Betty's (Little Basement) Garden (21 page)

“Right. A play on words.”

“When you say it like that, Betty, you suck the fun right out of it.” He drove another nail into the wood frame.

She was quiet for several minutes while she watched him work. He seemed so confident. And yet, he didn't take himself too seriously. Such an atypical combination. “Do you think I'm quite foolish for doing all this?”

“No,” he said nonchalantly. “I think it's cool.” He focused on attaching the screen to a nail. “When I used to see you get up and speak at the town council meetings, I sensed something different about you. You were always prepared and spoke with such measured modulation, but –”

“I won several awards in college for my presentational abilities.”

“I bet you did,” he replied with a mischievous grin. “But even though I didn't agree with most of what you said at those meetings, you still captured my attention. I couldn't take my ears off you.”

Betty felt unpredictably vulnerable. “What exactly did you not agree with?”

He stood up, testing the strength of the improvised barrier. “It doesn't matter, Betty.” He moved from the closet and replaced his tools in the box.

“Well,” she stressed, following him, “it's just that I'd like to know –”

“Why? So we can dissect it? And then analyze it. And then debate it further? That sounds exhausting.” He glanced over her shoulder and smiled. “Is that one of your guiding principles?”

She turned. There was the bold statement from Marilyn Monroe. “All a girl really wants is for one guy to prove to her that they are not all the same.”
Shit
, she thought. Her gut churned. “It was an impulse buy from
The Gilded Rose
. I don't know why I purchased it. I'm not even a fan of Miss Monroe's –”

He put his hand on her shoulder. “It's okay, Betty. You don't need to keep explaining yourself. I hope you figure that out one day.”

When he moved his hand off her shoulder, Betty felt strangely empty. “I know you said you already ate dinner, but I can still make you something.”

“You don't have to cook for me. I'm good.”

Yes, she thought. He was.

“Is there anything else you need done?”

Betty waited a little too long before she answered. “No. That's all. Thank you.” She walked him outside to his motorcycle. “Aren't you afraid of falling off this thing and dying?”

Jeff secured the box on the back of the bike with a bungee cord. “God, you really are focused on death, aren't you?”

“You're riding a motorcycle without a helmet.”

“Haven't you heard? If you wear a helmet it just means you can have an open casket funeral instead of a closed one.”

“That's disgusting.”

“Maybe, but it's true. And to answer your question, instead of worrying about whether I'm going to die, I'm more afraid of not living my life to the fullest every day.” He straddled the bike. “You really do have issues around death, don't you?”

“Doesn't everyone?”

“I don't know. I haven't talked to ‘everyone.'”

She glanced down at his leather clogs. “Do you think those clogs are appropriate footwear for this mode of transportation?”

He smiled and shook his head. “Gosh, Betty. If I didn't know any better, I'd swear you were worried about me.”

Her gut began to toss again. “I'm not worried at all. I just think you could have made a safer choice of shoe, that's all.”

Jeff cheerfully let the comment slide as he turned the ignition key. “Do you and your friend need help tomorrow setting up your grow operation?”

She was taken aback but quietly thrilled. “Well, sure…you know somebody who might want to help?” Her nervous attempt at humor fell oddly flat. “Noon tomorrow?”

“See you then.” He drove away into the darkness.

Betty waited outside until she couldn't hear the sound of his engine any longer. “'The Classy Joint,'” she said to herself. “Sure…why not?”

Betty tried to eat her evening meal, but her stomach felt tight and anxious. She continued to entertain the possibility she was coming down with something. Sleeping was futile. Melting another small chunk of the cannabis coconut oil, she dipped her finger in the warm liquid and licked it off. She was about to return the oil to the container, when she plunged her thumb into the oil and ingested every last drop she gathered. But she still felt giddy and knew sleep wasn't on the menu. Falling back on her industrious predisposition, she carried the paint buckets downstairs into the basement and began slapping a thick layer of glossy white on the walls of the soon-to-be veg room. By 1 am, she'd completed the project. Where collectable guns were once stored, there would soon be six young, thriving cannabis plants. There was something quite beautiful and rancorous about that reality.

