Oleanders in June

Chapter Four

Chapter Four

As Alfred pedaled down the street, the day was breaking in a brilliant blue that washed the island in bright light. The morning wind came off the ocean in gusts that smelled of saltwater and seaweed as the tops of buildings caught the early-morning light with their peaked cornices. The bicycle was rusted as Mrs. Poplar had said it would be, and the pedals stuck each time Alfred tried to get going again after slowing at intersections. As he pedaled along the last block of 23rd Street, passing a leather goods store and small deli that promised fresh bread and biscuits, he slid into an effortless idle at the center of the shipping district. The front wheel gave a long squeak as he slowed, and he hopped off to walk the contraption to the front of the E.S. Levy Building.

It was five stories of tan stone, with a first floor of windows displaying the latest in fashionable men’s clothing. Large mannequins wore fitted men’s suits and tops hats while smaller versions donned black velvet jackets and leather shoes for boys; a shallow awning extended over the sidewalk to shade potential customers as they peered into the clothing store. The fifth floor of the building was set apart and outlined in red stone, making its lines exaggerated and bold in contrast. Six sets of windows looked out onto Market Street from the top floor. Businessmen and early morning shoppers passed in front of the glass, occasionally stopping to examine a new petticoat or bowler hat, despite the store’s doors remaining locked until the following hour.

Alfred leaned the bicycle against the brick and straightened his shirt, ensuring it was tucked in on the sides and back and then tightened his tie and swatted at the light dusting that had coated the bottom of his pant legs. The humidity of the island was aggressive, and he was already sweating beneath his shirt. It was an odd sort of oppression that hung about and tickled at his stubble like a persistent gnat.

The private foyer was tiled with pale pink squares and wallpapered with simple mauve and silver stripes that stretched up with the staircase to his left. A metal-framed board hung on the wall just inside the door, announcing businesses and suite numbers. He scanned the list of tenants—which included a lawyer for private affairs, a carriage service, and some sort of importer—until he found the one he sought: Dr. I Cline, Weather Bureau. He had contemplated leaving the bicycle in the entryway, but the door opened to the street. Leaving it to the elements seemed irresponsible, and he gazed up the narrow stairwell with tight lips. What a first impression to make: dusty hems and a rusty bicycle. He gave a huff, careful to keep the dirt from rubbing against his jacket, and attempted to roll the bicycle up the five flights of stairs, lifting it on every other step to give it more traction and minimize the noise.

The suite was on the fifth floor, the first door to the right on a long hallway that appeared to stretch the length of the building. He dusted off his sleeves once more before opening the door and walking the rusty bicycle into the office. The room was well lit from the tall windows that overlooked the streets, with particles of loose dust filtering through shafts of golden light, the remnants of someone shifting books or maps. A figure stood at the sparse bookcase against the far wall of windows. He was tall and let his shoulders fall slightly forward as he skimmed a book. Alfred shut the door, balancing his bicycle by his side, and the front wheel gave a small metallic groan by way of introduction as he moved farther into the office.

The man turned with a stiff expression. It was made intimidating by his sharp jaw and tight curls of black hair that were slicked away from his brow. Alfred felt small despite his six-feet of height, all the more so when the man’s voice came smooth like water.

“Yes?”

Alfred pulled his shoulder bag over his head and let it fall to his side. He gave a smile as he offered his hand. “Alfred Ridgeway, the new Assistant Observer.”

“Ah, yes.” He returned the gesture with a firm grip and took in Alfred’s appearance, letting his eyes settle on the bicycle behind him. “Isaac said you would be reporting today.”

“I apologize for being a bit tardy. I missed the trolley.”

The man gave a curt nod as if assessing if it as a viable excuse. He set his book down on the desk behind him.

“I trust you’ve found proper living arrangements?”

“On Postoffice Street and 14th Street.”

“You’re boarding?”

His hands slid easily into his pockets as he casually closed the distance between them. His thick locks were trimmed and calmed behind his ears.

“With Mrs. Gretchen Poplar.”

“A dear woman,” he replied with a small smile that pulled at one side of his mouth. “Well then, proper introductions are in order. I am Joseph Cline, Isaac’s brother.”

His breath carried a hint of strong coffee, and Alfred glanced beyond his shoulder to see a small unwrapped parcel, the remnants of a croissant atop it.

“We’ve been waiting months for the bureau to send us an adept assistant. It seems they can’t find someone capable of even the simpler tasks.”

“You’ve had other assistants?”

“A few.” His grin became tight. “We’re quite pleased that the bureau has sent us another one to try out. It’s become difficult for the two of us to keep up with it all between the maritime reports, port inquiries from ships, local forecasts, and so on. It will be a relief to have someone helping with the smaller things about the day.”

Alfred nodded and let his eyes flicker about the room as the statement took hold in his mind. So settled was it that Alfred would be the lesser of the three that he felt it grow on him like moss, crawling up his sides and onto his face like a new skin. An assistant was a respectable post to start, but his position was clear—what room there was to grow was not his to claim. Joseph’s voice was deep in the hollow space.

