Bad At Love: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-23

Lyndy Life Observation: Here’s a fun fact. The guy who played Lurch (Ted Cassidy) on the original sixties Addam’s Family TV show also played Thing (the disembodied hand).

She purchased fuel and sodas at Stateline. In the early morning trucks idled and steam rose from their engine covers. The valley was back to more agreeable weather and she was back on neutral turf.

She fed him his daily pill regimen, then left Deputy Keynes standing on a street corner nearest the county home. From there, she watched him saunter back to the portico entrance. Before sneaking away, she made sure he plodded up to the double doors, set his hands upon the pusher-bar. Knowing those places, her strategy was for them to assume he’d wandered off on his own accord. Now by some “miracle” he’d found his way back. Of course, if they checked the CCTV then they’d know the truth. But would they bother or care? Doubtful.

The mustang was performing better with repairs, taking the corners like a newer car. It was still no Porsche but vastly improved.

Next, she made her way to one of those copy and ship places, and xeroxed the sketch she’d created. She only needed 35 or so copies. She paid the man, then rolled them into a cylinder in the door pocket.

She started her day visiting with the Sikhs, the same pair who’d made jokes about her vehicle. Lyndy laughed with them this time, showed where it had been shot and she made field repairs. They gave her insider tips, places where other hourly job seekers, immigrants and day laborers congregated.

All day she drove to one day laborer site after another. She followed an irregular pattern, to evade anyone who might be out and attempting to locate her. Her spirits see-sawed up and down, sometimes in doubt and other times hopeful.

The last group she spoke to was a trio of central American brick and tile setters. They spoke Spanish exclusively, and though rusty, she was able to converse.

A row of million-dollar mansions were being framed on the northeast side. Spanish revival style. Among the crew were four Armenian carpenters. The tile layers encountered a quiet fellow who matched the drawing Lyndy showed them, as well as the description. The street was called Starlite Ridge Road. Somehow it seemed fitting.

She slept in a motel that night, having to disguise the fastback by covering it with a tarp and bungee cords. Her powers of invisibility had reached their limit. The sleep was uneasy, and she worried about Maribel. She wasn’t so much scared of death. That would in some ways be a relief. She was scared that Mari would take it hard.

The next day at lunchtime, Lyndy drove to the construction site.

In comparison to the Zohara luxury resort, this place had relatively little in the way of security. It was normal. She parked with a row of work trucks, at a yellow chain link fence and hiked her way in. Nothing but rectangular private property signs stood in her way. With one remaining folded flier, she approached a foreman.

He nodded to indicate he’d seen the fellow and pointed her to the back of one of the partially framed mansions. Said the man was one of “the best guys”.

At the patio in the shade of a fig tree, which had grown over the fence of an adjacent property, she found a circle of men. Some sat on the ground, others on bricks or inverted buckets. They were drinking Gatorades, munching on burritos, nachos and beef hot dogs purchased from a 7-11. She trekked across the compacted lot in her heels. They stared at her like: “who’s the old lady? Someone’s mom?”

Among the circle, she could tell the individual who looked like Mr. Aloyan from afar. He was wearing all white, not a jeans and flannel, making it appear he’d just arrived in America. Realizing he’d been spotted the man started behaving nervously. Aloyan seemed to recognize her, aware of her purpose, as though a stranger like Lyndy would only have come to see him.

Without a word, he tilted his head, asking to speak to her in private. She agreed and followed him out to the street.

They sat in her parked car, all the windows lowered, in view of the homes being built. She knew he wouldn’t leave, but wanted an explanation.

His grayish beard had been an excellent disguise, adding years to his image.

Once she’d seen him up close, she realized he was only thirty to thirty-five. Lean build. And when he spoke, his voice further belied his age. He conversed with an educated accent, a man who’d attended a reputable college.

He cupped one fist inside the other, rested his forehead. “Except for a few fasting days a year, my father never slept with a solid roof over his head,” he said proudly. “He built houses for farmers. But he lived in a tent his whole life.” Mr. Aloyan shook his head and laughed defeatedly. “Did my wife hire you?”

“Sort of.”

He nodded, knowing it fit her character.

