Betty's (Little Basement) Garden (35 page)

On the hour-long drive to their house on Monday, Betty had a chance to reflect on the previous day's confusion. It was another close call that she somehow evaded. But one thing was apparent – the opportunities for being discovered were ramping up exponentially. Her double life she'd been able to keep separated was beginning to overlap. It was obvious that her underground popularity – something she had no control over – had usurped her calculating and cautious strategy. She was in the unusual position of being a cannabis “rock star” on one side of the fence and a vague, unknown commodity on the other. Judi was right when she said, “Who in the hell are you?” Betty couldn't answer that. She wasn't her old self, but she wasn't committed to the new Betty either. She floated somewhere in the middle ground, with not even a toe pointed in either direction. And yet, here she was, parking in front of a terminally ill woman's house and delivering fifteen super-charged cannabis chocolates to her bedside. The dichotomy was palpable.

Betty didn't want to linger too long by Jean's side. She was sliding downhill fast, and there was nothing Betty could offer her except a few soothing words and a genuine smile. Death, that onerous bedfellow, was slinking closer to Jean. However, as much as Betty wanted to keep her at arm's length, she couldn't do it. She felt compelled to assist her with anything she needed, even though the reality of Jean's impending demise was kicking Betty in the teeth. She'd certainly progressed from her stilted visit with Peggy on her deathbed, but the part of her that held back, allowing fear to dictate the next move, was still present. The only thing clearly evident was that Jean was truly benefiting from the cannabis chocolates. There was an undeniable comfort watching as the herb took hold and washed the pain from Jean's gaunt face. As her suffering subsided, the grace of the plant took over, infusing Jean with a calm dignity and philosophical approach.

“You've never seen a good death, have you Betty?” Jean asked her.

“I didn't know there was such a thing,” she whispered.

Jean softly smiled. “They happen every day. I plan to go ‘gentle into that good night.”

When Betty returned home, there was a message on her voicemail from Jeff. Apparently, there was a Hoedown/Carnival/Barbeque at Love Park in four days on Friday night. It was something different, he mentioned on his message, and he wanted to know if she'd go with him. “Something different,” she said to herself. And that's when she realized it was all “different.” Nothing was predictable any longer. Any control she thought she had was gone. The roller coaster of change was moving so quickly now, and she was starting to resent it. Yes, she told herself, it was one thing to be bored out of her gourd and want a little excitement to mix things up. But what had thinking outside the box done for her except create more confusion, more fear and a greater desire to hide?

Freedom, it seemed, had a precipitous price. It required one to remove the safety nets and accept that failure was as much a possibility as wild success. It demanded continual adjustment and reassessment of all the old paradigms that were comforting but not typically healthy. It stipulated that one frequently travel outside one's constrictive comfort zone and navigate in that space, trusting one's abilities to shore up their confidence and make it easier each time. Liberation from one's past was a journey, not a destination. The tender ego needed to release its chokehold on propriety and admit it made mistakes. In short, that long metal rod that had been placed up one's nether regions and held one's spine in a rigid, inflexible position had to be surgically removed. The only surgeon who could successfully do the operation was oneself, and the only scalpel needed was courage.

But like so many who needed that procedure, the fear of removing their self-imposed rod and choosing to support one's spine with experience, knowledge and blind faith overwhelmed the senses and easily overrode the extrication of the steel stick. And that is where Betty Craven was stuck – between a metal rod and a very hard place. So she stood there after listening to Jeff's voicemail and stared into the void. She wasn't dead yet, but she hadn't been born either. She was just drifting in a swell of uncertainty, desperate for the safety of convention, yet tempted by the appeal of independence. She couldn't help but recall Jean's words to her during their second visit. “Enlightenment… Too bad it usually has to come with such a steep price.”

She dialed his number several times, hanging up each time before the call went through. Her hands were shaking and her gut felt empty and hollow. Betty could feel panic nipping at her heels and working its way up her body. Soon, it would engulf her and paralyze progress. Just before it reached her heart, the phone rang. It was Jeff.

“Hey, babe,” he said. “I've gotten three calls in a row from you with a hang up. What's going on?”

What in the hell –
she thought.
She
never heard a dial tone. Wonderful. Now, it was even more awkward. “Something's wrong with my landline. I never heard a dial tone so I hung up.” Her voice was halted, absent of any warmth.

“Okay…” he offered. “Did you get my message?”

“Yes. A hoedown, eh? I usually don't attend functions with the word ‘ho' in them.” Betty chuckled nervously at her tense reach for humor.

