by Laurel Dewey
It took her almost an hour to completely rid the room of the stench and lingering smoke. She kept the door to the bloom room closed, but she knew the lights were already out in there. As the storm subsided, she walked outside to check her veg girls. It was nothing short of a nuclear holocaust. One by one their leaves continued to curl, and there was nothing she could do to stop it. All the months of careful nurturing and labor were being destroyed in front of her. “Why?” she plaintively asked. All she could do now was return them to the aired out veg room and let them linger in the dark until morning. As she stood in the darkened basement, that familiar tightening in her jaw reappeared. Her neck began to spasm, and as if on cue, her right ear fluttered in that damned syncopated beat. She grabbed her ear. “Oh God, not again!”
It wasn’t until she walked back up the stairs that she saw the note Peyton taped to the basement door. “Started sulfur at 9:15. Helen’s clones needed it, so all of them in the veg are getting a dose too. DON’T GO INTO THE BASEMENT UNTIL MORNING.” And there was a P.S. “Hung out with Ronald. You need to check on him.”
Betty’s heart began to pound, as she raced up the stairs and turned on the light in her bedroom. There was Ronald, curled up on the bed. She stood in the doorway, wanting to move forward, yet petrified of that queasy feeling in her gut. “Ronald?” she softly asked. When he still didn’t stir, Betty reluctantly walked over and sat on the edge of the bed. “Ronald, darling?” She touched his head but he didn’t respond. Kneeling by the side of the bed, she looked at him more closely. His body was still slightly warm, but he had slipped peacefully from this world. A swell of emotion hit hard, as she crumbled to the carpet. Those familiar walls moved in tightly around her, as the impact of so many losses enveloped her. Finally, she worked up the courage to touch him again. Cradling his limp body in her arms like a baby, she rocked him back and forth. “You were a good cat, Ronald the third. Thank you for being a loyal friend.” Once she got her wits back, Betty found a box and towel, and placed his body inside. She would take him to the emergency vet’s office the next day and have him cremated.
But for now, the familiar darkness that had followed and shrouded her for so many years seized her body. She’d come so far and now it was all falling away, bit by bit, friendship by friendship. “You gotta hit rock bottom,” she recalled Greg telling her earlier that evening, “and then rebuild from there.” But how? Everything seemed meaningless to her. What was the point of her three months of enlightenment – of intense love and heartfelt satisfaction – if all of it was destined to be shattered in the end? The same feelings that hollowed her soul the night Frankie died reemerged. On that night, five years earlier, she’d wandered into the backyard and lay on the ground under the elm tree, begging God for answers. She felt the wet dirt beneath her palms and the kiss of the leaves as they fell across her aching body. And somehow, when she awoke in the same place the next morning, she was able to get up and keep going. It was as if the earth had infused her with enough strength to continue.
So, guided by that memory, Betty walked back to the basement, feeling her way in the coal darkness, and walked into the pitch-black bloom room, closing the door behind her. There, amidst the intoxicating buds, she lay down and prayed to the same God. Then, as slumber overwhelmed the pain, she finally let go. For the first time in her life, Betty Craven let go.
~~~
The bloom lights burst on at eight o’clock the following morning, quickly awakening Betty. Even with the fans blowing and the intake and outtake fans turned on, her head swam from the dizzying aromas. She looked up at her girls swaying back and forth and smiled. She checked their leaves and buds; the distinguished sparkling residue of sulfur that had been sucked in by the fans could be seen. But except for the disagreeable, rotten egg odor that was evident on closer examination, they all seemed to be holding up well. The other girls in the veg room, however, were not as fortunate. Helen’s clones were all but dead. Only one, surrounded by blackened leaves, had a complete center stalk. Most of the remaining clones had lost their entire top-half, with only a few lower branches barely alive. But something ignited inside of Betty. Instead of falling into a crevice of gloom, she was determined to turn this all around. Even against the sorrow of losing Ronald, Betty felt a budding strength overtake her. As it moved through her, she realized the spasm in her neck was gone, her jaw had loosened and the perplexing flutter in her ear had disappeared.
