Betty's (Little Basement) Garden

by Laurel Dewey

  While sorting through the box, she also found two exquisite hand sewn table runners. They’d been wedding gifts, and she’d used them only about a dozen times in her married life. She eyed them with an unemotional gaze, factoring what they might be worth. After removing them from the box and carefully wrapping them in a plastic, protective sheath, Betty sunk to the floor and stared across the tiny room. Why did Frankie want to be alone up here that day, five years before? He wasn’t fond of the attic, but it was farther away from his father’s unyielding presence. Betty rested her head against the side of the box and closed her eyes. “Frankie,” she whispered. She felt herself sliding into peaceful slumber until she heard a thud.

  Opening her eyes, she turned to the shadows where the ceiling slanted against the wall. Frank Sr. stood there, his fists balled and his face red with anger.

  “You sold my wedding ring!” he growled. “My goddamned wedding ring! And now you’re gonna sell those!” He jerked his finger toward the table runners cradled in her arms. “You’re trying to kill me, aren’t you? Aren’t you?”

  Betty felt her heart race. She stood up, facing him. “You killed our son. And you killed me a thousand times. So I think it’s only fair. Don’t you?”

  Frank started toward her as she jerked awake. The attic smelled acrid, as the rage still hung in the stifling air.

  Chapter 16

  “Sometimes…the very thing we fight or protest against

  is exactly the thing we actually need or lack.”

  Betty waited at the empty counter of The Gilded Rose, clutching the two table runners wrapped in plastic. Lily was nowhere to be seen, and the place was conspicuously empty of customers. She called out but got no response. Wandering over to check her various items for sale, she found the Biedermeier still there and further reduced in price. Betty sighed deeply at the prospect that it might never sell. Furthermore, even though she’d made a point of moving that damned metal sign with the quote from Marilyn Monroe: All a girl really wants is for one guy to prove to her that they are not all the same, there it was again propped up on her beloved antique. She started to move it when she read the words again. And then again. It wasn’t something she’d normally be attracted to, with its rusty tin and faux, antique edging. She set it down twice and then picked it up again. She checked the price; it was twenty-five dollars. Betty reasoned she had to save every cent from the sale of Frank’s wedding ring to support her grow operation, but yet…the sign seemed to speak to her in the most unusual manner.

  She caught movement outside and saw Lily standing by the front window having an animated conversation with Yarrow. After several more moments, Lily returned to the store and spotted Betty, greeting her with a welcoming smile.

  “We’ve had a few people admiring your Biedermeier, Betty. I hoped reducing the price would spur a sale.”

  “Anything on the books?”

  “No. Sorry. It’s been slow.”

  Betty walked with Lily to the counter. She wondered how on earth Lily was able to keep this place going, given its size and the inventory that was still there. The last thing she needed was a call from Lily saying she was going out of business and needed to return all her items. With great flourish, Betty produced the table runners and gave a quick but thorough back-story on their history. Lily bit and agreed to sell them.

  “Still having issues with that young girl who works at the dispensary? Yarrow?” Betty asked.

  “No issues,” she replied, placing tags on the table runners.

  Betty looked outside and saw Yarrow lingering, smoking a cigarette. “She seems rather lost.”

  “Lost?”

  “Yes. Is she all right?”

  Lily was held back. “Yeah, I think so. She’s going up to Canada for a week to see some family. Travel makes her nervous these days. It’s so intrusive, you know?”

  “Canadian, eh?”

  Lily finished tagging the items and handed Betty a receipt. “I’m sorry there’s nothing on the books for you today. But maybe with summer, things will improve?”

  Betty smiled, handing Lily the metal sign. “Well, whoever owns this sign will have something on their books.”

  She had two hours to kill before her lunch date at La Bella Vita. And since every moment was critical, Betty headed to Grow Do It, the grow store where Peyton worked. Based on her research, she had a long list of equipment, organic nutrients and miscellaneous items she needed right away. Once at the store – located in a less-than-thriving, outdoor mall – she remained in her car for a few minutes, checking out the surrounding area for any sign of someone she might know. When she was certain it was clear, Betty entered the establishment.

