Betty's (Little Basement) Garden

by Laurel Dewey

  Betty raced to the window and peered around the corner. There was Helen’s old sedan parked behind the Pontiac. She dashed down the stairs and tore into the kitchen. Out of breath, she stood there in shock as Helen sat at the kitchen table arm’s length from Helen the clone, which stood proudly in a brilliant beam of sunlight.

  “Helen!” Betty exclaimed. “I didn’t hear you drive in, darling.”

  “I have to talk to you. Could you sit down?”

  Betty took a seat across from her, peering over the top leaf of the cannabis plant. “What is it?”

  “Do you know what it feels like to be my age?”

  “No.”

  “It sucks. I hate it. Something is either leaking out of me or it’s backed up and can’t get out. Everything hurts, including brushing my hair. I can’t hold thirteen playing cards in my hands anymore, because my fingers are all twisted from arthritis. That killed my bridge game every Wednesday afternoon. The side effects from all my pills are now worse than the symptoms I had when I started taking them in the first place. I can’t sleep through the night so I doze through the day. Are you getting the picture?”

  “I’m not sure.” Betty scooted the plant a few inches to the side. The shock of carrying on this conversation across a table that held a cannabis plant was beginning to pale in comparison to Helen’s sudden garrulous spurt.

  Helen leaned forward. “I don’t have a lot to look forward to!” she yelled, pounding the table with her fist. As she brought her hand back, she hit the black pot and accidentally tipped over the cannabis clone.

  Betty jumped up, but Helen stood up and righted the pot.

  “I’ve got it!” Helen admonished, dragging the one-gallon container toward her with her crooked, arthritic fingers, and putting back the clumps of wet dirt that fell from it. “What I’m trying to get across to you is that I live for Judi’s annual, idiotic, summer party. I mark it on my AARP calendar every goddamn January. I buy a new pair of orthotics just in case I have to stand too long in the buffet line. I can’t remember the people from one year to the next but that’s okay, because all they do is drone on about insipid things I don’t care about. I get to sit in a chair, eat moderately good food, drink average cognac and forget for three hours that any day now it’ll be time to tune the harp and cue the organ music for my funeral!” She plugged the last clump of dirt in the pot and pushed it away from her with indifference. “And now you want to take that away from me!”

  “Me? What are you – ?”

  “I got a call from Judi yesterday that I should take it easy and not bother coming on Sunday. I pressed her further and found out you told her I’m dying!”

  “Dying? I said no such thing!” Betty scoffed, even though she knew Helen had been planning her own funeral since she turned twenty-one. “You could have lots of life still in you, dear. Imagine all the medical wonders on the horizon. You could live to be one hundred. And you know the advantage of that, Helen? No peer pressure!”

  Helen screwed her face into an ugly scowl. “Is that supposed to be funny? Live to one hundred? Are you kidding me? If I live to eighty, drag me out behind the barn and shoot me!” She stood up. “Oh, and white patches?” she grimaced. “What are white patches? The only white patches I know about are the ones in that skin condition Michael Jackson had. Do I look remotely like Michael Jackson to you?”

  “No, darling. You’re much shorter.” Betty tried to stifle a smile. Something about the entire scene and elderly umbrage was becoming so hysterically incongruous, that Betty wasn’t sure how long she could contain herself.

  “This is not funny, Betty!” Helen roared. “I’m going to that damn party and you’re not stopping me!” She leaned over the clone, brushing her shirt against the tips of the leaves. “You’re going to call Judi, and tell her that I’m just fine. That you misjudged my health. You make it clear to her that I’m not going to pot!”

  Betty snorted an unexpected laugh.

  “When in the hell did I become such an amusement for you?!” Helen exclaimed.

  Betty got up and moved Helen toward the door. “I’ll see you tomorrow at the party.” Helen wasn’t even out the door before Betty collapsed into a fit of giggles.

