Betty's (Little Basement) Garden (14 page)

Betty awoke early the next morning and wasted no time lollygagging under the covers. The day was destined to be full of the most divergent activities. First, she'd visit a trusted jeweler she knew who was always in the market for gold rings. Then, there would be her required appearance at Peggy's memorial service. After that, Betty was determined to drive to Denver's “Broadsterdam” – a.k.a. Broadway with an Amsterdam twist. This street was known as
the
place to cruise the various medical marijuana dispensaries. One medical marijuana dispensary after another sat nestled between the well-loved antique stores that were the mainstay of the area. Betty figured if she could get a feel for the kind of edibles that were available to patients, she'd have a better idea of what her future patients might expect. None of these places seemed to be open prior to 11:00 in the morning, she discovered. She momentarily cast silent aspersions toward the people who ran these establishments and then quickly realized she would shortly be counted as one of them.

The phone rang and Betty checked the Caller ID. It was strange to see the words “Hippie Dippie Health” on her phone, but she was quietly thrilled and picked up. After she enthusiastically announced she was now a “red card carrying” member and she was planning to dispensary hop that day, Jeff piped up.

“I don't think it's a great idea for you to go on Pot Row by yourself,” he stressed. “That part of town can be kind of sketchy. Not all the dispensaries are bad, but some of them are owned and operated by the Bag Brothers.”

“Who are the Bag Brothers?”

“Dirt, Scum and Flea. Hey, if you want me to, I can take a long lunch and meet you at your house and go with you.”

At first Betty was impressed with his show of chivalry. Then she was quickly put off, considering that Jeff didn't think she could do this on her own. Seconds later, she was terrified of encountering a Bag Brother.

“Betty? It's okay if you say ‘no.'” Jeff said, ending the silence.

Perhaps it was the fact he allowed her a choice, or maybe, she told herself, it was the fact she wanted to see him again. Either way, she agreed to his offer. But there was that little adjustment of where they'd meet. “I have to go to a memorial service for my friend who didn't want a memorial service. Why don't you meet me at 11:00 in that empty mall parking lot on south Fourth?”

“Why not at the church?”

Betty's gut clenched. “Well, they tow vehicles or motorcycles in their parking lot that are left unattended.”

“Is that right?”

His tone was off-handed, but Betty sensed he unfortunately understood her not-so-delicate intention.

“Not a problem,” Jeff stated and then added, “I'll be sure to rev my motorcycle engine very loudly as I pass the church on the way to the big empty parking lot.”

The trip to the jeweler was surprisingly painless and expedient. After weighing Frank's hefty wedding band, he determined it was worth just over twelve hundred dollars. When he asked if she wanted cash or a check, Betty opted for cash and watched as twelve, crisp, one hundred dollar bills were laid out in front of her. She took one last look at the ring and waited to feel something, but nothing happened. Somewhere in the back of her head, Betty remembered hearing a grief counselor once advise that, “When you feel nothing, it's really over.”

Betty arrived at Peggy's service right on time and was waved to the front row of seats where she greeted Judi, Renée and Helen.

Judi leaned closer to Betty and whispered, “You look different. Is that a new dress?”

Betty shook her head, as the nauseating organ music swelled to a crescendo. She briefly recalled how much Peggy hated organ music.

Judi leaned over to her again. “You and I need to talk. Tom has no idea what he did wrong, and he'd like to see you again.”

He wanted to see her again
, Betty questioned? Was this narcissist also a masochist? “I'm not interested, Judi,” she whispered back, trying to end the subject.

“Honey, you've got to get back in the saddle, if you know what I mean.”

Betty grimaced at the visual. “I don't like horses,” she countered in a semi-whisper. “And I don't date a horse's ass like Tom Reed.”

They were summarily
shussed
like disobedient schoolgirls by Helen who sat at the end of the pew. Betty had forgotten how much memorial services brought out an even more dour side to Helen. She figured Helen was taking mental notes and privately criticizing the choice of flower arrangements, while planning what she did and didn't want at
her
service.

