Gone to Pot

by Jennifer Craig

  To get ready for the party, I went shopping for clothes—and not in a thrift shop. Some snazzy jeans with a sort of cut-out pattern down the leg hung in the petite section of a real clothing store. When I first saw them I thought they’d be draughty but then, what the hell, I tried them on. They fit perfectly and I didn’t have to cut off the bottoms. The older woman serving said, “Those look good on you,” and I bought them. Then I found some “stick on” tattoos and I bought a pair that went around your ankles, like bracelets. Right trendy I was.

  It took a week for my Big Buddies to dry. I examined them every day willing them to dehydrate so they’d be ready and sold before Swan left. A heater and a fan helped, but I was still doubtful when Maggie arrived to weigh them.

  “I’m not sure if they’re dry,” I said. “They’ve hardly shrunk and they’re too big to see if a stalk snaps.”

  “It’s been a week hasn’t it? They should be okay by now. Let’s go ahead.”

  As usual, Maggie weighed a plastic bag and then she reverently placed a Big Buddy on the scale. One alone weighed more than four ounces and two came to over the required eight ounces per bag.

  “What do we do here?” Maggie said. “I don’t want to break them to make exactly half a pound and we can’t add the other little ones.”

  “Let’s just put two buds in each bag and if they weigh more, so what?” I said.

  We tried to match a bigger bud with a smaller one, but there were no smaller ones. Each of the two lights had produced thirty-two buds, four per plant, so in the end we had sixty-four buds weighing more than sixteen pounds.

  “Holy Shit,” Maggie said. “Sixteen pounds at two thousand a pound is thirty-two thousand! You’ll be rich.”

  “That’s only two lights. With four, there’d be twice that amount.”

  We stared at each other in amazed delight. Then I remembered. “They might not be smokeable.”

  “When’s Marcus showing up?”

  “Some time today, I hope,” I said. “Hey, don’t let’s forget the other buds.”

  With a decided lack of enthusiasm we weighed and packed the regular buds from Lights One and Two. They came to a puny two and a half pounds. Normally, I would have been delighted but my perspective had changed. What was five thousand dollars when you could make thirty-two?

  Pride cometh before a fall, I could hear my mother saying and the fall here could be more than a tumble. If the Big Buddies were impotent, they would be worthless. I would still make five grand but I would have wasted the crop from two lights. On the other hand, the experiment had been fun even if it didn’t pay off.

  Marcus arrived that morning while Maggie was still there. “You won’t believe what Jess has done,” she said to him. “Sixteen pounds off two lights! These half-pound bags weigh more than they should because we can’t split the buds.”

  “Hope they smoke,” Marcus said as he stashed the bags.

  “Are there buyers in town?”

  “Yep. Should know soon.”

  “We’ll see you tomorrow evening then?” I said.

  “Yep.”

  I don’t know how I got through the time until we all met and Marcus would give the verdict. It was like playing one of those television games where, if you guess right you win something large, but if you’re wrong you get nothing. I wouldn’t end up with nothing of course—the small buddies would still earn me five thousand dollars, a not insignificant sum. But if the big buddies were potent….

  I repeated thirty-two thousand over and over to myself. What would I do with it? Go and see Lisa for one thing. Help out some of the crones for another. I would tell them I’d received the inheritance I’d mentioned and that I wanted to share it. They wouldn’t accept money, but I could arrange for us all to go on a cruise, a cruise to Alaska or Hawaii, on a luxury liner, with deck cabins, chaise longues spread out invitingly by the emerald pool, martinis in the sunset, young men waiting on us. When I got to figuring out how much that would cost, thirty-two thousand dollars wouldn’t be nearly enough. Besides, when everyone struggled to make ends meet every month, it was a waste of money to spend so much on a few days luxury—supermarket gift certificates would make more sense.

