Betty's (Little Basement) Garden

by Laurel Dewey

  Betty felt herself disconnecting. That familiar sensation always happened when the emotional pain started churning in her gut. She pressed her hand against the dip in the arm of her chair, finding momentary solace in the tactile connection.

  “That is the opening of my letter to the editor of the Paradox Press. It’s a letter I’m reading to all of you in the hopes you will sign your name to it, so we can create a lot of attention and buzz in our community.”

  Judi chuckled. “Buzz? Isn’t the point to stop the buzz?”

  “You know what I mean!” Renée replied, looking down at her notes and getting back on message. “The Democrats choose to ignore it, the Libertarians opt to dismiss it and even some in our own Grand Old Party choose to believe marijuana is not harmful. Some of them even refer to this green menace as ‘medicine.’ Really? Medicine. I find that word insulting when it’s connected to a Federally confirmed Schedule I drug that has torn apart and destroyed so many families in our nation. Penicillin, morphine, cortisone, insulin, digitalis – those are medicines and serve a purpose in society. Those drugs save lives and aid in relieving discomfort, whereas marijuana does not. Marijuana, as I can sadly attest, creates a lack of initiative in people. A sense of what’s the use? And when that occurs, motivation ceases to exist. The need for a stronger, more potent high is sought out, and with that, the increased need for hardcore drugs begins.” Renée hesitated before continuing. “And as some of us have personally experienced,” she cleared her throat, “the graduation to cocaine and heroin often ends in death, and those left behind are consumed with grief.”

  Judi glanced toward Betty but quickly turned away. Betty swallowed hard. She wasn’t prepared for the reaction, especially not in front of strangers. Remaining stoic was a gift and a necessity. One didn’t allow others to chafe that well-honed surface. Betty took a shallow breath. Her right inner ear began that damn syncopated flutter that came from nowhere and ended when it felt like it.

  “Have you seen the fine citizens who run and operate these medical marijuana dispensaries?” Renée continued with derision. “Sources tell me that a criminal element – i.e., former street drug dealers – might own and operate many of these dens of iniquity. And possibly over seventy percent of the people working in these drug establishments are more than familiar with the long arm of the law. Are they not laughing at us right now? Have the liberal laws of our venerable state finally gone too far? Yes! A resounding YES!” Renée looked at the audience. “I put that in caps for effect.” She resumed reading her letter. “With this information, ask yourself: Are these the types of people you want in your neighborhood? And don’t get us started on the whole caregiver and patient fiasco! Since when is an unemployed twenty-year-old high school drop-out with a green thumb and an empty basement considered worthy of being given the moniker of a healthcare professional with patients under his care?! Don’t insult our intelligence! These stoners are not ‘caregivers,’ because the plant they are pushing is not medicine!” She let out a meaningful breath. “Marijuana equals death. Death to our communities. Death to our collective integrity. Death to our way of life. Death to the family. Death to the children.” She paused for dramatic effect. “Death to the country.” Renée waited. “That’s it. That’s the end of the letter.”

  “Well done,” Helen said. “I’ll be happy to add my name to your letter.”

  Considering that she rationed her words so carefully, this was high praise coming from Helen.

  “Well, thank you, Helen,” Renée replied. “That means a lot to me. I bet you could give us insight into what your generation would tell these young people and others who use, grow or dispense this drug.”

  Helen pursed her lips. “That’s simple. First we’d tell them to ‘smarten up.’ Then we’d tell them to toughen up, if they don’t want to end up being a leech on society. Weakness. That’s what it is. Plain and simple.”

  Good Lord, Betty mused, Helen was on a roll. Weakness, she stated. Where had she heard that gem before?

  “Would anyone else like to share their thoughts?” Renée asked the group.

