Oleanders in June

Chapter Three

Chapter Three

The morning light was already beaming through Alfred’s windows when he let his feet touch the cool floorboards, a sensation he welcomed after another night of sweaty sheets. He stretched and felt his muscles resist the movement. Letting his feet rest on the floor a few moments longer, he checked his watch and took a deep breath. Sharing a washroom with John and Mathias felt more rigorous than doing so with thirteen other platoon members in Virginia as he trained for the Signal Corps. Perhaps John had gone into the wrong profession.

When he opened his bedroom door, the air turned a touch warmer and his nostrils flared instinctively at the smell of fresh biscuits. He appreciated Mrs. Poplar’s southern style in cooking and, though he was hesitant to tell her for fear of bruising propriety, she reminded him of his grandmother in the way her smile pushed at her eyes. If he had been comforted by anything thus far, it was Mrs. Poplar’s company.

The washroom door was shut, which was not unexpected. Mrs. Poplar provided them a great many comforts, but she kept a well-structured household—and expected the same of her three tenants. Alfred opened the door, a towel tossed over his shoulder, and caught himself in the doorway. John cursed and turned toward him with his body bent over the sink and a razor in his hand. Despite half his face hidden behind a thick coating of shaving soap, Alfred could see that he was unhappy.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” John’s voice boomed within the small space as Alfred checked his pocket watch.

“It’s six-thirty,” he replied, letting his eyes linger on the speck of blood that had begun to show at John’s jawline.

John dabbed at the nick and dipped the edge of the razor in the basin of water before resuming his shave. His voice was quieter but held the same authoritative tone that Alfred was certain was second-nature.

“I’ve been assigned a new shift at the hospital for summer hours.”

Alfred’s ears grew warm. Even beneath a partial mask of shaving soap his face was smug and taut. “What of the washroom schedule then?”

John made a contorted face as he shaved beneath his nose. “You and Mathias can sort out when you use the washroom, but I’ll be grooming and dressing from six o’clock to six-thirty now.” He shaved the last few sections near his hair line. “Outside of that, I couldn’t care less about what you do or when you do it.”

He glanced at Alfred with raised eyebrows as he wiped at his face to remove the remaining shaving soap.

“Now if you don’t mind,” he said briskly.

The door slammed, and Alfred let out a deep breath, feeling it bounce against the door and back onto his face. A squeak of the faucet announced John’s lack of preoccupation with the encounter, but Alfred felt his face burning as he crossed the hallway toward his room. He felt certain that what civility John did have was only for Mrs. Poplar’s benefit, and, were the poor woman to die or suddenly be taken ill, morning exchanges regarding the washroom would turn into little more than wrestling matches over the cleanest towel. The yelp of swollen wood rubbing on the doorframe caught his attention, and he turned to see Mathias standing in his doorway, his collar open and his thick black hair brushed loosely to one side.

“What’s with all the ruckus?”

“John. He’s taken the liberty of changing the schedule without informing me.”

Mathias nodded with an exaggerated motion and turned back into his room. Alfred crossed the hall and stopped outside the doorframe, looking into the room after him. What part he could see without giving away his interest was sparse. A thin crucifix hung over the bed and a book sat on the table next to the oil lamp along with a half-full glass of water.

“You don’t find that odd?”

Mathias sat down on the bed and began tying his shoes. From where he stood, Alfred could make out the corner of a bureau, a single drawer pulled out and the top doors swung open to reveal several shirts and ties.

“Not really. He does it every few months.” Mathias gave a small laugh at Alfred’s expression as he stood. He hooked a tie around his collar with ease. “Come on. Leave your towel in your room and grab a tie. Mrs. Poplar doesn’t mind if we aren’t freshly shaven so long as we’re dressed appropriately. And waiting for John is likely to ruin your appetite.”

Mrs. Poplar, dressed in a subtle blend of grey and blue hues, met them at the table with plates of scrambled eggs, sliced melon and warm biscuits. Next to each one was a bowl of oatmeal topped with brown sugar and nuts.

“Good morning, gentlemen. Coffee for either of you?”

Both men nodded and she poured from the metal pot before carrying it to the kitchen to brew a new batch. She returned with a smaller plate for herself and took her seat at the table. Her cheeks were a rosy shade as she spoke, her movements wafting the juicier smells of the kitchen toward the men.

“It hadn’t dawned on me until this morning, Mr. Ridgeway, as I was preparing a chicken for supper, what a blessing it will be to have a gentleman of the Weather Bureau joining us regularly for breakfast.”

