Jackrabbit Homesteader: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-21

Link to Part-1: Jackrabbit Homesteader Part-1

Lyndy Life Observation: I hate to be the one stereotyping people, but when you find out a man is named Jimmy-John, can’t you just picture in your mind what he looks like?

Somehow ABBA had been subdued and in its place: Vin Scully. But this time it wasn’t in her head, an AM radio was cracking. She could hear the disembodied voice of Vin calling a Dodger game. There were other baffling sounds of chirping doodads, busy people rushing about. Her back was aching, body fixed in an odd position, unable to turn over.

She felt like one of those rotisserie chickens on a spit.

The Spitfire was frightened to open her eyes but did so anyway. Opening drowsily, her vision revealed an otherworldly scene ahead of her: a contented Mr. Chan in a hospital chair, an apparition dressed in a fanciful red Hawaiian shirt—like a modern interpretation of a Daoist monk’s half-robe—calmly slurping hospital Jello from a wax-paper cup with a spoon. Next to him a decorative iron teapot, two dainty porcelain teacups; something he could only have brought from home, as no medical center would permit such an obscure item.

The funny thing about Chan, he was already a ghostly figure. Whether he existed at all, or represented some transitory metaphysical construct apart from reality was a matter worthy of debate. He mostly presented in two localities: the thoroughly drab cinder block structure on Route-66 known as CBB, and the Riverview Trailer Park, where his singlewide trailer backed up along an embankment of the dry Mojave. If Chan had transported himself from the desert to wherever this room was, he’d done so out of necessity—travel to cities outside his cocoon was practically a last option for him.

Twisting her neck to the side, she observed a plaster cast swallowing three-quarters of her left arm, including the fingers up to the nails. It was bound to a metal chain contraption, held in traction at an elevation greater than her heart. Thankfully it meant her arm was still attached and for the time being that was worth celebrating.

Glancing to her right she could see an IV drip, draining through clear plastic tubing to her right hand. Ominous medicinal names were imprinted in a bold courier font on the label. Looking down she saw she was wearing a hideous hospital gown. Considering all this, feeling woozy and fatigued, she knew this was no small thing. Indeed she was fighting for her life.

Her eyes met with Chan’s.

Grinning with raised eyebrows, Mr. Chan passed her a teacup half-full with a brownish liquid. Cradling it shakily, she raised it to her lips, but kept her eyes locked on him.

“Drink, drink,” he commanded.

She sipped about a tablespoon, them grimaced. “God dang, that’s bitter,” she whispered. She sniffed. Unable to control it, tears were clouding her eyes and she rubbed them with her knuckle. “Where’s my purse?”

“Why?”

“I want my makeup kit. I wanna see my face.”

“Huh. Huh. Huh.” Chan chuckled sincerely. “Melinda Martinez, it is a hospital. Everybody look bad in here.”

“What’s wrong with me?” she demanded, tilting her head. “Aside from the obvious.”

He stood up, shuffling closer. “You have infection in bloodstream and bone.” Tapping on the IV. “Doctor want to remove your limb. Save life. But I reason with him. Turns out his family is from China as well. He agree to try this penicillin mixture for few days.”

“Dios mio,” she shuttered, wiping at her eyes. She felt cold.

“Look over there,” said Chan, pointing to a table and large bouquet of yellow flowers.

“Who sent those?”

“The crazy boy who drives around hammering on rocks.”

Lyndy exhaled, amused. “Ah. Kyle Ellis.”

The discomfort was increasing—would have been better to stay unconscious. The tears she could not control were spilling down her cheeks, landing on the bedsheets. Turning her head away to a window with blinds. “What am I gonna do?” she pleaded.

It was intended to be rhetorical, but to Chan, no question was that way.

“What are you going to do?” he echoed. “You must pray. It is the only way. You are young and you will heal.”

She breathed a long sigh. “But what if …” she trailed off. Reaching for a tissue from the nightstand, she began dabbing her face. It sounded childish to continue.

“What?”

“What if you know … the stuff they said is true … that I’m possessed by a demon?”

He did not immediately respond, nor scoff. Instead tilting his chin down, he paced to the window. He pushed aside the vertical blinds, letting in a midday sun so blinding the saturation revealed nothing of the outside view.

“A demon.” Chan chuckled to himself; it was hard to tell whether he was amused at her suggestion, or giving it serious reflection. At last he spoke, “Well, a demon, they are nothing more than fallen angels.”

Huh. Good point.

“Hey, what are you doing here?” she asked. “Aren’t you missing out on business?”

He was still staring at the view. “This place is dangerously unfortified. Your enemies will soon discover you are here, if not already.” He turned to face her. “Look Melinda, if your brother were alive, it would be him staying here until you are better. In his absence, it will be me. Until then, I put Rita in charge.”

She pictured prissy Miss Lovelace, seated on the mahogany desk doling out bonds.

