Betty's (Little Basement) Garden (3 page)

The spare but elegantly appointed luncheon went over well with all the women. But the elicitations of delight were broadcast the loudest when the group indulged in Betty's sensuous chocolate medallions. Simple yet divine, the darkest cacao embraced the finest cocoa butter from Bali, sweetened with the smoothest ambrosia honey. With subtle yet defining undertones of cinnamon, fresh ginger and superior Madagascar vanilla beans the chocolates melted on the tongue. Looking at the group while they indulged in one chocolate after another, Betty felt as if she were witnessing an orgy of edible delights. She had single-handedly made a roomful of women forget their individual dramas, if only for a few minutes. Something about that always warmed her heart. It was difficult to fall back into the “battleground” mentality after that kind of gourmet indulgence, so the rest of the meeting was brief. Renée's letter was passed around the room and signed by everyone. Betty, always one to be formal, signed the letter “Elizabeth Craven” in her finest penmanship.

As the women left, Betty made a point to thank each of them personally. Manners were such a thing of the past, but in Betty's world, they still reigned supreme. She heard Renée's strident voice ring out across the driveway. “Fight the good fight, ladies! Never fear! We can and
will
win on this issue!”

Judi was the last to leave. She hugged Betty tightly and held her hand. “You
are
making an appointment with Roger, right?”

Betty smiled but the weariness was setting in quickly. “Yes. I will.”

“In the meantime,” Judi stated, jotting down some words on a piece of scrap paper she pulled from her purse, “there's this incredible salve that was recommended to me by one of the other teachers. It's called ‘Mama's Muscle Mojo.'” She rolled her eyes. “I know it sounds sketchy but it really works. It will help until you can get in to see Roger, and he can give you something to really relax the muscles. It's only available at one health food store.” She jotted down the info and handed the note to Betty.

Betty read the name of the store. “The Hippie Dippie Health Food Store?”

“Hey, I didn't name the place. But it's a very cool store. They have this awesome juice bar and make the most outrageous organic soups.”

Betty folded the scrap of paper and placed it on the entry table. She wasn't interested in drinking juices from juice bars, and if she wanted “outrageous” soups, she'd make one. But she thanked Judi nonetheless and wished her a happy weekend, before closing the door and falling into the silence.

It took Betty another hour to clean up and put away the few plates of leftover food. She collected two-dozen of the chocolate medallions she'd set aside in the kitchen, wrapped them in diaphanous gold tissue paper and placed them into one of her trademark crimson and gold boxes, left over from her shop. Circling the box with a matching elegant crimson bow, she placed the box to the side. The blinking light on the voicemail caught her attention. She turned up the volume and played the message.

“Hello, Mrs. Craven. It's Lily from Classical Consignments. I wanted you to know your antique chair with the needlepoint seat just sold. Talk to you soon!”

One more gone
, Betty mused. She felt the same brief pull of regret and sadness that always followed, when another material possession evaporated from her existence.
It'll be all right
. She had to keep telling herself that, even though the sense of loneliness and fear tugged relentlessly at her heart. She finished the few remaining cucumber sandwiches and scooped up the remnants of guacamole. A cup of gazpacho soup cleansed her palate as she looked at the time. Six o'clock. Yes, it wasn't too early to start imbibing. She poured herself a stiff glass of bourbon from the Waterford decanter sitting on the credenza in the living room. It used to hold the expensive brand, but now it cradled Old Crow, an amber liquid good enough to satisfy the likes of Mark Twain and Ulysses S. Grant. Heading upstairs to her bedroom, she passed the door that led to the attic. Betty hovered by the door, taking a sip of bourbon and falling carelessly into a memory. Tears welled up in her eyes, and she knew it was time to retreat into the safety of her bedroom.

