Betty's (Little Basement) Garden (34 page)

Since it was a Sunday, the forty-five minute journey was relatively quick and free of traffic. When she arrived, she was shocked to find fifteen new people waiting to meet her. It was just a tad disarming, given their somewhat odd attire. One woman wore a garland of fresh cannabis leaves strung around her neck, which she ceremoniously bestowed on Betty. A man wearing a Bob Marley tie-dye t-shirt wore hoop earrings, through which a small, dried cannabis bud hung. They were a peculiar bunch of folks, Betty decided, but they were also extremely kind and munificent. When they weren't expressing their heartfelt gratitude for her “green talent,” they were eagerly inviting her to visit
their
grow ops and the use of their “premium shake” if she ever ran out and was in need. What started out with a bit of a circus milieu, developed into a relaxed discussion that revolved continually around the cannabis plant. Betty became so involved in the various conversations that time slipped by too quickly. But when she glanced at a clock, and saw it was 3:30, she jumped up from the hemp-clothed futon and dashed to her car.

Betty Craven was
never
late to her destination. And now, for the first time, her excuse was that she was engaged with an uncommonly gregarious group of ganja aficionados. No, that story wasn't going to float, she pondered as she put the pedal to the metal to see what her overhauled, rabid-cougar engine could do. As the clock closed in on 4:20, however, she suddenly realized she'd left the party chocolates at her house. She pounded the steering wheel in frustration and made a quick turn back to her home. This wasn't like Betty. She wasn't scatterbrained and tardy. What in God's name was happening to her, she scolded herself.

Arriving at her house, she dashed from the car and through the back gate. Arthur had thankfully shown up to retrieve the cooler. That was one less thing to worry about, she reasoned, as she went inside to collect the chocolates. As she quickly removed the platter of chocolates from the freezer, her attention was drawn to the blinking light on her phone. Punching the button, she heard Arthur's voice.

“Hi, Betty. I can't make it over to your house today. I need to stay here with Jean. If there's any way you can come to our place tomorrow, we'd appreciate it. Thanks.”

Betty momentarily froze. Her first thought was that Jean might have taken a turn for the worse. That grave realization was followed by the question of where in the hell was the cooler of Jean's medicated chocolates? No sooner had that thought troubled her already frenzied mind than the phone rang. It was Judi, and she wasn't happy.

“Where are you?” Judi asked in a slurred voice.

“I'm just leaving now,” Betty replied, carefully placing the frozen platter into a quilted casserole carrier.

“You're never late!
Ever
! Why now? Why
today
?” Judi's voice was growing irrational.

“I'll just grab the chocolates and be there in a jiffy!”

“We've already got your chocolates ready to go on the table!” Judi announced. “Helen was running a little late, so I told her to stop by your place. She found the cooler at the back door. All that's missing is
you
!”

Betty grabbed the counter to steady herself. “I'll be right there.” She hung up, as her life flashed before her eyes. It was closing in on 4:30. Dessert would be served at any moment. “Shit!” she screamed, racing out the door with the platter of chocolates. It was official. Helen could foul up a two-car funeral.

Betty forced her newly repaired car to work for its supper, as she floored it nearly all the way to Judi's house. She double-parked, grabbed the quilted casserole carrier and raced to the back of the house. Slipping quietly past a few guests and edging into the large, empty kitchen, she spied her cooler. The lid was off and the elegantly wrapped box and ribbon were carelessly tossed on the granite-topped island. Retrieving the box and ribbon, she dropped it into the cooler and kicked it closer to the door that led into the living room. Peering into the crowded room, all she could see were the backs of guests, chatting and eating off paper plates. Leaning around the corner, she eyed the dessert table covered with the antique tablecloth she given Judi. There, proudly featured in the center, was a silver platter and the cannabis chocolates.

Betty crept to the table, picked up the platter and whisked it back into the kitchen. She had to think for a second how many chocolates she made for Jean. Fifteen. Yes, fifteen. She counted the remaining chocolates and ended up with nine.
Oh, dear Lord
, she thought, swallowing hard. Betty frantically transferred the nine cannabis chocolates into their box in the cooler, lifted the plain chocolates off her platter inside of the satin cloth and spread them as beautifully as she could on Judi's silver platter before anyone saw the subterfuge. She had to ferret out the six remaining chocolates or somehow find which unsuspecting partygoers were about to feel some unusual effects.

Betty adopted her best pageant walk and smile and strolled back into the living room, silver platter in hand. Moving around the periphery of the room, she tried to scope out any discarded or uneaten chocolates. But the minute she considered that possibility, she realized how highly unlikely that scenario would be, given the rapturous ecstasy her chocolates tended to induce. And yet, as dumb luck would have it, she spied one lonely chocolate on a dessert dish stationed on a small table. Like a magician trained in the art of sleight of hand, Betty collected the cannabis-infused chocolate and replaced it with a plain one from her silver party platter.

“One down,” she said to herself. “Five to go.”

