The gardenia bush next to the screened porch was planted when the house was built in 1959. When we bought the house, the gardenia, after years of neglect, was an eyesore, devoid of foliage; we were going to remove it but my mom convinced me not to. “All it needs is some water and fertilizer,” she said, adding, “It will come back.” Mom loved gardenias.
Mom was right; today the gardenia is the size of a small SUV with rich glossy foliage and, right now, an embarrassment of fragrant white flowers that scent the entire backyard at night. “Ugh!” said my younger brother at dinner last week. “That smell makes me sick; how can you stand it?” My brother has hated gardenias since we were kids.
It was during another South Florida springtime, almost 50 years ago, that my parents, after an exhaustive search, found their dream home in Coral Ridge. It was way larger than the tiny bungalow where we were living and it had several features that were considered quite modern: a carport, an asphalt driveway, a fashionable split-bedroom plan and a master bathroom with a stall shower. What the house did not have, however, was air conditioning, although it did offer excellent cross ventilation thanks to floor to ceiling jalousie windows in every room.
It was a big house for that era; the master bedroom was on one side of the large living room and there were two more bedrooms, one to be occupied by my middle sister, the other by my brother and me, on the other side. After my parents’ offer was accepted and the closing was scheduled, my brother and I were assigned to the front bedroom which was incrementally larger than the back bedroom where my sister would sleep. The front bedroom, incidentally, had a huge gardenia bush, the size of an SUV, directly outside its east-side window.
It was in early June, several days before the closing, and my mom wanted to go to the new house to measure the living room windows for drapes. Mr. Jackson, the childless, middle-aged widower who was selling the house because it was “too big” was a nice man, and he told my mother to come over any time with her tape measure. Accordingly Mom and I made a trip to the new house on a bright Saturday afternoon.
While Mom was measuring I began to wander around and I went into “my” new bedroom; I was snooping in the closet with a proprietary air when Mr. Jackson came in and, busted, I mumbled a greeting.
“I hear you’re in second grade,” said Mr. Jackson kindly. I nodded mutely. “Is this going to be your bedroom?” he asked, and again I nodded.
Mr. Jackson smiled benevolently. “I used to have a son your age,” he said; looking around. “This was his room too.” I didn’t say anything.
Mr. Jackson’s smile never dimmed. “My son died,” he said calmly. “When he was seven. Right here in this room.” He walked out of the room, still smiling. “Let me hold that tape measure for you,” he told my mother.
Suddenly, the bright spring day turned dark, as did the promise and excitement of the new house; “my” new bedroom was suddenly foul, and frightening, and feeling a rush of pure, nameless dread I went to find my mom who was chatting pleasantly with Mr. Jackson; he patted me on the head.
Before we left Mom did one last inspection of the new house; she went to the front bedroom, inhaled deeply and shook her head. “That gardenia would make your brother sick,” she said. “I guess we better put you boys in the back bedroom.”