Magnolia Blossoms
Authors: Rhonda Dennis
Tags: #Literature & Fiction, #Humor & Satire, #Humorous, #Romance, #Contemporary, #Romantic Comedy, #General Humor
MAGNOLIA
BLOSSOMS
Rhonda R. Dennis
Magnolia Blossoms
Copyright © 2014 RHONDA R. DENNIS
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher, Rhonda R. Dennis, except where permitted by law. Cover design by Bookfabulous Designs.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
ISBN: 0991386817
ISBN 13: 9780991386819
DEDICATION
For my fans. I love you all so much!
ACKNOWLEGMENTS
Big thanks to Donette Freeman, editor extraordinaire! Thank you to Bookfabulous Designs for the spectacular cover! Your talent continues to amaze me, Laura. To those who believed in my quirky story and encouraged me to keep going with it—you are the reason Magnolia is here. Hayley, Jenny, Karly, Laura, Donette, Heather B., Brenda, Heather R., Caroline--you are just a small sample of the amazing women in my life. Thank you for all you’ve done to help me with this project.
You know that guy on the TV commercials—the rotund, obnoxious attorney who fervently strokes his long gray beard while sporting a seersucker suit and browline glasses? The one who promises to “get you the money you deserve faster than green grass through a goose?” Well, he’s my father, Big Daddy. And the middle-aged woman whom people love gossiping about—the one with super long, curly blonde hair, the body of someone half her age, and offers the majority of her art classes while nude—that’s my mother, Sunny.
What results when these larger than life personalities procreate? An overwhelmingly beautiful and outspoken extrovert? Nope. Instead, you get me, Magnolia Picasso Berrybush. Imagine going through elementary school with parents like mine AND the last name of Berrybush. The kids weren’t very kind, so my self-preservation plan included blending into the background as much as possible. It’s a plan that I still use to this day.
I should also mention that I’m incredibly thin, so thin that I’ve been told I have to stand up twice to make a shadow. A la beaver style, my oversized front teeth protrude well past my lower lip. My overbite was supposed to be fixed via orthodontia when I turned ten, but Jimmy Jenkins told me I’d never be able to leave the house when it rained because I’d attract lightning. It was a chance I wasn’t willing to take; it rains a lot in South Louisiana. Of course I now know that he was being a jerk, but twenty-two years have gone by, and I’m still sporting buckteeth. Damn Jimmy Jenkins and his stupid lies.
My long, mousy brown hair is always in a tight bun directly on top of my head, and all I ever wear are turtlenecks, ankle length argyle skirts, and one of the three pairs of boots I own: one black, one brown, and one yellow rubber for the rainy days. It doesn’t matter that the majority of our days are scorchers. That’s all I wear.
Freckles dot my face, and I rarely shave my legs or armpits, not because I’m trying to make a statement, but simply because I’m lazy and I don’t care. What’s the point? I have no life. Never had a boyfriend—ever. I haven’t a single friend either, but I’m okay with that. No one ever understands me, and I gave up trying figure out people a long time ago. I’m just fine living life with me, myself, and I.
I lace the strap of my overstuffed messenger bag between my nearly non-existent breasts then shut the door to my little apartment that sits over my parents’ garage. With a white-knuckled grip on the handrail, I gingerly ease my way down the steep stairs.
One foot down, next foot, together. One foot down, next foot, together
. I always repeat that mantra whenever I descend stairs. Grateful for yet another successful voyage down my Mt. Everest, I smile as my heart rate returns to normal.
My parents’ house is a huge turn-of –the-century home with a wraparound porch. The pillars are white, the siding is garishly yellow, and the trim is French Quarter green, another amalgamation of Sunny’s and Big Daddy’s distinct, yet dissimilar preferences. I enter their house through a side entrance, and I’m instantly greeted with bright, lemon yellow walls. Voices echo down the hall, so I assume Sunny is in the middle of an art lesson. Yep, the sunroom is filled with easels, canvases, saggy balls, and droopy boobies. It’s a sight that I’ve unfortunately acclimated to, so I don’t even blink as I pass the glassed-in room to make my way to the kitchen.
“Hello Magnolia, darlin’. What brilliant adventure does this day have in store for you?” Big Daddy roars. He never turns it off. He’s always in full theatrical mode.
“Work,” I softly answer, my back turned to him while filling my travel mug with coffee.
