Betty's (Little Basement) Garden

by Laurel Dewey

  “The stigma was manmade!” he bellowed, taking another quick hit before snuffing out the joint. “Political fraud meets Hollywood! Two whores in the same bed, trying to bend over John Q. Public. It doesn’t matter if it’s Reefer Madness or some botoxed TV drug-addiction doc spouting the ‘dangers of weed.’ It’s two cheeks on the same ass.”

  Betty smiled. “Same church, different pew?”

  He leaned forward. “Exactly. And if they’re not trying to scare you, they throw out the morality issue. I never understood that one, Betty. Who in the hell ever said cannabis had anything to do with morality? They’ve foisted that false doctrine on us, ever since Harry Anslinger swore it made white women want to screw black men. That’s not to say the right strain can’t make sex incredible.” He winked. “So I’ve heard. There’s nothing moral or immoral about it, for God’s sake! It’s a plant. Why don’t we ban the iris flower, because Georgia O’Keeffe made it look a woman’s genitalia? That painting still freaks out a lot of people…especially men.”

  Betty leaned toward Frank. “I don’t think that’s what most people are afraid of, Frank, when it comes to cannabis. They’re afraid of addiction –”

  “Oh, hell, don’t get me started, Betty. They’ve already proven that addiction theory to be wrong.” He wheeled over to a small table, where an automatic coffee maker sat, with its carafe filled to the top with the darkest brew Betty had ever seen. “You want to talk about addiction? Let’s start with coffee.” He poured himself a cup and offered her one. “Don’t worry. Just like your chocolates, it’s only loaded with caffeine.” She nodded and took a cup. “If I miss a day without four strong cups of Joe, my hands shake like a Parkinson’s patient. But the few times I’ve gone without my herb, after all the years of smoking and eating it, all I do is miss it. But I’m not flailing like a fish on the concrete, having a goddamn seizure!” He took a sip of the coal black coffee. “Look, there’s impulse control versus addiction; habitual versus addiction. Cannabis can be habitual and if you suffer from the inability to handle your impulses, you just might feel that you can’t live without your herb. But those assholes who believe that are the same ones who always blame others for the tornado of shit that constantly hits them and how they can’t catch a break!” His singsong tone mimicked a whiny brat. “Spare me! Unfortunately, somebody never sat those pricks down when they were little and gave them a solid foundation. Taught them about cause and effect, the consequences of their actions, and that you don’t usually get everything you want the second you want it!”

  Betty was quite surprised by Doobie Frank’s perspective. “Careful there, Frank. You’re starting to sound like a social Conservative.”

  “Aw, fuck labels! All I can tell you is it fries my fritter when ignorant people blame this beautiful herb for their inability to pull their head out of their own ass! It’s not the herb, Betty – it’s the loser who happens to be using the herb. The jerk-off showed up first; the herb just happened to meet him on his muddled journey. Guaranteed Betty, that fool would act the same whether he was one toke over the line or not. It’s not addiction when it comes to Mary Jane. If some idiot suffers from impulse control, that’s a helluva lot different than the crack head down on his knees, sifting through the shag carpet, looking for a leftover rock he can plug in his pipe.” He scooted his wheelchair closer to her. “I’ll let you in on why I really think the big boys want to keep the weed illegal. You ready?”

  “Ready.” She took a sip of the burnt brew and had to think lovely thoughts so she wouldn’t spit it out.

  “Did you ever watch a movie when you were high?”

  “No. Can’t say I have.”