Three hours later, she was still awake and lying in bed, floating on the fumes of her fourth drink. Ronald continued to snooze happily at the foot of the bed as Betty pulled the comforter toward her chest. Surfing the TV channels, she came across the early local news. Reverend Bobby Lynch, a grey-haired, controversial fixture in Colorado Springs, was being asked for his opinion on the plethora of medical marijuana dispensaries cropping up around his mega-church. Utilizing the most fervent Saturday afternoon modulation of his Sunday pulpit voice, Reverend Lynch condemned what he called “the slow slide into Hell.” He stressed that this issue was about “morality,” and that “the moral fabric” was being ripped to shreds by “the abomination of these drug havens.” He then added that he “wept for the children.” When the interviewer asked him what “children” had to do with the topic, Reverend Lynch replied with his standard “children are our future” line and then randomly added, “Jesus never needed to smoke a joint.”

This odd conversation was sharply contrasted against a sound bite from a marijuana activist, who went by the unusual name of “Doobie Douggie.” With his long, unruly mane of grey hair and multiple tattoos, Doobie Douggie was a longtime expert grower of “the herb.” At the age of seventy, and wheelchair bound from taking a shot to the back in Vietnam, he wore a t-shirt with the statement “Legalize the Weed” emblazoned on the front. Douggie believed that cannabis was given to mankind by God, and due to its varied usefulness as both fiber and medicine, anyone who wanted to could and should grow the plant in their backyard based on their God-given, inalienable rights. Even though Douggie qualified for a cannabis “red card” under Colorado law, he refused to play by the system's rules and openly grew close to fifty varieties of medical marijuana inside and outside his rural home, forty-five miles south of Paradox. For this, Douggie had been caught “green handed” and arrested countless times. He was commonly seen wheeling himself out of the courthouse after each arrest, wrapped in the American Flag and screaming, “Give cannabis a chance!” and “Marijuana doesn't kill people! Government kills the people!” To the growing marijuana activists, Doobie Douggie was their patron saint of pot. He was edgy, fearless and angry as hell. Just as Reverend Lynch talked about the moral fabric, Douggie stressed the usefulness of hemp fiber and the fact that Jefferson drafted the Declaration of Independence on hemp paper. He explained that
can
vas hailed from
cann
abis, also noting that ships' sails were made from the hemp plant, as well as the rope onboard those vessels. After a one-minute rant that was intelligently stated, but filled with rage and a few bleeped expletives, the interviewer had to cut Douggie off and wrap up the segment.

Betty clicked off the TV and fell into the silence. It wasn't even 9:30 but she could feel the suffocation of the night. She used to be a night owl, but now it was the avowed enemy. She felt like a hostage, held in a fist of darkness. The shadows and thumps woke her from shallow sleep and tormented her racing mind. The numbness of the bourbon didn't help either. Instead of reducing the anxiety, it seemed to incite both paranoia and ghostly images.

Through the glaze of booze and angst, she heard a defined thud and checked to see if Ronald heard it too. But the ol' boy was sound asleep. Creeping from the bed, Betty lay an unsteady, bare foot on the carpet and slid open the drawer on the side table. Removing her small-but-effective Beretta Tomcat handgun, she slinked to the bedroom door and peered into the upstairs hallway. She heard the same
thud
again and located the origin. Turning back into her bedroom and looking outside her window, she noted an errant branch on the large canopy elm that hugged the corner of the backyard. Her favored, stately tree needed to have its dead branches pruned, but it was another expense she couldn't afford.

Betty sat on the edge of the bed, turned on the bedside lamp, and gently concealed the Tomcat in the drawer. The room suddenly felt heavy around her, as she sensed
his
presence bleed through the darkness and sit behind her on the edge of the bed. The fourth Bourbon always fueled these discarnate visions. She didn't want to turn around, because she hated the way he looked. The sunken cheeks, vacant eyes and the weeping sores that festered on his arms and neck reminded her too much of the last time she saw him on that cold slab five years ago.

“Mom?” she heard him whisper.

“Yes, Frankie? I'm here.”

“I can feel your fear.”

Betty nodded. “I know. You always could.”

Betty opened her eyes and watched the early morning light creep into her bedroom and vanquish another restless night. She was still alive.
Dammit.

