Betty's (Little Basement) Garden (27 page)

Betty devised a plan. She dug up an old red wagon that was stored in the garage, placed three pots at a time in the wagon, and wheeled them out the sliding glass door and into the warm sunshine and steady but calm wind. She'd learned that direct light wasn't a good idea after cannabis plants had been foliar sprayed, so she arranged them, one by one, in a circle under the stippled light and protective cover of the large elm tree. She stood back to admire her brood, when a honeybee made pinpoint contact with her ring finger. Betty let out a little yelp as the burning sensation began and steadily increased. She raced inside and into the kitchen, where she was able to gingerly remove the stinger and hold her hand under cold running water. After several minutes, she thought about the cannabis infused coconut oil and decided to try an experiment. Cutting off a small chunk of the frozen slab, she melted it between her hands and then generously covered the entire swollen finger with the oil. She lavished her arms and face with the leftover droplets and debated the rest of her day, when her peripheral vision caught sight of a figure in the backyard. With her heart racing, she didn't hesitate as she bolted out the kitchen door. She stopped short fifteen feet later.

“Hi.”

Betty secured her robe around her waist. Her neighbor's five-year-old daughter was sitting cross-legged on the grass, under the elm tree, seemingly mesmerized by the nine cannabis plants waving in the gentle breeze. “Hello, sweetheart.” Betty calmly moved toward her. “What are you doing here?”

The child looked up at her. “My ball went over your fence.” She pointed to a large, red ball nestled in the grass.

Betty's heart was still racing, but she was doing everything possible to act nonchalant. “You better go home, darling, before your mother comes looking for you.”

“What's that called?” the child asked, sweetly pointing her finger toward a plant.

“That's called…” Betty hesitated. “That's called Centennial Blueberry.”

The child appeared transfixed. “And that one over there?”

“That's called Kushberry.”

She looked up at Betty. “They're pretty.”

Betty took a slow breath. “Thank you.”

The child stared a little longer before casually getting up, grabbing her ball and walking out of the back gate.

Betty wasn't sure what just occurred but she wished it could always be that easy.

An hour later, with the girls sufficiently dry, Betty put them back under their grow light. She'd gotten an enthusiastic call from Lily at
The Gilded Rose
that her table runners had sold. Dressing in a brightly colored floral summer shirt and skirt, she raced out of the house, and after saying a quick prayer to the automotive gods, zoomed over to the consignment store. Instead of being able to roll a bowling ball down the aisles without hitting anyone, today the store was teeming with customers. Lily motioned to Betty, telling her she'd be with her shortly. From the corner of her eye, Betty noticed Yarrow outside, smoking a cigarette. She walked outside and sidled next to the girl.

“Hey,” Yarrow said in a friendly tone.

“Hello. We've already met each other informally,” Betty stated in a friendly voice. She extended her hand. “My name's Betty Craven.” Betty noted that the usual black streak down the center of Yarrow's hair was gone, lending a softer and prettier look to her face.

“Hey, Betty. I'm Yarrow.” She shook Betty's hand in a loose grip.

“Oh, you have to improve on that,” Betty suggested.

“Huh?”

“Your handshake. You want a firm grip. Not too intrusive but not like a dead fish. It should be confident but absent of arrogance.”

Yarrow looked at Betty, not quite sure what to think. “You okay?”

“Yes. I'm quite well, thank you.”

Yarrow tossed her cigarette to the pavement and crushed it. “Well, I gotta get back –”

“Your hair looks nice without that skunk stripe down the center. You should keep it like that.”

“Yeah? You think?”

“Yes. Most definitely.”

“It's Monday. I usually dye it blue on Mondays, but I ran out of coloring.”

“Is that right? Well, the money you didn't spend on coloring, you could invest in a new hairstyle. Something fresh that makes your eyes pop.”

She nodded. “Yeah. I've been thinking about that.”

“I can give you the name of a wonderful stylist.”

“Cool.”

“I thought you were going to Canada on a trip.” Betty saw that the girl was confused. “Lily mentioned it to me when I was here last.”

“Oh. Yeah, well I decided not to. I have a lot of anxiety about flying.”

“Terrorism?”

“Hell, no. I don't want to be radiated in a naked body scanner and have my private images analyzed by fat men drinking diet sodas.”

Betty considered her concern. “So, it's not the destination that gives you pause, it's –”

“The getting there that does.”

