by Laurel Dewey
They walked hand-in-hand over a gentle slope and across a spruce-shaded patch of ground that hugged the creek. The sound of water was everywhere, filling the air with a moist, earthy resonance. A series of steps, roughly carved into the side of the hill, ascended about another thirty feet higher. Moving in front of her, Jeff started up the steps, never letting go of her hand. The reward for the steep climb was enough to set Betty’s mouth agape. Protected by a curved rock wall was a pristine thermal pool that stretched in a twenty-foot radius and overlooked miles of untouched forest and grassland.
Jeff held her close. “Isn’t this one of the coolest places you’ve ever seen?”
She nodded as she took in the expansive view. “And rare as hen’s teeth.”
He took off his shirt and threw it across a rock. “Let’s get in.”
“But I didn’t pack a bathing suit.”
“You’ve never skinny dipped?”
Betty blushed. Perhaps it was the memory long ago when she was thirteen and crept over a hill in rural Texas during a vacation, only to find a teenage couple skinny-dipping in a river. Part of her thought it was offensive and part of her wished she could know what it felt like to be so free. She turned back to Jeff who already had his boxers off and was edging into the water. “This is private, right?”
“I know the owner. It’s completely private.”
With that, Betty undressed, carefully folding her clothes and setting them on a flat rock. She stepped into the thermal pool; the warmth penetrated every cell of her body. The freedom of being naked in that comforting heat enveloped her. Jeff pulled her toward him and kissed her. Amidst the sounds of birds, the steady breeze and the slow moving creek below, they made love.
“I love you, Betty,” Jeff softly offered in the afterglow.
She rested her head on his chest. His words echoed in her veins, but she still hesitated.
“It’s okay, babe,” he gently said. “You don’t have to respond.”
Five minutes passed, with only the symphony of nature filling in the silence.
“I don’t know how to get past it,” she finally said in a tentative voice.
“Past what?”
“The fear. All the pain.” She looked at him. “I think something is changing, though. I seem to be more open-minded than I used to be. I can look at the same situation and find new solutions I couldn’t see before. And I understand what calmness feels like now. Not all the time, but feeling it even once is a big step for me. When you’ve been trained to wait for the other shoe to drop, it’s mystifying when you fall for a barefoot lover.”
He kissed her wet head. “I think whatever anyone does to handle pain should also allow them to move forward, and take part in life, instead of constantly focusing on keeping the pain away. Eventually you have to let go, move beyond merely coping and shift into the art of living. You can do it, Betty. All you have to do is allow it, and your life will instantly change.”
That night, Betty enjoyed another new experience – raw oysters. A spicy, green salad filled with artichokes and hearts of palm came next, and after they finished their meal with a delicate tiramisu, the evening was capped with a roaring fire and another soak in the thermal pool before retiring to the roomy tent and blissful sleep.”
The following morning, Jeff awakened Betty with a hot cup of coffee. He slid back under the sleeping bag. “Happy fifty-ninth birthday, babe.”
“Fifty-nine,” she mused quietly. “That’s fifteen when you convert it to Celsius. As I’ve grown older, I prefer to state my age in Celsius. It’s not as jarring.”
He chuckled. “I talked to a gentleman once at my grandfather’s nursing home. He was celebrating his one hundred and tenth birthday and I asked him what was the best thing about turning that age. ‘Three words,’ he said. ‘No peer pressure.’”
It was clever retorts like that, that kept Betty enthralled. The spin of a word or a quick-witted mind was as sexy to her as a confident lover. The morning moved gracefully into the afternoon. They fished, made love, hiked along the many trails, soaked in the hot pool, made love and napped, before taking a strenuous stroll from the tent to the table by the creek. Betty enjoyed a glass of red wine, while Jeff poured himself a sparkling glass of spring water. The monogrammed towels hung across the low branches of a mountain mahogany shrub.
“You know, turning fifteen degrees Celsius wasn’t as difficult as I expected,” Betty announced with a serene grin. “I’d like to send a thank you card to your friend who owns this place. It was terribly generous of him to let us use it for my birthday.”
