Category Archives: MyBooks

Gasoline and Matches Part-1

Gasoline and Matches: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-1

Anaheim, CA, 1990s

People always say when you become a new mother, your tolerance for life’s gross outs skyrockets upward. Blood, urine, throw-up, whatever is in a blackhead—you name it! And in The Spitfire’s experience, this was all true. From the happy day she found out she was pregnant with Maribel, at the age of 40, to the time of Maribel’s birth, a notable transformation occurred—not only of body, but in spirit. These same changes didn’t affect the male brain equivalently, or at least not in the case of Dr. Kyle Ellis. Kyle already had three other children, the youngest of which was eight when Lyndy gave birth. For some reason Kyle was still grossed out by poopy diapers. Nowadays, Lyndy could watch the Kintner boy get devoured by Jaws, while eating spaghetti.

These special life events never came at a convenient time and place. So, it was inevitable that baby Mari had one of her worst diaper blow-outs of all time, in the midst of a ride at Disneyland and Lyndy had to sit there with a diarrhea covered baby for what seemed like an interminable stretch until the ride came to a halt. Ironically, the ride was Winnie the Pooh, proof that God has a sense of humor.

Something had upset Maribel’s stomach terribly, though she’d eaten mostly oatmeal and half a banana. The diarrhea not only squirted up her back, along her spine, but also down the insides of her thighs. People in the beehive shaped cars behind were pinching their noses and groaning. Kyle was mortified with palms over both eyes—though he really ought to anticipate these moments. Rebecca Ellis, his first wife, was in the car in front. She was snickering.

The one silver lining was Lyndy had a diaper bag. As soon as the ride came to a stop, she jumped off carrying Maribel like a watermelon, basically a mini-stink bomb, and waddled to the nearest restroom. The Goofy character happened to be walking through at the time and he said: “Golly!” Then he did the laugh which is impossible to spell out but everyone can hear in their head.

There was a line for the women’s, because of course there was; it was the ladies room at the world’s most popular theme park after all. But as soon as the other moms witnessed the gravity of the situation, they let Lyndy cut the line. Another mom had the koala care station down and had just been finishing up a diaper change on her toddler. When she saw Lyndy coming, she whisked her kid out of the way so Lyndy could get Maribel onto the table.

Mari’s diaper bag had a pack of those disposable baby wipes, but it wasn’t near enough. Lyndy had to rush to the sinks. Mari was crying like always. This time for good reason, as she had poop all over her and probably had an upset tummy. But Lyndy was used to it, because Maribel cried a lot.

Lyndy sighed.

Rushing to the towel dispenser, she yanked the arm up and down about thirty times to obtain a good fistful. She took this wad and wet it under a sink faucet, using this in place of a washcloth to cleanse Mari’s skin.

Moments later Rebecca Ellis entered the restroom, but instead of being helpful, she’d come to watch Lyndy. Thankfully the Costco wipes helped a ton, as Lyndy tried to comfort Maribel and get her to stop crying. She hummed a lullaby, even though it was a crowded place, and she looked into the beautiful eyes of her baby, laying there on that plastic shelf. Her heart swelled with love.

Eventually, mercifully, Mari began to cry less and Lyndy affixed a fresh, clean diaper.

That same afternoon ….

Lyndy Life Observation: On a sweltering day chasing speeders up and down the San Bernardino County interstates, 15 and 40, Deputy Keynes used to frequently get an argument along these lines: “Hey buddy, I pay your salary.” Sometimes this was accompanied by a poke at his chest and the obligatory, “ … are you just out here filling your daily quota?” In the right mood, Dale Keynes would reply with: “Hey man, if you’re not happy why don’t you fire me? You pay my salary, correct?”

The classic song Pickup Man was playing softly on the speakers. The dry SoCal heat felt amazing, and her belly had been filled by an excellent prime rib meal at The Blue Bayou, paid for by Dr. Ellis. And with their troubles mostly behind them, he had his arm around Lyndy while he smiled and played with their baby. That was during the meal. Now he’d run off somewhere to take a business call.

