by Laurel Dewey
Future relationships? Well, slap the dog and spit in the fire, she reflected. If he –
“Is gardening fun for you?” Jeff suddenly asked her.
The question came out of left field. Flummoxed, Betty momentarily withdrew her animosity. “It’s comforting. My plants need me, but they also give me a sense of accomplishment. And if I happen to prune them too much or over water them, they still manage to flourish in spite of it. They are forgiving of my weaknesses.”
He stared at her with those eyes that could read through her veneer. “They’re safe.”
She nodded. “Yes. I suppose so.”
“Well, let me tell you something.” He stood up. “Women who count gardening as their number one, hardcore passion, are in the same league to men as women who have an unhealthy fetish with far too many cats.”
She defiantly crossed her arms across her chest. “Did it ever occur to you those women might believe that gardens and cats are infinitely more reliable and less troublesome than a man?”
“Wow. You really were screwed over by ol’ Frank, weren’t you?” He moved closer to her. “Gardens are great, Betty. I have a garden. And I like to work in it. But I’m not in love with my garden. My garden doesn’t sit on the couch and watch a movie with me. My garden doesn’t cook dinner with me. My garden doesn’t pick me up at the airport at midnight. As far as the cat goes, I don’t have one. But if I did, he’d be my buddy, not my focus. It’s just an observation perhaps, but when a guy meets a woman who spends more time turning on her tulips and petting her cat than she does paying attention to him, it’s not a fruitful start to a long term relationship.”
If she had a gauntlet, it would have swung down with gusto. “Well, perhaps that’s because some men require far too much attention.” She steadied herself. “I think you should go now.”
He paused briefly, gently moving closer to her but she inched away.
“I mean it,” she stated. “Go.”
He regarded her with deep compassion, but she wouldn’t make eye contact. “Yes, ma’am.”
She didn’t move a muscle until she heard the throaty engine of his motorcycle fade into the distance. He was out of line, she told herself. She was right and he was wrong. How on earth could she ever have considered…? She must have gone temporarily insane. Yes, yes, yes, she was right and he was wrong. Her daddy had another saying: “The time to kill a snake is when he raises his head.” When a problem rears up, take action.
Betty was right. She just needed to keep telling herself that, even as the familiar hour of lead fell across her heart. Within seconds, that damned syncopated beat started in her right ear. It had been days since it had crept up, and now it felt worse than ever.
She closed the sliding glass door and drew the drapes to block out the generous spill of light coming from the veg room. The last thing Betty wanted were the neighbors knocking on her door and asking why she had a beacon of bright light coming out of her basement. She desperately needed to occupy herself. To move, to do, to accomplish something, in order to be worthy of taking in her next breath. Checking on the girls, she felt the temperature of the heat mats that warmed their feet to make sure they weren’t too toasty. Reminded of what Peyton told her about shaking the stalks to encourage more strength in the plant, she gently grasped each stalk and shook the plant for about a minute each. Then she had an idea. Two by two, she carried the plants into the small laundry area. She shoved a few large towels into the dryer, and seeing a pair of her sneakers nearby, tossed them in too. She carefully placed the six plants on top of the dryer and turned it on high. Within seconds, they were dancing to the beat every time the circling shoes struck the top of the unit.
Betty stood back and tried to focus, but an overwhelming sense of disappointment and emptiness swallowed her. Her body ached, but not from exertion. The din of loneliness screamed in her face. The need to be right had a price, and she was broke.
It didn’t help that the Centennial Blueberry clone, with the half-eaten top stem Ronald had ingested, was not looking as vibrant as her sisters. She turned on all the lights in the tiny room and examined the plant. A dried stream of Ronald’s drool could still be seen on one broad sided leaf. She wiped it off with a wet cloth and was about to put the plant back on the tumbling dryer, when she saw something on a lower leaf. No, it couldn’t be, she thought. Carrying the plant into the veg room, she held it under the bright light and looked closer. An almost negligible white cloud, the size of a pea, appeared to be forming on a lower leaf. “PM,” she whispered, as if saying it too loud would propel it onto the next set of leaves. She wasn’t certain but she wasn’t going to take chances. She grabbed the powdery mildew spray and squirted a generous blast on the leaf. Waiting a few minutes, she couldn’t quite tell if it was gone. She blew on the leaf and waited. Then she waited a bit longer. Nothing. The damned spot was still there. She decided the plant needed to be air-dried; perhaps that would solve the problem.
