Bad At Love: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-21

Lyndy Life Observation: Sometimes I can’t believe Baywatch Nights was a real “serious” spinoff TV show and not a spoof. Makes me chuckle every time I think about it. Begs the question, when exactly did Mitch Buchannon find time to sleep—he was always working. Day as lifeguard, night as a goofy private dick.

“Would she have to learn braille?” she wondered. “Could she even do so at her age?”

Still reeling at the concept of living her remaining years without ever seeing a sunrise, Lyndy felt an unexpected hand latch onto her. This startling presence had the strength of a wrestler, a grip so firm the fingers on her right hand went limp and the Beretta crashed to the floor with a thump.

She recognized his aftershave, sensing the cowboy hat and lean, six-foot-three frame of Graham standing beside her. Though she couldn’t see, she perceived a coldness in his spirit. He’d come to the party a different man, brought with him a weapon of his own.

At the same moment Rita fixed her gaze upon Tarner, watching as a smug grin hardened on his chubby cheeks. An instant later he drew his gun, a compact and squarish piece like a Walther PP. In less dire circumstances she might have assumed it was a prop—Tarner being a scientist, not a killer—but that notion was risky.

“Mr. Winsom,” he said, delightedly. “Glad you could join our Tombstone-style standoff.”

“Cut yer comedy act Tarner,” replied Graham. “It ain’t funny.” He backed away from Lyndy, sweeping his ankle to knock away the Beretta, but maintaining focus on The Spitfire.

Rips in Graham’s cowboy shirt revealed patches of strawberry-red bumps on his skin, the characteristic lesions; Rita knew he must be suffering the same as she. “Hey we’re twins,” commented Rita sardonically, pointing at Graham’s waist.

Graham remained taciturn and unamused, but Tarner chuckled: “The sickness is going around. Early Egyptologists encountered similar afflictions. Of course, they didn’t pack up their shit and go home. They overcame.”

Graham glared at Lyndy, leaning in. His hot breath tickled her ear. Something else too, perhaps a residual hint of loyalty masked in his betrayal. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

Lyndy turned away, averting her gaze intuitively. She wasn’t sure she wanted to look at him now, even if she could.

“Times have changed. This is nothing to toy with. It’s clearly our fault,” stated Rita. “We should both have returned the flute to the historical society. This curse—whatever it is—could have been prevented.”

“We want the same thing, don’t we?” Tarner lowered his weapon. He cleared his throat, bracing a hand on the paneled wall. “To stop the disease—which will come to pass when the item in question is auctioned off to the next buyer. As planned.”

“I don’t agree.” Rita stiffened her back.

Tarner turned to address Graham: “Now Mr. Winsom, think of all the fabulous things I can do for your career here in Vegas,” he reasoned.

“Oh for goodness sake,” Rita interrupted. “That’s your pitch?”

“…these fancy hotels adore me,” argued Tarner, contempt for Rita in his words. “You were at my lectures. I fill the places up year after year. I know every powerful businessman in the city. It helps to have friends like me.”

“Great. Now you sound like Olivia—it’s what she’d say isn’t it? Not a compliment,” Rita chastised, taking a step back. “Plus, you’re itchy, repulsive and you smell like rotten fish.”

Sweat was dampening Tarner’s brow. He smudged his forehead on his elbow, saying nothing to counter Rita’s blistering insults.

At last, Tarner turned to Lyndy: “Someone with your abilities could go far as well. We can get you a fantastic job with benefits. All is forgiven Miss Martinez.”

Lyndy slanted her head. Though the pain was immense, she forced her eyelids open at Graham, hoping to get through to him.  She was mouthing, “Don’t. Do. This.”

“Just hand the damn thing over,” coaxed Tarner to Rita. “Break this curse! Or we will break you.”

Graham pointed his gun at Rita’s chest. “Do as the professor says,” Graham demanded. His back to a wall, he reached out to caress the tops of Lyndy’s trembling fingers, comforting her. Closing gently around her middle and index finger, Graham tugged her toward the stairs, the place where Tarner was looming. “He’ll keep his word. Cause I admit, he already knows me. He can help us live well. After what I’ve seen, Lyndy, you have a bright future in security.”

Rita appeared defeated, standing alone in the focal point of the room, mascara running down both cheeks. She used her palms to press her tangled hair back forcefully.

“Choose a side, Lyndy,” seethed Tarner, like the devil himself.

Rita continued inching away from the other three.