She called Peyton and he came over immediately. After telling him about Ronald’s passing, she told him about the girls. It wasn’t clear which news hit him the hardest. After examining the plants, he almost started to cry.
“Some of these are gone, Betty.”
“They’re quite resilient. You’ve told me that before.”
“They can’t come back from the dead.”
“Look at the stalks!” she said, pointing to one of the Kushberry girls that only had a thin stalk left. “They’re strong! They have a lot of willpower. I just need to figure out how to reboot them!”
“Reboot? They’re plants, not computers.” He glanced around the room, shaking his head. “I can’t help you on this one, Betty.”
She walked out into the main room as Peyton followed. Even though she’d swept up most of the debris, the occasional glass shard was still evident where the tree trunk burst through the window.
“When is Jeff showing up with his chainsaw?”
Betty felt her stomach tighten. “This is a job for a tree service.”
Peyton regarded her carefully. “Did you tell him about Ronald and the girls?”
“Not yet. Watch your step, dear. There are still small glass shards –”
“Why not?” he pressed her. “He liked Ronald.”
She searched for a proper lie that wouldn’t confuse the issue, but quickly realized how the process was already tiring her. “I just haven’t, Peyton.” She turned on the radio to the classical station, as the top of the hour news began. The lead local story was another solo protest by Doobie Douggie along a stretch of highway near his home. Apparently, the “Pope of Dope,” as the reporter disparagingly referred to him, had wheeled himself out onto the overpass that crossed the highway from his home and hung an enormous, red flag from the bridge, decorated with a huge, bright-green cannabis leaf. The man, as always, loved to wave his many flags. However, the visual distraction caused several minor accidents as well as gridlock. As Douggie was cited for the disturbance, he wasted no time and launched into a loud rebuke of the policies that made his venerated plant illegal.
Betty turned to Peyton. “That’s it! If anyone knows how to fix this, he does.”
Peyton followed Betty back up the stairs. “You’ve gotta be kidding me! Did you suck up too much sulfur into your lungs last night?”
“I know exactly where that highway is. It’s right near Dottie’s ranch. It’s a small area. I bet she knows where he lives.”
“Betty, you cannot just show up at this guy’s house and expect him to welcome you! He’s kinda out there. You know what I’m sayin’? He’s smart as hell but –”
“Peyton, I don’t give a damn if he’s one wicker chair short of a summer patio set. Nobody knows cannabis like Douggie. When I have a problem, I go to the source!”
“He carries a gun, Betty. A gun?”
“I have a gun too, Peyton. Should I bring it along?” She marched into the kitchen, with Peyton right on her heels.
“Betty, he’s like a rock star. He’s really private. He’s a grower, not a shower. You won’t get past his gate!”
“Yes, I will.” She brought out her cacao powder and plain cocoa butter.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m going to make him some chocolates. With honey. You can catch more bees with honey, you know?”
“Betty, you’re not hearing me! Douggie is not like the rest of us. He doesn’t believe in daylight saving time. He thinks it’s a government conspiracy to throw off the flowering light-cycle of his blooming cannabis p
lants! He has a target of Nixon’s face he shoots, with Nixon’s nose as the bulls-eye. This is not the kind of person who allows anyone to just show up unannounced!”
She stopped what she was doing and turned to Peyton. “Fear doesn’t motivate me anymore, Peyton. So I suggest you put on an apron and start stirring.”
Three hours later on that Sunday afternoon, Betty was on the road. With Ronald tucked into a box on her backseat, she stopped first at the 24-hour emergency vet’s office outside of town and carried her dearly loved cat inside. She made the arrangements to have him cremated, said her tearful goodbye and left.
Her next stop was Dottie’s ranch. When she got to the gate, Hugh, the ranch manager, answered the intercom and buzzed her inside. Before she rolled to a stop, he was right there waiting for her, with a terribly worried expression.
