Betty's (Little Basement) Garden (17 page)

“Betty, there's no way you can control whether somebody shares their edibles or even their bud with a friend or family member. Don't go all Stalin on me, okay? Look, Dottie got one of your chocolates, loved it and was thrilled to know you were looking for patients. I think you and her –”

“You and
she
,” Betty corrected.

He sighed. “You and
she
would work well together. She's a little older than you, but she can still drive and work.”

“Wow. Imagine that? That reminds me. I've got to pick up my walker from the repair store.”

He smiled and gave her a gentle fist bump on her shoulder. “Okay, okay. Hey, one thing about Dottie is she's all about keepin' it on the down low, okay? Would Sunday work for you to meet her?”

“Sure. Give me her name tonight.” She started to get into her car and then turned around again. “You need a haircut.”

“No, I don't.”

“Yes, you do. You want to put a clean face on the cannabis industry?”

“Yeah. Maybe.”

“Get a haircut. It's like getting a fresh start for fewer than fifteen dollars.”

Betty arrived at
La Bella Vita
with time to spare. Judi waved to her from an outdoor table on the brick patio. Renée was nowhere to be seen, but Helen was firmly ensconced in a seat, wearing dark glasses and attempting to dodge the piercing sun. After an effusive greeting from Judi and a hug from Helen, Betty took a seat.

“Happy birthday, darling,” Betty said to Helen.

“Yeah. One more year of aches and pains. It's all down hill from here. You sure we can't get a table inside?” Helen asked Judi, hanging her head in a patch of shade.

“Honey, I told you, they're packed inside. Plus, a little sunshine won't kill you. Think of all the vitamin D you're absorbing right now.”

“Tell that to my dermatologist,” Helen mumbled.

“Where's Renée?” Betty asked, scooting in her wrought iron, padded chair and handing Judi the carefully wrapped brocade tablecloth she requested.

“Thanks, hon,” she said, securing the tablecloth under her chair. “I'm not sure where Renée is. She called and said she'd be late and that she had a surprise for us.”

Betty leaned over and checked out Judi's pants. They were the same linen ones she'd seen before but they looked a little different. “Hey, I thought you said they were sold out of those slacks.”

Judi took a sip of red wine. “They are. These are the same ones.”

“No,” Betty noted, “those are slightly different with the tie at the waist.”

Judi self-consciously looked down at her lithe waist. “Oh, right. I bought them at the same time. Just haven't worn them around you, I guess. Quite an eye for detail!”

“Yes,” she picked up the menu, “I seem to be seeing a lot of things more acutely lately.”

Judi noticed that Helen was about to take a pill from a tiny ceramic pillbox she'd brought out from her jacket pocket. “Oh, honey,” Judi quickly said to Helen, “you already took your pill. Remember?”

“I took the pink one, right?” Helen asked, rooting through the rainbow of pills in the box. “I have to take the tan one now. Can you tell them apart? This sun is bleaching out all the colors.”

Judi reached over, found the tan pill and handed it to Helen who downed it with water. The waiter popped over to announce the specials, none of which interested Helen, who wanted to know what dishes were not spicy, not salted and free of cheese. For someone who supposedly “adored” this place, she certainly seemed vexed. Before leaving, he laid out a warm basket of fresh bread and two side plates, one drizzled with olive oil and the other heaped with whipped butter.

He left and Betty piped up. “I think we need to change the name of our group.” She helped herself to a center slice of bread and heaped on a large dollop of butter.

“Why?” Judi asked.

“P.R.W.G. could leave us open for some rather crude play on words.”

Judi thought about it. “Like what?”

“I'd rather not say.” Betty took a generous bite of bread and glanced at the menu.

“Oh, Betty, you can be so prim sometimes.” Judi stole another sip of wine and leaned closer to Betty, speaking in a hushed tone. “Is that why you're afraid of getting to know Tom Reed?”

“I thought we were done with that conversation, dear,” Betty replied, keeping her eyes on the menu and enjoying another butter-drenched bite of bread.

“God, honey, aren't you afraid of all that cholesterol?”

