Betty's (Little Basement) Garden (38 page)

“No, no, no, Frank.”

“With your good looks and your ability to communicate clearly, you'd be worshipped by weed growers and users everywhere!” He smiled, showing his obvious crush for Betty. “I'm worshipping you right now.”

“Now, now Frank –” she said a little taken back.

“You married?”

“No.”

“Boyfriend?”

Betty took a breath. “I'm not sure.”

“Not sure?”

“It's complicated, Frank.”

“Bullshit. It's not complicated Betty, unless you want it to be.” He pulled back. “Sorry. I didn't mean to get too personal with you.”

“No. It's okay. I've been known to complicate a lemon sorbet.”

He raised his coffee mug. “How about a toast?”

Betty reluctantly lifted her mug. “To what?”

“To non-conformists like us!”

A peculiar sense of pride engulfed Betty. “To non-conformists!” She clinked her mug against his.

“To all those who conform in order to feel safe,” he continued, “understand that safety is only a perception and has its limits, whereas independence is infinite!” He slugged down a healthy gulp of java.

Betty took a dainty sip and started to speak.

“One more toast!” Doobie Frank interrupted. “Here's to always listening with your heart. Because when you do that, you'll always hear the right answer.”

Betty felt a lump form in her throat. “Amen.” She took another genteel sip and checked the time. “About my plants?”

“Oh, right. The reason for your visit.” He grabbed a pad and jotted down a name and phone number. “This guy makes a fresh compost tea that's so alive, you can almost feel its heartbeat. It's got tons of beneficial microorganisms in it and other stuff.”

“What other stuff?”

“Magic, Betty.
Magic
. Spray the tea full strength on your plants every three days. Water them with it too. Don't feed them anything else, except some liquid B Vitamins and a small amount of powdered minerals. That'll help them get over the shock of the sulfur. This guy's got everything you'll need.” He handed her the slip of paper.

“Anything else?”

“If any of the plants are halfway decent, remove all the dead leaves and branches. If the top of a plant was hit hard, chop it off. It'll just slow down the growth of the rest of it. Whenever you can, bring them outside and put them someplace where they can get dappled shade. Right now, you want to limit as much direct light and heat as you can. Let them grow out seven inches or so and then clone the best branches. That way, you can continue the genetics.”

Betty made mental notes. “Good ideas. Is that all?”

He thought. “Time. As with most things in life, Betty, time tends to either cure it or make it worse. You should probably see some new growth starting within a week or ten days. If you don't, well I guess it was time to say goodbye to that particular plant.” He looked out at his lush garden. “Just like I'm going to have to say goodbye to all these beautiful ladies in fewer than two months, when harvest season starts. Life and death. You get more used to it when you work with nature.”

He rolled his wheelchair out to her car to see her off. “You ever need any more help, you can come over anytime,” he said with a coy smile.

“Thank you, Frank.” She got into the car.

“Anything. I mean it.”

“There is one thing. Jeremy Lindholm? The producer of that documentary you appeared in? If you ever talk to him again, tell him Betty from the merry-go-round said ‘hello'…and a heartfelt ‘thank you.'”

She headed back on the road, buoyed by a sense of purpose once again. Turning on the radio, she searched for a classic rock station, but stopped on a local news station when she heard a familiar name mentioned on their top story. It seemed that the morally uptight Reverend Bobby Lynch, who did everything “for the children,” had been arrested for “inappropriate contact with several seventeen-year-old boys” from his congregation. Betty was momentarily shocked, but then she recalled a comment Jeff made about Lynch months before. “When one doth protest too much about an issue,” he said, “one doth often have something to hide.”

Wasting no time, she called the fellow with the “magic” tea and arranged to purchase a five-gallon bucket, more liquid B vitamins and the powdered minerals that looked like they'd been mined from pristine, glacial rock. After loading everything into her backseat, she quickly headed home. As she turned into the driveway, she was shocked to see Renée sitting in the shade of her front doorway. Betty hauled the heavy bucket from the car as Renée stepped forward to help her.

“This is unexpected,” Betty stated, keeping her tone formal and distant.

“Yeah…I know…”

Betty noticed something odd about Renée. Although she was still preoccupied, she had a conspicuous calmness Betty had never experienced before. “I didn't think you'd ever grace my doorstep again.”

“I gotta talk to you.”