Her eyes fell upon the lunchroom tray, its formed fiberglass cubbies containing items impersonating food. It reminded her of middle school. But nothing looked appetizing and she felt ill just conceiving of a meal. In a few minutes, she drifted off back to sleep, hearing of a bases loaded and the fourth inning.

 

Lyndy Life Observation: Late one night I’m seated alone, depressed, eating a bad waffle in a Blythe area truck stop. For some reason there’s a middle class family eating there too, and I overhear an eight year old kid shout cheerfully: “I wanna be a trucker when I grow up!” Seconds later this grizzly-bear-size trucker with a ZZ-Top beard, gold medallion against his hairy chest and Texas-style, woven straw hat stands up. Then in the deepest, most commanding smoker voice bellows: “Stay in school, kid.”

On older maps these things were called lonesome gods, stone tower monuments built by unknown desert peoples. Some were hundreds, if not thousands of years in age. If you were a pilot and knew where to look, they could be relied upon for crude navigation.

The secrets of this place she didn’t know; as far as she could tell the rockpile had been standing eons and she’d only added to and bolstered its base over time. A few half-buried flat rocks surrounded, perfect for sitting. The stargazing here on the ridge was spectacular, and often when she needed to think, couldn’t sleep, or simply wanted to visit the ashen remains of her late brother, she hiked to this spot.

Its location was six-hundred feet higher than the town and about a half-mile distant from the airstream trailer. An impressive nolina grew here, its leaves slender and rigid with sharp pointed tips, reminding her of Spanish fencing swords.

Pulling her crocheted sweater tighter, as the coolness of the night had taken hold, she wrapped fingers around a square bottle of Herradura. Touching it directory to her lips she sipped about a capful.

Though unable to see her watch, she knew the hour was well after midnight. She could tell this for two reasons: a quarter-moon was rising over the high mountains, and a certain early AM train had blazed through the Amboy crossing, blowing its horn.

Taking another sip of tequila she began to sprinkle dried flower petals around the base, a mixture of primrose and honeysuckle. She pushed back her hair, now in its natural state, circling the monument base on foot. Ever vigilant for scorpions—they inhabited this area in droves—she’d made certain to wear hiking boots.

Gradually the petals dried up, were blown away or carried off by insects. She would bring more.

Her broken arm was in a cast and sling, immobile. The aching was still overwhelming at times—she’d been given a bottle of prescription pills—and if the bones wouldn’t heal straight there was still a chance of amputation or more surgery. Her orders from the doctor had been to rest. Unfortunately, her chosen career path didn’t go well with time out.

Night after night, she’d been having difficulty sleeping. The cause was no mystery. For this reason she’d been partaking in fewer of the painkillers, to prevent herself from becoming drowsy. It was more than one visit she’d made this week to the ridge.

Instinctively The Spitfire knew spiteful men were coming. Chan had felt it too, the reason he’d been so uncharacteristically helpful at the hospital. But ultimately no one could protect her from every eventuality. Lyndy felt like the tortoise must have felt while teetering on his back.

And that’s when she saw the low beams. They crested the shallow rise at Chambliss, traveling below the speed limit, alone as they were on an arrow straight road. She might have fancied a cigarette, and though the risk was slight, she was afraid to reveal her position.

Nobody sane would drive this way. It was the middle of the night, on a dark highway. Like the song said—a dark, desert highway. And low beams? Huh. There were cows out there, they slept in the road because it was warm. Other animals too. Why not take the interstate?

She observed them for a period of minutes. She would have bet money on it being an American car, but too far to sort out the motor. Her hand slipped to the cold steel grip of the Beretta. It was armed, having been cleaned and reloaded since the shootout at Bo’s repair business.

Days after the drama a telegram arrived at her door. It contained a perforated check attachment. She’d expected some word from Jack Decklin, a half-assed apology maybe. But instead it bore the moniker of a Miss Illyria Jameson. That was his secretary.

Very lawyer like, she explained the check, written in the sum of fifteen-thousand dollars was to cover any further medical expenses, and also to settle the investigative services on the Jackrabbit Homesteader sanction. A prepayment had already been made to the Loma Linda hospital, and no further monies were coming. Depositing this check was considered an honorable agreement to aforementioned terms. And finally, she was to package up and return a steel-cased Rolex watch. Good thing Lyndy hadn’t pawned it.

She’d made it to the bank in a cloud of dust with cartoon-like speed. Lyndy’s next stop had been the sporting goods store, to buy ammo. And then to Darrel’s, to pay him for parts.

She sipped more tequila, rising to her feet. The vehicle slowed as it approached an intersection for the Amboy cutoff. Then it did an even more curious thing. The person driving shut off their lights entirely. If she listened close she could hear the exhaust note, coming in waves then fading when the wind direction became unfavorable.

