Oleanders in June

Chapter One The gentle tap of water against the window pane woke Alfred from his sleep. He had been on the island less than twenty-four hours, and thus far the hours had scented the air with summer rain. The morning tasted of salt and sweat. He reached stiffly for the side table where the cool brass of his pocket watch sat beside the dark oil lamp. The second hand ticked thickly in the quiet of the early morning, and he could just make out the time. Nearly six o’clock. Alfred’s eyelids itched in the morning light as he rose. There was something foreign about the way the air clung to his undershirt, but he pushed the thought away as he looked out the window at the front of the boardinghouse. He’d slept soundly through the night, but it had done little to make up for the two days he’d spent traveling to the coast. He licked his chapped lips as he watched the soft early-morning glow bloom over the gulf waters. Cast in the fragile light of a city waking along the shore, the frail hues of pink and purple lingering at the front windowsill gave him a glimpse of the world he’d stepped into. He stood wholly in the window, taking in his first morning on Galveston Island. It was tremendously exhausting. The brass of a barometer shimmered on the windowsill, and he gave it a tap. The mercury had risen through the night, ushering the storm north of the island and signaling cooler temperatures for the day. It was a refreshing thought. What few items he owned hadn’t filled his suitcase, and he was in no shape to be buying summer shirts any time soon. All was quiet as he made his way along the hallway and set his toiletry bag down in the washroom. He had pulled himself together and was mid-wash, the previous day’s travel slipping from his skin as he shaved over the wash basin, when the door rattled with a solid knock. He pulled at the nearest towel to clear his eyes and opened the door in a partially blind grab, leaving shaving soap on the handle. The man on the other side was slim and dressed in a pressed shirt with the collar open, perfectly measured suspenders, and a smooth black tie. A towel was draped over his arm. “The new boarder, is it?” Alfred wiped absently at the remaining soap on his face as he stuck out a hand. “Alfred Ridgeway.” “John Briggs.” The man eyed his hand before scanning the whole of Alfred’s upper half. “A pleasure, I’m sure.” Alfred straightened a touch as he caught the scent of gin. From downstairs the clink of dishes carried up the stairs as the sun brightened the hall behind the man. “Perhaps if you’d arrived like a gentleman,” John continued, “you’d be aware that my shift is from six to six-twenty.” “Your shift?” “I’m not certain how they wash themselves in the Indian Territory, assuming they take the time to do so, but sharing a washroom with another man will lead to rumor in civilized cities.” Alfred tightened his jaw. “You’ll find Mathias an early riser and in the washroom by five-thirty,” John continued. “I wash from six to six-twenty. You’d do well to find a time that doesn’t disrupt the entire household for the sake of a shave.” “Is there a schedule for other ablutions outside of morning grooming or shall I see the proprietor to be assigned a time to read the newspaper as well?” John glanced at Alfred’s shirt as a smirk pulled at his mouth. Alfred followed his gaze to see a patch of darkened cotton spread from the buttons of his shirt. He wiped the water from his chin with the towel and looked up to see the man’s shadow moving down the hall. He clenched his teeth as he shut the door. The mirror above the wash basin showed a freshly washed man, but his origins were still visible. A corpsman by training, he was traveling by assignment, the wrinkled shirt and dull tie giving away his vulnerabilities. He rewet his face and applied the last of the lather before finishing his shave. The tie gave a slight bend at the bow as he worked it into place and affirmed what he already knew: he fit in neither world. He was too worldly for the farm and by no means a gentleman. He was somewhere uncomfortably in the middle—a traveler perpetually in someone else’s land. Alfred pulled at his cuffs as he entered the dining room. Another man was already seated at the table, reading intently from a newspaper. His olive skin glowed in the sunlight streaming in from behind him, with the paper leaving only his forehead and a head of thick black hair exposed. Alfred’s entrance was cut short by a woman’s cheerful salutation. “Good morning, Mr. Ridgeway,” she beamed as she came in from the kitchen. “I trust you slept well after such a long trip.” The man lowered his paper at her words, and Alfred gave him a nod as he took the seat across from him. “Yes. thank