“Help me drag this bucket to the basement door,” Betty instructed, feeling quite bold in her demand.

Renée was still orbiting in her own space, but she stopped when she saw the fallen elm tree. “Oh God, Betty. Your favorite tree. I'm sorry.” And she meant it.

“Thank you.” Betty perched her backside on the horizontal trunk. “If you've come here to convince me that I shouldn't –”

“No, it's not that at all.” Renée sat next to Betty, swinging her large purse onto her lap. “I came here to make amends. It's Step Nine of the program. Making amends?”

“Oh, Renée. You've marched up and down those steps so many times, your thighs must be burning.”

She actually smiled. “Yeah, I hear you. I'm still not very good at it after all these years, I guess.” She opened her purse. “I gotta show you something.” After dumping a mass of contents onto the grass, she sorted through the heap and held up a decorative glass pipe. “I guess you know what this is.”

Betty closely examined it. Smelling the resin-soaked bowl, she kept a poker face. “Smells like some kind of Kush.” She handed the pipe back to Renée.

“Cocoa Kush.” She shook her head in shock. “You got a good nose there.”

“
Cocoa
Kush? Well, that would be an interesting one to add to my potpourri of plants. The pure Kush strains are more
Indica
in their effects. They tend to calm the mind, which I know you need.”

“I don't get it,” she said, anxiety reappearing, “you're supposed to be traumatized and disgusted by my duplicity. God knows I am!”

“Yes, I guess I should be,” Betty calmly said. “But then, I really don't want to ‘should' all over myself anymore. Am I traumatized?” She checked herself. “No, can't say I am. Shocked? Nope. It actually explains a lot.”

“Step Nine says we are to ‘make direct amends to such people wherever possible' –”

“Stop,” Betty said, placing her hand on Renée's arm. “I don't need to hear what your book tells you to do. I only care about what
you
feel. And there's no right or wrong feeling.”

Renée looked mystified. “After everything I said to you – after everything I did – I can't believe you have this kind of compassion.”

“It comes with the territory. As my dear friend, Peyton, told me once, ‘We're all just unmade beds, searching for the perfect comforter.'” She smiled. “And I believe he was high when he said it.”

“Well, I'm a California king sized, unmade bed. I'm a walking hypocrite. I pound the pulpit by day, while I light up in my closet at night and take the two quick hits I allow myself. It's my only vice and I know it's wrong, but it seems to help me calm down and get perspective, if only briefly. But the next morning the guilt kicks in, and I'm back pounding on that pulpit. It's exhausting, Betty.”

“Then stop fighting it.”

“I can't! Besides, I gotta keep fighting the good fight!”

“Why?”

“Because, I have to be better than this!”

“Better than what?” Betty quietly inquired.

Renée sighed. “Just
better
.”

Betty gave her comment serious consideration. “I used to think the same thing. Always striving for perfection – always reaching for the unreachable. If you want to go crazy, give it a try. If you want to stay sane, let it go.”

Renée stared off into the distance. “You know what I wish I could do?”

“What's that?”

“Figure out how to just be.” She turned to Betty. “You know? Just
be
.”

Betty patted her arm in a reassuring manner. “You and everyone else, Renée. If we could all get the noise to stop, perhaps we could figure it out.”

Renée rested her head on Betty's shoulder. “Thank you.” She gathered her items from the lawn, tossing them back into her purse.

Betty eyed a peculiar looking plastic baggie with strangely shaped brown nuggets inside. “What's that?”

“Oh, it's an underground favorite. They call them ‘BB's' or ‘bullets.' They're made of chocolate.”

“Well, I guess I have something else to tell you too.”

After Renée left, Betty brought all the veg girls outside onto an area of shaded grass that hadn't been hit by the fallen elm debris. With painstaking exactness, she followed Doobie Frank's advice and removed all the dead or nearly dead leaves and branches, and even cut off seven inches of blackened growth from the top of two plants. After she was done, her girls looked naked and vulnerable. One of her favorite Kushberry plants, that had been such a vital and fast grower, now only had a single stalk. But she couldn't bear to destroy it. Betty filled her large plastic spray canister with the “magic” compost tea and diligently saturated each plant, including the underside of all the leaves. When each plant was dripping with the earthy-smelling brew, she treated each girl to a healing cupful.

