Episode 3: Gigi Talcon's Award Winning Gardenias

Urban Legend or Reality?

This episode is starting off with the short story instead of Carla’s Colbystream. The mystery behind New Marredbury and Colby Corp continues after the tale of Gigi Talcon (my favorite in the collection and it comes up so early in the serial!)

Missed previous episodes? Check out Marredbury’s table of contents. New episodes are posted monthly, so you have some time to catch up!

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I’ll leave you to the story. Gigi has a strange connection to her gardenias. It’s been that way since she was a girl….

Gigi Talcon’s Award Winning Gardenias

Photo by Rui Silva sj

When I was ten, mother had been too aggressive with her weeding and knocked an elbow into the gardenia bush under my bedroom window. Gardenias are a delicate flower. Just a touch and the petals darken like a coffee stain. The white petals bruised and so did my shoulder. I whimpered as my mother examined the injury under the shade of the oak tree in front of our house.

“I barely bumped you,” she whined.

She hadn’t bumped me. She bumped the flower, but a connection had formed.

On the first day of high school, class of 1947, my mother adorned my hair with the gardenias. She dampened her fingers to protect the pearl-white petals. I could touch freely. The gardenias and I had grown into one over the years. With one last nudge of a hairpin, Mother was satisfied with my appearance and kissed me goodbye.

Nerves twisted in my stomach and my fingers trembled at the thought of freshman year. The flower rested in my hair like armor. I checked the pleats in my skirt and tugged my socks higher as I waited for the bus. Irving Walsh joined me on the corner. We made eye contact, and he smiled, the same smile he had used through primary school, charming his way out of trouble.

The gardenia quivered in my hair. I cupped it as heat rose in my cheeks. The shudder moved down my arm, slipped into my torso, and settled between my thighs. I shuffled my feet. I wanted to ask Irving how he felt about the first day of school, but my mouth had gone dry. Irving turned to greet Lorraine Fisher, the newest member of the cheer squad, according to the Marredbury Gazette. Lorraine gave me a wave, then flipped her hair and smiled at Irving.

I’d lost my chance. I lowered my gaze and caught sight of the pocket knife clipped to Irving’s belt. Since the sixth grade, he’d received special permission from his scout leader to wear the knife at school. Heat continued to simmer in my cheeks. I stroked the petals in my hair and stared at my feet. Irving wedged his fingers in Lorraine’s side.

“Stop!” Lorraine giggled and wiggled away from his touch.

“What, does that tickle?” Irving lurched toward her and squeezed her waist again. Lorraine gasped and then snorted. The pig-like sound didn’t embarrass her like it would have embarrassed me. She swatted his hand away, and the bus braked in front of us.

I saw Irving again in 6th period PE. The girls and boys were separated, but I spied him on the basketball court. He stretched his arms high and shot the ball toward the net. He missed, but I caught a glimpse of his waist where his shirt had come untucked. A sensation blossomed inside me, like the bud of a gardenia maturing below my stomach. It planted roots in my thighs. Its leaves stretched up to my chest. I turned away quickly and urged the growth to slow. No one noticed me, no one caught me looking at him. I inhaled deeply. The teacher called me up to take my turn on the tennis court.

I tried to push the thoughts of Irving away, to squash the flower inside of me, but the bloom insisted on my attention. I lay in bed that night with the image of Irving Walsh’s bare waist buzzing through my mind. The roots of my growing gardenia stroked my thighs beneath my skin, beckoning me. I squeezed my legs tight and willed the curse away, but life coursed through the branches.

In the dim street lights, I could make out the gardenia bush, shadowed in shades of black and gray. The roots beneath my skin flicked closer to the forbidden space between my legs. I wished I could dig up the bush outside. Perhaps that would stop the shortness of my breath. I could snap the branches and stomp the blossoms to halt the tingling in my fingers. Instead, I rolled onto my other side, pressed my thighs tighter, and imagined hacking away at the bush with my father’s ax.

The plant inside of me slowed. I exhaled and continued to run the plant’s destruction through my mind. The roots no longer stroked me. The heat cooled between my legs. The sweat on my skin grew cold, and I shivered and wrapped my blankets closer to me.

But my gardenia didn’t go away. For three years, I fought the urging of my flower. In that time, we developed a kind of language, an understanding of sort.

“I got in contact with a horticulturist today,” Mother made conversation over dinner.