Jeff sat back in his chair. “Well…you know my address…”
Betty was bowled over. “What? You said he owned a retreat –”
“He does. He fell onto hard times and needed some quick cash. I made him a ridiculous offer on this land, thinking he’d turn me down and he didn’t. Signed the papers almost two weeks ago.”
“My God! Just like that?”
“Just like that.”
She sat back. “Wow. Are you going to build up here?”
“I don’t think so. I kind of want to keep it as a camping retreat. But, you know, the soil here is incredible…Really rich humus and with that spring and the creek, plenty of water to irrigate. I’m thinking that right about there,” he pointed to a semi-shaded plot, “would be the perfect place to grow a dozen or so cannabis plants next summer.”
“Are you getting your red card too?”
“No, babe. The garden would be for you.”
Betty looked across to the proposed plot. Her imagination immediately soared with visions of eight- to ten-foot-tall cannabis “trees” blowing in the wind. And then, as quickly as the visions ballooned, she let the air out. “Next summer is a long way off.”
“It’ll be here before you know it.” He rested his hand on hers. “Hey, did you notice the monogrammed towels?” he asked.
“Of course.”
“‘C’ for Carroll. But for that matter, it could be a ‘C’ for Craven.” He leaned across the table toward her. “Move in with me.”
Betty flushed nervously. “What? I…I…I can’t. I have a house –”
“That’s falling apart around you. You can’t sell it until you pound a lot of money into it. Maybe it’s time to think of other possibilities.”
Her head was spinning, and she hadn’t had a sip of wine. “We’ve only known each other fewer than three months. And part of that time wasn’t in the religious sense –”
“We’re good together, Betty,” Jeff declared. “I love you. And I think when you push past all your fear and those damned voices in your head, you’ll realize you might just love me too.”
She felt herself falling and out of control. A haze of discordant thoughts raced through her head. “I can’t…answer you right now.”
Jeff looked a bit dispirited but nodded. “Think about it. That’s all I ask.”
She helped him pack up what was portable enough to carry on the Harley before eating an early dinner and heading down the aspen-lined road as the sun set that night. It was difficult to walk away from the magnificent beauty but part of her wanted to run fast and far, until she was safe in her reliable bubble of conventional predictability. It was all happening too fast. She began questioning every bit of progress she’d made. Maybe it was just delayed teenage rebellion. Perhaps she’d wake up in a few days or weeks and wonder what in the hell she was thinking. There was a peculiar comfort in the conformist’s life. It expected nothing except allegiance to tedium and repetition. But this newer life she’d adopted had no boundaries, no fences, no chains. It expected her to trust in the unknown and leap into her future, without calculating whether she’d land on rock or clay. She had the power to erase every second of these last three months and retreat back into the dependable arms of disappointment.
They kissed goodbye and Betty set off down the twisting mountain road. With only her darkened thoughts to keep her company, her trip home was a long one. But the farther she drove, the more s
he felt his presence in that car. He was seated next to her, like he was when she’d sneak him out of the house as a child. But this time he wasn’t resting his head on the door and holding his arm outside the passenger window to calm his troubled mind. He was staring straight ahead, fists balled and angry as hell. She never recalled feeling such ire coming from him before.
With her mind preoccupied, she turned onto the wrong road as darkness sucked the last bit of light from that warm July night. She drove another few miles before she realized she was lost. There she was on a rural, two-lane road and completely unable, for some strange reason, to find her way back. The more she tried to figure out a solution, the more confused she became. She was just about to turn the car around one more time, when the engine coughed like she’d never heard it hack before.
“Oh, God, no!” she exclaimed, her heart racing. “Please, please, please,” she begged her Taurus, petting the dashboard, as if that would soothe the throaty irritation. “Not here! Not now!”
