Betty's (Little Basement) Garden (28 page)

Betty thought about it. “There will always be those who need to toe the line.”

“Of course. Those same ones believe the lie when they're told they have no power. They trust that someone else knows more about their needs than they do. They think their noose is a trendy necktie.”

Betty shifted in the muddy lake bottom. She found herself wanting to argue with the good doctor, and she didn't know why. Part of her wanted to play the devil's advocate, but she stopped short when she glanced over at the cooler holding her cannabis chocolates. Any argument she came up with would be as solid as the mucky soil beneath her feet.

“I'll let you in on a secret, Betty. Everyone thinks memories are so important. I disagree. There's grace that comes with forgetting some things. I'm not talking about dementia. I'm talking about the ability to not hold the past so close to you that it suffocates the present moment. There's a knack to forgetting one's pain. Mary Jane makes that goal more attainable.”

Betty couldn't connect to Doctor Dave's idea. “I would never want to forget my past or the people in it.”

“What about the pain?” He released the fly line again. “What if those unbearable memories prevent you from moving forward and finding pleasure? Would you change your mind then? I watched kids as young as eighteen take their last breath on a dirty, gut-soaked stretcher in the middle of a chaotic firefight. I saw guys with their legs and arms blown off. All they had left was a torso and head, and right before they died, they'd tell me to let their mother know they loved her.” He puffed on his cigar. “There were thousands of those kids, and I was able to save ten, maybe twenty percent. I was expected to suck it up and keep doing the same thing every day, even though I knew the next day would be worse. All those dead bodies kept stacking up in my head until finally, their voices haunted me. I couldn't tune them out. What good did that do me?
Tell me
.”

Betty felt a chill down her spine. “I can't answer that,” she said somberly.

“I never got shot, but I was as much a casualty as the guys who did.” His cigar needed a tune up. He patiently re-lit it in contemplative silence. “There's a quote from Albert Schweitzer that I have framed on my desk. ‘Happiness is nothing more than good health and a bad memory.' With the help of Mary Jane, I found that contentment through the slow murkiness that dissolved all those young faces from my mind. Memory can cripple us, Betty. The art of forgetting becomes one's savior. Forgetting allows a respite from pain and regret – two chains that occupy every second and weigh you down. Forgetting is a gift one should never refuse, if within that is the promise that all the mind clutter will stop controlling and owning you.”

They talked for another hour, moving only a few yards in the water the entire time. Finally, the beating sun forced Betty to depart. Doctor Dave instructed her to put the chocolates and caregiver paperwork in a large cooler he had in the backseat of his SUV. There was a one hundred dollar bill waiting for her in a white envelope in the cooler. When Betty asked him what strain he would like her to grow for him, he gave a slightly self-conscious smile. “AK-47,” Dave stated.

When Betty got closer to town, she called around to various dispensaries until she found one that had three AK-47 clones for sale. All of them were over one month old and beginning to develop into beautiful girls. After securing them discreetly on the floor of the backseat, she reasoned she would soon need another ounce or two of sweet leaf shake in order to keep up with her patients' requests. She quickly took a detour home, dropped off her three new girls under the veg lights in the basement and grabbed ten cannabis chocolates. Boxing them up and setting them in her cooler, she was back on the road in fewer than ten minutes.

Rolling into the parking lot of Louie's Lube ‘n' Tube, Betty parked in the shade, removed the box of chocolates and walked through the side steel door with the gold wheel decal. The place was purring with activity. She glanced around until she saw Louie standing under a hoisted truck.

“Louie?” she said.

He turned, and when he saw Betty, his face froze. “Hey.” Skittishly, he looked around. “You're not supposed to be in here. Insurance rules.”

The greeting was certainly nothing like their first visit. “Of course. I understand. Could I have a word with you please? Outside?”

Louie instructed a mechanic to check the air filter on the truck and then walked outside with Betty.

“I'm sorry to bother you during business hours,” Betty stated before handing him the chocolates, “but I wanted to thank you for your generosity and give you a little taste of my efforts.”

He took the box but seemed a bit distant. “Okay. Thank you.”

“I also need to engage in another transaction with you. I'd like two more ounces of the sweet leaf shake please.”

Louie looked lost. “I don't have any.”

“When will you have some?”

He casually tilted his head toward the far end of the automotive yard and she followed him. “I got out of the grow business. I sold all my plants to a buddy and did the same thing with the bud and shake I had sittin' around.”

