Betty's (Little Basement) Garden (8 page)

Morning came far too soon with a pounding headache for added misery. Betty's neck still felt stiff, but a long shower with the pulsating showerhead thankfully lessened the tension.

As she dressed for the day, she recalled the late night phone call from Tom Reed and half-wondered if she dreamed it. When she realized it actually happened, she checked the Caller ID to retrieve his phone number and figure out a way to wrangle out of the engagement. But all she found was a glaring “Private” instead of his number. She could call Judi and get his number, but she knew that Judi would harangue her into accepting Tom's invitation for drinks. That familiar sense of being cornered reared up again. But this time…
this time
a gurgling sense of resentment accompanied it. This was new, and Betty wasn't quite sure if it was appropriate. She sat on her bed and waited for the sensation to pass but it didn't. In fact, it grew wings and began to zip up and down her body like a hummingbird powered on jet fuel.

Her neck tightened, her jaw clenched and that damned flutter in her ear resumed. She looked at Ronald as he turned onto his back and yawned before embarking on another marathon napping session. Oh to be a cat like Ronald, and not have to deal with this crap, sounded deliriously divine at that moment. The sound of footsteps on the roof brought Betty out of her rancor. It was Buddy and it was Tuesday and this was totally unexpected.

“Buddy?” she called, after walking outside and seeing him perched on the roof above the kitchen.

“How's your neck, Mrs. Craven?”

“Better. I wasn't expecting you today. I thought you had your day job!”

“I do. But the code inspector showed up and everything came to a grinding halt. I had a couple hours to kill, so I thought I'd come over here and work a bit.”

Betty was touched that the big buffoon would think of her, when he could have easily chewed up the time taking a nap in his truck or staring into space. She spied the wad of cash Peyton gave her, still sitting on the credenza where she'd left it. That could certainly be used to pay Buddy part of what she owed him. But no, that was still ill-gotten funds in Betty's eyes. She quickly hid the tainted cash in the center drawer of the credenza and flashed on the one hundred and fifty-two dollar consignment check for her beloved antique chair. It certainly wouldn't cover all of what she owed Buddy, but she felt it was only fair to pay him something for his commitment to her deteriorating roof. After writing him a check for one hundred and fifty dollars, she advised him that the funds would be available by the end of the day. Hoisting the flag outside, she returned inside to grab her purse and leave for the bank when the front doorbell rang.

She opened the door to find Peyton. He wore the same loose fitting jeans and a new t-shirt that sported the phrase, “Doobie Douggie says ‘It's just a plant, man.'” This morning was quickly turning into one unpredictable parade of people.

“Hey, Betty,” Peyton said, much more reserved than he was the previous night.

“Peyton. I'm just leaving –”

“I just wanted to come over and apologize if I overstepped my boundaries with you last night.”

“Regarding the mari…uh, cannabis?”

Peyton furrowed his brow. “No. Not that. I mean about your son, Frankie. That's none of my business.”

Betty regarded the boy and how thin he appeared. “Have you had breakfast?”

“Huh?”

“You look skinny. You want something to eat?”

He smiled and wagged his finger at her. “You see, Betty? This is what I was talkin' about last night. You are the poster girl of caregivers. I'm surprised you don't take in stray animals.”

“I can't do that. Ronald is too old to handle either the stress or the rivalry,” she replied with complete sincerity. “Breakfast?” She waved him inside.

He walked in, closing the door behind him. “I'll take a rain check.” He peered out her front window. “Hey, your garden's even prettier in the daylight. You really
do
know what you're doing. Most of your flowers are two or three weeks ahead of everybody else's.”

“Well, I have my little gardening secrets I've perfected over the years.”

“See, that's the difference between regular gardening and my kind of gardening. Those of us who grow and enjoy the herb, freely share our organic brews and compost tea recipes. It's not about competition, you know? It's about spreading the knowledge. The more people involved, and the more creativity and innovation, just moves the entire grow process into a whole new realm of unity.”

“You're high again, aren't you? Or you're a Communist. Proprietary secrets are there to protect one's creation.”

“We're talking about how to make a flower bigger, not some patented surgical technology. If you keep all your little gardening secrets to yourself, who does that benefit? Wouldn't you rather drive down this street and see everybody's yard looking like yours, instead of the way it looks now? Like a nuclear horticultural holocaust hit your neighborhood and your house is the only one that survived?”