She poured a spoonful of syrup onto her scrambled eggs as she rocked from side to side to settle into her seat. Alfred looked at Mathias, who shrugged and took a bite of his biscuit.

“How is it that a chicken reminded you so vividly of my occupation?”

“Oh, my!” Her laughter bellowed over the table and she drew a hand to her chest, catching Alfred’s arm with the other one. “How indecent that must have sounded!”

Both men laughed, caught off-guard by her giddiness, and her face flushed at their amusement. She dabbed at her eyes with her napkin as she caught her breath.

“No, dear, not the chicken but the planning of my day.” She returned to her scrambled eggs. “Surely you will be privy to the forecasts of the day?”

“That’s a fair assumption.”

“Any idea of today’s weather by chance?”

“Give the poor man a chance to find his desk first, Mrs. Poplar,” Mathias teased.

“I only know what I’ve read in the paper,” Alfred noted, ”but it looks like clear skies beyond the window.”

“A fine day for a women’s meeting then. Lorraine Bachman is hosting a reading at the library for our group. I’m sure it’ll be a small affair but well worth the trouble.”

“What sort of reading?” Mathias asked.

“A collection of Wordsworth poems followed by a discussion of the significance of nature. There has been a great deal of talk that perhaps the development of the island has exceeded its resources and that we should be looking to preserve the natural state rather than construct more buildings.”

“That sounds like poppycock.”

John’s voice carried over his footfalls as he entered the dining room. He took his seat next to Mathias and popped his napkin in the air with flair before letting it fall over his lap.

“You have your interests, Mr. Briggs, and I have mine.” She took another bite of egg as John poured himself a cup of coffee, ignoring her cool tone. “Now tell me, gentlemen, how was the festival yesterday?”

“Quite spectacular,” Mathias replied. “They had games, a petting zoo, vendors with treats of all sorts.”

“Mrs. Buchanan and I talked of visiting it today. I would hate to miss something so entertaining, and I hear they will be leaving soon.”

“The day after tomorrow.”

“I do hope they have roasted peanuts.”

“I happen to know for a fact that they do,” Mathias assured her.

She raised her eyebrows in satisfaction. “That is, of course, assuming that two unescorted women of our age is not so salacious a sight as to set about rumors.”

John’s fork tinked as it fell onto his plate, causing the others to jump; he chewed quickly at his eggs and flipped to the next page, skimming the article titles without much attention. Alfred cleared his throat as he looked toward Mathias.

“The gentleman we met at the festival, Mr. Goodman—how do you know him?”

“William is a banker. We were introduced at a fundraising dinner for an expansion of the college.”

Mrs. Poplar gazed over her glasses. “Evelyn Goodman’s brother?

Mathias nodded.

“He was a very sociable fellow,” Alfred continued, poking at the last few pieces of melon on his plate.

“That he is.” Mathias let his spoon drop into his nearly empty bowl. “And that is likely why he is such a good banker.”

Mrs. Poplar took the liberty of pouring them both more coffee and eyed John’s cup, which was still full.

“His sister, on the other hand,” Mathias continued, “has an innate talent for attracting brash conversations and inelegant lighting.”

“Mr. Ortiz!”

He straightened and cut his eyes at Mrs. Poplar. A long moment passed before she bent down to continue her breakfast, as if drawing out the reprimand before the men could continue.

“What I mean to say,” he continued, keeping his eyes at the head of the table, “is simply that Ms. Goodman did not acquire the amenable nature that her brother so commonly exhibits.”

His eyebrows sparked upward as he caught Alfred’s gaze and took a drink of his coffee. Alfred ventured another thought on the topic.

“Ms. Keller, however, was quite refreshing.”

“She usually is,” Mathias replied with a nod, emptying his cup.

“Who is this, dear?” Mrs. Poplar asked.

“Florence Keller.”

“Oh, that she is. A kind soul with a wild spirit.”

Alfred leaned back in his chair and folded his napkin on the table.

“How’s that?”

Mrs. Poplar shook her head to clear the air of any indiscretion at her words. “Florence is a dear woman, but I find that she occasionally yearns for more adventure than a woman’s life is meant to hold. But that is the mindset of this younger generation. Marriage does not suit all women as it did in my day, but I do believe we were made the better for it.”