  “Well, give it a shot sometime. You won’t be able to focus on the story, because all you’ll see is the ‘acting.’ Doesn’t matter if it’s good acting or bad acting. It’s the ‘acting’ you won’t be able to get past. You’ll easily see the lie in the actors’ performance – the pretending to be someone else. Now, take that understanding and watch a political debate when you’re high. Oh, hell! You won’t be able to get through the introductions, guaranteed! When they start lying and telling the audience what they want to hear, you’ll see how insidious those pricks are. It’s as if the herb removes the blinders and the truth is exposed.” He wheeled back a few inches. “So you see, I don’t think it’s the plant they’re really afraid of. It’s the power of the plant that scares the shit out of the people who want to ban it. They don’t want a world of people collectively questioning their governments, their churches or their educational systems. They want us docile! You start becoming one with the weed and it will shine perspective on aspects of your life you never saw before. Hell, you’ll wake up one day and say, ‘Why didn’t I notice that?’ Weed punctures the darkness and gradually exposes you to your own shadow and the collective shadow governing all of us. You start to realize there’s more to life than the grind and the pursuit of crap that puts you in debt and prevents you from getting in touch with what’s really important in here.” He pointed to his heart. “They want you to keep running on their wheel that goes nowhere, because that’s what the machine demands. The machine needs to be fed by each of us. And they own that damn machine, Betty! However, when you wake up and see that the machine has nothing to do with your greater good, you elect to step away from it. But the owners of the machine don’t want that to happen, because they need reliable slaves to do their dirty work. And that, sweetheart, is why cannabis is so dangerous.” He leaned closer to her. “It makes you think.”

  Betty silently took in every word. “I know, and for some of us who opted to borrow our beliefs from others, it’s quite an awakening.”

  Frank sat back. “Damn! It’s refreshing to sit across from someone who looks like you and loves the herb. If everyone looked like you, instead of the trolls who usually come ‘round, I’d build a pool and have lots of parties.”

  “Well, Frank…you are so kind to say that.”

  “I mean it! I wish there were more like you! Well-dressed, well-spoken, educated –”

  “I’m a Republican.”

  “Even better! I love it! The cannabis movement needs people who don’t look like they need a bath or spell cannabis, c-a-n-u-b-u-s-s! The problem right now? We have too many dubious people filtering into this medical marijuana business from the illegal side. They might have a dispensary or a grow op, but they always have that creepy vibe, you know? They don’t walk; they skulk. It’s from spending too many years doing dark-alley weed deals. If we’re going to get the public-at-large to understand what this plant can do, you don’t want to put some skinny Rastafarian dude with dreadlocks on TV or some chick with stained teeth who looks like she does the ho stroll down at the truck stop.” He snapped his finger in the air. “Betty! You could be the poster girl for cannabis reform!”

  “No, no, no, Frank.”

  “With your good looks and your ability to communicate clearly, you’d be worshipped by weed growers and users everywhere!” He smiled, showing his obvious crush for Betty. “I’m worshipping you right now.”

  “Now, now Frank –” she said a little taken back.

  “You married?”

  “No.”

  “Boyfriend?”

  Betty took a breath. “I’m not sure.”

  “Not sure?”

  “It’s complicated, Frank.”

  “Bullshit. It’s not complicated Betty, unless you want it to be.” He pulled back. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to get too personal with you.”

  “No. It’s okay. I’ve been known to complicate a lemon sorbet.”

  He raised his coffee mug. “How about a toast?”

  Betty reluctantly lifted her mug. “To what?”

  “To non-conformists like us!”

  A peculiar sense of pride engulfed Betty. “To non-conformists!” She clinked her mug against his.

  “To all those who conform in order to feel safe,” he continued, “understand that safety is only a perception and has its limits, whereas i
ndependence is infinite!” He slugged down a healthy gulp of java.

  Betty took a dainty sip and started to speak.

  “One more toast!” Doobie Frank interrupted. “Here’s to always listening with your heart. Because when you do that, you’ll always hear the right answer.”

  Betty felt a lump form in her throat. “Amen.” She took another genteel sip and checked the time. “About my plants?”

  “Oh, right. The reason for your visit.” He grabbed a pad and jotted down a name and phone number. “This guy makes a fresh compost tea that’s so alive, you can almost feel its heartbeat. It’s got tons of beneficial microorganisms in it and other stuff.”

  “What other stuff?”

  “Magic, Betty. Magic. Spray the tea full strength on your plants every three days. Water them with it too. Don’t feed them anything else, except some liquid B Vitamins and a small amount of powdered minerals. That’ll help them get over the shock of the sulfur. This guy’s got everything you’ll need.” He handed her the slip of paper.

  “Anything else?”