  Judi raised her hand and leaned her lithe body forward. “Hi, everyone. I’m an art teacher over at Paradox High School. This one student of mine is nineteen. He had to make up a grade, so he’s the ‘wise sage’ who puts the fun in our dysfunctional motley crew. He’s really popular because he got his dope card…” she feigned embarrassment, “uh, excuse me…medical marijuana card, because of a bad back. Seriously, I never knew until recently there were so many nineteen-year-old kids with bad backs.” Judi used air quotes with her fingers to stress bad backs. The women chuckled softly. “So, numb nuts has his pot card, and he brazenly goes to the marijuana dispensary, located exactly one thousand and one feet away from the school – so it’s, you know, in legal state limits – to get his ‘medicine.’ Then he meets his buddies, all around sixteen years old, and doles out the treats to them in his beater car. I saw it with my own eyes! Oh, and they don’t call it ‘getting high’ anymore. They call it medicating. I mean, please. This whole medical classification is, excuse my language ladies, pure bullshit! I am married to a doctor. I know what real medicine is. Medicine is for people who need to manage their physical problems. Marijuana is for brain-dead losers who move their lips when they read or watch television.”

  The conversation continued for another hour. Betty excused herself before the break and slipped quietly down the hallway to the bathroom. Closing the door behind her, she stood motionless at the sink, relieved to be away from the zealous exchanges continuing in the living room. The thump-thump in her right ear had thankfully ceased, only to be replaced by an intruding stiffness in her neck. For a moment, Betty let her guard down, allowing a long, tired breath to escape her lips. It shouldn’t be like this. After all, it was spring, when life is renewed and possibilities are endless. Already a cascade of eye-candy color and sweet scents swept across her front yard, as the oversized tulips, narcissus and daffodils displayed their vibrant faces. Even during the worst times, that sight alone ordinarily buoyed Betty’s spirits.

  However, it wasn’t working anymore. Betty could spend hours digging and transplanting in the garden – it was still a meditative draw, that allowed her mind to temporarily quiet. But it was getting harder to get up in the morning and easier to feel discouragement settling in like an unwelcome houseguest. She heard the gaggle of women stir, a sign that the much anticipated food break beckoned. Two hours tops. That’s what she told herself. Two more hours and they’d be gone, and she could sink into the silence with a stiff bourbon to escape. With every bit of reserve she had left, Betty stood straight and faced the mirror. Dabbing on a quick touch-up of lipstick, she smoothed her dress, chided herself silently about her minor paunch, sucked in her gut and flashed her pageant smile. She adjusted the unused guest towels with the large embroidered “C” so that they lay identically. As she turned to leave, she realized the missing ornate mirror on the rear wall had left an obvious outline on the wallpaper, where it had hung for so long.

  What if someone noticed it? How would she explain it? Her mind ran laps of anxiety until the cackle outside the door grew louder. She had to reappear and reclaim her hostess mantle. Hunting in the vanity drawer, she found a lonely nail. Removing her shoe, she pounded the nail twice into the wall and cleverly hung a spray of dried lavender she’d decoratively placed on the side of the vanity. Slipping her shoe back on, she centered herself, opened the door and walked into the hallway.

  Rows of framed photographs lined the wall. Each photo was a close-up of another triumphant entry from Betty’s garden. She stopped momentarily at one that meant more than all the others. It wasn’t a photo, but rather an antique watercolor of stunning white violets amidst a spring garden, framed in faux gold. Betty felt her heart sink as she stared at the picture, losing herself in the moment. She touched the edge of the frame, a wave of sadness unexpectedly overwhelming her.

  “Compassionate Care Centers!” Renée derisively
declared. “That’s what they like to call some of these marijuana dispensaries. How disingenuous can you be? That’s like trying to make prostitution a noble venture, by just throwing the word compassion in there. ‘Come visit our compassionate call girls.’ Can’t you just see the ad? As if the guy is going there to discuss his issues. No. He’s paying her to screw him. Just like people are paying for marijuana, not because they need compassion, but because they need to get loaded.”

  “Betty?” Judi called down the hallway.

  Betty turned, still faraway. “Coming!” She shook off the memory, and by the time she joined Renée and Judi, the “hostess with the mostest” was back on track.

  “Everything all right?” Judi asked.

  Oh, God. What did she see? “Everything’s fine. No worries at all. Have you tried the chocolates?”

  “Not yet!” Judi said. “Gotta start with the delectable sandwiches first and then move up the food chain to the pièce de résistance.”

  Helen joined the women. “I signed your letter,” she stated to Renée. “Now let’s hope it makes an impact. So many times these things fall flat.”

