Betty's (Little Basement) Garden

by Laurel Dewey

  “You don’t have to cook for me. I’m good.”

  Yes, she thought. He was.

  “Is there anything else you need done?”

  Betty waited a little too long before she answered. “No. That’s all. Thank you.” She walked him outside to his motorcycle. “Aren’t you afraid of falling off this thing and dying?”

  Jeff secured the box on the back of the bike with a bungee cord. “God, you really are focused on death, aren’t you?”

  “You’re riding a motorcycle without a helmet.”

  “Haven’t you heard? If you wear a helmet it just means you can have an open casket funeral instead of a closed one.”

  “That’s disgusting.”

  “Maybe, but it’s true. And to answer your question, instead of worrying about whether I’m going to die, I’m more afraid of not living my life to the fullest every day.” He straddled the bike. “You really do have issues around death, don’t you?”

  “Doesn’t everyone?”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t talked to ‘everyone.’”

  She glanced down at his leather clogs. “Do you think those clogs are appropriate footwear for this mode of transportation?”

  He smiled and shook his head. “Gosh, Betty. If I didn’t know any better, I’d swear you were worried about me.”

  Her gut began to toss again. “I’m not worried at all. I just think you could have made a safer choice of shoe, that’s all.”

  Jeff cheerfully let the comment slide as he turned the ignition key. “Do you and your friend need help tomorrow setting up your grow operation?”

  She was taken aback but quietly thrilled. “Well, sure…you know somebody who might want to help?” Her nervous attempt at humor fell oddly flat. “Noon tomorrow?”

  “See you then.” He drove away into the darkness.