“…consider this,” he added, his breathing heavy. “What does Rita see in you, other than a means to her pathetic ends, a more capable servant than the lot of her staff. You are not her friend, because you and her are not equals. She’s kind to you only on occasions when she’s bored or lonely, needing a source of companionship. Or when she’s scared.” Tarner chuckled. “Your loyalty is unfounded. If her last name weren’t Lovelace, she wouldn’t have friends at all. And if you were truly blinded, she’d drop you in a hot minute. Like a horse in her stable no longer able to gallop.”

In her mind, Lyndy pictured Rita’s face and was met by the same unflinching coldness. Graceful like her mother’s, symmetrical, but not nice. She developed a case of the shivers herself. What was there to sustain a bond of friendship between them? She thought about the year when she was engaged to Kyle, how isolated she’d been—a shunning—and how Miss Lovelace was the only one in Lake Arrowhead who’d speak her name and welcome her. She confided in Rita.

Yet the sorrow returned. Exertions of the prior 24-hours were catching up with her, clouding her judgement; understandable, after what they’d been through.

“Lyn, you know they’re just being manipulative,” warned Rita. Lyndy could hear her continuing to back away.

“Come on Lyndy, I really like you. We both do,” pleaded Graham. A conflict—like a chasm separating her from the past—deepened, as her heart pounded. She felt pulled by unseen forces toward Winsom and Dr. Tarner. Was she ready to switch allegiances? Because she did perceive a connection between her and Graham.

Lyndy squeezed her temples, doubling over. She winced as emotions were taking over. She then made a tenuous, sideways step in Graham’s direction.

“Lyn,” whispered Rita.

“You should give them what they want,” declared Lyndy.

Rita paused, said nothing, but gazed at Lyndy with her strained eyes. Then she turned, retreating to the corner displays. She rested a nervous hand upon the broken case edge, concentrating so as not to slice her fingers. “We’re all making a huge mistake,” lamented Rita with a sigh. “This will haunt us. But it appears I’m overruled.”

In the darkened gallery, Tarner’s stare tracked the motion of Rita’s hand. She reached down the front of her dress, her arm movement steady and deliberate.

Across the room, from his own vantage, Graham watched her remove the wand-like wooden artefact with quarter-inch holes. She treated it with the same respect as a stick of dynamite. Guardedly, she laid it in the case like placing a baby into a cradle. She spread her hands wide, as though demonstrating the deed was complete.

Graham looked at Dr. Tarner for what to do next. His greedy eyes were focused on the prototype Beretta, situated on the floor.

“Let me have that thing and we’ll call it even,” suggested Rita.

Tarner cocked his head to the side. “Fine, I hate guns,” he answered. “But give up this obsession with the flute.”

“Done,” said Rita. “I don’t believe in curses anyway.”

“No!” Graham kicked the gun to Lyndy’s feet. She felt it slam into her toes and reached down to scoop it up.

Lyndy could hear Rita stepping closer to the stairs. “Well, at least you’ll let me go right? What use am I?” She knew Tarner and Graham would keep their weapons trained on Rita even in retreat, based on the tension between them.

Rita exhaled. “Lyn, you should know, that if ever treated you unfairly, it’s because I’m an only child. And maybe there’s a kernel of truth in Tarner’s web of lies. I have been selfish, which is why it stings so much. But I promise I care about you. And whatever you believe is the best for your future … you should do that. If your future truly lies with these casino bosses then I won’t hold it against you.”

The candor was so uncharacteristic, The Spitfire felt an urge to let go an inappropriate laugh. But she held it in. The other two didn’t know Rita. They wouldn’t understand.

“Tarner, I hope you get bit in the ass by a flying fox on your next expedition. And slowly die of rabies. Now may I go? My feet are killing me and I have an itch like my skin is melting—so either I get to a hospital or lose the fraction of sanity I have remaining.”

She heard Rita take the first step down. She listened to see whether Tarner would stop her, but he did not.

---

Back in the present …

Lyndy wished to relax, but her nerves were twisted up like an over-tight mainspring. The late-night, middle of nowhere staticky radio waves weren’t helping. Nor were the loose ends having to do with the Aloyans.

It’d been ages since she’d driven the grade between Mountain Pass and Baker, a descent of several thousand feet. She remembered having vowed to never do this again, literally go down this road. An animal snared in a trap, managing to escape and reach freedom, is forever wise of traps.

Only a court order and handful of other messy details could drag her into California.

The atmosphere was brooding as her mood, with the blinking beacons of radio towers, outlines of black ridges against a glowing sky and no moon. Road noise and rushing air tingled her eardrums. Perhaps there was the added factor of entering a dreamscape which inflicted so much pain. At least the wind was cool and smelled the way she remembered her home.

Beside them large trucks roared, piloted by zombie-like ride-or-die types.

