Betty's (Little Basement) Garden (29 page)

On the local news front, the fallout from Renée's letter to the editor continued, as local anger toward the number of dispensaries in Paradox and the surrounding towns created an antagonistic atmosphere. When one of the dispensaries had their front room destroyed by a Molotov Cocktail thrown through their storefront window, Renée kept the blaze burning by writing yet another letter to the editor, thanking the arsonist who “took care of business.” It was such an odd thing for Renée to do, Betty thought. But she noticed that Renée's fervor had intensified with the summer heat, turning her into a cannabis Carrie Nation, swinging her pen like a hatchet. She was manically gleeful when the law-abiding dispensary, with no signs of criminal activity, was forced to shut down. Even the woman known as “Elizabeth Cragen,” who signed that blistering letter in early May, would never have preened or taken credit for the destruction of someone's business. While it angered Betty, she kept her mouth shut.

As expected, the righteousness of the Reverend Bobby Lynch hadn't slowed down either. In June, he launched a summer camp through his church where children spent two weeks in a remote rural setting and endured daily lectures on the “talons of Satan, promiscuity, drinking and marijuana.” After hearing him bleat on about his camp one evening on the local news, Betty wondered whatever happened to hiking, swimming, sitting around a campfire eating s'mores, and making keepsake boxes out of pine cones and twine.

But Reverend Lynch still had Doobie Douggie to contend with. For every story featuring Lynch, there were two highlighting the latest adventures of the grey-haired, wheelchair-bound cannabis reformer. Some members of the public might not have endorsed Douggie's behavior, but they couldn't ignore his in-your-face determination to “free the weed.” Draped in another flag made with hemp fabric and emblazoned with large cannabis leaves, Douggie rolled over to the state capitol, lit up a joint and spent thirty minutes explaining to the local Denver news organizations how the herb could cure everything from epilepsy to cancer. It was when he dared to mention the “C” word, that the capitol security asked the cops to remove him. As Betty watched them wheel the crusader away, she marveled at the fact that he never looked like a victim. He might not have been able to walk, but he could stand up to anyone at anytime and outthink them all.

When it was time to purchase the bloom lights, Betty gathered together all the money she'd saved from the sales of her chocolates as well as the consignment cash, and found she had just enough for the two, thousand-watt sets she needed. She opted for the best quality unit available at the grow store where Peyton worked, and then adding the required high phosphorus nutrients, blackstrap molasses and foliar sprays necessary to help trigger the girls into bloom, the bill came to just over twelve hundred dollars. “That's a helluva lot of chocolates,” Betty thought to herself as she secured the huge boxes in the backseat of her Taurus. Back at the house, Jeff built two sturdy support frames to hang the hooded lights, and then together they secured the units to the immovable structures. While Jeff checked the bloom room for any light leaks, Betty prepped the girls, removing any yellow leaves and large fan leaves that obscured bud nodes, treated them with the necessary organic foliar sprays and phosphorus-rich food and finished with a top-dressing of rich humus. All the while, the chirping birds CD played in the background. At one point, Jeff handed Betty a couple vintage CDs featuring the humor of George Carlin.

“I figured they might enjoy a break from the tweeting and the classical hits, and benefit from Carlin's acerbic wit,” he joked.

Once the girls were spaced perfectly in the bloom room, Betty set the timer on the twelve and twelve cycle and plugged in the lights. It took several minutes for the lights to warm up and glow to their brightest spectrum, but once they did, Jeff and Betty stood back and admired their handiwork.

“So now the fun really begins,” Jeff commented.

Betty nodded. “Yes. I suppose this is when it gets serious.”

“Not too serious I hope.” He wrapped his arm around her shoulder.

She leaned into his broad shoulder. “I don't think I could have done this without your help. Thank you.”

He kissed the top of her head. “I'm enjoying it. It's different. I wouldn't want to miss a moment of any of it.”

“There's still enough space in here for a few more plants if I get my full patient load.”

