Betty's (Little Basement) Garden (12 page)

Betty turned to the back door. Jeff stood there, peering in with a look of concern. She didn't move a muscle.

“
Betty
?” Jeff repeated. “Are you okay?”

Somehow, she lifted herself out of the chair and opened the door, letting him inside. The second Jeff walked into the kitchen he backed up.

“Oh, hell!” he exclaimed, covering his nose, almost overcome by the intense vapors. It took him another few seconds to figure it out. “
Pot
?”

Betty stood motionless and then turned toward the open door, realizing how refreshing the morning air felt on her face.

Jeff checked the two crock-pots, lifting the lids and stepped back again from the heady aromas. “Betty, we have to open some windows!” He opened the door into the living room along with every window in the kitchen. “How long have you been inhaling all this?”

Betty was still drinking in the sweet, morning air. “About six hours I think.”

“
Six hours
?” He took the lid off one of the pots. “Did you try any of it?”

“Yes. Purely by mistake.”

“Right. That and ‘No, officer, the pot belongs to my friend' are two popular responses.”

Her mouth was seriously dry. “Okay. I might admit to taking more than I should have judiciously ingested. And there was that lack of ventilation part as well…”

He finished cranking open the last window and turned to her. “Are you okay?”

She touched the top of her head. “I can feel the part in my hair.”

“I bet you can.” He moved toward Betty, taking her hand. “Come on, let's walk outside in the backyard. Nice kitchen, by the way.”

She slowly made her way out the door with him. “Thank you very much. It cost more to remodel it than to buy a nice motorhome. But the kitchen doesn't have any wheels so you can't go anywhere when you're in it.”

“Oh, brother, you really are stoned.” He guided her to the bench, underneath the elm tree.

“I'm not stoned,” she replied, a sense of umbrage rising.

He grinned. “Yeah. Right. You're not stoned and chickens have four wings.”

She looked at him, a sense of alarm tracing her face. “Oh, God. I
am
stoned. Lord help me. When will the paranoia start?”

“It already began when you registered as a Republican,” he said, his blue eyes twinkling.

“Oh, hell. I don't want to end up like one of those people who hoist their old couch up on the roof so they can lie down and get loaded while they watch the sunset.”

“Wow. Memories. It was a lawn chair for me. Easier to hoist.” He turned to her. “Take a lot of deep breaths.”

Jeff guided her through a series of deep breathing exercises that seemed to clear a few of the cobwebs in her head. After half an hour, the sense of detachment started to subside.

“Hey,” she said, “how in the hell did you know where I live?”

He held up her driver's license. “You left this at the store yesterday. I found it on the floor by the cash register.”

“Oh, dear. What if I'd been pulled over and didn't have this?”

“I think the amount of pot you were carrying would have trumped the missing driver's license.”

Betty put a weary hand to her now pounding head. “Oh my God…this is not me…this is not me…”

“Maybe it is you. Elizabeth
Cragen
signed that letter to the editor. Not Betty Craven. Maybe Betty Craven is really a wild, unchained pot head –”

“Stop it! That's not what this is at all!” It took her twenty minutes, but she explained her altruistic medical motives behind the cannabis brews. With each minute, the clarity increased. She told him about Peggy and Peyton and summed it up by explaining Peyton's offer to help her become a caregiver and set up her own grow operation.

He sat back and pondered her words carefully. “I don't think there are a lot of women who do this. Isn't growing pot a young man's game. You know, twenty-somethings who are already living in their parents' basement and need a job?”

“I imagine it is.” She thought for a second and suddenly brightened. “But I could bring some class to it, not to mention outstanding gourmet chocolate creations.”

Jeff chuckled. “Betty, I'm confused. What in the hell happened between the time you signed that letter to the editor and turning your kitchen into a vaporizing hut?”

As hard as she tried, she couldn't figure out how to describe it. “I guess the pan began simmering with Jeremy Lindholm, and it boiled over with Tom Reed.”

He regarded her with a look of confusion. “Okay.”

