Oleanders in June

Chapter Five

Chapter Five

The morning dragged on as Joseph combed through seventeen telegrams, some from bureau officials, others from ship captains putting out to sea or from nearby weather stations. A few were handwritten inquiries that had been left in the telegraph office by locals. All were inquiring about the weather trends and forecasts for the upcoming week. Joseph took little care to properly explain the process by which certain telegrams were answered with technical forecasts and others with more common language, but Alfred was able to discern that the content of the replies was based on the recipient’s knowledge of weather and their reason for needing a forecast. Captains were concerned with wave height, winds, and the possible formations of tropical storms; farmers were concerned about the amount of rain, temperature, and longevity of patterns. While it seemed the Weather Bureau preferred technical answers more often than not, the sort Dr. Cline and Joseph readily spouted off to each other in everyday conversation, some care was taken to ensure each recipient could understand the reply regardless of the content.

After he instructed Alfred on the majority of the telegrams, Joseph excused himself from the office to check the instruments on the roof. Dr. Cline appeared lost in his reading, and Alfred was left to answer the last five telegrams on his own. He was annoyed with Joseph’s urgency to move through the process and the lack of detail he provided, but the task was energizing nonetheless, especially when he considered that his time could have just as easily have been assigned to cleaning instruments instead. It took him twice as long to complete the replies as it had Joseph, but he found a second wind as he read through the observation log of instrument readings and reconciled them with reports from ships at sea. When he had finished, he had written replies to two seamen, a shopkeeper with visiting family, and a weather station in Abilene.

He checked his pocket watch and was surprised that his break time had arrived. He stretched his arms into the air, feeling his back muscles resist after being bent tightly over the table, and collected the replies in a neat stack. Dr. Cline was reading a manuscript at his desk, his shoulders hunched over so that he could follow his reading with an index finger while he jotted notes on a separate sheet of paper.

“I’ve finished the telegrams. Would you like me to take them to the Western Union office?”

Dr. Cline looked at him blankly over his glasses.

“Oh.” He looked about his desk as if the world had returned to him in a flood of consciousness. “Yes, and this report as well. It’s for the bureau. It takes priority over the others.”

Alfred placed it on the top of the stack as Dr. Cline turned back to his manuscript, his voice slightly muffled as he spoke.

“Did Joseph clarify everything for you in the way of inquiries and telegrams?”

“I believe so.”

He hummed a pleasant note and began to skim the paper to find his place amid the handwriting. Alfred hesitated a moment before he spoke again.

“May I leave now to deliver the telegrams and take my break after? I know it’s a little earlier than scheduled.”

Dr. Cline turned to look at him and removed his glasses. “Your break?”

“My dinner break, sir.”

He held Alfred’s gaze for a long moment and then glanced toward the closed door at the end of the room, his brow falling.

“Did Joseph instruct you to take your leave at a specific time?”

“Noon to one o’clock.”

Dr. Cline nodded slowly, keeping his eyeglasses suspended in the air in front of him, his forearm resting on the back of the chair.

“I see. Well, it is good to have a schedule, especially when it comes to taking observations. Those cannot be neglected. I prefer to keep a schedule that allows me to take my meals at home with my wife. She’s pregnant, you see.”

Alfred gave a small nod.

“Our protocol dictates that one of us is present in the office between the hours of seven and six.” He paused a moment before continuing. “However, that does not mean your movements are entirely dictated by your schedule. We can be flexible when needed. I occasionally return home in the afternoons when my wife is sick from the heat or her condition, and I would expect that you would require the same courtesy should something urgent arise for you as well.”

The man’s voice was soft but firm in a way that betrayed a life experience that Joseph appeared to lack, and Alfred was perplexed as to what to make of him. In some ways he came across as a gentle soul with understanding eyes that pleaded to be considered, but that conflicted with the measured and matter-of-fact tone he used when directing the other men. His rigidity spread from his jaw through the way he held his glasses just beyond his chin when he spoke, but Alfred felt a kinship with him in the moment, as if his rougher edges were smoothed by his solitude with the books and instruments.

“Thank you, sir.”

Dr. Cline replaced his eyeglasses, and with that simple gesture the kinship ceased and Alfred was once more staring at the man who was known for having earned his medical degree out of sheer boredom. He turned back to his manuscript.