  I thought about Ed and Eva. I could pay for a decent nursing home for Eva. The thought thrilled me. How would I do it anonymously? Through some foundation? I would have to find out. And Marcus. I could help send him to the Mayo Clinic or wherever his parents wanted. I just needed to figure out a way of hiding how I’d got the money and of no one knowing who had paid.

  Fortunately, cleaning the basement, filling plant pots with fresh soil and planting the seedlings in them, kept me physically busy, but my mind wouldn’t let up. If I gave Will-E-Up to all the plants in the flowering stage, and if they all responded, then there would be one hundred and twenty-eight giant buds to harvest. If they weighed the same as the trial bunch, I would earn sixty-four thousand per crop. Then what would I do? Not invest it, that was for sure.

  Would I quit? Twenty more grows would make me a millionaire. I laughed at the thought. Me, Jess, a waitress, a millionaire? It wouldn’t all fit under my mattress.

  Then I became obsessed with the idea of buying Bob’s Café and starting a business. I could employ all the Crones and open a teashop. If there’s one thing older women know how to do, it’s make date squares and cakes. We could sell them in the teashop. And if we worked short shifts, say two hours, everyone could earn money serving.

  By the time Swan and Maggie arrived for our party, I was a nervous wreck. I had rescued Ceres from the basement and hung her over a bottle of champagne like an Olympic medal. We left it in the fridge for when Marcus arrived and started on a pleasant white wine, while the stuffed chicken breasts cooked on the barbecue.

  “Are you all packed, Swan?” Maggie asked her.

  “Uh huh. Leave first thing.” Swan waved at Elephant Mountain. “I’m going to miss all this.”

  “You can always come back for a holiday,” I said. “I have a spare bed.”

  “Are you flying out?” Maggie asked.

  “Got a ride down with some guys going to San Francisco. Dad will pick me up from there.” Swan looked anything but thrilled as she spoke.

  In a way I felt sorry for her, but why feel sorry for someone about to go to university and begin her life? She’d had her playtime. I didn’t want to think about my life without her, and anyway at that moment I was too wound up waiting for Marcus.

  We held dinner and drank more wine until he came. Finally his truck pulled up at the back and he ambled into the basement. I rushed to unlock the inside basement door.

  Marcus joined us on the balcony. Maggie and Swan got up and we all stood there with expectant looks on our faces, like a Victorian tableau.

  Marcus looked at us with his usual expressionless stare. He held what seemed to be a very full garbage bag.

  “Oh come on, Marcus,” Maggie said. “Were they smokeable?”

  “Yep.”

  “Were you able to sell them?” I asked.

  “Yep.”

  “Tell us, Marcus. What did they say?” Maggie urged him as she handed him a glass of wine.

  “Awesome buds. Great smoke.”

  “How much did you get?”

  Marcus sipped at his wine and looked at us all with an expressionless face. Then he grinned. “Three thousand a pound.”

  “What!” I turned to Maggie and Swan and we hugged each other and laughed. I couldn’t believe it. With the little buddies thrown in that would be over fifty thousand dollars. I could be a millionaire after only ten more grows. In less than three years!

  Marcus handed over the garbage bag. I glanced into it and at the bundles of hundred dollar bills. It was all I could do to stop myself opening one and tossing bills all over the balcony. I was rich. No more food banks. No more servility. No more money worries. Holidays were for
me. I did deserve them. I was a champion.

  I could help the Crones and Eva and Marcus. Marcus. I gave him a big hug, which he endured, but didn’t return. I had learned to love him as he was, so I wasn’t sure about helping him seek treatment, but that was a thought for another day. Having shared my formula with Maggie, she would be able to grow huge buds too and would be able to go to school soon. The food bank would get a massive anonymous donation. And I would—

  “Time for champagne,” Maggie said.

  Marcus opened the bottle and we cheered at that satisfying plop of the released cork. We raised our glasses to each other.

  “Bon voyage, Swan,” I said.

  “Here’s to Mary Jane,” Marcus said.

  “And here’s to the darling buds of Jess.”