Betty played nervously with the edge of her sleeve. “Did you ever wake up and realize you couldn't continue living your life the way you had been? That if you spent another goddamned day doing the same crap, thinking the same thoughts, and recycling the same mistakes, you'd just as soon not live at all?”

Compassion colored his face. “Yeah. It's been about twenty years since I felt that, but yeah. I went through the usual growing pains in my twenties. Did drugs. Drank booze. Got married way too young and divorced seven years later. Hit the proverbial wall at twenty-nine. One day, I had a come-to-Jesus moment and quit the drugs, quit the booze, quit California, and taking a revised page out of John Denver's songbook, I was born in the summer of my thirtieth year, coming home to a place I'd never been before.”

“That's it? You just moved to Colorado and that solved everything?”

“No. I found my passion,” he replied succinctly. “Plants, herbs, growing organic food, alternative health. Maybe I just poured myself into another addiction, but it's been working for over twenty years, so if it ain't broke…”

Betty ruminated on some quick math. He found himself at thirty and it had been over twenty years. So, what did that make him? Fifty-two? And then she quickly wondered why she even cared. “You found your passion. I like that term.” She ruminated some more. There was still a vaporous edge inside her head, but the cobwebs were slowly clearing. “Marijuana is still a drug though, isn't it?”

“I don't look at it like that anymore. I think it's like any other healing herb out there; it can used or it can be abused. I've done a bit of reading on medical marijuana, given the industry I work in, and I'm really impressed by the research. There was this alternative doctor on NPR the other day, talking about some studies the government buried since the Nixon administration, on how marijuana can slow down cancer growth. Did you hear it?”

“No. I don't like NPR. All the male reporters sound like pussy whipped, castrated adolescents, and all the female interviewers sound like strident, feminist bitches.”

He laughed a hearty chuckle. “Yeah, yeah, I know what you mean. But it
was
an interesting interview. Every part of the plant is useful, including the root. Most people who give their opinions about pot are just going by what they've heard or maybe some bad experience they had with some crap weed that was sprayed with chemicals during the growing process. I don't think a lot of naysayers take the time to do the research, because if they did, they would see they've been totally brainwashed by the powers that be.” He leaned forward. “All those who wander are not lost. All those who drink are not drunks. And all those who use pot are certainly not losers. There's too much hysteria and not enough information. I mean, they make these incredibly stupid comments, like, “People who smoke pot are violent.” Give me a break. If you're really stoned, you might get agitated with someone, but after one minute you'll forget what you were pissed off about. People who use pot don't get in cars and speed or drive aggressively. Most people who use and drive go thirty in a sixty mile an hour zone, and like the old joke, sit at a stop sign, waiting for it to turn green.”

“Yes, well, that's a good example of why I've always been of the opinion that a society without self-discipline cannot be trusted to self-medicate.”

Jeff sat back and stared at her. “Really? That's truly your opinion? You sure that's not someone else's words you're just repeating?”

Betty stopped and considered his question. “Well, I think the statement has some merit.”

“Okay, so we allow drugs, booze, caffeine and cigarettes only to those who have self-discipline. And the rest who don't have self-discipline, what do we do with them? Shoot ‘em?”

“I have no idea.” Betty began to see the glaring holes in her declaration.

“If we shoot all the people who suffer from a lack of self-discipline, we'll have about three hundred and fourteen left on this planet, and they're all going to be monks, hermits, a few Olympic athletes, anal retentives and people with obsessive compulsive disorder.” He shifted in his seat. “I mean, isn't this really just about control? Isn't all the legislation just another way of attempting to regulate human behavior? I don't care what laws you pass or how many flashy ad campaigns you pay for, people will
always
seek out ways to escape and dull their pain. It's built into our psyche. There's no way a government or a society will
ever
be able to control that. I'm of the opinion we all have the equal right to either destroy ourselves or succeed beyond our wildest dreams. It's our choice, and I don't believe somebody who doesn't know me has the right to tell me which one is better for me.”

Betty was amazed. “You don't use marijuana but you're still open to it?”

