Gone to Pot

by Jennifer Craig

  “Can’t they find out what’s wrong?” I asked.

  “They did all sorts of tests and scans and couldn’t find anything. I tried homeopathy on him and there was some improvement at first, then he seemed to stop. But he’s functional. He just doesn’t communicate very well.”

  “I’ll say,” Swan said. “He shuffles around at parties not talking. Girls think he’s creepy.”

  “Poor lad,” I said. “Where does he live?”

  “With his parents,” Maggie said. “His dad’s an electrician so Marcus sometimes works with him.”

  “Does his dad know he sets up grow rooms?”

  Maggie laughed. “I doubt it. They’re both pillars of the community.”

  My first efforts at trimming were very slow and clumsy compared with my skilled friends and I was quite glad of the breaks when I stood up to clip more plants or to hang up the buds or to stuff leaves on the floor into a garbage bag.

  “What does the future hold for Marcus?” I asked Maggie.

  “I wish I could say it’s bright, but no one knows. He’s been to a neurologist in Kelowna and I think Don and Mary want to send him to the Mayo clinic or somewhere like that, if they can find the bucks. I know I could help him. If only I knew more.” Maggie ripped leaves off a plant in frustration.

  What if I made a fortune from my garden? I could send Marcus off to be cured. But cured of what? Not talking? No, so he could go back to school and do what he wanted to do.

  “When’s he back?” Would Marcus be back in time to sell my crop?

  “In a few days,” Swan said. “He’ll be back before your buds are ready.”

  “I’ve been looking at pictures of plants on the Internet,” I said. “I hadn’t realized there’s such a variety. What sort are these?”

  “Jamaican,” Swan said. “They’re the easiest to grow. There’s Hemp Star, but they smell more.”

  “I heard there’s a new one called God,” Maggie said. “Supposed not to smell at all.”

  “Wicked,” Swan said. “I wonder how easy it is to grow.”

  I left them for a short time while I went upstairs to put the casserole in the oven. My brief respite made me realize how smelly it was downstairs and how rank I was. Kate must have smelled me if her nose was in good working order. Both Swan and Maggie had changed their top clothes before starting but I hadn’t. I hoped the incense would do the trick but anyway, if anyone came to the door I wouldn’t answer it.

  It was a lovely day and we had lunch on the deck. “It’s a pity we can’t work out here,” I said as I took a deep breath of fresh air.

  “I know someone who lived out of town and they decided to trim outdoors,” Maggie said. “What they didn’t know was that a retired police officer lived across the river from them. He was fond of bird watching and saw them through his binoculars. Next thing my friend knew, one of the Finest showed up.”

  “What happened?”

  Maggie finished her mouthful of food. “He was told to dismantle his equipment and quit. So he did.”

  “He didn’t get charged?”

  “No. The police hate having to dismantle a grow op, so if it’s just a mom-and-pop operation, they sometimes let it go,” Maggie said. “My friend is hardly the criminal type.”

  “There was a bust up the road recently,” Swan said. “They weren’t so lucky. Mind you, they found hard drugs in the house and a gun. Come on, let’s get back to work.”

  “How did the police know?” I asked.

  “It was a house near where they check for seat belts,” Swan said. “They could smell it. The guy needed a new filter and hadn’t bothered. Some people are morons. Ask to get caught. I’d be pissed if I got caught because of someone else’s stupidity.”

  I cleaned up the kitchen while the others went downstairs. I mustn’t become too cavalier; it could happen to me. What would I do if a cop showed up? I was not going to live with that fear. We have too much fear in our society without me joining in.

  We stopped for a cuppa and finally finished about 6:30. Swan promised to drop by the next evening and help me empty the plant pots into bags and load them into the car. Maggie said she would help me deal with the dry buds in a few days. “When they’re nearly dry you need to twig them. That means cutting off the dry stalks and any other bits,” she said.

