Betty's (Little Basement) Garden (9 page)

It wasn't until long after she'd married Frank that she opened the
Houston Chronicle
and saw a feature article on Jeremy Lindholm, the famous documentary filmmaker. His movie about Vietnam War veterans and their buried emotional traumas was making the rounds in order to be eligible for an Academy Award nomination. Years before PTSD was recognized, Jeremy was in the forefront and courageous enough to buck the formidable, ultra-patriotic Texas mindset by presenting a topic that went against the war machine. He was a trailblazer, Betty decided back then. But she could never whisper a wisp of what she thought, since she was married to a full-time military man. But somewhere up in the attic, hidden in an old dusty box, was that yellowed newspaper article from the
Chronicle
.

Sitting in the garden now, with her hands still covered in the dirt, a strange illumination came over Betty. She flashed on Peyton's heartfelt observation that he recognized an “essence” buried deep within her that she'd forgotten existed. Was it possible she
was
actually wired differently than what she had been told? The pitter-patter she felt for Jeremy Lindholm wasn't repeated when she was forced on a date with Frank Craven. But Frank was “suitable” and “a great catch,” she was advised by her parents, family and girlfriends. How could they all be wrong? And since he was six years older than Betty, Frank was “secure and stable.” They had her best interests in mind, didn't they? She didn't want to let them down. She needed to do what was right and appropriate for a young woman of her social class. And yet, it seemed there was never a quiet moment set aside where anyone asked her a very simple question: What do
you
want, Betty? If the world was your oyster, who would be your pearl? What would you become if fear and failure were removed from the equation?

Betty dug her hands deeper into the soil. It was as if she'd connected to some profound magnetic beacon that infused her with the strangest, yet compelling insights. She allowed this bizarre cocktail of information to fill her thoughts, without questioning or attempting to rationalize what was happening. What if those closest to her back then saw the same essence that Peyton perceived – a quality that perhaps bubbled closer to the surface when she was younger? What if that untamed spirit terrified them? What if they purposely pushed her into charm schools, pageants and “proper” after-school activities, in order to steer her away from what they perceived as a young woman who was really a wild horse and a loose cannon? What if they intentionally manipulated her values and thoughts, because they believed controlling her was the only way to rescue her from a life
they
deemed unmanageable? What if there was an entirely different person all these years concealed inside this suffocating conformist? What if she'd been living someone else's life for nearly fifty-nine years?

Betty exhaled a huge blast of air and quickly withdrew her hands from the dirt, shaking from the thoughts that raced through her head. What did she love?
Really love
? She loved the dirt, even though she was always told to stay clean. She loved tending her plants, even though she was told there were gardeners who took care of that sort of thing. She loved Colorado, even though she was told that Texas was in her blood. She loved her son, even though she was told he was worthless and a waste of space. And that's when Betty realized that the true person inside of her, that was meant to embrace life instead of fear it, was screaming to be released. It was similar to what she felt after Frank Sr. died and she went about “investing in Betty.” But that was all surface – from her hundred-thousand-dollar-plus kitchen to her shiny veneers. That was the manufactured Betty, who operated from what she thought was important and necessary. It wasn't the real one still hidden deep inside that wanted to emerge and breathe in the life force that had been withheld for so many decades.

My God…this was all so fresh and still developing in her mind. And while the traditional Betty was still formally in charge, she could feel a not-so-gentle push in her gut from the
real
Betty. But not knowing who that was yet, it seemed reasonable to tamp her down. Let her out of the can too soon and no telling what could happen.

Betty walked inside and was shocked to see that several hours had passed. She had to get ready to meet Tom Reed at The Phoenix.
Dammit.
It was the last place she wanted to be, especially coming on the heels of this still-churning profundity. Somehow, she needed to stuff down this growing awareness in order to get through the night. Even though it wasn't five-thirty, she knocked back a glass of Old Crow. And then another one. Then, like Emily Dickinson wrote, her “feet, mechanical” went round, moving through the next ninety minutes, until Betty parked in front of The Phoenix.