you, Mrs. Poplar.” “Very good.” She set down a basket of day-old rolls and a saucer of cut melon. “I don’t believe you’ve met Mr. Ortiz.” “Mathias,” the man corrected, offering him a section of the newspaper that had been discarded on the table. Alfred shook his head with a tight smile. “Fresh poached eggs on toast,” Mrs. Poplar carried on as she returned from the kitchen and set a full plate in front of both men. “And spicy potato hash.” “This smells divine,” Alfred noted. He filled his plate until the sharp scent of jalapeño peppers mingled with the buttery toast, the juice of the pickled cucumbers running into the fried potatoes. He swallowed in anticipation. “Do eat, dears. Oh,” she started with a little hop toward the kitchen, “the coffee.” She returned with a pot that steamed from its spout. Mathias quietly folded the newspaper and set it on the corner of the table as Alfred cut through the skin of his egg and watched the yolk run over the toast. “It was quite a storm that came through last night,” Mrs. Poplar commented as she returned to the table with a third plate and set it in front of an empty chair next to Mathias. She poured a steaming stream of coffee into both men’s mugs. “The roads will be quite muddy in some parts of town. So do be mindful when you return this evening to remove your boots before taking the stairs.” “Mrs. Poplar likes to imagine that we are the messiest of our little family,” Mathias announced. She scoffed and made her way back into the kitchen before joining them with her own plate of melons and toast with cream. “Not true in the least. I’ve never had cause to lecture him on minding his boots or keeping a proper gentleman’s bed, but there is always at least one in every lot that needs tending to.” Mathias smiled wholeheartedly with a cheek full of food, and Alfred felt the atmosphere of the room fill with the subtler comforts of home, a lightheartedness that put him at ease. “It is most unlike Mr. Briggs to be late to the table,” Mrs. Poplar commented as she took her seat. Alfred swallowed a bit of egg and toast and wiped at his mouth. “I am afraid his tardiness is my doing. I was unaware that we were assigned shifts for the washroom.” Mrs. Poplar raised her eyebrows as she sipped from her cup. “I did the same when I first arrived,” Mathias remarked with a nod. “I assume he insulted your gentry and made it clear when you should observe your twenty-minute shift?” “Six-twenty.” “The last shift. You’ll want to watch your time or you’ll miss breakfast altogether.” Alfred glanced at Mrs. Poplar, who was shaking her head. “No need to rush, Mr. Ridgeway. I never let a boarder go hungry, though you might find the hash a little cold.” She passed a white porcelain bowl of warm syrup toward him, and he drizzled it across his hash. White light streamed in through the window, slicing through the plate of remaining eggs, and a sense of comfort settled in his mind. It was a simple scene that contrasted sharply with the earlier tension of the morning. “Good morning, all.” The air sizzled across the table as John rounded the corner and took his seat next to Mathias. Mrs. Poplar gave a pleasant smile as her final boarder set about cutting his toast. He poured himself a cup of coffee and began eating without another word. “Sugar, Mr. Briggs?” She held up a sugar bowl that matched the coffee pot. A small spoon handle stuck out, clinking with her motion. “Oh, yes.” He motioned to Mathias, who passed the bowl to him. “You know, Mrs. Poplar, doctors are beginning to prescribe a daily dose of sugar in diets to help women with fatigue. Perhaps you should consider adding it to your own coffee to give you a little pep in your step.” Mrs. Poplar kept her eyes on her toast. “I believe I have plenty of pep in my step for my day, but thank you, Mr. Briggs.” She looked at Alfred as she tore off a piece of toast. “This is what I get for boarding medical students.” “I quite agree,” Mathias replied, washing over her off-handed comment. “You’ve plenty of energy, Mrs. Poplar.” “Oh, come off it, Mathias,” John shot back. Mathias wiped his mouth with his napkin and reached for the coffee pot. “I simply mean to reassure her that a recommendation of a novel study does not warrant a change in diet, especially for a woman of a certain age.” Mrs. Poplar shot him a look, and he held up his hand. “My apologies, Mrs. Poplar. I am referring much more to your physical age than your disposition.” She returned to her toast. “It is much more than a recommendation,” John countered. “It was published in the Journal of Physical Medicine for God’s sake.” Mrs. Poplar dropped her fork loudly on her plate with a clang that caused all three men to jump. “My,” she laughed with a look toward