Betty's (Little Basement) Garden (16 page)

After several hours combing the Web and taking copious notes, it was obvious to Betty that there was a thriving cottage industry of cannabis growers serving medical marijuana states. The industry had literally taken a lowly ditch weed and lifted it up into the echelon of a pampered diva. The more she read, the more she realized this extension of her gardening acumen could quickly take over her life.

It could also take over her wallet as well. A one-thousand watt, bloom-grow light set up was a cool six hundred dollars. That would only serve six to eight moderately sized plants. The state allowed Betty three plants in vegetative growth and three plants in bloom, per patient. If she were able to get five patients – her maximum stable of legal patients under Colorado law – and included herself on the list for a total of six, she would need thirty-six plants, eighteen in veg and eighteen in bloom. And that would require
a lot
of light, a lot of patience, a lot of ingenuity, a lot of money and a
whole
lot of time.

She sat back and felt an overwhelming wave of apprehension hit her squarely between the eyes. What had she gotten herself into, she wondered? Had she allowed herself to be taken down the cannabis path by Peyton, just as she allowed herself to be controlled by Frank all those years? This newfound venture certainly had the potential for colossal failure, not to mention the fact it had to be done surreptitiously, given her reputation and the way people viewed her. After all, she'd signed her name to that damn letter to the editor in favor of banning all this. What in the hell
was
she doing?

She turned toward the window where her three new plants sat. The outside light was fading, and her mothering instinct kicked in. Gathering together several lamps and removing the shades, she circled them around the cannabis pots. It was then she noticed one of the leaves was drooping. Checking the soil, she was amazed how quickly it had dried. “Darling, you're thirsty, aren't you?” After giving them all a drink, she stood back and stroked the wide leaves. They didn't call it “weed” for nothing; they looked just like something she'd yank out of her flowerbed. And yet, there was something magnificent about them too. She couldn't put her finger on it. Perhaps it had something to do with what these plants would eventually transform into, laden with their sticky buds and exuding a provocative fragrance all their own. Right now, they were hiding their true potential, and all they needed was a patient, guiding hand that would allow them to become the majestic beauties that God intended. Yes, Betty realized, they needed her.

Returning to her computer, she did a search for more instructional videos on cultivating cannabis. One of the videos featured “Doobie Douggie,” who apparently had his own Internet series that was more akin to several three-minute sermons. One was titled, “Did You Know?” and she clicked on it. There was Douggie sitting in his wheelchair, under the shade of an enormous outdoor cannabis plant in his backyard.

“Did you know we all have cannabinoid receptors in our brains?” he said, pointing his finger at the camera. “We do! And here's the thing: they can only be unlocked when the cannabinoids from the marijuana plant attach to them. So what does this tell us?” he asked, waving his hands in the air. He moved closer to the camera, almost distorting his face. “Is it possible we actually
need
the cannabinoids in marijuana to regulate our bodies, our moods and our sleep patterns? Could people possibly be suffering from a deficiency of cannabis?”

“That's crazy,” Betty mumbled.

“Sound crazy?” Douggie quickly added.

Betty checked herself. “Maybe.”

“Well, it's not crazy!” Douggie yelled. “I've seen again and again how small amounts of this plant, taken on a daily basis, can regulate one's mood, appetite, energy and yeah, even the sex drive. And for all you greenies out there, I'm not talking about getting stoned! Far from it! Douggie is not about ‘gettin' fucked up on the herb. Douggie is all about using this sacred plant responsibly and ethically, in the lowest dose possible.” He picked up a bowl of green oil and held it up to the screen. Dipping the tip of his finger into the oil, he slid it into his mouth and swallowed. “That's all it takes, people! Just a few drops! It's not just a medicine, it's nectar from God's own green hand!” He jabbed his finger at the camera. “Signing off now! And remember what Douggie says. Legalize the weed…It's just a plant, man!”

The screen faded to black and Betty was left staring at her computer in slight disbelief. Checking the time, she realized it was way past the dinner hour so she headed downstairs. A crêpe sounded just about right, so she whipped up the flour, egg and milk base and spooned it into a hot pan. Adding cheese and some leftover chicken, she folded it into a lovely, half moon of delight. Sitting at the kitchen table, she thought about what Douggie said in his video. It seemed to go against everything she'd believed. Could someone really have a cannabis
deficiency
that might be alleviated by ingesting a little cannabis oil daily? Halfway through her delectable crêpe, she got up and pulled out the chunk of cannabis-infused coconut oil from her freezer. Carefully slicing off a three-inch piece, she plopped it into a dish and melted it over a low flame.

