Gone to Pot

by Jennifer Craig

  The Crones celebrated Christmas together at the hotel, which provided restaurant service in a private room decorated for the season. We tried to capture the spirit by dressing in something festive and wearing sprays of holly or mistletoe. I wore my bright red sweatshirt with a glittery snowman and a reindeer on it, a sweatshirt that comes out once a year for this occasion. Some of us captured even more spirit with a gin and tonic.

  We ordered lunch and did our ‘check in’ as we ate. To everyone’s astonishment, Laura, instead of a new doctor-prescribed wonder pill, talked about the benefits of spirulina and the advantages of a serving of raw vegetables every day.

  “Are you still taking your brownie every day?” I asked her.

  “Oh yes. Craig checks up on me every week to make sure I have enough and to see how I am. I credit him with my recovery. Here’s to Craig,” she said and we all raised our glasses. “To Craig.” Then “to Craig’s brownies.”

  I talked about a wealthy aunt in England, then in her nineties and ailing. “I am her only living relative,” I said. “Not that I’m holding my breath…” I raised my eyebrows and looked around the table.

  My story was a complete fabrication. I did not have an old aunt, nor did I have any prospects of an inheritance, but I wanted to lay the groundwork to explain any increase in my income. Jason, always vague about his roots, was going to get the same story at some opportune moment. Perhaps when I got a lawyer’s letter announcing my unexpected fortune? I would have to think about that, but at that moment I let the Crones know that my luck might change.

  Thelma and George were back together. “He came to me with a bunch of flowers, all hang-dog and was about to go on bended knee when I encouraged him into a chair. He still loves me, always has, and thinks it’s the new pill his doctor prescribed that sent him off balance. Silly old fool.” She took a sip of gin. “But it’s good to have him back. I’ve got used to him around and missed him when he wasn’t there.”

  After we’d eaten we played our parcel game. Everyone brought a wrapped present and placed it under the tree in the room. We were to bring White Elephants, articles we didn’t want or that had little value. Maggie gave everyone a slip of paper with a number on it. Nina, being the eldest, called out the first number and the holder of that number got first pick of a present. Then when she’d opened it, she called out the next number and so on. When it was your turn you could either take a new present or one someone else had chosen.

  The present I had wrapped was a soft toy cow wearing pink pyjamas and with a silly grin on its face. Claire got it and then tried to persuade the next choosers to take it, but without success. Parcels that looked like books were usually a safe bet, but mine was Finding Your Inner Caterpillar and I couldn’t find any takers for that either.

  We were certainly filled with cheerful spirit when we left, and to walk some of it off I headed home via Baker Street and its side streets. I passed Bob’s Café, which had a large For Sale sign in the window. Good thing I didn’t get his job. I’d have been out of work again. And I would never have started my new business.

  On Christmas Eve I unpacked my vaporizer and prepared to start the festive season feeling…what? I had asked Swan what it felt like to be high on pot, but she was noncommittal. “Zoned out,” she said, but what did that mean?

  Maggie seemed to think we were high on those brownies Laura brought to the Crones meeting, but I had just felt cheerful as I usually did in that group. People were being funny, yes, but they often were. I was going to find out what my buddies did to me when they were heated, not baked, and when I was alone.

  I spread the pieces of the vaporizer on the kitchen table and stared at them. Which piece went where? What had the lass in the store said? How much bud went into the bulb? Did I light it first? Oh bugger, I thought, don’t tell me you can’t use it? What do you do when you need to know how to do something? Answer: the Internet.

  On YouTube, a man on medicinal marijuana showed me how to use a vaporizer just like mine and I was off. The bud was supposed to be ground up in a grinder, but I didn’t have one so I just crumpled it, pushed it into the bulb, prodded it down with a chopstick, and turned the machine on. When vapor appeared I sucked on the tube. All I got was a taste—no choking or coughing. I sucked again. And again.