“I’ve worked for some dangerous and shady people in my day. Your wife seemed genuine to me. McNair not so much. I think she deserves some kind of explanation, don’t you?”

His eyes went wide. “An explanation?” He lifted his hands skyward. “The explanation is that once we’re finished here, we go to California. A new subdivision near San Jose, in the Silicon Valley. Plenty of work. Several million dollars each house. After that, who knows.”

She looked out at the row of undone houses. They were lovely, each one unique. He stayed quiet. Lyndy held up the pack of Twizzlers. “Want one?”

“No. I’m good.”

“What about Malcolm McNair?”

By his far-off stare, she knew Mr. Aloyan was unconcerned. “My wife can take care of herself. Chantelle is safe. I never told her the details. When the time is right, maybe we’ll meet again.”

“Fine. Then what’s the deal with Zohara Ranch. I searched all over that property, never saw one nail out of place. And I have a lot of experience with flawed shit.”

“You wouldn’t. Not even an average inspector would find it. But the foundation is no good. All the cement we used is defective. I took eight samples. It needs to be re-poured.”

“And you told McNair but they wanted to continue?”

“Yes. Like always. They never see a problem they can’t patch with some temporary duct tape solution. They think there’s a 20-percent chance the foundation is good enough, even if it didn’t harden. And they’re willing to roll with it, to make schedule, rather than re-pour.”

“They’re gamblers. Makes sense. So what did he say after you told him?”

“He said there were only three options for a man like me. Either keep my mouth shut, start a war I can’t win, or quit. And I chose the latter. I could tell there was no reasoning with Chantelle. Chantelle grew up poor like me, but she’s attached to physical possessions. We never see eye-to-eye. We’re too different. There was nothing at the house I wanted. Not even the cars. They bring me no satisfaction.”

“Really?” Lyndy smiled at the enigma of Mr. Aloyan.

“Of course. All of it. It’s the work that brings me joy.”

“What are you gonna do?”

“I’m a builder. Same thing I’ve always done.”

“Well, I can’t tell you how much I admire your spirit,” declared Lyndy. From behind the seat she pulled a notebook, setting it on his lap. “Here. Just do me one favor. Write a note to her. Otherwise, Rhonda won’t believe me. And if she doesn’t believe I found you, then you run the risk of more investigators coming. They won’t be as nice as me.”

Lyndy handed him a pen to write with. He tested the pen on the cheap spiral notebook, pushing the tip hard into the paper.

“I dunno what to write.”

“Just tell her you’ll come back for her. Like you said, when the time is right.”

“Okay,” he agreed. And reluctantly, he penned an apology plus a vague promise that he would be back someday, and she would do just fine without him. Then he signed his name.

Lyndy Life Observation: Late night channel flipping in a hotel with bad cable and I end up on Food Network. It’s a baking competition. Someone gets booted off for a bad cupcake and they’re bawling their eyes out. Half of me feels bad for them, while the other part is thinking: Get ahold of yourself. It’s just a cupcake!

That night she returned to the airstream. No one except Les had been there in multiple days—no tracks other than goats. She had only enough energy to clean the water trough and refill it. Then she went to bed.

Her fitful sleep cycle continued for the second night in a row. This time her dreams were of Rita, the younger version. They were driving through the desert in silence, upset with one another. Something to do with a case? She wasn’t sure. But there was tension and she could feel it. She could see too. So, it wasn’t the aftermath of their Vegas trip. More likely it wasn’t a real event, but the amalgamation of many encounters.

When she awoke, halfway between the dreamscape and alertness, someone was calling out her name. And the bright sunlight was pouring in the windows. She’d slept later than normal. The voice she heard, crying out, she tried to incorporate into her dreams but now as she gradually became more aware, she realized it sounded like Maribel.

“Mom,” she cried desperately. “Wake up!”

Mari was extremely fearful.

Uh oh. Lyndy sat up, propped herself on an elbow and pushed apart the tiny blind which covered her bedside window. Through the gap, she could see the yellow light of sunrise. The outline of the Fastback and at the extreme left of her view, beyond the troughs, the Honda Civic.