Carrying the clone out to her car, she got in and placed it on the front seat, securing a seat belt around the center of the two-gallon plastic pot. Once every window was open, she slowly backed out of her driveway and drove to a remote corner of Paradox, a few miles outside of town, where grassy, greenbelt fields lay next to an old asphalt road. She stopped the Taurus and remembered – it was the same place she’d secretly taken Frankie when he couldn’t sleep at night as a child or when he suffered from his persistent nightmares. When she was certain that Frank Sr. was passed out or asleep, she’d bundle up her grade school son, put him on the front seat of the car and drive with all the windows down. Frankie would rest his head on the door, hold his arm outside and let the wind blow through his fingers. He wouldn’t say a word as they drove up and down that asphalt road in the darkness, but his pain was tangible. And yet, after half an hour, the open air seemed to calm him and wash away his insomnia, until she could return to the house and covertly lay her sleeping son back in his bed.
While Betty sat there on that May night, as twilight succumbed to the darkness, she remembered how she wanted to keep driving on one of those nights so long ago. She had her son and some money, and she could have kept driving. But propriety kept her from doing it. What would people think of her? Somehow back then, the better choice was to endure and hope for happier times. But the happiness never arrived. It just kept being swallowed by resentment and ennui.
And so she drove up that asphalt road with the windows rolled down and watched how the cannabis leaves fluttered against the wind. With each flicker of motion, she hoped it could be washed clean of anything that was trying to destroy it. Without realizing it, she extended her arm outside her window. And she stayed just like that for another hour on that desolate road, even as the tears and regret took over.
Chapter 20
“But you didn’t hear that from me.”
The drive to Dottie’s ranch was a much-needed diversion. Nestled on the front seat of Betty’s car was a small cooler that held five beautifully decorated and wrapped chocolates. She didn’t want to be too forward and bring Dottie a dozen, but two chocolates seemed inadequate. Dottie lived about forty miles south of Paradox in an unincorporated rural area. The landscape was fairly monotonous, until Betty drove up over a long, two-lane ribbon of highway and descended into a verdant valley. The warm May days and rains had quickly transformed the expanse into a rich tapestry of alfalfa and various grasses, creating an emerald and jade quilt that draped across the panorama for miles.
Betty arrived at the impressive, rusted, iron front gate precisely at 12:55 and punched the intercom button. As she waited for someone to answer, she admired the exquisite, curved, wrought-iron sign that graced the entrance: Happy Valley Herefords. Underneath, burnt into a slab of wood, the sign read: Happy & Healthy Grass-Fed Cows since 1980.
“Hello?” a male voice asked, crackling over the intercom.
“Hello,” Betty said in her best pageant voice. “This is Betty Craven. I’m here to see Dottie…about a horse?
”
“Yes, ma’am. She’s expecting you.”
The massive gate opened with a slow flourish. Betty drove her beat-up Taurus down the dirt road for nearly half a mile before turning into a cluster of shade trees, crossing a bridge and a slow creek, and arriving at a magnificent, two-story, log house. A large barn stood about a thousand feet past the house, and beyond that, stables and the enormous expanse of land where at least seven hundred cows and calves roamed freely. A stout man in his late fifties approached her, and she rolled down her window. He seemed to observe her with great care and a somewhat worried brow.
“Hello, ma’am,” he said, offering his hand. “I’m Hugh. I’m the ranch manager.”
“Nice to meet you, Hugh.”
He canvassed the inside of her car. “So, you’re interested in one of the horses?”
