her voice playful and happy once again.

"Let's see your magic, Oliver," Effie said. "I believe in you."

"Ah, what a supportive family," Ollie said, looking over at Effie in an affectionate sort of way before shooting a look of mock disapproval over at Josephine. "Most of you, anyway."

Which made Josephine giggle.

Ollie proceeded to balance the coin on the top of one of his index fingers. Next, he closed his free hand over both, squeezing tight. When he uncurled his fingers, it seemed like the coin had vanished.

"Oh, my word!" Effie shouted, sounding immensely pleased.

Josephine's mouth had simply fallen open.

Ollie repeated the motion, but this time, when he uncurled his fingers, the coin had magically reappeared.

"Wow!" Josephine exclaimed.

"See, there's plenty of magic here already," Ollie said, handing Josephine the quarter. "You can have this for your circus fund, though. I'm sure you'll make it to one someday."

Without even taking the time to thank Ollie, Josephine leapt out of her chair.

"I need to put it somewhere safe!"

Floyd called after her. "What do you say to Mister Oliver?"

"Thank you!" she called from the back room.

Arching an eyebrow, Floyd looked over at Ollie.

"Magic?"

"I know plenty of useless stuff."

"Clearly that wasn't useless," Effie said. "Look how happy you made her."

"I suppose that's true."

"Yeah, it is true," Floyd said. "That was real kind of you, Ollie."

Floyd and Ollie smiled at each other for a few long seconds. Effie cleared her throat.

"Oliver, you had speakeasies in New York?" she asked.

"Um, yeah, why?"

Effie stood up from the table and walked over to the counter. "Well, if y'all are finished with supper, maybe you ought to have a treat."

"What, like a cocktail?" Ollie asked through a confused-sounding laugh.

"Not exactly," she said, opening a cabinet and pulling out a very old bottle of clear alcohol. "We got this, though."

Floyd made a face. "Effie, come on, Ollie ain't gonna try moonshine."

"Yes, I will," Ollie sputtered. "Of course I will. Where'd you even find that?"

"Floyd bought it last year over in Mingo County. We barely ever drink it ourselves."

"Mingo, huh?" Ollie asked, raising his brows in a teasing manner.

"Yeah, I wanted to be nice, is all," Floyd responded, trying to keep his voice level even though his heart was starting to hammer a little thinking of the striking miners and the fight he'd had with Ollie in front of the company store. "Some of them strikers were selling bottles, so I bought one."

Effie set the bottle on the table.

"You left out the best part," Effie said. "Floyd bought it with stuff the families needed—a bunch of food and some blankets and a couple of oil lamps."

"It was probably a strange thing for me to do," Floyd said dismissively, wondering why Effie was embarrassing him like this.

"Why would it be strange?" Effie asked, turning to fetch a couple of tumblers. "You heard about what had happened and so you wanted to help."

"That's admirable," Ollie said in earnest. "Really fucking admirable."

Which was probably the nicest and most vulgar compliment Floyd had ever received. Suddenly flustered, Floyd busied himself with counting the little scuff marks that were etched into the wood of the kitchen table, waiting for the feeling to pass.

Besides only feeling flustered by Oliver's compliment, Floyd was starting to feel uneasy about the striking too. Suddenly, it was like he was back in Mingo County seeing the tent colonies in person. He couldn't never put the people he loved through something like that. And the thought of leaving coal mining behind instead? No. He couldn't never.

He knew the kinds of things the UMWA wanted to help with. All of these worries together, they were making his palms sweat. Over the next couple seconds—seconds that seemed to stretch on into eternity—Floyd started thinking 'bout the changes those families were fighting for. Changes that might have helped the man he had lost. Floyd's heart clenched.

By the time Floyd forced himself to look up, Effie had finished pouring both him and Ollie a couple of fingers of moonshine.

"You boys can take these outside," she said, moving the drinks closer. "Me and Josephine will clean up. Or maybe I'll let her play for a while. She's probably taking her paper dolls to the circus or something."

Floyd wasn't really one to consume alcohol, not outside of special occasions. It wasn't as though he had purchased the moonshine because he'd been hankering for it. As such, Floyd considered protesting, but he figured it probably wouldn't work. Because when Effie had an idea, especially one she was particularly proud of, pushing back against it rarely ever ended up yielding the sought after result. And she seemed to be pretty proud of this one.