She turned the other way, getting a better view of the driveway. At the highway fence, over a mile distant, she could see the squarish boxes of SUVs parked. There were at least five vehicles lined up there.

Mari’s anxious calling out continued: “Mom. I’m sorry!”

She should have known. She’d warned Mari not to come here, but it was understandable that she might. If Lyndy hadn’t been so exhausted both physically and mentally, she wouldn’t have let her guard down. She probably wouldn’t have come here either, as it was obvious McNair’s buddies would be waiting for her to return.

The day felt warm and sticky. Lyndy was in her underwear. She pulled on a t-shirt. She reached for boardshorts, yanking them over her thighs and buttoned them at her stomach. Then she reached an arm for the gun and stood up.

Pushing open the door, she got her first good view of the tense scene. She held the Beretta upside down with two fingers on the grip. Descending the steps, she knelt on one bad knee, then set it on the ground, flat.

The men stood in a half-circle on the southside, past the troughs. Ten of them by quick count. And Mari, off to the right, with a gun aimed at her head. Two of the attackers The Spitfire recognized. They’d been waiting a while. The goats had all dispersed to the far side of the pasture. She slipped her bare feet into shoes.

“I’m sorry Mom. I’m so sorry,” Mari kept repeating.

“It’s alright,” Lyndy assured.

“I know you told me not to come. I knew I shouldn’t. But I wondered if …. maybe I should check on the goats. And I wanted to talk.”

“It’s okay,” replied Lyndy sweetly, adjusting her shorts and retying the white string. Seeing Mari all worked up like this, was far more upsetting than facing an untimely demise. And well, to be honest, it wasn’t all that untimely.

“And I was feeding the goats just now….”

“Mari. It’s okay I’m not mad.”

A man whistled. “Shut up and quit moving!”

Lyndy stood still, arms at her sides. All the other guns were aimed at her. Nine men with firearms, one possessing an assault rifle. Three were dressed up in suit jackets, like for a real gangster movie. The others wore outfits like mercenary types, with cargo pants and boots. And in most ways, it was flattering, imagining they would send so many for one old woman. A small army. The legends had survived. Mr. Chan would’ve gotten a kick out of this bizarre standoff. Any situation where she was outnumbered amused him.

“What took you all so long?” Lyndy jested.

“No tricks left this time!” It was the one with the beard, the one she’d fought twice. “It’s simple. If you somehow transform into,” he gestured with a 9-mm pistol, “… a white pig, we kill her,” he pointed at Mari. “And we kill you. A pig can’t outrun a bullet.”

“True,” said Lyndy.

“This is the end.”

“Let me say goodbye to my daughter,” requested Lyndy.

“No tricks.”

“Mom I’m sorry.” Maribel was shaking all over with stress. She kept bobbing her head up and down and rubbing her elbows.

“Mari, please relax,” said Lyndy sweetly. “It’s okay. It’s not your fault Vanilla Bean. Technically it isn’t my fault either.”

With arms raised, Lyndy re-pointed herself and took a careful step in the direction of her daughter. “I want to say goodbye to my daughter.” Lyndy locked eyes with Mari. “Maribel, touch my hands. It’s not a trick.”

Maribel winced, as though she were in pain.

“Touch my hands,” Lyndy demanded. She held her palms flat, in the patty-cake motion and reluctantly Mari did the same, lifting her arms. She could see the terror in her daughter’s eyes. And she felt the soft skin and her shaking hands. She wondered, was this a dream? Was it real?

Suddenly their flat surroundings shifted and transformed. They were inside a maze of sandstone formations, the Valley of Fire, at dawn. The rocks were all shades of red, orange and pink, just as she always remembered. However, no tourists or footprints marked the paths. They were in a canyon.

“Hide Mari!” commanded Lyndy. Meantime she sprinted across a bare wash, to where the Beretta rested half buried in sand. Leaning over, she yanked it from the dirt and felt a bullet zing by.

Pivoting to her left, she jerked the slide on the pistol to arm it. Then she aimed to the figure standing blocking the sun, in the middle of the dry wash. She squeezed the trigger.

The sand had the consistency of sugar and was difficult to run on.