“It's a very laid back event. We can just walk around, grab a bite to eat and if you don't like it, we can go.”

He was so accommodating. “Okay,” Betty said, wondering a split second after she spoke why she agreed. “Why don't I meet you halfway? In case parking is difficult, we'll only have one car.”

“Yeah…finding a place to park a motorcycle is always one of my pet peeves.”

She noted something different in his voice. A mild exasperation; an edge forming where there had always been softness and acceptance. Was her self-fulfilling prophecy finally coming to fruition? Suddenly, she wanted to regain control of the situation. “You know what I'm talking about,” Betty assured him, doing everything possible to “church up” her tenor. “It's just easier traveling in one vehicle.”

Jeff agreed to meet her in a mall parking lot about a mile from Love Park at five o'clock on Friday night. She haphazardly invited him for dinner on Wednesday, but he told her that he still had lot of inventory to finish that week. When she hung up, she felt as if she'd just played a tennis game with a savvy person who knew how the game was going to end before the first serve.

Love Park was just beginning to fill up with visitors when they arrived on Friday night. The sounds of fiddle and banjo music greeted them as they walked up the grassy berm that surrounded the park. Fragrant waves of fatty smoke wafted nearby, signaling a long row of food vendors. Jeff took her hand in his.

“You know,” he said, “I never finished telling you the story of Stuart Love and his ghost.”

They started walking into the center of the park when Betty heard her name called. She instantly released Jeff's hand and turned around.

Judi and Renée stood there, each juggling several cardboard trays of food and drinks. The two women regarded Betty with quizzical expressions.

“Well, hello,” Betty replied, feeling her blood pressure track up twenty points.

There was a surge of heavy silence, in which her friends traced Jeff's body up and down.

“Jeff?” Judi finally said, securing one of her trays under the other.

“Hey, Judi. How's it going?” he replied in a comfortable manner.

“Going well, thank you,” Judi offered, a bit pulled back. “Rotary Club has a booth here. Roger is holding down the fort so we could get some food for everyone.”

Betty remained silent.

Jeff eyed the heap of barbeque and sundry items on their trays. “Looking forward to trying out the ribs again this year.”

Renée looked baffled. “Are you and –”

“Yes,” Betty interrupted her. “I want to try the ribs too! Can't wait!”

Jeff glanced at her.

Betty pointed to their overflowing trays. “You better get those back to everyone before you drop them.”

But nobody moved. And even though there was lively music playing and people happily chatting and children laughing all around them, the wedge of gracelessness was blatant in their orbit, drowning out the carefree
joie de vivre
.

“Yes,” Judi finally said. “Enjoy the evening.”

Judi and Renée quickly walked away and into the park.

Betty started off toward the periphery of the festivities and then stopped ten feet later, when she realized Jeff hadn't moved. She turned to find him staring at her, with eyes she'd never seen before. They weren't angry or on the verge of rage. Instead, they were guarded and rimmed with dejection. “You coming?” she asked, feeling the appearance of that false smile grip her face.

“You let go of my hand,” he said.

“Did I? Oh, I…I didn't realize I did. Come on. Gotta grab those ribs!”

He didn't move a muscle. “I was always under the impression cannabis makes you more tolerant. More introspective. More forgiving. You seem to be fighting against that too.”

The minute he said the word “cannabis,” Betty's gut clenched and she moved toward him quickly. “Please don't mention that word here so loudly,” she implored.

“Which one? Forgiving?”

Her spine stiffened. “Very funny. You know exactly what I'm –”

“You asked to meet me halfway here today. That's so my bike isn't seen at your house anymore. Can't have the neighbors asking too many questions, can you?”

“Why are you –”

“Here's the irony. I'm meeting you halfway, but you're not even halfway in this relationship anymore.”

The whole thing felt like a dream to Betty. Her perfectly manicured world was being held together with staples and rusty paper clips. She looked at Jeff and her heart still craved his touch. But she still stood there lost. “Please,” she begged him. “Don't do this.”

“You're doing this, Betty. Not me.” An unexpected stern tone laced his words. “Is this just a game for you? Am
I
a game? Is the pot a game? Are we both just distractions on your way back to a sensible life?”

Betty glanced around at the crowd. “Don't make a scene. Please.”

“I'm not making a scene. I'm simply asking you a question.” He looked her straight in eyes. “Do you care about me?”

“Yes. I care a great deal for you.”

