Valley Girl: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-3

[Author’s Note: This chapter includes quite possibly the #1 best Lyndy Life Observation of all time. It’s the current winner at least, unless a better comes along. See if you can spot it. 😉 ]

Yosemite National Park, 1990s

Lyndy Life Observation: Rita Lovelace went on a date with a male model, probably in the mid-1980s. And things were going swimmingly, until halfway into the meal he casually let slip he owned five sports cars, but never changed the oil. Literally he owned Mercedes-Benz’s and Beamers with over 75k miles, nary an oil change or a tune up. Rita was horrified. She made up an excuse about feeling sick and split. Later when she told me this story, I pointed out the hypocrisy seeing how she owned like 50 cars and she’d be taking a car in a week if she actually maintained them. That was Rita for you.

It was a clear night, cold enough for Lyndy to see her breath. Typical Sierra weather in Spring. Tiny willow leaves were blowing across her path.

Her high-tech stroller had eight inflated tires—the cushy kind on a delivery cart. The rubber tires functioned as a Jeep-like capability, rolling with ease on dirt paths, softening the bumps and potholes. This came in handy, say if you were raising a baby on the rocky planet Mars. Or more likely, on a hike behind your white bread suburban community.

The nearest trail to the hotel crisscrossed through a pine forest, hugging the channel of the Merced as it snaked in a series of 90-degree bends. Through openings in the tree canopy, one could see Half Dome towering, a cap of snow reflecting white, and twinkling stars making up Orion’s belt.

The valley was tranquil at this odd hour, much as it had been in ancient times. No smelly tour buses belching out soot. No hordes of people clogging roads and sidewalks, snapping photos, or tourists of any kind. The rocking action, plus the calming effect of nature were working their magic. Thank God. Mari started to cry less, her eyelids becoming droopy.

Anyone sane in the campground was snoring by this hour. The flickering campfires from before had been doused, but their scent lingered. At a sandy embankment Lyndy guided the stroller downward to the water’s edge, where the current rippled against tiny pebbles. With her big toe, she put the brake lever in place to park it.

Lyndy leaned over Mari to snug her blanket. She’d finally calmed down, cried herself to sleep. Was it the river and woods? Or the power of the night? Lyndy didn’t know what forces were involved, but she wished she could bottle up that magic, save it for home.

From someplace deep in the pines, she heard the call of a nightingale. Or maybe it was a dream, she reckoned.

Fifty yards down, a castle-like bridge spanned the river to the south. It was the kind of arched structure found in amusement parks, designed as much for visuals, as for strength. She spotted the outline of a figure atop, doddering down the road center; the first soul she’d seen walking since departing the hotel.

Her body shivered with a sudden chill. Lyndy studied her surroundings, listening for any other movement. Hopefully there were no bears. Of course, somewhere in the valley there would be bears. It was their park too. But just like humans, they were probably asleep at this ungodly hour.

Setting aside thoughts of danger, she crouched in the sand next to her baby. From a hidden fold on the underside of the carriage, she undid a Velcro flap. This allowed her to slip two fingers inside and retrieve her hidden, emergency pack of Newport cigarettes.

The pack had been there a month, without anyone touching them and without Kyle knowing. She had a Nancy Griffith song stuck in her head, one of many, about leaving Mississippi, listening to the radio. She hummed the tune peacefully, as she flicked the lighter and puffed to get a smoke going. Ah, sweet comfort.

The Spitfire paced off a healthy 20-foot buffer zone, same way Aunt Rose would. With the flow of air, she knew the wisp of smoke particles would be transported safely away, nowhere near Maribel. She exhaled a ring, which floated overhead before dissipating.

“We can’t keep on like this,” Lyndy spoke aloud, her voice defeated. “Not bonding I mean.” Lyndy gazed at her baby. It broke her heart to think she might not love this child as much as a new mother should. “I seem to be lacking a mothering gene or two.”

To think that Kyle adored their baby more than she. How was this possible? Well, she must be his favorite lover. That much she felt certain of. And his love grew from their passion. The embers of a twenty-year romance, on and off. She’d seen it from the first night at the hospital, the way he looked at her with new eyes when she held their baby. He’d never shown her so much genuine affection. Maribel had elevated her to the highest pedestal, number one. Then why the resentment?

She exhaled another smoke ring. “You and me babe, have to come to … a mutual agreement, or I will lose it. Like two people on the same sports team. I warn you, I will flip out.” Lyndy paced back to the water’s edge, turning her attention to the view. “God knows I can’t watch you grow up the messy way I did.”

The view of Half Dome, patches of snow glistening, was sublime. The murmuring river was the only sound, and a distant car if she strained her ear. She stuffed the lighter and the remaining pack back in the secret spot, thinking about her life before Maribel. Then she bowed her head to pray. Her daily prayer, to make it through, when she heard the squealing brakes and tire skid. It made her jump, coming from the direction of the bridge, like someone setting off a bottle rocket.