Alfred, “I must have clumsy fingers today.” “Perhaps a symptom of your certain age,” Alfred joked with a smile that she returned. The room settled into a subtle symphony of utensils on ceramic, lips wet with coffee, and birds singing from just beyond the window. Mathias was the first to break the natural melody of the meal. “Mrs. Poplar says you’re from up north.” “Indian Territory.” Mathias chewed on a bite of melon with a crinkled brow. “Is it as terrifying a place as they say?” “That depends.” Alfred scooped another spoonful of hash onto his plate. “What do they say?” “Natives running amuck. Towns sacked. Disease spreading from town to town.” “I’m sorry to disappoint you, but it’s nothing of that sort,” he said with a grin. “Some areas deeper into the territory might be hostile to visitors, but not on the outer edge where I lived.” “The territories sound like a God-awful place for a man to make a home,” John inserted. “No electricity. No plumbing . No civilization.” Mathias took another bite of melon and rested his arms on the table. “I’ve always been interested in the medical treatment that tribes use,” he said. “Do you know any tribesmen?” Alfred grinned at the table’s utter disregard for John’s comment. “A few. I worked the fields with a young Cherokee on my father’s farm.” “Did you ever talk medicine?” “I’m afraid not.” Mathias’s face fell as he took another drink of coffee. Mrs. Poplar’s voice was a light breeze across the table as she tilted her head toward the newest boarder. “What drew your family to farm there, dear?” “Price.” “The land is cheaper?” “Terribly cheap.” Mathias speared the last of his hash. “Why is that?” “Because it’s a God-awful place to live,” he replied flatly. Mrs. Poplar erupted with laughter as Mathias struggled to keep a straight face. Alfred threw a glance at John who seemed to find the comment at his expense and pursed his lips as he picked up the newspaper. Alfred cleared his throat as the table quieted. “Not to discredit the land, but it’s not ideal for crops. Wheat grows in some areas, and cotton is beginning to take in the southern half. But overall it’s not an easy place to make a farm.” “I’ve heard it’s hot,” Mathias added. “And dry,” Alfred commented with a sip of coffee. “Well, you’ll not find the island dry,” Mrs. Poplar added, “but you’ll be well-prepared for our late summer heat if you’re already accustomed to hotter temperatures.” “I’m hoping to find it more than bearable,” Alfred replied with a glance out the window. “I’m interested in studying the climate of the island. It’s so unlike anything I’ve ever experienced.” Mrs. Poplar folded her napkin and laid it across her plate. “Mr. Ridgeway has accepted a post with the island’s weather office.” He perked up at the words, feeling their weight as they settled on the table. He had been training for months for the post, and now he was only a few days away from meeting the island’s renowned climatologist. Alfred had traveled to the edge of Texas and was poised on the edge of his future. “Fascinating,” Mathias commented. “You’ll be working with Isaac Cline, then. As a climatologist?” “An Assistant Observer.” John sniffed at the comment. “And what is it that the bureau does,” he asked as he popped the paper to stiffen its lines, “aside from misreading the skies and issuing inaccurate forecasts?” “They’re not always inaccurate,” Mathias argued. John shot him a look and returned to his reading. “Forecasting is quite difficult work,” Alfred ventured. “Yes,” John assured them as he folded the newspaper. “I am certain it compares to the intellect required to save lives that we perform at the hospital daily.” Mrs. Poplar straightened, dropping her hands into her lap, as Mathias leaned back against his chair. Alfred watched John stand and brush the crumbs from his shirt. “Well, I’m off to assist a guest lecturer. We have a Dr. James Barton visiting from Uganda who is addressing the select few who are brave enough to tackle the challenges of international medicine, and I’ll be assisting the poor man in preparing his notes before the talk tomorrow.” “Very good, Mr. Briggs,” Mrs. Poplar pined. Alfred sensed a rehearsed tone, a feigned interest, but John seemed to either not notice or not care. “That must be quite an honor to assist a doctor studying disease overseas. And in Africa of all places.” John stood and looked past them at the back wall as if seeing far into the distance at some great wilderness. His hands settled on his hips as his chin tilted slightly upward, and Alfred smirked at the stance, trying to imagine John tackling any form of nature. His mind wandered as he took in the future savior of the ill. He wondered if being at death’s bedside created a similar natural instinct