The “hour of lead” Dickinson wrote about had arrived again. Hell, Dickinson should have titled it “the twenty-four hours of lead,” because the weight of anxiety never seemed to lift off Betty's shoulders. But the sun was out and the pulse of a new, albeit uncertain, day beat outside her window. She could finally exhale, at least until the next sucker punch hit her. Even her closest friends never saw the meek Betty; the one who hovered a little longer each morning under the covers, girding her loins and gestating the nerve to get up and face the unknown. She had been given much, but much had always been expected of her. And now, the pageant queen with the radiant blond hair and buxom figure had fallen hard from her gilded perch.

The deconstruction of Betty Craven began five years ago. Up until that point, she had been able to keep up appearances and strategically live her life so the dust never settled and the shine never dimmed. But a raw, ruthless vulnerability engulfed her when Frankie died and hijacked any chance of living a normal life again. She was still buried in tacit grief when one year later, Frank Sr. was diagnosed with a failing liver. The booze, cigarettes and military lifestyle finally caught up with him. When he died in 2007, Betty felt pinpricks of rebellion, but she had no vessel in which to pour her mutiny. She was like a chained tiger, bent on tasting life for the first time on
her
terms but ignorant of how to accomplish it. The volatile fuel of bitterness is often ignited when a woman has willingly allowed herself to be held down at the hands of another for years. The explosion that follows is typically erratic and shockingly unpredictable.

But as Betty liked to say, “I never fail to plan and I
ne
v
er
plan to fail.” The birth of the idea was quick and made perfect sense to her. Yes, yes,
yes
, she would invest in
Betty
. After years of feeling the yoke of domination around her inquisitive neck, she decided to visit France, a country she saw as refined and in touch with fine culinary pursuits. Betty withdrew thirty-five thousand dollars from her savings account – which nearly emptied it – and enrolled in a six-week cooking, baking and gourmet chocolate course, conducted at a prestigious school in Paris. After packing on an extra twenty pounds around her middle, she decided that as long as she was in the vicinity she'd hop over to Switzerland to see what type of scrumptious sweets they had to offer. That last minute sojourn left a three-digit balance in her savings account, but she didn't care. The bonfire of resentment she'd felt for so long was burning red hot.

When she returned home, the flames were as intense as ever. Another swift decision was made. Buoyed and inspired by the skills she'd learned overseas, Betty formulated the perfect small business. Since she was already known as “the connoisseur's connoisseur,” she decided to put her expertise to use. After researching the upscale marketplace in Paradox, she realized a gourmet chocolate shop would be a spectacular standout. She'd been dabbling in homemade chocolates for years, giving them as gifts for Christmas and birthdays, and receiving gushes of effusive response. Best to focus on one thing, Betty mused, and do it better than anyone else, in order to ensure the success she knew was heading her way. And with her confidence in creating cacao creations that left her classmates back in Paris orgasmic, her conviction was stronger than ever.

How would she pay for this bold endeavor? Simple. She would take out an equity loan for one hundred thousand dollars on the value of her home, which in 2007, was over
eight hundred
thousand dollars. The interest was eight percent. No big deal. Betty was confident in her abilities, and with her hard work ethic, success was assured. After securing a one-year lease for a charmingly chic, seven-hundred-square-foot retail space, in one of the most desirable locations in downtown Paradox – and paying the pricey two thousand dollar rent six months in advance as a sign of “good faith” – she set about purchasing the necessary top-grade commercial equipment she'd learned to use during the culinary arts course, which was vital to creating a myriad of chocolates en masse. From the high end, German-made melting and tempering unit, to the tables, confectionary cabin, refrigeration units and silicone moulds, she was quickly writing checks exceeding forty thousand dollars. That was
before
the cost of the hundreds of pounds of imported cacao powder, cacao butter, luxurious flavorings, Madagascar vanilla beans, and gallons of high altitude honey from the Flat Tops Wilderness area in Colorado. By the time she was done, nearly sixty thousand dollars was invested. But that was all right, she counseled herself. Even though in 2007, parts of the country were feeling the economic downturn, Colorado was still flourishing financially. And while cautious optimism had always been Betty's trademark, she couldn't help but feel great pride and accomplishment in what she was doing. In her mind, legions of connoisseurs, who demanded the pinnacle of perfection, would travel to her little store and word-of-mouth would spread across the country, generating a healthy mail order business. Magazine articles would surely soon follow, launching her into the rarified realm of epicurean superstardom.