“That’s nice. I’m off to court. Tell Sunny that I’ll likely run late today. My client was charged with—murder.” He draws his fist closed, and after shutting his eyes, he plants his forehead on top of it. He sighs heavily. “I foresee quite a long and incredibly draining day.” He snaps out of his “woe is me” routine and cheerily asks, “Magnolia, is Big Daddy’s tie straight?”
“Yes, sir,” I say, barely glancing his way.
“Excellent. Did you need anything before I go?” he asks, sliding file folders into his leather briefcase.
“Actually,” I quietly begin. “I was hoping you could…”
“Good, good, good. See y’all tonight,” he says, slamming his case shut before wobbling out of the door. I should probably be offended, but I’ve grown accustomed to being ignored, so it doesn’t faze me. I cap my coffee, and after checking my watch, grab a handful of almonds. Once I have my ill-fitting, lavender-colored, daisy-adorned helmet strapped on, I sit on the seat of my bright yellow Vespa scooter—a gift from none other than Sunny. After I wrecked five different clunkers that Big Daddy called “starter vehicles,” my parents decided that the world would be a much safer place without my being behind the wheel of a three thousand pound automobile. The scooter was my twenty-first birthday present. It makes the ride to my job at the Louisiana State Archives quite unpleasant most of the time, but it really is a public service for mankind in general.
Once I arrive at work, I make a beeline for the break room where I deposit my lunch bag into a locker. My messenger bag stays with me. There is a small group of middle aged women cackling about some TV show they watched the night before, but they don’t notice me. Intrigued by their descriptions, I make a mental note to do an internet search for Charlie Hunnam. I quietly hug the wall while ducking out the room.
My job isn’t glamorous or fun, but it’s not complicated or demanding either. I find a list of requested documents on my desk each morning, and I pull the requested records and route them where they’re supposed to go. It generally takes my coworkers their entire shifts to finish their record requests. On average, I finish my list within two hours, but I’d never let them know that. After I’m done with my work, I forward my phone calls and retreat to my secret spot.
Passing shelf after shelf of books, I make my way to the very far corner of the building, then after assuring no one is around, I kneel and remove six of the huge volumes lining the bottom shelf. I toss my messenger bag inside the gap. Looking again to make sure I’m unnoticed, I climb through the hole and take refuge in my secret cubby. The little cave grows darker and darker as I replace the books. Once they are all back in their respective slots, I click on the flashlight velcroed to the upper part of the shelf. The little cubby illuminates, and I start to unpack my bag: an Ereader, an apple, a banana, peanut butter crackers, a praline, a bottle of water, dental floss, wet wipes, my cell phone, and a plastic bag. Reclining back on a pillow, I pull a coverlet, one that I keep stashed in the pillowcase, over my torso, and then I power up my Ereader. It opens to the place where I’d bookmarked the erotic novel purchased the night before.
Since I’ve never had a boyfriend, or any friend for that matter, the only information I have on sex comes from novels, TV shows, movies, or pornos I watch on my phone. With Sunny in the house, I was educated on the anatomy of the human body at a very young age, but sex is so much more than anatomy—at least that’s what I conclude by watching and reading about it. I want to have sex—badly. However, I’m starting to feel that after thirty-two years of virginity, I’m officially trapped in a permanent, monogamous relationship with myself. At least I know what I like and what I don’t like. If I needed to hurry, I make it happen. If I have more time, I work with that, too. Though pleasuring myself has its perks, I can’t help but wonder how much different it will be with another person involved.
The alarm on my phone buzzes just as I’m getting to the end of the book. It’s time to make my way to the break room for lunch. I used to skip lunch, but once upon a time, someone realized I hadn’t been seen all day, and a massive search ensued. Luckily, I was able to pop out of my hiding spot and perform some damage control before things got too out of hand. As long as I check in during lunch, everyone tends to leave me be. After my peanut butter and jelly sandwich is consumed, I toss the remnants of the brown paper bag into the trash and make haste back to my secret spot. I remain there until three forty-five, after which I climb from my hiding spot, straighten my desk, undo the call forwarding, and I’m out the door for four.