Betty walked around the room, first asking the guests if they'd had a chocolate yet, before offering them one from her platter. No one mentioned anything about already eating one, but there were guests scattered around the house and property. One person might have eaten two. And there was no way to know who might have already enjoyed one and left early. That latter possibility nearly sent her head spinning, when she heard a woman's voice behind her.

“I'll have another chocolate!”

Betty turned and took in a little gasp. It was Helen.

“Why are you shocked to see me?” Helen asked her. “I thought I had your blessing to be here.” She took one chocolate off the platter. “I think you need to check the expiration date on your ingredients. The first one I ate tasted like a lawn with the septic tank flooding.” Helen sunk back in her chair and popped the chocolate into her mouth.

Betty felt as though everything slowed down at that point. The panic and realization of what could soon transpire – how she could potentially be both exposed and held accountable all in one breath – gripped her hard. The scandal would linger forever in Paradox, with her reputation tarnished permanently. She was just beginning to picture the throng of journalists camped in front of her house, when she felt a tap on her shoulder. She turned to find Judi staring at her with steely resentment.

“What in the hell are you doing, Betty?” she asked her, clearly unsteady on her feet. “I didn't hire you to serve chocolates.” She snagged a white-shirted catering waitress and handed the young girl the silver platter. Grabbing Betty by the arm, she pulled her toward the bar in the far corner of the living room. “An hour and a half late!” she said with a drunken sneer. “And I have to call your house and chase you down like a rebellious child!” She spilled her drink across the bar. “Oh, shit! That's the second time today!” She twisted the top off another bottle of whiskey.

“I really do think you've had enough, darling,” Betty cautioned, momentarily forgetting the impending disaster.

“You don't get to make that decision today,” Judi said, pouring three fingers of scotch into her glass. “I serve the guests the fruity shit.” She pointed to a round table near the front door. “I keep the good stuff for myself.”

Betty peered across the room at a punchbowl that held a frothy orange liquid. “What's that?”

“Some kind of fermented mango juice the caterer guaranteed would be the showstopper for my party.”

Betty was glad she had a bar to hang onto at that moment. She instantly recalled Dottie's assertion that if someone ate a really-ripe mango an hour prior to consuming cannabis, the effects of the herb would increase.
Fe
r
mented mango
? Yeah, that would get the party ball rolling pretty fast, leading up to the real showstopper.

“What do you want to drink? Bourbon?” Judi asked.

Betty's head swirled, trying to figure out how to stop this nightmare without risking her reputation in the process. “Actually, I don't want anything. I'm…” She looked around the room. “I'm not feeling that well. I think I'm having a reaction to…” Betty honed in on her target. “To those strawberries over there.” Betty scanned the room and realized that nearly every plate had a large strawberry or two on it.

“Strawberries?” Judi replied in a flippant tone. “What are you talking about?”

“Pesticides,” Betty blurted out.

“Huh?”

“They heavily spray conventionally grown strawberries with lots of pesticides. It's been all over the TV. Haven't you heard about it?” She said it so convincingly she almost began to believe it was the top story on the evening news. “They use over thirty-five chemicals on that poor, little, innocent red fruit. They mentioned that the effects of those chemicals after ingesting them are almost immediate. There's dizziness, confusion, extreme fatigue, a slight buzzing in the head –”

“Really? You just described how I feel for the first ninety minutes of every single morning. Try again, Betty.”

“I'm serious, Judi,” she casually observed Helen across the room. She was still glued to her chair and showing her usual disinterest in everything. “I really don't feel top shelf. Unless those strawberries are organic –”

“
Organic
? Excuse me, but look at this crowd.” She gulped the whiskey. “You think I'd waste organic strawberries on these pill poppers? They're all so over-medicated, their livers operate in another zip code and their brains have all turned to Swiss Cheese.
Expensive
Swiss Cheese, mind you, but it's still cheese with gaping holes. They don't care about organics or free-range! Go on! Ask them! Bet they'll tell you that a free-range chicken is chicken you don't pay for!”

In the midst of potential chaos breaking out, Betty realized that something was terribly wrong with her friend. She'd always noticed her propensity to occasionally drink too much in the past, but there was something else. Betty couldn't believe she'd been so blind to it. “If you detest them so much, why do you keep hosting this party?”

She was silent, studying the amber reflections in her cut crystal glass. “Because…you just do. You just keep doing the same fucking thing, day in and day out until you drop dead. You do it because it's what you've always done. End of story.”

Betty regarded her with compassion. “Maybe you should rethink that mindset.”

Judi stared at her with glazed eyes. “Rethink…that…mindset? What in the hell? What's happened to you, Betty? Who in the hell are you? You've changed. I can't sit across from you anymore and dish about all the stupid things in the world that don't matter. I can't count on you to indulge me in a harmless game of gossip. It's not fun anymore.” A shadow of grief engulfed her. “You're my only real true friend in this world. You're the only one I can always depend on and trust with everything. All the rest of them are just cushions to keep my life at arm's length. But you've abandoned me for some reason, and I don't know what I've done.” She gripped Betty's arm. “Tell me what I've done so we can put this behind us and get back to normal.” She twisted the cap off the whiskey bottle again and poured herself another three fingers of booze.