“Great.” He took her by the hand. “Let's go down to that Rotary booth where your friends are hanging out and make a formal introduction.”

Betty pulled back. “No!” She shook off his hand like an impudent child.

Jeff stared at her in stony silence.

“Look, Jeff, you know I'm a private person. I don't flaunt my life in front of people. I never have and I'm not starting now.”

“I'm not asking you to flaunt anything, Betty. I'm simply asking you to acknowledge to your friends that I exist and that we exist as a couple. Why is that so hard for you to do?”

She wasn't going to rummage through her usual box of excuses. “Please don't do this.
Please
. Let's just go along and continue our day and –”

“And then what? What happens tomorrow, Betty? Or next week? How are you going to explain me away then?”

“I think that's rather harsh, don't you?”

“No. I think that's rather honest, actually.” His eyes misted. “I understand you, Betty. I bet I understand you better than all of your friends and family combined. And I've always accepted you, even when you couldn't accept yourself. But I wasn't blind either. I was completely aware of your attempts to keep me hidden away. I put up with it, because I hoped that your basement garden and the people you were helping would mellow you…that you'd wake up one day and realize it's okay to be happy. That it's okay to feel something besides regret and grief every damn second of your life. But it seems you haven't yet communed completely with those basement plants. If you had, they would have shown you how to release it all…that I'm not a risk or a threat to your future…that every decaying thing or thought you keep holding onto is crumbling.” He moved a step away from her. “I know you're scared of death, Betty. But there you are, dying in front of me.” He turned and walked out of the park.

Betty stood in place for several minutes as the world around her collapsed on cue. Retreating to a shady spot under a tree, she tried to sort out what to do next. But after half an hour of indecision, she gave up and walked to her car. It was then she realized that Jeff had a mile to walk to his motorcycle. She drove along the roads that led back to the parking lot but didn't see him. When she arrived at the parking lot, his bike was gone. She stared blankly into the spot where they left it and wondered if it was all real. Had she only imagined the last three months? Was it all a dream and would she lay her head on her pillow tonight and wake up tomorrow back in early May? Contemplating that bizarre notion, Betty felt a defined sadness surround her. Suddenly, just the thought of going back to how it was became viscerally repugnant. Sitting there in that car, she felt abandoned and more alone than ever. “Help me, Frankie,” she whispered through her tears. “Help me, please.”

When she got home, there were two messages on her voicemail, both from Arthur. Jean wanted to see her immediately and she didn't need to bring any chocolates. Betty arrived at their doorstep a little over an hour later, as the late summer sun hovered low like an orange orb in the western sky. Arthur greeted her with sad eyes and led her back to Jean's room. He took a seat on Jean's left side while Betty walked around the bed and sat opposite him. Jean's eyes were half-closed and her breathing was shallow.

Betty held Jean's hand and spoke quietly to Arthur. “I shouldn't be here. This is your time with her.”

Arthur pressed Jean's hand to his face. “It's okay, Betty. She told me she wanted you to be here.”

Jean tried to speak. She opened her eyes a little more and made contact with Betty. It was almost imperceptible, but Betty heard her clearly. “Don't be afraid.”

Betty swallowed hard, but she couldn't stop the tears.

“Thank you…” Jean said softly, “for everything…”

Betty held onto Jean's hand tightly. “You're so welcome, darling.”

Jean turned her head and gazed into Arthur's eyes. She mouthed the words, “I love you.”

“And I love you too, my love,” he replied, choking up.

They didn't move from that spot for another hour. As the sun set behind the far mountains, and twilight put that August day to bed, Jean slipped gently behind the luminous veil that separates the worlds.

Arthur released her hand and collapsed on his wife's body, sobbing uncontrollably. Betty placed a reassuring hand across his back as the toll of the day gripped her heart. She realized that within the tragedy, Jean had given her the gift of witnessing a “good death.” There was enigmatic beauty and a sense that as Jean left her besieged body, she was reborn and made new as she walked back into the light.

The next day, Betty still couldn't shake the scene. She retreated to her girls and spent two hours repotting some of the veg plants into larger containers. As she'd come to expect, within half an hour of coddling them and telling them how beautiful they were, they returned the favor by soothing her troubled mind. These “weeds,” she realized, almost had a sentient knowing that they somehow transmitted to Betty along unseen currents. She stood back and admired them for all they were and all they would one day become. There was nothing cruel there; nothing caustic nor evil. Somehow, they understood their purpose in their short lives and they preened quietly, knowing the sweet control they had over their often-bewildered masters.