From her periphery, she spotted Mari Ellis, scrambling a slope of stacked rocks, each the size of cinder blocks. Above, shadows and oval-shaped crevasses all resembled possible hiding spots. Mari had been forced to hide before, when things were really bad. She’d done it as a toddler. She had a talent for it and hiding was never a Martinez specialty. That came from the Ellis line.

Lyndy tackled the wall of the rocks which lined both sides of the canyon. She wished she’d been fitter for this activity, as her arm strength faltered.

“Where are we?” she heard one of the men ask.

“Valley of Fire, idiot!”

A raven took flight.

Bad At Love: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-22

Lyndy Life Observation: A roadside billboard for a rural farm stand boasts: “100 Different Varieties of Beef Jerky to Choose From!” And that’s objectively too many kinds. No one needs that many choices for jerky. What are they? Classic, salt-n-pepper, spicy hot, teriyaki, mustard, barbecue, buffalo and … what?”

She’d forgotten how completely still and silent it could be here. There’s a certain low rumble of modern life: perpetual trains, distant freeways, air handlers, which human ears have grown accustomed to filtering. Yet even those backgrounds were imperceptible. It was unnerving now, to hear the sound of one’s own pulse.

Tilting her chin back, she saw the arc of the milky way, spanning horizon to horizon. Nothing like coming home—especially when one believed they never would.

They had no spare minutes to reminisce, nor did she want to. Dawn would be arriving in four short hours, and with it, unwanted attention. She planned to have a hole dug by then. First, she retrieved the large police Maglite from her trunk, switching it on. This thing had the appearance of a lightsaber, with floating dust particles defining the edges of the cone. To save battery, she shut off the ignition on the Ford.

Next she trekked in an ellipse, trying to ferret out the precise spot she’d buried the milk canister. Inside this metal container was the item McNair’s men were looking for all along. She kept one eye out for venomous snakes and scorpions as well; no doubt this was their territory.

It was harder than she’d hoped to locate. The only marking had been three white calcite stones in a triad, which at the time seemed an easy win—like one of those passwords you can’t possibly forget. But you do. “Just find those three white stones,” she’d told herself, and directly underneath, twenty inches deep would be the canister.

Unfortunately, like on the access road, the land had evolved. Water flowed across in irregular patterns. Small pebbles and rocks shifted downhill. Vegetation had pushed apart the surface crust—and maybe the occasional clawing rodent. Windstorms had no doubt blown sand in the crevices. Plus, since the cactus garden was no more, she had trouble getting her exact bearings. She could visualize roughly where the concrete supports had been for the airstream and from here, she reasoned the treasure ought to be about thirty yards west.

Dale stood by patiently, clutching a pickaxe, waiting for orders.

At last, she was forced to hazard a guess, as she only ever found one white stone sitting next to a small creosote. And one white stone was better than zero stones, so she asked Dale to come and start helping her dig. They would need to work together, if they hoped to have this thing unearthed prior to dawn.

Hours later …

As the sun began to ascend, kissing the ridge, rays of golden-yellow scattered across the valley. Their treasure hole also widened. Luckily, they did strike solid metal. It was the lid. Kneeling down, she brushed away sand and pebbles, then tested the top with a whack of her knuckle. It made a hollow sound, which was perfect. Mud hadn’t infiltrated. She glanced over to Dale, a coy grin on her lips. Then she tried turning it. Stuck. Maybe if they both gripped? Dale quickly knelt beside, put his hands at ten and two, and she positioned hers in between. Combined, they were able to break it free of the rusty seal and squeak clockwise; she twisted it the remainder and set the lid aside.

Reaching her arm into the dark cavity, she felt two bricks of cash, then the avocado shapes of three grenades—she placed these gently upon the sand like bird’s eggs. The money she pushed to the sides. Reaching in deeper, at last her fingers touched upon the cold steel of the Beretta.

She lifted it upward into the dawn light, wondering how poor a condition it would be. She feared it might be too rusted up to fire.

Colonel Rickman would hate for her to do what she wanted, but she undid the clip for the magazine and let it plunge into her empty hand. From her pocket she pulled five fresh 9-mm rounds.