Betty savored the salty taste of butter against her tongue. “Not really. I'm famished. God, this tastes divine!” She lifted the basket toward Helen. “Helen darling, try some with the butter.”

“No, thanks,” Helen said with a scowl. “I don't want to have a stroke on my birthday.”

Judi sat back. “How's your neck, Betty?”

Betty looked up and realized she hadn't had one problem with her neck, jaw or ear in days. “It's actually quite good,” she said.

“So, Roger's pills worked! Great! I told you he could fix you up! Aren't muscle relaxants fun?”

“Every time I take them,” Helen offered, “I can't feel my tongue.”

“Are you kidding?” Judi insisted. “They're awesome! When you find something that works, it's like a good friend you can always rely on. Hey, when I was a young mom and had to take the boys for long, road trips in the car, I'd give them each a healthy dose of cherry-flavored cough syrup. Knocked their asses right out and presto chango, peace and quiet.”

Betty stared at Judi. “Good God, Judi. You got them
drunk
?”

“It wasn't prescription! It was just extra-strength, jacked-up, cherry cough syrup.” She took a sip of wine. “Too bad you can't buy that brand anymore. Something about too many lawsuits. God, people are too damn litigious these days.”

“They stopped selling it, because it was cherry flavored booze for babies,” Betty countered.

“Hey, I had four boys.
Four
. And they were eighteen months apart. Little stair steps, my mother-in-law used to call them.” Judi swallowed another hearty sip of wine. “Riding in the car with those monsters was like recreating the Battle of Bunker Hill every damn time. So I gave ‘em a little cherry flavored, somethin'-somethin'. So what? It worked. I'd drive in peace, they napped and they'd arrive at the destination a little groggy, a little detached, but
alive
. They might not have been alive if I'd have had to put up with their crap for six, steady hours.”

Suddenly, it made perfect sense to Betty why three of Judi's four boys were alcoholics, and the fourth one owned a cherry orchard. “Mother's little helper,” Betty added. “Valium for mommy and cherry-flavored cough syrup for the kids.” She looked up from the menu. “It's all about escaping, isn't it?”

“What are you talking about?” Judi asked, her tone a tad terse.

“The pain? A need to temporarily disconnect. Why
do
so many feel the need
not
to feel? It's too bad all the things we can legally choose from don't really offer us any insight or introspection. They just knock us out or deepen the pain when they wear off.”

Helen and Judi regarded Betty with confused glances.

“Well,” Judi piped up, “that lightened the mood! Where in the hell is Renée?”

The waiter returned and Betty ordered a sparkling water with a lemon twist. Helen opted for room temperature water, no ice. She mumbled about not wanting to risk breaking a tooth on an ice cube. Judi ordered a second glass of red wine.

Betty closed the menu and stared at the ornate leather cover with the gold-embossed lettering. Tracing her fingertips across the words, she fell into thought.

“What is it?” Judi asked.

“
La Bella Vita
,” she said in a distant voice. “The Good Life. What makes it a good life?”

The waiter arrived with a fresh bottle of red as Judi drained her first glass and he refilled it. “I think the owners named it after some place in Italy they loved,” Judi offered.

Betty turned to her. “No. I don't mean this restaurant, Judi. I'm talking about
life.
What makes us get up in the morning and embrace the day? How do we fill our days, so that as we lay our head on the pillow, we can drift off to sleep and know it was a good day?”

Judi stared at Betty perplexed. She reached over and placed a gentle hand on Betty's wrist. “Oh, shit. Have you got cancer?”

“Who's got cancer?” Helen asked, briefly joining the conversation before ducking back into the scrap of shade.

“
No
, I don't have cancer.”

“Then why in the hell are you talking like this?” Judi questioned.

“Why is asking why we choose to do what we do every day, suspect?”

Judi took a hearty gulp of wine. “I don't know. It just seems unnecessary. If you stop to think about this kind of stuff too much, you just get morose.”

