Laurel Dewey's Blog - Posts Tagged "betty-craven"
Chapter 1 — "Betty's (Little Basement) Garden"
People only see what they are shown and believe the tale they are sold.
CHAPTER 1
Everything was perfect.
Well, okay, as close to perfect as Betty Craven could conceive. And that was always above and beyond what the average person ever achieved. But as Betty so often lectured herself, perfection was an elusive bitch; just when she thought she’d manipulated all the pieces into place, some goddamned force of nature with a chaotic agenda took control, vanquishing her precise plans. Perfection wasn’t easy, but it was what kept Betty motivated. Sure, it also kept her jaw unusually tight and even popping at times from the extreme tension. And that neck pain that often paralyzed her range of motion? Yes, that was also a health casualty in her quest for excellence. Oh, and the syncopated flutter that occasionally rose up in her right inner ear that not a single doctor could diagnose, except for citing “stress” as a factor? Yes, that too was just another consequence of what it took to be Betty Craven.
But no one saw the struggle under the polished veneer. People only see what they are shown and believe the tale they are sold. Her dearest, closest friends admired her strength and willpower. She was solid and dependable, but she was also beautiful. A former beauty queen with classic features, Betty’s curvaceous, five-foot-ten-inch frame was envied by other women, who suffered silently as they stood within her stunning orbit. Her hips, sculpted by gourmet cuisine and decadent desserts, were in suitable proportion to her voluptuous breasts that she reined in with custom brassieres. To Betty, exercise was not about cavorting on gym equipment; rather, exercise was a rousing few hours of weeding and digging in her prize-winning garden.
At the age of fifty-eight, she carried herself well. Her blond hair—touched up every twenty-eight days like clockwork—was the same shade as on the day she stood on the stage in the middle of the football field and was crowned Homecoming Queen of Spring Woods High School in Houston, Texas. The same, suitable coif adorned her smiling face on that perfect June day in 1974 when she married Frank Craven, her military beau, at the age of twenty-three in Colorado Springs, Colorado. And nary a hair was out of place in the photos six years later, as she held Frank Jr. in her arms and gazed at the camera in an appropriate manner.
And now, at this moment, her wavy, blond locks were still flawless as they skimmed just below her porcelain ears with the pearl stud earrings. Except for the infuriating fifteen pounds she couldn’t lose around her waist and stomach, Betty Craven still had that indefinable “it” factor. To anyone who knew her longer than five minutes, Betty was the personification of perfection. She was the woman every other woman wanted to be.
And if she could just hold it together for three more hours—just three more goddamn hours—another day would finally expire and she could retreat into the claws of regret and her beleaguered memories. Simmering discontent best described Betty Craven lately. The undercurrent of grief had never abated since the day he died. After a few strong drinks at night, she’d often see him in her dreams. But then she wondered if they were really dreams, or if he was stuck between the worlds and destined to spend eternity navigating the tortuous maze of purgatory. From the moment he passed from this world, her body felt weighted by lead. Betty could keep up a good front, because she’d done it for so damn long. She’d trained her body to move and react with such precision, that nobody would ever know the acute disconnect beneath the facade. “The Feet, mechanical, go round,” wrote Emily Dickinson, a favorite of Betty’s. “Of Ground, or Air, or Ought, a wooden way, regardless grown, a quartz contentment, like a stone. This is the Hour of Lead.” Yes, that was an ode to Betty Craven. She closed her eyes and took another anxious breath.
The doorbell rang. Smoothing her freshly ironed, creamy yellow dress across her hips, she re-adjusted the elbow-length sleeves. If Betty ran the world, no one over the age of forty would be caught dead in a sleeveless dress or shirt. There are things you do and there are things you never do, and dammit, sleeveless numbers are verboten. Betty quickly swept the living room with her steely blue eyes, programmed to root out any un-fluffed pillow, a chocolate candy or delicate cucumber sandwich askew on the hand painted platters, or an errant carpet fiber that had resisted the domination of the vacuum. She adjusted one of the large featured flowers in the vase she’d grown from heirloom seeds in her immaculate garden. It was a magnificent bloom with bold orange and crimson striations. But was it too bold? Betty’s jaw clenched. Did it overpower the presentation?
The doorbell rang again, this time with more urgency. They’d all arrived nearly simultaneously, parking their cars in her circular driveway and issuing a penetrating, humming natter outside her spotless cherry-red front door with the spring wreath on it. A wave of apprehension overwhelmed her. Would their expectations be met? Would the food be as impressive as the last get-together she hosted? But far worse, would she fail? Failure wasn’t an unknown visitor in Betty Craven’s house. In fact, failure was sitting thirty-five feet outside the kitchen door, down a short, brick path and slowly decaying in the empty, 600-square-foot, sunny space above her garage.
And there was always Frankie, her greatest failure.
