Betty's (Little Basement) Garden

by Laurel Dewey

  In the midst of potential chaos breaking out, Betty realized that something was terribly wrong with her friend. She’d always noticed her propensity to occasionally drink too much in the past, but there was something else. Betty couldn’t believe she’d been so blind to it. “If you detest them so much, why do you keep hosting this party?”

  She was silent, studying the amber reflections in her cut crystal glass. “Because…you just do. You just keep doing the same fucking thing, day in and day out until you drop dead. You do it because it’s what you’ve always done. End of story.”

  Betty regarded her with compassion. “Maybe you should rethink that mindset.”

  Judi stared at her with glazed eyes. “Rethink…that…mindset? What in the hell? What’s happened to you, Betty? Who in the hell are you? You’ve changed. I can’t sit across from you anymore and dish about all the stupid things in the world that don’t matter. I can’t count on you to indulge me in a harmless game of gossip. It’s not fun anymore.” A shadow of grief engulfed her. “You’re my only real true friend in this world. You’re the only one I can always depend on and trust with everything. All the rest of them are just cushions to keep my life at arm’s length. But you’ve abandoned me for some reason, and I don’t know what I’ve done.” She gripped Betty’s arm. “Tell me what I’ve done so we can put this behind us and get back to normal.” She twisted the cap off the whiskey bottle again and poured herself another three fingers of booze.

  “I think you should slow down.”

  Her tone instantaneously flipped. “And I told you that wasn’t your decision!” She sloppily poured the whiskey into her glass.

  Betty felt the sting of a memory rise up. She’d had this same drunken argument too many times in the past, with someone who could turn meaner than a sack of snakes, faster than green grass through a goose. She knew from heartbreaking experience it was better to back off than fuel the fire with sensible suggestions.

  “Frankly,” Judi took a sip, “I think I should speed up the adult beverage consumption, so I can handle the remainder of this red hot mess. In about half an hour, we’ll move to the portion of the afternoon where they all take turns thanking me for putting the party together, and complimenting us on what a ‘fantastic home’ we have for entertaining. Then they’ll drone on about how the partners are going to expand the practice next year, so they can kick some serious ass! Honestly, Betty, I’d have a strong drink if I were you. You gotta fortify yourself for that part of the festivities. I never really saw the big business of medicine until I married a doctor. I thought I was married to someone who actually wanted to heal people. What a stupid cow I was. Medicine is a business, Betty. And business is very good.”

  “Judi,” Betty stressed, equally worried for her friend as she was for the four remaining unsuspecting guests. “I’m not disregarding or ignoring anything you’re telling me. But I’m really not feeling well at all, and I do think we need to seriously consider the fact that others might begin to experience some of these symptoms –”

  “Good. I hope they drop like flies drenched in Raid. At least it’ll be one of the more memorable parties I’ve thrown. One by one, to watch these self-important fucks fall over. I can’t wait.”

  “I’m not kidding! Perhaps I could ask for everyone’s attention and explain the possible issue with the strawberries –”

  “Betty, put down the crack pipe and consider what you just said. You bring up to these people that there might be a ‘possible issue’ in which they might start to feel sick, and everyone’s going to start believing they’re sick. Everyone! Even the ones who haven’t eaten the goddamn strawberries. Ever heard of the placebo effect? It’s real! I’ve seen it in action. Roger ran out of anti-depressant samples for his patients two months ago, so he gave them placebos until the new shipment arrived. Every single one of those bastards reported back to him that those pills changed their lives and cured their depression. If that wasn’t a total mind fuck, I don’t know what was!”

  Betty was just about to question how feeling better was a “mind fuck” when Helen approached them. She stood there, with arms outstretched, captivated by a small crack in the ceiling.

  “Aren’t words interesting?” Helen said, eyes as glassy as a still mountain lake. “Like the word ‘therapist.’ If you make it two words, you get ‘the rapist.’ And Santa. Flip the letters around and you get ‘Satan.’” She stared blankly at the women. “What do you think that means?”

