Betty's (Little Basement) Garden

by Laurel Dewey

  “What’ll you have?” he asked Betty.

  She really didn’t want anything but figured it wouldn’t hurt to have a prop in her hand to fill in the dead space. “Bourbon on the rocks, please.”

  Tom hailed the waitress to the table, telling her what “the lady” would like.

  Betty suddenly felt removed from the scene. It was as though she were allowing herself to see the surroundings as they were, unfiltered. Tipping her head, she was taken by the dramatic expanse of the crimson-winged Phoenix on the ceiling, emerging from a caldron of flames. She didn’t even hear Tom’s voice for a brief moment.

  He leaned forward. “I said, Judi tells me you’re from Texas!”

  “Born and raised in Houston, but I’ve lived in Colorado for thirty years –”

  “Oh! I’ve got you by ten years on that one! Moved here in ’70 when you could buy a goddamned corner of the state for a nickel!”

  Betty glanced to the diamond alumni ring Tom wore on his pinky. His fingernails were clean and filed neatly; his salt and pepper hair combed with precision, and still slightly damp from the shower after his late tennis game. As Judi said, “on paper” he was a catch.

  “I should have probably bought up some land, but I plugged it all into my own insurance company.”

  “And I’m sure you were successful –”

  “I was!” He vice-gripped his glass of Scotch on the rocks. “I was a big fish in a little pond back then and I grabbed every opportunity with gusto. Before long, I had eight different satellite offices from Fort Collins down to Alamosa.”

  “Impressive,” Betty rejoined as her bourbon arrived. She took a liberal sip.

  Tom cringed as he moved closer to Betty in the booth.

  “You all right?”

  “Yeah, yeah. Just got a knee thing going on that tends to creep up after I hit the court too hard. But,” he shook his finger at her, “I don’t let it stop me!” He lifted an orange prescription bottle from his coat pocket and popped the cap. “Gotta keep moving!” Like a seasoned pro, he lobbed a pill into his mouth and downed it quickly with ice water. “So, Judi tells me that you’re a…a great cook and you love to garden.”

  Betty sat back. The comment seemed random. She’d had a conversation like this before back in 1973 in a bar very much like this one, seated across from a guy with a military buzz haircut and a confident air. She fell rock hard for it back then.

  “Actually, I am a great cook,” Betty replied, taking another heady sip of bourbon. This wasn’t Old Crow and it melted like honey on her tongue. “And an incredible gardener –”

  “The most gardening I’ve done is mowing the lawn. But my ex got the house in my divorce so I lost the lawn too. No hardship there! Best thing I ever did – short of my divorce – was investing in my condo at the Aspen Grove. Everything’s covered in my dues. Yard maintenance, membership in the club, twenty-four-hour security. Not that it’s needed since we’re gated. They also have a killer, private, five-star restaurant for residents. I’d love to show you the place.”

  Betty knocked back another gulp. Her head felt tingly and she could tell her censor mechanism was going off duty. “Really?” She leaned forward in a semi-seductive manner. “Why is that?”

  Tom took her cue and leaned closer. “Because I think it’s the kind of place you would absolutely love.”

  She smiled warmly, tracing a circle around the lip of her nearly empty glass. “And how would you know that, Tom?” He started to speak but Betty abruptly cut him off. “All you know about me is what you’ve heard from Judi. That I’m a great cook and love to garden. Oh, and that I used to live in Texas thirty years ago. How does this token information tell you I would love your gated condo?”

  He let out a hearty laugh. “Because you would!”

  “I’d love it because you’re telling me I’m going to love it?”

  He shrugged his shoulders and let out another laugh, this time with a dismissive undertone to it. “Yes!”

  Betty sat back. Yes, she’d heard that same laugh before with that same trivializing quality. It was as if a million puzzle pieces fell into place all at once. And as each piece clicked, the haze that had shrouded her life for so many years began to clear. “Tom, you have no goddamn clue what I love or don’t love. You’ve known me fewer than five minutes –”

  “Hey, give me a chance,” he said, inching closer. “I bet you and I have a lot in common when you cut through all the crap.”

