Betty's (Little Basement) Garden (25 page)

She looked at Betty with renewed appreciation. “Yes…
Yes
. That's brilliant! I think the same thing could be said for relationships too. The people we fight against might actually have something we desperately need.”

Betty felt an electrical pulse race up her spine. She jolted slightly.

“You alright?”

She centered herself. “Yes.” Betty heard the lying chime in her reply. “Well, actually…no.”

“Anything I can do?”

“No. It's mine to figure out. But thank you.” Betty opened the cooler and brought out the paperwork Dottie needed to make Betty her caregiver. “I filled in all my information,” she said, handing it to Dottie. Reaching back into the cooler, she brought out a page from her personalized notepaper. Her name and phone number were embossed across the top in gold print. “I don't have business cards, so I wrote my address on this paper in case you need it. You can call me whenever you need more candy.” She instructed her how to fill out the medical marijuana paperwork in blue ink and where to mail it.

“I'll take care of this immediately. Thank you.”

“You know, I don't have to name my business as a caregiver, but I wanted to call it something. I decided on ‘A Classy Joint.'”

Dottie erupted into a hearty laugh. “I love it! That's fun! You know, the quicker you can get a person to relax and show them you have a sense of humor, the more comfortable they'll be working with you.”

Betty suddenly felt more confident. She proudly brought out the exquisitely wrapped chocolates. “I made you five. I hope that's enough for now.” She explained about their potency and suggested various dosing options. The last thing she wanted was to get a call from Dottie saying she was stuck in the barn, off her trotter, and couldn't find her way out.

“Seriously,” Dottie said, “consider broadening what you offer your patients. Maybe baked goods? Or oil capsules? Or cannabis ghee. Or that salve.” She paused. “God, you never would have heard me saying this last year! What do I owe you?”

“I'm not supposed to charge you. Donations only.”

Dottie looked at Betty as if she'd just told her the sky was plaid. “Who in the hell made up that stupid rule?”

“I'm not sure.”

“So I'm supposed to expect you to do all the work, grow my plants, nurture the plants, process the plants, and then turn it into whatever I want for…whatever I think it's worth? Are Socialists involved in writing the state's medical marijuana laws?”

Betty smiled. “I certainly hope not.”

“You're a capitalist, aren't you?”

“Most definitely. I didn't name all of my cats after Ronald Reagan just to have a conversational launching pad.”

“
All
of your cats?”

“Every single one.”

“Oh, honey, we're going to get along just fine.” She opened her wallet and handed Betty a hundred dollar bill.

“I don't have change with me.”

“Keep it. How does one put a price on a good night's sleep? It's like putting a price on loss. That's always a steep one. But I don't have to tell you that. Peyton said you were also a widow.”

“Yes.”

“So you understand what I'm saying.” Dottie turned away, lost in her grief. “It's been four months and I still can't clean out his closet. That's his duster and boots over there.” She pointed to a pedestal coat rack. “It still smells like him, and I'm afraid if I move his things, they'll lose that aroma.” She swallowed hard, as her eyes welled with tears. “It's so hard. But I know you understand.”

Betty flashed on the box of Frank's medals and plaques that were thrown into the box in the basement. Any aroma left on them repulsed her. His clothes were long gone too, shoved into a trash bag with the hangers still attached and dragged to the curb even before he was planted six feet under.

“How do you get through the day?” Dottie asked, scratching for answers.

Betty thought about Frankie. It was the only way she could answer the question and not lie. “It's not easy. You keep busy. You take up hobbies. You help other people. But it's always there on the edge of your mind. Forgetting is never easy.”

Dottie nodded in agreement and turned back to the coat rack. “God, I miss him.” Tears flowed down her cheeks. “My arms ache…literally ache, to hold him again. I know I'll never feel that depth of love for anyone else. I'm not sure how I'm supposed to go on without him.” She grabbed a tissue and dabbed at her eyes.

Betty sat back in amazement. Envy surfaced. She wanted to feel what Dottie felt. Not the loss, but the love. Not the sadness, but the passion. But that wasn't safe, she silently counseled herself. That had its own built-in problems, starting with the fact she'd have to give up control. “You know, Dottie, one of the things that cannabis – marijuana – does is it forces you to be in the moment. The past doesn't matter and the future is unmapped. And somehow, that's okay. Because, you can't change the past and you can't strategize your future. I tried and I failed at it miserably. I wasted…” She stopped, realizing she'd never been this forthcoming with someone she'd just met.