  They regarded Helen in stunned silence for a long thirty seconds.

  “Pesticides.” Betty finally whispered to Judi.

  Judi observed Helen through inebriated eyes. “Your little friend, Peyton, was right,” she whispered back to Betty. “I think we need to keep an eye on her.”

  Helen laid down on one of the couches and promptly fell into such a deep sleep that Judi’s Persian cat was able to groom himself while balancing across her chest. An hour later, Betty noticed the portly husband of one of the office receptionists staring a little too long at the floral centerpiece. The remaining guests that unknowingly drew the short cannabis straws that early evening included an eighty-year-old retired doctor and an X-ray technician. Both of them seemed unaware of the cause for their sudden disorientation. As their respective partners helped them to their cars and the party broke up, one of the catering waitresses sidled next to Betty, grinning like a seasoned pro.

  “So, who made the chocolates?” the waitress asked, visibly enjoying the buzz.

  Betty put a protective arm around her and pointed across the room. “See that elderly lady over there sound asleep with the Persian on her chest?” Betty sighed. “She brought them.”

  Once she knew every edible had been accounted for, Betty grabbed her cooler in the kitchen and said goodbye to Judi. Their parting was awkward, as Judi was slumped across a leather chair in the den, mindlessly channel surfing with the sound on mute. Even though the catering waitress was well aware the chocolates were spiked, she thankfully kept mum. Betty insisted on driving the girl home and helping her into the house.

  “That ol’ lady sure knows how to cook with weed!” the girl declared, as Betty helped her to the couch and left only after she fell into a deep sleep.

  Driving home, Betty realized there was one thing to be grateful for – Renée wasn’t at the party. According to Judi, Renée decided at the last minute to ditch the party in favor of having bad coffee with her sponsor. If she had attended and eaten one of the cannabis-laced chocolates, her savvy, drug-discerning taste buds would know exactly what was causing the strange effects, and she’d have quickly honed in on the source.

  Betty whipped up the balance of the double-strength chocolates for Jean, re-boxed them and alerted Arthur that she’d bring them over to their house early the next day.

  On the hour-long drive to their house on Monday, Betty had a chance to reflect on the previous day’s confusion. It was another close call that she somehow evaded. But one thing was apparent – the opportunities for being discovered were ramping up exponentially. Her double life she’d been able to keep separated was beginning to overlap. It was obvious that her underground popularity – something she had no control over – had usurped her calculating and cautious strategy. She was in the unusual position of being a cannabis “rock star” on one side of the fence and a vague, unknown commodity on the other. Judi was right when she said, “Who in the hell are you?” Betty couldn’t answer that. She wasn’t her old self, but she wasn’t committed to the new Betty either. She floated somewhere in the middle ground, with not even a toe pointed in either direction. And yet, here she was, parking in front of a terminally ill woman’s house and delivering fifteen super-charged cannabis chocolates to her bedside. The dichotomy was palpable.

  Betty didn’t want to linger too long by Jean’s side. She was sliding downhill fast, and there was nothing Betty could offer her except a few soothing words and a genuine smile. Death, that onerous bedfellow, was slinking closer to Jean. However, as much
as Betty wanted to keep her at arm’s length, she couldn’t do it. She felt compelled to assist her with anything she needed, even though the reality of Jean’s impending demise was kicking Betty in the teeth. She’d certainly progressed from her stilted visit with Peggy on her deathbed, but the part of her that held back, allowing fear to dictate the next move, was still present. The only thing clearly evident was that Jean was truly benefiting from the cannabis chocolates. There was an undeniable comfort watching as the herb took hold and washed the pain from Jean’s gaunt face. As her suffering subsided, the grace of the plant took over, infusing Jean with a calm dignity and philosophical approach.

  “You’ve never seen a good death, have you Betty?” Jean asked her.

  “I didn’t know there was such a thing,” she whispered.

