Betty's (Little Basement) Garden

by Laurel Dewey

  “Letting Go.”

  Chapter 34

  “This belongs to you, Betty.”

  The first thing Betty did was take photographs. Lots of photographs. She dragged out several of her blooming plants, that showed impressive bud development with dense, frosty crystal formations, and set them in the bright sun. Like a proud mother, she set her camera lens on “macro” and captured dozens of outstanding shots, using the sun’s rays to reflect the pinpoints of sugar resting heavily on the main top cola. True, Peyton told her never to photograph any of her girls, fearing the “wrong” people might find them and harass her. But none of that concerned her anymore. Just like her prized flowers that graced the front yard and whose photos blanketed the hallway walls, Betty felt it was only fair to give the same consideration to her basement girls. After downloading them on her computer, she finally decided on her favorite and printed it out on premium photo paper. She removed an old print of a blue-ribbon-winning yellow rose of Texas from a frame in the hallway, Betty eagerly replaced it with a vibrant close-up of “Helen’s” glistening top bud.

  Walking back into the kitchen, she turned around and silently canvassed the living room. She felt like a foreigner, detached from the area and all of its belongings. Grabbing a box, she began going through the drawers and cupboards with a judicious eye, leaving her emotional attachment at the door, and selecting numerous items to take to Lily at the The Gilded Rose. Hours passed and Betty’s unexpected quest to rid herself of the excess baggage filling her house took on epic proportions. She felt driven by a mysterious force that demanded an unapologetic assessment of what was necessary to keep versus what was intrinsic to her happiness. The disparity between those two grew wider as the hours passed. Knickknacks and collectables she’d always thought were important no longer held their allure. Antique tablecloths and tea sets she’d enjoyed for decades also seemed to lose their glimmer. As night fell, Betty’s systematic approach became even stronger, almost ruthlessly electing to either dispose of or box up more items that carried no special feelings. After prowling through the attic late into the night, she effortlessly got rid of half the packed storage boxes that had been reverently protected under a sheet for more than ten years. Instead of finding the process depressing, she found it invigorating. She was still awake at 2:00 a.m., after only taking a short break for a bite to eat and an iced coffee to buttress her motivation.

  Letting her mind wander as she worked, she felt pangs of sadness erupt when she collected all of Ronald’s things and ceremoniously placed them into a bag. But when she allowed her mind to drift to the human relationships she’d lost over the last few days, the only person that tugged at her heart was Jeff. He hadn’t called again, after leaving the message of condolence on her voicemail. The ball, she surmised, was in her court, but she was hopelessly lost as to how to serve it back. If only he didn’t understand her as well as he did, perhaps it would have been easier to approach him. But she wasn’t an enigma to him, and the bare vulnerability that came with that fact was overwhelming. Still, her damned pride surfaced each time she considered picking up the phone. No, she told herself, she would do nothing. And in the mere act of doing nothing, she convinced herself, she was doing something. That type of warped logic seemed to make sense at 3:00 in the morning, when her head finally hit the pillow.

  She awoke just past nine, with enough vim and vigor to keep her ritual of removal on track. Without losing any momentum from the previous night, she went about the house with renewed purpose. After checking on the state of her girls, and finding no discernable change for better or worse from the compost tea, she fixed herself a quick breakfast crêpe and got back to work. Striding into the living room, she lined up the packed boxes by the front door and started upstairs when she spied the white violet print on the credenza. She carried it to the dining room table and stared at it for what seemed like an eternity. Perhaps it had value? Maybe Frankie gave it to her because he knew it was worth something; the same way he purposely hid the pound of cannabis in the wall of the attic. She knew now he wouldn’t just give her that print on their last visit if it didn’t carry certain significance.