“Yes. Good point.” She leaned against the building. “Well, that could be said for a lot of things. It's not so much where we're going, it's the journey that can stall us.”

“I hear you.”

“Sometimes, if you have someone in your life who is supportive and shares common interests, it can soften those anxious edges and make the journey a lot easier.”

“Yeah, I suppose. It's just me and my mom, though. And she's always working.”

Betty smiled broadly. “So you're saying you don't have a boyfriend?”

Yarrow shook her head.

“Well, I might be able to help you with more than just a new hairstyle.”

Betty pocketed seventy-five dollars from Lily for the two table runners and stopped off at a hardware store to purchase a pair of digital thermometers that connected to a remote sensor. She figured this way she could monitor the heat in the veg area from any room in her house. The next stop was twenty miles outside of Paradox to
The Lazy Llama Ranch
. She needed some fresh beans, and the pile just inside the pasture gate looked top-notch. Shoveling the black beans into several trash bags, she secured them in her trunk and headed back to the house.

As she turned into her driveway, she was planning the rest of her day when a car pulled in behind her. Looking in the rearview mirror, her jaw tightened.

“Judi!” Betty said, pulling the handle to release the trunk.

Judi looked anxious as she approached the Taurus. In her hands, she carried the borrowed tablecloth. “Hi, Betty.” She glanced at the plastic trash bags in Betty's trunk and backed away from the pungent scent. “That smells like shit!”

“That's because it is shit, darling,” Betty replied, heaving one of the bags onto the driveway.

“Shouldn't you wear gloves when you handle that?”

“Maybe. But I'm living more dangerously these days,” she half-joked, lugging another large bag of beans out of her trunk.

Judi observed her. “You look different.”

“Do I?”

“Yes. Strangely different.”

“Strangely good or strangely bad?”

Judi regarded Betty more closely. “Different.”

“Hmmm. I have absolutely no idea what could be the cause of that.” Betty relocated the final bag from her trunk and closed the lid with a good slam.

“Here,” Judi offered, handing her the tablecloth. “I wanted to return this to you as soon as possible. I hate it when people don't return things after they borrow them. Everyone at our party loved it by the way. They kept telling Roger how it made the table look so classy.”

She smiled. “Is that right? Well, I've been told I have a classy joint.” She dragged one of the larger bags closer to the front garden. “Keep the tablecloth.”

Judi looked confused. “What?”

“Keep it. I don't need it.”

Her back went up. “Oh, so now you're giving away stuff? This is one of the signs, Betty.”

“Of what?”

She hesitated and then spoke. “Suicide.”

Betty stopped what she was doing and tried not to look too shocked. “You have got to be kidding me.”

“Hey, half of Roger's patients are suicidal. He's told me all about the signs.”

“If half of his patients are suicidal, perhaps he needs to make adjustments in their treatment options.”

“He does! He adjusts their meds! Listen, I want to help you get over whatever in the hell is bothering you. That way, we can go back to the way it was.”

Betty felt a primordial surge, but she didn't want to release it too fast and shock Judi. “I'm not sure that's possible.”

Judi approached her, grabbing Betty's arm tightly. “Okay, you're scaring me. If you're not suicidal and you don't have cancer, then what in God's name is going on?”

Betty calmly looked at Judi, part of her wishing she could tell her and the other part wishing she'd leave.

“Look,” Judi expressed with shallow breaths, “I'm sorry about what I said at lunch the other day. I didn't mean to slam your son in any way.”

“My son? His name is Frankie.”

“I know that. I just…I…”

“It's messy, isn't it? That's why we don't talk about him, right? Addiction is not a polite, dinnertime discussion. Best to just keep silent and pretend it doesn't exist.”

Judi caught the connotation of Betty's statement and stiffened. “I didn't think you'd want to talk about him, given the way he was found.”

“I talk to Frankie every day. And sometimes I hear him speak back. I'm not ashamed of him one bit. I'm as much to blame for his death as anyone.”

“You didn't put the needle in his arm.”

“No. But I did keep the father in his life.”

Judi furrowed her brow. “What in the hell are you talking about? Frank Sr. was fabulous! An incredible provider, a man of integrity, a patriotic American –”

“Right.” Betty needed to stop her before the drumbeat of the
Battle Hymn of the Republic
began playing. “He was also a man with a lot of problems.”

This stunned Judi. “Who doesn't have problems?”

“He drank far too much.” There. She said it. And for whatever reason, there wasn't a shred of remorse or regret.