“What?”

“I wasted my life.” The statement felt like a wall of bricks fell on her. “I'll be fifty-nine years old on July 25th, and I have wasted most of those years.”

“You could still have twenty good years left. Maybe more.”

Betty pondered that possibility. “Yes…you're right. I could. So could you. The future isn't written in stone. It's written in invisible ink from our own pen.”

Dottie smiled. She held up the medical marijuana paperwork. “It's written in blue ink for me. But you didn't –”

“Hear that from you?”

Dottie smiled again, this time with deeper enthusiasm. “I like you, Betty. I especially like the way you think.”

Betty took her time driving back to Paradox. She felt strangely reborn. And with that feeling, there was the unknown. Her future was a blank canvas and it needed paint that hadn't been mixed yet. But for whatever reason, it didn't scare her. She didn't want to rush it but she didn't want to miss it either.

She stopped off at the same dispensary where she'd purchased her Centennial Blueberry clones, and after reading all about the attributes of the available clones that were in stock, she selected three White Russians. The plant was known for its exceptional resin production and high THC – supposedly hitting the scale at over twenty-two percent. However, the dispensary owner told her he liked it, because due to the dense frost it produced, it could be made into “a stupid good salve.” Since Dottie encouraged Betty to expand her line of medicinal products, she concluded that those “stupid good” White Russians would be the perfect girls to add to her green family.

When she arrived home, she brought the flag inside and excitedly carried the three new clones downstairs and introduced them to their new sisters. She watered them, checked their leaves and brought in another oscillating fan to ensure optimal airflow. Back upstairs in the kitchen, Betty dove into the large rotisserie chicken she'd only picked at the night before. What she didn't eat, she plunked into a large crock pot, and after adding celery, a large onion, fresh rosemary, a dash of sea salt, and covering it with water, she set it on low to simmer.

Before leaving the ranch, Dottie had requested ten more chocolates. She started to bring out all the materials she'd need, when she glanced up to the darkened room above the garage. Instead of excessively questioning or debating the idea, she tossed all the things she'd need into a large basket and walked the short distance out the back door, across the stone path, and up the narrow stairs that led to the large room.

She turned on a few lights. The room felt cold and unapproachable. She had purposely avoided crossing its threshold, so she wouldn't be reminded of the colossal failure of her cherished chocolate shop. Betty opened a few windows to force the staleness out of the room and then whipped off all the protective covers on the commercial equipment from
The White Violet
. After brushing off the dust, she washed everything down with a damp rag. After an hour, she had everything plugged in and humming. Excitement bubbled under her veins. She felt like the maestro to this purring symphony of stainless steel. With a long handled spoon as her baton, she put together the chocolate base in the melter. Setting the cannabis-infused cocoa butter into a smaller melter, she waited patiently for it to liquefy. The room still felt somewhat dead and staid.

She flicked on the radio and heard the first strains of a sad selection from
La Bohème
on the pre-programmed classical radio station. As much as she usually adored the soothing strains of that beloved opera, something inside of her rebelled against it now. Punching buttons on the radio, she arrived at a classic rock station that was in the middle of Van Morrison's “Brown Eyed Girl.” Betty twirled back to check the melting cannabis butter. Stirring it in rhythm with Van Morrison's voice, she purposely allowed some of the liquid to splatter over the side of the saucepan. Without giving it a second thought, she wiped it up with her finger and sucked it off. Van Morrison gave way to ZZ Top and “Sharp Dressed Man.” Betty turned up the volume and grabbed another wooden spoon in order to play the drumbeat on the tempering unit. In between riffs, she checked and stirred the green medicine, each time wiping up the splatters with her fingers and licking them off.

By the time The Rolling Stones took over with “You Can't Always Get What You Want” and then The Hollies stepped to the plate with “Long Cool Woman In A Black Dress,” Betty had long since kicked off her pink pumps, with each shoe falling on an opposite side of the room. She hadn't had this much fun since…well, since never. And that feeling was punctuated when Steppenwolf's “Born to Be Wild” blared over the speakers. Another song and another dip of her wooden spoon into the cannabis butter, with the residual drops falling into her mouth.