The service began with random readings from the Bible and “reminiscences” read by a minister Betty was certain had never met Peggy. The whole thing started feeling terribly insincere. She casually took a gander at the crowd, but didn't see Peyton or his grandfather. About thirty minutes later, the door to the church opened rather loudly. Betty turned and saw Peyton standing there, his face red with anger and his fists clenched. He wore a white t-shirt with a picture of a light bulb growing out of a large, nondescript leaf. Underneath the picture, the words
Grow Do It!
were emblazoned in sparkly neon green. She sensed he was either about to start screaming or make a scene, so she grabbed her purse and quietly made her way to the back of the church. Once there, she discreetly motioned him to follow her out side.

By the time they reached the bottom of the marble steps, Peyton couldn't take it any longer. “This is bullshit, Betty!” he yelled, jabbing his index finger at the closed front door. “I just read about this fuckin' joke in the newspaper! Aunt Peggy didn't want any of this shit! Why don't people listen?”

She put a gentle hand on his arm to try to calm him. “Funerals and memorial services are not for the dead, Peyton. They're for the living.”

He shot her a look of contempt. “Is that another tired old saw? Well, before you break out the other one about “when God closes a door He opens a window,” save it! Maybe He opens a window so you can jump out! Ever considered that?”

Betty let out a long breath. “Point taken.” She waited for him to stop fuming. “Pull your pants up, would you?”

“They
are
up!”

“I can see your underwear. Please pull them up.”

Something in her tone convinced Peyton to acquiesce. After a hard minute of deep breathing, he relaxed. “I hate funerals. What about you?”

“I'd rather have a root canal without sedation.”

“What was your son's funeral like?”

The question came out of nowhere and temporarily derailed Betty. “He didn't have one. His father felt it wouldn't be appropriate given the way he died. So he was cremated, and he's now in a plain box in my bedroom closet.”

“Your husband sounds like he was a pain in the ass.”

“Yes. And sometimes the pain migrates up to the neck.” Betty was stunned she finally admitted that.

“You think Frankie committed suicide?”

The old Betty would have stopped the conversation at this point. But something within her wanted to keep talking. “I don't know,” she said bowing her head. “I like to think the overdose was an accident. But then I think about the last time I saw Frankie and I wonder.”

Peyton leaned on the metal railing. “What happened?”

“He showed up at the house like he always did, knocking on the back door with his battered backpack across his shoulders. His father was not there, of course, but I knew we only had about an hour before he'd return. Frankie looked awful. So thin and frail and his face had sores on it.” The memory dredged up unforgiving pain again, but Betty continued. “I told him I'd fix him something to eat, but he said he needed to go up to the attic where his bedroom used to be and just sit there for a few minutes. So, that's what he did. And when he came downstairs, he walked out in the backyard; it was like he was saying goodbye to the place.” The tears began to flow freely.

Peyton put a reassuring hand on her arm. “You don't have to keep going if you don't want.”

“No,” she countered, wiping away the tears, “it's okay. I actually want to.” She gathered her thoughts. “He walked over to the big elm tree in the yard and started cutting into it with a knife. When he was done, he came back into the kitchen, put his arms around me and held me so tightly; he didn't let go for the longest time. He didn't say a word, but I realize now he was saying goodbye.” Betty paused, pushing herself back to that moment and seeing everything again. “I gave him food and offered him some money, but he said he didn't need it. When it was time for him to go, he said the strangest thing. He told me he'd had one of his visions. At first, I chalked it up to all the drugs. But then I remembered all those uncanny incidents in his childhood when he predicted things that often came true. So I asked him what he saw. And he said that in the vision, he was in a field of white violets and he was told to come to our house and bring me a gift. That's when he brought out an antique watercolor of white violets he said he found in a dumpster. It was actually quite beautiful, and he made a point of saying I would understand what the gift meant one day if I paid attention. I asked him to explain, and he said I had to discover it for myself. Then he said the voice told him I needed to be brave and observant. ‘Pay attention,' he kept saying over and over.” Betty bowed her head in sadness. “And then he left. He was found dead on a bus stop bench, three days later in downtown Denver, wrapped in a hotel blanket. And our final goodbye was me holding him on a slab at the mortuary.”