The phone rang. She checked the Caller ID. It read: Private. Betty hated it when callers did that and she almost didn't answer, but then she wondered if it was Peyton or someone else she wouldn't mind talking to.

“Hello?”

“Betty, it's me.”

It was Judi, and she didn't sound like her usual, sparkling self. Betty returned to the stove to monitor the melting oil.

“Hello, honey,” Betty replied.

“Listen, I'm just going to come out and say this, okay?”

Betty sensed something odd in Judi's voice. Her tone was more aggressive, and she was slurring her words.

“What's wrong, Judi?” Betty stirred the oil with the tip of a toothpick.

Judi let out a hard breath. “Something is different about you and we're worried.”

“Who's worried? You and Roger?”

“No, not Roger! Renée and I…and Helen, of course.”

“Of course. There's no need to be worried, Judi. I'm fine.”

“You are acting different, honey,” Judi argued.

Betty thought about it. “How?” She continued to stir the oil with the toothpick, making sure it didn't burn the dish. “What do you see that concerns you?”

Judi let out another tired breath. “I don't know. You're evasive with us. And you were rude to Tom Reed. That's not like you, Betty. You've always gone out of your way to get along and be nice.”

Betty stopped stirring the mixture momentarily. “Yes. I have. You're quite right there.” The oil started to sizzle and she reduced the heat further. “Regarding Mr. Reed, the poor bastard thinks the sun comes up every morning just to hear him crow. That's not someone I need in my life.”

“Betty, he's perfect for you! This is someone who could be an asset to you.”

“What? Financially speaking?”

There was sudden silence. “Well…yes…but companionship as well.”

“Judi, how can I say this so you'll understand? I'd rather shoot myself in the foot and run a marathon before I ever laid eyes on Mr. Reed again.”

“This is
exactly
the attitude I'm talking about, Betty.”

“What? Because I'm not doing what you're asking me to do?”

“Well…it's not…
yes
. Yes, that's exactly it! You need guidance right now, honey. I can sense you're on a very slippery slope from all you've been through and as your friend, it's my right to say that.”

Betty stared at the melted oil in the dish. Using a dessert spoon, she removed a small amount and blew across it to cool it down. “How many glasses of wine have you had tonight, Judi?”

“What?”

“You sound a bit tipsy, sweetie.” She wanted to say ‘drunk.'

“I'm fine.”

“Okay.” Betty dipped the tip of her pinky into the cooling oil and collected about five drops on her fingernail. Without hesitating, she licked it off. “I've got to get back to my dinner.”

“Wait,” Judi urged. “Have you seriously forgotten what tomorrow is?”

Betty stopped and thought. She was clueless. “No idea.”

“
Betty
?” Judi chided in a sloppy tenor. “It's Helen's seventieth birthday!”

Betty swallowed hard. “Oh, dear. I don't have anything for her.”

“She doesn't need a damn present. But she does need your
presence
at
La Bella Vita
. I have the day off tomorrow, and we're taking her to lunch there.”

“I didn't know Helen liked
La Bella Vita
.”

“Sure she does. She adores it. And besides, every Friday they offer a free glass of the house red wine with every featured item. Can I count you in?”

Betty surmised
La Bella Vita
was heaps better than the
Pirate Landing
. That post-memorial-service dining experience must have been a bust. Certainly poor Helen must have cringed when the scruffy server with a five o'clock shadow, a black patch over his eye and a plastic sword in his belt loop screamed “Ahoy Matey!” as he skimmed the greasy menus and peanuts across the table. She agreed to the lunch in Helen's honor.

“Oh, one more thing,” Judi added, taking a sip. “I'm helping with the fundraiser at the hospital for Roger, and I need to borrow that brocade tablecloth of yours. Can you bring it tomorrow?”

Betty faltered. “It's in a box in the attic.”

“Can you get to it?”

Now it was Betty's turn to sigh quietly. “Sure.”

After finishing her crêpe, Betty returned the coconut cannabis oil to the freezer. She washed the dishes and put them away before heading upstairs. Standing at the door to the attic, she lingered too long before opening it. She flicked on the light switch and slowly ascended the narrow, dusty stairs. When she reached the top, she stood in the semi-darkness, holding her breath. Frankie's bed was still in the corner, as were his posters of the rushing Gunnison River and Mt. Evans in full, fall foliage. The place smelled dank and felt like a heavy heart still owned it. Finding the tall box, Betty quickly unpacked the brocade tablecloth.