  Yes, there was the inimitable Helen in action, Betty thought. Always seeing a silver lining of plutonium around those clouds.

  “I better get in the kitchen and whip up a little guacamole, just in case we need it,” Betty stated, starting to make an exit.

  “We’ll help you,” Judi insisted, pointing to Renée. “But I wanted to ask you, where’s that divine antique chair with the needlepoint seat that always sits by the front door?”

  Betty’s stomach lurched. “Out for repair. Ronald had an impetuous moment and clawed it underneath.”

  “Ech, cats,” Helen moaned. “Did you know a form of AIDS exists in cats?”

  Betty gently patted Helen on the shoulder, smiled and headed quickly to the kitchen. Like little superfluous lemmings, Renée and Judi followed. Betty reached into the vegetable compartment of the refrigerator and brought out several avocados, an heirloom tomato from the local farmers’ market, a few stems of cilantro and a lime. As she stood up, she felt a twinge in her neck and slightly winced.

  “You okay, Betty?” Renée asked, leaning against the kitchen sink.

  “Of course,” Betty said, waving it off. “Just been battling a bit of muscle tension lately.”

  “That ear thing going on still?” Judi stressed.

  “Now and then.” Betty wanted to concentrate on the avocados and this damn chatter wasn’t helping.

  “Would you go see Roger already?” Judi stressed.

  Roger was Judi’s husband, a General Practitioner who never met a pharmaceutical drug he didn’t love to prescribe to his patients. Doctor Hancock was the personification of “Dr. Feel Good.” Thanks to his devotion to Big Pharma and the perks that go along with it, Judi and Roger enjoyed outstanding vacations in Mexico and Hawaii, all paid for by the drug companies, in exchange for good ol’ Doc Hancock’s support. Betty knew it was only a matter of time before she’d end up in his office. The almost incestuous, entangled connections with her friends made it difficult to guard her privacy.

  “Yes,” Betty said. “I’ll do it.” She needed to change the subject. “Love your pants. Are they new?”

  Judi seemed a bit taken back. “Yeah. Linen. I love them. I bought several pairs.”

  “Well, you’ll have to tell me where you got them,” Betty smiled, mashing the avocados with purpose.

  “Oh, I think they’re all sold out,” she replied. “They were on sale.” Judi cut the lime and squeezed the juice into a bowl. “Hey, not to be maudlin, but have you stopped by lately to see Peggy?”

  Betty’s jaw tightened. She could lie and say she’d visited regularly, but the deception would be revealed eventually. “No…I just…I really should –”

  “She’s not doing well, Betty,” Renée interjected, chopping up the tomato in her typical manic manner. “I dropped by her house last week, on the way home from one of my meetings.” Even after thirty-two years of sobriety, Renée still felt a need to attend both AA and Narcotics Anonymous meetings. “God, it was awful. The pain from the cancer is off the charts. Moaning, screaming, vomiting,” she shook her head. “Peggy stopped the chemo, did you know?”

  “No,” Betty replied, trying desperately to focus on the avocado and tune out the discourse. “Why?”

  “Her doctor told her there was no point,” Judi declared. “She was told she has fewer than two months. So they’ve got hospice at her house, and her family takes shifts.”

  Betty stopped mashing the avocado and looked at the women. “Jesus, I had no idea. I…keep meaning to go see her…I just…”

  Judi put a comforting hand on Betty’s shoulder. “I get it. You’ve had your fill of sterile hospitals. But she’s home now, so it’s not like what you experienced with Frank.”

  But Judi didn’t really “get it.” It wasn’t the hospital. Betty had no problem showing up at a hospital, with flowers in one hand and candy in the other, and sitting by someone’s bedside, if the person she visited was expected to leave the hospital alive. It wasn’t the damn hospital she feared; it was death. Between 2005 and 2007, she’d held the cremated remains of her husband and her only child. One urn was buried in a military cemetery and the other ashes, secured in a plain brown box, were sheltered on a shelf in her closet. Given the choice, she’d run from any tint of death. Asking her to voluntarily show up at Peggy’s bedside while she “moaned, screamed and vomited,” was asking too much.

  Renée piped up. “Why don’t you bring her a big box of your chocolates? You know how much Peggy is addicted to your chocolates.”