“I might be able to help you with one of them. I talked to a longtime customer at my store. Her name's Jean. She could definitely use some good cannabis. I'll take you over to see her tomorrow if you'd like.”

The prospect of working with another person, who might become a long-term friend, cheered Betty tremendously. “That's fantastic! Yes! Of course I want to meet Jean. What's she like?”

“She's wonderful. Great spirit. Down to earth. I know you two will get along. She's married to a former judge.”

“A judge? Good lord! And he's okay with this?”

“Yeah. It was actually his idea. He just wanted to make sure he found the right person to work with.”

A sense of pride engulfed Betty. The idea that she was the right fit for someone who needed her services excited her, and she couldn't wait to meet Jean. Betty was just about to ask more about her prospective patient, when she heard a man's voice calling her name. She froze momentarily.

“I think whoever it is, is in the backyard,” Jeff offered casually.

“Would you mind staying here and holding down the fort while I check?”

Betty quickly walked out the sliding glass door and into the backyard. There was Buddy at the kitchen door, looking rather lost. “Buddy!” She turned back to the basement area with a look of concern and then moved toward him. “I wasn't expecting you. Are you in need of more chocolates?”

“That's what I came here to talk to you about, Mrs. Craven.” He scuffed the grass with his big work boot. “I just got some crappy news. My boss had all the guys do a random piss test and I failed.”

“Well of course you did, darling. You're averaging at least one chocolate every night.” She stole a quick glance back to the basement's sliding door.

“Yeah. I know. But he doesn't care whether it's medical marijuana or recreational. Pot is pot to him. He has a zero-tolerance policy for all drugs. The way he explained it to me, is that his lawyer says his insurance company doesn't cover anyone using heavy equipment who uses pot, because it's an illegal drug. He told me if I was hurt on the job and tested positive, I couldn't be covered by worker's comp.”

“Were you fired?” Betty asked, terribly concerned.

“No. Just demoted. I'm now a flagger, directing traffic around the worksite. Huge pay cut, but at least he didn't give me the heave-ho.”

Betty felt somewhat responsible for this unfortunate turn of events. “Perhaps if I called him and explained everything. I wouldn't use my name, but maybe I could –”

“No, ma'am. That would not be a good thing. You never know what kind of mood he's gonna be in. He pops Vicodin by the fistful for his nerve pain. Last week, he had a fight with a hammer and the hammer lost. It was ugly.” Buddy scuffed the grass again. “Anyway, I just wanted to come over and tell you that I can't afford the chocolates anymore. I'm gonna have to quit and see if my insurance will pay for some painkillers from the pharmacy. Thanks for everything.” He turned to go.

Betty felt a growing anger swelling inside that she tried to tamp down. “Buddy, wait! This is ridiculous. You have your red card. You went through the process, and you are legal. You have a doctor's recommendation, for heaven's sake! What am I missing?”

“Uh…it's a Federally banned substance?”

“
And
?”

Buddy looked at her perplexed. “And that's about it. It kinda trumps anything the states are doing. It's the Federal lawmakers. They make the laws.”

“That's it? Oh, for God's sake. This makes no sense. Lawmakers, my ass. Just because a cat gives birth in an oven doesn't make her babies kitten biscuits!”

“Huh? What's a kitten biscuit?”

“Never mind.” Betty fumed.

“You okay, Betty?” Jeff called out to her.

She turned and found him standing in the sun behind her. Her mouth went dry.

“Who's that?” Buddy asked.

“I'm fine,” she said to Jeff. She took Buddy by the elbow and moved him toward the back gate. “He's a friend. Listen, I don't care if you can't pay for the chocolates. I'll still make them for you if you want me to.”

“That doesn't seem right, Mrs. Craven.”

“Well, how about this. Let's do a trade. You work on my roof, and I'll make you all the chocolates you want. If you do another drug test and fail, you can't get demoted any further than a flagger. If you get fired, you'll find another job. But at least you won't get addicted to pain pills or deal with the nasty side effects. Is that a deal?”

