Betty's (Little Basement) Garden (39 page)

Betty did the math. Lived on a commune in Humboldt County. Named her daughter Yarrow. “So that's why you don't mind her working at the dispensary.”

“Huh?” Yarrow said, with a twist of her face.

“Yarrow –” Lily said with a warning tone.

“What?” Yarrow asked. “She's cool, mom. Trust me. Betty grows.”

Lily and Betty simultaneously dropped their jaws.

“Yarrow!” Betty exclaimed.

“
Betty
?” Lily exclaimed.

“I…I…” Betty was too confused to come up with a suitable lie. And what was the point anyway? “She's right. I dabble.”

“Well, I'll be damned,” Lily chuckled. Almost immediately her body relaxed, and she instantly became more comfortable with Betty. “Who'd have thunk it? Betty Craven! You're the last person I'd think would –”

“I know, I know. My avocation doesn't necessarily match my face. But she's right.” Betty felt so free suddenly. “I grow cannabis. And I love every minute of it. Well, most minutes, at least.”

Lily stopped processing the items for a moment and leaned on the front desk. “You know, this store is
my
avocation. I adore beautiful antiques and all the wonderful finds buried in people's attics.”

“You mean ‘vocation,' don't you?” Betty asked.

“Not in this economy. This place hasn't turned a profit since 2007 when the economy went to hell.” She took a moment and then continued. “This store is my avocation. The dispensary down the street is my vocation.”

Betty steadied herself on the desk. “You run a –”

“No. I own it. It's the only way I can keep
The Gilded Rose
afloat. We were one of the first dispensaries to open in Denver when the state allowed it.”

Betty needed to check herself. “Well, isn't this a twist?”

“Sure is,” Lily agreed. “But I don't see the two businesses as being that different. I like to connect patients at the dispensary with the right strain for their needs, and I like to connect customers here with the perfect antique that brings beauty into their lives. Healing and beauty. I think they make the perfect duet.”

Betty nodded. “I couldn't have said it better myself.”

Lily turned back to one of the larger boxes that Betty brought to her. “Hey, Betty. I remember this. You bought this here.” She lifted the Marilyn Monroe metal sign from the box. “I had it sitting on your Biedermeier.”

Betty turned to where the Biedermeier was still waiting patiently for the right owner. Her mind unexpectedly drifted back to that day in May that seemed so long ago. She felt her heart catch just a wee bit. “Yes…I remember that day well.”

Lily handed the sign back to her. “This belongs to you, Betty.”

Betty reluctantly nodded and took the sign. But before she left, she cast one last, lingering look at the white violet print, before silently wishing it a somber goodbye.

It was getting cloudier, and the wind shifted to the west heralding another summer storm, when Betty finally left
The Gilded Rose
. Traffic on the main roads back to Paradox was already backing up as usual, as it neared five o'clock. It opened up when she was about two miles from home, but then it suddenly choked down again. Coming to a standstill on the four-lane road, Betty strained outside her window to see if she could figure out what was causing the delay. Dark indigo clouds hovered above her, as a warm wind rushed across her face. Creeping a little closer, she finally saw the spinning police lights and an ambulance parked nearby. “Oh, dear,” she whispered, always hating to see someone else's automotive misfortune. She tried to change lanes but no one let her through. Inching closer, she could see the damaged vehicle in question – a white Lexus, slammed sideways on the passenger side into an electrical post. As Betty rolled even closer, she saw the whole demoralizing scene. There was her friend, Judi, standing next to the police car, handcuffed and almost unable to stand up without wobbling. Betty stared in disbelief, as an officer put her friend into the police car and drove away.

An hour later, Betty was staring in continued disbelief at the beverage offerings available in the front waiting room of the Paradox police station. How could anyone stand to pour artificial cream from little plastic containers into their cups, hoping it would mollify the taste of the swill they called “coffee?” She heard an officer's voice behind the door that led down the hall to the holding cells.

