Betty's (Little Basement) Garden (33 page)

She glanced back at Judi. “Really? You look hungry.”

“I'm not hungry. Anyway, I gave the guy your phone number, and he should call you today or tomorrow.”

Betty's mind went blank. She noticed Judi's outfit, along with the linen pants she seemed to live in. “I
do
love those pants. You really scored –”

“Scored? That's not usually a term you would use.”

“Oh? Humph.”

“Why are you being evasive about the equipment? I thought you wanted to sell it.” She let out a hard sigh. “Jesus, Betty. I'm trying to help you. I'm trying to be your friend. Why…why is this becoming so difficult lately?”

Betty saw the true distress in Judi's eyes. For the first time, she also saw the pain that hung there. She walked back to the kitchen table and rested her hand over Judi's arm. “I'm sorry, darling. I don't mean to be evasive. Thank you for putting the word out regarding my equipment.” A thought dove into her mind. “But I actually already have a buyer who is interested. I met her this weekend, in fact.”

“Where?”

“Where?”

“Yeah. Where?”

“Ouray. The hot springs?”

“You went to Ouray hot springs for your birthday and you didn't invite me?”

Betty was perplexed. “I didn't know you liked hot springs.”

“I
love
hot springs. I was born to soak in a hot spring! I used to carry a travel guide that notated every hot spring in Colorado.
That
is how much I love hot springs.”

“I had no idea. Well anyway, I met a woman there and mentioned about the equipment, and she was quite interested.”

“You're soaking in the Ouray hot springs and you bring up your chocolate making equipment? Really? How does that just slip into the conversation?”

Betty started to come up with another fabrication when the phone rang. She crossed over to check the Caller ID on the phone but couldn't find where she'd left the receiver. Two more rings and the voicemail came on.

“Hey, Betty! It's me, Peyton!”

Betty pushed every button on the phone unit in an attempt to mute his voice, but instead, she pushed the button that increased the volume.

“Wanted to make sure you got home from your getaway,” Peyton continued.

“Peyton?” Judi said. “Isn't that the kid Renée said you're mentoring?”

“Everything looks good at your place. Did a little watering since some of the plants looked dry…”

“
He
was your house sitter?” Judi asked, incredulously.

“No, no, no,” Betty breathlessly offered, still hunting for the receiver. “Just popped in here and there.”

Peyton continued. “You might want to check Ronald out. He seems kinda out of it. He was makin' a whistling sound when I was talking to him yesterday morning.”

“
I
could have taken care of Ronald for you,” Judi stressed.

“Oh, and one thing before I forget,” Peyton pressed on. “I had a little chat with Helen on Saturday afternoon….”

Oh God no
, Betty thought, feverishly trying to figure out how to stop this nightmare, short of unplugging the phone and throwing it through the kitchen window.

“I think you need to keep an eye on her, Betty. Ever since Ronald took a bite out of her, she doesn't seem normal…whatever normal is for Helen…”

Judi looked at Betty. “Ronald bit Helen? I never heard this!”

“I also noticed some white patches on her,” Peyton added.

“White patches?
What
? Why was Helen here on Saturday when you were gone?”

“I'm not sure what the white patches are, to be honest with you,” Peyton offered, “but I think it's gotta be some kind of nutrient deficiency.”

Judi furrowed her brow. “So now this kid's a doctor?!”

“Where's the goddamned phone?!” Betty yelled as she tore into the living room searching for it.

“Please don't get worked up like you always do and think she's gonna die,” Peyton said in a reassuring voice. “She's probably fine, but she'll always be high maintenance. Maybe she just needs a big –”

“Peyton!” Betty quickly said, as she found the phone and cut off the voicemail. “How lovely to hear from you! I have a friend here right now and can't talk, but let's connect later on today, okay?”

Peyton hesitated. “Geez, Betty. You sound kinda like you lost your mind.”

“You have no idea!” Betty said. “Talk to you soon.” She hung up and walked back into the kitchen.

Judi was waiting with her arms folded. “Helen needs a big
what
?”

“Dose of vitamins.” Betty rested the phone on the cradle. “She has seemed a little out there lately, don't you agree?” She was trying desperately to keep her voice modulated and free of the high pitch that often signaled deception.

“Helen has
always
been out there and disagreeable. But if you think she's sick, you should confide in
me
, not that kid! I could talk to Roger and he could prescribe –”

“No! I'm sure it's nothing to worry about –”

“White patches? Where are these patches? I've never seen them!”