He nodded. “Thank you.” He walked to the gate and then turned back to her. “You know, if someone had told me six months ago you were into this, I never would have believed it.”

“Well, darling, six months ago, I wouldn't have believed it either.”

The following day, Jeff and Betty drove fifteen miles north of Paradox to meet Jean. She was still furious about what happened to Buddy and couldn't stop talking about the injustice toward him during the drive.

“Instead of preaching to the choir,” Jeff said, “why don't you write another letter to the editor. But this time, have Betty Craven sign it instead of your alter ego, Elizabeth Cragen.”

“Are you nuts? Did you drink too much carrot juice again?”

He chuckled. “Why not?”

“You are
seriously
asking me this question?”

“Babe, you know what? You can't keep all of this a secret. And I mean,
all
of it.”

She sat back. Betty knew exactly what he meant. He wasn't stupid. However, she kept telling herself that her personal nondisclosure was purely to guard her privacy.

Betty was relieved they arrived at Jean's house before they could discuss it further. She cradled the cooler as they walked to the front door of the modest, one-story brick house and rang the bell.

“I think Jean's going to be the perfect person for you to get to know,” Jeff said.

The door opened and a grey-haired man in his mid-sixties greeted them. “Hi, I'm Arthur,” he said, shaking Betty's hand. “You must be Betty.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Betty replied, her manners on point.

Arthur waved them inside and into the light-filled living room. “I'll get Jean.”

Betty was admiring a painting above the fireplace when she heard Jean's voice behind her.

“Hello, Betty.”

Betty turned. Thanks to her pageant training, she was able to keep her smile firmly in place, even though her heart was imploding. Jean stood there, about five foot seven inches tall and probably no more than one hundred pounds. She was likely in her early sixties, but looked far older with her face drained of color and dark circles cresting underneath her eyes. Her head was covered in a stylish purple scarf that couldn't hide her bald head. Betty felt Jeff's reassuring, warm hand on her back, which gave her the courage to speak up.

“Jean. How lovely to meet you,” Betty said, moving gently toward the woman and shaking her hand.

They all sat down in the sun-drenched room, and after some congenial chitchat, Arthur explained the situation. Jean had terminal brain cancer, and after two unsuccessful surgeries and numerous medications that made her unable to function, he took a friend up on an offer and brought home several joints. Before she finished the first one, her pain was nearly gone and she could finally get four straight hours of sleep. After doing his own research, he learned that edibles were a better choice because of their strength and the fact that they stayed in the system longer.

“Jeff told us when we were at his store last week, that you make some pretty damn good edibles,” Arthur stated with enthusiasm.

Betty felt as if she were melded to the chair.

“We brought you some of them,” Jeff piped up, gently nudging Betty.

Betty did her best to snap out of it. “Yes! Right.” She opened the cooler and handed the elegantly wrapped box to Jean. “Each one is rather strong. You might want to split them in half or even smaller.”

Jean complimented Betty on her artistic prowess and opened the box. “I know I don't weigh much,” she replied without a shred of awkwardness, “but from what I've read, if you're in a lot of pain and dealing with an aggressive cancer, a higher dose is needed to even feel it.” Without giving it a second thought, Jean popped a whole chocolate in her mouth. “Wow! These taste fantastic, Betty. Jeff was right!”

“Thank you.” She felt lost. “It's the honey.”

“Did you bring the paperwork we need to fill out?” Arthur asked.

“Yes,” she said, clumsily pulling the caregiver forms out of the cooler and handing them to Arthur. “But maybe it would be a better idea for you to see how you like the chocolates before we commit to anything?”

Jean smiled. “I don't like them. I
love
them. Sign me up.”

Arthur handed Betty a small envelope. “I hope this covers it and the next batch?”

Betty opened the envelope to find four crisp one hundred dollar bills. “This is far too much.”

“No, it's not,” Jean said.