Mathias caught Alfred’s eye and gave such a nearly imperceptible shake of his head that Alfred wondered if he had imagined it, but he let the conversation fall nonetheless. Mrs. Poplar was not apt to give undue criticism, or any at all, at her own table, but her words had clearly had an intention that Alfred was not keen to question.

Mathias eyed the front page of the paper as John held it practically between them. He pointed at a headline near the bottom of the page.

“It says that Mr. Eller’s shoe store caught fire yesterday.”

“Oh, what awful news,” Mrs. Poplar exclaimed, the previous topic all but forgotten.

She softened as she leaned closer to Mathias and searched for the article. Mathias pointed, drawing her attention to the bolded print. John pulled the paper in toward himself to read the headline and then gave a small noise as he returned to the financial section.

“I do hope he is alright. He is such a kind man, that Mr. Eller,” she continued.

“He may be kind,” John interjected, “but he’s a poor cobbler and an even poorer businessman.” He folded up the newspaper and dropped it next to his empty plate. “In both senses of the phrase.”

“Oh, hush, Mr. Briggs,” she reprimanded. “Mr. Eller does the best he can with what God has given him.”

“I suppose you’re right. There is only so much a man can do with local leather and crippling arthritis.”

He took a final drink of his coffee, and with little more than a quiet farewell, excused himself from the table.

“Will you be joining us for dinner, Mr. Briggs?” she called after him.

“Not this evening,” he replied from the hallway.

The house grew quiet as the front door shut and soon a familiar informality returned as Mrs. Poplar offered Alfred a third cup of coffee, which he politely declined. Mathias scooted his chair back from the table.

“I must be off as well.”

“Roasted chicken with carrots and onions in brown gravy,” Mrs. Poplar commented with a small lilt on the last word, as if asking a question.

“I will catch an early trolley to ensure I won’t be late,” Mathias replied with a knock on the table.

He excused himself from the table, the scent of his soap from the previous night’s bath wafting through the air as he passed. Alfred breathed in a mingle of glycerin and brown sugar. After Mathias’s footfalls faded overhead, Mrs. Poplar broke the silence.

“I do hope John did not set you back too much this morning.”

He shook his head as he swallowed the last bite of biscuit.

“Only a bit. I was surprised was all.”

“You’ll have missed the trolley, I’m afraid.”

He let his shoulders slump as the realization took hold. It was his first day reporting for duty and he was already off his intended schedule. Hiring a coach should the next trolley run too late was a waste of money he didn’t have to spend.

“I can call a carriage for you,” she offered. “Unless you prefer to bicycle.”

“I would, but I don’t have a bicycle just yet.”

She took another biscuit, set her elbows on either side of her empty bowl, and began to pick the fluffy pastry apart, placing small bites of the crumbly mixture in her mouth like a crow pecking at a leftover meal.

“My husband was keen on seeing about new things and found carriages dull. He said there was nothing to be seen from something so far removed from street scenes and where one had little control over his own direction. He preferred to take himself to work.” She pulled off a larger bite. “He bicycled whenever he could.”

He took another biscuit from the basket, mimicking her motions.

“You still have the bicycle?”

“I was going to learn to ride it after he passed, but the urge never truly took hold. I’m afraid my hip protests too much now to manage it, but it seemed wasteful to simply toss it. It’s a bit rusted, but it should work all the same as long as you mind your pant legs.”

“That is very kind of you, but I wouldn’t want to risk damaging it.”

She waved him off with a flick of her wrist. “That old thing isn’t worth the trouble. Henry loved it when he was alive, but it does me no good. Before Mathias, it sat in the carriage house untouched for three years.”

She let the rest of the biscuit fall into her empty bowl. The thought of being so free to explore the island thrilled him, but he felt disproportionately conciliatory in accepting her offer, as if he hadn’t yet earned the right to use something so personal, having lived in the house for so short a time.

“Of course, the seat might need a bit of adjusting. Mathias is much shorter than you, and I’m sure you would need to raise it slightly to make it more comfortable.”

“A small price to pay for such a luxury,” he said with a chuckle.

She gave a broad smile that lifted her eyes.

“Shall I retrieve it?” He scooted his chair back.

“No need, dear. I’ve already pulled it to the front of the house for you.”

“Oh, that was kind of you.”

“And,” she continued as she rose from the table, “I put something aside for you.”

She disappeared into the kitchen and soon returned with a small parcel wrapped in a kitchen towel and tied with string. He took the package, his hands warm beneath it as fresh bread met his senses.

“A few biscuits for the day.” She gave a warm smile. “In case you forget about lunch.”