Betty's (Little Basement) Garden (23 page)

“Dance?”

“Yeah. I swear they dance. When the fans flutter their leaves, they move like they're dancing. But even when the wind isn't moving, I've caught them unaware in a fit of glee, shaking their hips to music only they can hear.”

“Don't you think personifying them is a little dicey?

“I don't know. Ask them.”

She smiled and then remembered a question. “One more thing. I know that changes in light trigger the bud to start blooming, but what triggers the resin?”

“In the wild, the resin forms to allow the pollen from the male plants to stick to the females. But in a controlled environment – like the way you and I are growing them inside – the females keep producing more and more resin while they wait for the male plant that never shows up. But the ladies never figure that out. And out of their sexual frustration, eventually they turn into spectacular, frosty beauties.”

“All dressed up and sparkling with nowhere to go?”

“Well…yeah…until you kill them. Then they hang on a rack in the dark until they're dried up, shoved into a jar and stored away.”

“Yes…I can relate.” She waved goodbye to Peyton and thought about what he said. How long had she been hanging in the dark and drying up? Well, a light bulb can't change itself, she mused, because it needs the twist of another hand that's willing to help it change. Yes, she thought, with careful preparation, she could launch the exploration of a deeper friendship with Jeff in the future.

And with that idea firmly in hand, she strode with purpose into the house. But she wasn't prepared for what she saw when she returned to the basement. There was Jeff, sitting on Frank's old desk, with his feet resting on Frank's chair, and looking through the box of medals and awards Betty had unceremoniously packed up.

“How did Frank die?” he asked in a sober tone. “Did he have a heart problem?”

This wasn't the genre of conversation requisite to enact her strategy. “No. In order to have a heart problem, first you have to have a heart.”

“Okay. So he wasn't a charmer.”

She moved toward the box and began putting back the miscellaneous items Jeff had removed. “Frank was only charming if you're partial to an evening with Hitler. Please, I put these away for a reason. I don't want to see them anymore. They mean nothing to me. They never did.”

“I get it. He was a tough son-of-a-bitch.”

Betty filled the box and carried it back to the corner. “Texas women are not inspired by weak men.”

“I can see he wasn't a shrinking violet,” Jeff stated, bringing out a photo.

“Where'd you find that?”

“In the desk drawer.” He handed it to Betty.

It was a Polaroid photo of Betty and Frank from 1991, taken at a barbeque right after Frank returned home from his year-long deployment during Operation Desert Storm. The ice of contempt was palpable between them. There he was with his regulation haircut, and there she was, leaning away from him and forcing an excruciating smile. She stared at the photo a little too long as the acrid memories washed over her. That day everything changed. That day shaped the rest of her son's tortured life. “I despise this photo.” Betty ripped up the Polaroid and threw it in the trash. “Let's go up to the kitchen and I'll fix us some dinner.” She started off.

“Why didn't you leave?” he asked, not moving.

“Leave? You act as if options were handed out like Chiclets.”

“We all have options. You decided to stay. Why?”

Dammit. This was not part of her plan. “I had no choice! We had a son who needed structure. Come on, let's –”

“How long were you married to Frank before your son was born?”

“Six years. Why?”

“
Six years
? You can't tell me, during all that time, you didn't know things were sour with Frank. You're a smart woman, Betty. Leaving early on in the game was an option. That's why there are hinges on doors.”

“Why are you asking all this?”

“I want to know why you do what you do.”

She let out a hard sigh. “Leaving Frank was
never
an option. He was the only ticket I was offered.”

“And you were afraid if you left him, there wouldn't be any more tickets handed out?”

“You make a commitment. You figure out how to strategize your life and you stick it out, for better or worse. No matter how bad it gets, no matter how many times you want to kill him, you
stick it out
.” She centered herself. “Please, let's go upstairs and I'll fix you –”

“Stick it out? Interesting way of looking at life. Do you think suffering is noble?”