She would name the store,
The White Violet
. None of that ridiculous, cheap, trailer park nomenclature for Betty Craven. She wouldn't be caught dead in a store called the “The Chocolate Hut,” or “The Chocolate Cave.” Huts and caves were not places Betty occupied.
The White Violet
had an elegant sound to it, and it spoke to her supreme passion of gardening. Did she grow white violets? Yes. Were they her favorite? Well, no. But in the darkened hallway just outside the bathroom, hung the antique, faux-gold-framed, watercolor print of white violets she held so close to her heart. It meant such a great deal to her, and naming her store – her future – after those flowers in that watercolor was her way of paying homage to the person who gave it to her.

And thus, right before Thanksgiving in 2007, Betty enthusiastically opened the doors of
The White Violet
and threw the shackles of monotonous servitude from her fifty-six year old shoulders. She convinced herself that the emptiness and utter uselessness dogging her since her beloved son's death would magically disappear, once she became independently successful. Success, after all, was its own reward. That was the plan, and everyone supported her, because after all, she was Betty Craven – a formidable woman with stamina, intelligence, creativity and a belief that whatever you set out to do, you do it well.

As all this excitement was churning, she looked at herself in the mirror, and since Betty was so identified with her pageant smile, she decided to invest in a set of porcelain veneers that would both brighten and improve that outward expression. Growing up in the well-bred circles of Texas, it was terribly important for her to present herself in the most stately and attractive manner. She was brought up by her parents to believe that how she looked and presented herself was far more important than anything she could possibly say. And besides, she counseled herself, it simply wouldn't do to present a pricey chocolate to a customer and then smile, exposing yellowed, imperfect teeth that screamed, “sugar rot.” The price for this “investment in Betty,” as she called it, was a cool twenty-five grand. She'd never spent that kind of money on herself before, but damn, she was worth it.

In the fevered midst of all this internal revolution, Betty looked at her home – her nest for twenty years – and decided to give it a new shine. After all, a successful woman needed a home that reflected her achievement. Frank had been reluctant to put much into the homestead except for a few coats of fresh paint every decade. Since the kitchen was Betty's favorite room, she started there. She hired a top designer, who she felt mirrored her impeccable taste and precision, and they went to work. It had to be perfect, with marble counter tops, a built-in stainless steel refrigerator, a separate high-end freezer, wood flooring, and all new cabinets. And light.
Lots and lots
of light. The damn kitchen had always been too dark. She and the designer agreed to purchase three extraordinary windows with handcrafted etching on the sides, so when the sunlight hit the motif, the room was infused with a rainbow of colors.
Stunning
. Yes, this is what Betty envisioned everyone telling her when they saw the kaleidoscope across the pale peach walls.

Unfortunately, her old house wasn't as dedicated to keeping up its end of the deal. Not a day went by when she didn't get a call from either her designer or one of the workers at the house, telling her in graphic detail about some sort of “issue” that had arisen. One day it was the discovery that the house wasn't up to code with the electric, and it needed to be addressed.
Cha-Ching!
The next day, a worker cut into a supporting beam by accident and now that had to be rectified with a specialty crew and overtime.
Cha-Ching!
Then an entire wall of mold was found behind the old insulation when the construction workers were about to set one of Betty's stunning etched windows. Progress stopped immediately because a mold remediation team had to be brought in to remove the toxic debris and check for
more
mold. And they found it…one rotting beam after another. A month later, they were still debating about whether the area was safe for human habitation, let alone food preparation.
Cha-Ching, cha-ching, cha-ching!
The hundred thousand dollars had quickly run out, and Betty's kitchen looked like it'd been hit by a surface-to-air missile. With nothing left in her savings, the only liquid asset she had was the one hundred and fifty thousand dollars from Frank's life insurance. That was supposed to be her “cushion,” but now it had to be tapped. Yet, she kept her head up, flashed her shiny veneers and told herself it was just a temporary hiccup, and things would be better soon.