“You’ve not met my brother, then?” When Alfred shook his head, Joseph nodded and crossed his arms. “You’ll find he is not terribly conversational except when he is overly instructive about duties in our office.” The man’s expression appeared to darken, but Alfred was uncertain if it was his eyes or the shifting shadows of the light that had created the illusion. “I’m sure he will explain your duties in detail when he returns.”

“I’ve read a good deal of Dr. Cline’s work,” Alfred noted. “I’m keen on assisting in any way I can be of service.”

When Joseph gave little expression in way of a reply, Alfred searched for the office for a new topic, but his effort was unnecessary. Joseph let out a breath. It was small but perceptible as he leaned back against the edge of his desk.

“Isaac is the Chief Climatologist, mostly by years, but he has grown accustomed to filling his days with data analysis for publications and approving forecasts. He occasionally gives lectures when he’s not busying himself with writing his book on climatology. The majority of the work, however, is done on the roof and in the field.” He narrowed his eyes a touch. “That is where I tend to work the most. I do the majority of data collection as well as the technical side of things. Ensuring data is consistent, assessing what data should be collected, and so on. What analysis Isaac does is often in terms of trends, weather patterns, the science behind how the weather comes together. Higher-order considerations that most of our inquiries could care less to understand.” He stared at Alfred for a long moment. “Farmers don’t care how a tropical storm is formed. They only want to know when it will stop raining.”

Whether Joseph expected a reply was unclear, so Alfred treaded lightly.

“Doesn’t understanding the motivation behind weather improve our answers to even the smallest queries, such as when it will stop raining?”

“Perhaps,” Joseph replied, “but our primary function in this office is to provide reliable forecasts. Whether or not that is tied directly to the trends across the country is yet to be seen.” He let out a loud breath. “And your job is to ensure that our equipment is well-maintained and up to par with the task. I’ve been doing it for quite some time and can say it is not an overly-complicated task. I’m sure a man of your caliber can handle the work on your own.”

Alfred felt himself stiffen at the remark. The statement lingered between them, and Joseph pushed himself up, making his way toward a shelf lined with instruments. He pulled a large notebook from the shelf.

“When Isaac is out of the office, which he often is, you will report to me.” He turned and set the notebook on the small table in the center of the room. “I will monitor your progress and check your readings until we are satisfied that you understand everything sufficiently. As my assistant you will also be running errands such as delivering reports and telegrams or personal inquiries when I am unable to do so. Understand?”

Alfred gave a deflated nod. The room was stuffy, but that was only a small cause of the discomfort he was feeling.

“Your break will be from noon to one o’clock. I suggest if you have any personal errands to run, you do so during that hour.”

He opened the logbook and scrutinized the dates as the top. He pointed as if to continue the training when a reserved voice came from the doorway.

“Ah, Joseph.” A similarly slender but shorter man entered the office with two packages and a handful of telegrams. He gave a short but warm smile to Alfred as he passed toward the desk on the far wall that looked out onto Market Street. “I see you’ve met our new charge.”

“Yes.” Joseph eyed the packages as he passed. “I was explaining the expectations of the post.”

“A good initiation,” the man replied, speaking more softly than his brother had. “But there’s no need to overwhelm him from the start. Although, I’m sure it is a relief to you to have another assistant in the office.”

Alfred saw Joseph bristle at the remark in his peripheral vision and felt the room expand with tension.

“Joseph was clarifying our responsibilities for me,” Alfred commented lightly. “The differences in duties and such.”

The slender man looked up from a telegram and let his eyes shift between the two.

“Good.” A grin tugged at his mouth without taking over his expression, as if he were reserving some emotion for a more suitable exchange. “I’m Dr. Isaac Cline, and as I’m sure my brother has explained to you in his own way, I am the Chief Climatologist for the island.”

Alfred shook the man’s hand and waited for the room to breathe.

“Well, if Joseph has given you a proper introduction,” Dr. Cline continued, “perhaps you could start the morning by sorting through these inquiries we’ve received and then running a report to the telegraph office for me before noon.” He held out the stack of telegrams. “Joseph, why don’t you walk Alfred through the process and begin training him on communications. We can visit about the formalities of the post later this afternoon, a good portion of which I’m sure he already learned in training.”

Joseph remained at the table.

“I need to take measurements on the roof.”

Dr. Cline looked over his glasses at his brother.

“I’ll see to the observations. It will only take an hour or two for you to walk him through the telegrams.” He kept his arm extended, pressing the task on the man. “The sooner, the better.”

After a moment of silence, Joseph reached out and took the telegrams, turning his back toward his brother as he pulled a stool closer to the table. He sat and began sorting them in silence.

“Alfred, I recommend taking notes as you go,” Dr. Cline instructed quietly. “I’m sure you learned the bureau’s code for forecasting, but it will do you good to practice before taking it on by yourself.” Alfred nodded and started toward his pack to retrieve his notebook. “And if you have any questions,” Dr. Cline commented, pausing to look at his brother, “ask me.”

Alfred pulled a stool up to the table, careful to sit near Joseph but grant the man enough space to fume silently as he sorted telegrams.