6. Chapter Six

Chapter Six

Oliver

Oliver lifted a steel frying pan into the air and held it an arm's length away from his face so that he could scrutinize his appearance in the reflection. He couldn't believe he was so forgetful, so incompetent, that he hadn't yet purchased a proper mirror. How pathetic.

More pathetic, though, was the fact that Oliver had confessed his fucking feelings to Floyd—a married man, a happily married man, an endlessly sweet happily married man who deserved to stay happily married. And yet, here was Oliver, the eternally broken misfit, trying to ruin everything. Over the last twelve hours, Oliver had mentally beaten himself so mercilessly that the memory of Floyd's friendly smack seemed as soft as a loving embrace.

And yet, Oliver couldn't seem to stop himself from preparing for church.

Because even if it meant another sleepless night of internal anguish and mental pummeling, Oliver wanted to see Floyd again. He wanted to see him and to smell him and to hear his low, beautiful voice. He wanted to be near him every second of every day.

God, it was so terrifying. Oliver had never liked anyone before. Not sexually. Not romantically. From time to time, Oliver could recall maybe experiencing a small bit of attraction toward another person, but there had never been any real intensity to it. Or consistency. Sometimes, that person had been a man, while other times, that person had been a woman. By the time Oliver had reached the age of twenty-five, he'd thought for certain that he must have simply been incapable of experiencing whatever the hell everyone else must have been experiencing for them to want to write love letters and fuck each other and be married.

Oliver took a moment to smooth down his hair. After placing the frying pan back onto the counter, he turned to retrieve a hat from the bedroom, but then vaguely remembered that it was frowned upon to wear hats in church. Or maybe even illegal? He couldn't be certain. Either way, he'd have to leave it behind. He wondered what Floyd would be wearing. It would be a suit, obviously, but Oliver had never seen Floyd in a fancy suit. He'd probably look fucking magnificent in one, though. Oliver may have told Floyd that certain colors worked well on him, but truth be told, that man would look stunning in anything. Or nothing. Maybe especially nothing.

Holy hell.

With that thought in his head, Oliver left for church.

Shortly before the top of the hour, when most people were already in their pews, Oliver arrived. Looking around the nave, Oliver spotted Floyd easily. He was taller than nearly everyone else. Thankfully, Floyd seemed to have saved him a seat, but he and his family were all the way on the far side of the room. Oliver hoped that the sound of the pipe organ would hide the noises he'd make heading over there. Trying his best to stay silent, Oliver started over. He was successful for a while. Until he tripped over a bump in the carpet and then his only saving grace was that he had spluttered a surprised yelp instead of an expletive.

By the time Oliver reached his seat, Floyd was very clearly fighting back a smile.

"Do you always got to make a big entrance?" Floyd whispered.

Oliver whispered back, "Believe it or not, that was me attempting to be inconspicuous."

Effie sat forward and caught Oliver's eyes. "Glad you could make it. Floyd said you might come."

"Do you mind that I'm here?" Oliver asked, as though by asking Effie if he could sit next to Floyd in a house of worship, he was also somehow asking her for permission to steal away her stupidly beautiful husband right out from under her Goddamned nose.

"Of course not," Effie said. "It's church."

Church. Oliver exhaled a long, nervous breath.

All of a sudden, the volume of the music swelled, the entire room filling with the organ's reverent-sounding notes, and then, in tandem, everyone stood. Oliver scrambled to his feet.

"What's happening?" he whispered to Floyd.

Floyd arched an eyebrow. "Uh, it's a hymn."

"Him who?"

As soon as the words left Oliver's mouth, the townsfolk started to sing.

"Oh, Jesus, a hymn," Oliver said under his breath.

Somehow, everyone knew the words. It made Oliver feel very silly. He wasn't sure whether he should move his mouth and pretend to know them or stand there like a Goddamned heathen. Probably the latter.

During the song, Oliver realized something terrible: Hymns were very, very long—so long, in fact, that more time had likely passed from the start of the hymn to the current note than from the time that Moses had parted the sea or walked on water or whatever it was that he had accomplished until Oliver had rolled out of bed that morning.