Two glorious hours passed, and the radio continued to churn out one classic rock hit after another. The chocolate slid into the moulds in a perfectly-timed ballet of precision, as Betty blissfully added the measured doses of the canna cocoa butter. The room felt light as her body vibrated on its own frequency. Betty didn't give a damn about anything except watching the exquisite splendor of honey melding with velvety cocoa and infusing with cannabis in a harmonized masterpiece of confectionary magnificence. She fell into that moment, captivated. The buzz deepened in her body as tentacles of energy grew from every cell inside and radiated like rays of brilliant light from the summer sun. Journey's “Don't Stop Believin'” crested and dissolved into Robert Palmer's drum driven “Bad Case of Lovin' You.” Five-dozen dazzling chocolates filled with cannabis and still safe in their molds rolled off the small conveyor belt and rested on a tray that Betty quickly transferred to the freezer compartment. The bowl of green butter was empty, save for the oily residue Betty promptly licked out of the bowl.

It was nearly nine in the evening and Betty felt alive for the first time in forever. Robert Palmer sung, “Doctor, Doctor, Give me the news, I've got a bad case of lovin' you!” as Betty suddenly understood a deeper meaning in those lyrics. She twirled and shook her hips to the tune as if nobody was watching. The music was crisp, the lights were sparkling and the man standing outside the glass door, with those dancing blue eyes, was captivated.

Betty turned and saw Jeff. Slightly out of breath, she stood frozen, held lovingly in his gaze. That now familiar bolt of electricity shot up her spine, sending a flush across her cheeks. Her heart softened as she felt the cannabis oil take the edge off. Locked into the moment, there was nothing else that mattered except right now – no past and no future – just that miraculous instant she inhabited without fear.

The music continued in the background, as the drumbeat pounded in unison with her heart. He opened the door and walked toward her. Drawing her to his chest, he held her for what seemed like an eternity. When he finally pulled back, he cupped her face between his hands.

“I can't stop thinking about you, and I couldn't handle the way we left it last night.”

She dove in and out of his eyes. “I know. Same here.”

“You've never met the right man, Betty.”

A pulse of excitement vibrated throughout her body. “Maybe that's because I spent too many years with the wrong one.”

He smiled. “I've never met anyone like you.”

Her body was buzzing and alive. “Really? Don't you get out and about much?”

Jeff chuckled. “Oh, hell, Betty. I think I'm falling in love with you.”

Now her head was spinning in a delicious orbit. “I've never cooked you a full meal. How could you be falling in love with me?”

A smile lit up his face. “I don't know. It doesn't make sense, does it?”

“No,” she whispered, transfixed. “But I don't care.” She grinned impishly. “I'm not sure my mother would approve.”

He pulled away a few inches. “Am I the one your mama warned you about?”

She pulled him back to her. “Most definitely.”

“Don't worry. Those warnings were exaggerated on purpose. She saw the same rebel streak in you that I see. It's like you've been waiting all these years to explode.”

“Uh-huh,” was all she could get out, still drawn into his eyes.

He leaned closer to her. “You need a man who makes you think. You need someone who frustrates you, in a good way. But most of all, you need someone who keeps you honest.”

Her heart pounded as the room swirled in sensuous circles. There was a slight second of fear as his lips touched hers. But as he tenderly kissed her, the trepidation dissolved into the kind of passion she had never before experienced. Each kiss intensified every cell in her body, igniting a heat that swelled and grew, as his hands moved eagerly across her body. Their breathing rose and fell in unison. Betty never wanted anyone as much as she wanted Jeff and she gave in completely.

“It's been a long time for me,” Betty whispered.

“Don't worry. It's like riding a bike.”

“It's been even longer since I've ridden a bike.”

Turning off the lights and music, they raced down the stairs, into her house and upstairs to the bedroom, stopping along the way several times to steal an eager kiss. Ronald jumped off the bed as they disappeared under the sheets. Probing kisses were only slightly interrupted by frantic removal of clothing, which sailed across the room in every direction. There was a moment, lying there naked, when Betty felt embarrassed, suddenly aware of those extra pounds around her belly and waist.

“It's all right,” Jeff whispered, exploring her body with his lips. “You're beautiful.”

He rolled on top of her and she locked onto his gaze. How incredible it was to see herself reflected with such love in another's eyes. He kissed her and then moved his lips to her neck. A bolt of energy went down her spine.