“You're sure you don't want anything to eat, honey?” It was evident to Betty that the layers of deceit were earning interest by the minute.

Judi got up and started for the front door. “Roger's annual summer party is
this
Sunday. Three o'clock. Our house. I expect you to be there for me.”

Betty didn't want to go, but the look on Judi's face disarmed her. “I'll bring something.”

“You don't have to bring anything.” An odd sadness came over her. “Just bring yourself.” There was a heavy pause. “
Please
.”

Betty nodded. “I'll be there. Hey, you said you wanted to talk to me in person about something you found out?”

“Oh, right. Thought you should know there's a rumor going around that someone in your neighborhood is growing pot.”

Betty steadied herself against the kitchen sink. “Who?”

“I have no idea. But you might want to keep your eyes open. That kind of crap attracts the kookiest people.”

Several days passed and Betty's anxiety didn't abate. Even with the regularly nightly doses of her trusted cannabis oil, she found her head swimming during the day. The lies were stacking up like old bricks, one on top of the other. One wrong move and it would all come down in a jagged heap. How could rumors about a grow op have gotten out? Then she wondered if there could possibly be someone else in her little enclave, surreptitiously doing the same thing in their basement? But if not, and the rumor was about her, how in the hell did that information leak?

And Helen and her “white patches”? Every time Betty remembered that, her anxiety peaked again. But she saved the greatest angst for Jeff. He called twice before she finally got back to him. She was polite and thanked him profusely for a lovely birthday weekend, but she knew he wasn't stupid. Betty wasn't giving all of herself. She was pulling back, allowing fear to take over. And every time she felt herself holding back, she detected a little voice in her head saying, “Are you nuts?”

When he finally showed up on Thursday, saw the beater Pontiac in her driveway and then discovered the story behind it, he was clearly upset she didn't call him to pick her up that night.

“I wasn't even halfway back to Paradox,” he told her. “It was no big deal. I could have come and gotten you!”

“It's one thing to catch a ride on your bike to go up a short hill,” Betty said, slightly flustered. “It's quite another hanging on for dear life for almost thirty miles.”

He observed her carefully, his face slightly troubled. “What's going on, Betty?”

She couldn't say it, so she opted for something else. “My name is apparently now synonymous with cannabis.” She explained the peculiar evening she spent with Bert and Ernie. “And rumors are flying that ‘someone' in this neighborhood is growing pot!”

He listened, but she could tell he knew she wasn't being completely forthcoming. “Well…okay…so it's time to come clean with your friends.”

“Jeff, are you out of your mind?” Her tone was harsh.

“Actually, no. I'm not. Don't you have enough stress right, now nurturing these plants and keeping up with all your patients' needs? Why add to it by continuing all this secrecy?”

“You know the answer.”

“Yeah, I do,” he said with a somber tenor. “You're searching for that rope.”

“What rope?” she questioned, feeling the tinge of resentment.

“You jumped off the cliff but you landed on a ledge, and now you're looking for the rope so you can climb back up to the top instead of seeing if you can fly.”

“Please don't assume you know everything that's going through my head. You don't. You have no idea.”

His blue eyes traced hers with a subdued gaze. “Don't do this, Betty,” he said quietly. “Remember what you felt like three months ago? You want to go back to that? Mrs. Elizabeth Cragen?
She's
safe, isn't she? Nobody knows who she is. She can smile, even when she's dying inside. She can laugh, when all she wants to do is cry. And she can crawl under the covers and hide, until her house falls down around her.”

“Stop it, please.”

“Goddammit, Betty,” he said, slight ire building.

“You're upset. Maybe you should go.”

He let out a sigh. “I have to work on Saturday doing inventory. How about on Sunday we go out and –”

“I can't. I promised Judi I'd attend their annual summer party.”

“Right. Judi. She was in the store recently picking up lunch.”

Of course, he knew her. This whole relationship started over a jar of “Mama's Muscle Mojo” that Judi enthusiastically endorsed. He seemed to be waiting for an invitation to join her at the party, but that wasn't going to happen.

“Let's talk next week when everything's calmed down, okay?” she stated, feeling the pain of her false smile.