“Yes,” Betty said, realizing she hadn’t manufactured any suitable story to support this ruse. “But this is just an introductory meeting…with the horse.” He looked at her with a quizzical expression. “I don’t like to take it too fast.” The minute she said that, she wished she hadn’t. And before she could fall deeper in the bullshit, she heard the commanding voice of a woman, and saw her quickly walking toward the car.
“Hugh! I got this!” Dottie said with authority, as she approached the passenger side of Betty’s car. She opened the door and got in, after Betty quickly moved the cooler into the backseat. “Drive up to the barn and go around the side,” Dottie instructed.
Betty complied, but she couldn’t help noticing the grave look of concern on Hugh’s face in her rearview mirror. “I said exactly what I was told to say,” Betty offered.
“Don’t worry about it,” Dottie replied. “Hugh’s a good guy. Just overprotective.”
Betty was taken by Dottie’s authoritative manner. She had an aura of confidence about her but also gentleness in her eyes. She looked to be around Betty’s age or a few years older. Dressed in a pair of sturdy blue jeans, a white ranch shirt and square toed work boots, Dottie softened her outfit with an elegant pair of diamond stud earrings, a turquoise and silver cuff bracelet, and a stunning diamond-and-sapphire wedding ring. Her brown hair was short and wavy with strands of grey. Betty parked around the back of the barn, out of view from anyone who could be watching. “I brought you some…chocolates?”
“Fabulous! Bring them inside.”
Betty followed Dottie into the spacious barn. The aroma was a mix of cedar, hay and horseshit but somehow, Betty found it pleasantly intoxicating. Large, open windows allowed the outside air to flow consistently, occasionally fluttering the stacks of papers attached to clipboards hanging from the row of horse stalls. Dottie led Betty to the farthest end of the barn, where a large stall and a huge horse stood.
“I figured if we’re going to make this look real, I better bring in an actual horse,” Dottie commented, motioning for Betty to enter the stall.
“Do I really have to come in there?” Betty asked, clutching the small cooler to her waist. She realized she’d miscalculated her outfit du jour, when she chose a pink, twill dress with appropriate sleeves and matching soft pink pumps.
“If Hugh or one of the ranch hands walk in, it’s going to look odd if you’re standing out there and I’m in here. Besides, all this hay will muffle our conversation.”
Betty briefly flashed back to the indignity in her past when that damned horse rooted through her beautiful bouffant. Trusting that such an ignominy could not happen twice in one’s life, and relieved she no longer favored a bouffant, Betty delicately made her way into the stall, closing the heavy door behind her.
Dottie quickly leaned outside the stall door, checking around one more time, before turning back to Betty. “I’m sorry this whole thing has to be carried out in this manner. But my late husband was really clear with all of our workers. No drugs. Period. If they’re found with any illegal substances, they’re fired immediately.”
“Do you let them drink beer when they’re not working?”
“Sure. It’s beer. It’s acceptable.” Dottie raised her eyebrows, obviously well aware of the double standard in her succinct statement. “Marijuana is not acceptable.”
“I know it’s none of my business, but given the way you feel, how do you rationalize what we’re doing?”
Dottie bit her lip and studied the ground. “I don’t. I’m a hypocrite. But I’m a hypocrite who’s done her homework and due diligence.” She nervously picked up a pitchfork and traded one lump of hay for another, seemingly needing to keep moving. “I didn’t want to believe there was any healing merit to marijuana. I wanted to keep believing I was right. That it was a dangerous drug that should be banned completely. I mean, Christ, I’ve donated over one hundred grand to the local anti-drug groups and rehab centers. One of them carved my name into a brass plate and nailed it to a bench sitting in the waiting room of an anti-drug awareness group.” She shook her head, obviously embarrassed. “There’s a rumor floating around that they’re going to name a room after me at one of the sober-living facilities just south of here.”
Betty looked at her, stunned. “Oh dear.”
“’Oh shit,’ is more like it.” She stabbed a pile of hay with the pitchfork. “But there’s the truth, and then there’s what you choose to believe. After I started reading and researching the marijuana plant, I had to face the fact I’d been duped by propaganda and well meaning, but ignorant, ‘experts.’ If you dig really deep, you’ll start to see all the lies we’ve been told. They lie when the truth doesn’t fit their agenda. God, I sound like a barefoot leftist, don’t I?”