Back home, Sunny has Tofurky and roasted veggies ready to go. I eat none of it; neither does Big Daddy. He usually comes home with a bucket of chicken or something. I don’t eat that either. My diet is pretty much limited to fruit, peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, and pizza. Sitting across from Sunny, I push the food around my plate while watching her glance through the newspaper. She’s still nude. Other than when she has to leave the property or when she sports the occasional muumuu, Sunny is never clothed. After what I predict is an acceptable amount of dinner non-consumption, I discard my meal, load the plate in the dishwasher, and give Sunny a quick peck on the top of the head before I leave for my garage apartment.
Going up the stairs is much easier for me than coming down, so I make quick work of getting to the top. I hit number one on my speed dial and order a small pepperoni pizza for delivery. After inhaling half of it, I take a shower, pull on a pair of worn out pajamas, then scroll the guide for anything that might hold my attention. Eventually, I drift off to sleep, and the next day, it all happens again.
The only thing more boring than work days are weekends. Big Daddy and Sunny generally disappear to one of the casinos in Louisiana or on the Mississippi gulf coast, and they don’t return until late Sunday evening. I went with them once, but after I packed up my things at the end of the weekend, it wasn’t until I stood outside the Hard Rock Hotel for two long hours that I realized they had inadvertently left me behind. They apologized when they came back to get me, but the memory still freaks me out, and now I prefer to leave the road-running to them.
Saturday afternoon presents nothing to watch on TV, nothing to read, and nothing to eat, so I decide to break my routine and head to the Mall of Louisiana. Surviving the trip on my Vespa is an accomplishment in itself; Baton Rouge traffic leaves much to be desired. While meandering through the bustling mall, I occasionally stop to browse at some of the store fronts. I don’t fuss or snap when people bump into me. I can’t even begin to count the number of times that I hear, “Whoops! Sorry! Didn’t see you there.” When I’m knocked to the floor without the perpetrator so much as looking back to check on me, I begin to feel a new emotion stirring deep in my belly. Unsure of what to classify it as, I continue on to the food court.
Patiently waiting in line at the corn dog stand, I watch as customer after customer is served. I look away for a second, and next thing I know, a group of teenagers has cut ahead of me to claim a spot near the register.
“Uhm, excuse me,” I say quietly while tapping the young man directly in front of me. “I was actually the next in line.”
“Fuck off,” he says without as much as a glance my way.
After taking a moment to assure I’d heard correctly, I tap his shoulder again. “Does your mother know that you use such foul language, especially to strangers? What you said was extremely rude and I think…”
He spins around to confront me. “Whatcha gonna do about it, Fugly?”
“I suppose there’s nothing much I can do about it, and my name isn’t Fugly.”
He laughs loudly which catches the attention of the others. I’m suddenly in a sea of saggy pants and sideways ball caps. The ring leader continues to belittle and berate me until the manager catches wind of what they are doing and shoos them off. I score a free corn dog and a half priced lemonade. The unfamiliar feeling is back in the pit of my stomach, so I eat maybe half of my corn dog before tossing it into the trash. Ready to return to my safe haven, I leave the mall and head towards home.
There’s a Starbucks about two miles from my house, and my stomach rumbles when I approach the drive. Dusk is approaching, but I’m sure I’ll have time to grab a caramel macchiato and a scone before nightfall. I place my order and giggle like an idiot when the man behind the counter yells, “Magnolia! The beautiful state flower of the great state of Louisiana! Where are ya, beautiful Maggie? Your order is up!”
I approach the counter, and I receive a very disappointed, “Oh, you’re Magnolia?” from him. He nods at my cup then disappears behind a machine.
I sink into a fluffy chair not far from two elderly women who, surprise, don’t even notice me. One is staring at the news scrolling across the gigantic flat screen mounted high on the wall. The other is steadily giving her an earful of advice.
“Aren’t you scared, Lyla? You should be terrified. That man has killed how many people and he’s still on the loose! They call him the Dollar Devil because he always leaves behind a dollar bill skewered by a tiny pitchfork made of toothpicks. Isn’t that the darndest thing you ever heard? I haven’t had a good night’s sleep since they announced the details about him. He went from a nobody to everyone knowing him overnight. I imagine it’ll only be a matter of time before they catch him.”
“From your lips to God’s ears, Abigail. Yes, indeed. Scary times for our town.”
They continue on with their conversation, but I lose interest. One phrase plays over and over in my mind.