Jeff called mid-day, but she didn't pick up. He left a message saying he'd heard about Jean's death and that Betty was with her when she passed. He didn't litter his message with placating homilies about death. Instead, he seemed to understand every emotion she was going through at that moment, as if his heart had eyes.

Changing out of her gardening clothes, she donned a casual dress and headed to the farmers' market. The prospect of perusing cheese and heirloom fruit buoyed her momentarily. But when she arrived, nothing excited her. Even the first delivery of Palisade peaches didn't trigger her culinary imagination. She was in a daze, floating aimlessly from one booth to another, sampling the jellies and fruits but unable to discern their flavors. This is what it felt like to die, she told herself. Taste is one of the first senses to go. But hearing is the last one. And it was easy to hear the blaring megaphone issuing forth from the Colorado Activists 4 National Tolerance. Without carefully constructing a well-thought approach, Betty walked across the parking lot and stood in front of their booth.

“Do you have any idea how loud you are?” Betty asked them. “Every time I come here, I have to ignore all you bleating hearted liberals.”

The tank-topped, skinny woman with the megaphone set it down on the table. “We got a right to express ourselves!” she countered. “Last time I checked, it's still a free country.”

Betty looked up at their banner that hung above their table. “Did any of you ever notice that if you remove the number four, your acronym spells ‘C.A.N.T.?'”

The women looked a bit taken back by this information. However, one of the more antagonistic members moved forward to defend their group.

“That might be so. But we are
unified
!” the woman gloated.

“That's all well and good, my dear. But I don't suggest you change your group's name to the Coloradans
Unified
4 National Tolerance.
That
acronym would be far more odious than C.A.N.T.”

Another woman stepped forward. “We're not taking the word ‘Activists' out of our name. It's not a dirty word, honey. You may not like it. It may offend those who are sensitive. But I'd rather be getting attention for something that makes people uncomfortable than for sitting back and bitching about things and doing nothing.” She grabbed another megaphone. “You want to live in a bubble? Be my guest. But there better always be people like us who carry the needles that burst that bubble.”

And with that, the woman turned on the megaphone and continued her rant. But Betty couldn't hear a word of the noise. Nor could she hear her name being called across the parking lot. Hearing was the last to go before the death knell. She realized, standing there, that she had indeed died. And like her friend, Jean, it was a good death.

She arrived home empty handed and stood in the bright sunlight, amidst what was left of the old canopy elm tree in the backyard. She walked to the large trunk and stared at those two words Frankie carved so prophetically on the tree. “Okay,” Betty whispered. “But I'm terrified.”

Walking inside the house, she called Judi, Renée and Helen, asking them to come to her house later on that Saturday afternoon. When they each asked what was going on, she gave them all the same answer. “It's time for a good talk.”

The women arrived nearly simultaneously and Betty gathered them anxiously in the living room.

Judi looked as nervous as a snake in a wheel rut. “Are you dying?” she asked, her eyes fixated like brown orbs on Betty.

Betty carefully considered her question. “Yes.”

The women looked deeply troubled. Even crusty Helen seemed distraught.

Betty quickly continued. “But it's a necessary death.”

“What?” Renée questioned her, almost in shock.

“If I'm…” Betty replied, trying to figure out the right words, “lucky enough to have a useful death and the three of you can allow yourselves to know me when I begin again...” Her voice trailed off.

“Wait a second,” Renée said, walking toward Betty, “are we talking about six feet under death or existential death?”

“The latter,” Betty quickly replied.

The three women released a sigh in unison.

“Has this got something to do with Jeff Carroll?” Judi asked pointedly.

“Who's Jeff Carroll?” Helen asked Judi.

“Apparently, Betty's boyfriend.” Renée answered.

“Boyfriend?” Helen exclaimed, clearly disgusted. “
Ech
! Teenage girls have boyfriends. Grown women have husbands or dead husbands!”

This was already getting out of control. “No! It's got nothing to do with Jeff,” Betty interjected, then realized she misspoke. “Let me rephrase that.” She steeled herself. “He's part of it…a big part of it…but I don't know what the future holds there. And that's not why I asked you to come over. I want to show you something. It means a great deal to me, and it will be in my future for as long as possible. Follow me.”

Betty led them through the living room and down the basement stairs. The scent from the open bloom room door was evident to perceptive senses like Renée's, before they even reached the bottom step.

Renée nervously piped up. “
Betty
? Please tell me this isn't what I think this is!”