  Betty waited outside until she couldn’t hear the sound of his engine any longer. “’The Classy Joint,’” she said to herself. “Sure…why not?”

  ~~~

  Betty tried to eat her evening meal, but her stomach felt tight and anxious. She continued to entertain the possibility she was coming down with something. Sleeping was futile. Melting another small chunk of the cannabis coconut oil, she dipped her finger in the warm liquid and licked it off. She was about to return the oil to the container, when she plunged her thumb into the oil and ingested every last drop she gathered. But she still felt giddy and knew sleep wasn’t on the menu. Falling back on her industrious predisposition, she carried the paint buckets downstairs into the basement and began slapping a thick layer of glossy white on the walls of the soon-to-be veg room. By 1 am, she’d completed the project. Where collectable guns were once stored, there would soon be six young, thriving cannabis plants. There was something quite beautiful and rancorous about that reality.

  The next morning she awoke at seven feeling invigorated, even though she’d enjoyed fewer than six hours of sleep. There was so much to do before Peyton and Jeff arrived at noon. After hoisting the flag at her front door and eating a quick breakfast, she spent the next two hours in the basement tossing the remaining plaques, medals and sundry items from Frank’s collection into boxes and shoving them in a corner of the basement. It felt good to her; like she’d just lost a few extra pounds of infuriating weight. There was a lot more space in the main room of the basement than she’d realized. She moved Frank’s large desk to the side of the room, away from the sliding glass door. It would make a wonderful table for transplanting her girls. Looking down at the battered, olive green carpeting that smelled of tobacco and booze, she decided it had to go. She had to rip him out of there, and she had to do it completely.

  After re-checking her “to do” list, Betty showered and dressed. She monitored Ronald several times, but he seemed to be back to his old, albeit lazy, self and none-the-worse for wear. Heading out the door, she saw Jerry and his brother Jack across the street. Arnold was unleashed and on the grass, happily chewing a bone. The men seemed to be packing up the motorhome.

  Betty employed her best pageant wave. “Leaving so soon?” she yelled across the street, making sure not to sound too hopeful.

  “Yeah,” Jack yelled back. “Movin’ on!” Arnold started barking viciously, seemingly unprovoked. “Strudel!” Jack ordered the dog, who quickly shut up. He turned back to Betty. “‘Movin’ on’ was another code word we used right before we’d break down a door!” Upon hearing “movin’ on” again, Arnold stood up and bore his teeth. “Strudel!” Jack demanded.

  Something about a grown man yelling ‘strudel’ to a vicious dog made Betty giggle. After she prayed for her Taurus to start and it did, she continued to smile at the scene all the way to the farmers’ market. She spent the next hour carefully perusing the many booths and selecting the perfect fruits, vegetables, baked goods and local offerings. She had everything planned. They’d arrive at noon and start working immediately. They’d break at two o’clock for lunch and then resume working at three. She’d need to make them lunch as well as a hearty snack. The aroma of rotisserie chickens roasting on the grill enticed her. Normally, Betty was not one to rely on pre-cooked fare. She never trusted someone else with that responsibility, given the many seasoning faux pas that could easily occur. But it made sense she’d be tired by the end of the day, and knowing that a fully cooked chicken was ready and waiting in the kitchen for her evening repast sounded divine. She made a point to stop by one of her favorite booths to buy a large bag of beef bones to make soup, and even treated herself to a container of homemade quince paste from another vendor who had the same, impeccable, gourmand appreciation. As far as Betty was concerned, when one found a consistent source for quince paste, one was indeed blessed.

  The entire experience would have been nearly perfect had it not been for the damned moccasin clad, tattooed, strident voices that belonged to the Colorado Activists 4 National Tolerance. They had permanently hijacked this community gathering and appeared to be dedicated to a plethora of causes, blaring on their loudspeakers about everything from freeing Tibet to gay marriage. Betty sighed. The outdoor market used to so much better, when all she had to listen to was banjo music and the off-key children’s choir.

  When she arrived home, she was shocked to see Buddy and a male friend of his convened in her driveway. He looked a bit worse for wear after his spill off her roof. She parked her car and got out with her bags. Buddy quickly came to her aid.

  “How are you feeling, darling?” she asked him, tentatively eyeing Jerry and Jack across the street.

  “Feeling okay, Mrs. Craven. That’s Eric,” he motioned to his weather-beaten friend. “He dropped me off to pick up my truck and get it out of your hair.”

  She smiled a forced smile toward Eric. “Hello.” Turning to Buddy, she spoke with discretion. “I have your paperwork inside that you’ll need to mail to the state.”

  “Awesome,” Buddy replied, with a thumbs-up gesture. “Hey, you got any more of those chocolates you gave me on the ride to the ER?”