Enough! She shook off the chatter in her head, let out a deep, authoritative breath and cheerfully opened the door.
Betty's (Little Basement) Garden
CHAPTER 1
Everything was perfect.
Well, okay, as close to perfect as Betty Craven could conceive. And that was always above and beyond what the average person ever achieved. But as Betty so often lectured herself, perfection was an elusive bitch; just when she thought she’d manipulated all the pieces into place, some goddamned force of nature with a chaotic agenda took control, vanquishing her precise plans. Perfection wasn’t easy, but it was what kept Betty motivated. Sure, it also kept her jaw unusually tight and even popping at times from the extreme tension. And that neck pain that often paralyzed her range of motion? Yes, that was also a health casualty in her quest for excellence. Oh, and the syncopated flutter that occasionally rose up in her right inner ear that not a single doctor could diagnose, except for citing “stress” as a factor? Yes, that too was just another consequence of what it took to be Betty Craven.
But no one saw the struggle under the polished veneer. People only see what they are shown and believe the tale they are sold. Her dearest, closest friends admired her strength and willpower. She was solid and dependable, but she was also beautiful. A former beauty queen with classic features, Betty’s curvaceous, five-foot-ten-inch frame was envied by other women, who suffered silently as they stood within her stunning orbit. Her hips, sculpted by gourmet cuisine and decadent desserts, were in suitable proportion to her voluptuous breasts that she reined in with custom brassieres. To Betty, exercise was not about cavorting on gym equipment; rather, exercise was a rousing few hours of weeding and digging in her prize-winning garden.
At the age of fifty-eight, she carried herself well. Her blond hair—touched up every twenty-eight days like clockwork—was the same shade as on the day she stood on the stage in the middle of the football field and was crowned Homecoming Queen of Spring Woods High School in Houston, Texas. The same, suitable coif adorned her smiling face on that perfect June day in 1974 when she married Frank Craven, her military beau, at the age of twenty-three in Colorado Springs, Colorado. And nary a hair was out of place in the photos six years later, as she held Frank Jr. in her arms and gazed at the camera in an appropriate manner.
And now, at this moment, her wavy, blond locks were still flawless as they skimmed just below her porcelain ears with the pearl stud earrings. Except for the infuriating fifteen pounds she couldn’t lose around her waist and stomach, Betty Craven still had that indefinable “it” factor. To anyone who knew her longer than five minutes, Betty was the personification of perfection. She was the woman every other woman wanted to be.
And if she could just hold it together for three more hours—just three more goddamn hours—another day would finally expire and she could retreat into the claws of regret and her beleaguered memories. Simmering discontent best described Betty Craven lately. The undercurrent of grief had never abated since the day he died. After a few strong drinks at night, she’d often see him in her dreams. But then she wondered if they were really dreams, or if he was stuck between the worlds and destined to spend eternity navigating the tortuous maze of purgatory. From the moment he passed from this world, her body felt weighted by lead. Betty could keep up a good front, because she’d done it for so damn long. She’d trained her body to move and react with such precision, that nobody would ever know the acute disconnect beneath the facade. “The Feet, mechanical, go round,” wrote Emily Dickinson, a favorite of Betty’s. “Of Ground, or Air, or Ought, a wooden way, regardless grown, a quartz contentment, like a stone. This is the Hour of Lead.” Yes, that was an ode to Betty Craven. She closed her eyes and took another anxious breath.
The doorbell rang. Smoothing her freshly ironed, creamy yellow dress across her hips, she re-adjusted the elbow-length sleeves. If Betty ran the world, no one over the age of forty would be caught dead in a sleeveless dress or shirt. There are things you do and there are things you never do, and dammit, sleeveless numbers are verboten. Betty quickly swept the living room with her steely blue eyes, programmed to root out any un-fluffed pillow, a chocolate candy or delicate cucumber sandwich askew on the hand painted platters, or an errant carpet fiber that had resisted the domination of the vacuum. She adjusted one of the large featured flowers in the vase she’d grown from heirloom seeds in her immaculate garden. It was a magnificent bloom with bold orange and crimson striations. But was it too bold? Betty’s jaw clenched. Did it overpower the presentation?
The doorbell rang again, this time with more urgency. They’d all arrived nearly simultaneously, parking their cars in her circular driveway and issuing a penetrating, humming natter outside her spotless cherry-red front door with the spring wreath on it. A wave of apprehension overwhelmed her. Would their expectations be met? Would the food be as impressive as the last get-together she hosted? But far worse, would she fail? Failure wasn’t an unknown visitor in Betty Craven’s house. In fact, failure was sitting thirty-five feet outside the kitchen door, down a short, brick path and slowly decaying in the empty, 600-square-foot, sunny space above her garage.
And there was always Frankie, her greatest failure.
Enough! She shook off the chatter in her head, let out a deep, authoritative breath and cheerfully opened the door.
Betty's (Little Basement) Garden