While sorting through the box, she also found two exquisite hand sewn table runners. They'd been wedding gifts, and she'd used them only about a dozen times in her married life. She eyed them with an unemotional gaze, factoring what they might be worth. After removing them from the box and carefully wrapping them in a plastic, protective sheath, Betty sunk to the floor and stared across the tiny room. Why did Frankie want to be alone up here that day, five years before? He wasn't fond of the attic, but it was farther away from his father's unyielding presence. Betty rested her head against the side of the box and closed her eyes. “Frankie,” she whispered. She felt herself sliding into peaceful slumber until she heard a
thud
.

Opening her eyes, she turned to the shadows where the ceiling slanted against the wall. Frank Sr. stood there, his fists balled and his face red with anger.

“You sold my wedding ring!” he growled. “My goddamned wedding ring! And now you're gonna sell those!” He jerked his finger toward the table runners cradled in her arms. “You're trying to kill me, aren't you?
Aren't you?
”

Betty felt her heart race. She stood up, facing him. “You killed our son. And you killed me a thousand times. So I think it's only fair. Don't you?”

Frank started toward her as she jerked awake. The attic smelled acrid, as the rage still hung in the stifling air.

Betty waited at the empty counter of
The Gilded Rose
, clutching the two table runners wrapped in plastic. Lily was nowhere to be seen, and the place was conspicuously empty of customers. She called out but got no response. Wandering over to check her various items for sale, she found the Biedermeier still there and further reduced in price. Betty sighed deeply at the prospect that it might never sell. Furthermore, even though she'd made a point of moving that damned metal sign with the quote from Marilyn Monroe: All a girl really wants is for one guy to prove to her that they are not all the same, there it was again propped up on her beloved antique. She started to move it when she read the words again. And then again. It wasn't something she'd normally be attracted to, with its rusty tin and faux, antique edging. She set it down twice and then picked it up again. She checked the price; it was twenty-five dollars. Betty reasoned she had to save every cent from the sale of Frank's wedding ring to support her grow operation, but yet…the sign seemed to speak to her in the most unusual manner.

She caught movement outside and saw Lily standing by the front window having an animated conversation with Yarrow. After several more moments, Lily returned to the store and spotted Betty, greeting her with a welcoming smile.

“We've had a few people admiring your Biedermeier, Betty. I hoped reducing the price would spur a sale.”

“Anything on the books?”

“No. Sorry. It's been slow.”

Betty walked with Lily to the counter. She wondered how on earth Lily was able to keep this place going, given its size and the inventory that was still there. The last thing she needed was a call from Lily saying she was going out of business and needed to return all her items. With great flourish, Betty produced the table runners and gave a quick but thorough back-story on their history. Lily bit and agreed to sell them.

“Still having issues with that young girl who works at the dispensary? Yarrow?” Betty asked.

“No issues,” she replied, placing tags on the table runners.

Betty looked outside and saw Yarrow lingering, smoking a cigarette. “She seems rather lost.”

“Lost?”

“Yes. Is she all right?”

Lily was held back. “Yeah, I think so. She's going up to Canada for a week to see some family. Travel makes her nervous these days. It's so intrusive, you know?”

“Canadian, eh?”

Lily finished tagging the items and handed Betty a receipt. “I'm sorry there's nothing on the books for you today. But maybe with summer, things will improve?”

Betty smiled, handing Lily the metal sign. “Well, whoever owns this sign will have something on their books.”

She had two hours to kill before her lunch date at
La Bella Vita.
And since every moment was critical, Betty headed to Grow Do It, the grow store where Peyton worked. Based on her research, she had a long list of equipment, organic nutrients and miscellaneous items she needed right away. Once at the store – located in a less-than-thriving, outdoor mall – she remained in her car for a few minutes, checking out the surrounding area for any sign of someone she might know. When she was certain it was clear, Betty entered the establishment.