Betty couldn't argue with his assessment of her neighbor's perplexing lack of botanical acumen. “I really do need to get going, Peyton –”

He stood in front of the door. “I'll cut to the chase. There are a lot of smart, innovative people out there who grow cannabis. It's not all a bunch of burned out stoners and hippies. Some of these guys know more about botany and the complex structure of the cannabis plant than any professor out there. There's a shit load to know about growing the herb. You don't just pop the seed in the ground and walk away.”

“You call it an ‘herb?' You're not growing chives, sweetheart.”

“But it
is
an herb. And it
is
medicine. Hey, you can't grow Valium or Prozac –”

Betty heard Buddy's footsteps walking across the roof and descending the ladder. “You can't be talking about this in front of Buddy.”

Peyton smiled. “
Buddy
? Your roofer dude's name is Buddy?
Bud
? Don't you see? It's like a sign from God.”

“Back in Houston, my next door neighbor was Mary Jane Blunt. Was that a sign, too?”

Buddy rapped on the windowpane, pointing toward the bathroom off the kitchen. Betty smiled nervously and waved at him, motioning him to come around the back. She took Peyton's arm and moved him further into the living room.

“I appreciate your wanting to help me, Peyton,” she whispered. “But this is not something I can do.”

“Why are you whispering? Betty, you're acting like it's some back alley deal. It's not. It'll all be above board. First, you'll get your red card – your medical marijuana card – so you can legally grow for yourself and five other people. You'll designate yourself to be a caregiver –”

Betty backed into the credenza. “Peyton, for God's sake! You don't know me. You don't know who I am and what I believe.”

“Actually, I think I
do
know you. I wouldn't have come back here today if I didn't know that in my heart. The problem here is I don't think
you
know who you are. Maybe what you believe is wrong? Maybe you're holding onto beliefs that aren't even your own? Maybe you should do some research?” He stopped, realizing he was overpowering Betty. “Hey, I want to talk to that person inside of you – the one who's stored away but maybe can still hear me. Cannabis is more than just THC. It has this stuff called CBD in it. CBD is non-psychoactive and
cannot
get you high. What it
can
do is reduce anxiety, melt away pain, reduce nausea and seizures, and protect against nerve damage, especially in the brain. Some people even think it can stop cancerous tumors from spreading. There are growers out there right now who are cross breeding various strains of cannabis, in order to make the perfect CBD-rich strain with low THC. When that happens, it's going to revolutionize the way people look at cannabis. The proof will be too obvious, and they won't be able to marginalize the herb as ‘just something stoners do.' This is groundbreaking stuff, Betty. We could work together and you could be part of something that could literally change the way people deal with their pain and anxiety.” He turned and looked at the credenza. “You still got your son in the drawer?”

“Yes.”

“You ever talk to him?”

Betty was nonplussed. “Excuse me?”

“Okay. I read that as a ‘yes.' What do you think your kid would say if you asked him about this?”

“You must be joking. He was a drug addict. What do you think he'd say?”

“I don't know. Why don't you ask him?”

“This conversation is making no sense.” She walked past him. “Please, Peyton. I really
do
need to go.”

“Me too. Let me walk you out to my car.”

After locking the front door, Betty cautiously followed Peyton to his silver Prius. Sitting in the front seat was a gentle, grey haired woman who appeared to be in her late seventies. He opened the passenger door and helped her out of her seat.

“Betty, this is Gladys. She's one of my patients.”

Betty tried her best not to look shocked. Gladys was slightly stooped over, moved carefully and could be the archetype of anybody's grandmother, not the epitome of someone who used cannabis. Extending her hand, she remembered her manners. “Pleased to meet you, Gladys. Betty Craven.”

“Nice to meet you too, Betty,” Gladys replied with a soft voice, her cherubic face brightening. “We're on our way to the grocery store.”

Peyton explained that he helped out his patients whenever they needed a drive to the doctor's office, market, etc. Betty listened, but was still trying to envisage this darling, elfin woman chomping down on a cannabis brownie. Something about that seemed quite bizarre, and yet there she was. Gladys seemed happy as a clam and quite in touch with her surroundings. Betty surreptitiously checked closer for any telltale glassiness in Gladys' aging eyes, but came up empty.

The conversation quickly veered onto “the herb.” Gladys put her hand on Betty's arm. “My blood pressure has dropped to almost normal since I began medicating.”

Betty needed to check herself. Here they were, standing in the bright sunlight, discussing how marijuana was such a hit. Weren't these discussions usually done in the shadows of night, on dirty streets between men with sketchy background checks?

“Have you tried his cannabis hand oil?” Gladys asked Betty.

“No, darling, I have not.”