The next morning she awoke at seven feeling invigorated, even though she'd enjoyed fewer than six hours of sleep. There was so much to do before Peyton and Jeff arrived at noon. After hoisting the flag at her front door and eating a quick breakfast, she spent the next two hours in the basement tossing the remaining plaques, medals and sundry items from Frank's collection into boxes and shoving them in a corner of the basement. It felt good to her; like she'd just lost a few extra pounds of infuriating weight. There was a lot more space in the main room of the basement than she'd realized. She moved Frank's large desk to the side of the room, away from the sliding glass door. It would make a wonderful table for transplanting her girls. Looking down at the battered, olive green carpeting that smelled of tobacco and booze, she decided it had to go. She had to rip him out of there, and she had to do it completely.

After re-checking her “to do” list, Betty showered and dressed. She monitored Ronald several times, but he seemed to be back to his old, albeit lazy, self and none-the-worse for wear. Heading out the door, she saw Jerry and his brother Jack across the street. Arnold was unleashed and on the grass, happily chewing a bone. The men seemed to be packing up the motorhome.

Betty employed her best pageant wave. “Leaving so soon?” she yelled across the street, making sure not to sound too hopeful.

“Yeah,” Jack yelled back. “Movin' on!” Arnold started barking viciously, seemingly unprovoked. “Strudel!” Jack ordered the dog, who quickly shut up. He turned back to Betty. “‘Movin' on' was another code word we used right before we'd break down a door!” Upon hearing “movin' on” again, Arnold stood up and bore his teeth. “
Strudel
!” Jack demanded.

Something about a grown man yelling ‘strudel' to a vicious dog made Betty giggle. After she prayed for her Taurus to start and it did, she continued to smile at the scene all the way to the farmers' market. She spent the next hour carefully perusing the many booths and selecting the perfect fruits, vegetables, baked goods and local offerings. She had everything planned. They'd arrive at noon and start working immediately. They'd break at two o'clock for lunch and then resume working at three. She'd need to make them lunch as well as a hearty snack. The aroma of rotisserie chickens roasting on the grill enticed her. Normally, Betty was not one to rely on pre-cooked fare. She never trusted someone else with that responsibility, given the many seasoning
faux pas
that could easily occur. But it made sense she'd be tired by the end of the day, and knowing that a fully cooked chicken was ready and waiting in the kitchen for her evening repast sounded divine. She made a point to stop by one of her favorite booths to buy a large bag of beef bones to make soup, and even treated herself to a container of homemade quince paste from another vendor who had the same, impeccable, gourmand appreciation. As far as Betty was concerned, when one found a consistent source for quince paste, one was indeed blessed.

The entire experience would have been nearly perfect had it not been for the damned moccasin clad, tattooed, strident voices that belonged to the Colorado Activists 4 National Tolerance. They had permanently hijacked this community gathering and appeared to be dedicated to a plethora of causes, blaring on their loudspeakers about everything from freeing Tibet to gay marriage. Betty sighed. The outdoor market used to so much better, when all she had to listen to was banjo music and the off-key children's choir.

When she arrived home, she was shocked to see Buddy and a male friend of his convened in her driveway. He looked a bit worse for wear after his spill off her roof. She parked her car and got out with her bags. Buddy quickly came to her aid.

“How are you feeling, darling?” she asked him, tentatively eyeing Jerry and Jack across the street.

“Feeling okay, Mrs. Craven. That's Eric,” he motioned to his weather-beaten friend. “He dropped me off to pick up my truck and get it out of your hair.”

She smiled a forced smile toward Eric. “Hello.” Turning to Buddy, she spoke with discretion. “I have your paperwork inside that you'll need to mail to the state.”

“Awesome,” Buddy replied, with a thumbs-up gesture. “Hey, you got any more of those chocolates you gave me on the ride to the ER?”

“Yes,” Betty said, opening the front door and walking inside. “But they're not decorated or wrapped appropriately.” She ushered him inside.

“I don't care about that. I still got some low back pain from when I fell, and I just figured they might help me sleep.”