The first thing she noticed was how clean the air smelled. Like fresh ozone in high-altitude. The second thing she noted was the enormous pallet of vigorously growing tomatoes, half of them still green and growing under a vegetative light setup and the other half full of crimson fruit, growing under a huge, bloom light. Two signs caught Betty's eye. The first one noted that the store was open on Sundays, but it closed at the odd time of 4:20. The second computer-printed sign was taped above the cash register and warned that: We cannot discuss anything that is Federally illegal. This includes marijuana cultivation. Please respect this while shopping here. How odd, Betty thought. The store was obviously set up to cater to marijuana growers, just as the websites which featured products like “Bountiful Bud Brew” were obviously selling to the cannabis crowd. So it was a game, she reasoned. A wink-wink. A “let's pretend we're not doing what we're really doing” endeavor. Betty could play along.

“Who
is
this group, anyways?” a booming male voice in the back room asked.

Betty walked down a center aisle, passing rows of cloth pots, cloning machines and air purifiers.

“P.R.W.G.?” The man read. “Who in the fuck is that?”

Betty stopped in mid-step, realizing this individual was obviously reading Renée's stinging letter to the editor signed by the Paradox Republican Women's Group.

“Hey, I know!” the man said. “Pussy Republicans With Gonads!”

Betty stood there dumbstruck. She considered making an exit, when Peyton sauntered out from the back room. He was wearing his G.Y.O. t-shirt and sported an exceptionally-tousled head of hair.

“Hey, Betty!”

Betty relaxed when she saw him. “Hello, Peyton.” Her voice was low-key. “I don't have lots of time, but I thought I'd come over and buy the first of the many accoutrements I'll need to grow the cannabis.”

Cradling Betty by the shoulder, he ushered her to another corner of the store. “Okay, first off, ixnay on callin' them accoutrements and secondly, you don't mention the word cannabis, marijuana or any other slang term here. Got it?”

“But what if I have questions about growing canna – ?”

“You're growing tomatoes, Betty. We're
all
growing tomatoes. So far, the Feds don't have a problem with tomatoes. Got it?”

What a strange little world these people lived in. “Who is that in the back?”

“My tool of a boss, Justin. Ignore him. He's always jacked up about somethin'. He loves tellin' people how much energy he has. I personally don't trust people who say they have tons of energy. It's not normal. The only people who should have tons of energy are kids under the age of fifteen. Any adult who claims that is either manic or on crack.”

Betty explained she had just under a thousand dollars left from the sale of Frank's ring. She handed him her list.

“You've really been doin' your homework, Betty! Good for you!” Peyton enthusiastically chimed. “Why don't we hold off on the bloom light since it's a chunk of change, and you won't need it for another two months. There are a couple more important things you'll need right now,” he stressed, mentioning the reflective silver wall coverings used to amplify the light against the plants, and liquid enzymes for bolstering the nutrients and reactivating the beneficial organisms in the soil. “You gotta put a lot of targeted nutrients into the veg state,” he said quietly, “in order to have the largest and healthiest plant when you flip it into bloom.”

Peyton patiently went around the store explaining the various products and the pros and cons of each one. His grasp of the entire process impressed Betty, as well as his personal experience using the different nutrients. According to Peyton, a lot of the “stoner dudes” who had “secret guerilla grows” were obsessed with toxic, chemical “nutes” – a.k.a. nutrients – because all they cared about was producing “fat, dank, gigantic bud.” But, as he explained, those who grew with harsh chemicals ran the risk of those toxins seeping into the finished bud. “You know when people tell you they hurled their lunch and got a headache or stomach cramps after smoking cannabis?” he said to Betty. “My theory is that it's not the bud. It's the shit these idiots are spraying on their plants and watering them with.” The stakes were high, Peyton declared, when you were a caregiver and responsible for growing cannabis for people whose health was often already compromised. “Patients have gotta
know their grow
. It's more expensive to grow organically,” he revealed, “but it tastes better, and it won't make your brain twitch like chemically grown crap.”

As they filled her basket, it became clear that the price of an organic product was often an indicator of its quality. A gallon of liquid enzymes was over one hundred dollars; a special seaweed and fish concentrate from Alaska cost nearly sixty bucks.

“Whatever happened to water and compost?” Betty asked.

“That won't cut it with the herb,” Peyton whispered. “The whole point is to make it grow fast, hearty and healthy. Oh, one thing you've
got
to buy is over here.” He walked to another aisle and pointed at three shelves of products. Everything from beneficial organisms that eat the mildew to bicarbonate of soda preparations filled those shelves. He turned to her with a look of seriousness, usually set aside for discussing political reform. “Next to spider mites, every grower's nightmare is powdery mildew. We call it ‘PM' in the trade. And believe me, if you don't stop it, it'll wipe out your entire crop. PM is insidious and if you see it, you gotta get on it immediately.”