  She smiled. “Whose crap would that be, Tom? Mine or yours? Hundred bucks says you meant mine.” Betty scooted away from him. “Your confidence far exceeds your ability to close the deal,” she whispered.

  He grinned, not sure what in the hell she meant. “Huh?”

  “You’re not all hat and no cattle. You’ve got the cattle. But you’ve also got the bullshit to go with it.” She downed the last of her drink, knowing there wouldn’t be another one scheduled that night. Her head spun as a delicious warmth engulfed her body. “I’m disheartened to think that Judi and Renée thought you would be ‘perfect’ for me. I’ve already danced this dance. I’ve already dated you. I married you. I had a son with you. And you died. I don’t need to repeat the past anymore in order to see my future.” She pulled away, shoving her glass across the table. “Allow me to offer you a little insight. You’re the type of man women refer to as ‘interesting’ when they really mean ‘tedious.’”

  Tom regarded her with a confused smile. “I’m not following any of this.”

  “Perhaps it’s because you mixed your pain killer with your scotch. That’s never a good idea.” She heard her Texas drawl issue forth but didn’t feel the need to hide it. “You see, Tom, you’re still playing tennis as we sit at this table. Difference is, you’re not serving the ball to me so I can return it. I’m just the wall onto which you lob the ball again and again. But I’m here to tell you, Mr. Tom Reed, that I’m not a wall anymore.” She slid out from the booth and stood up. “See that phoenix?” she pointed to the ceiling. “That’s me, sweetheart. Rising from the ashes.”

  He stared at her, mouth agape, as she stood straight as an arrow and walked out.

  Arriving home, Betty felt like a caged lioness. She couldn’t sit or stand still. She grabbed a few bites of cheese and gulped down the last of the gazpacho with a hearty slice of bread. The carbs seemed to slightly steady her but then that boiling in the pit of her gut erupted again. A recklessness overwhelmed her. Yes, she remembered feeling this sensation a very long time ago. It was right after she and Frank first met. She snuck out of her bedroom window at her parents’ house on that hot summer night and ran at breakneck speed through the neighborhood. She wanted to keep running and disappear from the world that held her captive in its well-meaning dictums. Back then, she didn’t have the experience or the heartbreak etched into her bones. She still distrusted her inner voice, abdicating her own desires and adopting the dreams of others. But now…now she was fourteen months from turning sixty. Sixty, for God’s sake. How in the hell did that happen? All that life wasted and usurped by others because she allowed it. “Fuck it,” she said, slightly surprising herself.

  She tore around the house with no direction. Up the stairs and down, she kept moving, her mind racing with thoughts that had no answers. Twenty minutes later, she found herself standing in the living room, leaning against the credenza. Opening the center drawer, she dug out Frankie’s framed photo and stared at it. “What in the hell am I going to do, Frankie?” She spied the wad of cash still secured in the drawer and then the sales receipt on the credenza with Peyton’s address and phone. The fire in her belly burned hot and impetuous. Just like that summer evening in Houston thirty-eight years ago, she ran back into the night again. But this time, she had a plan and when she returned home this time, nothing would ever be the same again.

  Chapter 10

  “I’m shaking like a virgin at a prison rodeo.”

  There was barely enough moonlight to navigate the well kept brick path to the f
ront door, but Betty managed, her heart racing exponentially with each step. The fog of Bourbon and the arousal of resentment carried her this far, and she wasn’t about to turn back. She knocked with purpose on the door. After what seemed like an eternity, the door opened. The elderly gentleman Betty saw with Peyton at Peggy’s bedside stood there. He wore a plaid shirt and vest that had both seen better days. A pair of wool slacks and an odd camouflage ball cap completed the ensemble. In his hand, he held a stack of thick plastic bags. He regarded Betty with silence and confusion.

  “Hello. My name is Betty Craven.” She extended her hand but gramps didn’t move an inch. “We met informally at Peggy’s…” She was about to say “deathbed” but figured that wasn’t tactful. “Is your grandson here?”

  “Yeah,” he stated, still not moving.

  Betty’s nerves were prickling. “Could I could please speak to him?”

  “You his girlfriend?”

  “Good God, no! I’m just a friend…well, an acquaintance…is he home?”