  “Pay attention,” he kept telling her that day. She removed the print from its antique frame in an attempt to locate a possible famous autograph or hidden note he might have slipped between the print and the heavy cardboard backing. But she found nothing. Replacing the watercolor back into its frame, she set it upright and stared at it again. And then her mind drifted to the two words on the elm tree. Perhaps, she considered, the whole point was to release it, and maybe something positive would come through that act. She set it upright in one of the boxes by the front door, just as she heard the sound of a car pulling into her driveway. Peering out the front window, she saw Peyton and opened the door to welcome him inside.

  His happy-go-lucky countenance took on a dire appearance when he saw all the packed boxes around the room. “What’s goin’ on, Betty?”

  “Out with the old, Peyton,” she nonchalantly said. “Sometimes, you get weighed down by all the things that you believe matter. I decided to lighten my load a bit more.”

  “A bit?” he queried, scanning the room. “You get rid of much more in here and it’s gonna look as homey as a motel room.”

  He was enthused to hear about her trip to Doobie Douggie’s house. Over an omelet and cup of hot chocolate she made from scratch using her fine chocolate and cinnamon, she regaled him with her adventure. But when she confessed that Douggie’s real name was Frank, and that his true personality was a tad softer and not as intensely erratic as his public persona, Peyton seemed disappointed.

  “Dude. Bummer. This is like finding out that John Wayne couldn’t ride a horse or Jackie Chan uses a stunt double.”

  “Well, Peyton. People aren’t always forthcoming with their true nature.” She decided now was as good a time as any. “I have two confessions to make to you.”

  He looked a little freaked out. “Should I be seated in a sturdier chair?”

  “No, I think you can handle it from that one,” she said, pushing her plate to the side of the table. She debated which one to start off with. “That letter to the editor back in May? Did you read the names of the people who signed it?”

  “I glanced through them, but I didn’t recognize any of them.”

  “Well, the first one was Elizabeth Cragen.” She took a breath. “That’s me.”

  Peyton stared at her, momentarily expressionless but then became increasingly concerned. “Oh my God, Betty. Dude, are you on the run! Do you have a buried past? Are you in the FBI’s protective custody – ?”

  “No, no, it’s nowhere near as romantic as that. ‘Cragen’ was a typo. Elizabeth is formal for ‘Betty.’” She felt silly stating too much of the obvious. “I signed it, Peyton. Elizabeth ‘Betty’ Craven signed that letter.”

  His eyes studied the table. “Well, that’s because you didn’t know any better. And it makes what you’ve done since then even more special.”

  Betty sat back in her chair. This must have been what it felt like to Renée, seeing the lack of disgust in Betty’s eyes, when she uncovered her clandestine pipe. “That’s a very mature response.”

  He grinned. “I hope it’s not too mature. Yarrow said she likes the goofy side of me, so I can’t lose that part. What’s the second thing you wanted to confess? I hope it packs more of a punch.”

  “You know Frank Sr. was career military. But what you don’t know is that my father was also military. He served in the air force – the Royal Canadian Air Force, to be precise. My mother held British citizenship. My parents moved to the States in early 1951, after he left the service and agreed to relocate to Houston to work as an engineer for the aerospace industry. I was born that summer. So, while I’m not Canadian, I’m close enough to the well to fall into your anti-Canuck heap.”

  Peyton took it all in, allowing his mouth to slightly fall open. “So, what you’re saying to me…is that you were an anchor baby? Oh, God, B
etty. Talk about a stigma.”

  “Anchor baby?” Betty exclaimed. She dutifully explained the process in which her father’s work Visa allowed him to continue living in the States, and eventually, how both her parents became U.S. citizens.

  He listened carefully but Betty could tell he was struggling with the concept slightly. “Did you keep it a secret because you didn’t want people knowing you came from snow backs?”

  “My parents were not ‘snow backs’!”

  “It’s okay, it’s okay. It’s all starting to make sense now. The first generation born to immigrants typically feels they have to excel over and above their peers. That must be where you get your drive. I kinda see the same thing in Yarrow. You know, her mom’s from Canada. When you set me up with Yarrow…” he stopped suddenly. “Oh, wait a minute…hang on a second…you set me up with her on purpose to prove me wrong about Canadians!”