for survival: the hunter ever-pressing forward for fear of becoming the hunted. “A horrid place to live, isn’t it,” John asked thoughtfully. He squinted his eyes as if an imaginary desert sun were bearing down on him. “I can’t imagine what would draw a man of his caliber to leave civilization to tend to the uncivilized.” “Rejoice with those that do rejoice and weep with those that do weep,” Mrs. Poplar replied as she stood and started toward the kitchen with the coffee pot. John looked at her blankly before returning to the dining room. “Yes. Right. Well said.” He took his leave from the table and made his way toward the front room. After a moment, the door shut and the house fell silent but for the clink of dishes in the next room. “Here we go,” Mrs. Poplar commented, returning from the kitchen. “A fresh pot to start the day.” Mathias brightened as she set the coffee pot on the table and took his empty plate. He smiled at Alfred as he poured him a cup and slid it across the table. “Welcome to Galveston, Mr. Ridgeway.” Alfred returned the toast and took a drink as Mathias watched him with a knowing grin. The liquid had barely made it down when Alfred coughed and drew in a deep breath. When he looked up, Mathias was laughing, his bright eyes greeting the morning in veritable amusement. Mrs. Poplar chuckled from the doorway of the kitchen, a tea towel over her shoulder. “Turkish coffee is only for the strong-hearted,” she commented. “Give it a few weeks and you’ll be asking for it after every meal.” She disappeared into the kitchen followed by the sound of water sloshing and plates clinking in the open basin sink. Mathias sipped at his cup and gave a smack of his lips. “It got me the first time as well. Mrs. Poplar’s little trick on new boarders.” “I’ve never tasted coffee this strong before.” Alfred cleared his throat as he sniffed at the bitter coffee and looked into his cup before taking another sip. It was brash and the metallic taste stayed on his tongue long after his cup was empty. Energized and refreshed, he quickly came to understand why Mathias had only given him a third of a cup. “Have you learned the city yet?” Mathias stood and stretched his back. “No, just the sections I viewed from the carriage on the way from the station.” “Mostly houses and the business district then?” Alfred nodded, his head buzzing from the coffee. “Well, while John busies himself with foreign doctors, I am spending my Saturday on the Midway. I’ve planned to meet a few colleagues for a small scandal on the beach.” He smirked. “Care to join me?” “What sort of scandal?” “Nothing serious,” Mathias acquiesced, downing the last of his Turkish coffee. “There’s a small fair in town down by the piers. It’s a dime to get in and a few nickels for the games. I heard they have a moving picture box, the kind with the crank.” Alfred hesitated as he considered the cost, knowing his pockets had nothing more than worn cotton between the seams. “Come along,” Mathias prodded. “I’ll pay your way in as a welcome. It’s the least I can do to show you around and introduce you. Besides that, when will you have time to flitter about an island fair again after starting your post?” His point was well-founded. Alfred gave a nod as he stood. He didn’t report to the bureau office until Monday morning, and aside from learning the island and checking his barometer, he had little to do. If nothing else, the walk would stretch his tight calves and work the last of the train ride’s stiffness out of his muscles. “Where’s the Midway?” “About a forty-minute walk if you’re inclined. It’s not worth hiring a carriage.” Alfred gave an agreeable nod as Mathias made a last wipe at the corners of his mouth. “Superb. I need to do a bit of cleaning and promised I would help Mrs. Poplar with her garden before the day grows too hot. Let’s meet down here around ten.” Mathias scrutinized Alfred as he rounded the table. “Do you have a straw hat?” “No.” “I’ll lend you one of mine,” he said as he turned toward the front of the house. Alfred stepped into the entryway of the dining room to watch him walk through to the sitting room. “A bowler won’t do?” “Not in the summer. Let that be your first lesson in life on Galveston,” he called out as he turned and started up the stairs. “Dress for the heat and be thankful when you’re wrong. It’s the only way to avoid disappointment.” He had no idea what Mathias meant, but after the way his morning had already gone, he was inclined to believe practically anything the man told him. Alfred started up the stairs, cupping his neck with his palm. He was going to an island festival with a man he barely knew in an unfamiliar city—and the top of his priority list, apparently, was his lack of a straw hat.