She turned to look at Dale, who’d been continuing to kneel. He locked eyes with her. The early light now illuminated the western mountains, bathing them in a rosy glow. It was easier to see all around, including the white car.

She sighted through the barrel.

She wanted to practice shooting, knowing it had been a very long time.

But Dale grunted, pointing southward to the end of her road, where they’d cut the lock to the driveway. A dust cloud had formed, and seeing this, now she heard a buzzing motor. Someone was coming in one of those newfangled side-by-sides. Great.

Later that day …

“The Spitfire Lives! Hallelujah. See, I don’t hear one single peep from ya’ll in twenty plus years—not even a holiday card. I assume you went to the great dude ranch in the sky. Then today I spot your janky ass Mustang through my telescope and think, Debbie Kowalski lost her damn mind. Debbie can see ghosts—the ghost of Melinda Martinez out haunting Amboy by night.” Debbie laughed aloud.

“The dude ranch in the sky. Something tells me that isn’t where I’m headed.” Lyndy was studying a large hairy caterpillar, slinking along Miss Kowalski’s hacked together plywood kitchen counters. God only knew where it came from—the fifth dimension? It was nearly the warmest part of the day in one of the driest valleys in the state. And the only measure of cooling was a home-made swamp chiller, functioning on a 500 square foot cabin.

“My polish grandma used to say, if you’re gonna be stupid, you better be tough,” croaked Debbie, while she eyed a turkey thermometer resting against the wall of a cast iron pan. The 16-inch pan contained a lake of scalding-hot canola oil. In her fist, tongs and a battered chicken breast—the first of eight to fry for their brunch feast.

Debbie’s teeth needed work; this was evident whenever she laughed.

“Amen to that,” added Lyndy with an exhale. Her eyelids were drooping. She rested them a moment, slouching in a kitchen chair salvaged from a curb on garbage day. Atop the round spool table rested the cursed Beretta. She’d been afraid to let it out of her sight. Next to her, Dale was nodding off with his head jammed in a wall corner. A trickle of drool had accumulated on his shirt.

The closest thing Lyndy could compare Miss Kowalski to, was a cross between a one-eyed pirate and a Mad Max film extra. Her Wonder Valley ranch was walled in shipping containers, tin-sided lean-tos and green plastic tanks for water. Debbie’s intellect shined through in every imaginative contraption that surrounded her. The homestead personified the lady.

Yet her eccentric inner nature—long concealed under layers of decorum, youth and cheerful positivity—now had taken root. She spoke like a cynical recluse who’d completely exited society to live, not just off the grid, but on their own special planet. She claimed to have cured her own case of stomach cancer. And she looked like she’d spent way too many afternoons in the sun. Admittedly, some might offer the same opinions on Lyndy.

You didn’t just go out and adopt this lifestyle after seeing a blog post on the internet. One had to be born with the pioneer spirit in their soul, or they wouldn’t last a month. You had to be your own doctor, as well as psychologist, plumber, electrician, home decorator, snake wrangler and anything else.

In addition to the above, Debbie seemed to have developed a new passion for cowboy cooking. Thirty years ago, it wasn’t the case.

When the thermometer needle had reached the correct temp, Debbie dunked the first chicken breast into the oil causing it to sizzle. She had cornbread muffins in the oven. These were on a timer—that wind-up kind from the seventies.

“Makes no sense, ya know,” commented Debbie, as she wiped excess flour off her hands onto her shirt. “With our two lifestyles, how is it you look fifty-percent attractive? Dare I say … cute. You got an anti-aging secret I should know about?”

“Definitely not. You’re asking the wrong lady,” answered Lyndy, pushing aside a dusty survival magazine, making room on the table to lay her sketch pad flat. She set the Beretta down out of the way on the magazine, barrel facing the door.

From her shirt pocket Lyndy fished a charcoal pencil. She began to mark the outline of a human head and shoulders.

It was a weight off her mind being around another blast from the Mojave past. Good fortune their unannounced visitor had been someone she knew, an old friend, not a weirdo who might’ve disrupted their plans. Plus, she really needed a pal with handyperson skills.