"Thanks, Effie," Floyd said, standing up and taking his tumbler.

Floyd and Ollie walked to the porch together and sat down on either of the two rocking chairs. Floyd took a small sip of the moonshine while Ollie continued to inspect his. Floyd watched him smell it and then wrinkle his nose. Dang, that was adorable.

"Smells . . . uhm . . . interesting."

Floyd hid a burgeoning smile behind his tumbler. "Drink up, city boy."

"Wow, one sip and you're already insulting me."

"‘City boy' is an insult?"

"If ‘Jesus Christ' is a swear word, then ‘city boy' has to be an insult."

Floyd snorted. "Whatever you say," he paused and raised his tumbler back up to his lips before slyly tacking on the supposed insult. "City boy."

With a shake of his head, Ollie clucked his tongue in mock disapproval.

"Here I thought you were a perfect gentleman," he said before swiftly throwing back a huge swig of his moonshine, which immediately had him making one of the most bizarre faces Floyd had ever seen. After Oliver swallowed, he started sputtering and coughing. "Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!"

"All three, huh?"

"Yes, all three." Ollie smacked his lips. "Why'd you let me have half of it all at once like that? It feels like my stomach is on fire."

Floyd started cackling. "Sorry."

"Phew," Ollie shook his head kind of violently. "I need some time to recover now."

If Ollie wanted time to recover, Floyd had no problem sitting back and relaxing. Ollie could relax, too. Or talk. Or continue to make funny comments about the moonshine. Whatever he wanted. Floyd was just happy that they were spending time together.

Ollie cleared his throat in a very showy manner. Floyd cocked an eyebrow in response. Knowing Ollie, he was probably fixing to say something funny.

But then Floyd watched Ollie sit forward to rest his forearms on his knees, and his expression turned serious. Floyd crossed one leg over the other, waiting to hear what he had to say.

"Floyd, I want to talk to you about something," Oliver said.

"What is it?"

"Nothing bad. Or nothing bad about you. Just..." Ollie paused for a while, which wasn't really like him. It had Floyd a little worried. "I really appreciate that you told me so much about your life in McDowell. I've talked about New York a little, but I've never really talked about anything... real. Like my family."

"Doesn't bother me."

"No, I know I shouldn't feel obligated to tell you, but I, well, I want us to be honest with each other." Ollie set his tumbler down on the porch floor and married his hands together. "I left home because I wasn't interested in a future that was planned for me. I mean, maybe there were other reasons, too, but they'd probably seem silly to you. Anyway, I was supposed to take over my family's railroad someday. Or network of railroads. Our family owns a few small lines out in Ohio. It was the plan that I'd move back there once I finished college. But, of course, I never completed my coursework. I couldn't make myself want it. So, yes, before you ask, I have a lot of money. I'd have had even more if I had stayed in New York or had moved back to Cleveland—you know, from taking over the railroad lines. Still, I have plenty, so if you ever need my help—"

"Don't," Floyd said. "I won't ever be borrowing from you, Ollie."

Floyd tried to smile to let Ollie know he wasn't upset by the suggestion but had a bit of trouble looking happy. It was strange to learn that Ollie had come from that kind of money. Jealousy started burning inside him, making Floyd feel like maybe his stomach juices had spilled out somehow, and so he tried to force the feeling away with some more moonshine, which thankfully burned even stronger, vanishing that silly envy in seconds.

Ollie said, "I know you probably think that I'm... that I've lost my head coming out here. But, Floyd, it is so nice to be somewhere new, to have moved to a place where no one knows who I am or who my family is, or who I was supposed to be." Hearing those words—that sentiment—from Ollie, Floyd was finding it a bit hard to breathe. "Well, you know what that's like, right?"

Floyd managed a nod. He knew it well.

Oliver picked up his tumbler and smelled the moonshine again.

"I'll try a smaller sip this time," Ollie said before bringing it to his lips and taking a swig. "Jeez, that's strong. At least the cocktails I had in New York were watered down. Probably to cheat me out of money, but, Jesus, I kind of appreciate that now."

