Betty's (Little Basement) Garden

by Laurel Dewey

  Jeff nestled next to her and they spooned their bodies as he cupped his hand over her breast. A few more minutes of silence slipped away and then he spoke.

  “I’ll be fifty-four in one month.”

  “Is that so?” she whispered.

  They rolled out of bed two hours later and shared the shower. At first, Betty haltingly agreed, but the combination of his skin pressed against hers and the hot, pulsating water quickly won her over. She gave herself to him again, and they made love as the water beat down in a warm frenzy. A spark had been ignited within her; one that had been waiting for decades to find its flame. Now lit, it engulfed and dominated her. The pleasures of touch and form, of curves and muscle became insatiable. There was beauty and inventiveness that captivated her, leaving Betty exhausted and hungering for more. In that instant, she realized that this is who she really was. This is what she was born to feel and experience. Life was meant to be inhaled deeply, not tentatively suffered in shallow breaths stitched with fear. Life’s flavors were there to be sampled and the ambrosia imbibed without inhibition. Love didn’t require pain or fear or regret. It didn’t need to be questioned or analyzed. Love just was.

  And even though Betty didn’t utter a word to explain how she felt, Jeff somehow understood exactly what was unspoken. He stood behind her as the water beat across their bodies and cupped her breasts in his palms. “You’ve heard about how people find old paintings in their attic, and the picture looks unremarkable? But then, they start to chip away at the top layer of paint, and they find this incredible masterpiece underneath. That’s you, Betty. You’ve been hiding all these years underneath a canvas that’s rich and sensual. You’re like a sexy Rembrandt. Like Bathsheba at Her Bath.”

  Betty thought about the image and turned to him. “I’m a woman with a large gut, bathing herself?”

  “You’re zaftig, Betty.”

  “That’s a diplomatic way of saying ‘fat’?”

  He held her closer, cradling her in his arms. “Let it go.”

  Those words stopped her. It was the second time Jeff used those specific words. “If only…” She nestled her head in his chest.

  “You know what I think someone needs to do?” he asked. “They should take two cannabis plants and cross them. And the new strain that emerges should be desired by everyone but only available to one. That singular strain would be able to help you sleep and dream in Technicolor. It could relax your senses but also invigorate your mind. When you ingested it, you’d be able to step back and observe, allowing light to inhabit the dark corners. And then, whenever you were ready, it would give you the courage to step forward and not be afraid to voice your opinion…or stand up for someone who couldn’t speak for themselves. That’s the kind of plant I wish someone would create. And if they did, they would have to call it ‘Betty.’”

  She looked at him and realized she had no words to express what her heart felt. All she knew in that blessed second was that you know you’re connected to someone when you look into their eyes and you feel as if you’re seeing yourself for the first time. Betty buried her head in Jeff’s chest as the warm water cascaded down her body.

  “I wish I was brave enough to find you sooner,” she said. “I wasted so much of my life.” She looked up at him. “You’re everything I’ve ever wanted and everything I never knew I needed.”

  As the clock struck midnight and the neighborhood went dark and into slumber, Betty and Jeff headed to the kitchen. With Betty wearing a clingy bathrobe and Jeff opting for a towel wrapped around his waist, they agreed that a chocolate crêpe wrapped around peanut butter and whipped cream sounded divine. Jeff helped whip up the egg base while Betty improvised a decadent cocoa and peanut butter mélange.

  Setting the bowl to the side, Jeff crept behind Betty. “I remember all those times I saw you get up to speak at the town council meetings. Your voice was always really sexy, even if you were just talking about the need for a new speed bump on the main drag. You were always well dressed but so covered up. I kind of wanted to know what you were hiding under all that fabric.”

  “Someone told me it’s called a zaftig body.”

  He leaned closer, whispering in her ear. “You’ve heard of a moveable feast? How about a moveable tryst?”

  Betty softly chuckled at his clever bend of the English language. “I don’t want to kill you.”