Betty wasn't sure she was hearing this correctly. “I just saw you last week. What in the hell happened between then and now?”

“Well…to be honest…” He hesitated for a second. “
You
happened.”

“
Me
?”

“Yeah. You.” He scratched his head, trying to come up with the right words. “You got me thinking. You asked how I handled it, havin' kids in the house and all. I had a long talk with my wife and we both agreed it was time to fold it up.”

Betty stood there in stunned disbelief. “Well, I'm so glad I could be of service to you. Now, where in the hell am I going to purchase more shake?”

“I have no idea. Maybe the street?”

Her jaw dropped. “
On the street
? Excuse me, but do I look like someone who purchases cannabis
on the street
? I need to know how it's grown, what the strain is, whether it's covered with mold or pesticides. Do you actually think that some poorly educated, street corner, drug-addled lackey can acquire that information for me? I think not!”

“Uh, you know, technically, I am ‘the street.'”

“Present company excepted,” she quickly said.

“Ma'am, I hear you. But I can't help you. What about Peyton?”

She was still fuming as she tilted her imposing stature closer to Louie. “He won't be harvesting his current crop until July. I can't wait until then! I have patients depending on me to deliver quality cannabis chocolates in a timely manner! What do you think I'm running here? Some fly-by-night operation?” Betty realized she'd temporarily lost both her manners and her mind. She pulled away from Louie and took a moment to calm down. “I'm sorry. That was unacceptable.”

“It's okay, ma'am. Just my two cents, but maybe you should lay off the Sativas and move more toward the calming Indicas.”

The whole way home, Betty berated herself for wasting one of the ounces of shake she originally purchased from Louie, in the coconut oil infusion. Sure, she could use that one for making salves, but if she'd used the entire amount of shake in the cocoa butter, she'd have an extra forty-eight dosed candies to hand out. Unfortunately, she knew she couldn't substitute the coconut oil cannabis in her chocolates because of the odd soapy taste it imparted. At this rate, she only had seventeen cannabis chocolates left. Her balloon of enthusiasm quickly burst.

Betty made a point of stopping by the nursery to pick up two raspberry and two blueberry bushes. She had no interest in them, but she figured it was important to cover her bases and at least have them, just in case Crystal wanted to see how “brave” she really was.

She spent the rest of the day in her front yard garden, tending to the mass of weeds and pruning what she'd ignored for over a week. As the sun grew hotter and the solar fountain continued to spew arcs of water into the flowerbeds, Betty contemplated every possible way of obtaining more shake. But nothing she came up with allowed for the degree of discretion she needed. Jeff called mid-day to check in, which cheered her up. However, he wouldn't be over that night, since Peyton and she would be heading down to sulfur the basement. When he said goodbye and she hung up, a striking loneliness took hold. Betty tried to push it away, but it was clear she truly felt something for him. Throwing all the unconventional drivel to the side, he was quickly turning into a good habit.

She wrapped up dinner early that evening, put the dishes away and checked the girls several times before turning on the chirping birds CD for them to enjoy. After installing the remote thermometer in the veg room, she wandered back into the living room, figuring she'd kill time and read an old
High Times
while waiting for Peyton's eight-thirty arrival. But even a scintillating Q&A interview, with a former cop who was fighting for cannabis reform, didn't help her forget she would soon have nothing to offer her patients. Putting down the magazine, she dozed lightly. But she was strangely aware she was falling asleep and conscious of the sounds in the room. Her body relaxed, but she still felt the soft couch under her body. Suddenly, she felt a wooden surface against her back. She opened her eyes and found herself in the attic. A dim lamp was the only source of light in the darkened room. There was slow movement in the corner of the room, and she watched without fear as Frankie emerged from the shadows. He looked somewhat different this time. He was still thin, but his face didn't harbor the usual scars of drug abuse as it always did whenever she had seen him before in these altered states. He looked down at her and smiled. Then, for some odd reason, he walked to the narrow part of the room, where the ceiling slanted, and placed his palm against the wall. Without taking his eyes off Betty, he tapped his fingers repeatedly on the wood. She heard his voice whisper in her head, “Pay attention.” There was more and in that moment, she understood him, but when she awoke, the information evaporated.

Betty turned to the clock and realized that half an hour had passed, even though she felt as if it had only been a minute. The air prickled around her, as if Frankie's essence was still close by and waiting. Getting up, she turned around in a full circle, expecting to see her son without the fog of sleep, alcohol or cannabis encouraging it. “Frankie?”