Once everyone sat down, Oliver leaned over to whisper to Floyd, "Can I say ‘Jesus Christ' in here or is that still considered a cuss word?"

Because humor tended to make him feel less inadequate somehow.

Floyd responded by elbowing him. Which, Oliver supposed, was a pretty clear answer.

For the rest of the service, Oliver floundered worse than a fish out of water. He was, at best, a fish flopping around on Mars. He clearly hadn't thought this through. By the time everyone was shuffling out of the pews, Oliver was feeling so disoriented, it seemed as though he must have somehow soaked his breakfast cereal in moonshine.

Outside the church, Floyd, Effie, and Oliver congregated in a circle while Josephine ran off to play with her neighbor, William. Oliver watched her sprint away with her friend.

"So, Oliver, what'd you think?" Effie asked. "Floyd said you ain't much of a churchgoer."

"It was lovely," Oliver lied.

"Aw, I'm so happy to hear that," Effie said before a friend called to her from a few yards away. "Be right back."

Once she left, Floyd looked at Oliver with an expression that suggested he would not be fooled so easily.

"Lovely, huh?"

"Yeah, you know, lovely," Oliver said. "Like a slow, painful execution."

Floyd was kind enough to laugh at that. Even though it was wildly insulting—a stupid comment that poked fun of beliefs and traditions that were probably both cherished and important to him. Realizing this, Oliver suddenly wished he had found it lovely.

Floyd asked, "Do you not believe in God? Or Jesus?"

Oliver's heart quickened. His answer would probably be important to Floyd. He had better make it a good one. More importantly, he had better make it an honest one, too.

"I'm not sure. I think that... well... I'm not sure what I think." Oliver looked away, unable to stomach looking Floyd in the eye while he attempted to put his feelings into words. "Sometimes, I try to talk to God. I'm never sure if anyone is listening when I do. I figure that... if someone really is out there... they'll hear me wherever I am. I hope that's... acceptable."

"Yeah, it is," Floyd said. He caught Oliver's eyes. "Ain't a problem for me, Ollie."

"Really?"

"Really."

"Could I still come to church with you from time to time? I like being around you," Oliver said, immediately feeling his cheeks warm. "And your family, too. I mean, it won't offend you if I sit with you in your pew, will it? Especially now that you know that I think it's... lovely."

Floyd's smile blossomed like the most beautiful fucking altar flowers.

"I'd like that."

Effie returned with a big smile of her own.

"Good news! Frank and Martha's pig died this morning."

Oliver wasn't certain whether or not that was some kind of joke.

"Ha, wow, yeah, death is always happy news, isn't it?"

Effie laughed. "Well, she was old, and now we're all invited over for some smoked meat. What do y'all think? I can fetch Josephine."

"Let her play with William. She seemed excited about that today," Floyd said.

"I reckon that means they're up to no good," Effie said.

"Yeah, probably not," Floyd answered. "Margaret'll watch them, though."

Oliver cut in. "Is she William's mom?"

"Yup, we'll take her a plate of pork later," Effie said.

"Well, I could eat," Oliver said.

"Me, too," Floyd said.

Effie's face brightened. "Come on, then. Let's head on over."

When Floyd reached for Effie's hand, Oliver tried not to show his envy. While the three of them walked to Frank and Martha's house together, which wasn't far from Floyd's, Oliver kept his mind occupied by spotting the differences among the near-identical houses, like noticing that one house had a small flower garden in front of the porch, the purples and whites brightening up the view, while another's shutters had been painted a bright shade of red. Focusing on the land around him helped the time pass without issue. Once they arrived at a house that looked like every other house, save for the mass of people chatting outside, Oliver breathed a sigh. Now, instead of focusing on how badly he wished that he could hold Floyd's hand, he could fixate on how scary it was to partake in his first town-wide event.