  Jean softly smiled. “They happen every day. I plan to go ‘gentle into that good night.”

  When Betty returned home, there was a message on her voicemail from Jeff. Apparently, there was a Hoedown/Carnival/Barbeque at Love Park in four days on Friday night. It was something different, he mentioned on his message, and he wanted to know if she’d go with him. “Something different,” she said to herself. And that’s when she realized it was all “different.” Nothing was predictable any longer. Any control she thought she had was gone. The roller coaster of change was moving so quickly now, and she was starting to resent it. Yes, she told herself, it was one thing to be bored out of her gourd and want a little excitement to mix things up. But what had thinking outside the box done for her except create more confusion, more fear and a greater desire to hide?

  Freedom, it seemed, had a precipitous price. It required one to remove the safety nets and accept that failure was as much a possibility as wild success. It demanded continual adjustment and reassessment of all the old paradigms that were comforting but not typically healthy. It stipulated that one frequently travel outside one’s constrictive comfort zone and navigate in that space, trusting one’s abilities to shore up their confidence and make it easier each time. Liberation from one’s past was a journey, not a destination. The tender ego needed to release its chokehold on propriety and admit it made mistakes. In short, that long metal rod that had been placed up one’s nether regions and held one’s spine in a rigid, inflexible position had to be surgically removed. The only surgeon who could successfully do the operation was oneself, and the only scalpel needed was courage.

  But like so many who needed that procedure, the fear of removing their self-imposed rod and choosing to support one’s spine with experience, knowledge and blind faith overwhelmed the senses and easily overrode the extrication of the steel stick. And that is where Betty Craven was stuck – between a metal rod and a very hard place. So she stood there after listening to Jeff’s voicemail and stared into the void. She wasn’t dead yet, but she hadn’t been born either. She was just drifting in a swell of uncertainty, desperate for the safety of convention, yet tempted by the appeal of independence. She couldn’t help but recall Jean’s words to her during their second visit. “Enlightenment… Too bad it usually has to come with such a steep price.”

  She dialed his number several times, hanging up each time before the call went through. Her hands were shaking and her gut felt empty and hollow. Betty could feel panic nipping at her heels and working its way up her body. Soon, it would engulf her and paralyze progress. Just before it reached her heart, the phone rang. It was Jeff.

  “Hey, babe,” he said. “I’ve gotten three calls in a row from you with a hang up. What’s going on?”

  What in the hell – she thought. She never heard a dial tone. Wonderful. Now, it was even more awkward. “Something’s wrong with my landline. I never heard a dial tone so I hung up.” Her voice was halted, absent of any warmth.

  “Okay…” he offered. “Did you get my message?”

  “Yes. A hoedown, eh? I usually don’t attend functions with the word ‘ho’ in them.” Betty chuckled nervously at her tense reach for humor.

  “It’s a very laid back event. We can just walk around, grab a bite to eat and if you don’t like it, we can go.”

  He was so accommodating. “Okay,” Betty said, wondering a split second after she spoke why she agreed. “Why don’t I meet you halfway? In case parking is difficult, we’ll only have one car.”

  “Yeah…finding a place to park a motorcycle is always one of my pet peeves.”

  She noted something different in his voice. A mild exasperation; an edge forming where there had always been softness and acceptance. Was her self-fulfilling prophecy finally coming to fruition? Suddenly, she wanted to regain control of the situation. “You know what I’m talking about,” Betty assured him, doing everything possible to “church up” her tenor. “It’s just easier traveling in one vehicle.”