Silence.

And then her feet, as Emily Dickinson wrote, “mechanical” went round and upstairs to the attic door. She opened the door, turned on the light and made her way up the narrow steps. After switching on another lamp, she stared at the spot where Frankie's hand rested in her strange vision. Moving carefully to the slanted ceiling, she told herself this was ridiculous, and yet she peered closer. Betty brought the lamp toward her and illuminated the rough wood. She was just about to turn around when she noticed a gap where two panels of wood had been joined together. Finding a lone ballpoint pen lying nearby, she jabbed it into the thin slit and was easily able to pry one panel away from the wall. She removed the second panel and found a cavernous hole, rife with cobwebs and cakes of dust. Taking the shade off the lamp, she poked the lightbulb into the cavity and saw a reflection. Betty reached in and felt a firmly wrapped, brick-shaped object. She withdrew it and sat on Frankie's bed. The object was covered in two inches of thick plastic. It took her ten minutes to slice through and remove the plastic, and when she did, she found a latched, metal box. Unhooking the latch, she stared in stunned disbelief.

Inside the box was a vacuum-sealed pound of premium cannabis bud. The label read: L.A. Confidential/Northern California – 2005.

Betty brought the pound of buds down to the kitchen and cut open the airtight plastic bag. To her shock and amazement, it still retained a fairly strong, skunky aroma with a hint of pine. She brought out one of the dense, dark green buds and clearly saw the frosty maroon red hairs. Some of the smaller buds weren't as aromatically pungent, so she set those aside. But after carefully rooting through the bag, she ended up with almost seven ounces of incredibly pungent cannabis. Once it passed the smell test, she needed to figure out if there was still some kick left to it, after spending five years in the dark, airtight storage. Betty carried a bud to the stove and gently lit it on the burner. After blowing out the flame, she held the bud to her nose and inhaled one good ribbon of smoke. It took about one minute before she felt a smooth but relaxing buzz creep from her head to her toes. She may have only been able to salvage seven ounces out of the pound, but cannabis bud was a lot stronger than sweet leaf shake, so she factored she could use less and still obtain the same medicinal effects.

Betty immediately looked up the L.A. Confidential strain on her computer, and found to her delight that it was a three-time Cannabis Cup winner for best Indica strain and boasted a stunning eighteen percent THC. It was also used mainly for pain and insomnia – two issues she was sure all of her patients would benefit from. Obviously, after five years in hiding, the THC content might have been compromised. But if the smoke test was any indication, Betty knew she had a reprieve from worrying about how she was going to take care of her patients.

It was nothing short of a strange, almost mystical discovery. And then she remembered the last time she saw Frankie alive, when he insisted on going up to his old room alone. She recalled the backpack slung over his shoulder, which she only now realized held the brick of cannabis. But where in the hell did he get such a huge amount of herb? And why was he secreting it away in their home? There was no way to explain it except that somehow, Frankie did this for a purpose she wasn't prepared to understand. And if she couldn't explain it, there was no way she was about to bring it up to Peyton. She diligently wrapped up the useable bud and hid it in her bedroom closet, next to Frankie's box of ashes.

Peyton arrived with a bag that held a tub of yellow sulfur crystals, a metal-handled burner and two green headlamps. They still had half an hour before the lights went out in the veg room, but Peyton wanted to get everything set up. Putting the items on the living room table, he explained the whole process. Sulfur burning had to be done with the lights off, because if light hit the leaves during the process – or even a few hours afterward – there was a risk of burning the leaves, turning them black. The leaves also had to be free of oils, such as those natural substances used for pest control, as that would also destroy the plant, essentially denuding it, leaving only a lonely stalk. While sulfuring cannabis plants was extreme, so was the potentially devastating effects of PM, especially when one's intention was to make medicine out of the mature plants. As Peyton described it, the sulfur burner was hung over the plants, and after it was filled with the yellow sulfur crystals, the burner was plugged in and allowed to warm up, until a slow, smoky vapor that smelled like decaying eggs wafted through the enclosed space. There was no way to be in the room during the process, but after about three hours when the smoke dissipated, one could return to the room wearing a green headlamp and remove the burner. The entire process made Betty as nervous as a whore in church. But the thought of losing her girls worried her more. They went downstairs and were instantly greeted with the incessant chirping birds CD.

Peyton put his hands to his ears. “Sweet baby Jesus! Make it stop!”