  This is no bloody good, I thought, it’s not doing anything. I played carols and wrapped presents, taking a draw from the vaporizer every few minutes. Nothing happened, absolutely nowt. I had wasted my money.

  The small Christmas tree in the living room looked good that year; its lights flickered in a fascinating rhythm—dim, then brighter, then even brighter—so bright they seemed to come at me. Funny, I didn’t remember buying flashing lights. I thought they were just ordinary bulbs.

  That dark bulb, the one with no color to it, and not flickering—I pulled up a chair and stared at it intently. Why wouldn’t it light up? Why that bulb and not that one or that one? My stare became increasingly hostile. “Light up you bugger,” I shouted. It didn’t even wink back.

  The other bulbs continued to brighten and fade. My head nodded as I followed them. Brighten and fade, brighten and fade, brighten and f-a-d-e, b-r-i-… The tree came closer and closer until the branches buried my head. My skin prickled as I rubbed my face on a branch giving the same sensation as a loofah.

  “Loofah, loofah, stick it up your doodah,” I carolled.

  I drank in the smell of pine and closed my eyes to enjoy the sensation of flying through a pine forest, slowly at first and then faster and faster, air rushing past me, a whooshing sound, until I gasped with fright, opened my eyes, and took in the sight of my living room.

  The Christmas tree glowed in one corner, my newly wrapped presents beneath it. Damn it, a bulb’s gone.

  22

  In February my third crop was still in veg, but almost ready to switch. The plants looked better than ever before, not only because they weren’t battling spider mites, but also because I was a dab hand at pruning and I had started using tomato cages to hold them up. The last yield weighed in at over four pounds and I was hopeful that this one would reach five pounds. As this was the last crop under Marcus’s supervision, I needed enough money to pay him back for the start-up expenses. Then I was on my own, though he had said he would still be there for me. At least, I think that’s what he meant when he shuffled his feet and said, “I’ll be around.”

  I emerged from the basement after a pruning session and was heading for the bathroom to wash and change when a knock came at the front door and a face pressed itself against the glass. It was too late to hide and as the face had seen me in the hall, I had to open the door.

  Jason and Amy stood there knocking snow off their boots. “Hi, Mum,” Jason said. “We hoped you’d be in. We’ve just left the kids to play with friends for an hour, so we thought we’d drop by for a cup of tea.”

  “Jason thought we should go to a café, but we haven’t dropped in for a long time and we knew you’d be home,” Amy said.

  Should I tell them I had an infectious disease? That I was just on my way to the hospital? That I had an infestation of fleas? Instead I gave what I hoped was a welcoming smile. “Come on in. I’ll put the kettle on.” I headed for the kitchen and managed to at least wash my hands at the sink before they joined me.

  “Let’s sit in front of the fire,” I said. “Go on in and I’ll be with you in a jiff.”

  Amy, about to turn and leave for the living room, suddenly sniffed. She looked puzzled, but moved into the living room with Jason.

  I took in the tea tray. “No baking, I’m afraid. Just some rather dull biscuits.” I put the tray down. “So how are you all since I last saw you?”

  There was an awkward silence as neither of them responded. Perhaps my discomfort at their presence showed?

  “We’ve been talking about going to Mexico, to an all-inclusive. Get away from the snow and cold,” Jason sa
id.

  “Everyone in Nelson dreams of going somewhere warm in February,” I said. “Can you both get away from work?”

  “I can, but Amy can’t easily, can you?” Jason turned to Amy who had been sitting silent with a frown on her face.

  Suddenly Amy sniffed again. And again. “I smell pot,” she announced.

  I glanced at Jason; his face was blank.

  “Well, I don’t smoke it,” I said. “Must be from outside.”

  “No, not the smell of a joint,” Amy said. “The smell of growing pot.” She looked at me suspiciously. “I know that smell. I’ve had to rescue children from houses with grow-ops.”

  “I have been cooking,” I said slowly. “Made soup with onions and herbs.”