  Maggie told me to lay out the twigged buds on a tray or on cardboard. I had an under-bed storage box—that would do. She would come back when they were dry to weigh and pack them into large Ziploc plastic bags.

  “I guess I should move the buds upstairs before I fumigate the basement to get rid of the spider mites?” I said before she left.

  “Is that what you’re going to do?”

  “Michael told me to leave the lights on for three days and then let off a Doctor Doom. But I don’t want to kill off my seedlings or ruin the buds.”

  “Good idea. I don’t know why Marcus wasn’t more careful. Anyway, it’s always a good idea to clean out your room between grows.”

  “Thanks, Maggie. I’m so glad you’re in on this. Makes me feel better.”

  I went back downstairs to clean up a bit, but then I felt so weary I watched TV instead. That night my dreams were of lush jungle plants with huge glossy leaves and mighty flowers that glowed in the dark. I reached out to pick one, but a striped snake reared out from between the petals and hissed at me. I ran away in terror and found myself crouching behind a furnace before I woke up.

  18

  Time flashed by as it does when you’re busy. Not only was there much work downstairs, but my outdoor garden also kept me busy. Harvest time meant my canner was on a permanent boil as I bottled beans and tomato sauce and peaches from the Okanagan. I never understood why they call it ‘canning’ here when they use jars, not cans, but then there were a lot of things I could never understand. Like why marijuana was illegal but gin was not. At this thought I sang Flanders and Swan’s, “Have some Madeira, m’dear. It’s really much nicer than beer. For the evil gin does would be hard to assess; besides it’s inclined to affect my prowess, so have some Madeira, m’dear.”

  My cheerfulness arose from the thought that I would soon have some money. I didn’t know how much, but I did know that the first thing I would do would be donate to the food bank and the second, renew my subscription to the Foster Parents Plan. I would try to get Sonali, my former foster child, back. And I would take Swan and Maggie out for a nice lunch—and Marcus, if he would come—and I would treat the Crones to croissants with their coffee, and I would… Get off it, you have to live for three months before the next crop and besides, you might not make much. And wouldn’t people wonder why you were suddenly flush?

  Swan came over in the morning to help take the bags of old soil to the dump. It had been quite strenuous emptying all the pots into garbage bags and then lugging them out to the car along with the bags of leaves. We had done this late the night before, after I’d made sure the neighbor’s lights were off.

  The car stank to high heaven. Whatever I did, I must not have an accident or be stopped, so I drove as if I had a spud stuck up my tail pipe—which is how many old people drive anyway. There was one road, near me, where the police often made seat belt checks. I avoided it and zigzagged through the side streets until we reached downtown, and then we took the road along the lake to the dump.

  I was determined to stay calm, to play it cool, as they say, to treat this experience as normal. After all, people drop stuff at the dump all the time. Why should I be any different?

  My palms were sweaty when I drove on to the scale. A woman poked her head out of her booth and asked, “Household?”

  My voice quavered as I said, “No. Pot plants.”

  She roared with laughter as she pointed us to a bin. “Ask a silly question, eh?”

  As we drove across to the Household dumpster, Swan looked at me incredulously. “Wh
at the hell did you say that for?”

  “Just having a bit of fun. I don’t know what came over me.” I do have a tendency to crack jokes at inappropriate times, particularly when I’m nervous.

  “That wasn’t funny.”

  “You’re right.”

  A man in an orange vest came to help. Swan waved him away. “Thanks. We’re okay,” and began to unload the car. It was soon empty and as we drove away the most enormous relief swept over me. Yet another challenge mastered.

  “In any other town the dump would be out in the boonies, not on the lake,” I said to Swan. She had gone all silent on me. “What’s the matter?”

  “If you do that again, I’m not coming with you.” She turned toward me, a look of fury on her usually serene face. “I don’t want to get busted because you’re too dumb to get that what we’re doing is illegal.” Her voice rose to a crescendo. “Illegal. Bad. GET IT?”