Lyndy was on her second margarita—wearing her favorite one-piece bathing suit—when Becky Ellis entered the scene again. She plopped down on an empty chair next to Lyndy’s pool lounger. She had one of those pina-coladas with the little pink umbrella and she was crunching the blended ice by poking the straw up and down.

On the lounger next to her, seated on a towel, was one-year-old Maribel in her tiny sun hat. Mari was smiling now, having recovered and seeming to enjoy watching the activity at the pool. Later Lyndy planned to take her daughter to the baby pool, where the water was roughly eight inches in depth and Mari could have fun splashing in the sun.

Lyndy could tell when Becky Ellis wanted to talk. She got this look on her face like she was ready to burst. She should have been watching her kids, but she’d entrusted this duty to the teenage lifeguards at the Disneyland Hotel Pool.

Becky Ellis inhaled deeply, then let the air out slowly.

Lyndy lowered her pink sunglasses.

“Whelp, I see you lost the baby weight quickly,” Becky remarked. Instead of a tone of congratulations, or as a complement, it sounded more like an insult. Like Lyndy must be on drugs. “What’s your secret?”

By the way, Becky Ellis and Lyndy were the same age, but in Becky’s eyes, Lyndy was a younger B-word who’d swooped in and stolen her husband away. This explanation couldn’t be farther from the truth.

Lyndy cleared her throat. She’d taken to imitating the great Rita Lovelace in situations like this. Rita always kept an air of dignity, even when someone was obviously there to intimidate her.

“I said what’s yer secret?” Becky repeated with a grin.

“I bought a Thigh-Master off an infomercial,” said Lyndy, matter of factly. In reality, one of the benefits of this bathing suit was its flattering nature and built-in slimming capabilities.

Becky exhaled a chuckle, knowing Lyndy was being facetious.

“Do you take anything seriously?” Becky accused.

Lyndy gazed at Maribel, brushing the gorgeous strands of hair from her forehead. It was the same shade of walnut as her mother’s and Lyndy took pride in that.

Only Becky could find reason to be in a vindictive mood during a luxury family vacation to Disneyland—literally the happiest place on Earth.

“Becky for Pete’s sake, can’t we just enjoy a family vacation?” pleaded Lyndy. Lifting one of those 4-sided emery boards from her purse, Lyndy began polishing her fingernails.

With one casual glance, Becky checked on her kids. The oldest stood atop the waterslide and was about to go down in reverse. “I need to ask you some important questions,” said Becky.

“Oh no you don’t,” argued Lyndy.

“Be honest with me Lyndy Martinez,” whispered Becky. “At any point during our marriage, was there … infidelity?” Becky whispered the word infidelity, though no one was within earshot. “And I don’t mean the physical kind. I mean emotional. Or any form of shared contact that … could lead a man to temptation.”

“Huh?”

“You know exactly what I mean.”

Lyndy looked Becky in the eyes. “We hardly said hello to each other the whole time you and Kyle were married. I promise you.”

“And when did this start?” Becky pointed to baby Maribel, as though she were evidence of some illicit affair.

Lyndy squinted her eyes. “You’re giving me a headache.”

Maribel was 12 months old. Counting back from there, another 10 months and Kyle was already divorced.

“Deep down, there had to be a part of you wishing to get pregnant? In a way, didn’t you know it would bring Kyle back to you?”

Lyndy exhaled, thinking back to that drizzly night.

Kyle Ellis had driven past the motel where he knew Lyndy lived her lonely life in an upstairs room. He’d made a case, the two of them were basically star-crossed lovers. Now they had a chance to flip that narrative around. Living in a motel, in your late thirties, working at an oil change place called Rapid-Lube did make one feel like a bit of a loser. So, seeing a familiar face—a successful one at that—she’d been in a moment of weakness. They’d had a passion filled night or two, rekindling a lifelong romance.