“This way ma'am.”

The door opened and Judi walked into the waiting room. When she saw Betty, she froze and turned back to the officer.

“Mrs. Craven?” the officer said. “I need you to sign this, and check off the box that you paid Mrs. Hancock's bail amount.”

Judi visibly shrunk in mortal humiliation and did everything possible not to make eye contact with Betty. After Betty signed the document, the officer informed Judi of the involved process she would need to go through in the future.

“Do you understand everything, Mrs. Hancock?” the officer asked her.

Judi began to shake. “Yes,” she said almost inaudibly. “I do.”

Betty walked to her Taurus, with a conspicuously silent Judi behind her. The short ride to Judi's house was thick with tension, but none of it came from Betty. Not a word was spoken during the short drive, and the silence continued as Betty parked in front of Judi's house and turned off the engine. After what seemed like hours, but was only minutes, Judi fumbled with her purse and brought out her checkbook. With her hands still shaking, she signed a blank check and handed it to Betty without looking at her.

“Thank you,” Judi whispered, shame filling the void.

Betty noted that Judi wrote the word “fundraiser” on the memo line of the check. “Fortunately, I had the cash saved up from my cannabis chocolate sales,” Betty delicately announced.

Judi shook her head, burying her face in her hands. “Shit.” She opened the passenger door and stepped out, closing the door. But when she reached the wrought iron front gate, she stopped.

Betty leaned over toward the open passenger window. “Judi?”

Judi turned, with tears falling freely down her narrow face. She knelt down by the passenger door, grasping the edge of the window. “I've always envied you. I always thought you were so perfect.” Finally, she made eye contact. “And I was right.” She paused briefly. “Well, except for one thing. You're too proud.”

The comment took Betty by surprise. “I thought you were going to say –”

“I saw Jeff today at his health food store,” Judi blurted out. “I love his juice bar. Well, I guess I love anything with the word ‘bar' in it. When I asked him about the two of you, he told me your relationship was ‘uncertain.'”

Betty felt terribly exposed but maintained her composure. “Yes, well –”

“He gets you, Betty. Did you hear me? He
understands
you. Do you have any idea how rare that is?”

Betty bit her lip. “Yes. I do.”

“He's made you a better person, if that's even possible. And I hate you for it. And I love you for it. Does that make sense to you?”

“Yes.”

“Good. So stop fucking it up, would you?” Judi said with growing conviction.

“But what about ‘on paper'?”

Judi snorted contempt. “I married ‘on paper.' You married ‘on paper.' What did it give us? That paper had everything we thought we wanted, except one thing – love.” She stood up and leaned back into the window. “Burn the paper, Betty. That's all it's really good for.” She let out a hard breath and turned around. With reluctance in every step, she walked through the front gate and disappeared through her front door.

Hard pellets of rain swept across the tree-lined street. By the time Betty returned home that evening, the downpour swept diagonally under the orange glow of the streetlamps. Retreating into her emptier house, she felt a deep hollowness. Even though the air was warm outside, she felt chilled to the bone. A loud clap of thunder broke, followed by a sharp blast of lightning. She checked on her girls just before the timed lights went out in the veg room, and then headed to bed. But the rain was relentless. As she lay there in bed, she felt like a guest in her own home. She was almost half asleep when she heard a loud pounding sound coming from downstairs. Startled, she sat up in bed and then grabbed her Tomcat. Edging around the bed, she crept through the door and out into the hallway. The pounding had stopped, and now she heard the sound of the front door knob jiggling, as if someone were trying to break in. Betty moved quickly and quietly down the stairs, her Tomcat extended in front of her. Her heart raced, the closer she got to the door. As the thunder and lightening melded into one, she heard a click and the front door opened. She raised the gun and took aim.

“I've got a gun!” Betty screamed, her back against the wall.

“Betty! It's me!”