  She smiled. “Maybe.”

  “Wow, it’s exactly what I’ve always said. Your people are really slippery and passively devious!”

  “My people?!”

  He paused a moment before breaking into a big grin. “Ha! Gotcha!” He couldn’t let it go. “Canadians are so easy to screw with.”

  Peyton checked out the girls before leaving. But on his way out, he saw the white violet print in the box by the front door. “You’re not throwing this out.”

  “No. I’m taking it to The Gilded Rose today.”

  He picked up the framed print. “But this means something to you, Betty.”

  She shrugged her shoulders, somewhat sadly. “I don’t know if it does anymore. Maybe it’s time I set it free.”

  He thought deeply as he gently replaced the print back into the box. “Is that the same thing you did to Jeff?”

  She felt her back go up. “That’s not something you need to be concerned about, Peyton.”

  “So you did? Geez, Betty.” He walked back into the room, clearly upset. “You set me up with Yarrow, because you didn’t want me to be alone!”

  “I set you up with Yarrow because you’re in your mid-twenties, and I didn’t want you to turn thirty and realize that the only substantial relationship you had during that time was with an aromatic bud.”

  “So, how is that different for you?”

  She tried to come up with a good answer but failed. “I don’t know.”

  “Does your conscience allow you to love him?”

  Taken back by his poetic question, Betty said, “I think my conscience is on board. It’s just that my heart hasn’t fully bought the ticket.”

  He looked at her with deep consideration. “You’re afraid of getting hurt again?”

  “No, actually I’m not. I know he’s not going to hurt me. Maybe that’s the problem.” The epiphany was nearly overwhelming. “When you get so used to pain, it’s difficult to get used to pleasure.”

  After Peyton left, Betty spent most of the afternoon finding more treasures to take to Lily’s store. Her mood became more contemplative as the hours passed. When she took the metal sign off her bureau with the Marilyn Monroe quote, she realized Marilyn left out an important part. While it was true that many women are looking for one man to prove that they’re not all the same, in order to maintain that sought after relationship, the woman has to be willing to accept that happiness is not a luxury but a necessity.

  Arriving at The Gilded Rose, she parked her car as close as possible to the front door, so she could unload the many boxes. Yarrow happened to be strolling down the street from the dispensary and offered to give her a hand.

  “Betty’s here!” Yarrow announced, walking up to the front desk.

  Lily welcomed Betty and enthusiastically combed through a few of the boxes, oohing and ahhing at each piece. Yarrow hung around the front desk, enamored with the various items as well. While Betty would have been offended three months ago by the girl’s bold interest, she now enjoyed watching her admire each new thing she uncovered. Lily maintained her impeccable manners and professionalism as she chatted with Betty, telling her how thankful she was to have Betty’s treasures available for her discerning clientele. Yes, Betty thought, Lily was one of the last women on this planet with true refinement and a born sense of good taste.

  “I’m sorry to hear about you and Jeff breaking up,” Yarrow announced. “Peyton told me all about it.”

  Betty stared at the girl, taken back.

  “Yarrow!” Lily chided, “That’s none of our business.”

  Our, Betty thought. Since when had she become coffee klatch conversation?

  Yarrow wouldn’t be silenced. “Why? I think he’s a great guy. He’s always really nice when he comes in here –”

  “Yarrow!” Lily admonished again. “Enough,” she said with a soft but firm voice.

  Several awkward moments followed. Betty needed to lighten the mood. “You sound like mother and daughter.”

  “Well,” Yarrow replied, “that’s because…we are.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “That’s my mom,” Yarrow explained, as if Betty was a little dense.

  “Yarrow,” Lily warned, “watch your tone.”

  Betty tried to gather her muddled thoughts. “I’m not shocked that you have a daughter, Lily. I guess I’m just –”

  “Shocked that I named her after an invasive flower?” she asked with a broad smile, enjoying the joke she just made.