She’d practically given up on her dream of being a mother. She’d tossed her chance away like a couple of spades in a game of poker. Yet Lyndy didn’t know what she was missing. It was that summer season which brought Maribel Ellis into the world. Nothing could’ve prepared her for how joyful this would make Lyndy, and Kyle Ellis in turn. Mari was a symbol of the love he’d always had for Lyndy.

Lyndy gazed up at the Matterhorn, like a snow-capped beacon in the haze of a southern California afternoon. She answered Becky this way: “Why don’t you hop on your broom and fly off with your monkeys to pester somebody else.”

Becky’s back stiffened. Her face contorted in a grimace—like someone who’d had a drink thrown in their face—and she must’ve been so insulted she huffed off without any sort of goodbye.

Lyndy smacked her forehead, knowing word of this would make its way back to Dr. Ellis, and he would not be pleased.

Later that night …

The local TV news was on silent, pictures of wildfires in the mountains and a panicked scroll on the bottom fifth announcing many evacuations. One didn’t need the volume to know all heck was breaking loose in the mountains. Sometimes it felt like that’s all southern California did in the summer—burn.

Lyndy couldn’t sleep again, her mind swirling with countless worries, irrational or not. For example, what if their new cabin in Arrowhead burned down? But the fires were far away from the lake. Beside her Kyle snored, as did Maribel on her back between them. They both had a big day. Anyone on a trip to Disneyland had every right to be exhausted. She checked her watch, then sat up.

Grabbing her key card, she pulled on a dress, stuffed her feet in heels, then headed out—shutting the room door gently so as not to wake anyone. She didn’t have a rational explanation, and Kyle would obviously want to know where she was going. He also would want to know what was wrong, but as usual, Lyndy didn’t know what was wrong. She could never put in words what it meant to be restless all the time.

Downstairs Lyndy paced across the lobby. The only people up were moms like her, who were fatigued by life. But the bar had a few empty seats. Now that was a fortunate turn of events.

Kyle could be trusted with Mari, especially since she was sleeping. Right?

With piano music filling her ears, Lyndy cozied up to the hotel bar and sighed. The bartender smiled and Lyndy said: “Heineken”. Then she slid Kyle’s gold credit card across the smooth top.

Glancing to her left and right, she counted the other patrons. Pair of dudes at the other end of the bar. One couple, and a woman, seated by herself at a table by the windows. She seemed a little older.

Lyndy took a sip of beer, then studied the stranger.

By her looks she’d guessed this mature woman was middle forties in age, but slender, with a dirty blonde bob haircut and curtain bangs. It was a pricey hairdo, done only at salons. That style didn’t work for Lyndy’s curls, requiring far too much straightener, but she envied it. Or maybe it was a wig? Lyndy kept glancing her way.

She seemed like a fellow mom, but a wealthy one. Her classy outfit consisted of a green blouse, pedal pusher pants, showing her ankles and a fine pair of high-heel strap sandals. It bested Lyndy’s department store sun-dress.

“Oops.” Abruptly the stranger looked up from a dirty martini they were nursing. Lyndy was caught in the act of spying, which was embarrassing. But the stranger grinned while Lyndy sipped from her beer.

“Welcome to the party,” the woman called out.

Lyndy nodded, with a sheepish look.

Leaning back in her lounge chair, the elegant woman crossed one leg over the other. “Care to join me?” she asked, pushing her hair over one ear.

Lyndy hadn’t known she was lonely and it was abnormal for her to talk to strangers. But in this case, she welcomed the chance for an adult conversation that wasn’t with Becky or Kyle Ellis. Or the kids.

Lyndy took a seat across from the stranger, wiping her lips with the back of her hand. “Sorry for … ya know …”

The woman shook her head, meaning no explanation needed.

“Name’s Jackie,” the lady added. Jackie pointed her toe, exercising it by doing circles, while gazing at Lyndy with attentive eyes. On her third finger, a diamond ring flashed as it caught the light. “My maiden name is Bell, but these days I go by Cordray.” Then she sipped from her glass of gin.