 “Trust me, Deb. I didn’t look in a mirror for about eight years in my forties and I gained a ton of weight.” Lyndy reached over with a wadded-up napkin and dabbed at Dale’s chin, wiping him off while he continued sleeping. “My appearance was the last thing on my mind.”

“Speaking of folks losing their marbles. I can’t believe that old dude is Deputy Keynes,” remarked Debbie, as she sunk another of the golden battered chicken breasts. “I literally wouldn’t have recognized him unless you told me.”

“He’s been this way for a decade or more. Miranda and the twins stopped visiting him five years ago, and when that happened, I started to. If not me, no one else would come.”

Lyndy began to sketch an oval, connecting curved lines where the face would come together. “Mainly, it’s the speech part of his brain which is mis-firing, but the rest of him still works.”

Debbie spun around a moment, oil dripping from the tongs onto bare wood slats, and raised an eyebrow. “All of him?”

Lyndy met eyes with Debbie. She chuckled. “I wouldn’t know.”

“Sorry. He’s your ex,” said Debbie, turning back to the propane stove. “All of me works, but only half as well as it used to. That’s what scares me.”

“Same here. Well, technically my eyes are like twenty-five percent.”

Outside the salvaged kitchen window, in the sun, the white fastback sat idle. They were safe, because Debbie’s property was three miles from the nearest two-lane road, and no one here liked visitors—truly the equivalent of Timbuktu. As long as they rested here, McNair couldn’t find them.

Lyndy Life Observation: Miss Rita Lovelace was the only person I ever knew who said they attended a wedding and someone actually objected. It was such a large gathering and with no microphone in the audience, the objection was difficult to hear. They protested on the grounds that the groom had once been married to his sister and treated her unkind. Didn’t matter. The ill-fated wedding thundered on like a runaway train. Few people understood the man fully, not even the priest, just knew someone had voiced an opinion.

Post lunch, Dale amused himself by pressing the keys on an old Casio keyboard, which was missing every black key.

With her stomach digesting one of the tastiest and most high caloric meals she’d had in months, Lyndy lounged in a lawn chair while Debbie, somehow highly alert, worked on getting her MIG welder up and running. Her goal was to help Lyndy mend the cracked fender, and Lyndy was extremely grateful. The Spitfire had already parked the right front wheel on a ramp, and they stacked several bricks under the frame to keep it high. This angle would save Debbie’s knees and give her an optimal angle for the work. With part of an old barbeque brush, she’d roughed up the surface and removed excess dirt.

Debbie then took a seat on an upside-down plastic crate, while she tacked several key spots along the span of the fender.

Yards away, Lyndy propped her ankles on top of an oil barrel, half buried in sand. She continued finalizing her sketch, a charcoal pencil in one hand and a gummy eraser in the other. The light was good here, but the flies were bothersome.

After completing a series of inch-long segments, each on different portions to avoid warping the thin metal, Debbie seemed satisfied with progress. She took a break. She stood up, stretched her back, then paced to where Lyndy was sitting.

She raised her dark goggles, leaning in to inspect Lyndy’s work.

“I didn’t know you were such an artist?” She pronounced the word R-Teest.

“Only out of necessity,” replied Lyndy.

“Why are you sketching a bearded middle-eastern man?”

Lyndy chuckled, pointing with the coal pencil. “Thank you! I was just about to ask what this looked like. Now I have my answer.” Lyndy sat up, gazing out to a savannah-like expanse of sage which bordered the property on two sides. Dogs were barking and someone very distant had a radio or boombox—but the music was indistinct.

“You ever get together with your neighbors out here?”

“Oh yeah. Of course. Some are nice. Some are plain nuts.”

“What do you do for fun?”

“Tetherball. Archery. Stuff like that,” answered Debbie. “Talk about weird overnight AM conspiracy radio. Comic books. The kleptocracy. Scorpions. Our failed marriages.”

Lyndy nodded while she blew some excess eraser dust from the corners of her pad.

“Deb. I figure you’re the perfect person to ask. What would you do if you wanted to fake your own death? Would you go to Mexico? South America?” Lyndy raised an eyebrow. “Or, would you do it Anne Frank style? Disappear in plain sight.”