Effie made the introductions. Oliver met Frank and Martha and Jonathan and Eleanor and many, many couples whose names he would likely not remember, and then, eventually, Oliver met a few other unmarried men, most of whom were very keen to talk about how they liked to travel to Charleston with some frequency, with the hope that they might meet a beautiful woman with whom they could settle down. Oliver, on the other hand, inadvertently confessed that he had no intention of marrying. Some cad had the fucking audacity to verbalize the very obvious fact that this was peculiar. Oliver hadn't been able to stop himself from squirming uncomfortably when the fellow had said that. By the time some of the men left to help Frank finish preparing the meat, Oliver had lost most of his appetite. He wasn't in the mood for pork, no matter how fresh. He wasn't really in the mood for conversation, either. Instead, Oliver wanted to go home.

But, for the moment, he couldn't seem to tear himself away from Floyd's side. Effie had followed some women into the house to assist with the preparation of a couple of side dishes—coleslaw and strawberry salad—and now that Floyd wasn't holding her hand, Oliver couldn't make himself pass up the opportunity to be near him for as long as possible. It was horrible. He knew it was horrible of him. And twisted. And wrong. And any number of negative-sounding adjectives he could pull out of his ass. But, oh God, Floyd was so perfect. How could he resist?

"So, Oliver, where'd you say you were from?" a stout man whose name was either Marvin or Melvin asked.

"New York."

"Do them men up there not like women or something?"

If Oliver had been sipping on water, this would have been the moment when he'd have inadvertently spat it in the other man's face, making the two of them look like they were performing a silly scene for one of Chaplin's films. Instead, Oliver simply stumbled through a response.

"Uh, what? No, they like women. Don't all men like women?"

What a stupid comment to make, especially in front of Floyd. He couldn't even bring himself to look over and see Floyd's reaction.

"Hm."

That was it. Hm. Two measly letters. And yet, those two stupid letters said so much. "What about you, then? Why aren't you interested in finding a woman to sire your children? Is there something wrong with your pecker? Are you out of your head?" Not that any of these people talked like that, but still.

Some other unmarried man—one named Harry—cut in to say that he had traveled to New York once, which diverted the attention away from Oliver momentarily. He'd had just enough time to mentally recover when everyone started on the trials and tribulations of married life, which made Oliver feel terrible all over again, and the more time that passed, the more broken Oliver started to feel. He tried telling himself that none of it mattered, because he was happy to be unmarried, especially since it seemed to mean that he could covertly hold pinkies with a handsome man like Floyd beneath a sky filled with stars. Maybe Floyd hadn't verbally confirmed that he reciprocated Oliver's romantic feelings, but men tended not to be physically intimate with other men for the hell of it, right?

As Oliver was busy trying to make himself feel less horrible, Effie came by and stood next to Floyd, who immediately wrapped an arm around her. Effie whispered something to him, and Floyd whispered something back, and then the two of them laughed. God, they were together! What the hell was Oliver doing? Seeing Effie and Floyd be playful with each other was enough to open Oliver's eyes and reveal to him how screwy this whole situation was. Floyd was married. He was married to a wonderful woman. Just like every other man in Rock Creek either was or wanted to be. Every other man except for Oliver.

Why had he thought that he could make this work? He wasn't a coal miner. He wasn't a West Virginian. He wasn't any of the things he was supposed to be. Like always, Oliver didn't belong. Why had he thought Rock Creek would be different? He and Floyd had shared a few nice moments together, but Floyd was taken. Jesus Christ, what was wrong with him?!

Effie smiled up at Floyd. "Would you mind coming out back to help Frank for a bit?"

"I'd be happy to," Floyd responded. He looked over at Oliver. "You can come, too, Ollie. If you want."

"Um, yeah," Oliver said. "In a minute."

And as soon as Floyd was out of sight, Oliver turned and left. He walked away without so much as uttering a word to anyone, no longer seeing the need for performances. Or for continued politeness. Because Oliver wasn't heading home. He was heading to Charleston.

***

Hours later, Oliver was standing on the sidewalk on the outskirts of the city, in front of his Aunt Betty's home—a canary yellow mansion with black shutters and a large, well-kept porch. He wondered if she would remember him. He hadn't seen her for... God, had it been over ten years?

