Magnolia Blossoms (3 page)

The first week home proves to be incredibly boring. I sleep for the most part, which is easy to do since I haven’t had anything solid to eat since before the accident. When I’m not sleeping, I find myself pondering my quest for notoriety. Two things are for sure: I need to find a technique that doesn’t involve blood, and I need to start working out because things that don’t involve blood generally require brute strength. I feel queasy remembering the blood pouring from the small cut on Mr. Gaine’s neck. Nope. Not gonna happen.

Is becoming a serial killer the only way I can make a name for myself? Men don’t give me a second look, women ignore me, my parents tolerate me, and I have no discernible talent to speak of, so realistically, what other avenue do I have? I’ll never be famous; infamy is definitely the best route. But, no blood. What do I do? Fire?

Arson requires hardly any physical strength, it’s virtually foolproof, and the necessary tools can be easily obtained. I can still be known as the Red Daisy. Instead of drawing on my victims, I’ll draw my signature mark on an object near the structure. Genius! No mess on my part at all!

I suddenly feel a slight burst of energy and reach for my laptop to search accelerants, but I close it quickly. Who will be my first victim now? Mr. Gaines has well but earned his reprieve. One of the bad things about having no social life is that I know no one. Kind of makes it hard to pick a victim. Forlornly, I realize that my only option is to socialize. I’ll have to partake in Sunny’s class. Surely, one of the old coots in there will be teetering on death’s door. I’ll be doing him or her a favor! Oh, but at what cost? Sunny has a strict “nude only” policy for her art classes. How badly do I really want this? Pretty damned bad.

Donning a terrycloth robe, I anxiously peep through the glass windows of the in-house art studio. Sunny is stretching, which is downright disturbing from my angle. I lightly rap on the glass to garner her attention. At first she looks confused, then slightly perturbed, and finally, she hides it all with a smile.

“Is everything okay, Magnolia?” she asks, opening the glass door just wide enough to squeeze the words out.

“Shy wash hoping to take shore cwass today.”

“Really? You want to take my class? Well, okay then! Welcome. The others should be arriving any moment. I know you don’t have supplies, so pick a canvas from the shelf, and I’ll put together a few things for you to use. We’re going to be painting people frolicking in the park. Isn’t that exciting?”

“Sure. Shounds gwate.” Frustrated with my speech, I shake my head.

Sunny carries an assortment of acrylic paint tubes over to me. “Don’t let negative thoughts and emotions mar today. You get all of your hardware removed in a week. Not too much longer now. Let’s cleanse you of this negativity. Close your eyes, deep breath in…”

“I can’t,” I say, touching my nasal splint.

“Oh, well, never mind. Mr. Davis and Mr. Curtis are coming up the walk. They always take a spot in the front. You may set up wherever you like.” She dashes to the door. “Hello, gentlemen! How are you this fine morning? Ready to create a masterpiece?” she sing songs.

“Hiya, Sunny! You’re looking just as firm as ever,” the older white man I know to be Mr. Davis says as he shuffles in the door. He drops his supplies on a nearby table and starts to unbutton his long sleeved dress shirt.

“Hey, I ain’t even got in the door yet. Move yourself,” Mr. Curtis, an octogenarian with cataracts so thick that his brown eyes are rimmed milky blue, says while pushing Mr. Davis aside.

“Ain’t no need for shoving, Curtis. Lord knows why you’re taking this class anyway. You’re blind as a bat, you old fool.”

“I see what counts. Plus, Sunny says painting is good therapy. Don’t matter none that my paintings come out the way they do, it’s just important that I try. Ain’t that right, Sunny?”

“That’s very right, Mr. Curtis. Come, let me share some of my positive energy with you.” She takes the old man’s dark, wrinkled hand into hers and pulls him in for a hug. A smile made broader due to his upper dentures being too big for his mouth erupts across his face, and Mr. Davis, a short, stocky bald man in his late seventies turns green with envy. He stomps off to claim the easel set directly in front of Sunny’s station, stops to give me a quick onceover, shakes his head, then continues to set up his supplies in his original location.
Great! I can’t even get a second glance from a seventy-something year old pervert.
I cinch my robe tighter.