Betty set down her menu. “I don't agree. I need to feel useful. I always have. What's the point of it all if you're not useful to yourself or anyone else? I mean really, is life just all about maintaining a prize winning garden from May to October, decorating for the various holidays, giving and going to parties and get-togethers, lunching for hours, becoming addicted to mindless TV shows, and then feeling empty on Sunday because you don't know anything more about yourself than when you woke up last Monday?”

“Seriously?” Judi stressed, “you really don't have cancer?”

Betty shook her head. “I'm starting to understand how important it is to see what you don't want to look at. I think it's necessary to investigate various things in one's life and even question them. Sometimes…the very thing we fight or protest against is exactly the thing we actually need or lack.” She was slightly amazed by her discovery. “Ha! How ironic!”

“Hey, ladies!” Renée's booming voice rang against the pavement as she quickly approached their table. In her usual manic fashion, Renée greeted each of the women, air kissing them and then erratically taking her seat as she placed her huge purse, phone and satchel on the ground next to her chair. She slapped her hands against the table. “
We
are here to celebrate, ladies!”

“Yes! Helen's birthday,” Betty chimed in.

Renée temporarily lost her momentum. “Oh, right.” She dug into her satchel and pulled out a small, hastily wrapped gift with no card. “Happy birthday, Helen.”

Helen unwrapped the gift to find a bold, green and black, paisley sheer scarf. She stared at it, saying nothing. Betty recognized the scarf immediately. She'd given it to Renée several years ago. It was one thing to re-gift, but to re-gift in front of the initial giver took it to an entirely new level.

“
Now
,” Renée stated, holding rank over them, “I have some incredible news to share with all of you. I don't just write letters to editors, I make things happen! As of nine o'clock this morning, there is one fewer marijuana dispensary in Paradox!” She clapped her hands together, in a somewhat, self-congratulatory manner.

Betty felt a ball form in her throat. “Which one?”

“That monstrosity over by the market,” Renée said. “
Nature's Bud
? Surprise, surprise, the owner was selling weed to someone who didn't have a medical marijuana card
and
offered them psychedelic mushrooms as a back door purchase.
This
is exactly the kind of criminal activity we always knew existed in this pseudo-medical bullshit arena. So, a toast to us!” She raised her water glass.

Judi and Helen clinked their glasses against Renée's glass, while Betty simply lifted her glass a few inches.

“To criminals!” Helen barked.

“No, darling,” Renée gently reprimanded, “we're not toasting to criminals. We're toasting to the abolishment of these dope dens that increase crime in our neighborhoods and give kids the perfect gateway drug to the hard stuff like China White, Horse, Hillbilly Crack, Roofies, Ludes, Dexies, Blotters and Disco Biscuits.”

Well, Betty figured, that pretty much covered the hard drugs on the other side of the professed gate. “Who tipped off the cops?” Betty asked.

“You're lookin' at her, sweetheart!” Renée proudly exclaimed. “And we're not talking secondhand information here, ladies. I heard it straight from the lips of the dim-witted bitch who did the illegal deed.”

“When?” Judi asked, taking another sip of wine.

“Yesterday, at my A.A. meeting. When they opened up the topic to the room, a certain woman confessed to us how she went in and scored some weed without a card and was offered magic mushrooms.” Renée rolled her eyes. “What an idiot! I thought she was smarter than that! Needless to say, she had to turn in her six-month sobriety chip!” There was a deviousness to that last statement; a kind of “gotcha” mentality.

“Wait a second,” Betty interjected. “Isn't the whole anonymous part of this group supposed to protect what people say in there? Isn't that rather sacrosanct?”

Renée guzzled her water again, spitting an ice cube back into the glass. “Hey, if someone mentioned they were diddling their kid, I'd report it too!” she replied in a case-closed tone. “Illegal activity is reported. Good God, this isn't a confession between a priest and one of his flock! This is a bunch of drunks and drug addicts sitting around spilling their guts about their private nightmares. I mean, the woman who committed this felony at the dispensary should have
known
better! She's constantly telling us in the meetings how street savvy she used to be. Good lord, her uncle was her pimp when she was twelve and her brother used to drive her to meet the johns!”

“
Renée
!” Betty admonished. “It's Alcoholics
Anonymous
. Not Alcoholics
Revealed
!”