While the two of them hadn't been especially close back in New York, Oliver had still enjoyed her presence, especially since she was the only other person in his family who never seemed to meet the expectations that had been placed on her. Aunt Betty had never married. Not only that, but she had been more interested in education than homemaking. Her peculiarity must have played into her leaving. At the time, Oliver had thought it strange that Aunt Betty had followed him and his immediate family to New York from Cleveland only to vanish less than a year later.

But now Oliver understood the urge to run from those people. Perhaps that was something they could bond over.

Oliver raked a hand through his hair. Though he was terrified of potential rejection, he needed someone to talk to—someone who might understand him a little, someone who might make him feel like he wasn't alone. Sure, Oliver had Floyd, but Floyd had Effie. While Oliver had played pool with Roy and had chatted with John sometimes, Roy and John were married to women, too. All Oliver wanted was to talk to someone who might help him feel less strange.

Mustering every last scrap of courage inside him, Oliver walked up the stairs and knocked. Twenty or thirty seconds later, Aunt Betty answered. She was somehow both taller and smaller than he remembered. When he was a child, she had towered over him, but now she was several inches shorter than he was. While it made sense, it was still strange. It served as an unsettling reminder that Oliver was supposed to be an adult, even though he scarcely ever felt like one. Aunt Betty looked the same otherwise but with more wrinkles. Also, her previously blonde hair was now mixed with shades of white and light gray, and she wore it piled high atop her head. It made her look regal. Like the fucking Queen of Charleston.

"Hi," Oliver said, putting on his best smile.

"I'm not interested in whatever it is you're selling," she said, turning right back around. God, she had barely even looked at him!

"Oh, sorry, I'm not selling anything," he sputtered, stopping her in her tracks. "It's Oliver!"

Aunt Betty whirled around, and the moment their eyes met, she sucked in a breath.

"Oliver?!"

He couldn't yet tell whether or not she was happy about it.

"Yes, that's me. Henry's son. Not that you want to be reminded of him. Probably."

Shock transformed into scrutiny. She narrowed her eyes at him.

"Why are you here?"

Ah, so, she maybe wasn't exactly happy to see him, then.

"Just, you know, to say hello."

"Did my brother send you?"

"God, no. I left. Permanently."

She hummed a little, seeming to think this over.

"Come in."

Oliver followed her inside. Her home was beautiful, the walls decorated with stunning flower wallpaper and furnished with tasteful cherry oak furniture. Oliver was immediately taken aback by the charm it had. Even though Oliver knew that his home in New York had probably been beautiful, too, he remembered it having such an ugliness about it. Perhaps every horrible event that had ever transpired within its walls was preventing him from thinking anything nice about it now. If Floyd were here, Oliver would have probably said that his house in New York had been lovely .

Thinking of Floyd had Oliver suddenly feeling lightheaded. Because he simultaneously never wanted to see Floyd again and wanted to see Floyd that very second. It was wildly disorienting.

"Are you well?" Aunt Betty asked as they took a seat in what looked to be her own private library.

"Not at the moment," Oliver answered truthfully, panic and regret swirling inside him, the sensations making it harder to breathe.

"Did you just arrive from New York?" she asked. "Where are your bags?"

Pushing past his rising upset, Oliver said, "No, I, uhm, I live in Rock Creek now."

"Why on earth would you have moved there?"

"Because I wanted to... to move to a place where my parents wouldn't find me, where they wouldn't bother me anymore."

"Oh. I see."

"And, well, I knew you lived here in Charleston. I thought it might be nice to reconnect." Aunt Betty only nodded thoughtfully in response. "Besides, who better to help me find work than our old family friend Frederick Donohue, right?"

Oliver's statement hung in the air for a few seconds. Uncomfortable with the subsequent silence, Oliver tucked his hands beneath his thighs to keep himself from biting his fingernails. Aunt Betty smoothed out her dress.