  The next morning, Betty boxed up the chocolates for Jean, adding a few extra decorative flairs to the ribbon to brighten her spirits, before setting the box in her freezer. Turning her attention to the thirty plain chocolates for Judi’s party, she arranged them on a platter lined with a silver satin cloth that had once graced the shelves at The White Violet. Seeing the cloth brought her back to the bittersweet memories of her chic chocolate shop. That memory spurred the image of the antique white violet print, which in turn prompted the recollection of Frankie’s torn drawing showing a near carbon copy of that section in the watercolor print. She could ignore it all she wanted or attempt to explain it away, but the fact remained that somehow her young son’s pencil drawing predicted the appearance of that watercolor. Betty wandered into the living room and picked up the framed print that still rested on the credenza next to his photos. Why this print? It had to have some sort of meaning to Frankie for him to give it to her during their last visit. The mere fact she chose to name her chocolate store The White Violet leant credence to the idea that, for whatever unknown reason, the enigmatic watercolor held some significance.

  She spent the following morning weeding in her front garden and attempting to bring it halfway up to its usual splendor. But to her dismay, Betty noticed many of the perennials she had lovingly and patiently cultivated throughout the years were struggling. Some were dying and others were stunted. Looking closer, she couldn’t see any root rot or infestation taking hold. But one by one, her treasured, prize-winning flowers were disintegrating in front of her stunned eyes. The ring of her phone interrupted the sad scene. Checking the Caller ID, Betty saw that it was “Bert ‘n’ Ernie’s” calling. Her ol’ Taurus was ready to be picked up, and according to an effusive Bert, “it was now running like a rabid cougar on the prowl.” He also announced he wasn’t charging her, because the “honor of caressing her engine” was payment enough. Worship was one thing, Betty told herself, but a fair exchange for prompt, excellent service was essential.

  “If you won’t take my money, would you take twenty-five chocolates?”

  Bert starting weeping like a little girl, which Betty took as a “yes.”

  The clock was ticking down to the three o’clock start of Judi’s party, and the ghastly thought of showing up in a Pontiac with a muffler that announced her arrival four blocks away was not appealing. Thus, with her characteristic verve and shoulder to the grindstone mentality, Betty effortlessly melted, poured and froze the chocolates for Bert and Ernie. She kept a watchful eye out for Arthur who promised he’d show up to collect Jean’s order. But by 1:00 when she was ready to go, there was no sign of him. She set a cooler with Jean’s chocolates by the back door in the shade and left a message on his voicemail, directing him to their location. With Bert and Ernie’s chocolates in tow, she blew out of her driveway in the Pontiac, setting the neighborhood dogs on point, and drove with gusto to pick up her Taurus.

  Since it was a Sunday, the forty-five minute journey was relatively quick and free of traffic. When she arrived, she was shocked to find fifteen new people waiting to meet her. It was just a tad disarming, given their somewhat odd attire. One woman wore a garland of fresh cannabis leaves strung around her neck, which she ceremoniously bestowed on Betty. A man wearing a Bob Marley tie-dye t-shirt wore hoop earrings, through which a small, dried cannabis bud hung. They were a peculiar bunch of folks, Betty decided, but they were also extremely kind and munificent. When they weren’t expressing their heartfelt gratitude for her “green talent,” they were eagerly inviting her to visit their grow ops and the use of their “premium shake” if she ever ran out and was in need. What started out with a bit of a circus milieu, developed into a relaxed discussion that revolved continually around the cannabis plant. Betty became so involved in the
various conversations that time slipped by too quickly. But when she glanced at a clock, and saw it was 3:30, she jumped up from the hemp-clothed futon and dashed to her car.

  Betty Craven was never late to her destination. And now, for the first time, her excuse was that she was engaged with an uncommonly gregarious group of ganja aficionados. No, that story wasn’t going to float, she pondered as she put the pedal to the metal to see what her overhauled, rabid-cougar engine could do. As the clock closed in on 4:20, however, she suddenly realized she’d left the party chocolates at her house. She pounded the steering wheel in frustration and made a quick turn back to her home. This wasn’t like Betty. She wasn’t scatterbrained and tardy. What in God’s name was happening to her, she scolded herself.