“Just be certain we don’t all leave the office at the same time unless absolutely necessary. I often break between one and three.”

“Of course.” He teetered on the decision to go, but found his feet firmly planted to the floorboards. “If it wouldn’t be too prudent, I was wondering if I could start researching influences on the local climate.”

Dr. Cline turned in his chair, repeating his routine of sliding his glasses down his nose with a quick blink of his eyes. He stared up at his assistant expectantly.

“I’ve read some of your publications on the influence of climate on medical conditions,” Alfred continued, “and Joseph mentioned that you are working on a book that I presume is on the same topic. I’ve given a lot of thought as to my own research and am eager to get started, preferably looking into oceanic winds.” When Dr. Cline remained quiet, Alfred swallowed dryly. “That is, if it’s acceptable to do so when I have spare time.”

“I see.” He set his glasses down on his desk and rose to his feet. “Pardon my hesitation. We’ve not had much eagerness in our office as of late.”

Alfred sensed the change in tone and braced himself.

“However, I think it is important to emphasize that, while you will undoubtedly find time to spare during certain seasons, the experience that comes from this post can be overwhelming at times. Experience that is necessary to be successful in the bureau.”

“I understand that I have a great deal to learn, but I—”

Dr. Cline lifted a hand to cut him off. Alfred quieted and tried to keep his composure.

“It’s not that I doubt your abilities as a climatologist, Alfred. I doubt your ability to balance yourself in this climate.”

“On the island?”

“And in this post. It is easy for a man to become lost in his work, but that is not a healthy way to live. You must seek interests beyond the office, something else to bide your time. For me it was pursuing a medical degree.”

The example was humorous, and Alfred struggled to conceal his laugh. It shined through his expression, and Dr. Cline acquiesced with a nod.

“What I mean to say is that you will have plenty of time to work on your own research when the time comes. In the meantime, I think it best to keep your head in your training and look for ways to entertain yourself outside of your work. Books are good, but love is preferred.”

He turned back to his desk, leaving the young observer staring at the open window over Market Street. Alfred sighed as he crossed the office and slid the telegrams into his bag along with the parcel of biscuits Mrs. Poplar had packed for him. Nothing was going as he’d planned with this new post. The tension with Joseph. His rank below the other man. The expectation to do a simpleton’s work before working on his own research. It all felt as if the air had gained weight throughout the morning and was slowly collapsing against him. Deciding that the walk to the telegraph office was preferable to taking the bicycle down the stairs, Alfred stepped out of the office without another word and left the rusty relic leaning against the wall.

The air beyond the stairwell was burdensome and tugged at his shirt when he stepped onto the sidewalk. It filled his lungs with hot breaths, but it relieved the tension that had grown within his muscles on the way down. The street was bustling with men in suits and bowlers and carriages rolling down the dirt road as monstrous clouds glided overhead.

The telegraph office was two blocks north of the Weather Bureau on the Strand, the hub of the island’s industry that sat a block from the wharves. The horizon was full of piercing masts and billowing clouds of steam as ships moored at the harbor and unloaded their freight. His body was already growing warm as he turned the corner onto the street. The Western Union office took up a single storefront in the middle of a block on the Strand with a cooper on one side and a drug store on the other.

The clickety-clack of telegraphy rang throughout the office as Alfred stepped into a small waiting area. A polished wooden counter separated him from the synchronized ballet of clerks who worked their hands together in a seamless dance with their machines, hands tapping at knobs and sending clicks into the air. The cacophony rang like a discordant orchestra to Alfred’s ears, one in which only the performers could find the melody.

He waited behind a woman in a tightly fitted blue dress with a parasol leaning against her leg. She wrote carefully on a small square of paper, drawing each letter with precision, while the front desk clerk stared casually out the nearest window. When she had finished, the clerk walked the woman’s telegram to a messaging station at a leisurely pace, taking long, steady strides that allowed him to look in on each transmitting clerk as he passed. When he returned, his dark eyebrows jumped as he spoke.

“Dispatch?”

“For the Weather Bureau Office.” Alfred pulled the stack of telegrams from his bag.

“How many?”

“Eighteen.”

“Any to government offices?” The man pulled a small form from beneath the counter, his tone suggesting a familiarity with their daily load.