Walking inside, she headed toward the separate bar area. It truly was a retro establishment, with red vinyl booths, black and white diamond carpeting and dim lighting. Sinatra's “Just As Though You Were Here” played in the background. Betty checked herself to make sure she hadn't slipped into a time warp. Everything about this place, sans the rising Phoenix painted with broad red brush strokes on the ceiling, brought back memories of meeting up with Frank when they first got acquainted. Scanning the crowded room, she spotted a tall, good-looking man, seated alone in a booth that matched the age range Judi described. She approached the table. “Tom?”

He stood up, quickly unbuttoning his sports jacket and extending his large hand. “Betty! Right on time!”

Betty felt her back go up. Punctuality was important to him. How romantic. She shook his hand and took a seat in the booth.

“Nice handshake,” he commented, “I like that.”

Now she felt like a horse being examined by a prospective buyer. She observed him through the vapor of two bourbons. On the outside, he was what most women would consider “attractive,” which only meant his facial features were symmetrical and appealing to the eye. His voice was confident and his mannerisms were “take charge.” Yes, all seemingly fabulous.

“What'll you have?” he asked Betty.

She really didn't want anything but figured it wouldn't hurt to have a prop in her hand to fill in the dead space. “Bourbon on the rocks, please.”

Tom hailed the waitress to the table, telling her what “the lady” would like.

Betty suddenly felt removed from the scene. It was as though she were allowing herself to see the surroundings as they were, unfiltered. Tipping her head, she was taken by the dramatic expanse of the crimson-winged Phoenix on the ceiling, emerging from a caldron of flames. She didn't even hear Tom's voice for a brief moment.

He leaned forward. “I said, Judi tells me you're from Texas!”

“Born and raised in Houston, but I've lived in Colorado for thirty years –”

“Oh! I've got you by ten years on that one! Moved here in '70 when you could buy a goddamned corner of the state for a nickel!”

Betty glanced to the diamond alumni ring Tom wore on his pinky. His fingernails were clean and filed neatly; his salt and pepper hair combed with precision, and still slightly damp from the shower after his late tennis game. As Judi said, “on paper” he was a catch.

“I should have probably bought up some land, but I plugged it all into my own insurance company.”

“And I'm sure you were successful –”

“I was!” He vice-gripped his glass of Scotch on the rocks. “I was a big fish in a little pond back then and I grabbed every opportunity with gusto. Before long, I had eight different satellite offices from Fort Collins down to Alamosa.”

“Impressive,” Betty rejoined as her bourbon arrived. She took a liberal sip.

Tom cringed as he moved closer to Betty in the booth.

“You all right?”

“Yeah, yeah. Just got a knee thing going on that tends to creep up after I hit the court too hard. But,” he shook his finger at her, “I don't let it stop me!” He lifted an orange prescription bottle from his coat pocket and popped the cap. “Gotta keep moving!” Like a seasoned pro, he lobbed a pill into his mouth and downed it quickly with ice water. “So, Judi tells me that you're a…a great cook and you love to garden.”

Betty sat back. The comment seemed random. She'd had a conversation like this before back in 1973 in a bar very much like this one, seated across from a guy with a military buzz haircut and a confident air. She fell rock hard for it back then.

“Actually, I
am
a great cook,” Betty replied, taking another heady sip of bourbon. This wasn't Old Crow and it melted like honey on her tongue. “And an incredible gardener –”

“The most gardening I've done is mowing the lawn. But my ex got the house in my divorce so I lost the lawn too. No hardship there! Best thing I ever did – short of my divorce – was investing in my condo at the Aspen Grove. Everything's covered in my dues. Yard maintenance, membership in the club, twenty-four-hour security. Not that it's needed since we're gated. They also have a killer, private, five-star restaurant for residents. I'd love to show you the place.”

Betty knocked back another gulp. Her head felt tingly and she could tell her censor mechanism was going off duty. “Really?” She leaned forward in a semi-seductive manner. “Why is that?”

Tom took her cue and leaned closer. “Because I think it's the kind of place you would absolutely love.”