Debbie looked out at her dystopian future settlement of survivalist camper vans and lean-tos. She fanned her face with a square of sheet metal, part of an old sign.

“I mean, I’d probably do just exactly what I’m doing now, only alter my name. Something like Debbie Dootson. Has a certain ring to it and I’ve never met another Dootson. Tell the banks the old Debbie died of a stroke.” Debbie cackled. “Anyone trying to find me would have a hell of a time out here.” She sniffed her stuffy nose, still gazing to the distance. “Not like anyone cared much about Deborah Kowalski. Sure as heck wouldn’t care about anyone named Deb Dootson. Doesn’t sound like a winner.”

Lyndy nodded. “Wise.” She checked on Dale to see what he was up to. He was on his feet, smiling, admiring Debbie’s collection of garden gnomes, greenhouses and tomato plants. “Is he who you mean? This fella you’re drawing, he did that?” Debbie questioned.

“No. Actually, in the case of Mr. Aloyan, I’m about certain. He didn’t even do a very good job and he’s not fooling anyone. I don’t know why it took so long to convince myself of it. But I imagine the way his wife was behaving made me doubt my instincts.”

“Then who are you referring to?”

“Rita,” said Lyndy.

Debbie didn’t reply immediately, but clearly she recognized the name, inhaling deeply. “That impetuous woman always treated me like I was beneath her.”

“I know. But I think Rita Lovelace pretended to die in a plane crash.”

“Highly ambitious plan,” said Debbie. “But knowing her, it sounds like a scheme she’d be capable of.” Snapping on her goggles, she went back to her welding.

Back in the 70s …

It was as though she blacked out. In more ways than one.

Her last distinctly formed memory, was hearing Miss Lovelace insult Dr. Tarner, and then her heels on those stairs. She must have ended up with Graham and Tarner, else how could she have gotten down the stairs on her own?

But Lyndy awoke to the sensation of tumbling—literally somersaulting—and her body being bruised by hard asphalt. Then cars and trucks swerving, honking and angry shouting. A man was yelling: “Get out of the street!” She was terrified, feeling her way and crawling on hot, filthy pavement. Gravel stuck to her hands and abrasions.

And she knew she was in the middle of a busy avenue.

Lyndy felt like a wounded animal and profoundly alone in that moment, unable to see, not knowing where to go. Being blind and not yet adapted was the most helpless experience in the world. When she heard the revving on an engine, she believed she would die.

But then a screech of breaks. She held up her hand instinctively, in the path of the oncoming car as if that simple act or resistance could have any affect.

The car halted. Angry people started shouting at the driver to move. The door opened and she heard a voice. “Stand up Lyn!” commanded Rita, breathlessly.

“I can’t,” Lyndy pleaded.

Rita’s feet were bare and they slapped on the hot pavement.

She felt Rita’s noodly supermodel arms wrap around her waist, and the sensation of her body being dragged to the car. Other impatient drivers honked, and Rita threatened them to back off.

“I’ve been racing around searching for you for forty-five minutes,” Miss Lovelace complained. She kicked open the passenger door. Then like a sack of rice, Rita shoved Lyndy onto the seat, turning her over and stuffing in her legs so the door could shut.

“We gotta leave town right now!” Rita stomped on the gas.

“Aren’t we going to a hospital?” questioned Lyndy, who was contorted upside down in her seat. They swerved into a complete one-eighty at the next intersection, rolling her against the window.

“Heck no,” said Rita. “We aren’t stopping till after we hit stateline. Cali or bust.”

Lyndy couldn’t see the color, yet judging by the jerky motions of the car and honking horns, she knew they were blowing through red lights.

“Wait why?” demanded Lyndy, as she righted herself with a hand on the a-pillar and another braced on the seat cushion. “Doesn’t Tarner have what he wants?”

Rita took a breath. She could hear the roar of the straining engine as they accelerated onto the interstate. “I still have the flute,” she answered calmly. Rita patted her dress, at belly-button level.

“Then what is it you put back into the display case?”

“Remember all those pine-tree sticks in the backyard at the Shirley Temple house?”

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.