Father grunted a response, his eyes on an open manila folder filled with files. Mother hated it when he brought work home.

“That darn gardenia bush hasn’t blossomed for years. I’m sure it’s sick,” she continued.

Father raised an eyebrow, but gave no further response.

You know how I blossom. My gardenia flickered through my mind, quick and soft, like its roots on my thighs. I tugged my skirt over my knees and shoved a bite of mashed potatoes into my mouth. I’m not sick, I’m stilted. You hold our potential back.

Shut up! Shut up! Shut up! I furrow my brows and swallow the large bite.

“How’s school, Gigi.” Father interrupted my inner turmoil.

“Fine,” I mumbled.

“Lorraine Fisher was asked to the prom today. Her mother called me.” Mother questioned me with her eyes. I pressed my shoulders closer to my ears and shoved my corn into the pile of my remaining potatoes.

“Anybody ask you to the prom?” Father’s gaze flicked away from his work. I shook my head, and he resumed his reading.

No one would ask me to prom. No one wanted to go to the prom with Gigi Talcon. My classmates barely noticed I existed. The only one nice to me was Irving Walsh, but he had asked Lorraine. The two had been sweet on each other since freshman year.

The next day at school, the girls whispered in the halls. I couldn’t help overhearing Sandra and Kathleen while I opened my locker and they stood over me.

“Lorraine canceled her date to prom.” Sandra slammed her locker and hugged her biology book to her chest. She caught me looking and narrowed her eyes. Crouched in front of my bottom locker, I focused at the jumbled mess inside.

“Why?” Kathleen asked.

“Don’t know,” Sandra said. “She wouldn’t say.”

“I heard she wouldn’t give it up.” Becca joined. Her nose twitched, and she blinked quickly, like she couldn’t hold the excitement of her gossip. “She was insulted when Irving made a pass at her.”

I thought Becca was Lorraine’s best friend. I didn’t understand why she would share something Lorraine didn’t want to talk about, but I didn’t have a best friend, so what did I know?

You have me. My gardenia reminded me.

My legs shook in my crouched state, but I didn’t want to stand and draw attention to myself.

“What are you talking about? Lorraine’s always up for grabs. How else do you become head cheerleader?” Sandra said.

Wish you were up for grabs.

My gardenia ran a leaf down my side, sending chills up my body. Blood rushed to my groin, then to my cheeks. I stumbled backward. My open backpack spilled beside me and my books spilled into my lap. The girls looked down. Sandra’s upper lip rose in disgust. Kathleen hid a giggle behind her hand. Only Becca knelt down and helped me. I accepted the handful of pencils and shoved it all into my backpack. Didn’t matter how much I wrinkled my homework, not while my face was aflame.

“Thanks,” I muttered.

With my books and backpack crowding my arms, I leapt to my feet and hurried away. Becca turned back to her friends without a care.

“Poor Irving,” Becca commiserated. “He must be heart broken.”

My hair curtained my face. I stared at the spotted tile and gripped my books and bag tighter against my chest as I hurried to study hall. If I didn’t see my classmates, I could almost convince myself that they couldn’t see me. They probably didn’t, which was all for the better. What if they saw just how much of a freak I was?

I was almost to study hall, ready to let go of the breath I held, when I slammed my face into his chest. My bag crashed to the ground. I hadn’t taken the time to close it before and it spilled once again at my feet. I stumbled back a couple of steps, looked up, and was horrified to see Irving before me.

“Whoa.” He caught me by my elbow. “I’m so sorry. Are you okay?”

I stared, mouth open, at a loss for words.

Brush your hair out of her face, dummy.

I flung my hair over my shoulder and stood up straight. “I’m fine. I should’ve been watching where I was going.”

“It’s cool.” Irving’s smile was contagious. He knelt down, gathered the items that had scattered on the floor, picked up my book bag, and offered it all to me.

I cleared my throat. My heart thudded so loud, the muffled words of my gardenia were lost. When Irving didn’t excuse himself, I struggled to find something to say.

“I’m sorry to hear about you and Lorraine.” My gardenia cringed inside of me.

Irving shrugged and dropped his gaze. “Yeah.”

“It’s her loss,” I continued. The words spilled out of me while my mind still rang out alarm bells. I was talking to the school’s football star.

He chuckled. “Thanks.”