“I need to speak to Dottie right away,” Betty told him, getting out of the car.
“Wait!” He said, touching her arm. “I gotta ask you something and you gotta tell me the truth. Does Dottie have cancer?”
Betty studied the man’s eyes, filled with panic and worry. “No, Hugh. She doesn’t have cancer.”
“Then why do you keep bringing her marijuana?”
Betty stopped dead. “I’m not bringing Dottie –”
“I found one of those chocolates in her office and ate it. I could taste the pot right away. Look, we all care a lot for her, and she’s not the same since her ol’ man died. She’s like family to all of us. And if she’s dying, I need to know about it.” He was shaking and riddled with apprehension.
Betty put a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “She’s doesn’t have cancer, Hugh. You have my word on that. She’s just trying to figure it all out. And I guess my chocolates might help with that desire.”
He nodded and seemed to relax a bit. “She’s in the house. I’ll get her.” He turned to walk away and then turned back to Betty. “Thank you for helping her.”
Once alone with Dottie, Betty asked about the infamous Douggie. Dottie rolled her eyes and pointed up the highway. “You can’t miss his house. It’s about five miles from here, at the end of a dirt road. Keep your windows down. You’ll smell it before you see it.”
Betty followed Dottie’s directions and easily found the pot star’s house. She parked her car and carried the cooler of chocolates to his modest front gate. A boxwood hedge, towering six-feet-high, surrounded the front yard. She started to open the latch on the gate, when she heard the distinctive click of a pistol being cocked.
“Now, who in the hell do you think you are?”
Chapter 33
“Did you ever watch a movie when you were high?”
“I’m Betty Craven,” she replied, holding out her hand.
Douggie didn’t move a muscle. Wearing his frayed “Legalize the Weed” t-shirt, he sat in his wheelchair – sans his usual protest flag – and with steely eyes never allowed his pistol to move a hair off his target. “So what?”
“Please put your gun away,” Betty said with a relaxed smile. “I didn’t bring my little Tomcat, so you can’t show me yours if I can’t show you mine.”
Douggie’s long mane of unruly grey hair blew in the wind. “Who in the hell sent you here?”
“I sent myself. I have a very serious gardening problem, and I need your expert assistance.” She handed him the cooler. “I brought you chocolates as a gift.”
Douggie lowered the pistol and opened the cooler. Holding one to his nose, he gave it a good whiff. “These aren’t loaded.”
“Of course, not. Why would I bring you cannabis chocolates? That would be far too predictable, wouldn’t it?”
He popped a chocolate in his mouth and let it melt across his tongue, the whole time never taking his eyes off Betty. “Shit…those are good.”
“It’s the honey,” she said with a grin.
He silently sized her up and then tilted his head toward the back garden. Wheeling himself forward along the brick path, Betty followed close behind. “You sure as hell don’t look like the assholes who usually show up here.”
“Why, thank you…do you like to be called Douggie or Doobie Douggie?”
“Neither,” he barked, skillfully rolling his chair over a few bricks and leading Betty around a sharp corner. “That’s just the name some stoner kid came up with. I’ve had a lot of names over the years. ‘The Captain of Cannabis,’ ‘The Wizard of Weed,’ ‘The Rustler of Reefer,’ ‘The Gardener of Ganja.’”
“So what do you want me to call you?”
“Use my real name. Frank.”
Betty stopped in her tracks. “Frank?”
He wheeled his chair around. “Yeah? What’s it to ya?”
She shook her head in stunned amazement. “Everything. You wouldn’t believe me if I told you…Frank.”
With Betty close behind, Frank rolled down a short brick path, through another gate and did a wheelie down a short ramp leading into an enormous, prolific, outdoor cannabis garden. Rows and rows of healthy, vibrant cannabis plants filled the space, sunk into the rich soil and surrounded with compost. Most were well over eight feet tall, each one easily spanning five- to six-feet across.