  “I think that’d be a great way to die. Can’t you see the article in the Paradox Press? ‘Jeff Carroll was found dead in bed. Rigor mortis apparently started in an isolated area a few hours prior to his demise’ –”

  She playfully swiped his shoulder. “That’s terrible!”

  He wrapped his arms around her waist, seductively inching his hands under her robe. “Later in the article, just to be accurate, it could say, ‘Mr. Carroll was apparently engaged in activity at the time of his death with local, Elizabeth Cragen.’”

  She turned to him, smiling. “I’m never going to live that one down, am I?”

  “When are you going to tell Peyton that Cragen is Craven?”

  “Oh, don’t ruin this moment. Let me just linger here a little longer. We don’t even know for sure if he’s read the names. Anyway, I don’t want to think about that letter or telling Peyton or…”

  “Your friends?”

  Betty buried her head in his chest. “It’s impossible. I couldn’t do that.”

  “You can’t keep this operation a secret forever.”

  She looked up at him with bold determination. “You bet I can! I read in the book you gave me that you never, ever, ever show anyone your grow operation. The fewer people who know, the fewer people to talk about it. Besides, you said yourself it’s important to keep this low profile.”

  “I’m not talking about alerting the media. I’m talking about your friends.”

  She shook her head. “No. They’re never going to find out. I can be quite formidable when I need to be, and my friends will never know what’s behind that door. Believe me, I’ve planned this whole thing out. That’s one thing I did learn from Frank; figure out everything that can go wrong and circumvent it before anything happens. I assure you that whatever I set out to do in this life from now on, I will do well. If I decide to be a stripper, I will be an award-winning stripper!”

  “Well,” he kissed the top of her head, “good luck on that one, doll.”

  “Doll? I don’t like that pet name.”

  “What did Frank call you?”

  “I believe it was, ’Come here,’” she deadpanned. “But it never sounded as romantic as that when he said it.”

  “Did you ever get him back in your own little way?”

  She thought. “Yes. I used to put regular coffee in his decaf cup at night just to give him the jitters all evening long.”

  “Whew, Betty. And the black ops assassins haven’t offered you a power gig?”

  She gave Jeff’s backside a playful smack. “How complex do you want this filling?”

  Jeff started toward the living room. “Life’s complicated enough, sweets. We don’t need a filling to exacerbate it.”

  “‘Sweets’?” Betty said, shaking her head. “I don’t think so.” She heard him ruffling through a bookcase in the living room, and her thoughts turned to all those nights she purposefully got Frank jacked up on caffeine so he couldn’t sleep. She suddenly realized that in her passive/aggressive need to get back at him, she’d ironically made her own life worse. The better option would have been to give him something calming, so she didn’t have to deal with his caffeine-driven pacing all night long.

  Jeff returned to the kitchen carrying the white violet print and an old scrapbook. “This could have some value,” he said as he sat down at the table.

  “I could never sell that,” Betty assured him, pouring the crêpe batter onto the hot pan. “It has too much meaning.”

  “Why white violets? Was that a flower that meant something between you and your son?”

  “Not at all. I have no idea why he fel
t so strongly that I needed to have that. But he was quite insistent that day.” She stopped, her heart moving back in time. “He was very purposeful the last time I saw him. He wanted to be upstairs by himself, then he walked outside to the big elm and finally he gave me that print. Told me to ‘pay attention.’”

  “Pay attention to what?”

  “I don’t know. He was probably high at the time. It was also part of a vision he’d had and wanted to share with me. I went along with it so he would feel good.”

  Jeff stared at the white violet print before gently placing it on the table and opening the scrapbook. “What’s this?” He turned the scrapbook toward her and pointed to a back page. It was a photo of Betty standing on stage, accepting a blue ribbon. Next to her was a ten-foot-tall mullein stalk in full flower.

  “That was a joke! I was always entering the proper rose and lily competitions at the State Fair. Judi dared me to enter the ‘Tallest Weed’ competition and I took the challenge. I figured I’d just use my secret fertilizer on it and off to the races we’d go.”