I draped the strap of my book bag over my arm. The bell for next classes echoed through the halls. I’d had enough of a conversation with Irving to run through my head on repeat for the rest of the week.

“Well, I should—“ I started.

“Are you busy this weekend?” Irving interrupted me.

My tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth.

“We could go see a movie or something,” he continued. “And, who knows, if it goes well, maybe we could go to prom together the next weekend.”

“Uh,” I held back a cough. All the moisture in my mouth abandoned me. “Sounds good,” I squeaked.

He beamed. The dreamboat smile fluttered the gardenia petals in my gut. “Great, I’ll pick you up Friday at six.”

“Okay.” I returned with my own goofy smile.

I watched him leave, my mouth still running. “Bye!” I waved, large and unnecessary.

He returned with his own wave, smooth and slick. “Bye, Gigi.”

Irving picked me up right on time. I waited for him on the couch, had been waiting for twenty minutes, twirling the ribbon tied in my hair. To my parents, it looked like I was watching TV, but really I was bargaining with my gardenia.

Just stay away. I begged. You’ll make me nervous and I’ll screw this up.

You have no idea what you’re doing.

Neither do you!

Just fake it. I can help you fake it.

Fake what? I wrinkled my nose.

Experience. Men like a woman to be chaste, but to feign experience.

I mean, okay. I’ll try to do that.

Then I’ll stay back.

I laid back against the couch cushions and watched the black and white display on the screen. Thank you.

You’re welcome.

Irving knocked on the door. He introduced himself to my parents and took me out to a movie. He made me laugh. After the movie, we went out for ice cream. I couldn’t believe the ease of our conversation. We talked about the movie, and teachers at school. I fidgeted with the ribbon in my hair and he complimented my braid. It was almost nine when he walked me down the sidewalk to my front door.

“I had a great time tonight,” he smiled and shoved his hands in his front pockets.

“Me too,” I beamed back. A breeze kicked up. The ribbon loosened and whipped in the dark. No longer wrapped around my hair, it flew across the lawn and slipped under the gardenia bush. I hurried after it, but Irving was faster.

“I’ve got it.” He winked at me, and then crouched before the bush.

What’s he doing? The gardenia inside of me spoke up for the first time that night.

Irving shoved his hand into the bush. He elbowed branches aside. The sharp crack of the limbs made me flinch. He grasped a flower and squeezed it in his fist. The delicate petals crinkled and browned. They dropped to the ground, limp and disheveled. My gardenia shrieked. As Irving pawed around, my gardenia hollered.

Get. Him. Off. Of. Me!

“It’s fine, Irving. I have other ribbons.” I urged him to stand back up, but my voice was weak. I trembled. My skin crawled, and I wished I were safely tucked in bed. My gardenia cried out, and I couldn’t make sense of it, my own thoughts, and Irving.

“Got it!” He dragged himself out of the bush. With his free hand, he lifted himself up through the branches, bending and tweaking them into unnatural positions. He stood and held the ribbon up like a trophy.

“Thank you.” I took the offered prize and helped him to his feet. He kept hold of my hand as we walked together back to the front door. His hand was warm. Callouses from his time at the school gym scratched against my soft palm. I should have been giddy, but I couldn’t shake my gardenia’s screams. I shivered.

“Let’s get you inside.” Irving wrapped an arm around me and opened the front door.

Mother helped me pick out a prom dress over the weekend. She chatted at the store, talking of her time dating, before my father, how she did it proper and found herself a good man. She warned me of temptation, the urges of men.

“They don’t have control of it sometimes. We need to protect our purity.” She lifted a yellow dress from the hanger. “What do you think of this one?”

I listened, hearing every word because my gardenia was silent. No distracting side comments or fleeting touches of its roots. It had been quiet all weekend. I thought I would have been relieved, but instead, I yearned to hear its commentary.

You okay? I asked it while my mother talked to the cashier about tailoring.

I’m fine. It replied.

But my gardenia stayed quiet all week. I missed its company, missed sharing the excitement about prom. Irving walked me to class every morning and carried my books at lunch. My classmates greeted me in the halls, asked me if Irving and I were going steady, asked me if I was going to the football game that weekend. I answered their questions. I smiled and tucked my hair out of my face.