She flicked on the wall switch. There was Jeff, his leather jacket and hair wet from the downpour. She wasn't sure whether she was shaking from the fear of what she thought was going to happen, or from seeing him again.

He set a large brown paper sack on the floor and strode to her with great purpose as Betty lowered the pistol and dropped it on the stairs. Cradling her face between his palms, he kissed her passionately. She melted into his body and the missing part of her returned.

Jeff pulled away just a few inches, still framing her face with his hands. “You were born to lead a different life, Betty. You should have seduced more men. You should have drunk in more passion instead of taking sips to quench your thirst. You should have inhaled life until your lungs burst. You should have given fear a reason to run from
you.”
He pressed her body against the wall. “You should have challenged your friends and confounded your enemies. You should have pounded the shit out of every conventional belief, until you beat the safety out of them. You should have laughed more and grieved less. You should have devoured each opportunity and consumed every challenge.” He moved his hands to her shoulders. “But more than anything, Betty, you should have risked happiness because you deserve it.” He pulled her toward him, kissing her deeply.

She held him tightly and then rested her head on his shoulder as the realization finally hit. “You're everything I truly wanted and never knew I needed.” She grabbed him tighter. “I love you.”

“Thank that pain in your neck. Without that pain, we never would have met.” He pulled back a few inches. “I got you something.” Walking over to the door, he picked up the brown paper sack. “What's that stupid saying? ‘If you love someone, set them free. If they come back, they're yours.' I think the same principle applies to this.” He handed Betty the paper bag. “Your second son came into my store and tipped me off,” he revealed to her.

She opened the bag and choked with emotion. It was the white violet print. “‘Letting go.' That's what Frankie carved into that old elm. I thought maybe if I got rid of this, something good would happen.”

“And something did,” he said with a smile.

“So he knew even this would happen?”

“I'm not sure. But out of curiosity, I did look up the meaning of the white violet.”

“And?”

“The exact words I found? ‘Let's take a chance on happiness.'”

Betty's eyes filled with tears.

“That's all your son ever wanted for you, Betty. As he was letting go that day, he wanted you to do the same and discover what made you feel alive for the first time.”

She stared at the white violet print. “When I met you at your store the first time? You said something to me. You said, ‘‘It's the fighting that got you to this point. It's the letting go that matters.'” She looked up at Jeff. “I knew right then we were supposed to be together because I felt my heart jump. But I couldn't stop the fight in my head. I didn't want to fail again.”

Jeff pulled her toward him again. “I will promise you this, Betty. I'll never ruin you for another man.”

“I don't want another man,” she whispered. “I just want you.”

Several days later, Betty collected Ronald's ashes from the vet's office. When she returned home, she set the box of his remains on the credenza. Gazing at the white violet print propped up against a few books, she scooted her favorite photo of Frankie holding the joint closer to the print. But she decided something was missing. She crossed down the hall and removed the framed close-up photo she took of the glistening bud and proudly displayed it next to others on the credenza.

Betty took Ronald's box of ashes up to her bedroom and lovingly set them on the shelf in her bedroom closet next to Frankie's remains. Walking over to the bedroom window that looked out on the debris field that still lay scattered across the backyard, she made a decision. Collecting the two boxes of ashes, she went downstairs and into the yard and stood at the base of the elm tree where the roots were exposed. With great reverence, Betty first opened Ronald's box and scattered his remains against the roots of the tree. She said a little prayer for her faithful feline, wishing him well on his journey.

She took a deep breath and opened up Frankie's box. Betty wanted to say something meaningful but words failed her. She dug her hand into the plastic bag that held the ashes and clutched a large handful. “I know it hasn't been easy to be the main reason someone else needs to keep on living. So, I want you to be free, sweetheart.”

Betty lovingly spread Frankie's remains in the roots of the tree, and with the final handful, pressed them into the words he carved on the trunk. When she was done, she sat on the grass in the shade. Without any drink or cannabis to influence the moment, she felt him walk behind her and sit next to her. He was whole again. The scars of abuse were gone, and his eyes were clear and content.