"Well, it's very nice to see you, Oliver," she finally said. "I hope you're enjoying Rock Creek."

"Mostly." Oliver chewed on his bottom lip. "Aunt Betty, have you ever fallen in love with someone who you're not supposed to fall in love with?"

It was probably too intimate of a thing to ask, and especially too intimate of a thing to randomly sputter forth in the middle of a conversation, but he couldn't make himself care anymore. He needed someone to talk to.

"Why are you asking me that?" she asked in a biting tone.

Aunt Betty's sudden show of hostility had Oliver wondering the reason for it. Perhaps the two of them were more alike than he had previously thought.

Looking up, Oliver asked, "You have, haven't you?"

"What did Henry say about me?"

"Nothing. He never said anything. He never even talked about you."

It was only slightly a lie. His father had voiced his upset over their relationship on several occasions.

Her expression softened, and Oliver had to bite his tongue to keep himself from obliterating whatever tiny smidgeon of affection she might still have for him.

"Oliver, I came here to start a new life. It sounds like you're trying to do the same." She folded her hands in her lap. "If that's the case, I suggest you forget about the ‘supposed to's' because, in truth, you're supposed to take over your father's railroad someday, if I'm not mistaken, and I'm sure you aren't planning on running it from a shanty in rural West Virginia."

Her comment would have been funny had it not been so painfully true.

"You're right," Oliver said. "I'm sorry to bother you."

"You're welcome to visit, but I would appreciate some notice next time. I have to warn you that I will not always be so amenable to entertaining. Depending on the circumstances, sometimes I simply can't be."

"May I ask why?"

"No, you may not."

"Wow, that's some honesty."

"I live my life as honestly as I can," she said. "And I hope the same for you, Oliver."

"Thanks. I think." Oliver blew out a breath. "Are you free to chat some more right now? I had a hard morning. It would be nice to talk for a little while."

Aunt Betty looked over at the mantlepiece clock.

"I have time."

Oliver's shoulders relaxed, long-held tension falling away.

"Thank you."

For the next half hour, the two of them talked. And, God, it was nice. Oliver was suddenly so comforted to have her nearby—to have someone in his life who'd been connected with his past and was now connected to his present, too. Even though the two of them only spoke about superficial matters—pictures they had seen and books they had read—every word of their conversation still helped Oliver let go of some of the unpleasant thoughts he had been having earlier.

Eventually, Oliver noticed Aunt Betty looking at the clock again. He realized he'd better leave. After all, he had come by without a formal invitation. Aunt Betty probably had other plans.

"Well, I think I should catch a train home, then," Oliver said, pushing himself to his feet. "And try to figure out how to muddle through the mess I've managed to make of my new life in less than a month."

"You'll figure it out. You've always been a smart boy."

Her compliment pulled at his heart.

Before they parted, Oliver considered extending his hand, but that wasn't proper etiquette, what with her being a woman and him being a man. Since an embrace seemed too familiar, especially since Oliver's family had never been too keen on physical affection, Oliver only waved. Aunt Betty seemed mildly charmed by this, at least. Surprisingly enough, she waved back.

As Oliver made his way to the train station, he thought back on her advice to him. At first, Oliver thought she may have been encouraging him to insert himself into Floyd's love life like a stick of dynamite and blow it all to hell. But the more he ruminated on it, the more he realized that she had only been advising him not to fight his feelings because of the "supposed to's," not offering him wisdom about what to do with those feelings.

So, if Oliver let himself fall in love with Floyd, where did that leave him? Hopefully, Floyd would still have him as a friend, though probably nothing more. Which, Oliver supposed, was fine, in a way, since he hadn't even thought he could ever fall in love with someone else, let alone fuck them. Could he settle for friendship? Maybe? Probably?

Oliver really liked Floyd. God, they had only known each other for a short while and already Oliver couldn't imagine life without him. What a mess.

By the time Oliver was nearing the train station, he was mentally worn out. Since the train wasn't supposed to arrive for a little while, he sat on one of the nearest benches. Listening to the sounds of the city—the hustle and bustle of the folks walking past—Oliver's thoughts kept returning to Floyd—his sweet dimples and his big laugh and the way they liked to be playful with one another.