  “Yes,” Betty said, opening the front door and walking inside. “But they’re not decorated or wrapped appropriately.” She ushered him inside.

  “I don’t care about that. I still got some low back pain from when I fell, and I just figured they might help me sleep.”

  Betty looked him square in the eye. “Darling, I say this to you because I care. Perhaps if you lost a few pounds, there wouldn’t be so much pressure on your lower back.” She couldn’t believe she just said that, but she wasn’t sorry one bit. “I bet if you simply cut out sugar and potatoes, you’d be well on your way.”

  Buddy stared at his enormous belly. “Yep. You’re right, Mrs. Craven. Sugar and potatoes. I’ll keep that in mind. So, about those candies? Do you have, like…ten?”

  “Yes, of course.” She started toward the kitchen and then turned back. “You’re not planning on sharing these, are you? Legally speaking, they can only be for you.”

  “Sure.”

  She waited. “Sure, what?
Sure, you won’t share them or sure…I’m not clear.”

  “Sure…They’re just for me,” he said with genuineness.

  Betty nodded and looked out the window at Eric, who was still standing in the driveway. “He doesn’t know about our agreement, does he?”

  “He knows I work for you on the side, and that I left my truck here when I fell off the roof, and that you’re gonna fix me up.”

  “Fix you up?” she said with an air of indignity. “Hang on a second, Buddy. I’m neither a dating service nor a drug dealer. You shouldn’t have said a thing about our arrangement. It’s confidential.”

  “I didn’t know that, Mrs. Craven.”

  Betty let out a frustrated breath. “Safety is imperative, Buddy. Everything is legal, of course.” She snuck another look across the street. “But prudence is advised, given the often uncharitable climate around which these operations and exchanges take place. Others might not be as understanding of my altruistic endeavors.”

  Buddy looked at her like a dog looks at a chemistry book. Baffled. “Sure,” he offered. “You want me to wait here or come in the kitchen?”

  Betty quickly put ten of the chocolates into a plastic baggie and then secured that into a plain brown bag. Deciding the bag looked plain, she tied a silver ribbon around it, found Buddy’s change-of-caregiver forms and headed back into the living room.

  “What do I owe you?” He asked, taking the bag.

  This was different. Usually that was what she was asking him. “Legally, I can’t charge you a specific price. But a donation of your choosing would certainly be valued.”

  “Huh?”

  “I’m just going by what I was told.”

  Buddy thought so hard, Betty almost swore she heard the gears shifting in his brain. “Well,” he finally uttered, “I’ve paid around five bucks or more a pop for a pain pill from the doc. But they don’t touch the pain like your candies do.”

  “Really?” She was incongruously honored by that news.

  “Hand to God.” Buddy brought out his wallet and rifled through his cash. “Is seventy-five cool with you?”

  “Seventy-five is just fine.”

  He handed her the cash.

  “Mum’s the word,” she advised him as she walked him to the door.

  “Who’s mum?”

  “This is just between us,” she translated. “Mail your paperwork, dear.”

  He nodded and left. She furtively watched him leave to make sure there was no exchange with Eric. Placated by their departure, she went about putting the food away and making sandwiches. An hour later, she heard loud barking emanating from her driveway. Grabbing a soup bone from the bag, she raced outside. Peyton was trapped in his Prius, while Arnold jumped like a wild beast on his car.

  Betty waved the soup bone in the air and strode to the Prius. “Strudel! Strudel!” She launched the bone toward the sidewalk as Arnold fell for the bait. “All clear!”

  “Strudel?” he said. “Dude, I’d be pissed too if I was a bad ass dog and someone named me Strudel.” He brought out a white plastic, water bottle with a strange chemistry symbol on the side.

  “What’s that mean?” Betty asked, pointing to the bottle.

  “It’s the symbol for THC.” He walked to the back of the car, opened the hatchback and lifted out a faux-bronze fountain. “I brought you a ‘welcome to the fold’ gift. It’s a solar fountain. I found it dumpster diving at work, and Pops worked his magic on it so it blows water like a son-of-a-bitch. He also rigged it up so you can plug your iPod into the side thingy here, and it’ll spew the water up in sync with the music. It’s like having a mini Bellagio Las Vegas hotel fountain.” As Peyton set it up, he made a point of placing it in the north side of the yard. “In feng shui, you always put your water features in the north sector to encourage the flow of wealth and prosperity.”

  “It’s solar,” Betty said. “So wealth stops flowing when it’s cloudy or at night?”

  “Not sure about that,” he said, filling it with water. “I’ll have to ask a Chinese person the next time I see one. Okay, get ready for your world to rock!” He set the solar panel inside the fountain top and stood back. An enormous blast of water rose from the center, cascading in ribboned streams and then re-emerging with another surge of energy. “Yeah! Pops is the man!” Peyton exclaimed.

  Betty led Peyton downstairs into the basement. He fell silent as he studiously examined the rooms, checking out areas for placing the intake and outtake fans, the best location for the light fixtures and how “light tight” the proposed bloom room would be. “This is great, Betty.” He pointed to the sliding glass door. “During the day, you can keep that door open to get more natural airflow in here. You’re still gonna have to use a lot of fans though. Remember, fans are –”