  “What’s the secret?”

  She tested the crêpe and flipped it over. “Beans.”

  “Coffee?”

  “No. Llama.” She added a small handful of hemp seeds to the peanut butter and whipped cream blend before carefully spooning it onto the crêpe.

  “Llama?”

  Betty turned and simply stated, “Shit.” She folded the crêpe. “Their feces look like large black beans. Thus, llama beans.” Betty explained how the beans never burn the plants, and how they can either be top-dressed on the soil or made into a garden “tea” by soaking one cup of beans to every five gallons of water and leaving the mixture out in the hot sun to brew. “It yields a quite interesting bouquet after two days in the blazing sun, but when your plants drink it in – Katie, bar the door – they explode! My girls downstairs will soon enjoy the same potent concoction.”

  “So when you tell your friends about your new venture, you can blame Judi for challenging you to the tallest weed contest and using the gateway weed of mullein to get you hooked.”

  “Would you stop it?” she admonished playfully. “It’s none of their business!”

  “When you do tell them, can I be there? It’ll be like reality TV, except it’ll actually be real.”

  “Jeff?”

  “Betty?”

  “Your crêpe is ready,” she said, brushing off the banter.

  She served the crêpes on two bone china plates with a raised floral edging she kept for special occasions, and then joined Jeff at the table. He complimented her heartily after his first bite. Turning the pages in the album, Jeff skimmed the various photos of Frank, Sr. and stopped on a page devoted to Frankie. Besides the photos, there was also something that looked like a partially torn page from a sketchpad. Jeff really looked at Frankie’s photos, as if he were trying to figure out the boy.

  “He was a gentle kid, wasn’t he?” Jeff asked.

  “Very much so. I’m sure Frank thought he was gay.”

  “Was he?”

  “No! He had a girlfriend when he was sixteen. She was artistic like he was and slightly eccentric.” Betty flashed back on the girl. “She had blond and purple hair and was actually quite pretty, even with the multiple piercings and tattoos. But there was a genuine sweetness to her. Frankie absolutely adored her. She might have even…” Betty paused briefly. “She might have been able to rescue him. However, his father banned her from our house. So that broke up their relationship.”

  “Didn’t you have a say?”

  “I was conspicuously silent. Something I’d unfortunately honed to perfection.”

  Jeff resumed looking at the photos. “He’s got a different vibe to him. Almost enigmatic.”

  Betty nodded. “I know. I saw it from the moment he was born. I couldn’t explain it, but I embraced it. He was different. Very different. He was able to see things at quite a young age that others couldn’t or didn’t want to see.” She stared at a shot of Frankie. “I think his father recognized that. And I think it scared the hell out of him.”

  “Why?”

  “Because Frank Sr. enjoyed being a mystery and there was only room for one of those in our home. When your lifetime career is all about being tough and inscrutable, and your own son can see behind that façade, it tends to create a rather explosive potential.” She took a bite of the crêpe and was in heaven for the third time that night.

  “What’s the torn drawing?” Jeff asked.

  Betty didn’t answer right away, attempting to be engaged in her dessert. “I salvaged that,” she quietly said.

  Jeff examined the drawing more closely. “Who drew this?”

  “Who do you think?” Betty asked, taking another generous bite.

  He removed the torn paper from the underside of the plastic. “Look at this,” he offered, turning the white violet print around to face Betty. He placed the torn drawing next to a section on the print. “This part of the drawing is almost identical to that part of the white violet print.”

  Betty stopped eating and analyzed the two. “You’re right,” she said, stunned. “But that’s impossible. Frankie drew that picture when he was ten years old. And he found this antique print in the dumpster five years ago.” She leaned closer, carefully comparing the childhood drawing closer against the print. “It’s like a copy. I don’t get it.” Her thoughts traveled back to that traumatic night almost nineteen years ago. All those drawings on the wall…they made no sense, and yet…

  “What is it?” Jeff scraped his fork against the dish to pick up every morsel.