Thankfully, Ollie's humor had lifted the weight that had come to settle on Floyd's chest earlier. He could breathe easy again.

"Well, me and Effie would never cheat you, Ollie. If you ask for moonshine, we'll serve you moonshine. Ain't my fault you can't pace yourself."

"It's one punch after another with you tonight, isn't it?" Ollie teased. "God, it's like you're Jack Dempsey and I'm Bill Brennan."

"Am I supposed to know them people?"

"Do you not like boxing?"

"Is that the sport where two men try to beat each other senseless?"

"More or less. It's not as lawless as you're making it seem. Well, sometimes it is, like in a few of the neighborhoods in the city, but it's a real sport, too, with rules and everything."

"Well, I never watched it. Or listened to it."

"Really? Haven't you ever had a... a pretend fist fight with someone? That would be kind of like a boxing match."

"Can't say that I have."

"Not even when you were a kid? When we moved to New York, I'd see kids fighting each other once in a while, but they never looked like real fights. Just kids being kids, having fun."

Floyd shook his head. When he was a kid, he had been busy on the farm and then eventually he'd been busy in the coal mine too.

"Nope."

"Really?" Ollie set his tumbler by his feet and stood. He closed both hands into fists. "Let's try one."

"Try a boxing match?"

"Come on, put up your dukes or whatever it is boxers say."

"Ollie, no."

"Why not? We'll only tap each other." Ollie uncurled his fists. "If it'll make you feel better, we can fight like this instead—open palms. Even though you're, what, two or three inches taller than I am, I'd put money on me slapping better than you."

"What's wrong with you?" Floyd asked through a laugh. "Moonshine takes longer than this to work."

Ollie took two steps forward and swung his arm, smacking Floyd on the shoulder, the movement surprising Floyd enough to cause him to fumble with his tumbler, sending some moonshine sloshing over the brim. With an irritated sigh, Floyd bent down to place his tumbler down on the porch, figuring he might as well put Oliver in his place. He stood and held up his hands.

"Alright, so, on the count of three, we'll see who can smack the other first," Ollie said. "Are you ready to cry, lunkhead?"

"You become odder every day," Floyd said, though he still readied himself by adjusting his stance to match Ollie's.

"One . . . two . . . three!"

It was over very quickly. Ollie took two pitiful swings, both of which Floyd blocked with ease, and then Floyd smacked Ollie clear across the face. Ollie shouted an expletive and turned away, covering his cheek. Floyd offered a sympathetic clap on the shoulder.

"Sorry about that."

"It's fine," Ollie said, rubbing his face and laughing. "I kind of forced your hand."

"Why'd you want to fight each other?"

"I'm not sure." Ollie touched his cheek with his fingertips. "When I was in New York, I wanted to try it, but of course, I'd been a smidge too old by then. I thought this would be fun."

Ollie seemed to have been trying to take back a little piece of childhood, one he hadn't never been fortunate enough to experience before. Floyd felt a warm tenderness flicker to life inside of him, happy that he could provide Ollie with a bit of childhood merriment. Even if their boxing match had been kind of silly.

"Yeah, it was fun," Floyd said, sitting back down before throwing Ollie a teasing smile. "For me ."

After a playful scoff, Ollie staggered back to his chair, too, though he was intentionally walking in a way that suggested he might need medical attention, stumbling this way and that.

"Sometimes, I think you ought to be in the pictures," Floyd said.

Ollie collapsed onto his chair in a dramatic fashion and sighed. "What, like an actor?"

"Yeah."

"Ah, no one wants to see my ugly face on screen."

Floyd couldn't have held back his response if he'd tried. "You're far from ugly, Ollie."

His own cheeks instantly started to burn. It looked like Ollie's were, too.

"Oh . . ." Ollie said. "Thank you."

All of a sudden, Ollie was looking at Floyd like he ain't never been complimented before—like he was touched and shocked and confused all at once—which made Floyd want to say something else nice to him. Or maybe he'd make sure to say a whole lot of those somethings to him over the course of their friendship. Because Floyd really wanted Ollie to like himself. Ollie was wonderful. Before Floyd's brain could think of something else to say, Ollie was talking again. Like always.

"Well, you, too," Ollie said. "You're far from ugly, too."