The next day, she got a call from Jean's husband Arthur, asking if Betty could whip up fifteen more chocolates with double strength doses in each one. Betty's heart ached at his request, knowing it wasn't a good sign that Jean needed another batch so soon. When she told him she couldn't drive out to their place until Monday, he offered to come to her house on Sunday to pick up the order. Betty stayed up late that night, making Jean's chocolates. While she was at it, she made a platter of thirty regular chocolates for Judi's summer soirée.

Betty spent the entire morning on Saturday tending to her girls. All of the ones in bloom were showing their beautiful buds and starting to exude a scent that resembled a mixture of fruit, berries and skunk. As unappealing as that sounded, Betty loved to breathe in the aroma. There was something revitalizing about it, coupled with the calming hours spent spoiling and talking to her girls. Her front garden might not have had the same crisp, blue-ribbon gleam it usually enjoyed each summer, but her basement full of “weeds” shone like a silver cup. At night, their wide leaves tended to slightly droop as if to signal sleep. But each morning, they lifted upright like chalices, eager to drink in the light. She did spend a little extra time with Helen, the Centennial Blueberry that looked like it was developing into a low hedge, thanks to Ronald's intensive chew trimming. She noted the vague white patches on a few of Helen's leaves Peyton had mentioned on his voicemail.

Out of curiosity, she walked into the veg room and brought Helen's young clones into the main room, where the natural light made it somewhat easier to check the leaves. To Betty's dismay, there was another small white patch on one of Helen's clones. Taking it just outside the sliding glass door, she tried to discern, under the blaze of sunlight, whether she needed to intervene with a spray or resort to another sulfur burn. After debating for another twenty minutes, she decided to bring the young clone upstairs to the kitchen, where she could spend the day soaking in the natural solar rainbow rays that filtered through the custom windows with handcrafted etching. The seven-inch-tall progeny in the one-gallon, black-plastic pot seemed to enjoy the special attention as she caught the heat and colorful reflections whirling melodically around the kitchen. Betty gathered the two separate trays of frozen chocolates and carried them outside and upstairs to the large room above the garage she'd jokingly started calling “
The White Violet, Le Deux.
” With the precision of an electrical engineer, she patiently decorated each chocolate with refined silver and gold swirls. In the background, Colorado Public Radio's classical station played a rousing Strauss waltz. She was so deeply engrossed in the moment that she didn't hear the car pull up behind the beater Pontiac. Nor did she hear the knock on her kitchen door. However, she did hear someone calling her name, just as the kitchen door slammed.

Betty raced to the window and peered around the corner. There was Helen's old sedan parked behind the Pontiac. She dashed down the stairs and tore into the kitchen. Out of breath, she stood there in shock as Helen sat at the kitchen table arm's length from Helen
the clone
, which stood proudly in a brilliant beam of sunlight.

“Helen!” Betty exclaimed. “I didn't hear you drive in, darling.”

“I have to talk to you. Could you sit down?”

Betty took a seat across from her, peering over the top leaf of the cannabis plant. “What is it?”

“Do you know what it feels like to be my age?”

“No.”

“It sucks. I hate it. Something is either leaking out of me or it's backed up and can't get out. Everything hurts, including brushing my hair. I can't hold thirteen playing cards in my hands anymore, because my fingers are all twisted from arthritis. That killed my bridge game every Wednesday afternoon. The side effects from all my pills are now worse than the symptoms I had when I started taking them in the first place. I can't sleep through the night so I doze through the day. Are you getting the picture?”

“I'm not sure.” Betty scooted the plant a few inches to the side. The shock of carrying on this conversation across a table that held a cannabis plant was beginning to pale in comparison to Helen's sudden garrulous spurt.

Helen leaned forward. “I don't have a lot to look forward to!” she yelled, pounding the table with her fist. As she brought her hand back, she hit the black pot and accidentally tipped over the cannabis clone.

Betty jumped up, but Helen stood up and righted the pot.

“I've got it!” Helen admonished, dragging the one-gallon container toward her with her crooked, arthritic fingers, and putting back the clumps of wet dirt that fell from it. “What I'm trying to get across to you is that I live for Judi's annual, idiotic, summer party. I mark it on my AARP calendar every goddamn January. I buy a new pair of orthotics just in case I have to stand too long in the buffet line. I can't remember the people from one year to the next but that's okay, because all they do is drone on about insipid things I don't care about. I get to sit in a chair, eat moderately good food, drink average cognac and forget for three hours that any day now it'll be time to tune the harp and cue the organ music for my funeral!” She plugged the last clump of dirt in the pot and pushed it away from her with indifference. “And now
you
want to take that away from me!”