A group of girls invited me to sit with them at lunch. I only managed to nibble on my carrots as my stomach twisted and turned with nerves. They talked of makeup and whispered about more intimate nights they had with their boyfriends. I listened, grinned when they grinned, giggled when they giggled. I mentioned the way Irving put his arm around me after our first date.

“He likes you.” Sandra winked. My cheeks warmed with pleasure. All the while, my gardenia remained quiet.

On Wednesday, Lorraine hurried past all of us during lunch. Irving called for her.

“How’ve you been?” He reached for her arm, but Lorraine snatched it from his reach. The crowd quieted, shocked.

Her gaze remained on the ground as she hurried away. I thought I glimpsed tears in her eyes, but she moved so quick. As she passed, she glanced up. I raised a hand to wave, but her icy gaze froze it. There was fear behind her glare, my own fear of her rage reflecting back to me.

The night of prom came in a flash. The gardenia bush under my bedroom window still wouldn’t flower, so I couldn’t decorate my hair like I had the first day of high school. Mother offered me one of her hair clips. The silver glimmered against my chestnut hair.

Irving arrived on time again and made small talk with my parents. He gave me a rose to wear around my wrist, the same red color as the one pinned to his lapel. While walking to the car, he held my hand again. This time, I was able to enjoy the feel of his warm skin against mine. I climbed into the passenger seat. We chatted about football and summer vacation plans on the drive to the school.

At the dance, he wrapped his arms around me during the slow songs, and got me punch while I chatted with the dates of his friends. They complimented the pleats in my skirt and gushed over how handsome Irving looked.

“You’re so lucky, Gigi,” Kathleen said.

My dreams bloomed before me, but I had expected to feel more. I missed my gardenia. It remained silent.

At the end of the night, Irving turned down several invitations to parties.

“I have to get Gigi home. Her parents will worry,” he told his friends and gave my hand a squeeze.

I melted against him as he walked me back to the car. On the drive, I laid my head on his shoulder. I fit perfectly against him, like we were meant to be.

The street light on our block was out. My eyes adjusted slowly to the sudden darkness. Irving parked under the oak tree, but didn’t turn the car off. Music hummed on the radio. Irving turned it down low.

“I had a great time tonight,” he said.

“Me too,” I squeaked a reply.

He placed a heavy hand on my knee. My gardenia flinched and my heart quickened.

“You were the prettiest girl at the prom.” His voice was closer, his breath hot on my face.

I could smell the sweetness of the punch, and then he pressed his lips to mine. The kiss sucked the air from my lungs. I froze. He nibbled on my bottom lip. My arms lifted as if to push him away, but I couldn’t get them to move toward him. He wrapped his arms around my waist.

“Wait,” I murmured, twisting my face away from his.

“It’s fine, just relax.” He kissed my neck and moved up my jaw. I opened by mouth to protest again, but he muffled my words, pressing his lips against mine again.

He took my raised hand and guided it down. I resisted, but he was stronger. My fingers rested on top of his pants. I felt the hard form of his manhood beneath and yelped. I flung my hand off of him and shoved him with my elbows.

“Irving, stop!”

“You’re okay. I’ve got you, Gigi.” He started towards me again, this time pressing me against the passenger door, locking my arms underneath him.

“Stop,” I whimpered as his hand slipped under my dress.

Knee him in the groin. My gardenia hissed.

I launched my knee between his legs. He cursed, sat up, and then slapped me across the face. The sting shocked me. My arm was free, but instead of grasping for the car door handle, I cupped my hot cheek and stared open-mouthed at the boy hovering above me.

He smirked. My breath caught in my throat. I scrambled for the door latch with my other hand. My gardenia hurried me along.

Get out. Get help.

I found the latch and yanked. Nothing happened. The door was locked.

“We had such a nice night.” Irving hovered over me. “Don’t ruin it now.”

He leaned over me again, one arm pressed against my chest and the other running up my leg. I had one hand still free. I caught sight of the knife in his pocket, but I froze. His hot breath curdled against the delicate skin of my neck. His fingers searched higher up my leg.

Help me. I cried to my gardenia.

I’m here.

The gardenia’s branches slipped past my gut. It wound its way up my torso and through the muscle and bones in my arm. My hand moved like a puppet on strings. The branches wiggled my fingers and then guided my hand to Irving’s waist. His pocket knife was still hooked on his belt, and I slid the blade from its cover.