“Oh, it's the best around!” She held up her hands. “I rub it on my joints three times a day and now I can actually open a pickle jar.” She leaned forward. “At first, I got a little buzzy on it. But now, I'm quite used to it.”

Her neighbor across the street, Jerry, emerged from his house and called out to Betty. “Hey, Betty! I saw the letter to the editor in the paper yesterday! That's your group, right?”

Betty felt her stomach lurch. She waved her best royal wave toward Jerry, followed by a thumbs-up. “Yes,” was all she could manage.

“Well, you got my support!” Jerry yelled across the street, as he pumped his fist into the air. “Gotta keep the riff-raff stoners out of Paradox!”

Gladys looked around the front yard. “Beautiful yard, dear. Where are you growing your herb?”

Betty felt faint. “I'm
not
growing!”

“Really?” Gladys asked innocently. “Why ever not? With a green thumb like yours, your buds would be bodacious!”

Was this really happening
? Betty wondered. Had the world gone mad? Peyton quickly interjected that Betty was a “newbie” but he had high hopes for her. Helping Gladys back into the front seat, he casually walked with Betty to her car.

She maintained a plastic smile for Gladys' sake, even though they were out of her earshot, as she spoke quietly to Peyton. “I know what this is all about. You brought her over here to try to manipulate and trick me.”

“Maybe a little manipulation but no tricks,” he assured her. “And I admire your ability to remain gracious, even though I knew it would be outside your comfort zone.”

“One never gets a second chance to make a good first impression.”

“You see?” He said, smiling. “Talent, sensitivity and courteousness. You're like the whole package, Betty!” He gently patted her shoulder before turning back to his Prius. “Hey, what letter was that dude talking about?”

Betty looked at Gladys tucked into the front seat and then to Peyton with his easygoing smile. “It's nothing. Nothing at all.”

After depositing the consignment check in her bank account, Betty started back home when her cell rang. It was Judi. She could have ignored the call, but she was still quietly seething from the ad hoc matchmaking Judi conceived behind her back.

“Hi, Judi.” Betty purposely modulated her voice to show affection caramelized with a sprinkling of irritation.

“Hey, Betty! I just wanted you to know how proud I am of you!”

“Proud? Why are you proud?”

“I heard through the grapevine that you and Tom Reed are hooking up for drinks tonight at The Phoenix! Good for you, honey.”

Well, for Lord's sake
, Betty fumed. She must have missed the breaking news of her tête-à-tête on the local morning broadcast. Privacy was of utmost importance to her and to have her evening plans summarily advertised like some low-rent garage sale was more than Betty could handle at the moment. “Yes, Judi, about that –”

“I know it's baby steps, but it's a start! And I've heard he's really a stand up guy! I bet you and Tom will be like two peas in a pod!”

“Hang on.” She pulled the Taurus into a parking spot. “If you've only
heard
that he's a stand up guy, how on earth could you fathom that we'd be like two peas in a pod?”

“Honey, I'm talking about on
paper
, you know? He's got all the things you need on paper. Just like you and Frank, Sr. did!”

Betty's mouth went dry. Her jaw tightened and popped.

“Did I lose you?” Judi asked.

Betty tried to quell the blood that was boiling in her veins. “No. I'm right here. I'm in a bit of a dither, right now. Every time I stand up, my mind sits down.”

“What?”

Betty realized she unexpectedly discharged an old Texas saying. “I can't think clearly at the moment,” she translated.

“Don't you worry one bit, Betty. There's nothing to be nervous about! I know you and Tom are going to hit it off. Gotta run, sweetie! Call me tomorrow and let me know how it went!”

Judi hung up before Betty had a chance to utter a word. She suddenly felt like a croquet ball, being batted around at everyone's whim except her own. It seemed to Betty that Judi had her future planned to a tee. She was probably already arranging the nuptials between Betty and Tom, buying bathroom towels with “R” sewn into them and drooling over the open bar at their wedding reception.

Marriage. Like all of her high school girlfriends, she used to wonder whose gold band she would wear. She romanticized about her future and the life she would lead as someone's wife. She bought into the fables and fantasies but then reality struck hard, and she developed a dispiriting mindset. In Betty's mind, marriage followed a certain pattern. You start out as whole people with energy and determination and dreams. Then regret, lies, anger, resentment, and all the other pillars of destruction chip away at the relationship until at the ten year point, you look at each other to see what's left standing. If there's a modicum of love left, you continue the assault. If there's a child involved, you carry on and stick it out. But then the years melt into each other and one day, you realize you can't remember who you were in the beginning. It's as if that person who once existed belongs to another lifetime. You melted into your partner, and he's melted into you; you've lost your core, but you can't make a move because you're numb and dead inside. You stop caring because it takes too much effort. And so you drift together, bumping into each other like wayward ships with no captain.