Judi pursed her lips. “Yes…well…there are worse things than that.”

Betty checked her watch. “I need to get going.”

Judi nodded and turned back to her car. “Hey, if you have to go out again, avoid the east side of town. They've got Lake Road taped off.”

“What happened?”

“Oh, it's no big deal. Some guys with guns broke into this couple's house and kicked in their teeth, trying to steal their pot plants.”

Betty froze. “What?”

“I know. I know. What do these people expect? Rumor has it that the couple are marijuana ‘caregivers.'” She rolled her eyes. “Yeah, right. Whatever. You play with fire, you're going to get burned. Just a bunch of stoner losers. No need to lose sleep over it.”

Betty debated canceling Jeff's visit that night, but then she realized how incredibly relaxed she'd been all day. She needed another calming dose after hearing about the break-in from Judi. His response, when she told him about the armed home invasion, was in keeping with his nimble flexing of the English language. “People who live in glass houses shouldn't get stoned.”

They also had no place to hang their artwork, Betty thought, as her mind drifted momentarily. But after an appetizer of lovemaking and a delicious dinner of free-range lemon garlic chicken on a bed of arugula and pine nuts, drizzled in an olive oil and lime dressing, the upsetting news of the day didn't seem as dire. Finishing off the meal with a decadent coffee crème brûlée, Betty couldn't have cared less if the scale said she was one or two pounds heavier. She was getting quite fond of diving into the sensuous side of life. Her only regret was not commencing it sooner. All those wasted nights of allowing fear to chart her course did nothing but guarantee loneliness and grief.

As Jeff lay sleeping beside her that night, she listened to the sounds of the night outside her open bedroom window. She realized that the evening wasn't the enemy any longer. Where before it fell like a mournful companion, forcing her under the covers to escape the clutches of the unknown, now the night was just the night. It didn't own her or hold her hostage. Instead of cowering under the sheet, she allowed the warm, late spring air to caress her bare legs. She decided it was favorable to start a love affair when the weather was warmer. She could wear less clothing, which was quicker to remove. The windows could be wide open, allowing the breeze to blow across her body as she lay on top of the tangled sheets. She could hear the birds and the rustle of leaves on the trees, and make the connection that the life outside was as vibrant as she felt at that moment.

She also concluded that relationships later in life are often more real. In youth, you're looking for a partner to start a family. Eliminate that criteria and the pressures that go with it, and suddenly you're looking for someone you get along with and who shares common ground with you. While Betty wasn't certain what common ground she and Jeff enjoyed, somehow her heart told her he was someone she needed. And it seemed he needed her. The mere fact that they could be in the same room and not feel the need to constantly talk was a sign of how comfortable they'd quickly become with each other. Then there was the way he seemed to understand her like no one else ever had. That kind of vulnerability was new to her. Peyton also appeared to have a certain ability to bore through the façade. It was as if the loving husband she'd never had and her second imperfect son had simultaneously come into Betty's life to release her from her self-imposed, staid ways. As each new day dawned, with the breath of transformation hovering nearby, she felt the need to throw off more shackles.

And yet, when she awoke the next morning, angst – her more common bedfellow – noticeably drifted perilously close. As she lay there longer, watching the sun weave its way across the large window and illuminate the bedroom, she felt a quiver of skepticism. Her mind quickly started to spin webs of doubt. Was she guilty of repeating old patterns in new forms? When the honeymoon wore off, would she discover that Jeff was just as controlling as Frank Sr.? Perhaps she should have pushed her heart toward someone more…conventional. There was safety in convention and none of the embarrassments of explanation that she despised. Convention hadn't worked for her, and it certainly didn't entice happiness out of its cloistered shell, but it was dependable in its bland, predictable way.

She gingerly turned toward Jeff. He was still sound asleep. Would he be insulted or understand her quandary? Betty quietly slipped out of bed and donned her robe. She snagged an old copy of
High Times Magazine
from the stack Peyton had loaned her and padded quietly down the stairs. Seated in the kitchen with her strong cup of coffee, she flipped through the magazine. Advertisements with nubile, long-haired girls lying naked with their nipples and nether regions covered in cannabis buds got her attention. It seemed that ninety percent of the ads featured a nude or scantily clad, buxom girl, whether they were selling glass pipes, carbon filters or organic nutrients. Yes, it became clear to Betty that cannabis growing was indeed a “boy's club,” and that club clearly required a steady stream of sexually desirable females to prop up their products.