  “Yes, I’m well aware it’s illegal. But if governments make silly laws, it’s up to citizens to ignore them.”

  “Fine for you to say. They’d never put you in jail, you’re too old.” Swan turned to her side window, her left shoulder lifted against me.

  “They wouldn’t put you in jail either. You don’t grow.” I pulled up at a Stop sign and let pedestrians cross.

  Swan swivelled to face me. “What do you know? If I get busted, I’ll be deported.”

  By this time I was so unnerved I didn’t really hear what she said. “If you don’t want to get caught, you shouldn’t dress like a homing device for cops,” I said.

  Her eyes widened. “What? You ungrateful cow. You wouldn’t be able to grow if it wasn’t for me.”

  I was so shaken I pulled over. Before I had time to speak, she hissed, “Why don’t you go to the cop shop and tell them what you’re doing? Just as a joke.”

  “I’m sorry, Swan. I didn’t mean…”

  “You don’t have a fucking clue,” she said as she opened the door, got out, slammed it, and strode off.

  I remained parked and stared at the blur in front of me. It was some time before my numb body could engage the gears and drive home. The voice in my head yattered: Silly old fool, Swan’s right, you are useless. You couldn’t manage without her. What did you say that for? About how she dresses. Stupid, that’s what you are.

  I parked so badly in my garage that I couldn’t open the door so I had to back out and try again. That time the side mirror took a swipe.

  A cup of tea was all I could think of when I got in, but as soon I entered the hall I heard a noise downstairs. Then footsteps. I unlocked the inside basement door and Marcus appeared.

  “I turned off the lights,” he said.

  “Hello, Marcus. Welcome back.” We stared at each other. I hardly recognized him. His hair, bleached by the sun to a streaky blond, had grown to a length that he could tie in a ponytail. His skin could have belonged to a South Sea islander he was so tanned, but his eyes were the same intense brown and his stare was as unnerving as usual.

  Typically, he didn’t look as if he was about to say anything. Suddenly, my sorrow over Swan turned to anger at him. “Kindly turn them back on. I left them on for a reason.”

  I stormed into the kitchen and put the kettle on. He followed and hovered looking almost hangdog. “Hey,” he managed to say.

  “I left the lights on so I can get rid of the bloody spider mites you gave me.” I thumped my purse on the kitchen table. Swan had left her bag; a colorful, handmade cotton one, hung over a chair. Good, I thought, that will give me a reason to call her.

  “How come?” Marcus mumbled.

  “Leave the lights on for three days with no extraction fan and then set off a Doctor Doom. I learned that from Michael because I learned bugger all from you.” I’d already upset one young friend—now I was about to upset another.

  He pressed both hands against the doorjambs and rocked himself from side to side. I carried on doing small chores that didn’t need doing, like wiping the counters and shuffling things around.

  Marcus suddenly stood up straight. “Your buds are nearly ready. Phone when they’re packed,” he said and left through the basement. I went to the top of the stairs and heard the hum start.

  It should have been an exciting time, but it wasn’t. I had to take any life forms out of the basement before fumigating it, so I dragged myself up and down two flights of stairs to the spare bedroom carrying trays of baby buddies in their fiber pots and the drying buds that I took down from the lines and put in a box. They had shrivelled so much that they seemed minute, not like I had imagined from the pictures on the Internet. They were as pathetic as I was.

  Back downstairs, I rescued my cameo brooch and told Ceres I was moving her out of the room in case Dr. Doom did nasty things to her, but that I would put her back to oversee the next crop. Then I took the canister and read the instructions. I was to pull a tab, put it on the floor and get out. Could I manage that without doing something silly?

  With trembling hands I pulled the tab. A jet of vapor hissed into my face before I stood the can up and ran out. Now I’d probably get a lung infection.