But things didn't get better. One year later, by the Fall of 2008, she had her dream kitchen, but she'd also eaten through one hundred thousand dollars of the life insurance policy. By the time she was “up to code,” she'd said goodbye to the pricey designer and worked as hard as she could to personally button up that never-ending nightmare. She essentially had a one hundred and twenty thousand dollar kitchen surrounded by a dilapidated and outdated house. A hideous, sobering reality set in. Betty could lean against the marble countertop and stare out one of the three large, handcrafted, etched windows and wonder what in the hell she was thinking a year prior when she came up with this terrible idea. There was nothing to smile about now. No reason to flash her twenty-five thousand dollar grin. She had less than thirty grand left from Frank's insurance policy. Her large cushion had turned into a small pillow, and she would have to dip into the fund again in order to keep
The White Violet
afloat.

By the late spring of 2009, it became patently clear that the economic downturn had finally skulked into Colorado. Gourmet chocolate was not at the top of people's “must have” list when holding onto their home was the key priority. It didn't help matters that sixty percent of the businesses around
The White Violet
shut down, leaving the once fashionable locale looking like a boomtown gone bust. Empty storefronts and poorly maintained landscaping around the area didn't exactly attract out of town visitors or locals.

Thus,
The White Violet
doled out its last elegant chocolate confection in May of 2009. With fewer than ten thousand dollars left of Betty's “cushion,” she retreated to her home, shoved the chocolate equipment in the workspace above the garage and wondered what in God's name she was supposed to do with the rest of her life. A year later, she was still asking herself the same question. However, now the ache of failure and confusion permeated her bones. She still had to pay back the equity loan, and the monthly interest payment of $666 – a number with obviously sinister connections – was barely covered by Frank's death benefit. His pension of Full Colonel, Rank O-6, gave Betty fifty-five hundred dollars each month. Nothing to complain about, she reasoned. But between property taxes in her upscale neighborhood, utilities, food, and sundry expenses, she was left with around three thousand dollars. Again, not something that was forcing her into Tent City. But it seemed every month, something monumental occurred to the house that needed drastic and immediate attention.

It was as if the kitchen remodel had triggered a cascading march of house repairs. Tug at one thing in nature and you affect something else; knock a wall down in the kitchen and suddenly it weakens a shaky foundation and the chimney falls over. That damaged the roof, leaving a hole in the attic. Then an old, imposing sycamore fell down in the driveway, seriously uprooting the cement. The plumbing was the next to blow. Bit by bit, the extra three grand quickly evaporated every month.

The only area of the house that didn't seem to be affected was the basement. But that didn't surprise Betty. Frank's sacred domain was built like a bunker. There, amidst his medals, uniforms and enormous gun collection, Frank whiled away his retirement years drinking, smoking and reliving his beloved, brutal moments during his thirty year military career. Betty rarely spent much time down there, except to do the laundry or remove another gun from Frank's collection to sell to a gun dealer across town. Those sales had helped supplement her income, but all the guns were gone now, save for the Beretta Tomcat she kept for home defense.

She was caught between that familiar rock and a very hard place. In order to sell the house in the quickly deteriorating economy, she needed to put at least fifty thousand into it. And even that would be inadequate to attract a buyer in such a competitive market. However, the house was now worth
half
of the eight hundred thousand appraisal when she got the home equity loan. She didn't have fifty grand, so she was stuck, and mortified she'd allowed herself to reach this point of helplessness. All the derisive lectures she had to listen to from her husband, telling her she lived in a bubble or had no sense of “the real world” haunted her. Even her parents, rest their judgmental souls, never raised her to be this liberal with her resources. She'd had some fun and now she suffered for it. But she always knew that would happen because “having fun” was not in the game plan. Not under her parents' roof or in Frank's grip. “Fun” had a cost and it was steep and unrepentant.