Betty stood in the main room of the basement as the women gathered around her. Both doors to the veg and bloom room were wide open, displaying the plants blowing freely amidst the fans and the blast of bright lights surrounding them.

Judi's mouth dropped open. Helen screwed her face into an ugly expression. Renée steadied herself against Frank's old desk.

“Holy shit!” Renée exclaimed.

Betty took a deep breath. “These are my girls.” She turned to the plants. “Girls? Meet my friends.”

“Oh, my God,” Judi said, inching closer to the bloom room. Turning to Betty, she was overwhelmed with shock. “
Oh, my God
!”

“Really, now,” Betty offered, “it's not
that
big a deal!”

“Not a big deal?” Renée declared. “I shouldn't even
be
in this room!”

“Oh, please Renée, spare me,” Betty said. “You've seen worse things on Christmas morning!”

“I'm feeling dizzy,” Helen griped, grabbing a chair and sitting down.

Betty rested an assuring hand on her shoulder. “It's the trichomes on the buds, Helen. The resins are still developing and they put off a heady scent.”

“I'm going to pass out,” Helen insisted.

“Put your head between your legs, darling.” Betty instructed. “Just like gas, it'll pass.” She turned to the other women. “I can bring out the little microscope and let you see what the trichomes look like when they're magnified. It's like a fairyland!”

“I don't want to see it,” Renée stated.

“Why?” Betty asked.

“Because this is five kinds of wrong, Betty! What in God's name got into you?”

“It's just a
plant
, Renée,” Betty quietly said.

“A plant with an agenda!” Renée countered.

“No, dear. It's people who have the agenda about this plant. And frankly, I've grown quite fond of this endearing weed.”

Judi wandered into the bloom room, gazing around at the plants in stunned silence.

“Are you drunk?” Helen asked, lifting her head from her lap.

“Maybe she's high?” Renée queried, checking Betty's eyes.

“I'm neither drunk nor high!” Betty's voice raised a few octaves. “These plants have been a saving grace for me. They've taught me a lot –”

“Taught?” Renée interrupted. “You've got to be kidding me! Taught you what?”

“Compassion,” Betty announced. “Seeing beauty in something that is erroneously labeled as ugly. I admire their ability to withstand the slings and arrows and grow in spite of it. They only demand dedication and love, and in return, their fruits provide insight I've never experienced before.”

“So, you
are
loaded!” Renée spitefully pronounced.

Betty's back went up. “No, Renée. I don't get loaded. I get introspective. And that's far more dangerous than getting loaded. And if you'd been at Judi's summer party last week and eaten one of the chocolates Helen mistakenly brought to her house, you would have experienced that deep introspection for yourself!”

Renée regarded Betty with a look that bordered on shock and horror.

Judi walked out of the bloom room and glared at Betty. “You fed my guests pot chocolates?!”

“Just four of your guests, Judi…And one of your caterers who requested my business card.”

Judi's mind traveled back to that day. “Oh, dear God…That's why old Doc Gordon told me he felt like an astronaut floating through space! I thought he'd downed too much of that mango punch! Pesticides on strawberries, my ass! Jesus, Betty! Somebody could have gotten hurt!”

“Helen looks normal to me,” Betty said succinctly.

Renée nearly choked on air. “She ate…”

“What?” Helen asked, totally out of the loop. “I ate what?”

“She didn't!” Judi exclaimed.

Betty turned to Judi. “Do you really think she figured out that if you flip the letters around in the word ‘Santa,' it spells ‘Satan,' without a little nudge from the bud?” Betty looked at Helen. “How did you sleep last Sunday night after Judi's party?”

“Like a log,” Helen grumbled.

Betty shrugged her shoulders. “I rest my case. No harm, no foul, ladies.” She needed to lighten up the mood. “No one has ever died from cannabis.
Ever
. You can't overdose on it! If you try, you just go to sleep and you might wake up a little groggy but after one cup of coffee, you're good to go!”

“Well, in that case,” Judi sarcastically stated, “let's put it in the city water system!”

Betty shook her head, “Hey, dude,” she softly admonished.

“
Dude
?” Judi sharply replied.

Betty looked at her. “I didn't say ‘dude.' I said ‘Jude.' Your name is Judi. Jude? Get it?”

“When have you
ever
called me ‘Jude?'”

“Nobody's ever called you ‘Jude?'” Betty asked, trying to coyly sidestep her slip of the tongue. “That's hard to believe.”

“Are you sure you're not high?” Judi stressed.