Lyndy flicked her cigarette into the sand, near the stroller. Without any sudden moves she craned her neck to view the bridge. Instinctively she ducked, keeping herself low so she’d blend into the scenery. She observed the silhouette, same person who’d been walking. She suspected it was Kristen now. They were tall, with a long coat, same intoxicated stumble of a woman in heels. Also present, the outline of a sleek car, steam rising from its tailpipe. As it inched forward she recognized the rumble of the motor, the taillights and the roofline, a Porsche.

The woman and the driver were arguing. The Porsche must’ve been speeding, rounding a curve and nearly slamming into the person on foot. She’d reeled back, but continued to lecture the driver with a raised fist. Pumped full of adrenaline and hubris, the woman strode up to the car window. Angrily the driver sat up, extending his arms to clutch onto her sleeve. But she ripped it away and he let go. They exchanged words, and though Lyndy couldn’t put her finger on why, she got a sense they knew each other.

“Was it her husband?” Lyndy wondered.

The engine revved and the driver zoomed off. The lone figure—certainly Kristen—stormed across the bridge, to the south end of the valley. Seconds later her shadow merged and disappeared into the dark woods.

Eeesh! It was bad to be wandering in such an intoxicated state.

Lyndy ran her palms across her face, not knowing what to do. She checked on her baby. Should be alright to leave for a moment or two. Logic dictated to stay out of this dispute, but what if Kristen needed help?

Lyndy dashed off toward the bridge.

Kristen was down on both knees by the time Lyndy got another view. She’d traveled as far as the perimeter of the woods, bordering an 80-acre meadow. Her profile faced Half Dome, in a praying position, as one might do at the nave of a church.

Lyndy watched from the bridge as Kristen appeared to be mumbling into cupped hands. Light glinted from her silver-blonde hair, and the white coat, making her glow like an angel. Hard to believe it was the same drunk she’d backed out of the bar.

Half a minute elapsed and Kristen rose to her feet again. She began a steady march into Stoneman Meadow. From her coat pocket she retrieved an item the size of a paperback book. She briefly gazed at it, before tossing it casually over her shoulder to discard it. She continued walking, though lacking a path her feet sank and post-holed in the sticky mud. Any ranger who spotted you trampling a meadow would give you the sternest lecture of your existence, or at least since grade school. But Kristen seemed determined, driven to carry on with barely a nod to her surroundings.

“Hey! Hey! Are you okay?” yelled Lyndy, but there was no response. It was as if Kristen could no longer hear, her spirit leaving her body. “Do you need help?”

She’d been quite loud enough. Anyone, inebriated or not, would’ve heard.

Lyndy turned to the beach. The outdoor stroller was still there, a dozen feet from the river. No one was near, particularly not a bear or recognizable threat. Only serenity. She surveyed the roads and distant buildings. Not a ranger in sight. Sleeping probably.

Lyndy brushed her hair from her face. “Ay, yai, yai,” she mouthed anxiously. She tried again, cupping a hand around her mouth. “Kristen, are you okay? Where are you going?”

Kristen continued hiking straight across, by now halfway.

“This is no bueno,” Lyndy whispered. “Kyle would freak if he found out.” She felt panic setting in. Maybe she should run to the hotel front desk. Or the campground host. Most campgrounds had one. Or shout “Help”?

She wanted to follow her instincts, the urge to tail Kristen. But then again, she hated the idea of trampling a sloppy, springtime meadow. Next Lyndy heard a buzz which startled her out of her skin. It was a Motorola phone, unusual to carry, inches away in the grass. Must’ve been the thing Kristen tossed away. Most people didn’t own them. Only doctors and businessmen carried those. And any call to the valley would’ve been analog. The signal would be weak, only one bar.

She watched the screen blink: “Incoming Call – Incoming Call”, and the heavy brick-like device continue to buzz like an angry snake. While there was still nobody in the vicinity of the bridge, lights were coming on in nearby cabins. She could tell through the trees. People were getting up—awakened by the commotion on the bridge—and soon would be coming to investigate.

Lyndy couldn’t help herself.

Reaching for a stick, she poked the button to answer the call, then leaned over so her ear was near the receiver. It was faint, with a hissing, but someone was definitely there. She thought she heard a frantic breath, and the noises of a city at night.

“Uh, hello,” Lyndy mouthed, wincing and covering her face as she realized her actions were only making things worse. It worked though; the caller on the other end answered: “Kristen? Kristen …. you paged me, girl. Look, I spent the last hour arguing your side with Charlie. He said we’re still a go on Sunday. The pin is your favorite verse, in Luke. Use the B-channel. He knows you didn’t want Sunday of all days, but you were over-ruled.” There was a break and the call became fuzzy. “Charlie mentioned something.” Long pause, with erratic breathing. “The most dangerous person to any organization is one who won’t stop telling the truth. Thought you should know.”