But the ol’ sedan had other plans and stuttered to a quick, inglorious stop. Betty turned on the hazard lights and reached for her cell phone, but there was no service. Her mouth went dry. She got out of the car and peered down the ribbon of road in front of her. No houses or lights anywhere. She could walk back in the direction she came from, until her cell phone hooked up with a tower. But then, she thought, what if she just kept walking and her phone was still searching for service? Betty felt the walls crash around her. She turned back to her car and was just a few feet from it, when the headlights of a vehicle crested a distant hill and moved toward her. She stood in front of her car and waited, until a four-wheel-drive, black truck with exceptionally bright headlights cruised to a stop more than forty feet from her. She felt a shiver bleed down her spine, as the occupants remained inside for what seemed like an eternity. Gradually, both the driver and passenger doors of the truck opened. Two burly men ambled toward her. The driver was in his mid-thirties, over six feet tall, probably tipping the scale at close to three hundred pounds, and sporting a shaven head. As he moved closer, she could see he carried enough ink on his muscular arms to fill a small-town newspaper. His compatriot was a bit shorter but matched his friend in height, circumference and attitude.
For a birthday that started so beautifully, Betty was beginning to think it wasn’t going to have a happy ending.
Chapter 28
“What in God’s name is a ‘Betty Bullet?’”
“Hey,” the driver said in a remote tone. He tossed a look to his friend who started to move to the rear of Betty’s car. “How you doin’?”
Betty stood as straight as possible and locked her knees so she wouldn’t collapse from fear. She swung her left arm into the air with her palm out to halt their progress. “Stop right there!” she said in a resolute voice.
The men froze.
“My name is Betty Craven!” she yelled with razor sharp elocution. “I am the widow of the late Colonel Frank Craven. He was an extremely irrational man, who surrounded himself with other irrational men, as he served our great country on the battlefield. If I am found dead in a ditch and only my teeth are recovered, they will still be able to easily identify me by my exceptional dental records. And when news of my death is broadcast, the loyal men who served with my husband will extend the code of semper fi to their Colonel’s wife and will rise from every corner. The two of you will be hunted down, not only by my ghost, but also by my husband’s band of angry veterans, who all suffer from severe gout, enlarged prostates and night terrors. When they find you, your demise will be unforgiving and quite painful. Please ruminate on this before you take another step toward me.”
The men looked at each other and took two huge steps backward.
“Uh, lady,” the driver finally said. “This here is a tow truck. My name’s Bert and that’s my brother, Ernie.”
Betty furrowed her brow. “Bert and Ernie? You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“Unfortunately, I’m not. Our parents had a twisted sense of humor. Now, if you take a look at the side of our truck, you’ll see it says, ‘Bert ‘n’ Ernie’s Tow Service.’”
Betty scooted just far enough to the right to read the panel on the side of the truck. Yep. It was a tow truck. She relaxed just a bit. “Well, you have to admit. That was a bit strange. My car breaks down and then you happen down this road within minutes?”
“Well, not really,” Ernie piped up. “Our house and auto repair shop are just two miles from here. I don’t think that qualifies this encounter as being Twilight Zone-ish or anything. That’s not to say it didn’t start off a little spooky, though.”
Bert lifted the hood of the Taurus as Ernie brought over a high-powered flashlight. “I can’t really see it good enough out here. We can tow you back to our place and check out your car. If we can’t figure it out, maybe a friend can come get you?”
Betty considered calling either Jeff or Peyton. She didn’t want to put out Peyton anymore than she already had that weekend, and she was still struggling with the unexpected turn of events with Jeff. “I don’t have anyone I can call.”
“That’s okay,” Bert offered in a casual manner. “You could borrow one of our beater cars or trucks until we fix your rig.”
The two men moved their truck into place and secured the tow hitch to the Taurus. Betty quickly retrieved her purse from the front seat, along with her two bags of luggage, and started toward the tow truck when she heard Ernie sharing a quiet joke with his brother. She swore she heard her name whispered.
“Excuse me, but you just said, ‘Betty.’”
Ernie looked up at her, visibly embarrassed. “Oh, ma’am, it’s just a little private joke between my brother and me. It’s got nothin’ to do with you.”