  Arriving at her house, she dashed from the car and through the back gate. Arthur had thankfully shown up to retrieve the cooler. That was one less thing to worry about, she reasoned, as she went inside to collect the chocolates. As she quickly removed the platter of chocolates from the freezer, her attention was drawn to the blinking light on her phone. Punching the button, she heard Arthur’s voice.

  “Hi, Betty. I can’t make it over to your house today. I need to stay here with Jean. If there’s any way you can come to our place tomorrow, we’d appreciate it. Thanks.”

  Betty momentarily froze. Her first thought was that Jean might have taken a turn for the worse. That grave realization was followed by the question of where in the hell was the cooler of Jean’s medicated chocolates? No sooner had that thought troubled her already frenzied mind than the phone rang. It was Judi, and she wasn’t happy.

  “Where are you?” Judi asked in a slurred voice.

  “I’m just leaving now,” Betty replied, carefully placing the frozen platter into a quilted casserole carrier.

  “You’re never late! Ever! Why now? Why today?” Judi’s voice was growing irrational.

  “I’ll just grab the chocolates and be there in a jiffy!”

  “We’ve already got your chocolates ready to go on the table!” Judi announced. “Helen was running a little late, so I told her to stop by your place. She found the cooler at the back door. All that’s missing is you!”

  Betty grabbed the counter to steady herself. “I’ll be right there.” She hung up, as her life flashed before her eyes. It was closing in on 4:30. Dessert would be served at any moment. “Shit!” she screamed, racing out the door with the platter of chocolates. It was official. Helen could foul up a two-car funeral.

  Chapter 30

  “You’ve never seen a good death, have you Betty?”

  Betty forced her newly repaired car to work for its supper, as she floored it nearly all the way to Judi’s house. She double-parked, grabbed the quilted casserole carrier and raced to the back of the house. Slipping quietly past a few guests and edging into the large, empty kitchen, she spied her cooler. The lid was off and the elegantly wrapped box and ribbon were carelessly tossed on the granite-topped island. Retrieving the box and ribbon, she dropped it into the cooler and kicked it closer to the door that led into the living room. Peering into the crowded room, all she could see were the backs of guests, chatting and eating off paper plates. Leaning around the corner, she eyed the dessert table covered with the antique tablecloth she given Judi. There, proudly featured in the center, was a silver platter and the cannabis chocolates.

  Betty crept to the table, picked up the platter and whisked it back into the kitchen. She had to think for a second how many chocolates she made for Jean. Fifteen. Yes, fifteen. She counted the remaining chocolates and ended up with nine. Oh, dear Lord, she thought, swallowing hard. Betty frantically transferred the nine cannabis chocolates into their box in the cooler, lifted the plain chocolates off her platter inside of the satin cloth and spread them as beautifully as she could on Judi’s silver platter before anyone saw the subterfuge. She had to ferret out the six remaining chocolates or somehow find which unsuspecting partygoers were about to feel some unusual effects.

  Betty adopted her best pageant walk and smile and strolled back into the living room, silver platter in hand. Moving around the periphery of the room, she tried to scope out any discarded or uneaten chocolates. But the minute she considered that possibility, she realized how highly unlikely that scenario would be, given the rapturous ecstasy her chocolates tended to induce. And yet, as dumb luck would have it, she spied one lonely chocolate on a dessert dish stationed on a small table. Like a magician trained in the art of sleight of hand, Betty collected the cannabis-infused chocolate and replaced it with a plain one from her silver party platter.

  “One down,” she said to herself. “Five to go.”

  Betty walked around the room, first asking the guests if they’d had a chocolate yet, before offering them one from her platter. No one mentioned anything about already eating one, but there were guests scattered around the house and property. One person might have eaten two. And there was no way to know who might have already enjoyed one and left early. That latter possibility nearly sent her head spinning, when she heard a woman’s voice behind her.