  “I don’t want to ruin this night.”

  “You can’t ruin the night. It’s already morning. Tell me.”

  She regarded Jeff with slight apprehension. “I’ve never told anyone this before.”

  He reached out and placed his hand over hers. “It’s okay. I want to know.”

  Betty put down her fork and gathered her nervous memories. “For as long as I can remember, I wanted to be a mother. I thought I’d be quite good at it. I love to take care of things and nurture them. But I forgot that part of nurturing is protecting those you love from people or situations that could harm them.” She hesitated, struggling somewhat. “And so because I didn’t do that, I failed at being a mother. I should have told his father to leave him alone. Blame it on how I was raised. Say please and thank you. Always look your best. Don’t criticize. If you have nothing good to say, say nothing at all.” She rolled her eyes. “What they forgot to teach me is that it’s all right to go against the grain and speak up if it will keep you or someone else from getting hurt. If I’d learned that one lesson, I could have saved my son. In retrospect, I really didn’t want to be a wife – only a mother. Unfortunately, the two were not mutually exclusive where I came from.”

  She looked off to the side and smiled. “But I kind of got my wish of just being a mother when Frank went to the Persian Gulf back in 1990. He was going to be gone for a full year and everyone was so worried about me. But I was secretly in heaven. The year he was gone was the best year of my life, because Frankie finally calmed down. His stomachaches went away. His nervous anticipation vanished. Even the nightmares stopped. He finally felt free to do what he enjoyed and to do it with abandon. One of his passions was drawing, but Frank didn’t think it was a manly pursuit.”

  “So you signed him up for art classes?”

  “Damn right I did,” she declared proudly. “He was only nine when he started the class, but the teacher was astonished by his talent. They let him draw whatever he wanted, and he got better and better. Pretty soon, his entire bedroom was wallpapered with his pictures. Even the ceiling was covered. And I’m not just bragging…they were incredible drawings for a child his age.” She paused, recalling the past. “I didn’t always understand them, though. There wasn’t a central theme. In fact, nothing he drew made much sense, but they were all really well done.”

  “What kinds of pictures did he draw?”


  “Well, he drew a picture of the house I grew up in back in Houston. He must have seen a photo of it somewhere. He had a few drawings of chairs and furniture from our house.”

  “Like what?”

  “Oh, let’s see. It was so long ago.” She forced herself back in time. “I used to have chair with a needlepoint seat in the living room. It sold for a song last weekend at The Gilded Rose. He drew a picture of that chair from various angles. Oh, and that Biedermeier? Yes, he was fascinated with that for some strange reason. He must have had twelve drawings of it in his room.”

  “I was fascinated with your Biedermeier, too,” Jeff added with a sly smile.

  Betty returned his smile but contemplation quickly took hold.

  “What is it?” Jeff asked.

  “Why that chair? Why the Biedermeier?” Betty quietly mused.

  “What else did he draw?”

  Betty visualized her son’s bedroom. Suddenly, a memory surfaced. “Motorcycles…”

  Jeff looked at her incredulously. “Really?”

  Betty seemed far away. “Yes. I’d forgotten about those. It was the same motorcycle drawn from various angles.” She continued to remember. “Then there were all the sketches of white violets and even a…” She stopped.

  “What?” he asked with great interest.

  “A…mullein stalk.”

  “Your tallest weed?”

  “Yes…But he drew that years before I won that silly contest.”

  “What else?”

  “As it got closer to the time when his father would return from the Middle East, his art became darker. Even his teacher was concerned enough to make an appointment with a counselor. I think Frankie wore down every black, brown and red pencil in the box.” Her face sunk. “They were very disturbing. There were dozens of them, all with a boy a little older than he was, either sitting in a hole or lying in a cemetery.” She recalled another drawing. “I never forgot the one with the giant.”