Just like that, Floyd's entire body caught fire, burning hotter than hotter than a kiln, hotter than a blast furnace, heck, maybe even hotter than the sun. He couldn't even make himself thank Ollie for the compliment. He was too busy trying not to melt.

"Or, uh, sorry," Ollie said. "Was that not something I should have said for some reason?"

"It was a fine thing to say," Floyd forced himself to say before stupidly adding, "I know I'm not ugly."

Ollie sputtered a laugh. "Gee, Mister Modesty over here."

And Floyd felt so thankful that Ollie had the sense to tease him about that.

"Yeah, sorry," Floyd said, laughing, too.

At the same time, they both took sips of their moonshine. After, they sat in a comfortable silence for a while, watching the sunlight fade into darkness, and once the sky was awash with stars, Ollie set his tumbler down and walked to the stairs. After he cleared the porch, he looked up at the sky. Floyd soon followed.

"It's incredible out here, isn't it?" Ollie said.

"Did you not have stars in the city?"

"Did we not have them?" Ollie asked with a snort. "Of course we had them. We couldn't always see them, that was the problem. Not like this, not the whole open sky. How do you think stars work, exactly?"

Floyd's stomach churned. Ollie hadn't never really insulted him before. As silly as it probably was, Floyd couldn't help but wonder whether his fancy, supposed-to-be-running-a-whole-railroad, wealthy-as-sin friend honestly thought that little of him.

"You know what I meant," Floyd sneered, crossing his arms over his chest. "I know how stars work."

"Hey," Ollie said, touching Floyd's forearm. "I'm sorry."

Ollie's touch reignited that spark of yearning in Floyd's heart—the one he had felt flare to life while he had been learning Ollie to shoot—and he tried to extinguish it by looking away. He wanted to be mad at Ollie for thinking he was less, not to be thinking of him in this romantic sort of way.

"I was only trying to be funny. I wasn't..." Ollie squeezed Floyd's arm. "Jesus Christ, Floyd, I like you. Of course, I wasn't trying to insult you. I was teasing."

As soon as Ollie said those three words— I like you— Floyd's lingering upset vanished. He couldn't force himself to stay mad no more. Slowly, Floyd let his eyes fall to where Ollie's hand was resting—right near his own. He wanted so badly to hold it. Instead, he shifted his own hand the slightest bit, moving it in such a way that his pinky touched Ollie's, but only barely.

Because the word "like" could mean all kinds of things.

Floyd braced himself for rejection. But Ollie shifted his hand closer, linking their pinkies together. And it was the tiniest, silliest, most wonderful thing.

They stood there like that—holding hands but not—for what felt like a long time.

"You lunkhead," Ollie finally whispered. "I can't believe you thought I was insulting you."

Floyd couldn't fight the smile. Gosh-darn-it, he liked Ollie so much. He liked how funny he was and how smart he was and how he could brighten a whole room with that big, sparkling personality of his.

As Floyd prepared to respond, the front door clattered open, and Floyd instinctively moved back a step, pushing Ollie away.

"Floyd, your daughter is asking for you to read her a bedtime story," Effie called.

Oliver and Floyd locked eyes. After a moment, Ollie nodded, maybe like he was trying to remind Floyd to answer.

Floyd called back. "Be right there!"

Once Effie was back inside, Ollie reached up to rub the back of his neck. Floyd wondered if he was feeling ashamed of what they had done.

"Sorry," Ollie said. "I'll head home now."

"Yeah," Floyd said, now unsure how to act. "Church tomorrow?"

"Yeah. Maybe."

"Goodnight, Ollie," Floyd said.

"Goodnight, Floyd."

And Ollie walked away.

When Floyd came back inside, he was feeling all kinds of ways—wondering if Ollie was embarrassed about having held hands, worrying that their friendship could be coming to an end, and confused as to whether Ollie really liked him or not. All this uncertainty had Floyd's skin itching. It was like the very act of being a person had suddenly become uncomfortable.

As Floyd tried to force away the strangeness of it all, his eyes fell upon the little black book in the bookcase, the one that held the coin collection of the man who had once been Floyd's most important person—Matt.

Exactly then, the copperhead came back, twisting and turning in his stomach. For the rest of the evening, Floyd could think of nothing else except the man he had lost.