“Lyndy E. Martinez,” replied Lyndy with a nod. “Jackie’s a cool name.”

“Couldn’t sleep?” questioned Jackie. She had a green foil pack of Newport’s peeking out from the top of her purse, causing Lyndy to have a craving.

Lyndy shook her head in confirmation.

“What brings you to the Tragic Kingdom?”

“Oh well you know, I always wanted to meet Donald Duck in person. And my anti-depressants aren’t working anymore.”

Jackie Cordray chuckled. “You got any kids?”

“One,” Lyndy answered, trying to maintain a non-slouching pose. “She’s not going to remember this trip, but years from now when she has 30 tattoos and a bone through her nose, I can point to Dumbo and tell my daughter I held her in my lap on that ride.” Lyndy gestured to the tower elevators. “My boyfriend is currently upstairs, snoring like a moose.”

Lyndy shook her head at the circuitous path leading here; while knowing the series of nervous jokes she typically used as a smokescreen to avoid talking to people weren’t going to work on this lady. Cause Jackie was too damn cool.

“I’m not a …” Lyndy twirled her fingers to indicate whatever was running through Jackie’s mind. “We’re basically a family now. The American dream. I have self-respect.” Lyndy covered her mouth with her fist, trying unsuccessfully to disguise a burp. She wasn’t sure what she meant to justify by her declaration, maybe a latent response to Becky’s digs.

Jackie squeezed her nose at the corners of her eyes, then gazed out the windows at the glittering city lights at night stretching on forever. “I got two of em. They’re too old for this place now, or at least they act like they are.” Her words were bitter, as if many painful things were being left unsaid. Her fingers displayed two diamond rings, but no wedding band. Jackie swirled her drink, then downed the rest.

Ordinarily Lyndy wouldn’t have been so bold, but something about this mystery woman made her wonder. Jackie came from money; probably lived in Hollywood or Beverly Hills. There was practically no rationale for a person like Jackie to come here, if they didn’t have a family in tow.

“You’re looking for someone,” Lyndy surmised, taking one more sip of beer.

Jackie turned back rapidly, facing Lyndy and meeting her with a haunting gaze—the kind of look someone who’d woken up from a nightmare. “They call you The Spitfire. Is that correct?”

Lyndy nodded slowly, wondering how a person she’d just met would know that name.

“I have a confession. A friend of mine—Rita Lovelace—told me I might find you here. I didn’t know you would be up at this hour or what room you were staying in. Bumping into you was purely coincidence. But I’m glad we’re meeting this way.” Jackie leaned forward. “I have an extraordinary story to tell you.”

Valley Girl Part-21

Leave a reply

*If you’re enjoying this story, and it’s not too much trouble, hit the “Like” so Lyndy knows you’re there.* TIA! -ASC

Valley Girl: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-21

Yosemite National Park, CA 1990s

Lyndy Life Observation: If Aunt Rose had a superpower, it was the ability to be in a sour mood nonstop for days on end. Rose Martinez hardly ever smiled, rarely spoke an encouraging word and possessed few other likable qualities. On the other hand, her tortillas were extraordinary. I could eat ten of those in one sitting as a teenager. And I can’t say I ever ate a homemade or restaurant style tortilla which could match hers for fluffiness, texture or overall taste.

No part of Lyndy’s body wanted to do a hike—not even her hair. Her skin was itchy. Her stomach grumbled for real food. Her shoulders ached, and every now and then pinched so that her whole neck contorted into a painful clench. She just wanted to crawl into bed. Given a choice of going on a strenuous hike or balancing her checkbook, she’d choose the latter.

Unfortunately, Neil had taken Mari hostage.

“You are the toughest woman I’ve ever met,” he encouraged, but Lyndy continued to grumble without responding. She folded her arms, dragging her feet as she moved.