“Your future is bright, mom,” he softly said.

“I know, Frankie. I can finally see it too.”

Six weeks passed quickly, filled with activity. All of Betty's girls, except for two of them, recovered enough to either grow to fruition or else be cloned into new plants. She easily met a new patient to take Jean's place and complete the full five she was allowed. Betty never discovered who released her chocolates into the vast underground market, but it didn't matter anymore. Her popularity soared, and she was asked to visit various community groups to tell her story. While she first cringed at the idea, she finally agreed. She always started her presentations with the same introduction. “There are two things I can't stand: ignorance and hypocrisy. Right now, they run rampant in the cannabis field. When you're ignorant about a subject, your opinion about it is built on vapor. But if you're brave enough, you'll find the truth and it will find you.”

Betty said those exact words on that September afternoon as she stood in front of an overflowing, attentive crowd at
The Happy Mountain Retirement Center.
On their own, a group of seniors who lived in the building got their red cards and set up a non-profit cannabis collective that allowed members to cultivate small grows in their closets. However, the many challenges of nurturing a decent plant plagued them, just like anyone else new to this often-challenging endeavor. So on that day, as the aspen trees pitched a brilliant, yellow-leafed glow into the main room of the retirement center, Betty spent ninety minutes giving some important pointers to the dedicated group and entertaining them with stories of her various mishaps in her quest to grow the best bud. When she was done, it was obvious she'd made the residents of
The Happy Mountain
even happier, and perhaps more confident in their attempt to grow their own bud.

She was packing up all of her props, including an antique teacup and saucer she always brought along, when she looked at the far back row of the seats and saw Judi. They hadn't spoken since Betty dropped her off at her house that night. Betty walked over to Judi, with box in hand. “Do you mind if we go outside?” Betty asked her. “I have another appointment I need to get to.”

Judi nodded and followed her into the parking lot. “What's the teacup for?” she asked Betty.

“To always keep it civilized,” she replied with a gentle smile.

They arrived at Betty's car, and Judi handed her a wrapped package that felt soft and pliable.

“I got those for you,” Judi said.

Betty opened the present and found a pair of the linen slacks she'd always admired on Judi. “I love it! Thank you, darling.” Betty embraced Judi. “But you said they were sold out –”

“Yeah. I lied. Those aren't linen. They're made out of hemp. I was worried if I mentioned I was wearing hemp cloth, it would become the butt of everyone's joke. I just wasn't ready to be a punch line.”

“I will wear these pants with a smile in my heart,” Betty confessed, placing them into the box. She checked the time. “I'm sorry I don't have more time, but I have to get across town to the
Cottonmouth Café
. They're hosting me to do a cannabis cooking demonstration.”

Judi smiled. “I love it. Good for you.” She hesitated and then spoke. “Hey, listen. Roger and I are divorcing.”

Betty stopped. “Oh, Judi. Because of the DUI?”

“God, no. My drinking doesn't bother him. Don't you know? There's a pill to fix that,” she said in a mocking tone.

“Then why are you leaving him?”