In the passenger seat, Dale Keynes drooled a little and gaped at the strange expanse. Her old lover wasn’t much company—like having an android for a passenger. He hadn’t uttered a word, making her wish for the old days when he was a smart ass and teller of dirty jokes; they used to snipe at one another, trading sharply timed insults. His silence was getting on her nerves too.

“Man, it’s like sharing a car ride with Lurch.” She cleared her throat. “Funny how I used to pray for something like this to happen—you to lose your voice. But now I’m not sure I dig this non-talking Dale.” She lowered her forehead until it bumped the unpadded wheel. “What the hell happened to us? It isn’t fair, what you did. I almost died.” As usual, his reticent expression didn’t evolve. He’d heard her of course. She knew for a fact his ears worked. “Why couldn’t you marry me? Idiot. WE WERE ENGAGED! You were gonna buy me a rock—when we had time to go together and pick one.”

She squinted her eyes, then smacked his hand. Dale jerked his arm back, looking at her as though she were an unpredictable lunatic.

“We were engaged. Remember?” Lyndy echoed more softly, but she knew he couldn’t answer.

She sighed, reaching in the space between the bucket seat and the console. Her hand fell upon a theatre-size pack of preservative embalmed twizzlers, a stash she’d forgotten. Lifting up the baggie of loot, she tore off one corner and used her teeth to fish out several of the cherry-flavored straws.

“Want a twizzler?” she offered in a kinder voice, holding out the package. “I’m not a crazy person.”

He grinned, but after a moment’s pause pushed her hand away.

“Why are you grinning all of a sudden?” she asked suspiciously. “Did you fart?”

When they arrived at the world’s tallest thermometer, cutoff for Kelbaker road, she saw him cock his head. Something inside recognized the place. Whichever circuits of his tattered brain still connected were attempting to make sense of it. He knew he’d been here.

An LED sign displayed the time, near 10 o’clock.

At this point she really had to focus and drive slower than she wanted. She knew the headlights weren’t as bright as they could be, with only starlight to supplement. And there were animals out here one didn’t want to hit, particularly donkeys or errant sleeping cows. Forget about her blurry eyes!

High above the car, satellites blinked across the constellations and to the south, looking like a tractor beam from a space ship—a curious wedge of zodiacal light.

---

Lyndy Life Observation: By any measure raising Mari alone hadn’t been easy. At some point a credit card or three had gone delinquent—because often due dates were overwhelming. A nicer-than-average bill collector began phoning the trailer repeatedly. It was the days before caller-ID. So, one morning I mentioned I was on my way to a job interview and the bill collector became so excited he gave a pep-talk and said he’d pray I got the job. Made me smile. Even the credit cards were rooting for me.

She kept the headlights on to illuminate her old gate.

The onslaught of time was relentless out here. It tended to make old buildings crumble and dissolve; antique cars melt into bullet ridden hunks of twisted metal. The desert eroded all things.

On the other hand, judging by the condition of her gravel road, the height and girth of weeds, she could tell strangers didn’t come here often—or ever. The property was hidden enough, or perceived as a place of minimal value. Over time, storms carved twisted channels where floodwater flowed. The way they’d deepened, it seemed like a hundred-year-old road.

Her rusty steel chain still hung in place like high tension wires, in the shape of a smile, and a sign that read: Keep Out! Property of Amboy Mining Co. That sign had sandblasting all across it and the letters were difficult to read.

The twenty-five-year-old lock was completely solidified—a useless relic—but she’d assumed this would happen, and now she had bolt cutters. She easily snapped the old bolt; rust had made it brittle as a pretzel stick.

Then climbing back in the seat, she chugged in first gear northbound, keeping the lights on low beam. Glancing over to Dale she could see he was enjoying himself on the bumpy terrain. Must be hell living in that sterile rest home.

After a mile of slow going, they managed to reach the parking circle. She felt grateful to have made it, as some of the ruts were eight-inches deep and gave the mustang with a cracked fender a run for its money.

Stepping out she repositioned her hairband to contain messy fly-aways, surveying what little she could distinguish of the empty lot. Her airstream had stood here for a decade and a half. All manner of bittersweet emotions came bubbling forth. Perhaps “happy” didn’t quite fit, but it had been “a home”. There were stories here. Good and not so good ones. All the exotic plants were missing, the cactus garden consisting of a few hardy survivors, but anything sensitive was long vanished. She missed her plants.

Dale got out, shuffled up beside her. He knew where they were. He used to visit her here, sometimes in the middle of a warm night, just like this one. He held out a palm and she gripped it tightly.