  “If any of the plants are halfway decent, remove all the dead leaves and branches. If the top of a plant was hit hard, chop it off. It’ll just slow down the growth of the rest of it. Whenever you can, bring them outside and put them someplace where they can get dappled shade. Right now, you want to limit as much direct light and heat as you can. Let them grow out seven inches or so and then clone the best branches. That way, you can continue the genetics.”

  Betty made mental notes. “Good ideas. Is that all?”

  He thought. “Time. As with most things in life, Betty, time tends to either cure it or make it worse. You should probably see some new growth starting within a week or ten days. If you don’t, well I guess it was time to say goodbye to that particular plant.” He looked out at his lush garden. “Just like I’m going to have to say goodbye to all these beautiful ladies in fewer than two months, when harvest season starts. Life and death. You get more used to it when you work with nature.”

  He rolled his wheelchair out to her car to see her off. “You ever need any more help, you can come over anytime,” he said with a coy smile.

  “Thank you, Frank.” She got into the car.

  “Anything. I mean it.”

  “There is one thing. Jeremy Lindholm? The producer of that documentary you appeared in? If you ever talk to him again, tell him Betty from the merry-go-round said ‘hello’…and a heartfelt ‘thank you.’”

  She headed back on the road, buoyed by a sense of purpose once again. Turning on the radio, she searched for a classic rock station, but stopped on a local news station when she heard a familiar name mentioned on their top story. It seemed that the morally uptight Reverend Bobby Lynch, who did everything “for the children,” had been arrested for “inappropriate contact with several seventeen-year-old boys” from his congregation. Betty was momentarily shocked, but then she recalled a comment Jeff made about Lynch months before. “When one doth protest too much about an issue,” he said, “one doth often have something to hide.”

  Wasting no time, she called the fellow with the “magic” tea and arranged to purchase a five-gallon bucket, more liquid B vitamins and the powdered minerals that looked like they’d been mined from pristine, glacial rock. After loading everything into her backseat, she quickly headed home. As she turned into the driveway, she was shocked to see Renée sitting in the shade of her front doorway. Betty hauled the heavy bucket from the car as Renée stepped forward to help her.

  “This is unexpected,” Betty stated, keeping her tone formal and distant.

  “Yeah…I know…”

  Betty noticed something odd about Renée. Although she was still preoccupied, she had a conspicuous calmness Betty had never experienced before. “I didn’t think you’d ever grace my doorstep again.”

  “I gotta talk to you.”

  “Help me drag this bucket to the basement door,” Betty instructed, feeling quite bold in her demand.

  Renée was still orbiting in her own space, but she stopped when she saw the fallen elm tree. “Oh God, Betty. Your favorite tree. I’m sorry.” And she meant it.

  “Thank you.” Betty perched her backside on the horizontal trunk. “If you’ve come here to convince me that I shouldn’t –”

  “No, it’s not that at all.” Renée sat next to Betty, swinging her large purse onto her lap. “I came here to make amends. It’s Step Nine of the program. Making amends?”

  “Oh, Renée. You’ve marched up and down those steps so many times, your thighs must be burning.”

  She actually smiled. “Yeah, I hear you. I’m still not very good at it after all these years, I guess.” She opened her purse. “I gotta show you something.” After dumping a mass of contents onto the grass, she sorted through the heap and held up a decorative glass pipe. “I guess you know what this is.”

  Betty closely examined it. Smelling the resin-soaked bowl, she kept a poker face. “Smells like some kind of Kush.” She handed the pipe back to Renée.

  “Cocoa Kush.” She shook her head in shock. “You got a good nose there.”

  “Cocoa Kush? Well, that would be an interesting one to add to my potpourri of plants. The pure Kush strains are more Indica in their effects. They tend to calm the mind, which I know you need.”

  “I don’t get it,” she said, anxiety reappearing, “you’re supposed to be traumatized and disgusted by my duplicity. God knows I am!”

  “Yes, I guess I should be,” Betty calmly said. “But then, I really don’t want to ‘should’ all over myself anymore. Am I traumatized?” She checked herself. “No, can’t say I am. Shocked? Nope. It actually explains a lot.”