  The first thing she noticed was how clean the air smelled. Like fresh ozone in high-altitude. The second thing she noted was the enormous pallet of vigorously growing tomatoes, half of them still green and growing under a vegetative light setup and the other half full of crimson fruit, growing under a huge, bloom light. Two signs caught Betty’s eye. The first one noted that the store was open on Sundays, but it closed at the odd time of 4:20. The second computer-printed sign was taped above the cash register and warned that: We cannot discuss anything that is Federally illegal. This includes marijuana cultivation. Please respect this while shopping here. How odd, Betty thought. The store was obviously set up to cater to marijuana growers, just as the websites which featured products like “Bountiful Bud Brew” were obviously selling to the cannabis crowd. So it was a game, she reasoned. A wink-wink. A “let’s pretend we’re not doing what we’re really doing” endeavor. Betty could play along.

  “Who is this group, anyways?” a booming male voice in the back room asked.

  Betty walked down a center aisle, passing rows of cloth pots, cloning machines and air purifiers.

  “P.R.W.G.?” The man read. “Who in the fuck is that?”

  Betty stopped in mid-step, realizing this individual was obviously reading Renée’s stinging letter to the editor signed by the Paradox Republican Women’s Group.

  “Hey, I know!” the man said. “Pussy Republicans With Gonads!”

  Betty stood there dumbstruck. She considered making an exit, when Peyton sauntered out from the back room. He was wearing his G.Y.O. t-shirt and sported an exceptionally-tousled head of hair.

  “Hey, Betty!”

  Betty relaxed when she saw him. “Hello, Peyton.” Her voice was low-key. “I don’t have lots of time, but I thought I’d come over and buy the first of the many accoutrements I’ll need to grow the cannabis.”

  Cradling Betty by the shoulder, he ushered her to another corner of the store. “Okay, first off, ixnay on callin’ them accoutrements and secondly, you don’t mention the word cannabis, marijuana or any other slang term here. Got it?”

  “But what if I have questions about growing canna – ?”

  “You’re growing tomatoes, Betty. We’re all growing tomatoes. So far, the Feds don’t have a problem with tomatoes. Got it?”

  What a strange little world these people lived in. “Who is that in the back?”

  “My tool of a boss, Justin. Ignore him. He’s always jacked up about somethin’. He loves tellin’ people how much energy he has. I personally don’t trust people who say they have tons of energy. It’s not normal. The only people who should have tons of energy are kids under the age of fifteen. Any adult who claims that is either manic or on crack.”

  Betty explained she had just under a thousand dollars left from the sale of Frank’s ring. She handed him her list.

  “You’ve really been doin’ your homework, Betty! Good for you!” Peyton enthusiastically chimed. “Why don’t we hold off on the bloom light since it’s a chunk of change, and you won’t need it for another two months. There are a couple more important things you’ll need right now,” he stressed, mentioning the reflective silver wall coverings used to amplify the light against the plants, and liquid enzymes for bolstering the nutrients and reactivating the beneficial organisms in the soil. “You gotta p
ut a lot of targeted nutrients into the veg state,” he said quietly, “in order to have the largest and healthiest plant when you flip it into bloom.”

  Peyton patiently went around the store explaining the various products and the pros and cons of each one. His grasp of the entire process impressed Betty, as well as his personal experience using the different nutrients. According to Peyton, a lot of the “stoner dudes” who had “secret guerilla grows” were obsessed with toxic, chemical “nutes” – a.k.a. nutrients – because all they cared about was producing “fat, dank, gigantic bud.” But, as he explained, those who grew with harsh chemicals ran the risk of those toxins seeping into the finished bud. “You know when people tell you they hurled their lunch and got a headache or stomach cramps after smoking cannabis?” he said to Betty. “My theory is that it’s not the bud. It’s the shit these idiots are spraying on their plants and watering them with.” The stakes were high, Peyton declared, when you were a caregiver and responsible for growing cannabis for people whose health was often already compromised. “Patients have gotta know their grow. It’s more expensive to grow organically,” he revealed, “but it tastes better, and it won’t make your brain twitch like chemically grown crap.”