  “I’ll have another chocolate!”

  Betty turned and took in a little gasp. It was Helen.

  “Why are you shocked to see me?” Helen asked her. “I thought I had your blessing to be here.” She took one chocolate off the platter. “I think you need to check the expiration date on your ingredients. The first one I ate tasted like a lawn with the septic tank flooding.” Helen sunk back in her chair and popped the chocolate into her mouth.

  Betty felt as though everything slowed down at that point. The panic and realization of what could soon transpire – how she could potentially be both exposed and held accountable all in one breath – gripped her hard. The scandal would linger forever in Paradox, with her reputation tarnished permanently. She was just beginning to picture the throng of journalists camped in front of her house, when she felt a tap on her shoulder. She turned to find Judi staring at her with steely resentment.

  “What in the hell are you doing, Betty?” she asked her, clearly unsteady on her feet. “I didn’t hire you to serve chocolates.” She snagged a white-shirted catering waitress and handed the young girl the silver platter. Grabbing Betty by the arm, she pulled her toward the bar in the far corner of the living room. “An hour and a half late!” she said with a drunken sneer. “And I have to call your house and chase you down like a rebellious child!” She spilled her drink across the bar. “Oh, shit! That’s the second time today!” She twisted the top off another bottle of whiskey.

  “I really do think you’ve had enough, darling,” Betty cautioned, momentarily forgetting the impending disaster.

  “You don’t get to make that decision today,” Judi said, pouring three fingers of scotch into her glass. “I serve the guests the fruity shit.” She pointed to a round table near the front door. “I keep the good stuff for myself.”

  Betty peered across the room at a punchbowl that held a frothy orange liquid. “What’s that?”

  “Some kind of fermented mango juice the caterer guaranteed would be the showstopper for my party.”

  Betty was glad she had a bar to hang onto at that moment. She instantly recalled Dottie’s assertion that if someone ate a really-ripe mango an hour prior to consuming cannabis, the effects of the herb would increase. Fermented mango? Yeah, that would get the party ball rolling pretty fast, leading up to the real showstopper.

  “What do you want to drink? Bourbon?” Judi asked.

  Betty’s head swirled, trying to figure out how to stop this nightmare without risking her reputation in the process. “Actually, I don’t want anything. I’m…” She looked around the room. “I’m not feeling that well. I think I’m having a reaction to…” Betty honed in on her target. “To those strawberries over there.” Betty scanned the room and realized that nearly every plate had a large strawberry or two on it.

  “Strawberries?” Judi replied in a flippant tone. “What are you talking about?”

  “P
esticides,” Betty blurted out.

  “Huh?”

  “They heavily spray conventionally grown strawberries with lots of pesticides. It’s been all over the TV. Haven’t you heard about it?” She said it so convincingly she almost began to believe it was the top story on the evening news. “They use over thirty-five chemicals on that poor, little, innocent red fruit. They mentioned that the effects of those chemicals after ingesting them are almost immediate. There’s dizziness, confusion, extreme fatigue, a slight buzzing in the head –”

  “Really? You just described how I feel for the first ninety minutes of every single morning. Try again, Betty.”

  “I’m serious, Judi,” she casually observed Helen across the room. She was still glued to her chair and showing her usual disinterest in everything. “I really don’t feel top shelf. Unless those strawberries are organic –”

  “Organic? Excuse me, but look at this crowd.” She gulped the whiskey. “You think I’d waste organic strawberries on these pill poppers? They’re all so over-medicated, their livers operate in another zip code and their brains have all turned to Swiss Cheese. Expensive Swiss Cheese, mind you, but it’s still cheese with gaping holes. They don’t care about organics or free-range! Go on! Ask them! Bet they’ll tell you that a free-range chicken is chicken you don’t pay for!”