“Only four.”

“Separate those out. Any personal?”

“No.”

Alfred separated the telegrams, and the clerk took the two stacks and quickly skimmed them, counting the words and jotting the numbers down on a receipt. After several minutes, he put the last one aside and totaled the words to be transmitted.

“That’ll be two dollars and twenty-four cents,” he commented as he signed the bottom of the paper.

Alfred stared at the man. The sounds of the machines clicked in his ears as he opened his mouth to speak but found it dry.

“Shall I charge it to the bureau’s account?”

Alfred let out a small chuckle and felt a warmth take over his face as he gave an appreciative nod. The clerk made a small note at the top of the form and handed it to Alfred. He blew out a long breath as he left the telegraph office, the moment’s anxiety slipping away. He’d been so wrapped up in doing what was needed that he hadn’t thought through the process—and getting caught bare-pocketed would have been an embarrassment he couldn’t have easily shaken.

The air grew heavy as the sky began to darken. The clouds melted into mercury, still letting some light penetrate their edges, before they expanded with moisture and floated slowly overhead like balloons threatening to burst. The shadows had crept into the office by the time Alfred returned from his midday break. Dr. Cline was absent from his desk, which glowed in the dim electric light of the wall sconce. Joseph was bent over a map at the table, carefully marking wind patterns with a ruler. It was a proof, Alfred realized as he neared, that would be sent to the printer later in the day. Joseph glanced at Alfred.

“Isaac has asked that I train you in taking observations on the roof.” He made a final correction before letting the pencil fall onto the desk. “I suggest we do it sooner rather than later. It looks like rain is moving in, and it’s much easier to learn when you can see the tube markings.”

“Alright.” Alfred rolled up his sleeves in an attempt to cool his skin as he watched the man stand and stretch his back. “On that subject, how do we correct forecasts?”

Joseph furrowed his brow. “How do you mean?”

“When we’ve given inaccurate forecasts like today. The official forecast called for clear skies with rain stalling out until tomorrow.” A hard but solitary raindrop struck the window above Market Street. “How do we correct the forecast?”

“We don’t.” He pulled a logbook from the shelf near his desk and handed it to Alfred. “We can’t retract a printed forecast.”

“That must put us in an unfavorable light at times.”

“I’m certain it does, but forecasting is not an exact science. It is significant that you remember that. We never guarantee our work, only our efforts. It is called forecasting for a reason.”

As he followed Joseph down the hall and to a door hidden around the corner from the top of the staircase, Alfred wondered if Dr. Cline shared his brother’s outlook on the definitiveness of their field. Considering they were brothers, they were misaligned in ways that left Alfred unsure of his own footing when he was among them, all the more so when his role was the topic of discussion.

But he put the thought out of his mind as they stepped out onto the roof. The winds had picked up and were gusting from the gulf as he followed Joseph over to a station of instruments that had been installed to measure every aspect of the local weather. A wind vane spun unevenly overhead beside a rain gauge that was screwed into the top of a wooden stand. A hygrometer measured the humidity level, a barometer indicated the pressure, and three or four other instruments sat on similar stands, all measuring the atmosphere around them as mercury moved up and down in tubes.

Joseph took the logbook from Alfred and settled it between two stands to protect the open pages from the wind. They stood well above the other buildings around them, granting him an unobstructed view of the city in every direction. The harbor bustled with activity to the north. The masts of ships jutted up into the sky, their hulls rocking in the choppy water as tiny figures hurried to load cargo. The streets looked like a living map as people walked in and out of stores and carriages rolled down the avenues. He turned a slow circle, taking in the view. Beyond the beach, where the water stretched into a perpetual abyss of wonder, he could see a deepening grey that painted the horizon like the cusp of midnight. It had no distinct edge, only a blurred front where it ushered rain and wind across the water and toward the shore.

Even as Joseph spoke to him, calling him back to the station, Alfred’s ears were deaf. The entirety of his senses was focused on the view from the rooftop, a scene that he knew only a handful of men had taken in. He felt lost in the utter rawness of the nature that encircled their little camp on an island that might as well have been in the middle of nowhere. And in a quiet voice he heard Mathias whisper what he now knew to be one the greatest truths of the island: “You should see it when it storms.”