Betty's (Little Basement) Garden

by Laurel Dewey

  “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 ‘grassroots’ 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, Elizabe
th 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.

  It wasn’t until long after she’d married Frank that she opened the Houston Chronicle and saw a feature article on Jeremy Lindholm, the famous documentary filmmaker. His movie about Vietnam War veterans and their buried emotional traumas was making the rounds in order to be eligible for an Academy Award nomination. Years before PTSD was recognized, Jeremy was in the forefront and courageous enough to buck the formidable, ultra-patriotic Texas mindset by presenting a topic that went against the war machine. He was a trailblazer, Betty decided back then. But she could never whisper a wisp of what she thought, since she was married to a full-time military man. But somewhere up in the attic, hidden in an old dusty box, was that yellowed newspaper article from the Chronicle.

  Sitting in the garden now, with her hands still covered in the dirt, a strange illumination came over Betty. She flashed on Peyton’s heartfelt observation that he recognized an “essence” buried deep within her that she’d forgotten existed. Was it possible she was actually wired differently than what she had been told? The pitter-patter she felt for Jeremy Lindholm wasn’t repeated when she was forced on a date with Frank Craven. But Frank was “suitable” and “a great catch,” she was advised by her parents, family and girlfriends. How could they all be wrong? And since he was six years older than Betty, Frank was “secure and stable.” They had her best interests in mind, didn’t they? She didn’t want to let them down. She needed to do what was right and appropriate for a young woman of her social class. And yet, it seemed there was never a quiet moment set aside where anyone asked her a very simple question: What do you want, Betty? If the world was your oyster, who would be your pearl? What would you become if fear and failure were removed from the equation?

  Betty dug her hands deeper into the soil. It was as if she’d connected to some profound magnetic beacon that infused her with the strangest, yet compelling insights. She allowed this bizarre cocktail of information to fill her thoughts, without questioning or attempting to rationalize what was happening. What if those closest to her back then saw the same essence that Peyton perceived – a quality that perhaps bubbled closer to the surface when she was younger? What if that untamed spirit terrified them? What if they purposely pushed her into charm schools, pageants and “proper” after-school activities, in order to steer her away from what they perceived as a young woman who was really a wild horse and a loose cannon? What if they intentionally manipulated her values and thoughts, because they believed controlling her was the only way to rescue her from a life they deemed unmanageable? What if there was an entirely different person all these years concealed inside this suffocating conformist? What if she’d been living someone else’s life for nearly fifty-nine years?

  Betty exhaled a huge blast of air and quickly withdrew her hands from the dirt, shaking from the thoughts that raced through her head. What did she love? Really love? She loved the dirt, even though she was always told to stay clean. She loved tending her plants, even though she was told there were gardeners who took care of that sort of thing. She loved Colorado, even though she was told that Texas was in her blood. She loved her son, even though she was told he was worthless and a waste of space. And that’s when Betty realized that the true person inside of her, that was meant to embrace life instead of fear it, was screaming to be released. It was similar to what she felt after Frank Sr. died and she went about “investing in Betty.” But that was all surface – from her hundred-thousand-dollar-plus kitchen to her shiny veneers. That was the manufactured Betty, who operated from what she thought was important an
d necessary. It wasn’t the real one still hidden deep inside that wanted to emerge and breathe in the life force that had been withheld for so many decades.

  My God…this was all so fresh and still developing in her mind. And while the traditional Betty was still formally in charge, she could feel a not-so-gentle push in her gut from the real Betty. But not knowing who that was yet, it seemed reasonable to tamp her down. Let her out of the can too soon and no telling what could happen.

  Betty walked inside and was shocked to see that several hours had passed. She had to get ready to meet Tom Reed at The Phoenix. Dammit. It was the last place she wanted to be, especially coming on the heels of this still-churning profundity. Somehow, she needed to stuff down this growing awareness in order to get through the night. Even though it wasn’t five-thirty, she knocked back a glass of Old Crow. And then another one. Then, like Emily Dickinson wrote, her “feet, mechanical” went round, moving through the next ninety minutes, until Betty parked in front of The Phoenix.

  Walking inside, she headed toward the separate bar area. It truly was a retro establishment, with red vinyl booths, black and white diamond carpeting and dim lighting. Sinatra’s “Just As Though You Were Here” played in the background. Betty checked herself to make sure she hadn’t slipped into a time warp. Everything about this place, sans the rising Phoenix painted with broad red brush strokes on the ceiling, brought back memories of meeting up with Frank when they first got acquainted. Scanning the crowded room, she spotted a tall, good-looking man, seated alone in a booth that matched the age range Judi described. She approached the table. “Tom?”

  He stood up, quickly unbuttoning his sports jacket and extending his large hand. “Betty! Right on time!”

  Betty felt her back go up. Punctuality was important to him. How romantic. She shook his hand and took a seat in the booth.

  “Nice handshake,” he commented, “I like that.”

  Now she felt like a horse being examined by a prospective buyer. She observed him through the vapor of two bourbons. On the outside, he was what most women would consider “attractive,” which only meant his facial features were symmetrical and appealing to the eye. His voice was confident and his mannerisms were “take charge.” Yes, all seemingly fabulous.