The trail climbed a steep ridge beyond the sawmill, into a forest of new growth conifers. Ponderosa and Jeffrey pines, hardy incense cedar and some red firs populated the landscape. The understory was a mix of shrubs, huckleberry and heather. Bluebirds flitted from the lower branches, leading them away from their spring nesting sites.

In time, the clouds lifted and sunlight began to poke through, a vibrant yellow in the late afternoon. Beads of water glistened where they adhered to pine boughs and cones, reflecting the natural world into twisted spheres, making the trees sparkle as if they had tiny crystal ornaments attached. And though she wasn’t exactly thrilled, Lyndy began dwelling less on her misery, seeing things she’d not anticipated. Even the blades of grass and petals of a daisy held fresh dew.

The trees began to sway as a breeze picked up. She felt the chill of high altitude and it gave the skin on her arms goosebumps. It must have been a mile and a half in, judging by the passing of time, when they paused for a break.

There, Neil offered up baby Maribel.

At the time Lyndy was busy catching her breath, her palms flat upon her thighs.

“I’ll give you her, if you promise to keep walking behind me,” Neil warned.

Lyndy looked up to meet his piercing gaze. In reality, it wasn’t much of a choice. If she tried to flee, he could easily outrun her. He had longer legs, was better rested and knew the terrain. She’d never be able to outpace him back to the staging area. Exhaling, Lyndy reached out her arms, taking back her baby. Mari squirmed and Lyndy tucked her into the baby Bjorn, like a kangaroo pouch. The baby felt restless, not liking the motion and probably wanting to be fed.

Neil didn’t pause much longer. He turned to scramble higher.

After a few more minutes of trekking the slope began leveling off, and they reached a mesa-like flat zone. Here there was an opening in the canopy, fewer trees overall. She’d been watching her feet, concentrating on not stumbling, but when Lyndy next lifted her gaze, she was overcome by a child-like wonder. A rush of pure delight made her forget her troubles. Across a small stream stood a tree-trunk as big around as a grain silo.

The orangish bark with massive ridges and roots like elephant trunks, helped it seem even more fairy tale like. The settlers would’ve had a heck of a time describing this to their cousins back home. Sure, sure, just one tree branch as big around as a piano!

Lyndy leaned back to take in the scale, straining to spot the crown of the colossal tree. As she twisted her body, she noticed there were more giants towering in the distance. By a quick counting they numbered in the dozens. All she could do was marvel at the sight.

“That’s a sequoia!” she exclaimed, stating the obvious.

Mari’s eyes were doing that googly-eyed baby thing, trying to make sense of her surroundings. But Lyndy would’ve sworn the girl had a smile. In all her days, she’d not seen anything as wondrous. Lyndy looked to Neil. “How old are these trees?”

“This one? Easily, over 3000 years.”

Lyndy remembered the sawmill. “Wait, why would they leave these?”

“Two reasons. Firstly, the wood tends to be brittle for this species, and isn’t as good for building as you might think. But the other reason, is they recognized how special these trees are. They’ve been growing here since the last ice age. The men knew if they felled all the giant sequoias there would be none left for future generations to be in awe of, like us. They wisely set these aside, while logging the lesser trees.”

Neil beckoned Lyndy to hop the creek and make their way into the grove.

Twenty yards deep into the clearing he dropped to a seated position, like someone enjoying a picnic. Patting the soft grasses and pine needles, he pointed out the small wild daisies.

Hesitating, Lyndy paced a circle, afraid to sit down. But after a while, seeing how comfy he looked and that he wasn’t sinking into mud, she settled on a spot to take a rest. She folded her legs in a meditative pose. She glanced to Neil Conner, not deviating from her pouting seriousness. He gazed back making apologetic eyes. She wasn’t falling for that. She couldn’t shake her apprehensive thoughts, what might be happening in the valley.

After the exchange of looks, lacking words to express themselves they leaned back, resting their heads flat on a bed of pine needles. They gazed skyward together—baby and all—to the blueness and the unknown. Listening to the creaking of the upper canopy in the wind, watching the sky with its hints of high cirrus, breathing the cool air, Lyndy lost herself. She felt Maribel gazing up too.