Betty was taken back. “Excuse me? You have no goddamned idea!”

“Suffering isn't noble, Betty,” he tenderly offered. “Voluntary suffering creates pointless victims. Do you believe if you suffer enough and stick it out, you'll get rewarded down the road?”

Betty gathered herself. “It was expected of me,” she said, punctuating each word. “Failure wasn't allowed! I was held to a higher standard. My parents, Frank, my friends, society, they all expect a lot from me.”

“Well, pardon my language, but fuck society. As far as your friends, if they were really true friends, they wouldn't expect you to suck it up in a loveless marriage. And as far as your parents, I bet their relationship was just as manipulated, and what's that word you used?
Strategized
?”

Betty began to slightly shake. He was correct. His assumption precisely defined her parents' marital tenure – cold, indifferent bodies of matter, floating from room to room. But she was damned if she was going to admit it. “Look, I was never friends with my husband. Our relationship was more of an agreed-upon tactic of two people coming together, in order to have children and create financial security.”

“Wow. When you say it that way, it sounds so scandalous.”

She wasn't about to back down. “My adult life revolved around two people; one who couldn't feel and one who felt far too much. It fell on my shoulders to somehow make that work.”

“Why on God's earth did you think all that responsibility fell on you?” he gently asked. “Your marriage was doomed from the start.”

“Yes, well, someone forgot to tell me that. I was always under the impression that it
was
my job.” Resentment colored each word. “I was raised to live the perfect life. You marry the perfect man, you have the perfect child and you live in a perfect house where everyone gets along perfectly. Anything less than that and you're doing something wrong.”

He regarded her with compassion. “My God, Betty. They lied to you. Perfection is impossible. Striving toward something impossible is the definition of insanity. I've never met a perfect person in my life or had a perfect meal in a perfect house. I've seen a perfect sunset…at least it was perfect to me. I think perfection is in the eye of the beholder.”

Of course, he was right. She knew all that now. But dammit, something inside of her didn't want to back down. “I settled for what I had and saw it through to the bitter of bitter ends. I didn't know that settling was so bad.”

“Maybe because it's got the word, ‘settle,' in it?” He leaned forward, resting his arms on his thighs. “Why is it more important to you to be right than happy? What has that gotten you?”

She turned away. This sure as hell wasn't going well. That familiar sense of being cornered encroached. But this time, she was the one cornering herself. Turning back, she stood straight as an arrow. “When I was a child, I was taught that one wasn't allowed to have fun or relax until all the work was finished. The problem is that the work is
ne
v
er
done. So you can never quite unwind. The ‘doing' is always on the table…waiting and demanding your attention, like a colicky baby where no amount of walking around or rocking appeases their needs. Those of us who were raised a certain way all carry the cross at the ubiquitous church of hard work. That mandatory toiling ethic hangs the bait of ‘fun' out there, but we don't bite, because we don't believe we've earned it. And goddammit, you don't take something you haven't earned.”

“So how is that delayed gratification working out for you?” Jeff waited. “Have you had enough pain yet, or do you still think you haven't earned a good life?”

She stiffened. A pulse of anger welled up. “I resent that.”

“Good. That's a start.”

Betty felt like her boat had lost its mooring. Everything had been perfect and now it was ruined. “Why are you talking to me like this?”

He swung his long legs off the desk and pondered for a moment. “Maybe some of us don't want to end up being the next target in your scope. Frank was an asshole. I get that, loud and clear. But you're still spending a lot of time shooting him down, and that doesn't bode well for future relationships.”

Future relationships? Well, slap the dog and spit in the fire, she reflected. If he –

“Is gardening fun for you?” Jeff suddenly asked her.

The question came out of left field. Flummoxed, Betty momentarily withdrew her animosity. “It's comforting. My plants need me, but they also give me a sense of accomplishment. And if I happen to prune them too much or over water them, they still manage to flourish in spite of it. They are forgiving of my weaknesses.”