Betty was quickly growing fond of Dottie’s no-nonsense demeanor. She set the cooler down and stole a look outside the stall. “What made you start investigating it?”
Dottie stopped shuffling the hay. A mournful cast fell over her face. “My late husband was a big strapping man who always seemed indestructible. But then nineteen years ago, he got MS. I watched the love of my life – my one and only – gradually go from two hundred fifty pounds down to one forty. He tried every cocktail of drugs, spent hundreds of thousands of dollars on experimental treatments that just left him sicker and weaker, until finally he became wheelchair bound. Last year, he fell out of his chair and broke his hip. Nothing touched the pain. Nothing. Not even the morphine. All it did was give him constipation. But don’t worry. The bastards have a pill for that too.”
She leaned the pitchfork against the stall. “Then one day, he had an old friend show up and they hung out by themselves for about an hour. Later when I went upstairs to check on him, he was really calm and incredibly relaxed. I chalked it up to having his friend visit.” She smiled. “It wasn’t until after he died that I found a jar of marijuana oil capsules hidden in the drawer next to his side of the bed.” Her eyes drifted into the distance, lost. “I was confused. Shocked. Bewildered.” Dottie turned back to Betty. “Angry! He obviously needed to keep it from me, because he was probably afraid of what I’d think or say. And what the hell, he was right. But I couldn’t deny there was something different about him and his ability to get relief after those capsules showed up.” She shook off the memory and resumed fussing with the same pile of hay. “That’s when I started spending every free moment on the Internet, researching the plant. I downloaded hundreds of pages of medical studies from all over the world, most of which I couldn’t make heads or tails out of, but the continuing theme throughout all those dry treatises was that used correctly, marijuana had incredible healing potential.”
She walked to the front of the stall and checked to make sure they were still alone. “I hadn’t enjoyed a decent night’s sleep in almost twenty years.” Dottie struggled with her confession. “Twenty goddamned years. Do you have any idea what lack of deep sleep will do to your body over that period of time?”
“Yes. I’m acquainted with that issue.”
Dottie charted Betty’s reaction. “You really do understand, don’t you?”
Betty nodded.
�
�So…I tried one of his capsules. And I slept for twelve hours straight. Twelve hours of magical, marvelous, deeply restful sleep. I didn’t think it was ever possible. Then I noticed my joints weren’t hurting as much the next morning.” She let out a hard breath. “So there it is. I’m addicted to getting a good night’s sleep. I’m addicted to pain relief. Welcome to my dilemma. On one hand, I’ve got a reputation to uphold. On the other hand, I’ve got to get a decent night’s sleep. I D.A.R.E. to keep the kids off drugs, but then I dare myself to contact a kindred spirit like yourself to find a decent edible.” She slammed the pitchfork against the side of the stall. “Dammit, this stuff works, but you did not hear that from me.”
They heard a slight shuffle outside the barn.
“Shit,” Dottie muttered. “Hello?” she called out.
One of the ranch hands called out to her, asking a question. After sorting it out, Dottie suggested they go to her office attached to the barn. Once ensconced in the small but well-appointed room, Dottie relaxed. Leaning back in her weather-beaten leather chair, she rested her feet on the desk. Betty sat across from her with the cooler never far from her grasp.
“What else can you make besides chocolates?” Dottie asked in a subdued voice.
Betty wasn’t prepared for that question. “I’m not quite sure.”
“Don’t get me wrong. The chocolate I tried of yours was phenomenal. Better than any pot edible I’ve eaten.”
“It’s the honey,” Betty offered.
“No, sweetie. It’s the pot,” Dottie said with a wry smile. She swung her feet off the desk in a decisive manner. “You ought to look into making salves. Did you know the root of the marijuana plant can be ground up, boiled in oil and turned into a terrific topical ointment that dissolves muscle pain? And there’s no THC in the root!”