After a half hour of discussion, Jean excused herself, saying she needed to rest. After she left the room, Arthur walked them to the front door and asked if Betty could grow the G-13 strain for his wife. “It's quite the urban legend,” he offered, stating that he'd done his research. “Supposedly, it was a strong, government-created strain that someone covertly released. Not sure if that's true, but G-13 was in one of the joints she smoked and it worked quite well.”

Betty agreed to grow it for Jean. “I hope you don't take this the wrong way, Arthur, but Jeff said you were a retired judge. Did you ever send someone to prison for cannabis?”

A look of regret covered his face. “Yes. I did. I made an oath to uphold the law. But if it's any consolation, I always gave the accused ample opportunities to reform or go to rehab before sentencing them to any time.”

“I see,” Betty said quietly. “It's quite a different reality we live in now, isn't it?”

“Yes.” His eyes misted over. “It sure is.”

Jeff drove the Taurus back to Paradox, while Betty sat staring out of the passenger window. The silence was thick between them until Betty piped up.

“Pull over! I need to get out.”

Jeff slowly moved the sedan to the side of the road where a large swath of rural, grassy acreage stretched into the distance. Before he could put the car in park, Betty opened the passenger door and got out. She tore into the field, shallowly breathing the entire way. Her head spun as the July sun beat down on her head like a hard rain. Jeff finally caught up with her.

She spun around toward him. “What in the hell was that?”

“That's a woman who needs your help. She's sick.”

Betty regarded him with a perplexed expression. “She's
dying
!”

“So you only help people who have the potential of outliving you?”

“I've had enough death to last a lifetime. I cannot watch another person die a horrible death.” Tears welled in her eyes. “This scares the shit out of me!”

He faced her. “I know it does.”

“So what was your point? Force me into something I can't handle?”

“No. Show you that you're stronger than you think you are.”

“You're
wrong
. I'm not strong. If that were true, I would have spoken up years ago and made a huge difference in the life of one person.”

He grasped her shoulders gently but firmly. “Betty, stop living in the past. That night did not determine who you are or what you're capable of now.”

“It determined Frankie's fate.”

“No. He determined his own fate! Hell, it seems he understood his fate when he was ten! He drew it! You and I are living right here, in this moment. Your husband's dead. Your son is gone. You have no excuses for not following your path.”

“What path?” she asked with a slight twist of anger.

“You were meant to do this, Betty. It's your purpose in life. You're damn good at it. You
truly
care about people. They can depend on you and trust you. And those plants in your basement? I'm a little jealous of your girls.” He said with a soft smile. “I watch you with them, and I see how much you love and dote on them. This is your calling. Maybe it'll turn into your passion. But it'll all go to hell if you let fear take over and tell you that you can't do it.”

“Oh, come on. Growing cannabis? Making chocolates?”

He looked her straight in the eye. “
Helping people
, Betty. Giving them something beautiful and allowing them to believe they can get through another day. Do you have any idea how powerful that can be for someone who is sick or hurting…or dying?”

She turned away.

Jeff pulled her back toward him. “You don't have to pretend to understand their pain. You
know
what real pain feels like. They see that in you, and they know they can talk to you and not feel alone.”

Betty shook loose of his hold and walked a few feet away. Her gut churned from anxiety as tears inched down her cheeks. “I can't do it,” she softly said. “You can't say any of this is my purpose.”

“If you don't believe me, then listen to your son. He told you years ago. And I bet if you still had those drawings, there'd be one of a purple scarf on a bald headed woman. He reached out to you with his drawings, and I bet he's still reaching out to you until you're strong enough to let him go.”

She was dumbstruck. This was the third time Jeff said it. She couldn't help but recall the last lines of that damned poem that clung like a heavy cloak against her heart. “
This is the Hour of Lead, Remembered, if outlived, As Freezing persons, recollect the Snow, First – Chill – then Stupor – then the letting go
.” Betty turned to him, sadness etched in every pore. “I can't…let him go.”