  “My friend,” Betty finished the sentence.

  The doorbell ran. Betty nervously reacted. “That’s Jeff. He’s helping us.”

  Peyton looked slightly worried. “The fewer people who know about your grow op, the better. You don’t show anybody your grow op unless you can absolutely can trust them. Is Jeff cool?”

  She smiled. “Oh, yes. Very much so.”

  Chapter 19

  “Texas women are not inspired by weak men.”

  “I brought you some presents,” Jeff stated as he walked inside the house and handed her a paper bag. Across his shoulder, he carried a large bag of tools.

  “Really?” Betty replied, as her stomach did somersaults. “I should start a grow operation every day.” She looked down at the hem of his blue jeans. “Why are your jeans soaking wet?”

  “Talk to your fountain out there. I think it’s got its own agenda.”

  Betty peered out the window. The sun was shining brightly on the solar panel and the unit was blowing water higher than Old Faithful. Betty made a mental note to move it toward the center of the yard so it could drench her entire garden. She opened the paper bag and brought out a black plastic bottle of hemp seed oil, a bag of hemp seeds and a pound of hemp seed flour.

  “I figured since you were into all things cannabis and you like to cook, why not experiment with the non-psychoactive version of the plant.” He explained that the oil was full of beneficial Omega-3, and that while it couldn’t be heated, it made a great dipping sauce or addition to salad dressing. The hemp seeds could be ground up and added to smoothies, and the hemp flour could be used half and half with regular flour in any baked goods.

  Betty listened carefully and hoped she didn’t look too smitten by his gesture. “Thank you so much,” she said coyly, her Texas lilt in full swing. So far, this day was starting off quite well.

  She introduced Jeff to Peyton, and after some idle chat, Peyton explained his ideas about how to vent the rooms, set up the light and organize the area. Betty brought them sandwiches, which they enjoyed between cutting into walls and securing braces. When she asked them to tear up the olive green carpeting, they were right on it. No questions, no debates, no arguments. How refreshing, Betty mused. They just ripped it off its rusty tacks, rolled it up and dragged it to the trash. Leaving the thin carpet mat underneath, Peyton and Jeff secured two layers of heavy, black plastic to the floor. Thus, Betty didn’t have to worry if she spilled water or dirt in the area. Oh, if Frank could see this now, he’d croak a second time from shock.

  It felt so good to have activity in her house. Normally, she would have let them continue without her, but she wanted to be part of the renovation. Taking a gander at the room that would eventually hold the blooming plants, she eagerly began to cover the walls with glossy white paint. Betty listened to the back and forth banter between Jeff and Peyton and was cheered by how well they got along. At first Peyton was a bit territorial, but Jeff’s ability to observe a situation and figure out a creative solution soon won him over.

  They turned on the radio for some background music. At the top of the hour, the national news came on, followed by the Colorado feed. The top local story made them stop their work momentarily. App
arently, the roof on a large grow operation in the garage of a Denver home blew up, leaving the house destroyed, the occupants injured and their beloved pet dead. “While the source of the fire is unknown,” the newscaster reported, “there is the theory that too much electricity used to power the grow operation in the garage triggered the explosion.”

  “That’s bullshit!” Peyton exclaimed. “If it was an overload, the power would just cut out. It could have been a bad heater, but it wasn’t ‘too much electricity.’”

  “Are you certain?” Betty asked with an anxious expression.

  “Don’t worry, Betty,” Jeff reassured her. “Even when you add three or four more lights, there’s no way it’s going to be enough to start a fire. Everything’s grounded down here. They said the fire started in the garage. Who’s to say a gas can or some kind of solvent didn’t trigger it? For all we know, they had a meth lab.”

  Peyton nodded. “And they’ll never follow up on the story and tell us what happened. They’ll just leave the idea hanging out there, so people believe grow ops explode on their own. It’ll be another urban legend. Like how the cops pay off people who work at the electric company to red flag a homeowner’s bill and contact the cops when they see excessive electrical use that’s different from the previous year.”

  “No, that’s actually true,” Jeff deadpanned. “The irony is that the cops pay off the snitches with the marijuana that they confiscate. Circle of life.”

  The jarring voice of Reverend Bobby Lynch blared forth on the radio. He was front and center once again and weighing in on the “marijuana issue” in Colorado. “We are planning a national day of prayer for the children tomorrow,” Lynch stated, “to ask God to steer their hearts and minds away from this drug that has become easier to obtain than a bottle of liquor!”

  “That’s rich,” Jeff chuckled, as he continued working. “They’re going to pray to God to keep the kids away from a plant that, in essence, God put on this earth. You think God is going to be up for that?”