  “It’s more than that,” Amy said. She sniffed with her nose held high.

  I didn’t know what to say or do. Jason stared out the window.

  “You’re growing pot,” Amy said accusingly. She stood up and put her hands on her hips. “Look at you—you can’t look me in the eye.”

  What could I say? Would it be better to firmly deny such an idea, or bluster? I chose the wrong option. “What I do in my house is my business,” I said. “Now let’s sit down and have a cup of tea.”

  “You’re growing in the basement. Aren’t you?” Amy stood up and glared down at me.

  I stood up too. “Calm down, Amy. Maybe what you can smell is coming from the street.” I could feel my pulse racing.

  “No way. I’m going to check.” Before I could stop her, Amy headed for the basement. I hadn’t locked the door behind me like I usually do.

  Jason and I stared at each other in horror. “I’m sorry, Mum. We should never have come, but Amy really wanted to.” He jumped up.

  “Let her go,” I said as Jason headed for the basement. “She knows.”

  Furious thumps on the basement stairs and the slam of the door announced the return of Amy. Jason and I stood rigid in the living room.

  “She’s got a grow-op down there. Can you believe it? And our children, her grandchildren, have been in this house.” She strode up and down the living room, her face red and contorted and her chest heaving. “And Nicholas has been coming here regularly. I knew I shouldn’t have let him.” She turned to glare at me. “I’m going to phone the police.”

  Jason moved to face her. “No you’re not,” he said firmly. “You had no right to go down there without Mum’s okay.”

  Amy stared at him in disbelief. “It’s illegal to grow marijuana, as you well know. Your mother is a criminal and I’m going to report her.” She marched out into the hall. “Jason, take me home.”

  Jason followed her and tried to put his arms round her. “Amy, come into the living room and we’ll talk about this.” He succeeded in leading her back.

  Amy flung herself onto the living room couch. “I don’t know how you can condone this, Jason. You might think it doesn’t matter, but I do. What effect do you think it will have on our children? Your children?” She glared at her husband. “And I let Nicholas come here because you wanted me to.”

  “I am sure Mum didn’t take him downstairs.” Jason took a single chair, sat down leisurely and stretched out his legs. I silently handed out cups.

  Amy, her face flushed and her voice strident, said, “You knew about this, Jason? You knew about it and did nothing?”

  “No, I didn’t know about it. I suspected, but I didn’t know,” Jason said calmly.

  “And you still did nothing?”

  “No.” Jason took a sip of tea. “And I’m not going to do anything now. And neither are you.”

  “Oh yes, I am!” Amy spat the words out. “You don’t expect me to let this pass without taking any action, do you? What if they find out at the office? I’ll lose my job.”

  “Amy, you are not going to contact the police. No one need ever know and you are not going to tell anyone.” Jason kept his voice even. “Not if you want our marriage to survive, that is.”

  Good for you, my baby boy. Take control, that’s it. Be assertive. But don’t threaten your marriage on my account.

  “Don’t you care about our children?” Amy yelled.

  “Of course I care about our children,” Jason said. “So does Mum.”

  “How could she? How could she possibly care about her grandchildren and still act like, act like…a fucking yardbird.”

  Amy glared at Jason as he replied, “Mum was put in a position of having no job and no income. She tried to get a job but the market is flat right now, and anyway it’s hopeless for older people. So she started a business.” He smiled at me. “I’m proud of her.”

  “She could have come and lived with us. We offered.”

  “Yes she could. And we did. But she is an independent old bat and will not be put under an obligation, to us or to anyone.”

  “Jason, it…is…illegal. I don’t want our children growing up knowing their grandmother is a criminal,” Amy said. She stood up and marched to the door. Then she turned around and glared at me. “And that friend of yours—Swan. The one who’s looking after my children. Has she been helping you? How else would you know what to do? Someone must be helping you. Is it Swan?”

  I just stared at her. Should I boldly lie or tell her to bugger off?

  “Is Swan helping you?” Amy repeated.