Standing back, she stared at her bevy of beauties in their weakened appearance and felt nothing but love for each and every one of them. In all their stark imperfection, Betty saw beyond their defects and cheered them on with gusto. “You can make it, girls. Carry on.”

The plants were too wet to put back inside and Doobie Frank did mention that giving them as much shaded exposure to the outdoors would be beneficial in their fragile state. She washed out the canister and turned to look at the devastation surrounding her from the fallen tree. Checking out the roof, it was evident that more damage had occurred, wiping out most of the hard work Buddy had completed. But in that same instant, something changed within Betty. She didn't give up; she gave in. She realized whatever was going to happen would happen, and there was nothing she could do to prevent her fate from being drawn to its completion.

Walking the length of the large elm trunk, she came to the uprooted point and the spot three feet above it where she could still easily see Frankie's carved words. Running her fingers across the deep crevices of the two words, she swore she could feel his spirit move through her. Somehow he knew, on that final day of his life, exactly what she would need in the years to come. No two words had ever haunted her so desperately since his death. But in that moment, those words awakened her again and, infused with that sensation, she didn't fear the possibilities of failure or loneliness. She didn't question how he understood the kind of power that Emily Dickinson poem held over her. But somehow, he knew enough to carve the two last words of that powerful work into their favorite tree.

“Letting Go.”

The first thing Betty did was take photographs.
Lots
of photographs. She dragged out several of her blooming plants, that showed impressive bud development with dense, frosty crystal formations, and set them in the bright sun. Like a proud mother, she set her camera lens on “macro” and captured dozens of outstanding shots, using the sun's rays to reflect the pinpoints of sugar resting heavily on the main top cola. True, Peyton told her never to photograph any of her girls, fearing the “wrong” people might find them and harass her. But none of that concerned her anymore. Just like her prized flowers that graced the front yard and whose photos blanketed the hallway walls, Betty felt it was only fair to give the same consideration to her basement girls. After downloading them on her computer, she finally decided on her favorite and printed it out on premium photo paper. She removed an old print of a blue-ribbon-winning yellow rose of Texas from a frame in the hallway, Betty eagerly replaced it with a vibrant close-up of “Helen's” glistening top bud.

Walking back into the kitchen, she turned around and silently canvassed the living room. She felt like a foreigner, detached from the area and all of its belongings. Grabbing a box, she began going through the drawers and cupboards with a judicious eye, leaving her emotional attachment at the door, and selecting numerous items to take to Lily at the
The Gilded Rose
. Hours passed and Betty's unexpected quest to rid herself of the excess baggage filling her house took on epic proportions. She felt driven by a mysterious force that demanded an unapologetic assessment of what was necessary to keep versus what was intrinsic to her happiness. The disparity between those two grew wider as the hours passed. Knickknacks and collectables she'd always thought were important no longer held their allure. Antique tablecloths and tea sets she'd enjoyed for decades also seemed to lose their glimmer. As night fell, Betty's systematic approach became even stronger, almost ruthlessly electing to either dispose of or box up more items that carried no special feelings. After prowling through the attic late into the night, she effortlessly got rid of half the packed storage boxes that had been reverently protected under a sheet for more than ten years. Instead of finding the process depressing, she found it invigorating. She was still awake at 2:00 a.m., after only taking a short break for a bite to eat and an iced coffee to buttress her motivation.

Letting her mind wander as she worked, she felt pangs of sadness erupt when she collected all of Ronald's things and ceremoniously placed them into a bag. But when she allowed her mind to drift to the human relationships she'd lost over the last few days, the only person that tugged at her heart was Jeff. He hadn't called again, after leaving the message of condolence on her voicemail. The ball, she surmised, was in her court, but she was hopelessly lost as to how to serve it back. If only he didn't understand her as well as he did, perhaps it would have been easier to approach him. But she wasn't an enigma to him, and the bare vulnerability that came with that fact was overwhelming. Still, her damned pride surfaced each time she considered picking up the phone. No, she told herself, she would do nothing. And in the mere act of doing nothing, she convinced herself, she was doing something. That type of warped logic seemed to make sense at 3:00 in the morning, when her head finally hit the pillow.