With the gardenia’s help, I raised my arm high. For a moment, I hesitated. Irving’s hands were heavy on my skin. His teeth nibbled on my lip, unconcerned by my whimpers.

Do it.

I plunged the blade into his back. He cried out and launched off of me. I held my grip on the knife and it slid out of him. His face darkened. The charming boy I knew since grade school disappeared. He touched the wound over his shoulder and narrowed his eyes at his bloody fingers, and then lunged for me again. I moved as one with the gardenia, this time sinking the blade into his neck.

He sputtered. Warm blood flooded down my arm. I pulled the knife away, and he gasped. His hand hovered over the injury before he pulled it away. The blood staining his palm seemed to puzzle him. He looked at me again, eyes searching for an answer. What had just happened? Where had he gone wrong?

Then he crashed against the dashboard. The blood soaked his shirt and coat, drenched the upholstery of the car, and the skirt of my dress. I couldn’t look away. My hand ached from the grip I held on the knife. The blood between my fingers cooled and became tacky. I watched Irving as he gurgled and sputtered. The life slipped from his eyes and he stopped moving all together.

My breath caught in my throat. The knife sat heavy in my hand. My vision blurred. My lungs ached for air, but the tangy scent of blood choked me.

The evening replayed in my head, hours shoved into seconds. Could I have done anything differently? Mother had said that boys can’t control their urges. Did I do something to stroke his want? My heart thudded in my chest. My body numbed as it screamed for air.

No. My gardenia’s tone was heavy and short. I dropped the knife, and it landed on my skirt. My gardenia continued. Its presence quieted my panicked mind. Unlock the doors and drag him into the yard.

I followed its guidance. The bloom stretched through my whole body. The branches woven through my insides strengthened me. I opened the driver side door, wedged my arms under Irvings’ and dragged his body to the gardenia bush planted below my bedroom window.

Step back.

I did as I was told and watched. The dirt beneath the gardenia bush cracked open. My eyes widened and mouth dropped. Irving slipped through, his head flopping into the crevice before gravity pulled the rest of his limp body into the black hole. He sunk deeper and dirt piled back on top of him. The earth covered his face, then his shoulders, his arms, torso, and finally the tips of his leather shoes. Finally, the blood trail I had left behind soaked into the earth until there was no trace of Irving Walsh. The ground appeared undisturbed. The only evidence was small red buds sprouting on the end of the bush where his body lay beneath the surface.

Take the knife back to the car. We’re going to get our story straight.

Irving Walsh disappeared that night. The police found his car abandoned on the side of the highway, the interior covered in blood, and a knife on the car floor. They questioned me. I told them that Irving dropped me off after the prom. My bloody dress was packed under the gardenia bush, the red stains soaking into its roots.

“Those are beautiful gardenias, Ma’am,” the police commented to my mother after he finished questioning me. “My grandmother grew gardenias in her yard. I’ve never seen them in any color but white.”

My mother waved away the compliment. “I’ve been fighting with that bush for years and then buds showed up overnight. Must be something in the soil. The color looks so nice with the house, don’t you think?”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

No one knew what happened to Irving Walsh. The secret remained buried within me. At graduation, the staff and students took time to honor the fallen football star. I stared at my lap through the ceremony. Halfway through, I felt her eyes on me.

Lorraine and I stared at each other across the row. We didn’t speak. Her face softened as she stared. She couldn’t have known what happened, but with Irving gone, I could see a hint of a smile on her lips.

My gardenia quieted after that night, though I felt its strength still webbed inside of me. The gardenia’s thoughts melded with mine until I couldn’t distinguish the two.

We grew old in that same house. The gardenia bush and the house became mine after my parents passed, and we lived together in quiet solitude. I would never leave Marredbury, never stray far from my flowers.

The red buds sprout all year round. When the bush grows heavy with flowers, I clip them with the care of a mother, and gather them in a vase. They look beautiful on my dining room table.

Stay tuned for the next installment of Marredbury. What do you think of the story so far. This serial anthology is in betareader phase, which means I am looking for input from readers before the stories take their final form. Let me know what you are enjoying and what you aren’t enjoying from the tale. Your feedback helps me grow as writer.

Pictures used in ColbyStream were generated using Midjourney. Photographs were taken by Parker Sturdivant, Stephen Andrews, Tyson, and other artists on Unsplash

Go back to Episode 2 or Continue to Episode 4

Episode 4: Horror Shop