After reading a few short articles on “How to buy the best fan for your grow room” and one on a born-again Christian tattoo artist who “loved to smoke the herb,” Betty noted an ad with “420” prominently displayed. She recalled how the grow store where Peyton worked closed at “4:20,” and how Dr. Jan's nurse chuckled when she told her she had a “4:20 appointment.” The mystery was solved when Betty read the small print under the ad. It seemed that “4:20” was code for the time each afternoon when students involved in the cannabis culture would stop to light up.
High Times
referred to “420” as a “ritualization of cannabis use that holds deep meaning.” So deep, in fact, that April 20 was also designated as the day when many students collectively “light up a doobie” on college campuses everywhere.

She heard the upstairs shower water draining through the old pipes and realized Jeff was up and about. Betty brought out the eggs and milk and was about to whip up an omelet when she noticed her next-door neighbor, Crystal, peering over the back gate. She darted out the back door, securing her robe tightly around her waist and tried her best to casually greet the woman.

“Good morning!” Betty said with a stiff smile.

“Hey, little Miss Green Thumb!”

Betty regarded Crystal with caution. “What do you mean?”

“Sophia told me all about your new endeavor!”

Betty froze but maintained her posture. “I don't know…what?”

“Berries! You're growing berries! How fun! And how brave are you?!”

Right. The child heard the word “Blueberry” and “Kushberry” and she understood “berry.” Why in the hell growing berries was brave was beyond Betty. Going to war or running into a burning house to save a person requires bravery. But she kept smiling the whole time. “Oh, well. You know, something to keep my old fingers busy.”

Crystal started to unlock the gate. “Can I see them?”

“Oh, actually they're in pots and they're inside. And they're small. Quite small.”

She seemed disappointed. “Oh. Shoot. Well, another time perhaps.” She started off and then turned back. “Hey, just wonderin'. The motorcycle?” She pointed to Jeff's ride in the driveway. “Are you riding now?”

“God no!” Betty said with a chuckle. “No, no, no. I don't ride motorcycles.” There was an awkward patch of silence. “It belongs…” she hesitated, feeling her chin tremble, “to one of the men who is helping me out. Sometimes, they leave their trucks or…motorcycles…” The more she talked, the less her words sounded genuine.

“Oh. Well, I hope one day I'll get to see whatever wonderful renovations you're doing. Your kitchen is to die for.”

Betty nodded and after another effusive gush of chatter, they parted. Returning inside, she peered through the front window and watched as Crystal got into her Lexus and drove away.

“Hey!”

Betty turned, startled. Jeff moved toward her and kissed her passionately.

“Good morning, babe,” he said with enthusiasm.

“Morning.”

He cocked his head. “Something wrong?”

She shook her head. “No. Not a thing. I'll start breakfast.”

After Jeff left for the store, Betty called Dr. Dave. He picked up after the second ring and expressed how much he liked the sample gourmet chocolate Peyton had given him. They arranged to meet near a lake located thirty miles west of town. “Wear something casual,” he said to Betty, after telling her he'd like another ten of her chocolates. “It's still a little muddy around the water's edge.”

Betty didn't ask Dr. Dave why he insisted on meeting at a lake and not his home or office. Searching for something casual to don, she settled on a pair of soft green linen trousers and a cream-colored summer sweater top with three-quarter sleeves. It was as casual as Betty got. In truth, the trousers were more akin to casual-with-a-chance-of-brunch-at-the-club. But she hoped they would work for their muddy lake meeting.

Dr. Dave's directions were perfect. Once Betty hit the rural dirt road, she traveled along the lonely ribbon of dust and rocks, keeping a keen eye out for the road markers he gave her. Arriving at the final one, she pulled her car off to the side and saw the silver Toyota Highlander he had described, parked under the shade of a large Aspen grove. She removed the cooler that held the candies and traipsed through the new grass, until she came to a short hill that descended and opened up into a pristine, glass-topped mountain lake. The only sounds were the birds chirping and the water lapping softly around the edges of the muddy bank.

“Hello?” Betty called out, her voice echoing into the bluebird sky.

“Hi!” Dr. Dave called back.

Betty shaded her eyes against the arcing sun and spied the good doctor around the bend, fly-fishing about one hundred feet out into the lake.

He removed a fat cigar from his mouth. “I put some chest waders under that aspen tree on your left!” he called out to Betty.

Betty regarded him with a confused gaze. “You want me to come out
there
?”

“Yeah!”

