Page 22 of Our Own Light
While Roy and Oliver took turns with their shots, Oliver’s thoughts kept finding their way back to Floyd. Probably because of the stick. He wondered when the two of them might spend some more leisure time together. Maybe he’d see if Floyd wanted to come with him to the company store soon. Oliver needed some more work pants.
When they were nearly finished with their first game, the man who seemed to run the pool hall—a middle-aged man with an impressive mustache—left to fetch some more chalk from the company store. After he left, Roy shot the seven ball into one of the corner pockets and then turned to Oliver, planting the butt of his cue on the floor.
“Did Floyd tell you about the violence over in Mingo County?”
“No,” Oliver said. “What happened?”
Roy proceeded to explain to Oliver what was happening in some other areas of West Virginia, how coal companies were resisting coal miners unionizing, sometimes even responding with violence, which had resulted in many pro-union miners being forced out of their homes. Miners who continued to support the UMWA were living in tent colonies, and the previous summer, militiamen employed by Mingo County itself had raided colonies, supposedly over suspicion of bootlegging, though Roy suspected they had wanted to send a message to the striking miners, too.
Oliver wondered how people could survive in colonies like that in the mountains. Where did they find food? What about medical care? Picturing the families and their broken lives had Oliver’s stomach roiling. Finally, Roy informed Oliver that there had been some sort of skirmish recently, resulting in bloodshed. Oliver could hardly believe events like these were happening only a short ways away.
“I thought I’d try to find out if you had already heard about all this stuff happening,” Roy said. “John and me have been saying that you kind of look like one of Chafin’s men in those fancy clothes you keep wearing.”
“Oh...” Oliver wrinkled his nose. “I think I’ve heard of Sheriff Chafin, maybe, from Fred Donohue. He’s the one who keeps the UMWA from coming here, right?”
“Yep. I reckon Fred Donohue pays him a pretty penny to keep watch. Chafin has a whole lot of people working for him—watching the trains, threatening those who try to come here to organize us. We probably ain’t supposed to know as much as we do. But some of us got families in other counties. We find out everything that’s happening. Sooner or later.”
“No one has ever really challenged Chafin on that?”
“Couple years back, yeah, but...” Roy shrugged. “Nothing came of it. I heard thousands of miners were trying to come here some years back, but the Governor at the time—Governor Cornell—stopped them. Nothing since.”
“Hm.” Oliver thought for a moment, twirling his cue. “Would you want to unionize? If you could?”
“Better pay, shorter hours, better safety. Don’t see why not.”
Oliver nodded.
Just then, the man with the mustache came back with a box of chalk. Oliver and Roy turned back to the pool table. Oliver supposed that was the end of their conversation. He bet a lot of miners would want to be members of the UMWA if they could. He wondered how Floyd felt. Would Floyd want to fight for the changes? Why hadn’t Floyd talked to him about any of this? Surely they could have kept their voices low enough in the mine.
For the rest of the evening, Oliver couldn’t stop thinking about everything Roy had told him.
***
Later in the week, Oliver and Floyd were walking through the company store together. Floyd was having Charlie sharpen his pickaxe. While they waited for it to be finished, Floyd accompanied Oliver to the men’s section so that Oliver could find a new pair of overalls. Oliver took two wildly similar pairs off the rack.
“What do you think? Grayish blue or blueish gray?” Oliver asked playfully, holding up one and then the other. “You know, the array of choices here will never not impress me.”
“Whatever you choose, it’ll be stained tomorrow.”
“Well, not permanently. I mean, coal dust washes out.”
“Yeah, when you got a strong woman like Effie to scrub it.”
“I’m stronger than Effie!” Oliver sputtered, pretending to be offended, which had Floyd chuckling. “Jesus.” Oliver looked back and forth between the two pairs of overalls before settling on the blueish-gray ones. He set the other back on the rack. “I should ask James or Frederick to order some other colors. Brown or beige. I mean, those are more my colors than blue. I look nicest in them. Do you want to know yours?”
“Mine?”
“Yeah, sure. Everyone has colors.”
Oliver studied Floyd’s face, only intending to try to figure out the man’s colors, but instead, noticing so much more—his thick eyebrows, his chiseled jaw, and the light shadow of stubble. Last, Oliver’s eyes found Floyd’s—sky blue, the prettiest eyes Oliver had ever seen. Wow, Floyd was handsome. What a strange thing this was, to focus on someone else’s features so closely.
“What are mine?” Floyd asked, which reminded Oliver that he was supposed to have been thinking about the colors Floyd would look best in, not how handsome he was.
“Uhm, yours are . . . hm . . . blue, probably, because of your weirdly pretty eyes, and . . . oh, maybe black and dark gray.”
By the time Oliver finished his sentence, Floyd had started to look a little queasy, like a spoonful of ipecac had been shoved in his mouth. Oliver wondered if it was the comment about his eyes that had upset him. Christ, he needed to stop sharing every little thought that popped into his head.
“Don’t look at me like that,” Oliver said. “Sometimes I can’t control the things I say.”