“You know what I was thinking about,” said Lyndy. “On the hike up.”

“What?”

“I was thinkin bout my mom. How I wasted so much time and energy being angry at her for abandoning me and my brother, leaving us with Aunt Rose and disappearing.” Lyndy sniffed. “Lately it occurs to me, she was what, 23 or 24 years old when she did that? What the heck did she know about life or parenting, or commitment? I didn’t have a kid til I was 40, and look at me. I don’t really know what I’m doing do I?”

Neil chuckled.

“You were right about something,” Lyndy managed.

“Bout what?”

“This is a nice spot,” Lyndy agreed. She sighed, contemplating for a good minute or two the sounds of nature—letting her heart soar.

She wasn’t sure whether she dozed off or not, but she’d been lost in a daydream when the sounds of twigs snapping, and the approach of heavy footsteps jostled them both to alertness. She sat up in a blink.

“DON’T MOVE AN INCH!” someone commanded. Gazing to the direction of the noise, she saw the profile of Ranger Brandt. He had his revolver trained on Neil.

Gradually, Neil raised both his hands, showing he wasn’t clutching a weapon.

Brandt’s eyes darted, seemingly aware of a partner nearby, covering him. It was Ruby, emerging from behind one of the enormous tree trunks. He’d been tracking too.

“Lyndy!” Neil complained, like a little kid who’d been caught stealing candy. He eyed her angrily. “How could you?”

“I didn’t do anything,” she argued.

“You didn’t lead them here?” Neil accused.

“No, I didn’t, I swear.” Should have thought of that though, she reasoned. Not like this little walk in the park was going to turn her onto his cause anyway.

“She didn’t lead us here,” Brandt confirmed. “We had a tracker on Kristen’s sedan.” Sheriff Ruby removed a set of handcuffs from his belt. “Get down on your stomach Mr. Conner,” he commanded to Neil.

Lyndy stood up, brushing off her ruined dress. “Watch out, he’s got a cattle prod. If he tries anything I can help take him.” Lyndy pushed back her hair. “What about the hotel? Is it still standing?” she wondered aloud.

“Of course,” answered Ranger Brandt.

Lyndy looked over at Neil, who had a guilty expression as he tilted his body forward. “Not for much longer,” he mouthed.

Next Lyndy locked eyes with Ranger Brandt. “We gotta move if want to save it.”

Coconino County, AZ 2010s

Lyndy Life Observation: One afternoon at CBB I walk in to find Mr. Chan laughing like a hyena at the TV, almost falling out of his chair. It was unusual for him to genuinely laugh, especially during business hours. Upon investigating, a looney tunes cartoon was playing, the one where Daffy Duck and Bugs Bunny are arguing whether it’s “duck season” or “rabbit season”. That is a classic.

It started innocently. Fred Simmons met Lyndy in the waiting area of the Flagstaff airport. Outside with the sun going down, lights in the parking lot were just blinking on. Lyndy had a big smile on her face and so did he. He had one overnight bag, his dapper suit jacket on and under his arm a box of genuine Mustang parts.

Holding the weathered box out—with its original faded label on the side—he presented it proudly as he rushed to meet her. “This is it!”

“My Ford is in my friend’s hangar. I brought it with me so we can work on it here.”

He’d not thought to question how Lyndy managed to drive onto the airport grounds, whether with a permit or some supposed friend working there. With the kind of woman she was, she presumably had connections. Of course, other cars like the fastback were parked on airport grounds, alongside the private hangars. Most of them were rich people who owned Cessnas.

Lyndy pushed through a beefy gate, which said authorized personnel only. He followed her into the closed area with the private hangars. Once there, she beckoned him into a side door for one of many steel buildings. The lights were out. Peering into the darkened room for any signs of the Ford, he felt two strangers—strong men—grabbing his arms and lifting his feet off the ground. A bag slipped over his head, and before he could yell or manage much of a resistance, he felt himself being rolled into something stiff like carpet.