  Gramps moved slowly to a door just off the living room and opened it. “Peyton! Some woman is here to see you. What do you want me to tell her?”

  Betty took a short step into the house. “Betty. My name’s Betty!”

  A loud thump emanated from downstairs, followed by rushed footsteps up the stairs. Peyton emerged. In one hand, he held a pair of small, razor sharp scissors. A lamp adorned his forehead, shining a peculiar green glow from the light. “Betty!” he exclaimed, grinning from ear to ear. “Is it like really you or did the Indica just kick in?”

  “Yes. Like it is. I need to speak to you.” She glanced at his grandfather. “Privately?”

  Peyton turned to his grandfather. “Hey, Pops, how’s it goin’ on the shrink wrapping?”

  “Goin’ good.”

  “Awesome!” Peyton patted him gently on his back. “Keep up the good work, dude!”

  His grandfather moseyed back into the kitchen as Peyton approached the door. “Come on in, Betty.”

  “I’d rather speak outside, if you don’t mind.” A loud whirr erupted from the kitchen. “What in the hell is that?”

  “I bought a vacuum sealer to suck the air out of bags of cannabis for my patients. He’s fallen in love with it and even figured out ways to improve it. Pops can suck the air out of anything now.”

  “Really? My late husband had that same talent when he walked into a room.”

  Peyton stepped outside, pulling the front door ajar. “Pops was a world class inventor in his day. Real simple stuff but really useful. He’s got like three patents. But he’s worried about people stealing his ideas. That’s why I bought him that camo ball cap. I told him if he wore it when he was coming up with ideas, nobody could see what he was thinking and steal his thoughts. It’s taken his anxiety level way down!”

  Betty couldn’t believe how on some peculiar level that made sense. “I’m sure you’re wondering why I’m here –”

  He turned off his green headlamp. “You changed your mind. Dude, that’s why you’re here!”

  Betty turned away, a wave of apprehension gripping her. “I don’t know that I’ve changed my mind completely. I just…I just…” She let out a hard sigh. “I’ve had an illuminating day and a strange early evening and between the two, I’m standing here with you and making no sense.”

  He put a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “It’s okay, Betty. We’ll take it slow.”

  “Oh, dear. That sounds really odd, coming from you to me.” She glanced down at his drooping jeans. “Pull up your pants, would you?”

  “Huh?”

  She tactfully pointed to his trousers. “Your pants? It’s not a good look.”

  “That’s the way they’re supposed to fit.”

  She leaned forward, attempting to be discreet even though no one was in earshot. “It’s not a professional way to present yourself to your patients. Trust me on this one.”

  Peyton shrugged his shoulders and obliged, hiking up his jeans and tightening the belt around his waist.

  Betty took a gander around the area. “Look, before I change my mind and run screaming into the night, here’s my proposal. I purchase from you some….material, shall we say. And I make a batch of chocolates using my own method, and we’ll see how it goes. If I fail miserably, then no harm, no foul –”

  “Fail? You’re not gonna fail.”

  “That remains to be seen.”

  “No way. I can feel it. You were meant to do this. You’re gonna help a whole lot of people, Betty.”

  An unexpected wave of sadness came over her. “I tried to help someone once I cared a great deal for. It didn’t do any good. He still died.”

  “Just ‘cause your son died, doesn’t mean you failed.”

  “I didn’t say it was my –”

  “Oh, come on, Betty. It wasn’t your next-door neighbor in Texas, Mary Jane Blunt.” He leaned against the doorjamb. “Hell, we never know the impact we have on someone. Even the smallest influence can make a huge difference. Like the way your chocolates and my cannabis came together to help my aunt. She still died, but she died with dignity. You were part of that. Shit, we’re all gonna die. That’s the destination but life’s the journey, dude. I’m like totally more into the journey.”

  Betty pressed the skin between her eyebrows. “Please stop peppering your vocabulary with ‘like.’” She reached into her purse. “I have the cash you gave me, and I want to keep this above board and buy –”

  “Betty, I’m tapped out, and I don’t have another harvest for two months –”

  She shot him a dismayed look. “How in the hell was I supposed to do any of this?”

