Page 39 of Our Own Light

“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.”