  It was a classic comment for Renée to make, Betty thought. She stepped foot in Betty’s former chocolate shop only once, and that was for the grand opening celebration. Instead of enjoying the event and indulging in a cornucopia of decadent cacao confections, she spent the evening frantically zipping from one guest to another, droning on about the perils of addiction. It was like inviting an Amish elder to a keg party.

  “It’s the high altitude honey,” Judi exclaimed, carefully mincing the cilantro. “I swear that’s your secret ingredient! Given the choice, my Roger would grind up all his pills and melt them into one of your incredible chocolates. I tell you, Betty, the day you closed The White Violet, Roger nearly wept. I kid you not! You were the like the local crack house, where he’d always stop on Fridays to get his weekly cacao fix.”

  Betty managed a weak smile. Talking about her failed entrepreneurial gourmet chocolate shop, that lasted fewer than eighteen months and chewed through every cent of Frank’s life insurance policy, was not fodder for friendly banter across a kitchen counter. “I just wish there’d been a few hundred more die-hard people like Roger out there. I’d still have the shop if that were the case.”

  “You haven’t been able to sell any of the commercial equipment you bought?” Renée asked.

  “No,” Betty quickly replied, adding the lime juice, cilantro and diced tomatoes to the avocado. “I really should do that soon. So much to do!” She tried to sound cheerful as she sprinkled a pinch of salt and spices into the guacamole.

  Judi leaned forward in a faux clandestine manner. “Hey, Betty, I know we’ve mentioned this before, but it’s been three years since Frank Sr. died. It’s time for you to get out there and…you know…mingle.”

  Betty regarded Judi and then Renée with suspicious eyes. “Mingle?”

  Judi hesitated before launching into her animated spiel. “We have found the perfect man for you!”

  “What?” Betty’s anxiety level shot up. “I don’t want a man!”

  Renée raised an eyebrow. “Don’t tell me you want a woman.”

  Betty’s ire rose. “Good God no! I’m saying I don’t need a man in my life, thank you very much!”

  “I told you, Judi,” Renée stressed. “The wound of grief with Frank Sr. is still too fresh. She still hasn’t processed the experience.”

  Betty stood there, t
owering over both of these women and wondered why in the hell she felt cowed by them. Process the experience, she thought to herself. Jesus, Renée was talking more and more like an overly therapatized veteran. There was nothing to process. She was married to Colonel Craven, the only man she’d ever known in the biblical sense, for nearly thirty-two years. Thirty-two long, painful, suffocatingly tense years, where she’d perfected the art of walking on eggshells, quickly assessing the level of stress in others so she’d know what emotion she should feel, feigning interest in matters that bored her, parroting others’ words and observations, and doing it all with a plastic smile on her face. Between the day Frank got the diagnosis that he needed a liver transplant and the death knell that followed a little over one year later, Betty continued to play the loyal, supportive wife. But thick fibers of contempt wove through each marathon bedside vigil and depressing update from the doctors. And yet, no one ever knew. By the time the great Colonel Craven was laid to rest in a “balls to the wall” military send off, Betty had to force herself to focus on the event and not on the fifteen-pound roast she had slow-cooking in the oven back at the house.

  “His name is Tom Reed,” Judi slyly offered. “And he’s your type.”

  Betty turned to Judi with an incredulous eye. “Type? I have a type?”

  “Well, yeah,” Judi gently said. “He’s six years older than you, quite comfortable, President of Rotary, divorced for five years. Um, let’s see. He’s stable, owned his own insurance company, obviously a Republican, well admired in the community…Oh Betty, come on, just meet him for drinks and see what you think.”

  Betty was of the opinion that men were way over marketed to single women over fifty. The last offering foisted on her was an arrogant specimen by the name of Harold. Betty was forced to sit next to him at Judi’s yearly summer soirée last August. His silly comb-over was the least offensive part of his social strategy. In anticipation of meeting Betty, he prepared a bright-yellow postcard onto which he wrote everything he felt she might want to know about him. Betty realized she was in trouble when she noted his favorite leisure activity was “power napping.” Somehow, Harold failed to include his other leisure activity – compiling inane statistics about himself and writing them on yellow postcards.