  Betty attempted to regain her poise. “No…actually, yes.”

  “Well,” Lily said, lifting a few items from a box, “chalk that up to my days living on a commune in Northern California.”

  Living on a commune? Was Betty dreaming? “I can’t even imagine you living on a commune, Lily.”

  “Humboldt County,” Lily stated.

  Betty did the math. Lived on a commune in Humboldt County. Named her daughter Yarrow. “So that’s why you don’t mind her working at the dispensary.”

  “Huh?” Yarrow said, with a twist of her face.

  “Yarrow –” Lily said with a warning tone.

  “What?” Yarrow asked. “She’s cool, mom. Trust me. Betty grows.”

  Lily and Betty simultaneously dropped their jaws.

  “Yarrow!” Betty exclaimed.

  “Betty?” Lily exclaimed.

  “I…I…” Betty was too confused to come up with a suitable lie. And what was the point anyway? “She’s right. I dabble.”

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” Lily chuckled. Almost immediately her body relaxed, and she instantly became more comfortable with Betty. “Who’d have thunk it? Betty Craven! You’re the last person I’d think would –”

  “I know, I know. My avocation doesn’t necessarily match my face. But she’s right.” Betty felt so free suddenly. “I grow cannabis. And I love every minute of it. Well, most minutes, at least.”

  Lily stopped processing the items for a moment and leaned on the front desk. “You know, this store is my avocation. I adore beautiful antiques and all the wonderful finds buried in people’s attics.”

  “You mean ‘vocation,’ don’t you?” Betty asked.

  “Not in this economy. This place hasn’t turned a profit since 2007 when the economy went to hell.” She took a moment and then continued. “This store is my avocation. The dispensary down the street is my vocation.”

  Betty steadied herself on the desk. “You run a –”

  “No. I own it. It’s the only way I can keep The Gilded Rose afloat. We were one of the first dispensaries to open in Denver when the state allowed it.”

  Betty needed to check herself. “Well, isn’t this a twist?”

  “Sure is,” Lily agreed. “But I don’t see the two businesses as being that different. I like to connect patients at the dispensary with the right strain for their needs, and I like to connect customers here with the perfect antique that brings beauty into their lives. Healing and beauty. I think they make the perfect duet.”

  Betty nodded. “I couldn’t have said it better myself.”

  Lily turned back t
o one of the larger boxes that Betty brought to her. “Hey, Betty. I remember this. You bought this here.” She lifted the Marilyn Monroe metal sign from the box. “I had it sitting on your Biedermeier.”

  Betty turned to where the Biedermeier was still waiting patiently for the right owner. Her mind unexpectedly drifted back to that day in May that seemed so long ago. She felt her heart catch just a wee bit. “Yes…I remember that day well.”

  Lily handed the sign back to her. “This belongs to you, Betty.”

  Betty reluctantly nodded and took the sign. But before she left, she cast one last, lingering look at the white violet print, before silently wishing it a somber goodbye.

  It was getting cloudier, and the wind shifted to the west heralding another summer storm, when Betty finally left The Gilded Rose. Traffic on the main roads back to Paradox was already backing up as usual, as it neared five o’clock. It opened up when she was about two miles from home, but then it suddenly choked down again. Coming to a standstill on the four-lane road, Betty strained outside her window to see if she could figure out what was causing the delay. Dark indigo clouds hovered above her, as a warm wind rushed across her face. Creeping a little closer, she finally saw the spinning police lights and an ambulance parked nearby. “Oh, dear,” she whispered, always hating to see someone else’s automotive misfortune. She tried to change lanes but no one let her through. Inching closer, she could see the damaged vehicle in question – a white Lexus, slammed sideways on the passenger side into an electrical post. As Betty rolled even closer, she saw the whole demoralizing scene. There was her friend, Judi, standing next to the police car, handcuffed and almost unable to stand up without wobbling. Betty stared in disbelief, as an officer put her friend into the police car and drove away.