The next thing Fred Simmons knew, he awoke in a wooden chair with his head face down on a tabletop. Restraints were tightly wrapped around his wrists and ankles, securing him to the chair. Straining to separate them was no use, as he discovered they’d been bound with zip ties.

The room was dim and quiet but he sensed he was not alone. An odor of ancient dust and juniper smoke permeated, tickling his nostrils. His eyes strained to focus in the darkness and he could see five outlines, statue-like figures seated across the room, opposite him on the floor. Their backs were resting against the stone wall, meditative style. He wished for it to be a dream, but it most certainly was not.

The floors were composed of something like packed clay.

Fred soon deduced he was sitting in an underground kiva, the coals at the center still smoldering and glowing orange. The other occupants were dressed in robes, but the curious thing is that each wore an elaborately constructed mask—ceremonial masks. The mask enclosed their heads, blocking their faces completely. As his eyes adjusted to the light of the coals, he could see they were canines: Two of the masks were larger, wolves with lighter whitish fur tones, whiskers and fuzzy ears. A pair of the figures were coyotes. The figure all the way to the right belonged to a smaller person, and the head was a fox with orangish fur.

“This is highly illegal,” declared Fred, lacking a cleverer response. “You all can’t do this. You can’t hold someone against their will. You’re in big trouble.”

No one responded. The fox-masked person on the far right stood up slowly, as if their joints were old and achy. The fox approached him, walking like a woman. Something like fresh creosote had been smeared across the coals, and this mixture began to crackle and pop, emitting a new powerful new aroma. At the same time a soothing, spacey Enya type music began to play from an unseen speaker.

“Don’t be afraid,” said the fox. The voice he recognized, had to be Lyndy Martinez. “We are gathered here today for an unusual but important reason. We are here to honor the legacy of an extraordinary woman, one great admirer of indigenous peoples and culture. In so doing, you will be taking a short quiz.”

“If this is about Gillian’s inheritance …”

The fox put up a hand. “Excuse me I’m talking,” she scolded.

“You guys can’t go around kidnapping people. I will report this.” But Fred’s mind began reeling with a vision of how exactly to report this unusual incident to law enforcement. The description alone would be hard to prove. On top of this, it was Lyndy whom he needed to strongarm into signing the affidavit—not the other way around. He could hardly accuse her of blackmail. “Where am I?” Fred demanded.

The fox turned its head gradually to the left and right. “A kiva,” she answered. The other canines hardly moved an inch, but he knew they were living. They watched him motionless, and it was unsettling not being able to read the reactions of a human face. Their wolf and coyote masks were unchanging. Every once in a while, he swore he could see their eyelids blinking above their snouts, in tiny holes cutout for the eyes.

“Well, what do you want? I already offered you a third share of the fortune. Do you want more? You’ll never be able to spend it all. That’s about 300 million.”

“We are gathered here to honor the spirit of Rita Lovelace. A woman, who I promise never did anything for the money if it meant being dishonest.”

“How is this an honor?” Fred strained against the plastic bindings. He squirmed in the chair, but it made him feel weak knowing he was trapped. He felt himself sweating.

“We are taking a quiz,” answered the fox.

“Okay. Fine. What kind of test?”

The fox cleared her throat, having paused halfway across the room. “Today’s quiz will be titled: How well do I know Rita Lovelace?” Sweetness infused her tone; in ways he’d not remembered. Lyndy Martinez, in spite of her reputation and some years of smoking, still had a youthfulness in her voice. “Don’t worry, it’s multiple choice. You won’t have to conjure anything from scratch.”

“Fine. Fine. I’ll take the quiz. What does it prove though?”

“It proves whether you were wedded to Rita Lovelace. Like you say. If that’s true, you’ve got nothing to worry about.”