  25

  A year later, Granny’s Garden opened. Buying the business from Bob and then leasing the premises and getting a business licence had all been easy, even though I’d never done anything like that before.

  My plan was to open the place as a teashop and have the Crones bake for it, for money of course. And if any of them wanted to serve, they could do that too.

  We were having our usual meeting when I brought up the idea. “I’ve inherited some money,” I said, “and I want to open a café. A teashop. What do you think?”

  “People don’t drink tea,” Jane said. “Why not a coffee shop?”

  “There are coffee shops on every block in Nelson. This will be different.”

  “I’ll come,” Nina said. “I love tea.”

  “What will you serve besides tea?” Laura asked.

  “That’s what I was getting to. How would you all like to bake and earn a bit of money. Joan makes those delicious muffins, for example, and you all have a specialty.”

  The group went silent as everyone thought about it.

  “I’m not sure if I have the energy to bake every day,” Fran said.

  “Oh, it wouldn’t be every day,” I said. “You could bake whenever you wanted to. But on a regular basis. Say every Tuesday or something.”

  “We could always freeze batches,” Maggie said. “Most baked goods freeze well. Then we could bake when we felt like it.” She looked around and then turned to me. “I assume we’ll be baking there? In the café’s kitchen?”

  I nodded.

  “Oh what fun!” someone said.

  More silence. Then, “Will you have mixers and blenders? It’s really easy to make dough in those big mixers.”

  “I haven’t fixed up the kitchen yet, but I plan on making it easy to bake in and with all the mod cons.”

  The existing kitchen would do, but it was too crummy for my café. My café was going to have easy-to-reach ovens, a large central work table with electric outlets for mixers, and big sinks. Everything stainless steel. Like in a magazine.

  People were beginning to sit up and look interested.

  “I could do date squares like my mother used to make,” Fran said.

  “Yes,” Claire said, “and I used to get Women’s Institute ribbons for my chocolate cake.”

  “Did you really?” Claire was always full of surprises.

  “Perhaps I could make Craig’s brownies,” Laura said. “If he’ll give me the recipe. He said it was a secret recipe, but if I tell him it’s all for a good cause he might.”

  Maggie and I exchanged glances.

  Everyone began to talk at once, enthusiastically recalling the baking they had done as housewives.

  “We’ll have to have real ingredients,” Maggie said. “No mixes or the crap they make now. Do you know how to source?”

  “Sauce? You mean make gravy?” I asked.

  Maggie laughed. “No. Source—locate and buy supplies.”

  “Haven’t a clue,” I said. “How would you like to manage that?”

  Maggie nodded. “Sure. I’ve learned a lot at the Co-op.”

  “Everyone will get paid of course.” I hadn’t worked out how much, but certainly more than minimum wage. Say, twice minimum wage. Would giving up the garden be possible? Three or four more crops would take care of the lease for at least two years and cover other costs. After that, would my takings be enough? I could always reduce the number of plants but if I was going to grow at all, it was a waste not to grow a whole room. Did I really want to give it up? It was work, yes, but work I enjoyed and there was something satisfying about producing my giant buds.

  “When do we start?” Fran asked.

  “There’s still a lot to do before we open. I’ve only just leased the place and it’s a dump. Dark green paint and plastic tablecloths. It’s going to be bright and cheery and I want it to look like a garden even though it’s inside. You can all come and see it when there’s something to see.”

  “I don’t bake,” Thelma said. “So I guess I’m out of it.”

  “There’ll be lots of other things to do, especially when it comes to designing the place.” I smiled at her. “There’s work for everybody.”

  “I used to help with set design,” Thelma said. “I wonder if I can still draw a plan.”

  After that everyone talked at once, full of ideas and I wished I’d had a notebook to write some of them down. The Stitch and Bitch group got into how they could make doilies and embroidered napkins like a proper teashop. I didn’t like to tell them I hated doilies. My mother used to think they were a frippery nonsense, and that was one of the few things we agreed on.