  “Step Nine says we are to ‘make direct amends to such people wherever possible’ –”

  “Stop,” Betty said, placing her hand on Renée’s arm. “I don’t need to hear what your book tells you to do. I only care about what you feel. And there’s no right or wrong feeling.”

  Renée looked mystified. “After everything I said to you – after everything I did – I can’t believe you have this kind of compassion.”

  “It comes with the territory. As my dear friend, Peyton, told me once, ‘We’re all just unmade beds, searching for the perfect comforter.’” She smiled. “And I believe he was high when he said it.”

  “Well, I’m a California king sized, unmade bed. I’m a walking hypocrite. I pound the pulpit by day, while I light up in my closet at night and take the two quick hits I allow myself. It’s my only vice and I know it’s wrong, but it seems to help me calm down and get perspective, if only briefly. But the next morning the guilt kicks in, and I’m back pounding on that pulpit. It’s exhausting, Betty.”

  “Then stop fighting it.”

  “I can’t! Besides, I gotta keep fighting the good fight!”

  “Why?”

  “Because, I have to be better than this!”

  “Better than what?” Betty quietly inquired.

  Renée sighed. “Just better.”

  Betty gave her comment serious consideration. “I used to think the same thing. Always striving for perfection – always reaching for the unreachable. If you want to go crazy, give it a try. If you want to stay sane, let it go.”

  Renée stared off into the distance. “You know what I wish I could do?”

  “What’s that?”

  “Figure out how to just be.” She turned to Betty. “You know? Just be.”

  Betty patted her arm in a reassuring manner. “You and everyone else, Renée. If we could all get the noise to stop, perhaps we could figure it out.”

  Renée rested her head on Betty’s shoulder. “Thank you.” She gathered her items from the lawn, tossing them back into her purse.

  Betty eyed a peculiar looking plastic baggie with strangely shaped brown nuggets inside. “What’s that?”

  “Oh, it’s an underground favorite. They call them ‘BB’s’ or ‘bullets.’ They’re made of chocolate.”

  “Well, I gues
s I have something else to tell you too.”

  ~~~

  After Renée left, Betty brought all the veg girls outside onto an area of shaded grass that hadn’t been hit by the fallen elm debris. With painstaking exactness, she followed Doobie Frank’s advice and removed all the dead or nearly dead leaves and branches, and even cut off seven inches of blackened growth from the top of two plants. After she was done, her girls looked naked and vulnerable. One of her favorite Kushberry plants, that had been such a vital and fast grower, now only had a single stalk. But she couldn’t bear to destroy it. Betty filled her large plastic spray canister with the “magic” compost tea and diligently saturated each plant, including the underside of all the leaves. When each plant was dripping with the earthy-smelling brew, she treated each girl to a healing cupful.

  Standing back, she stared at her bevy of beauties in their weakened appearance and felt nothing but love for each and every one of them. In all their stark imperfection, Betty saw beyond their defects and cheered them on with gusto. “You can make it, girls. Carry on.”

  The plants were too wet to put back inside and Doobie Frank did mention that giving them as much shaded exposure to the outdoors would be beneficial in their fragile state. She washed out the canister and turned to look at the devastation surrounding her from the fallen tree. Checking out the roof, it was evident that more damage had occurred, wiping out most of the hard work Buddy had completed. But in that same instant, something changed within Betty. She didn’t give up; she gave in. She realized whatever was going to happen would happen, and there was nothing she could do to prevent her fate from being drawn to its completion.

  Walking the length of the large elm trunk, she came to the uprooted point and the spot three feet above it where she could still easily see Frankie’s carved words. Running her fingers across the deep crevices of the two words, she swore she could feel his spirit move through her. Somehow he knew, on that final day of his life, exactly what she would need in the years to come. No two words had ever haunted her so desperately since his death. But in that moment, those words awakened her again and, infused with that sensation, she didn’t fear the possibilities of failure or loneliness. She didn’t question how he understood the kind of power that Emily Dickinson poem held over her. But somehow, he knew enough to carve the two last words of that powerful work into their favorite tree.