“Why didn't your husband identify him?”

“Because he was disgusted and didn't want to be associated with his son anymore. He was also very drunk that night and could hardly get out of his recliner.”

Peyton regarded Betty with sincere compassion. “Jesus, Betty. And you seriously blamed cannabis for your son's problems? Dude, when it comes to addicts, don't blame the plant when you should blame the person or the event that pushed them into addiction. As far as your late husband, fuck him, Betty. I mean it.
Fuck him
.”

“I did exactly that this morning when I pawned his wedding band.”

Peyton smiled. “Sweet!” He peered over her shoulder. “Hey, I think we got a peeper over there.”

Betty turned around and saw Renée smoking a cigarette under the shade of a tree next to the church. She motioned Betty toward her. “I'll talk to you soon, Peyton.”

“Hey!” he said quietly, reaching into his pocket. “I was gonna bring this over later.” He covertly handed her a folded piece of paper. “It's a list of the most popular medical strains of cannabis. You can research them, pick and choose what you want, and then let me know. If I have any, they're yours. If I don't have them, I can source them for you.”

Betty slipped the paper into her purse. “Thank you.” He started to turn when Betty spoke up. “What kills the plants?”

“Knowing you hate them,” he said with a straight face. “That gets ‘em. Right here.” He patted his heart and looked over her shoulder. “Incoming…” Spinning on his heels, he left.

Betty turned.

Renée was already halfway in her direction. “Betty, what's going on?” She nervously sucked another hard hit of nicotine. “You shouldn't be associating with him.”

“What do you mean?”

“That boy is no damn good! Two people at my A.A. meetings mentioned in passing that he might be growing pot.” She waited for a reaction. “
Marijuana
?”

“Oh,
marijuana
? My, my.” She put on her most sincere face. “Are you sure?”

“No, I'm not sure. But it's fairly obvious when you look at him what kind of person he is.”

Betty's back straightened. “Is that right?”

“You should hear what his mother says about him!” Renée inhaled deeply. “Useless, pointless, worthless and a waste of space. And those are the high points!”

Betty's lower lip trembled. “Really? Well then, Renée, I'll help him even more.”

“
Help him
? What in the hell are you –”

“Yes, I think I'll mentor him. I've got nothing else to do, so why not?” She checked the time. “I have to go.”

Renée stood there dumbstruck. “Where? We've got Peggy's memorial luncheon scheduled at the
Pirate Landing
seafood restaurant.”

Betty shook her head. “Peggy detested pirates and she was allergic to seafood. Seems a tad ridiculous, don't you think?” She started toward her car.

“I'll save you a seat!” Renée yelled.

Betty arrived at the empty parking lot just as Jeff drove up on his Harley.

He opened her passenger door and leaned in. “All clear, Betty?”

“Oh, please. Just get in.”

“I brought us lunch. I know you're into the whole gourmet
schtick,
so the bread is whole grain with fresh rosemary, the mustard is Dijon, the tomatoes are local and organic, the lettuce is from my garden and the sprouts are from the store. I made one with hormone-free roast beef and one with free-range chicken.” He held out the wrapped sandwiches. “Which one trips your trigger?”

Betty was blown away but tried to hide it. “I'll take the roast beef.”

He handed it to her and she unwrapped it, taking care to not drop anything on the car's fabric. This was certainly different. How strange for someone to take the time to make her a sandwich. She took a delicate bite and let the flavors mingle in her mouth.

“Well? What's the verdict?”

She didn't want to look a sandwich horse in the mouth but he
did
ask. “It's quite good. But…”

“What?”

“It could use some salt.”

“I didn't salt it on purpose. I believe that's an individual choice that shouldn't be foisted upon another person, unless you know that person very well. So,” Jeff pulled two small containers out of his jacket pockets. “I've got Himalayan Pink Salt and the ultimate, Fleur de Sel…from France, of course. Which one do you want?”