He explained that the dreaded PM starts as a tiny, often imperceptible, white cloud of mildew on a lower leaf. It can be inherent to a specific cannabis strain, or it can be passed from one plant to another due to poor circulation and/or too much heat and moisture in the veg or bloom rooms. Once a plant has it, it has it forever. Anything you clone from an infected plant will have it locked in its DNA. Thus, many industrious people have sought to find the perfect solution for attacking this persistent problem.

Peyton pointed to a tub of yellow crystals. “If it gets really bad, you gotta sulfur the rooms. But there's a trick to it, and I'll need to walk you through that or you'll do major damage.”

Suddenly, the entire growing process had taken on a rather dire prognosis. The thought of growing a room full of cannabis only to have it wiped out with PM sent a shudder down Betty's spine. She took Peyton's advice and purchased the product he trusted the most. She was just about to tell him her news about Buddy being her first patient when Justin strolled around the corner. He had the kind of purposeful walk that suggested a bloated over-confidence. His bulging, tanned muscles stretched uninvitingly against his “Grow Do It” T-shirt, while his soon-to-be bald head made him appear older than his late thirty-ish years.

“You finding what you need, ma'am?” he asked in a cocky manner.

“I am. Thank you.” Betty replied, immediately not liking him.

“Hey,” Justin said, addressing Peyton, “I can finish helping this lady. You left a pallet of perlite out in the sun. Get it inside, would ya?” Peyton nodded and turned to go. “And get with the program, poncho!” Justin barked.

Betty's blood pressure rose quickly. “Peyton, wait!”

Peyton stopped and turned back, somewhat perplexed.

Betty turned to Justin. “Peyton has gone out of his way to be more than helpful.” Her voice was terse and abrupt. “I'd like him to continue to assist me today.”

Justin let out a soft, dismissive chuckle. She'd heard the same trivializing response far too many times in the past.

“I'm sorry. Did I say something funny?” Betty asked, her face reddening.

“It's okay,” Peyton said meekly.

Betty steadied herself against the clearance shelf. Her mouth went dry. “No, Peyton. It's not okay. Your boss apparently didn't get the memo that the customer is always right.” Betty moved a step closer to Justin. Her imposing frame and stature nearly dwarfed him. “The only reason I'm spending all this money at your store is because of Peyton. He has a great deal of knowledge about growing tomatoes.” She inched closer to Justin. “Big tomatoes. Wonderful tomatoes.
Extraordinary
tomatoes. And
I
am a tomato grower.”

Justin was cornered, but he maintained his pumped up posture. “You don't look like someone who grows tomatoes.”

“Well, you don't look like a business man, so there's the irony.” She heard her Texas lilt escape. “You walk with great purpose in your step. Pity you have no idea where you're going.” She turned to Peyton, who was now standing there frozen. “Peyton, I have more questions I'd like you to answer for me.” Brushing past Justin, she gently took Peyton by the elbow and continued shopping.

Fifteen minutes later, Peyton loaded Betty's Taurus with her bounty. She covered the large, T5 veg light in the backseat with an old blanket. She'd spent nine hundred fifty-four dollars on lights, bags of organic soil, fans, carbon filters, gallons of nutrients, powdery mildew sprays, heat mats, timers, rolls of heavy plastic, aerating watering cans, reflective wall coverings and much more.

“I can't believe what you did in there,” Peyton said, closing the trunk.

“I can't either. But I'm glad I did. He's a bully, Peyton. Trust me. I know the breed. And like all bullies, he's terribly insecure.”

“Really?”

“Good God, yes! He absolutely reeks of insecurity! Usually one only sees that level of insecurity when viewing awkward boys forced to dance at cotillions.” Betty issued a meaningful pause. “Or men with…shortcomings.” She turned back to the store. “You need to stand up to him, Peyton. Don't let anyone ever treat you like that.”

He shrugged his shoulders. “I need the job.”

She looked at him. “No job or relationship is worth your principles. Believe me, it'll wear you down after a few decades.”

Changing subjects, she quickly gave him the news about Buddy and that she needed three more plants. They arranged to meet at his house later that day so she could see his grow operation and choose from his available clones.

“I think I found you another patient,” he said with a smile. “Her name's Dottie and she's cool. She got one of your chocolates from another patient of mine and she loves them.”

“Peyton, I don't know if I feel comfortable having my canna chocolates shared willy-nilly, without having control over who tries them –”