She awoke just past nine, with enough vim and vigor to keep her ritual of removal on track. Without losing any momentum from the previous night, she went about the house with renewed purpose. After checking on the state of her girls, and finding no discernable change for better or worse from the compost tea, she fixed herself a quick breakfast crêpe and got back to work. Striding into the living room, she lined up the packed boxes by the front door and started upstairs when she spied the white violet print on the credenza. She carried it to the dining room table and stared at it for what seemed like an eternity. Perhaps it had value? Maybe Frankie gave it to her because he knew it was worth something; the same way he purposely hid the pound of cannabis in the wall of the attic. She knew now he wouldn't just give her that print on their last visit if it didn't carry certain significance.

“Pay attention,” he kept telling her that day. She removed the print from its antique frame in an attempt to locate a possible famous autograph or hidden note he might have slipped between the print and the heavy cardboard backing. But she found nothing. Replacing the watercolor back into its frame, she set it upright and stared at it again. And then her mind drifted to the two words on the elm tree. Perhaps, she considered, the whole point was to release it, and maybe something positive would come through that act. She set it upright in one of the boxes by the front door, just as she heard the sound of a car pulling into her driveway. Peering out the front window, she saw Peyton and opened the door to welcome him inside.

His happy-go-lucky countenance took on a dire appearance when he saw all the packed boxes around the room. “What's goin' on, Betty?”

“Out with the old, Peyton,” she nonchalantly said. “Sometimes, you get weighed down by all the things that you believe matter. I decided to lighten my load a bit more.”

“A bit?” he queried, scanning the room. “You get rid of much more in here and it's gonna look as homey as a motel room.”

He was enthused to hear about her trip to Doobie Douggie's house. Over an omelet and cup of hot chocolate she made from scratch using her fine chocolate and cinnamon, she regaled him with her adventure. But when she confessed that Douggie's real name was Frank, and that his true personality was a tad softer and not as intensely erratic as his public persona, Peyton seemed disappointed.

“Dude. Bummer. This is like finding out that John Wayne couldn't ride a horse or Jackie Chan uses a stunt double.”

“Well, Peyton. People aren't always forthcoming with their true nature.” She decided now was as good a time as any. “I have two confessions to make to you.”

He looked a little freaked out. “Should I be seated in a sturdier chair?”

“No, I think you can handle it from that one,” she said, pushing her plate to the side of the table. She debated which one to start off with. “That letter to the editor back in May? Did you read the names of the people who signed it?”

“I glanced through them, but I didn't recognize any of them.”

“Well, the first one was Elizabeth Cragen.” She took a breath. “That's me.”

Peyton stared at her, momentarily expressionless but then became increasingly concerned. “Oh my God, Betty. Dude, are you on the run! Do you have a buried past? Are you in the FBI's protective custody – ?”

“No, no, it's nowhere near as romantic as that. ‘Cragen' was a typo. Elizabeth is formal for ‘Betty.'” She felt silly stating too much of the obvious. “
I
signed it, Peyton. Elizabeth ‘Betty' Craven signed that letter.”

His eyes studied the table. “Well, that's because you didn't know any better. And it makes what you've done since then even more special.”

Betty sat back in her chair. This must have been what it felt like to Renée, seeing the lack of disgust in Betty's eyes, when she uncovered her clandestine pipe. “That's a very mature response.”

He grinned. “I hope it's not too mature. Yarrow said she likes the goofy side of me, so I can't lose that part. What's the second thing you wanted to confess? I hope it packs more of a punch.”

“You know Frank Sr. was career military. But what you don't know is that my father was also military. He served in the air force – the Royal Canadian Air Force, to be precise. My mother held British citizenship. My parents moved to the States in early 1951, after he left the service and agreed to relocate to Houston to work as an engineer for the aerospace industry. I was born that summer. So, while I'm not Canadian, I'm close enough to the well to fall into your anti-Canuck heap.”

Peyton took it all in, allowing his mouth to slightly fall open. “So, what you're saying to me…is that you were an anchor baby? Oh, God, Betty. Talk about a stigma.”

“Anchor baby?” Betty exclaimed. She dutifully explained the process in which her father's work Visa allowed him to continue living in the States, and eventually, how both her parents became U.S. citizens.

He listened carefully but Betty could tell he was struggling with the concept slightly. “Did you keep it a secret because you didn't want people knowing you came from snow backs?”

“My parents were not ‘snow backs'!”