He went from a nobody to everyone knowing him overnight
. That feeling that was in the pit of my stomach earlier—I finally identify it. I want to be someone! I’m tired of being ignored, overlooked, disregarded, and unnoticed. I’ve lived in the shadows for thirty-two years, and I’m sick of it! Serial killer? Most are male, so that in itself will surely boost my notoriety. The obvious downside is that I’ll have to kill people to become a serial killer. Am I capable of doing that?
My eyes dart from side to side as I contemplate it. I think I can. Not just anyone though. They have to be really mean or really old, so it’ll be like I’m doing them a favor by getting rid of them. What if I get caught? Prison isn’t a very nice place; I’ve seen the TV shows and movies. Can’t be any worse than the prison I live in now. That’s it! I’ve made up my mind. I’m going to become a serial killer. Too bad I don’t know where that little douche from earlier lives. He could be the first victim of…of… A name! I need a name.
I dash out of the store and hop on the Vespa. Time to start making plans!
**********
With a pencil tucked behind each ear and a notebook opened to page one, I lie on my stomach kicking my raised feet together as I repeatedly engage then retract the tip of my ballpoint pen.
Name:
I write in the first line.
Red Daisy
. I crack a smile. I decide to draw a daisy with red lipstick on my victims’ foreheads. Brilliant! Pulling my laptop within typing distance, I research everything from methods to motives. I decide that my first victim will be very old, so there will be less of a fight. As I gain experience, I’ll move towards something more challenging. I jot a few more notes then hop into bed. Lipstick shopping tomorrow!
I shower, shoot a spray of deodorant under each pit, then wind my hair into as tight a bun as comfortable. White cotton briefs, green turtleneck, brown argyle skirt, and brown boots complete my wardrobe. After my “one foot down, next foot, together” routine, I dash into the main house for a cup of coffee and some peanut butter toast. I’m surprised to find Sunny at the kitchen counter.
“Is something wrong? Why are you back so early?” I ask my mother. I should probably be grossed out by the sight of her whisking a bowl of eggs in the nude, but I’m used to it.
“That murder trial that Big Daddy has been working on is taking longer than expected. He’s going over some case files in his office,” she answers, putting down the bowl to tie an apron around her waist. Her boobs poke out either side of the bib, so she works to tuck them in.
“No soysage today?” I ask, placing my empty coffee mug into the dishwasher.
“Big Daddy prefers crispy swine belly to healthy, nutritious soy today. Who am I to argue? The soul of that poor pig will likely haunt him, but he doesn’t care. Heartburn, flatulence, indigestion: all the result of animal souls searching for release from the confines of the nasty gastrointestinal tracts of the humans who have consumed them. Do carrots cry when you pick them? No. Do cucumbers scream when you pluck them from their vines? Have you ever heard the sounds animals make when they are slaughtered? It’s not pleasant, Magnolia. Not pleasant at all.”
Sunny was speaking of animals, but it reminds me that I hadn’t considered that my victims might make sounds when I off them. That would be terrible! What if someone cried out for help or made vile gurgling sounds as they died. My stomach flips. I might need to rethink my path to infamy.
Sunny pulled me from my thoughts. “Are you going into town later?” she repeats after she realizes I hadn’t heard her.
“Yes, ma’am,” I answer softly. “I thought I would.”
“Great! Will you stop into Mr. Gaine’s shop for me? He has a few supplies on hold, and he closes soon. The last thing I want to do is go into town smelling like bacon.”
“Sure, Sunny. I’ll do it,” I say, placing the strap of my messenger bag across my body.
“Good girl,” she says, her nose scrunched with disgust as she adds a few more strips to the sizzling pan.
My first stop is to the drug store, where after nearly an hour of browsing the makeup section, I select Assassin’s Kiss as The Red Daisy’s signature lipstick shade. Step one was complete. I smile broadly the entire five minute ride to Mr. Gaine’s art supply shop. He wasn’t just old; he was downright ancient, slow as molasses, and nearly blind and deaf. I may just have my first victim! I park my scooter right in front of the glass door just as he is turning the sign to “Closed.”
“Wait, Mr. Gaines,” I yell, rapping on the door. It takes him several tries, but he finally retracts the slide on the bolt.
He’s a tiny man, maybe five foot six at the most. His scalp has only the occasional tuft of gray hair, and he looks like he’s fighting the mange as opposed to male pattern baldness. Not a tooth in his head, glasses about an inch and half thick, and ear canals so twined with wiry hairs that a gnat can’t squeeze through, surely I’d be doing Mr. Gaines a favor by taking him out.