  Jeff agreed to meet her in a mall parking lot about a mile from Love Park at five o’clock on Friday night. She haphazardly invited him for dinner on Wednesday, but he told her that he still had lot of inventory to finish that week. When she hung up, she felt as if she’d just played a tennis game with a savvy person who knew how the game was going to end before the first serve.

  ~~~

  Love Park was just beginning to fill up with visitors when they arrived on Friday night. The sounds of fiddle and banjo music greeted them as they walked up the grassy berm that surrounded the park. Fragrant waves of fatty smoke wafted nearby, signaling a long row of food vendors. Jeff took her hand in his.

  “You know,” he said, “I never finished telling you the story of Stuart Love and his ghost.”

  They started walking into the center of the park when Betty heard her name called. She instantly released Jeff’s hand and turned around.

  Judi and Renée stood there, each juggling several cardboard trays of food and drinks. The two women regarded Betty with quizzical expressions.

  “Well, hello,” Betty replied, feeling her blood pressure track up twenty points.

  There was a surge of heavy silence, in which her friends traced Jeff’s body up and down.

  “Jeff?” Judi finally said, securing one of her trays under the other.

  “Hey, Judi. How’s it going?” he replied in a comfortable manner.

  “Going well, thank you,” Judi offered, a bit pulled back. “Rotary Club has a booth here. Roger is holding down the fort so we could get some food for everyone.”

  Betty remained silent.

  Jeff eyed the heap of barbeque and sundry items on their trays. “Looking forward to trying out the ribs again this year.”

  Renée looked baffled. “Are you and –”

  “Yes,” Betty interrupted her. “I want to try the ribs too! Can’t wait!”

  Jeff glanced at her.

  Betty pointed to their overflowing trays. “You better get those back to everyone before you drop them.”

  But nobody moved. And even though there was lively music playing and people happily chatting and children laughing all around them, the wedge of gracelessness was blatant in their orbit, drowning out the carefree joie de vivre.

  “Yes,” Judi finally said. “Enjoy the evening.”

  Judi and Renée quickly walked away and into the park.

  Betty started off toward the periphery of the festivities and then stopped ten feet later, when she realized Jeff hadn’t moved. She turned to find him staring at her, with eyes she’d never seen before. They weren’t angry or on the verge of rage. Instead, they were guarded and rimmed with dejection. “You coming?” she asked, feeling the appearance of that false smile grip her face.

  “You let go of my hand,” he said.

  “Did I? Oh, I…I didn’t realize I did. Come on. Gotta grab those ribs!”

  He didn’t move a muscle. “I was always under the impression cannabis makes you more tolerant. More introspective. More forgiving. You seem to be fighting against that too.”

  The minute he said the word “cannabis,” Betty’s gut clenched and she moved toward him quickly. “Please don’t mention that word here
so loudly,” she implored.

  “Which one? Forgiving?”

  Her spine stiffened. “Very funny. You know exactly what I’m –”

  “You asked to meet me halfway here today. That’s so my bike isn’t seen at your house anymore. Can’t have the neighbors asking too many questions, can you?”

  “Why are you –”

  “Here’s the irony. I’m meeting you halfway, but you’re not even halfway in this relationship anymore.”

  The whole thing felt like a dream to Betty. Her perfectly manicured world was being held together with staples and rusty paper clips. She looked at Jeff and her heart still craved his touch. But she still stood there lost. “Please,” she begged him. “Don’t do this.”

  “You’re doing this, Betty. Not me.” An unexpected stern tone laced his words. “Is this just a game for you? Am I a game? Is the pot a game? Are we both just distractions on your way back to a sensible life?”

  Betty glanced around at the crowd. “Don’t make a scene. Please.”

  “I’m not making a scene. I’m simply asking you a question.” He looked her straight in eyes. “Do you care about me?”

  “Yes. I care a great deal for you.”

  “Great.” He took her by the hand. “Let’s go down to that Rotary booth where your friends are hanging out and make a formal introduction.”

  Betty pulled back. “No!” She shook off his hand like an impudent child.

  Jeff stared at her in stony silence.

  “Look, Jeff, you know I’m a private person. I don’t flaunt my life in front of people. I never have and I’m not starting now.”

  “I’m not asking you to flaunt anything, Betty. I’m simply asking you to acknowledge to your friends that I exist and that we exist as a couple. Why is that so hard for you to do?”