Page 57 of Our Own Light
“I washed it this morning,” Effie explained. “How was I supposed to know you’d want to wear it so soon?”
Oliver smiled. “Well, I think you look very pretty, Josephine. Like a little Ethel Clayton.”
Despite the fact that Josephine very likely had no idea who the silent film actress was, she nevertheless looked pleased with Oliver’s compliment.
Now that everyone was very nicely dressed, they sat down for supper. Oliver really liked Effie’s cooking. It tasted like there was a lot of love in it. Like the care she felt for her family was somehow baked right into the cornbread. In New York, Oliver had been privileged enough to try all sorts of exotic dishes, but that food had tasted like... well, maybe like obligation. Not that it had been their cook’s fault, he supposed, but he would have taken Effie’s bean and vegetable stew over the soft-shell crab with remoulade of his childhood any day. He told Effie as much, which made her smile in a really sweet, really heartbreaking sort of way, like she might melt into a puddle and spill onto the floor. Floyd winked at him afterward, too, which was so wonderful it made Oliver’s stomach flutter.
Once everyone was finished eating, Oliver volunteered to help Effie clean up, but then Floyd offered to help, too, and of course, Josephine wanted to be part of the fun. This meant that there ended up being way too many people in the little kitchen area at once. Oliver thought he was probably in the way more than he was helping, and so, he stood off to the side, nodding approvingly and offering occasional encouragement like some sort of misplaced baseball coach.
Dishes clean, everyone retired to the living room to relax. Or maybe relax wasn’t the right word, really, especially for Josephine, who still had a lot of energy. Ricocheting from the couch to the floor and back to the couch again, she talked and talked and talked. Adorable, but a bit tiring to watch.
“You know what we need?” Effie said when the sun started to set. “Some music.”
“I like music,” Oliver said, which was probably silly, because everyone liked music. “What do you have? A Brunswick?”
“Oh, our phonograph broke last year. We haven’t replaced it yet,” Effie said. “But Floyd plays the banjo.”
“Ah, Ollie don’t want to hear me play,” Floyd said with a dismissive wave.
“Are you insane?!” Oliver exclaimed, practically leaping off the couch with excitement. “Of course I want to hear you play!”
“Yeah?”
“Yes!”
Cheeks tinged with pink, Floyd walked off to the bedroom to retrieve his banjo. Though Floyd had looked a tad uneasy—perhaps nervous—when he left, he had a little knowing smile on his face by the time he returned, like maybe he knew he was about to knock Oliver’s socks off, which made Oliver even more excited to listen to him play.
Josephine curled up in her mother’s lap on the rocking chair while Floyd sat on the couch beside Oliver. As Floyd tuned the banjo, his face slowly started to redden again, and holy hell, it was so amazingly adorable. Floyd couldn’t have looked more endearing if he tried.
Moments later, Floyd started to play. And, oh, it was beautiful. Oliver had only ever heard a handful of songs played on the banjo before—lively ones, fast ones, ones that made people want to move their feet—but the tune Floyd was playing was so magnificently different, slow and sweet and beautiful. Each pluck of the banjo strings produced a lovely sound, one that softly thrummed against Oliver’s tender heart and awakened a longing inside of him. For love. For closeness.
Listening to Floyd’s music, Oliver let himself pine for Floyd to know him—to really know him—and to someday even love him, all of him, even the parts that he believed weren’t the least bit lovable. Oliver imagined what it might be like to one day be nestled in Floyd’s arms and what it might be like to hold Floyd in his arms too. While Floyd played on, Oliver became lost in this longing for intimacy, and he wondered if such closeness might somehow help him mend the wounds from his childhood. Oh, what would it be like to be healed and happy and whole?
Midway through the song, Floyd started to sing. Though his voice was low and shy, it was still so powerful, and its beauty brought tears to Oliver’s eyes. It was a sweet song, one with lyrics about love and loss, and Oliver had to fight to keep his tears from falling. When Floyd finished playing, he looked up and met Oliver’s waiting gaze, his blue eyes a tad misty too. While it hurt Oliver’s heart to see Floyd’s sadness, he welcomed the twinge of pain. Because it felt like Floyd was finally letting Oliver see him.
Oliver wondered, then, how it was that he could feel so happy and so sad at once.
“Beautiful,” Oliver said.
Because Floyd was beautiful.
“Just a song I heard a long time ago.”
Effie chimed in. “Floyd is very talented. He can hear a tune and play it right back to you. He remembers notes and words and things so easily.”
“Thanks, Effie,” Floyd said.
Oliver noticed then that Josephine had nodded off.
“I’ll take her,” Floyd said, setting his banjo on the couch.
Floyd scooped Josephine up in his arms and carried her off to the bedroom. Oliver and Effie smiled at one another as Effie’s hands twisted in her lap.
“I want to tell you about Josephine,” Effie said. “Floyd told me I could.”
“Alright,” Oliver said, already feeling the weight of the secret he was about to hear.
“Josephine ain’t Floyd’s. He’s her Daddy, but...” She trailed off and looked down at her still-moving hands. “Floyd ain’t the man who got me pregnant. Another man did that. One I never even wanted to be with in that way, but, well, you know how these things go sometimes.”