“Me? What are you – ?”

“I got a call from Judi yesterday that I should take it easy and not bother coming on Sunday. I pressed her further and found out
you
told her I'm
dying
!”

“
Dying
? I said no such thing!” Betty scoffed, even though she knew Helen had been planning her own funeral since she turned twenty-one. “You could have lots of life still in you, dear. Imagine all the medical wonders on the horizon. You could live to be one hundred. And you know the advantage of that, Helen? No peer pressure!”

Helen screwed her face into an ugly scowl. “Is that supposed to be
funny
? Live to
one hundred
? Are you kidding me? If I live to eighty, drag me out behind the barn and shoot me!” She stood up. “Oh, and white patches?” she grimaced. “What are white patches? The only white patches I know about are the ones in that skin condition Michael Jackson had. Do I look remotely like Michael Jackson to you?”

“No, darling. You're much shorter.” Betty tried to stifle a smile. Something about the entire scene and elderly umbrage was becoming so hysterically incongruous, that Betty wasn't sure how long she could contain herself.

“This is not funny, Betty!” Helen roared. “I'm going to that damn party and you're not stopping me!” She leaned over the clone, brushing her shirt against the tips of the leaves. “You're going to call Judi, and tell her that I'm just fine. That you misjudged my health. You make it clear to her that I'm not going to pot!”

Betty snorted an unexpected laugh.

“When in the hell did I become such an amusement for you?!” Helen exclaimed.

Betty got up and moved Helen toward the door. “I'll see you tomorrow at the party.” Helen wasn't even out the door before Betty collapsed into a fit of giggles.

The next morning, Betty boxed up the chocolates for Jean, adding a few extra decorative flairs to the ribbon to brighten her spirits, before setting the box in her freezer. Turning her attention to the thirty plain chocolates for Judi's party, she arranged them on a platter lined with a silver satin cloth that had once graced the shelves at
The White Violet
. Seeing the cloth brought her back to the bittersweet memories of her chic chocolate shop. That memory spurred the image of the antique white violet print, which in turn prompted the recollection of Frankie's torn drawing showing a near carbon copy of that section in the watercolor print. She could ignore it all she wanted or attempt to explain it away, but the fact remained that somehow her young son's pencil drawing predicted the appearance of that watercolor. Betty wandered into the living room and picked up the framed print that still rested on the credenza next to his photos. Why this print? It had to have some sort of meaning to Frankie for him to give it to her during their last visit. The mere fact she chose to name her chocolate store
The White Violet
leant credence to the idea that, for whatever unknown reason, the enigmatic watercolor held some significance.

She spent the following morning weeding in her front garden and attempting to bring it halfway up to its usual splendor. But to her dismay, Betty noticed many of the perennials she had lovingly and patiently cultivated throughout the years were struggling. Some were dying and others were stunted. Looking closer, she couldn't see any root rot or infestation taking hold. But one by one, her treasured, prize-winning flowers were disintegrating in front of her stunned eyes. The ring of her phone interrupted the sad scene. Checking the Caller ID, Betty saw that it was “Bert ‘n' Ernie's” calling. Her ol' Taurus was ready to be picked up, and according to an effusive Bert, “it was now running like a rabid cougar on the prowl.” He also announced he wasn't charging her, because the “honor of caressing her engine” was payment enough. Worship was one thing, Betty told herself, but a fair exchange for prompt, excellent service was essential.

“If you won't take my money, would you take twenty-five chocolates?”

Bert starting weeping like a little girl, which Betty took as a “yes.”

The clock was ticking down to the three o'clock start of Judi's party, and the ghastly thought of showing up in a Pontiac with a muffler that announced her arrival four blocks away was not appealing. Thus, with her characteristic verve and shoulder to the grindstone mentality, Betty effortlessly melted, poured and froze the chocolates for Bert and Ernie. She kept a watchful eye out for Arthur who promised he'd show up to collect Jean's order. But by 1:00 when she was ready to go, there was no sign of him. She set a cooler with Jean's chocolates by the back door in the shade and left a message on his voicemail, directing him to their location. With Bert and Ernie's chocolates in tow, she blew out of her driveway in the Pontiac, setting the neighborhood dogs on point, and drove with gusto to pick up her Taurus.