Betty stood there like a third wheel. “Tell me the joke. I like jokes.”
Bert glanced at his brother. “I’m not sure you’d understand it, ma’am,” Bert stated, checking the connection of the tow hitch.
“You think I’m too conservative, right?”
“Maybe.” Ernie offered. “It’s not in your…realm of…I don’t know how to say it.”
“Just tell me the joke, dammit!” Betty demanded, tiring of their evasiveness.
Bert stood up. “It’s not a joke. It’s a saying we got between us when we’re ready to get home and unwind. We say, ‘Time to put the feet up and shoot a Betty Bullet.’”
Ernie stifled a guffaw.
“What in God’s name is a ‘Betty Bullet?’” she demanded.
The men exchanged worried looks. Bert spoke up again. “It’s the greatest little chocolate you ever had in your entire life! They’re full of some sort of incredible pot.”
“What?” Betty said, eyes widening.
“You see?” Bert quickly stated. “I told you that you wouldn’t approve.”
“We get them and we melt them down,” Ernie interjected, “and then pour them into these moulds that look like .38 special ammo. You know? A bullet?”
“Bullet,” Betty nodded. “Yes, I’m clear on that part.” She found herself slightly shaking. “Why ‘Betty?’”
“’Cause we heard it’s the name of the hot chick who makes them,” Ernie said, smiling like a little boy.
Well, if the Twilight Zone-ish effect hadn’t kicked in fully, it was now running full throttle. Betty’s head swam, unable to fully comprehend what was happening. “Stop! Stop what you’re doing, please.”
The men did as they were told.
“Ma’am?” Bert said, “We didn’t mean to upset –”
“Where did you get the impression she was a ‘hot chick?’” Betty asked pointedly.
The men turned to each other.
“Uh,” Ernie stammered, “’cause all the girls I’ve ever known who know how to cook with weed are super hot.”
Betty gained her composure and extended her hand. “Let me introduce myself again. My name is Betty Craven. And I’m the ‘hot chick’ who made those chocolates.”
T
hey just stared at her, dumbfounded. For nearly one minute, she watched as they mutually attempted to comprehend this information.
“You messin’ with us?” Bert said.
“No. I am not.”
“Prove it,” Ernie stated.
“I make them with the finest high altitude honey kissed from the bees, a titch of cinnamon, a wisp of ginger and a moderate dollop of the best Madagascar vanilla beans in the world. They melt in your mouth like ambrosia. And when that chocolate hits your stomach, the angels sing.”
Ernie looked like he wanted to drop to his knees. Bert was equally shell-shocked.
“Oh, my God,” Ernie stuttered.
“Our dad is gonna freak the hell out when he finds out we’re towing the Betty’s rig!” Bert exclaimed.
“The Betty?” she queried.
“Excuse my language, ma’am,” Bert continued, nearly hyperventilating. “But you’re not just an icon in our family. You’re a fuckin’ icon!” He grabbed her luggage. “Please have a seat in our truck!”
And so there she was, pressed between them in the center front seat of the large truck. Bert and Ernie reached across and fist bumped each other and then motioned for Betty to lift her fist so they could both touch it.
“Damn! It’s like meetin’ Cheech!” Ernie effusively gushed.
“Or Chong!” Bert added.
Bert slid in a CD and Joe Cocker blared “Feelin’ Alright” into the warm night air as they enthusiastically made the short trip down the road to their repair shop and home. One by one, Bert and Ernie’s entire family greeted Betty with the kind of veneration set aside for the Pope or Mick Jagger. After offering her every kind of food and beverage imaginable, Bert took Betty by the arm and explained he would be honored if she would take a look at the “family grow op.”
She agreed, silently hoping they didn’t want her to bless it. While Ernie fiddled with her Taurus, Bert led her across the large compound and into a remodeled Quonset hut that held over fifty huge cannabis plants in full bloom.
“How many plants are you allowed to grow?” she asked.