“Because I finally I woke up. I realized I shouldn't have married a doctor. It always pissed Roger off that I sunk so low, got my teaching degree and then chose to be an art teacher. He said it made him look like a poor provider, not to mention that it added more taxable income. But he didn't like a lot of things I did. Every time he saw a bag from ‘The Hippie Dippie Health Food Store' he'd make nasty comments. Wanted to know if I picked up an eye of newt and a caldron to boil my problems away. Roger thought that comment was so original and clever. He loved to mock whatever I enjoyed. He's polished his condescending tone over the years, with the precision of the surgeon he wasn't good enough to become. I don't know how his patients stand him anymore. If he doesn't give a shit about my pain, you think he's going to give a shit about theirs?” She stared off into the distance. “I shouldn't have married a doctor. I needed to fall in love with an artist and live with him in a two-bedroom bungalow on the beach in San Diego, with wood floors that always had a gritty layer of sand scattered across them. I needed to learn to play the ukulele and astonish my eccentric neighbors with wild stories of hitchhiking around Mexico, and late night campfires spent with gunrunners and guerilla fighters. But I decided my quest for adventure was a young girl's impetuous fantasy. So I played it safe and tried to pretend I didn't crave the life of a Bohemian. I had the first kid, the second one, third one…fourth one. And when I realized what was causing it,” she said with a smile, “I put an end to that.” A cloud of sadness came over her. “One day, I realized I never wanted to be a mother. I love them but I don't really like them. But you can't admit that, can you? You have to pretend they're the reason you get up in the morning and they weren't. But you have to bury that so deeply, until you convince yourself it really is what you want.”

Betty rested her hand on Judi's arm. “You could have told me.”

“Could I? I'm not so sure of that.” She tapped Betty's hand. “Just like you couldn't tell me about Jeff. But you know what? I knew you were seeing someone. I didn't know who he was. But I could tell. That day I saw you in your driveway when I told you how different you looked? You had the blush of love that is envied by those of us who forgot it existed or never had it. But when we see it in others, we don't celebrate it. We're jealous. We want the same thing, but we're not brave enough to seek it out so we hate it. And we hate you for finding that jewel, because we want to wear it too. I find it so fucking insane that happiness is the most sought after desire, but isn't it strange how the sight of it in someone else breeds such disdain?”

“I haven't cornered the market on finding happiness, Judi. There's an infinite supply out there if you want it. You could change your life in a heartbeat. Buy the bungalow on the beach. Find the artist. I'll send you the ukulele. It's never too late to become the Bohemian you've always been.”

Judi considered her comment. “Can anyone show up at the
Cottonmouth Café
to see your demonstration, or is it invitation only?”

“It's invitation only. And I just invited you.” She directed her to get in her car.

“I never found out how you met Jeff. Was it at his store?”

“No. He was checking out my Biedermeier…”

One week later, Betty received her red card in the mail. It was finally official. The state of Colorado allowed her to look at the world “through cannabis eyes,” as Peyton once told her. Like Robert Frost, Betty chose the road less taken and, by God, it
did
make all the difference. Because of that, the “hour of lead” Emily Dickinson wrote about finally lifted. And with that, so did the mystique of a little plant called cannabis. She realized when the air of mystery is removed, the falsehoods, the rumors, the gossip and the propaganda also fall away. One is left with a seed that grows prolifically, as it's fed by water and nutrients, warmed by a light or the sun and allowed to develop into a beautiful plant.

And then from the use of that plant, the unexplained can begin to happen. Beliefs can shatter, but so be it, Betty mused. Beliefs, she discovered, are like sealed boxes that don't allow further examination. You walk into the house of your belief and suspend rational thought or debate, only associating with others who recite back to you what you think you understand. It is only knowledge, born from true-life experience, that matters. Experience pulls away the curtain of presumption that lies between what you think you know and what the truth really is. Those who have never come close to suicide cannot understand the depth of that darkness. Those who have never made love cannot advise those who have. Those who have never seen God in the eyes of an addict, cannot presume to teach faith.

As she sat in the comfortable Adirondack chair next to Jeff, on his property with the flowing stream and thermal spring, she rested her feet on the log from her old elm tree that Jeff had cut and varnished to protect it from the elements. Before he painted the first layer on it though, he rubbed coal dust into the carved letters so they would always stand out.

She took his hand in hers as they listened to the sound of the water against the rustling of the burnt orange and yellow panorama. The chill of fall would soon begin, and then the winter would come. As she eyed the corner plot of land, her thoughts turned to the next summer and all the new possibilities that could grow and thrive in that pristine dirt. But that was the future and this was now. And so she returned to the moment and found solace.