“Hell, Betty, I hate rap music but I'm not going to ban it. I happen to believe in personal freedom. I know that's a revolutionary stance these days, but you might want to look into it. Look, Betty, when you stop buying into all the manufactured hysteria about pot – and basically
all
of it is manufactured – you're going to come out the other side and realize there are good and bad people involved in the business, just like the health food industry.”

She seriously considered his words. “Well,
if
I do this, understand it's purely for the medicinal aspects. Pain reduction. Nausea. Muscle cramps.”

He looked at her with a soft smile. “It's okay if in the midst of pain relief, euphoria happens to creep in. I remember when I smoked pot, I've never laughed so hard in my life. Who's to say that laughing your ass off is not ‘medicinal?' I happen to think a big part of healing is allowing yourself to actually enjoy life.” He shrugged his shoulders. “But there I go again. Radical ideas.”

Betty grinned. “So…you think I should do this?”

He tilted his head. “You're ‘shoulding' all over yourself again. It's your gig or it isn't. You want me to tell you what to do and I won't. You're the one who's going to be taking care of the plants and being a caregiver. You have a good head on your shoulders. Use it. Make a decision. It doesn't matter what I think or what anyone else thinks.”

What a shockingly, enlightened reply, she thought. “Thank you. I appreciate that. Nobody…nobody has ever said that to me before.” And then that shudder started again; that electrified quivering in her stomach that made her feel quite sick and slightly disoriented. She stared straight ahead waiting for the jitters to stop, but they didn't.

“Are you okay, Betty?”

She was about to speak when she heard the next-door neighbor's young daughter walk outside and start tossing a ball against the fence. “I think we should go inside.” She got up quickly and turned back to him. “You coming?” she said quietly.

“You afraid the kid's going to see me and…what?”

Betty felt embarrassed. “No, no, no, it's not that…uh…it's just…” She snuck a look next door. “People see me a certain way and –”

“Finding a biker guy with a ponytail sitting in your backyard at seven in the morning isn't the norm?” He grinned like a Cheshire cat.

“Something like that.” Her tone was semi-formal.

He followed Betty back into the house and through the kitchen, which still smelled like Ganja Central. Jeff observed the living room while Betty went about opening more windows to air out the house. Ronald sauntered next to Jeff, brushing up against his jeans.

“Who's this?” he asked, gently lifting up Ronald and petting him.

“That's Ronald.”

“Why Ronald?”

“He's named after Ronald Reagan. He's actually Ronald the third. Ronald the first and second are,” she put her hand to her mouth in a clandestine manner, “buried in the backyard.”

“I bet you think Ronald's a Republican too. He's not. He's an Independent.
All
cats are Independents. So why do you name every cat Ronald?”

“Consistency. They're all black and white too. Frank always said that consistency was important in life. Structure was essential. Chaos breeds confusion and unexpected consequences.”

Jeff scratched Ronald's chin. “Sounds like ol' Frank was a bucket full of fun.” He set Ronald down on the carpet and took a gander around the living room. “Maybe that explains the vibe in this room. It's like a Catholic Church without the frivolity. Or a tomb without the bad lighting.”

Betty opened the last window and turned to him. “What are you talking about?”

“This place is holding its breath.” He let out a few long breaths.

“What are you doing?”

“I'm trying to get the house to loosen up a bit so it can teach the occupant a few things. I'm surprised you don't have plastic runners to protect the aging carpet.”

“I do,” Betty replied quickly. “But they're at the cleaners,” she said, joking.

“Ah, you see? Underneath all that conventional skin is a whole different person.”

She stared at him, somewhat shaken by his comment. “I think I know that now,” she softly said. Betty couldn't believe she was admitting this to someone she hardly knew. The realization was still so new and unformed in her mind. “But I'm not sure I know who that person is.” She felt a lump forming in her throat. “And it's too late in life to realize this. To think I've wasted so much time pretending and going along with other's plans that I never felt…fit.” She did everything possible to hold her emotions at bay. “I'm too old not to know who I really am.”