  “It is none of our business,” Jason said. “Amy, sit down and calm down.”

  Amy sat down again. “Do you want our children to grow up knowing their grandmother is a criminal?”

  “There is no need for them to ever know,” Jason said. “And if they do find out they’ll have to come to terms with the fact that their father is a criminal too.”

  Amy’s eyes widened. “Don’t tell me you grow pot?”

  “Not now. In my misspent youth. How do you think I afforded your engagement ring? I needed the money. As Mum does.”

  Amy stood up and rushed out of the room. I could hear her sobbing as she ran upstairs to the bathroom.

  “Oh lordy,” I said. “Jason, I can’t bear to think that this will wreck your marriage. I’ll stop, if you think it will help.”

  “No way, Mum. Amy should never have gone downstairs.” He grinned. “Besides, it takes skill to grow pot. I think it’s great that you even can.”

  “It’s too bad that I’d just been pruning. The house doesn’t usually smell. And the basement door is normally locked.”

  We both looked up as a red-eyed Amy entered the room. “I don’t want you in my house, nor do I want you to have anything to do with my children,” she said through clenched teeth.

  Jason stood up and towered above her. “It is our house and they are our children. Mum will continue to visit as always.”

  Amy glared up at him. “They are not coming here. No way.”

  “When they do come here,” Jason said, emphasizing his words, “I am quite sure Mum will not take them down to the basement.”

  I shook my head. Jason continued. “You are going to forget this whole episode, Amy. You are going to forget that Mum grows. You are not going to dwell on it. I don’t suppose she expects warmth from you when she visits on Sundays, but I expect civility to be shown my mother. Now, it’s time to pick up the children.”

  As they put on their coats and boots in the hall, I said nothing. When Jason turned to hug me, I murmured, “I love you, my baby boy. Thank you for standing by me.”

  When I returned to the living room I was still trembling. I sat down, put my head back, and took deep breaths. The worst had happened—just what I had dreaded. Now what was I to do? There were really only two alternatives: stop or carry on. If I stopped I was more or less back to square one, with only social security to live on. That might be enough to keep me out of the food bank but not enough for any of the little pleasures of life and certainly not enough for a holiday in Yorkshire. I had alw
ays lived frugally, always counted pennies, always wondered how I would get through the month, and I was tired of it. I looked around and saw everyone else dressed by stores other than the thrift shops, eating out, driving cars without rust on them, using cell phones and laptops. Why not me?

  If I carried on, it would be with the usual risk of getting caught and the additional risk of Amy informing on me anonymously. She might be too afraid of breaking up her marriage to do that, but how was I to know?

  Oh bugger, now what was I going to do?

  23

  I spent more and more time on the computer. How I had ever lived without one? It was while I was in a shop that sold yarn that I learned of another use for it. I was looking for knitting patterns when the owner said, “We don’t carry patterns any more. They’re all online.” I could search for patterns based on type of wool, which meant I could find ways of using up my collection of wool.

  I discovered the games you could play too, and spent hours playing what I called Patience and they called Solitaire. But best of all I could write to Lisa and learn more about her life. She didn’t seem to have any intention of ever living in Canada again, nor did she plan a holiday, but she did want me to visit her. The pictures she sent of the beaches near her and the tales of her work in Rotorua with the kiwi birds made me long to go.

  Junk mail senders found me. One day I received an email with “Women love well-hung men” in the subject line. I opened it to find a colorful page asking if I was satisfied with the length, girth, and performance of my equipment. When it finally dawned on me what ‘equipment’ was, I cracked up and eagerly read on.

  The ad extolled the virtues of Will-E-Up, a ‘male enhancement’ pill. This herbal product promised to increase the girth, the length, and the rigidity of my member leading to a harder erection and an enviable sex drive.

  Testimonials followed: “My unit was small, soft, and droopy due to steroids. After two weeks on Will-E-Up, I am proud to present myself to my girlfriend.”