After that Lyndy heard a click. The lights on the phone flashed “Call Ended.”

Lyndy took one last glance at the meadow, but Kristen’s silhouette was absent, having dissolved into the landscape. Like a ghost. “What a strange place,” thought Lyndy. Stoneman meadow, with the shadow of Half Dome looming.

Lyndy heard car engines, saw headlights traveling the loop. People would be arriving soon to investigate. She sprinted as fast she could across the bridge, into the woods and down on the sandbar. Once she had the stroller back on the walking path, she slowed her pace, but felt jittery all the way back to The Ahwahnee.

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Yavapai County Arizona, 2010s

Lyndy Life Observation: On a road trip with Chan, we were sharing a cheap room and I’m unable to sleep cause he snores like a moose. At three AM out of desperation I stagger into the bathroom, shut the door and fall sound asleep in the tub. Coincidentally I had big spaghetti sauce stains on my night shirt. Hours later I awake to a panicked Chan attempting to resuscitate me. Apparently, he saw me there and figured I’d been murdered. I was just surprised he wasn’t more relieved to find me dead—I was super annoying back then. Sometimes I think this story perfectly encapsulates my relationship with Chan.

It was so early crickets were chirping and Venus hung low in the eastern sky. Scattered lenticular clouds like flying saucers framed the horizon, reminding her why she lived here. She rubbed a sleeve-padded knuckle against her eyes as she yawned. Then she began unloading the old trunk, setting her things on the dry level gravel, using a headlamp and the glow of early dawn.

Mari Ellis once dreaded these days. Not because she didn’t love autumn. Those months were precious in the Arizona high country, with crisp, frosty mornings, azure skies and sunny afternoons to warm your spirit.

No, what Mari hated were the Saturdays. Her day off from school, spent rising with the dawn, picking and selling vegetables by the road alongside her mom. In overalls. This activity occurred chiefly in the fall months, when the harvest from their garden was at its peak.

Lyndy adored the farm stand.

On a pleasant weekend they’d set up a folding table opposite the long driveway. Then put out a hand-painted, no frills, sandwich board reading: “ASH FORK FARM”.

Together they’d arrange baskets of fresh vegetables for tourists. Mostly green peppers, tomatoes and zucchini, with a white goat on a leash as a side attraction. The pretty 67 Ford Mustang, parked nearby, was its own kind of draw. In those days Lyndy had a giant perm and sometimes a yellow bandanna. She’d wear faded overalls; they were somewhat in style and added legit farmer vibes. Mari would count out the change, which Lyndy alleged helped her learn math.

Sitting in those tube-frame camp chairs together, Mari Ellis in a pink cowgirl hat, passers-by used to stop, thinking Lyndy and her daughter were cute. Or maybe it was the goat, munching on a bale of hay. Mari claimed she found this whole exercise painfully embarrassing. But little kids wanted to pet and feed the goat, adults wanted to chat with Mari, so it worked like a charm. Men wanted to talk to Lyndy.

For lunch, the pair would close up briefly and drive to the nearest El Pollo Loco at the I-40. They could freshen up. But she didn’t dare setup shop in view of a freeway, as the highway patrol would bust your ass for not having a permit. County government could suck the fun out of anything.

Kyle Ellis hated the farm stand activity too, thinking it beneath their family dignity. He’d stop by, in his black Range Rover (U2 music blaring on the stereo) and tell Lyndy to quit the charade. Said she ought to be ashamed using their daughter for manual labor. But it only strengthened her resolve.

In truth, she relished it. Often, she sipped beer from a paper sack while on duty. Mari accused her mom of becoming more flirtatious and apt to give away free items as the day wore on. And she’d apologize for her, when she’d say something outrageous but typically Lyndy like: “Complement me in this crop top, receive a twenty percent discount.”

If Kyle stopped by and Lyndy was smashed like that, he’d be extra irate.

But after counting at the end of the day, they’d sometimes have a few hundred dollars. They’d keep the profits as mad money, buying a night at the movies or a new outfit for each of them. For this reason, Mari tolerated the stand.

These memories helped take her mind off the fact the cold was making her joints ache. Lyndy was grinning to herself, as she arranged a selection of yellow squash and bell peppers, on a bed of hay, with prices on sticks. There would be no assistance from Mari Ellis today. Hadn’t been in several years. She’d been working real jobs at the country club on Saturdays. And now her daughter was even more pre-occupied with her new pad and apparently, a budding romance.

Lyndy kicked out the legs on her sign, thinking of the hardships they’d endured together. Maribel deserved a stout dose of happiness. But she missed the old days, when she wasn’t so lonely.