“I can't!” Betty said, talking over a particularly high-pitched, starling sequence. “It opens the stomata! I figured it would help the sulfur absorb better.”

“For real?”

“Yes. For real.”

“What about music?”

“Oh, they get that too. They start the day with chirping birds. Mid-morning they get Vivaldi's Four Seasons, lunch is a series of energetic Strauss Waltzes, then a bit of down time for their nap. Baroque starts in the late afternoon and then we move through Beethoven and Bach, before we end the day with a calming Mozart compilation and a final restful Suite Number 3: Air on the G String. It's one of my favorite Baroque pieces. You know what they say, Peyton. If it ain't Baroque, don't fix it.”

He looked at her with a confused expression. “I'm still fixating on the G String.” He noticed the temperature sensor on the wall. “What's that?”

“That's synced to two digital thermometers upstairs. One is in my bedroom and the other is in the kitchen. That way I can remotely keep tabs on the temperature.”

“Geez, Betty. You've taken this to a whole new level. It's like you just adopted a Cambodian orphan, and you're worried it's gonna suffocate in its pillow. You sure you don't want to install a baby monitor just in case they call out in the middle of the night for a cup of water?”

“This is coming from a young man who sleeps with his plants?” she countered with a gentle smile, turning the volume down on the chirping birds. “Did you hear about the caregivers who were assaulted in their home and had their plants stolen?”

He nodded. “Yeah, dude. It sucks. They obviously showed their grow op to the wrong person.”

“Well, that's not going to happen here. But I do think we need to take precautions. From now on, when we're talking on the phone or between us, we won't use the word ‘plants.' Instead, we'll talk about ‘the girls.' So if I say the girls are hungry, it means I'm feeding them. Or when I say the girls want to see you, it means come over. If I say the girls need a little special attention, that means we need to amend their nutrients. Make sense?”

“Yeah. Sure. One problem though, Betty. Instead of people assuming you're growing cannabis, they are gonna assume you're running a brothel.”

“Well, just as long as I don't get screwed either way,” she said with a wry smile. “Speaking of the girls, before the lights go out, I want to get your opinion on this one.” She pointed to the partially top-chewed Centennial Blueberry plant that Ronald trashed. “What do you think? Is she going to make it, or did Ronald permanently stunt her?”

Peyton examined the plant carefully. “Nah. He just super-cropped her. That's cannabis speak for ‘high tech pruning.' Instead of a top cola, you'll get three or four top ones. People do this on purpose to create more of a canopy bush effect, so that light can penetrate down to the lower branches better.”

“Okay.” She looked at the plant with a scowl of displeasure. “But this branch looks like it's deformed. I'm just concerned it's not going to rally to the occasion. It's already stunted compared to the others and difficult to prop up. And look over at this leaf –”

“Betty, Betty, Betty. You're freakin' out over nothin'. Remember? This is supposed to be fun.”

“Right. Fun.”

“No, I'm serious, Betty.
Fun
? The plant's gonna make it. It may not look perfect but it's worth keeping around.” He set the plant down and put a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “Dude, I can see how attached you already are. It happens to all of us. These plants…these
girls
…they capture your heart in a very strange way. But you gotta stop worrying so much about the little stuff.” He leaned forward, whispering to her in confidence. “They can feel your stress, and that's not doing them any good. They just want to chill, you know? Listen to some tunes, drink some water, eat some food, be talked to in a soothing manner and grow to their greatest healing potential.”

She contemplated his guidance. “Good advice.” She peered down at the lopsided plant and a brazen idea formed. “I'm going to call that girl Helen. She's got a lot of issues.”

Peyton started setting up the sulfur burner. Betty looked around the room and felt a deep sense of connection with her young flock.

“You know, Peyton. You're right. I really think I might have found my niche.”

He looked up. “Oh yeah? I didn't know your niece was missing.”

An hour later, after feeding Peyton a light but suitable snack for that time of evening, Betty gave him a large bag of llama beans. One would have thought she'd given him a glow-in-the-dark watering can by the look of excitement in his eyes.

Betty realized something drastic had to be done. As far as she was concerned, he needed companionship as soon as possible. “Are you free for lunch tomorrow?” she asked him.

“Yeah. It's my day off. But tomorrow's my scheduled pre-flip, foliar spray on the ladies who are heading into bloom.”

“Yes, of course it is. But you're meeting me outside
The Gilded Rose
at noon. I'll write down the address. It'll be
fun
. Trust me.”