Oliver's thoughts were interrupted when someone caught his eye. Less than a block away, there was a little girl with long blonde hair who was wearing the very same pink and white dress that Josephine had worn to church that morning. Oliver squinted to try to see her better. It was Josephine!

Without a second thought, Oliver leapt to his feet and started toward her. She continued meandering farther from the station.

"Josephine!" Oliver cried out.

Why was Josephine here? Where were Floyd and Effie? Had they come looking for him or something?

"Josephine!"

Josephine stopped and turned toward him. God, the sight of her took Oliver's breath away. Her eyes were pink, her cheeks were puffy and red, and her pretty blonde hair was a complete mess.

As soon as Oliver was close, he knelt in front of her.

"Mister Oliver, can you take me home?"

"Home? Josephine, how the hell are you here? Where are your parents? Why were you crying?"

Tears started to pour from her eyes. "I don't want to go to the circus no more."

"Circus?!" Ah, Jesus Christ, of course, this was Oliver's fault, too. Why'd he have to crow about the fucking circus? And to a child who had probably never even left her tiny unincorporated mining town, too. "Where's William?"

"Home."

"So, you came here by yourself?" Oliver asked, and Josephine nodded, tears pouring from her blue eyes. "How?"

"I took a train."

"They let you on a train? By yourself?!"

But that only made Josephine cry more.

"I'm not..." Oliver sighed. "Jesus Christ, Josephine, I'm not scolding you. I'm trying to understand how Don Chafin's men supposedly have time to scrutinize each and every person who hops on a train to Rock Creek, but they can't be bothered to..."

Ah, but she hadn't been taking a train to Rock Creek, but to Charleston. And she was no union man. She was a tiny little thing. It was possible they hadn't even seen her. Or, worse, they had seen her, but they hadn't cared. If coal operators were happy to let boys only two years Josephine's senior toil away in the mines, risking their lives, then why would anyone care about a well-dressed little church girl stowing away on a train heading toward the city? It was very possible that it simply hadn't been of interest to them.

"Alright, Josephine, you can stop crying now," Oliver said, reaching inside his suit jacket for a handkerchief and handing it to her. "Dry your eyes. I'll take you home."

Josephine wiped her face and blew her nose. "Thank you."

After she handed the now-wet handkerchief back to Oliver, he took her hand, and they walked to the train station together, where they sat on one of the free benches. Watching Josephine swing and kick her legs back and forth as they dangled over the side of the bench, Oliver was reminded of how Goddamn young she was. He had to fight the urge to make a comment about it. Floyd probably wouldn't appreciate Oliver calling his missing child "brave" for hopping on a train. He was curious, though, how she had known what to do.

"Why a train?"

"What?"

"How did you know to take a train?"

"Well, you said, ‘take a train to Charleston.'"

"I told you to take a train to Charleston?"

"You said I ain't have to because of your magic."

"Oh. Right."

And yet she had anyway. Oliver wondered if that was a trait from Floyd or from Effie. When Oliver looked over, he noticed that another tear had trickled down her cheek and thought back on his own childhood, wondering how he'd have felt in her situation.

"Are you nervous about how much trouble you'll be in?"

"No."

Oliver smiled a little at that. Was it because they wouldn't punish her too much? Or because the punishment she knew would be waiting for her simply wasn't very scary? Either way, he liked her answer.

"Are you sad because you think your parents will be mad at you?"

"I'm sad because of how much they miss me."

Her seemingly simple answer immediately stirred something strong within him—a sorrow for his childhood self—and the fierceness of the sudden swirl of sadness compressed Oliver's heart, squeezing it like a vice. What it must be like to be missed. And to know that you are missed. And loved.

Josephine was so very lucky in that way. Oliver realized, then, that he could never live with himself if he ever played a part in breaking up her happy family. He would settle for friendship. And friendship would be enough. Because it had to be.