  As they filled her basket, it became clear that the price of an organic product was often an indicator of its quality. A gallon of liquid enzymes was over one hundred dollars; a special seaweed and fish concentrate from Alaska cost nearly sixty bucks.

  “Whatever happened to water and compost?” Betty asked.

  “That won’t cut it with the herb,” Peyton whispered. “The whole point is to make it grow fast, hearty and healthy. Oh, one thing you’ve got to buy is over here.” He walked to another aisle and pointed at three shelves of products. Everything from beneficial organisms that eat the mildew to bicarbonate of soda preparations filled those shelves. He turned to her with a look of seriousness, usually set aside for discussing political reform. “Next to spider mites, every grower’s nightmare is powdery mildew. We call it ‘PM’ in the trade. And believe me, if you don’t stop it, it’ll wipe out your entire crop. PM is insidious and if you see it, you gotta get on it immediately.”

  He explained that the dreaded PM starts as a tiny, often imperceptible, white cloud of mildew on a lower leaf. It can be inherent to a specific cannabis strain, or it can be passed from one plant to another due to poor circulation and/or too much heat and moisture in the veg or bloom rooms. Once a plant has it, it has it forever. Anything you clone from an infected plant will have it locked in its DNA. Thus, many industrious people have sought to find the perfect solution for attacking this persistent problem.

  Peyton pointed to a tub of yellow crystals. “If it gets really bad, you gotta sulfur the rooms. But there’s a trick to it, and I’ll need to walk you through that or you’ll do major damage.”

  Suddenly, the entire growing process had taken on a rather dire prognosis. The thought of growing a room full of cannabis only to have it wiped out with PM sent a shudder down Betty’s spine. She took Peyton’s advice and purchased the product he trusted the most. She was just about to tell him her news about Buddy being her first patient when Justin strolled around the corner. He had the kind of purposeful walk that suggested a bloated over-confidence. His bulging, tanned muscles stretched uninvitingly against his “Grow Do It” T-shirt, while his soon-to-be bald head made him appear older than his late thirty-ish years.

  “You finding what you need, ma’am?” he asked in a cocky manner.

  “I am. Thank you.” Betty replied, immediately not liking him.

  “Hey,” Justin said, addressing Peyton, “I can finish helping this lady. You left a pallet of perlite out in the sun. Get it inside, would ya?” Peyton nodded and turned to go. “And get with the program, poncho!” Justin barked.

  Betty’s blood pressure rose quickly. “Peyton, wait!”

  Peyton stopped and turned back, somewhat perplexed.

  Betty turned to Justin. “Peyton has gone out of his way to be more than helpful.” Her voice was terse and abrupt. “I’d like him to continue to assist me today.”

  Justin let out a soft, dismissive chuckle. She’d heard the same trivializing response far too many times in the past.

  “I’m sorry. Did I say something funny?” Betty asked, her face reddening.

  “It’s okay,” Peyton said meekly.

  Betty steadied herself against the clearance shelf. Her mouth went dry. “No, Peyton. It’s not okay. Your boss apparently didn’t get the memo that the customer is always right.” Betty moved a step closer to Justin. Her imposing frame and stature nearly dwarfed him. “The only reason I’m spending all this money at your store is because of Peyton. He has a great deal of knowledge about growing tomatoes.” She inched closer to Justin. “Big tomatoes. Wonderful tomatoes. Extraordinary tomatoes. And I am a tomato grower.”

  Justin was cornered, but he maintained his pumped up posture. “You don’t look like someone who grows tomatoes.”

  “Well, you don’t look like a business man, so there’s the irony.” She heard her Texas lilt escape. “You walk with great purpose in your step. Pity you have no idea where you’re going.” She turned to Peyton, who was now standing there frozen. “Peyton, I have more questions I’d like you to answer for me.” Brushing past Justin, she gently took Peyton by the elbow and continued shopping.