He stared at her with those eyes that could read through her veneer. “They're safe.”

She nodded. “Yes. I suppose so.”

“Well, let me tell you something.” He stood up. “Women who count gardening as their number one, hardcore passion, are in the same league to men as women who have an unhealthy fetish with far too many cats.”

She defiantly crossed her arms across her chest. “Did it ever occur to you those women might believe that gardens and cats are infinitely more reliable and less troublesome than a man?”

“Wow. You really were screwed over by ol' Frank, weren't you?” He moved closer to her. “Gardens are great, Betty. I have a garden. And I like to work in it. But I'm not in love with my garden. My garden doesn't sit on the couch and watch a movie with me. My garden doesn't cook dinner with me. My garden doesn't pick me up at the airport at midnight. As far as the cat goes, I don't have one. But if I did, he'd be my buddy, not my focus. It's just an observation perhaps, but when a guy meets a woman who spends more time turning on her tulips and petting her cat than she does paying attention to him, it's not a fruitful start to a long term relationship.”

If she had a gauntlet, it would have swung down with gusto. “Well, perhaps that's because some men require far too much attention.” She steadied herself. “I think you should go now.”

He paused briefly, gently moving closer to her but she inched away.

“I mean it,” she stated. “
Go
.”

He regarded her with deep compassion, but she wouldn't make eye contact. “Yes, ma'am.”

She didn't move a muscle until she heard the throaty engine of his motorcycle fade into the distance. He was out of line, she told herself. She was right and he was wrong. How on earth could she ever have considered…? She must have gone temporarily insane. Yes, yes, yes, she was right and he was wrong. Her daddy had another saying: “The time to kill a snake is when he raises his head.” When a problem rears up, take action.

Betty was right. She just needed to keep telling herself that, even as the familiar hour of lead fell across her heart. Within seconds, that damned syncopated beat started in her right ear. It had been days since it had crept up, and now it felt worse than ever.

She closed the sliding glass door and drew the drapes to block out the generous spill of light coming from the veg room. The last thing Betty wanted were the neighbors knocking on her door and asking why she had a beacon of bright light coming out of her basement. She desperately needed to occupy herself. To move, to
do
, to accomplish something, in order to be worthy of taking in her next breath. Checking on the girls, she felt the temperature of the heat mats that warmed their feet to make sure they weren't too toasty. Reminded of what Peyton told her about shaking the stalks to encourage more strength in the plant, she gently grasped each stalk and shook the plant for about a minute each. Then she had an idea. Two by two, she carried the plants into the small laundry area. She shoved a few large towels into the dryer, and seeing a pair of her sneakers nearby, tossed them in too. She carefully placed the six plants on top of the dryer and turned it on high. Within seconds, they were dancing to the beat every time the circling shoes struck the top of the unit.

Betty stood back and tried to focus, but an overwhelming sense of disappointment and emptiness swallowed her. Her body ached, but not from exertion. The din of loneliness screamed in her face. The need to be right had a price, and she was broke.

It didn't help that the Centennial Blueberry clone, with the half-eaten top stem Ronald had ingested, was not looking as vibrant as her sisters. She turned on all the lights in the tiny room and examined the plant. A dried stream of Ronald's drool could still be seen on one broad sided leaf. She wiped it off with a wet cloth and was about to put the plant back on the tumbling dryer, when she saw something on a lower leaf. No, it couldn't be, she thought. Carrying the plant into the veg room, she held it under the bright light and looked closer. An almost negligible white cloud, the size of a pea, appeared to be forming on a lower leaf. “PM,” she whispered, as if saying it too loud would propel it onto the next set of leaves. She wasn't certain but she wasn't going to take chances. She grabbed the powdery mildew spray and squirted a generous blast on the leaf. Waiting a few minutes, she couldn't quite tell if it was gone. She blew on the leaf and waited. Then she waited a bit longer. Nothing. The damned spot was still there. She decided the plant needed to be air-dried; perhaps that would solve the problem.