Then one of you dies, and as the one left standing, you have holes inside so deep it would take another fifty years to find the beginning of them. You are demolished. You have more years behind you than in front. But you still get up and go about the day. You smile and play the game. The wish to get all those burned years back is too much. So you keep pushing those thoughts away, because you know if you keep focused on it, you'll realize you have no one to blame but yourself.

Her neck tightened almost on cue, and she searched through her purse to uncover “Mama's Muscle Mojo.” It was only two days old and it was halfway gone. There weren't many jars of the stuff on the shelf at Jeff's store, and she didn't want to run out. That's what she kept telling herself anyway, as she turned the Taurus around and headed to the “Hippie Dippie Health Food Store.”

The store was buzzing with shoppers when she arrived. That clean, citrus scent greeted her, along with the calming classical interludes playing softly in the background. For some reason, the place felt like an odd refuge for Betty. It wasn't an establishment she'd have frequented in the past. But everyone who worked there looked so happy, healthy and carefree. Perhaps all those fresh juices really were putting the life back into them. Or maybe it was a trickle-down effect from their boss.

With that thought, Betty took a gander around the store, but Jeff was nowhere to be seen. Walking up and down the aisles, she took her time checking out all the locally made products, amazed that so many people had the courage to put themselves out there with such boldness in this stale economy. She worked her way over to where “Mama's Muscle Mojo” was located and found a single jar left on the shelf. It was the most successful sensation she'd felt that entire morning. Securing it in her hands, she turned and nearly ran into Jeff.

“Oh, my goodness!” Betty exclaimed.

“You've run out of the first jar already?” he said with a playful smile.

Betty felt a strange tremor in her chest. It was somewhere between a shiver and a hot poker plunging into her sternum. “Um, I, ah…”

“You okay, Betty?”

The quaking seemed to worsen. “Yes, of course…” She feared she was going to have a heart attack but felt no numbness down her left arm. It was more like a fuse inside her had just been lit, but she wasn't aware she had a fuse to ignite. “I should have eaten a more substantial breakfast this morning.”

“Oh, come on. Don't ‘should' all over yourself. Let me get you something,” he said, heading toward the juice bar.

“Oh, no, no, no. I –” she countered, helplessly following him.

“It's on me, Betty. We'll concoct a nice kale, beet, apple and carrot blend that'll raise your blood sugar. I'll throw in some astragalus and chlorella to bolster your immune system.”

Before Betty could refuse, she was seated at the juice bar, and Jeff was busy behind the counter loading a juicer with all the ingredients.

“How long have you been involved in…all this?”

“You mean natural health? Oh, most of my adult life. I've always been fascinated by how plants and herbs can bring back balance in the body. Before I opened my first little store back in California, my brother and I started an organic lawn and landscape business. We called it ‘Rake-y Masters – Esoteric Lawn Care.' We didn't just mow your lawn, we healed it. Even after transitioning to the health and wellness business, I've still maintained a fairly large organic garden on my property.”

Betty felt the need to tweet her credentials. “I grow flowers. I've won quite a few blue ribbons for them over the years. I've even had recognition for some of the more ordinary plants that don't get the judge's attention. Like my asters. I've been told my asters are quite spectacular.”

Jeff stifled a smile. “Yeah, I bet your asters are beautiful.” A gentle twinkle danced in his eye. “I saw your letter to the editor,” he turned on the juicer as a loud buzzing ensued. “They spelled your name wrong!” he yelled over the din.

She leaned forward, attempting to be discreet. “How'd you know that was me?”

“I'm not stupid, Betty. Why'd you write ‘Elizabeth' and not ‘Betty?'”

“Formality.”

“Really? I usually save formality for legal documents, not letters to the editor. Unless I want to obscure my name so people might not know I signed the letter.”

“Well, that wasn't my intention.” The minute she said that, she began to wonder if it actually was her intention. “And anyway, I had no control over the fact that they hired a dyslexic proofreader.”

“Aw, don't take the misspelling too seriously. When I opened up this store, they came and did an article on the place. Took a photo of me outside. When I read the caption, instead of Jeff Carroll, it read Jeff Carrot. I figured it was an interesting, symbiotic mistake, since we do have a juice bar. I just chalked it up to a subconscious error on the part of the caption writer.” He turned off the juicer and handed her the glass of frothy goodness.