“It's okay, it's okay. It's all starting to make sense now. The first generation born to immigrants typically feels they have to excel over and above their peers. That must be where you get your drive. I kinda see the same thing in Yarrow. You know, her mom's from Canada. When you set me up with Yarrow…” he stopped suddenly. “Oh, wait a minute…hang on a second…you set me up with her on purpose to prove me wrong about Canadians!”

She smiled. “Maybe.”

“Wow, it's exactly what I've always said. Your people are really slippery and passively devious!”

“
My people
?!”

He paused a moment before breaking into a big grin. “Ha! Gotcha!” He couldn't let it go. “Canadians are so easy to screw with.”

Peyton checked out the girls before leaving. But on his way out, he saw the white violet print in the box by the front door. “You're not throwing this out.”

“No. I'm taking it to
The Gilded Rose
today.”

He picked up the framed print. “But this means something to you, Betty.”

She shrugged her shoulders, somewhat sadly. “I don't know if it does anymore. Maybe it's time I set it free.”

He thought deeply as he gently replaced the print back into the box. “Is that the same thing you did to Jeff?”

She felt her back go up. “That's not something you need to be concerned about, Peyton.”

“So you
did
? Geez, Betty.” He walked back into the room, clearly upset. “You set me up with Yarrow, because you didn't want me to be alone!”

“I set you up with Yarrow because you're in your mid-twenties, and I didn't want you to turn thirty and realize that the only substantial relationship you had during that time was with an aromatic bud.”

“So, how is that different for you?”

She tried to come up with a good answer but failed. “I don't know.”

“Does your conscience allow you to love him?”

Taken back by his poetic question, Betty said, “I think my conscience is on board. It's just that my heart hasn't fully bought the ticket.”

He looked at her with deep consideration. “You're afraid of getting hurt again?”

“No, actually I'm not. I know he's not going to hurt me. Maybe that's the problem.” The epiphany was nearly overwhelming. “When you get so used to pain, it's difficult to get used to pleasure.”

After Peyton left, Betty spent most of the afternoon finding more treasures to take to Lily's store. Her mood became more contemplative as the hours passed. When she took the metal sign off her bureau with the Marilyn Monroe quote, she realized Marilyn left out an important part. While it was true that many women are looking for one man to prove that they're not all the same, in order to maintain that sought after relationship, the woman has to be willing to accept that happiness is not a luxury but a necessity.

Arriving at
The Gilded Rose
, she parked her car as close as possible to the front door, so she could unload the many boxes. Yarrow happened to be strolling down the street from the dispensary and offered to give her a hand.

“Betty's here!” Yarrow announced, walking up to the front desk.

Lily welcomed Betty and enthusiastically combed through a few of the boxes, oohing and ahhing at each piece. Yarrow hung around the front desk, enamored with the various items as well. While Betty would have been offended three months ago by the girl's bold interest, she now enjoyed watching her admire each new thing she uncovered. Lily maintained her impeccable manners and professionalism as she chatted with Betty, telling her how thankful she was to have Betty's treasures available for her discerning clientele. Yes, Betty thought, Lily was one of the last women on this planet with true refinement and a born sense of good taste.

“I'm sorry to hear about you and Jeff breaking up,” Yarrow announced. “Peyton told me all about it.”

Betty stared at the girl, taken back.

“Yarrow!” Lily chided, “That's none of our business.”

Our
, Betty thought. Since when had she become coffee klatch conversation?

Yarrow wouldn't be silenced. “Why?
I
think he's a great guy. He's always really nice when he comes in here –”

“
Yarrow
!” Lily admonished again. “Enough,” she said with a soft but firm voice.

Several awkward moments followed. Betty needed to lighten the mood. “You sound like mother and daughter.”

“Well,” Yarrow replied, “that's because…we are.”

“Excuse me?”

“That's my mom,” Yarrow explained, as if Betty was a little dense.

“Yarrow,” Lily warned, “watch your tone.”

Betty tried to gather her muddled thoughts. “I'm not shocked that you have a daughter, Lily. I guess I'm just –”

“Shocked that I named her after an invasive flower?” she asked with a broad smile, enjoying the joke she just made.

Betty attempted to regain her poise. “No…actually, yes.”

“Well,” Lily said, lifting a few items from a box, “chalk that up to my days living on a commune in Northern California.”

Living on a commune
? Was Betty dreaming? “I can't even imagine you living on a commune, Lily.”

“Humboldt County,” Lily stated.