Sunny helps Mr. Curtis to his easel, and I hear him telling Mr. Davis something about not being able to see, but he sure can feel just fine. Some heated words are exchanged between the two of them, but Ms. Agnes and Ms. Lola Mae show up, so the bickering stops. Obviously sweet on the old men, they giggle like school girls as they set up on either side of Mr. Davis and Mr. Curtis.

A few minutes later, more pupils come up the walkway, and the classroom looks like a haven for nursing home escapees—all except for one last minute straggler. He is young, like early twenties young, with puffy cheeks that look like they should be on a hoarding chipmunk. His brown hair is heavily oiled and parted to the left, while his beady little eyes are set so close together that I wonder if it’s possible for him to see past his nose. He waddles in, claiming a spot near the door, and I’m curious as to what the strange sound is that I’m suddenly hearing. As he sets up his supplies, I realize the noise is coming from him. Wakeful snoring would be the best descriptor of the rumbling coming from the area.

Sunny presses a button and the melodious sound of a pan flute wafts through the air. Some might find it relaxing; all I can think of is Ralph Macchio and his karate movies. She encourages everyone to disrobe, giving her spiel about nudity increasing creativity because it puts us in touch with Mother Earth’s energies and such. I only half listen because I’m devastated by the train wreck happening around me. As I watch the people disrobe, a few things become clear: Depends undergarments should sponsor this event, gravity is a friend to no one, and the hair old men lose from the top of their heads isn’t really gone, it just multiplies and retreats to other body parts.

The only thing more disturbing than watching the cast from
Cocoon
disrobe is watching the late arrival undress. He pulls his oversized golf shirt over his head, and sets it on the table beside him. An undershirt, that I suspect was originally white but is now ear wax yellow, is the next to come off. My stomach turns when his movement causes one of the larger pimples from his back acne to shoot a load of pus towards Ms. Lola Mae. Both of them seem unfazed by the event. He unbuckles his belt, and the brown polyester slacks he’s wearing practically launch themselves from his body. All that’s left between him and the atmosphere is one pair of underwear that looks five sizes too small. Roll after roll of pasty white flesh gleams with sweat, though the temperature in the room is seventy degrees at most. He bends over to pull a handkerchief from his pant pocket, and I’m greeted by a muddy streak down the back of his drawers.

Bile and stomach acid rise in my throat desperately seeking escape. I begin to panic. My jaw is wired shut! My nose is still healing! What will happen if I puke? Stumbling around the room, I grasp onto the closest easel to me, but it falls over and smashes to the ground. Then goes another, and another. Like dominos,
boom, boom, boom, boom
, stand after stand falls over. The ruckus startles Ms. Agnes, who takes a tumble from her stool onto the floor. Making a last ditch effort to catch herself, she desperately grasps for anything to grab hold of. Unfortunately, that would be Mr. Davis’ arm. He’s forced to the ground with her, and together, they cry out in pain.

The commotion helps to alleviate my urge to purge, but the fact remains that two victims lie in agony on the cold tile floor. Skidmark pulls out his phone and dials 911, while Sunny and the rest of the group hover around the injured pair. Gasps, sobs, and curses fly through the room. Sunny does her best to bring calm to the room by offering cleansing chants. It’s not working.

Hiding in the corner, I look with horror at the devastation I’ve caused. Skidmark notices and begins to make his way towards me. He smells like old bacon grease and moth balls. My stomach tries to revolt again, but I’m able to quash it.

“You look upset. I can comfort you, if you’d let me,” he confidently says with a smirk.

“No, shanks,” I say, rapidly shaking my head.

He props his arm against one of Sunny’s bookshelves, and all I can focus on are the little balls of fabric hanging from his pit hair like tiny ornaments on a bushy, smelly tree. He must assume that I’m drawn to his physique because he straightens up to puff out his chest. “I try to hit the gym at least one, two times a year. You look toned. Do you work out, too?”

Again, I shake my head.