“I have. The stuff. Your mom. Asked for. Behind. The counter, Iris,” he says through pursed lips in between raggedy breaths.
“It’s not Iris; it’s Magnolia.” He doesn’t hear me and continues to shuffle towards the counter. I take in the sight around me: row after row of canvases, paints, paint brushes, easels, and arts and crafts supplies. I spy a case of hobby knives, and suddenly, a plan unfolds. Knife to the neck should be quick and easy. I nervously chew on my thumbnail for a second before palming the largest instrument I can find and hiding it behind my back. The shuffling continues for what seems like an eternity, and my heart pounds faster and harder with each step. As soon as he makes it through the bar flap, I’ll pounce!
“I’m sorry I have to do this to you, Mr. Gaines, but you’ll forever be known as the Red Daisy’s first victim. Therefore, your death will not be in vain,” I mumble as I stealthily shadow him, hobby knife poised and ready to sink into his flesh.
“Did. You…” He spins around, and because I’m so close to him, he actually walks into the blade. A steady flow a dark red blood pours from the small incision in his neck. He quickly raises his hand to cover the wound, and his eyebrows arch upwards from curiosity as he pulls away his hand to eye the crimson fluid all over it. “Well. I’ll. Be.”
I didn’t get to hear what he said after that. An uncomfortable pressure on my sternum draws me from the darkness, and it’s not until I struggle to open my eyes that I feel a sudden rush of intense pain throughout my entire face. I try to draw my hand to it, but it won’t work yet.
“Begonia, can you hear me? Wake up for me.”
“If. She. Doesn’t. Answer. To. That, then. Pick. Another. Flower. Her. Name. Is. A. Flower.”
“Lily? Chrysanthemum? I don’t really know a lot of flower names,” a masculine voice says from above.
“Hurtshhhhh,” I say with a whistle.
Why am I whistling?
I run my tongue over my teeth.
Oh shit! They aren’t there!
I suddenly become aware of the coppery, metallic taste in my mouth.
Oh, my God! My teeth are GONE! I have no front teeth!
The sudden adrenaline surge compels me to run away, but I’m held fast by strong hands.
“Don’t move, okay? My name is Jace Taylor, and I’m a paramedic. You’re in good hands. Just try to relax, and I’ll explain everything to you. You’re okay. I know you’re in pain, but you’re going to be just fine.” His voice is velvety smooth and so hypnotic that my muscles follow his command and unclench. The most seductive pair of blue eyes stare into mine once I’m able to keep my lids open. I’m completely and utterly speechless.
“Hi,” he says with a smile. “Welcome back. What’s your name, sweetheart?”
I feel my face flush. No one has ever called me sweetheart, well, no one besides Sunny or Big Daddy. “Mach. Machhhh.” My lips refuse to cooperate!
“Shhh. It’s okay. Do you have a driver’s license or something with your name on it in your bag?”
I will DIE if he opens my bag! I need to quit carrying so many inappropriate and embarrassing things in my purse! I shake my head, and he says, “That’s okay. We’re going to get you to the hospital now.” I give a nervous nod, unsure of what to expect. Jace and his partner shift me to a stretcher, and once I feel it starting to roll, I reach up to feel my face. Everything is foreign. My nose is three times its normal size and shifted to the right. One cheek protrudes about an inch higher than the other, and I’m not even sure if I have lips anymore; they just kind of flow into the swollen cheek.
“Try not to get upset. I know it feels off right now, but you’ll be amazed what miracles a good doctor and a little time can make. Try to relax, ma’am.”
Ma’am? How old does he think I am? I study his features to see if I can guess his age. Short, dark blond hair. Clean shaven. Crystal blue eyes. Slight wrinkling around the corner of his eyes. A body that suggests a lot of his free time is spent at the gym. He has an older, yet playful air about him. I guess he’s in his mid-thirties?
The stretcher is locked into place in the back of the ambulance, and Jace tosses my messenger bag between my calves before taking a seat opposite me. He checks my blood pressure, shines a light into my eyes, and lifts his eyebrows as his takes my pulse. “Still nervous?” he asks. He has no clue that he’s the first man to ever lay hands on me for longer than a second. His touch ignites something deep inside, especially when his fingers leave my wrist and begin to palpate various areas of my body.