  Closing the basement door brought the same sense of relief I had felt at the dump. The dump. Swan. I had left a message on her voice mail to say her bag was here. I would have taken it to her, but I wasn’t sure exactly where she lived. I badly wanted to see her and apologize for being such an idiot. If I lost her out of my life I would miss her. Not just because she helped with the garden, but also because I had grown fond of her. She kept me in touch with life, with youth, and with my sense of humor. Without her I would hardly see a soul. Poverty means a deprived social life—you can’t afford to entertain or have coffee or meals out.

  I made myself go upstairs to twig the buds. It was a nice, easy job sitting and cutting off stalks and bits of leaf in the sunny spare bedroom, and I began to feel more chipper. I had learned so much in the four months since Marcus had built the room: how to manage the lights, how to feed, trim, and harvest the plants, and soon, how to weigh and pack the final product. The buds were dry, but I spread them out on an under-the-bed storage bin anyway. I phoned Maggie who said she’d be over in the morning with her scale and to make sure I bought some large Ziploc bags.

  The cuttings, on the floor under the window, really needed to be transplanted as they were getting straggly. “Not long now,” I told them, “then you’ll be in nice big pots and you can spread your roots.” According to the book, they should go into progressively bigger pots, but I planned to plant them straight into the two gallons. I had had a brainwave when I bought the four-inch pots to transfer the jiffies into: instead of plastic, I got the fiber ones that break down in soil so you can just transplant the seedling, pot and all, and not disturb the roots.

  There was nothing more to do. Pots needed to be filled with soil, but there wasn’t any; besides, the pesticide needed twelve hours to dissipate before I could go into the basement. It was raining, so I couldn’t garden outside. I turned to the TV and watched a stupid movie about monster plants that terrorized the nearby town until our Hero arrived and killed them with a tuning fork. They shrivelled at a certain decibel of sound.

  Next day the doorbell rang early. The woman on the porch was built like a brick shithouse, as my father used to say. If you ran into her, you would bounce and she would remain unmoved. She wore a heavy, beige masculine raincoat with a belt, even though it wasn’t raining, and she vigorously shook a black umbrella before saying, “Good morning.”

  “Good morning,” I said. She seemed vaguely familiar. Then I remembered where I’d seen her: haranguing the crowd at the fire and another time, carrying a placard on Baker Street warning everyone of God’s Revenge if they didn’t turn to him.

  Her grim face glowered at me. With that expression she looked like something that would eat its young. “I’ve come to talk about Jesus.”

 
“Oh yes.”

  “Is he important in your life?”

  “No, I believe he died more than two thousand years ago.”

  “Indeed. But his love lives on for those who mourn under the burden of sin. I proclaim the Holy Way to find water so you never thirst again, to find bread—”

  I began to close the door. “Speaking of thirst, I could do with a cuppa. Bye.” The woman stepped forward so that if I shut the door it would bang in her face. “You said you wanted to talk about Jesus, but really, you want to talk so that I have to listen. Well, thanks, but no thanks,” I said firmly.

  “Are you a sinner?” she asked, her face only inches from mine, one foot holding the door open.

  “Definitely. Have been all my life. How about you?” I was beginning to panic, sure that I had a candidate for mental health services on my hands. Suppose she wouldn’t leave, what would I do?

  “Repent, so that you may enter the Garden of Paradise.” Her blue eyes widened as her face assumed a righteous expression. “For Jesus welcomes you into his garden, where everything is filled with his divine nature. But to be in his presence, we must become pure through death of our sinful natures.”

  “Right. I’ll work on it.” I tried kicking her foot away and closing the door, but she seemed oblivious to my efforts.

  “To be freed from sin, you must believe and hope in God’s promise. You must ask yourself how well you tend your earthly garden, otherwise you too will perish in the wilderness without ever entering the promised land—the heavenly garden.”

  “Yes, well I’m doing my best to tend my earthly garden.” I pushed on the door as hard as I could but I couldn’t budge her.

  “You okay, Jess?” A merciful heaven intervened in the form of Maggie. She elbowed the woman aside with an “Excuse me,” came through the door and shut it forcefully.