“I think you should slow down.”

Her tone instantaneously flipped. “And
I
told you that wasn't your decision!” She sloppily poured the whiskey into her glass.

Betty felt the sting of a memory rise up. She'd had this same drunken argument too many times in the past, with someone who could turn meaner than a sack of snakes, faster than green grass through a goose. She knew from heartbreaking experience it was better to back off than fuel the fire with sensible suggestions.

“Frankly,” Judi took a sip, “I think I should speed up the adult beverage consumption, so I can handle the remainder of this red hot mess. In about half an hour, we'll move to the portion of the afternoon where they all take turns thanking me for putting the party together, and complimenting us on what a ‘fantastic home' we have for entertaining. Then they'll drone on about how the partners are going to expand the practice next year, so they can kick some serious ass! Honestly, Betty, I'd have a strong drink if I were you. You gotta fortify yourself for that part of the festivities. I never really saw the big business of medicine until I married a doctor. I thought I was married to someone who actually wanted to heal people. What a stupid cow I was. Medicine is a business, Betty. And business is
very
good.”

“
Judi
,” Betty stressed, equally worried for her friend as she was for the four remaining unsuspecting guests. “I'm not disregarding or ignoring anything you're telling me. But I'm really not feeling well at all, and I do think we need to seriously consider the fact that others might begin to experience some of these symptoms –”

“
Good
. I hope they drop like flies drenched in Raid. At least it'll be one of the more memorable parties I've thrown. One by one, to watch these self-important fucks fall over. I can't wait.”

“I'm not kidding! Perhaps I could ask for everyone's attention and explain the possible issue with the strawberries –”

“Betty, put down the crack pipe and consider what you just said. You bring up to these people that there might be a ‘possible issue' in which they might start to feel sick, and everyone's going to start believing they're sick.
Everyone
! Even the ones who haven't eaten the goddamn strawberries. Ever heard of the placebo effect? It's real! I've seen it in action. Roger ran out of anti-depressant samples for his patients two months ago, so he gave them placebos until the new shipment arrived. Every single one of those bastards reported back to him that those pills changed their lives and cured their depression. If that wasn't a total mind fuck, I don't know what was!”

Betty was just about to question how feeling better was a “mind fuck” when Helen approached them. She stood there, with arms outstretched, captivated by a small crack in the ceiling.

“Aren't words interesting?” Helen said, eyes as glassy as a still mountain lake. “Like the word ‘therapist.' If you make it two words, you get ‘the rapist.' And Santa. Flip the letters around and you get ‘Satan.'” She stared blankly at the women. “What do you think that means?”

They regarded Helen in stunned silence for a long thirty seconds.

“Pesticides.” Betty finally whispered to Judi.

Judi observed Helen through inebriated eyes. “Your little friend, Peyton, was right,” she whispered back to Betty. “I think we need to keep an eye on her.”

Helen laid down on one of the couches and promptly fell into such a deep sleep that Judi's Persian cat was able to groom himself while balancing across her chest. An hour later, Betty noticed the portly husband of one of the office receptionists staring a little too long at the floral centerpiece. The remaining guests that unknowingly drew the short cannabis straws that early evening included an eighty-year-old retired doctor and an X-ray technician. Both of them seemed unaware of the cause for their sudden disorientation. As their respective partners helped them to their cars and the party broke up, one of the catering waitresses sidled next to Betty, grinning like a seasoned pro.

“So, who made the chocolates?” the waitress asked, visibly enjoying the buzz.

Betty put a protective arm around her and pointed across the room. “See that elderly lady over there sound asleep with the Persian on her chest?” Betty sighed. “She brought them.”

Once she knew every edible had been accounted for, Betty grabbed her cooler in the kitchen and said goodbye to Judi. Their parting was awkward, as Judi was slumped across a leather chair in the den, mindlessly channel surfing with the sound on mute. Even though the catering waitress was well aware the chocolates were spiked, she thankfully kept mum. Betty insisted on driving the girl home and helping her into the house.

“That ol' lady sure knows how to cook with weed!” the girl declared, as Betty helped her to the couch and left only after she fell into a deep sleep.

Driving home, Betty realized there was one thing to be grateful for – Renée wasn't at the party. According to Judi, Renée decided at the last minute to ditch the party in favor of having bad coffee with her sponsor. If she had attended and eaten one of the cannabis-laced chocolates, her savvy, drug-discerning taste buds would know exactly what was causing the strange effects, and she'd have quickly honed in on the source.

Betty whipped up the balance of the double-strength chocolates for Jean, re-boxed them and alerted Arthur that she'd bring them over to their house early the next day.