Betty felt the need to explain her informal group. “We're not an organized association or anything. More like a grassroots gathering.”

He leaned on the counter. “I wouldn't use the term ‘
grass
roots' if you're trying to stop medical pot dispensaries.”

Betty couldn't help but smile. She took a sip of the thick concoction. It was sweet and yet so pure and healthy tasting. “I've never drunk anything like this.”

“That's feeding your bloodstream right now. Flushing out toxins and reinvigorating your senses.” He was earnest without taking himself too seriously.

“Thank you very much.” She suddenly felt like a kid at an old-fashioned ice cream counter, batting her eyelashes at the soda jerk.

“You're welcome very much, Elizabeth
Cragen
.” He moved around the counter and perched on the stool next to her. His auburn ponytail drifted around his shoulder. “So, how's that sick friend of yours doing?”

“She…she died last night.”

There was a thoughtful pause. “I'm sorry to hear that.”

“It wasn't unexpected,” she replied, her trained elocution evident.

“Yeah, but it still hurts, right?”

She admired Jeff's ability to be so forthcoming. It was both refreshing and disarming. “Death and I are not anonymous bedfellows, but given the opportunity, I'd kick Death off the mattress.”

Jeff looked at her perplexed. “Well, that's a long way around the barn to say you're scared of death.”

She took another soothing sip. “It's not so much my death that concerns me. It's the loss of others I have a hard time with.”

“You can change that, Betty. You can embrace death just like you embrace life.”

She raised a judgmental eyebrow. “I don't know about that one. How can I embrace death if I can't…” She caught herself.

“When you can't what?”

What in the hell was in this green concoction? Betty felt as if she was drunk, without the wooziness or detachment. Her mind spun and before she could censor herself, she finished her sentence. “When I can't embrace life.”

He leaned forward and smiled. “Wow. You just had yourself a moment there. Very cool to see that. I think it's the beets talking.” He rested his hand on her arm.

Suddenly, that damned tremor erupted again inside her. What was going on? She was never this forthcoming.
Never
.
Perhaps those damned muscle relaxants were still affecting her judgment and loosening her lips. “I need to go,” she stammered. “I'll just go pay for the, uh…”

“Salve?”

“Yes. Right. The salve. Good stuff, by the way. Give Mama my compliments when you see her next.”

Still trembling, Betty made her way to the front cash register, and fumbling with her purse, checkbook and driver's license, paid the young girl, before quickly dashing from the store. She was so flustered, she even forgot to say a prayer to the automotive god, but her old Taurus started up like a pro.

Once safely home, she grounded herself in the garden. She even removed her gloves and plunged her hands into the warm dirt, covering them like a blanket and letting them linger there. Betty felt herself steadily calm down and her breathing return to normal. It was all the mounting anxiety about her situation, she told herself. Although, she'd never in her life felt such an overwhelming vibration overtake her body. With her hands still buried under the cool earth, a sudden memory flickered. It was so quick, she might have missed it had she not been quiet and anchored to the soil. Yes, she had felt this exact sensation a long time ago.

She was six years old and standing alone in the center of the merry-go-round during recess. Jeremy Lindholm, a second grader, jumped on and pronounced his love for her. He then told her he was about to kiss her one hundred times on the cheek. Fortunately, the boy hadn't yet learned to count past fifty so he lost track early on. But Betty was smitten by his bold move. And even after the horn-rimmed, stern schoolteacher snatched little Jeremy off the merry-go-round and dragged him to the principal's office, he still had the cheekiness to turn around and toss Betty a roguish wink. That's when the shudder first coursed through her body. It wasn't just that she liked him; it was that he was brave enough to roam outside the predictable expectations of both his fellow seven-year-old buddies and the school's ridiculously stringent rules.

He wasn't what she was told to admire. His father was an Interstate truck driver and his mother took in sewing to make ends meet. He wasn't a good reader and his spelling was filled with backward letters. But he seemed so genuine and free-spirited and Betty couldn't resist him. Even at six years old she knew she could help him be a better student, and if she could do that, she could possibly convince her parents he was a good boy and someone they would allow her to love.

But none of that ever happened. Fettered by the velvet shackles of expectation, Betty was sternly admonished to stay away from Jeremy and to present herself in such a way that would not entice “lowlife losers” who were hopelessly dim-witted. And so she did as she was told. But that didn't stop her from observing Jeremy across the schoolyard at lunch or peering around a corner as his mother picked him up from school in a battered truck. The tickle in her heart still ached.