“Oh…dear…God,” she managed to utter, as all other words were pointless.

His hands caressed places on her pale skin that no one had ever visited. With each discovery, a part of her that had been dead became awake and transformed. She arched her back as she felt him inside. Moving her hands across his square, tanned shoulders and down his muscular back, she felt protected and safe for the first time in her life. Neither the past nor the future was as important as that second and the next one after that. Rising and falling as one, they merged in exquisite harmony until Betty didn't know where she began or ended. And at the point where every sensation crested, their bodies responded as one and he fell back into her arms. She held onto him, never wanting him to move. They continued to hold each other for several blissful minutes, hearts fused in a breathtaking denouement.

Jeff nestled next to her and they spooned their bodies as he cupped his hand over her breast. A few more minutes of silence slipped away and then he spoke.

“I'll be fifty-four in one month.”

“Is that so?” she whispered.

They rolled out of bed two hours later and shared the shower. At first, Betty haltingly agreed, but the combination of his skin pressed against hers and the hot, pulsating water quickly won her over. She gave herself to him again, and they made love as the water beat down in a warm frenzy. A spark had been ignited within her; one that had been waiting for decades to find its flame. Now lit, it engulfed and dominated her. The pleasures of touch and form, of curves and muscle became insatiable. There was beauty and inventiveness that captivated her, leaving Betty exhausted and hungering for more. In that instant, she realized that this is who she really was. This is what she was born to feel and experience. Life was meant to be inhaled deeply, not tentatively suffered in shallow breaths stitched with fear. Life's flavors were there to be sampled and the ambrosia imbibed without inhibition. Love didn't require pain or fear or regret. It didn't need to be questioned or analyzed. Love just
was
.

And even though Betty didn't utter a word to explain how she felt, Jeff somehow understood exactly what was unspoken. He stood behind her as the water beat across their bodies and cupped her breasts in his palms. “You've heard about how people find old paintings in their attic, and the picture looks unremarkable? But then, they start to chip away at the top layer of paint, and they find this incredible masterpiece underneath. That's you, Betty. You've been hiding all these years underneath a canvas that's rich and sensual. You're like a sexy Rembrandt. Like
Bathsheba at Her Bath
.”

Betty thought about the image and turned to him. “I'm a woman with a large gut, bathing herself?”

“You're
zaftig
, Betty.”

“That's a diplomatic way of saying ‘fat'?”

He held her closer, cradling her in his arms. “Let it go.”

Those words stopped her. It was the second time Jeff used those specific words. “If only…” She nestled her head in his chest.

“You know what I think someone needs to do?” he asked. “They should take two cannabis plants and cross them. And the new strain that emerges should be desired by everyone but only available to one. That singular strain would be able to help you sleep and dream in Technicolor. It could relax your senses but also invigorate your mind. When you ingested it, you'd be able to step back and observe, allowing light to inhabit the dark corners. And then, whenever you were ready, it would give you the courage to step forward and not be afraid to voice your opinion…or stand up for someone who couldn't speak for themselves. That's the kind of plant I wish someone would create. And if they did, they would have to call it ‘Betty.'”

She looked at him and realized she had no words to express what her heart felt. All she knew in that blessed second was that you know you're connected to someone when you look into their eyes and you feel as if you're seeing yourself for the first time. Betty buried her head in Jeff's chest as the warm water cascaded down her body.

“I wish I was brave enough to find you sooner,” she said. “I wasted so much of my life.” She looked up at him. “You're everything I've ever wanted and everything I never knew I needed.”

As the clock struck midnight and the neighborhood went dark and into slumber, Betty and Jeff headed to the kitchen. With Betty wearing a clingy bathrobe and Jeff opting for a towel wrapped around his waist, they agreed that a chocolate crêpe wrapped around peanut butter and whipped cream sounded divine. Jeff helped whip up the egg base while Betty improvised a decadent cocoa and peanut butter mélange.

Setting the bowl to the side, Jeff crept behind Betty. “I remember all those times I saw you get up to speak at the town council meetings. Your voice was always really sexy, even if you were just talking about the need for a new speed bump on the main drag. You were always well dressed but
so
covered up. I kind of wanted to know what you were hiding under all that fabric.”

“Someone told me it's called a
zaftig
body.”