“My name’s Jefferson, but my friends call me Diablo because I like to ride, and I’m kinda wild, so you should probably beware,” he says to me as though he’s letting me in on a huge secret. His breath smells like raw onions. My nose twitches in response. He runs his hand down his doughy chest. “It’s okay if you feel drawn to me. I know how you women like bad boys. I’m single at the moment, but I can’t guarantee that will last long. The list of brokenhearted maidens I’ve left in my dust is long, but I have a feeling that we can have something special, girl. What do you say? Can you handle Diablo?” he breathes.

Boyfriend? I’ve never in my entire life had a man I could call by that title, and even though his very being repulses the hell out of me, I fall in love with the idea of having a real relationship to call my own. Maybe I would finally have a first date! Better late than never, right?

“Okay, I’ll be your girfwiend,” I say.

“Right on, baby. Diablo’s gonna take care of his woman. What’s your name?”

“Magnolia,” I manage to say through the wires.

“Yeah, you need a new name. I’m gonna call you Mindy, okay?”

“But, my name shish Magnolia,” I insist.

“Yeah, baby, but you look like a Mindy to me.”

I shrug. The glare from the windshield of the ambulance as it turns into the driveway pulls me back to the issue at hand, the injured pupils. My heart pitter pats when I spy Jace and his partner walking toward the classroom. He enters the room with all the confidence of a super hero.

“Hi, I’m Jace. I hear someone’s had an accident, and I’m here to help. Whoa! What do we have here?” he asks, taking a slight step back when he realizes that he’s in a room full of elderly naked people.

Sunny rises and extends her hand to him. “This is my art class.”

“Wait, I remember you from somewhere…” he thinks about it for a few seconds. “Of course! Magnolia’s mom.” It didn’t seem to faze him that he was speaking to a nude woman. “Okay, let’s make some room people. Let me get in there.” He squeezes past some of the bystanders crowding around the fallen two. “I understand that you’re concerned for your friends, but the best thing you can do is to step back and give us room to work, please. Right over there, against the wall would be best. Thank you.”

The group begins to shuffle in the direction he suggests. As they move away, Jace glances around the room, and his eyes land on me. Well, not just me, but Diablo, too. His arm is possessively draped over my shoulder, and I feel as though I might collapse from his weight. Not to mention the fact that my nose is burning from the odors creeping into my inflamed passages. Jace gives a slight smile, then goes about his business.

Once the patients are packaged up and ready to be transported, Jace comes in to do one last search for any left behind equipment or supplies. “Looks like you’re healing well, Maggie. Sorry, Magnolia.”

“What’s it to you, jerk face?” Diablo asks, removing his arm from around my neck, and jutting his pimply jaw forward.

“Down, boy. I was just checking to see how she was feeling since her accident, is all. This your boyfriend?” he asks, his finger lining up with Diablo’s bloated belly. I wonder if he’ll laugh like the dough boy if Jace touches him.

“I shink sho,” I reply with a mixture of embarrassment and insecurity. Jace’s face shows uncertainty as he gives a sort of half nod our way.

“Okay then. Well, you take care now,” he says, walking towards the door.

“That’s right. She’s Diablo’s woman now. Feel the burn! Oh, yeah,” he says while making shooing motions at Jace. I stare ahead blankly, wondering if having a boyfriend is worth all of this. Jace leaves, and while Diablo is getting dressed, I catch sight of the massive skid mark again. After a full body shiver, I cinch my robe more tightly around my body.

“Come on, Mindy. I’ll let you buy me a sandwich,” he says once he finishes sliding on his loafers. “Mindy,” he yells, snapping his fingers. I’m pulled from my trance.

“Shorry, I don’t shink I want a boyfwend anymore.”

“What? You want me to buy you a sandwich? Cause I can do that.”

“No. No shanks,” I say. He falls to his knees, and quickly shuffles my way. Melodramatic sobs wrack his body.

“Please, please, please don’t break up with me. I’ve never had a girlfriend before, I mean, not a real one. Please! I’ll do anything. Just stick around long enough for one of my friends to see you. The guys won’t believe me if I tell them. They’ll want proof.” He hugs my ankles, and I remember the ten inch long leg hairs I’m sporting.