  Maggie put paid to the napkins idea by asking me if I intended to have a washing machine. I hadn’t thought of that.

  Then I had the fun of designing the place like an English country garden. I wanted lots of flowers, especially climbing ones. They would have to be artificial of course, but there were classy silk ones to be had that looked real. This is where Thelma came into her own. She took measurements and in a few days presented me with a professionally drawn plan. Boxes of climbing roses, violets, pansies, and foxgloves separated the space into little arbors that held rustic tables and chairs.

  “It looks wonderful, Thelma. I love the idea of arbors, but we do need to be able to serve. This one,” I said pointing, “has no entrance. We need a clear path from the kitchen to each table.”

  “Right,” she said cheerfully. “I hadn’t thought of that. Easy to re-do.”

  A couple of days later Thelma produced the design that we finally used. I gave her a check for two hundred and fifty dollars and she nearly fell over. “That’s too much,” she gasped.

  “No it’s not. I’ve used your skills and I’m grateful for them. I had no idea you could do something like this. Now, give me some suggestions for the boxes and I’ll see about getting them made.”

  At home it was harvest time. Marcus and Maggie came to trim and by then I was also pretty good. With my usual huge buds we were finished by lunchtime and we sat down to enjoy one of Maggie’s casseroles.

  “What’s happening with the café?” Maggie asked.

  “Thelma’s come up with a lovely design. Looks like an English garden with lots of flowers. Here, I’ll show you.” I fetched the plan and Maggie studied it.

  Marcus sat there munching, not paying any attention.

  “Look Marcus.” Maggie pushed the paper where he could see it. “What do you think?”

  He stared at the plan. Then he picked up his fork again and said, “Needs lights.”

  “Where would you put them?” Would Marcus help? My eyes lit up at the thought.

  He glanced at the plan again. “Here, here, here.” He pointed to each arbor.

  “Would you do that?” I asked him. “I’d pay of course.”

  “Yep.”

  “Now all I need is someone with carpentry skills who can make the flower boxes and trellises,” I said. “Do you know anyone?”

  “Marcus can do that,” Maggie said. “He can turn his hand to
anything, can’t you?”

  “Yep.”

  “Okay. Order what you need and give me the bill. Have you got the right tools?” I remembered Swan saying he was a—what did she call it?—MacGyver, but I’d never needed his services other than in the garden.

  And so Marcus spent a few days at the café building the flower boxes and the trellises. Once I’d got used to the idea that he would never ask me what I wanted, I just let him get on with it. The boxes were beautifully finished—cedar, rectangular with a smooth rim, and interwoven GG letters carved in the front. When they were finished I arranged for him and Thelma to come to the café to set them up.

  Thelma breezed in dressed as if for a royal garden party in high-heeled shoes and an enormous black straw hat with grapes and leaves around the crown.

  “Oh you must be Marcus,” she gushed. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

  Marcus tried to back away, but Thelma held out a gloved hand and when he didn’t come forward, she took hold of his hand in both of hers and held it a moment too long. “Don’t be shy, darling. Come and sit down so we can get to know one another.” She looked around, but there was nowhere to sit. “Never mind, we’ll go for coffee when our work’s done.”

  Marcus looked like a frightened rabbit, but the pile of flower boxes and trellises blocked his escape.

  Thelma took off her hat and gloves. “Now to work. Marcus, you put the boxes where I show you and Jess, you hold the tape measure. When do the flowers arrive?”

  “I’ve ordered them and they should be here next week.”

  “Good. Now Marcus, use those strong, manly arms to put this box right here.” She pointed at the spot and he hastily moved the box.

  With Thelma organizing us, we soon had the boxes arranged and the trellises fixed up. Marcus came back the next day and installed concealed lighting in each arbor and after the flowers went in the result was like fairy grotto. I drew up a chair to gaze around. My café. I hugged myself. My café that would support me and the Crones in our old age.