Betty looked him square in the eye. “Darling, I say this to you because I care. Perhaps if you lost a few pounds, there wouldn't be so much pressure on your lower back.” She couldn't believe she just said that, but she wasn't sorry one bit. “I bet if you simply cut out sugar and potatoes, you'd be well on your way.”

Buddy stared at his enormous belly. “Yep. You're right, Mrs. Craven. Sugar and potatoes. I'll keep that in mind. So, about those candies? Do you have, like…ten?”

“Yes, of course.” She started toward the kitchen and then turned back. “You're not planning on sharing these, are you? Legally speaking, they can only be for you.”

“Sure.”

She waited. “Sure, what? Sure, you won't share them or sure…I'm not clear.”

“Sure…They're just for me,” he said with genuineness.

Betty nodded and looked out the window at Eric, who was still standing in the driveway. “He doesn't know about our agreement, does he?”

“He knows I work for you on the side, and that I left my truck here when I fell off the roof, and that you're gonna fix me up.”

“Fix you up?” she said with an air of indignity. “Hang on a second, Buddy. I'm neither a dating service nor a drug dealer. You shouldn't have said a thing about our arrangement. It's confidential.”

“I didn't know that, Mrs. Craven.”

Betty let out a frustrated breath. “Safety is imperative, Buddy. Everything is legal, of course.” She snuck another look across the street. “But prudence is advised, given the often uncharitable climate around which these operations and exchanges take place. Others might not be as understanding of my altruistic endeavors.”

Buddy looked at her like a dog looks at a chemistry book. Baffled. “Sure,” he offered. “You want me to wait here or come in the kitchen?”

Betty quickly put ten of the chocolates into a plastic baggie and then secured that into a plain brown bag. Deciding the bag looked plain, she tied a silver ribbon around it, found Buddy's change-of-caregiver forms and headed back into the living room.

“What do I owe you?” He asked, taking the bag.

This was different. Usually that was what she was asking him. “Legally, I can't charge you a specific price. But a donation of your choosing would certainly be valued.”

“Huh?”

“I'm just going by what I was told.”

Buddy thought so hard, Betty almost swore she heard the gears shifting in his brain. “Well,” he finally uttered, “I've paid around five bucks or more a pop for a pain pill from the doc. But they don't touch the pain like your candies do.”

“Really?” She was incongruously honored by that news.

“Hand to God.” Buddy brought out his wallet and rifled through his cash. “Is seventy-five cool with you?”

“Seventy-five is just fine.”

He handed her the cash.

“Mum's the word,” she advised him as she walked him to the door.

“Who's mum?”

“This is just between us,” she translated. “Mail your paperwork, dear.”

He nodded and left. She furtively watched him leave to make sure there was no exchange with Eric. Placated by their departure, she went about putting the food away and making sandwiches. An hour later, she heard loud barking emanating from her driveway. Grabbing a soup bone from the bag, she raced outside. Peyton was trapped in his Prius, while Arnold jumped like a wild beast on his car.

Betty waved the soup bone in the air and strode to the Prius. “Strudel! Strudel!” She launched the bone toward the sidewalk as Arnold fell for the bait. “All clear!”

“Strudel?” he said. “Dude, I'd be pissed too if I was a bad ass dog and someone named me Strudel.” He brought out a white plastic, water bottle with a strange chemistry symbol on the side.

“What's that mean?” Betty asked, pointing to the bottle.

“It's the symbol for THC.” He walked to the back of the car, opened the hatchback and lifted out a faux-bronze fountain. “I brought you a ‘welcome to the fold' gift. It's a solar fountain. I found it dumpster diving at work, and Pops worked his magic on it so it blows water like a son-of-a-bitch. He also rigged it up so you can plug your iPod into the side thingy here, and it'll spew the water up in sync with the music. It's like having a mini Bellagio Las Vegas hotel fountain.” As Peyton set it up, he made a point of placing it in the north side of the yard. “In feng shui, you always put your water features in the north sector to encourage the flow of wealth and prosperity.”