“It’s kinda like the Disneyland of cannabis, huh?” he asked her. “All of them, E-Ticket rides!” He jutted his thumb in the air to accentuate his point.
One by one, Frank introduced her to each of the plants. She lost count after number twenty-two. Occasionally, he’d grab a nearby hose and spray a few plants that looked thirsty. It all seemed so natural to Betty, except most people didn’t water their garden with a hose in their hand and a 9mm tucked in their waistband. After the tour, they wandered over to a sheltered patio where it looked like Frank spent most of his time. There was even a single bed in the corner, sheltered by a sheet of plastic.
“Are you so nervous you have to sleep out here all summer?” Betty asked.
“Nah. If people are dumb enough to bust in, my Sig will do the talking. I sleep out here because they protect me from myself. They remind me. They always remind me.”
“Remind you of what?”
“Whatever’s important at the moment. So why’d you come out here?”
Betty explained her terrible sulfur mishap, told him she was a caregiver and how people were depending upon her to come through for them.
“Well, now you know what a farmer feels like when his corn crop gets wiped out by a tornado or pestilence.”
“I suppose I do,” Betty contemplated.
“I feel for them when that happens, but I don’t think the farmer would give me the same respect if it happened to my crop. But that doesn’t mean both that farmer and I are not expert gardeners.”
“You don’t understand, Frank. I can’t fail again.”
“Sweetheart, if you’re afraid of failing, you better get the hell out of this game. You have a long list of people who came before you and failed badly. Some of them went to prison for growing this damn plant. Some of them lost everything – lovers, wives, parents, friends…all because they loved to grow and learn everything they could about this little weed.” He leaned forward in his chair. “It’s a passion, Betty. Not an addiction. But try explaining that to all the people who scream and tell everyone how dangerous it is. I can’t believe they’re dredging up the same Nixon-ian bullshit about brain damage and the lack of motivation syndrome. Do you think it’s possible to have a garden this big and not have a functioning brain and a tremendous amount of motivation to keep it alive and thriving? All the anti-cannabis speeches are filled with such inaccuracies, it makes me want to puke. It’s incredible how much ignorance can be expressed with such insane confidence! But somehow, they pull it off!” He offered a joint to Betty who turned him down. He lit up and inhaled deeply. “You know what you don’t hear on the news? You don’t hear about how you can juice the fresh leaves, just like you would do with spinach. There are all these enzymes in the leaves that can cure anything from Crohn’s Disease to arthritis.” He reached over and uncov
ered an old wheat grass juicer. “I drink a shot a day.” He opened up a zippered leather pouch and brought out a plastic baby syringe, filled with a dark green, tar-like substance. “And then there’s this. You’re looking at the crème de le crème, Betty. A guy out of Canada named Rick Simpson developed this method for extracting the resins into a thick oil. You concentrate one pound of cannabis buds down into two ounces of this stuff. We’re talking holy shit potent! But it’s curing the incurables. Cancer, diabetes, epilepsy, you name it. Some choose to run for the cure. I prefer to grow for it!”
“That’s quite a statement.”
“It’s true, Betty. But there’s no money in it! Cannabis is the people’s medicine! If weed were legal, the price would drop like crazy. Everybody and their cousin would be growing it and making what they needed out of it. Now, can you see how the powerbrokers in charge don’t want that to happen? They’d lose control of their medical monopolies. When one plant can do the job of five or more drugs, there’s no profit in it. The profit is in our pain. The profit is in prolonging our misery. The profit is in handing us false hope, that their pills, shots and poisons are better and healthier for us than something nature provides. I happen to find that line of thought disgusting. That’s why I take every opportunity to discredit all those inbred, mono-celled drones, who insist upon making false statements about this plant. But sometimes I wonder why I bother. Nothing creates a pointless debate like an inaccurate supposition.”
“I think it’s the stigma that gets in the way of intelligent conversation.”