Why must it always be left to The Spitfire to finish things?

There was still time to escape, sneak off to the hills, wait it out. Tempting to run from one’s problems. But that solution was a band-aid, keeping you living in fear.

The next question was how many.

Near the school complex a series of dirt roads trended north, most of them unmarked where they intersected 66. Here were a collection of tamarisk trees, about the only cover in town. She assumed that’s where they were ditching the car. A tiny flash of light confirmed their presence—a dome or trunk light perhaps—and then nothing. The sound of the motor was gone. No way to tell how many were coming.

 

Several minutes later …

Her early morning congested voice rose above the din of crickets. “I hate finding trash on my property,” she said softly, yet loud enough for Chet and two companions to hear.

They’d expected her to be indoors at this hour, asleep. Normal stuff. Their kicking up dust as they spun around to face her, confirmed this belief. Their plot was foiled.

The scene was vague, only outlines of figures could be discerned, but no question who was confronting who. She was standing by a middle-height mesquite tree, grinning to greet them if they could only see her face.  Her gun was drawn, pointed earthward, fingers clenched tight on the grip. A gap of fifty feet separated her from the adversaries.

She knew it was Chet for a funny reason, his capped teeth were glinting in moonlight. His helpers had longer firearms, size of shotguns, but Chet clutched a polished revolver—in profile appearing like a Ruger Security-Six—double action, taking magnum cartridges. Street toughs didn’t bother with guns like this. Sucker was loud as hell, difficult to conceal, easy to trace. Then again, in the dark she could be mis-IDing it. A frightened man would bring whatever his best was.

“I wouldn’t think less of you all if you ramble on,” she announced, speaking mainly to Chet’s companions. “Ask yourself, is it worth the risk? Feeling like a coward, versus dying out here in the wild for some fool’s revenge. Bo Rawlins is dead. Matt Wallach is in a shitty bare soil graveyard. Who do you think put him there?”

Chet shifted, his eyes quickly darting to each of his companion, wondering whether he’d misjudged their loyalty. He took a breath. “How’s that busted arm healing up?” he inquired with a nod of the head.

Surprisingly, the men in the shadows were holding their ground, as was she.

She jerked her head to the side. “Well, not so good if I’m honest. Sad, but my best origami days are behind me.”

Chet didn’t laugh, but one of his pals snorted, clearly trying to suppress a chuckle. “I got another question for you Spitfire.” He gestured to his partners. “I think you’ve got our motives wrong Miss Martinez. We were coming here to check on your welfare, knock on your door, see if you needed anything. If you kill one of us, how are you gonna explain to the sheriff what happened?”

“Nice try. I don’t think he or anyone else would buy that,” she chuckled, her index finger slipping down, coming to rest lightly on the trigger.

“Tell me this bitch, how you gonna bury 3 grown men with only one arm?”

“Very slowly,” she thought.

She could see the belt of Orion above their outlines, blue Alnitak twinkling brightly.

Cue triumphant ranchera music.

“Trust me gentlemen. You all don’t need to worry about me ever again,” she assured. “I’ll be alright. I have a strong feeling my grave digging days are just getting started.”

The sound of a train horn pierced the night air. A banging of guns and flash of light. She squeezed on the trigger twice. A fast projectile swished her sweater out. Chet fell back with a thud. Smell of gunpowder tickled her nostrils.

His companions were still vertical, but they took one look at one another, then turned tail and bolted off running.

Checking her sweater she saw that there was a circular hole, singed by the shock wave of a .357 magnum, but feeling around her waist she’d suffered no flesh wounds.

 

Next morning at dawn, the black-winged birds had taken to air. Tortoise could see them soaring as he strolled along his morning route, the perimeter of his territory. But it was not for him they flew.

Munching on a pencil cactus he felt a vibration in the dirt, which was odd, since he was a mile and a half from the nearest paved road. It was unremitting and the tempo didn’t match anything he was used to, making him nervous and weary. Humans were up to something; his first guess a new development.

Curiosity getting the better of him and in his steady manner, he began to amble nearer to the source of this activity, using the circling birds as a beacon. The rumbles became louder, accompanied by a scraping of metal on rock.

Cresting a hummock, lingering in the shade of a chokecherry, his old eyes witnessed the female human, one who wore dark colors and the violet lipstick.

She had a shovel in hand, perspiration dripping down and her soaked shirt was unbuttoned all the way to her navel, resting on her lower shoulder, just a black bra covering her top—her brown skin moist and dark from the sun. She was standing in a deep hole with sides up to her hips, pants rolled up and she was digging. Clearly those birds were hoping she’d fail, maybe croak of exertion herself. And though her body was small, her build slight compared to a man’s, her muscles and back had a look of steel resiliency. Knowing what he did about this girl, he felt they’d be wiser to give up on any notions of an easy meal. This human would not stop until a task was finished. This human would never stop.