She smiled warmly, tracing a circle around the lip of her nearly empty glass. “And how would you know that, Tom?” He started to speak but Betty abruptly cut him off. “All you know about me is what you've heard from Judi. That I'm a great cook and love to garden. Oh, and that I used to live in Texas thirty years ago. How does this token information tell you I would love your gated condo?”

He let out a hearty laugh. “Because you would!”

“I'd love it because you're
telling me
I'm going to love it?”

He shrugged his shoulders and let out another laugh, this time with a dismissive undertone to it. “Yes!”

Betty sat back. Yes, she'd heard that same laugh before with that same trivializing quality. It was as if a million puzzle pieces fell into place all at once. And as each piece clicked, the haze that had shrouded her life for so many years began to clear. “Tom, you have no goddamn clue what I love or don't love. You've known me fewer than five minutes –”

“Hey, give me a chance,” he said, inching closer. “I bet you and I have a lot in common when you cut through all the crap.”

She smiled. “Whose crap would that be, Tom? Mine or yours? Hundred bucks says you meant mine.” Betty scooted away from him. “Your confidence far exceeds your ability to close the deal,” she whispered.

He grinned, not sure what in the hell she meant. “Huh?”

“You're not all hat and no cattle. You've
got
the cattle. But you've also got the bullshit to go with it.” She downed the last of her drink, knowing there wouldn't be another one scheduled that night. Her head spun as a delicious warmth engulfed her body. “I'm disheartened to think that Judi and Renée thought you would be ‘perfect' for me. I've already danced this dance. I've already dated you. I married you. I had a son with you. And you died. I don't need to repeat the past anymore in order to see my future.” She pulled away, shoving her glass across the table. “Allow me to offer you a little insight. You're the type of man women refer to as ‘interesting' when they really mean ‘tedious.'”

Tom regarded her with a confused smile. “I'm not following any of this.”

“Perhaps it's because you mixed your pain killer with your scotch. That's never a good idea.” She heard her Texas drawl issue forth but didn't feel the need to hide it. “You see, Tom, you're still playing tennis as we sit at this table. Difference is, you're not serving the ball to me so I can return it. I'm just the wall onto which you lob the ball again and again. But I'm here to tell you, Mr. Tom Reed, that I'm not a wall anymore.” She slid out from the booth and stood up. “See that phoenix?” she pointed to the ceiling. “That's me, sweetheart. Rising from the ashes.”

He stared at her, mouth agape, as she stood straight as an arrow and walked out.

Arriving home, Betty felt like a caged lioness. She couldn't sit or stand still. She grabbed a few bites of cheese and gulped down the last of the gazpacho with a hearty slice of bread. The carbs seemed to slightly steady her but then that boiling in the pit of her gut erupted again. A recklessness overwhelmed her. Yes, she remembered feeling this sensation a very long time ago. It was right after she and Frank first met. She snuck out of her bedroom window at her parents' house on that hot summer night and ran at breakneck speed through the neighborhood. She wanted to keep running and disappear from the world that held her captive in its well-meaning dictums. Back then, she didn't have the experience or the heartbreak etched into her bones. She still distrusted her inner voice, abdicating her own desires and adopting the dreams of others. But now…now she was fourteen months from turning sixty.
Sixty
, for God's sake. How in the hell did that happen? All that life wasted and usurped by others because she allowed it. “Fuck it,” she said, slightly surprising herself.

She tore around the house with no direction. Up the stairs and down, she kept moving, her mind racing with thoughts that had no answers. Twenty minutes later, she found herself standing in the living room, leaning against the credenza. Opening the center drawer, she dug out Frankie's framed photo and stared at it. “What in the hell am I going to do, Frankie?” She spied the wad of cash still secured in the drawer and then the sales receipt on the credenza with Peyton's address and phone. The fire in her belly burned hot and impetuous. Just like that summer evening in Houston thirty-eight years ago, she ran back into the night again. But this time, she had a plan and when she returned home
this
time, nothing would ever be the same again.