And as it turned out, it was fun. After lunch the following day, Betty nonchalantly suggested a post-meal visit to
The Green Wellness
dispensary where Yarrow just so happened to be working as a bud tender. She also just happened to have a new hairstyle, thanks to Betty's dependable stylist. And not so strangely, it just so happened that Peyton and Yarrow hit it off, like two cannabis plants under the same grow light. When she left them at the dispensary, she had a strong feeling her second imperfect son would soon have something else to occupy his free time.

The days passed quickly, and before she knew it, summer was in full swing. By early July, Peyton told Betty it was time to flip her plants from veg into bloom. But first, he showed her how to clone them. Choosing the most vigorous and healthy plants that had the densest growth patterns, they spent a hot summer afternoon carefully cutting the best specimens from the lower branches, dipping them in cloning solution and securing them in wet peat plugs. From there, they placed the cuttings in a large, water-filled cloning unit with multiple jets that, when turned on, sprayed the peat to encourage root growth. She kept track of each plant and which “mother” it came from, by affixing handwritten labels made out of masking tape to the edges of each plug. The only plant they didn't clone was White Russian, not wanting to continue the powdery mildew problem.

Of all the original “mother” plants, the Kushberry ones had grown like they had something to prove, measuring an astounding three feet. “Helen,” the Centennial Blueberry plant that Ronald “supercropped,” had also taken on the look of a lush, healthy bush, with a discernable canopy filled with dozens of beautiful nodes that would eventually transform into even more outstanding buds. With each passing week, Betty invested more time and money in her stable of twelve girls. Seeing her electric bill that covered the first month of growing, she realized that, as the saying goes, experience ran up big bills and so did those grow lights. In an attempt to conserve energy, she snuck the girls outside to wave in the soft breeze under the large elm tree. They always seemed happier and infused with vitality after a day in the sun. That treat would become less viable once they began blooming and growing taller. The heady scent of the developing buds would require them to be held captive inside.

Thanks to Betty's matchmaking, Peyton and Yarrow had formed a great friendship that turned into something more serious in late June. It seemed to be the perfect coupling, even though Peyton still had no idea she had Canadian blood running through her veins.

Betty still had only three of the five patients allowed by Colorado law. But Buddy, Dottie and Dr. Dave certainly kept her busy making chocolates. She even experimented making several salves, using the cannabis coconut oil infusion, and found it to be a great hit with her trio. Buddy especially was hooked on the salve and was convinced it was helping relieve the spasms in his lower back. Dottie even used it on a few of her horses, and she said they seemed to benefit from daily applications. The trick, she told Betty, was keeping the salve tucked away so no one else would find it. After several visits to Dottie's ranch to deliver chocolates and more cannabis salve, Betty noticed that Hugh, the ranch manager, was becoming increasingly concerned, hovering close to the barn every time Betty arrived. As for Doctor Dave, Betty met him every Wednesday
in
the lake, wading out to chat, before leaving the chocolates in his cooler. The three of them were a joy to work with – even Buddy slowly let down his usual, pulled-back demeanor and was more at ease with Betty.

It was, as Betty began to call it, her summer of love. She had her girls she adored, and she had Jeff who adored her. She knew when she gave him a key to the house, he was more than just a passing infatuation. When he wasn't there or she wasn't at his house outside of Paradox, she felt as if a part of her was missing. It was such an odd feeling, because their relationship “on paper” continued to make no sense to her. But the Betty that had been buried for too many decades gradually emerged, bonding with him in a sensuous, arousing celebration that made her feel young and in bloom. And yet, she continued to keep their relationship a secret from her friends. Betty told herself it was because she was private and the bond between them was sacrosanct. But deep down, there was more to the exclusion of his name than she wanted to admit. Even their overnight getaway to Glenwood Springs for his birthday in June was fraught with creative deception, when Judi unexpectedly showed up at the house and saw Betty's overnight bag by the door. She appeased Judi by telling her that she used the bag to store winter blankets. Betty knew this subterfuge couldn't go on forever. But then she told herself if she could successfully hide the girls, she could also continue to hide the man.

What she couldn't hide, however, was the way she was changing. She brought out photos of Frankie and propped them up around the house. For the first time, she allowed her grey roots to grow out a little longer before coloring them. The soft adagios still played in her bedroom, but she discovered that listening to the local classic rock station, while driving with the windows rolled down, made her feel alive. And every single night, right before bed, she took upwards of a half-teaspoon of the cannabis-infused coconut oil.