He leaned closer, whispering in her ear. “You've heard of a moveable feast? How about a moveable tryst?”

Betty softly chuckled at his clever bend of the English language. “I don't want to kill you.”

“I think that'd be a great way to die. Can't you see the article in the
Paradox Press
? ‘Jeff Carroll was found dead in bed. Rigor mortis apparently started in an isolated area a few hours prior to his demise' –”

She playfully swiped his shoulder. “That's terrible!”

He wrapped his arms around her waist, seductively inching his hands under her robe. “Later in the article, just to be accurate, it could say, ‘Mr. Carroll was apparently engaged in activity at the time of his death with local, Elizabeth Cragen.'”

She turned to him, smiling. “I'm never going to live that one down, am I?”

“When are you going to tell Peyton that Cragen is Craven?”

“Oh, don't ruin this moment. Let me just linger here a little longer. We don't even know for sure if he's read the names. Anyway, I don't want to think about that letter or telling Peyton or…”

“Your friends?”

Betty buried her head in his chest. “It's impossible. I couldn't do that.”

“You can't keep this operation a secret forever.”

She looked up at him with bold determination. “You bet I can! I read in the book you gave me that you never, ever,
ever
show anyone your grow operation. The fewer people who know, the fewer people to talk about it. Besides, you said yourself it's important to keep this low profile.”

“I'm not talking about alerting the media. I'm talking about your friends.”

She shook her head. “No. They're never going to find out. I can be quite formidable when I need to be, and my friends will never know what's behind that door. Believe me, I've planned this whole thing out. That's one thing I did learn from Frank; figure out everything that can go wrong and circumvent it before anything happens. I assure you that whatever I set out to do in this life from now on, I will do
well.
If I decide to be a stripper, I will be an award-winning stripper!”

“Well,” he kissed the top of her head, “good luck on that one, doll.”

“Doll? I don't like that pet name.”

“What did Frank call you?”

“I believe it was, 'Come here,'” she deadpanned. “But it never sounded as romantic as that when
he
said it.”

“Did you ever get him back in your own little way?”

She thought. “Yes. I used to put regular coffee in his decaf cup at night just to give him the jitters all evening long.”

“Whew, Betty. And the black ops assassins haven't offered you a power gig?”

She gave Jeff's backside a playful smack. “How complex do you want this filling?”

Jeff started toward the living room. “Life's complicated enough, sweets. We don't need a filling to exacerbate it.”

“‘Sweets'?” Betty said, shaking her head. “I don't think so.” She heard him ruffling through a bookcase in the living room, and her thoughts turned to all those nights she purposefully got Frank jacked up on caffeine so he couldn't sleep. She suddenly realized that in her passive/aggressive need to get back at him, she'd ironically made her own life worse. The better option would have been to give him something calming, so she didn't have to deal with his caffeine-driven pacing all night long.

Jeff returned to the kitchen carrying the white violet print and an old scrapbook. “This could have some value,” he said as he sat down at the table.

“I could never sell that,” Betty assured him, pouring the crêpe batter onto the hot pan. “It has too much meaning.”

“Why white violets? Was that a flower that meant something between you and your son?”

“Not at all. I have no idea why he felt so strongly that I needed to have that. But he was quite insistent that day.” She stopped, her heart moving back in time. “He was very purposeful the last time I saw him. He wanted to be upstairs by himself, then he walked outside to the big elm and finally he gave me that print. Told me to ‘pay attention.'”

“Pay attention to what?”

“I don't know. He was probably high at the time. It was also part of a vision he'd had and wanted to share with me. I went along with it so he would feel good.”

Jeff stared at the white violet print before gently placing it on the table and opening the scrapbook. “What's this?” He turned the scrapbook toward her and pointed to a back page. It was a photo of Betty standing on stage, accepting a blue ribbon. Next to her was a ten-foot-tall mullein stalk in full flower.

“That was a joke! I was always entering the proper rose and lily competitions at the State Fair. Judi dared me to enter the ‘Tallest Weed' competition and I took the challenge. I figured I'd just use my secret fertilizer on it and off to the races we'd go.”

“What's the secret?”

She tested the crêpe and flipped it over. “Beans.”

“Coffee?”

“No. Llama.” She added a small handful of hemp seeds to the peanut butter and whipped cream blend before carefully spooning it onto the crêpe.