This was certainly different. She set the cooler down under the breezy shade of the aspen trees and struggled into the waders that covered her body from chest to toe. She reasoned that the good doctor was still a bit paranoid from his time in Vietnam and needed a seriously discreet location in which to discuss his medical cannabis usage. Once dressed in the unforgiving rubber suit, Betty walked out into the water, ignoring the occasional sucking sound her feet made when she hit a pocket of air and mud. The closer she got, the better she could observe the doctor. His skin was rough and hardened by the sun; his short wavy grey hair was neatly combed and secured under a green baseball cap with the insignia of a medical institution embroidered on the front. He looked to be about her height with a square, stocky build. One thing was for sure – he was focused intently, almost in a meditative manner, on casting his line back and forth.

She finally arrived by his side. The smell of cigar smoke clung closely, like an earthy perfume. Betty extended her hand. “I'm Betty Craven.”

He kept the cigar perched between his lips and shook her hand. “Doctor Dave. Nice to meet you.” He sized her up. “You're not what I was expecting.” He cast his line.

“What were you expecting?”

“Maybe more of a Bohemian.”

“You ate one of my chocolates, and you seriously thought a Bohemian was capable of creating that?”

He laughed. “You got me on that one.”

“If you don't mind me asking, why are we meeting out here? Are you that concerned about people finding out?”

“I don't give a shit what people think.” He cast his line into the water. “This is my office. This is my refuge. This is my sanity. This and Mary Jane.”

Betty took a gander around the pristine locale. “I can see your attraction to it. Peyton mentioned you were a surgeon in Vietnam? My late husband was career military.”

“I'm sorry,” he said casually.

“Yes. Thank you.” She wanted to fill the empty space. “He had a lot of…issues.”

“Yep.”

Doctor Dave was a man of few words, she reckoned. “If he knew I was growing the plants, he'd have one helluva fit.”

“Well, good thing he's dead I guess.” He cast the line, this time further.

It was obvious to Betty that Dave wasn't wrapped up in posturing himself in platitudes or polite chitchat. “Do you still practice as a surgeon?”

“Here and there,” he puffed on his cigar. “I mostly do a lot of consulting.”

“Do others in your profession know you partake of the herb?”

“You mean, do they know I smoke doobie? Yeah, they know. And if they ever give me shit for it, I remind the bastards that most of them haven't met a pain pill or sleeping pill that they don't love. And if they keep arguing the point with me, I tell them to pull their heads out of their asses and do some research.”

No, Doctor Dave didn't give a damn about what anyone thought of him. Suddenly, the formerly taciturn physician became quite talkative. He spoke about how too many of the popular pain medications create detachment, whereas cannabis encourages introspection. “I realize now,” he offered, “how scared people are of introspection. Of focusing and delving into what's in front of you and seeing it from a new perspective.” He whipped the fly line behind him and cast it forward. “Drugs and alcohol let you tune out. Pot makes you tune in. But you have to be open to hearing the message.” He puffed on his cigar. “Maybe that's why the Feds keep it illegal. You ever think of that?”

Betty shook her head. “Not really.”

“Well, you see, this is the kind if shit one ponders when one tokes.” He said it with a smile, but it was laced with sincerity. “I don't think the powers-that-be want a pensive populace. All those people questioning their lives, and why they do what they do. The usefulness or use
les
s
ness of it? I'm not saying progress is the enemy. I'm not saying work and diligence are worthless. It's a question of whether the things you have been programmed to do, believe, become and repeat are useful to you. We're all just puppets in this insane play, unless we choose to cut the strings and actually think for ourselves. That's what pot does for me. It saved my life. That's not an exaggeration, Betty. It saved my fucking life.” He turned around, seeking out a new section of the lake to cast his line. “Forty years ago, I had a noose tied so tightly around my neck, and then one day, I realized I was the one who put it there. I could hang myself or I could remove the noose and use that same rope to pull myself back into some scrap of sanity.” He let the line lay on the water a little longer. “You can't simultaneously control people, while offering them guaranteed freedom as their birthright. You can pass all the laws you want, but in the end, people will find a way to do whatever it takes to get from here to there in their minds. Even a man in a solitary cell, with nothing but the four cement walls around him, can imagine himself out of that hell hole, running free in the open air and warm sunshine. He can shift his consciousness to another place by repetitively humming a single sound, holding his breath, spinning in circles. And nothing anyone does, short of killing him, will stop him if that's what he chooses to do.”