  “Well, like –” he caught himself and started again. “You grow your own and until you get your own harvest, I can hook you up with a guy who grows medical cannabis organically –”

  “Hook me up? Oh, my God! What?! What?! Are you nuts?”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa! Betty, chill. Take a breath. Louie is totally cool.”

  “Louie? What’s the rest of his name? The Exterminator?”

  “No. Parodi. He owns the automotive shop over on Sheldon Street. You know? Louie’s Lube ‘n’ Tube? The big neon wheel with the fat, goofy face in the center? That’s Louie’s place. You’ll want an ounce of ‘sweet leaf shake’ and an ounce of ‘popcorn’ buds mainly from an Indica strain.” He thought for a second. “Blueberry! That’s the strain you need from him. There are different Blueberry strains, and Louie’s got the Centennial Blueberry strain that was bred to grow great in the high altitude of the Rockies. Man, does it have dank little greasy nuggets.”

  “Hang on, what’s ‘sweet leaf shake’ and ‘popcorn?’”

  “’Sweet leaf shake’ is the sticky, sugary trim from right around the bud and ‘popcorn’ buds are what grows on the bottom of the plant. When you combine those two for edibles, you get a nice pain-killing effect. I’ll give Louie a call and set the whole thing up for you.” He brought out his cell phone and started to dial.

  “Wait! Right now?”

  “Wasn’t your objective coming over here to leave with something?”

  Betty felt her throat tightening. “Yes.”

  Peyton dialed the number. As it rung, he turned to Betty. “I got a lot of my cannabis clones from Louie when I started up. He knows his shit. He was one of first people in Colorado to get his medical cannabis card.” Louie answered and the arrangements were made. If Betty could drive over there within the next twenty minutes, Louie would have the bags waiting. And as a sign of wanting to help a future medical cannabis caregiver, Louie agreed to give Betty the “family price” which came to one hundred and fifty for the ounce of Centennial Blueberry popcorn buds, and seventy for the ounce of premium Centennial shake.

  Betty arrived under the big neon wheel fifteen minutes later. She’d been told to walk around the back of the business, down a short walkway and then knock on the steel door with the gold wheel decal. Louie must have been standing right there waiting, because t
he door opened before Betty finished knocking.

  “Hey! Come on in!” Louie said with a welcoming tenor. He was still removing grease from his huge, fat hands with a pink soap that smelled slightly toxic with a grapefruit top note.

  Betty walked in, closing the door behind her. The bourbons had worn off completely, and it was as if she’d awakened into a reality she wasn’t prepared to occupy. Doubt began to inch its way into her mind. She looked around the modest but well-kept garage. The floors were swept clean and all the tools were lined up neatly on brackets against the walls. There was no sense of anything shady or corrupt going on in this place. As for Louie, he didn’t put off the vibe to Betty of anyone who would be involved in growing marijuana. He looked to be in his mid-thirties. His round, cherubic face and mass of tousled black hair, along with the half undone blue work shirt with his name embroidered in red, made him look like your standard grease monkey. Louie washed off the last of the pink soap and dried his hands.

  “I…” Betty felt a catch in her throat. “I’ve never done this before,” she whispered.

  He smiled. “There’s nobody else here. You don’t have to whisper.” He turned. “I’ll go grab your stuff.”

  Betty stood still, clutching her purse and doing everything to stand as straight as she could, so as to appear confident. Looking around the immediate area, she spotted a pegboard filled with photos featuring Louie and his wife and three children. There were photos of them skiing, hiking, and hanging out at home. A small TV played in the background on low volume. It was the early Denver news broadcast, and Betty heard the male anchor mention marijuana. Her ears perked up as she strained to hear the segment. There was a crowd of people standing outside the State Capitol with banners proclaiming “D.A.R.E. to Keep Children Safe!” and “Ever Wonder Why They Call It Dope?” Front and center was the inimitable Reverend Bobby Lynch, who had driven up from Colorado Springs for the news event. Standing in front of a crowd of over two hundred, die-hard anti-marijuana supporters who waved handmade signs and chanted, “Don’t let our town go to pot!,” Lynch took center stage as he spoke to the crowd.