He drew her toward him, holding her tightly. After a few moments, he pulled back and draped his arm around her shoulder. “You know that park in the west side of Paradox on the river? Love Park? Everyone thinks it's a place to make out, but it's named after Stuart Love. He died on that river saving the life of a little girl who was drowning. There's more to the story most people don't talk about because it's kind of weird, but I heard it straight from the family who lives on the river and experienced it firsthand. They said that after Stuart died, he hung around the river because he didn't know he was dead. He went from house to house, until he decided to stay with this one particular family. They told me Stuart didn't scare them. He just liked to open and close doors, walk up and down the hallway and rattle a few pans. Eventually, they got used to him…started calling him by name, until he was part of the family. They went on vacation to visit the in-laws and damned if Stuart didn't tag along.”

“You're kidding me.”

“I'm not kidding. Hand to God. Stuart went on a road trip. They couldn't shake his ghost, and they couldn't figure out why he was sticking around them and no one else who lived on that river. But the longer he stayed with him, the more they realized something. They realized each member in that household started to change for the better. The edges around them softened. Where there'd been anger, now there was forgiveness. Where there had been regret, suddenly there was acceptance –”

“Wait a second. You're using a ghost story to –”

“It's not a ghost story, Betty.” He looked at her with compassion. “There's more to it. And there's more to this world than meets the eye. And there's more to you than you thought until a couple months ago. Somewhere deep down inside of you, you
do
know that. You're gradually remembering the reason you were born. Sometimes we fight against who we really are, because the reliability of the well-worn mask is too damn comfortable, even though it suffocates our potential.” He kissed her. “If you just get out of your own way, babe, there's nothing you can't do.”

Jeff dropped her off at her house and returned to work on his motorcycle. Her mind was still aflutter as she checked on the girls. In the bloom room, she delicately checked the bud nodes in search of any sign of growth. Peyton assured her it would take two weeks or longer before the first cluster of white hairs appeared, signaling the formation of a bud. But Betty wanted to believe that, like herself, her girls were high achievers and sought to bloom as early as possible. Walking into the veg room, she was cheered to see the Centennial Blueberry, Kushberry and a few of the AK-47 clones had developed a thick clump of white roots reaching nearly five inches into the cloning machine. Peyton's suggestion of “over cloning” to compensate for losing a few in the process was good advice, as two of the AK-47s set aside for Dr. Dave were looking a little sad. It was time to get the clones into pots. Taking a quick inventory of her nutrients, she figured she could use another bag of worm castings and humus, along with several bags of organic soil. She searched for a piece of paper to jot down the items and came up empty handed. Upstairs, she grabbed a sheet of personalized notepaper with her named scripted in gold-embossed lettering next to her phone number and wrote down all the necessary items under the words: Cannabis supplies. She added the three G-13 clones Jean's husband requested, along with titanium trimming scissors, in anticipation of helping Peyton harvest his crop the following week. Drawing a line under that, she figured as long as she was out and about she'd visit the farmers' market, so she listed everything from arugula to brie, even though there wasn't much of a chance she could possibly forget to buy brie. Somehow, all this planning and prospect of “doing” calmed her nerves as she set out that late afternoon.

The Taurus was running a little throaty, which set her on edge. But by the time she purchased the G-13 clones at a dispensary outside of Paradox, and secured all of her items at the grow store, the old car seemed to be happily purring. Betty arrived at the farmers' market, list in hand, and grabbed a plastic basket at the front community table before dodging the megaphone cacophony that had become a regular nuisance, thanks to the strident members of the Colorado Activists 4 National Tolerance. Checking her list, she went from booth to booth, chitchatting with the vendors and feeling the tremors of that day gradually melt away. By the time she had the basket filled with her farm-fresh treasures, she was able to step back and realize she could indeed work with Jean, and perhaps get past the anticipated fear.

Betty set her basket on the front table, carefully removing each bag, when she heard someone call her name. She turned and saw Judi, Renée and Helen entering the market. Her stomach clamped down in an unexpected
thud
.