  Fifteen minutes later, Peyton loaded Betty’s Taurus with her bounty. She covered the large, T5 veg light in the backseat with an old blanket. She’d spent nine hundred fifty-four dollars on lights, bags of organic soil, fans, carbon filters, gallons of nutrients, powdery mildew sprays, heat mats, timers, rolls of heavy plastic, aerating watering cans, reflective wall coverings and much more.

  “I can’t believe what you did in there,” Peyton said, closing the trunk.

  “I can’t either. But I’m glad I did. He’s a bully, Peyton. Trust me. I know the breed. And like all bullies, he’s terribly insecure.”

  “Really?”

  “Good God, yes! He absolutely reeks of insecurity! Usually one only sees that level of insecurity when viewing awkward boys forced to dance at cotillions.” Betty issued a meaningful pause. “Or men with…shortcomings.” She turned back to the store. “You need to stand up to him, Peyton. Don’t let anyone ever treat you like that.”

  He shrugged his shoulders. “I need the job.”

  She looked at him. “No job or relationship is worth your principles. Believe me, it’ll wear you down after a few decades.”

  Changing subjects, she quickly gave him the news about Buddy and that she needed three more plants. They arranged to meet at his house later that day so she could see his grow operation and choose from his available clones.

  “I think I found you another patient,” he said with a smile. “Her name’s Dottie and she’s cool. She got one of your chocolates from another patient of mine and she loves them.”

  “Peyton, I don’t know if I feel comfortable having my canna chocolates shared willy-nilly, without having control over who tries them –”

  “Betty, there’s no way you can control whether somebody shares their edibles or even their bud with a friend or family member. Don’t go all Stalin on me, okay? Look, Dottie got one of your chocolates, loved it and was thrilled to know you were looking for patients. I think you and her –”

  “You and she,” Betty corrected.

  He sighed. “You and she would work well together. She’s a little older than you, but she can still drive and work.”

  “Wow. Imagine that? That reminds me. I’ve got to pick up my walker from the repair store.”

  He smiled and gave her a gentle fist bump on her shoulder. “Okay, okay. Hey, one thing about Dottie is she’s all about keepin’ it on the down low, okay? Would Sunday work for you to meet her?”

  “Sure. Give me her name tonight.” She started to get into her car and then turned around again. “You need a haircut.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Yes, yo
u do. You want to put a clean face on the cannabis industry?”

  “Yeah. Maybe.”

  “Get a haircut. It’s like getting a fresh start for fewer than fifteen dollars.”

  ~~~

  Betty arrived at La Bella Vita with time to spare. Judi waved to her from an outdoor table on the brick patio. Renée was nowhere to be seen, but Helen was firmly ensconced in a seat, wearing dark glasses and attempting to dodge the piercing sun. After an effusive greeting from Judi and a hug from Helen, Betty took a seat.

  “Happy birthday, darling,” Betty said to Helen.

  “Yeah. One more year of aches and pains. It’s all down hill from here. You sure we can’t get a table inside?” Helen asked Judi, hanging her head in a patch of shade.

  “Honey, I told you, they’re packed inside. Plus, a little sunshine won’t kill you. Think of all the vitamin D you’re absorbing right now.”

  “Tell that to my dermatologist,” Helen mumbled.

  “Where’s Renée?” Betty asked, scooting in her wrought iron, padded chair and handing Judi the carefully wrapped brocade tablecloth she requested.

  “Thanks, hon,” she said, securing the tablecloth under her chair. “I’m not sure where Renée is. She called and said she’d be late and that she had a surprise for us.”

  Betty leaned over and checked out Judi’s pants. They were the same linen ones she’d seen before but they looked a little different. “Hey, I thought you said they were sold out of those slacks.”

  Judi took a sip of red wine. “They are. These are the same ones.”

  “No,” Betty noted, “those are slightly different with the tie at the waist.”