Fred exhaled, hating himself for having been tricked. He hadn’t thought she’d do this, as Lyndy seemed so earnest when she met him at the airport. “I suppose if I get the answers wrong, you won’t be signing the affidavit.”

The fox didn’t directly answer, instead offering, “Everyone on our panel has a copy of the quiz, with correct responses marked. That way there’s no funny business.” She unfolded a sheet of stationary, something a wedding invitation might come printed on. The fox cleared her throat. “As we know Rita was born in Phoenix, her father a businessman and her mother a model. What famous woman was Rita named after? A. Rita Moreno. B. Rita Coolidge. C. Rita Rudner. D. Rita Hayworth.”

Fred sniffed, trying not to sneeze at the dust and drifting creosote smoke. “Some of those are too young,” he muttered. “Gotta be Rita Hayworth.”

“That’s right,” answered the fox excitedly. “Cha-Ching.”

“This is stupid,” Fred complained, straining again to adjust his stance, as his frame was bent sharply against the table. He felt his eyes tearing up from stress. “Let’s hurry up.”

The Enya music was maddening in this environment.

“Chompin at the bit, I see. We’ll move on.” The fox cleared her throat again, circling around the fire pit and pacing to the left side of the kiva. She stared down at her slip of paper, though she must’ve known what was coming in advance. “Rita had a lifelong passion for horsemanship, along with western culture. She was a talented rider and raised foals on her ranch in Tucson. What was the name of Rita’s all-time favorite horse. I’ll make it easy, cause Rita loved mares. A. Akrivia. B. Shimmer. C. Nightfall. D. Sunset.

Fred exhaled sharply. He shook his head, then let it droop on the table.

“I’ll give you another hint. There’s a grave marker with this mare’s name chiseled upon it, where she spread her ashes.”

“Fine. It’s B. She liked weird names.”

The fox shook her head plainly. “That’s wrong.”

“I don’t care. Give me another one. We never talked about horses. It would’ve been too painful.”

“For the record it was Nightfall. Okay. Moving on. Rita had a good head for business, owning several art galleries among her other ventures. She valued one quality in an employee above any other. A. Loyalty. B. Results. C. Ability to generate profit. D. Intelligence.”

“I dunno, loyalty.”

“That’s an important one, the root of many future problems.”

“What do you mean?”

“I promise you; in no way did Rita value loyalty.” The fox paced to the opposite side of the firepit, moving away from the drifting smoke. “Moving on. What annoying habit did Rita have after drinking to excess? A. Removing her clothes. B. Throwing up. C. Fighting. D. Dancing with strangers.”

“This is stupid.”

“What’s your answer?”

“Oh, I don’t know. She didn’t drink with me; she’d given it up. I guess B. Throwing up.”

Without words, the fox shook her head. “It’s A.”

“This is so stupid,” Fred repeated, impatience boiling over. “You’re missing out on the big picture. There’s nearly a billion dollars at stake and you would rather play games?”

“This last question is so important it’s worth two points, like a lightning round. You’re still in the game and can tie it up, if you get this right. At a fancy outdoor wedding in Malibu, Lyndy Martinez and Rita Lovelace had their last and final falling out. Lyndy was expelled from the wedding, fired from her job at Lovelace Corp. and Rita cruelly cutoff all communication. They never exchanged one single word again. What embarrassing incident at the wedding precipitated this last straw event: A. Lyndy made out with a stranger in a catering tent. B. Lyndy was drunk and ranting about politics. C. Lyndy pants’ed the groom. D. All of the above.”

A sound of girlish laugher filled the kiva, one of the coyotes breaking character. The high voice meant the coyote was another female, but younger. Perhaps both the coyotes were female, Fred reasoned.

The wolves looked at her and she quickly regained composure.

“What’s yer answer?” demanded the fox.

Fred inhaled nervously.

“D. All of the above,” said Fred.

“Oh my god,” lamented the fox, dropping her arms to her sides and shaking her snout. “How poor is your opinion? Admittedly, Miss Martinez had been drinking that day. And this led to teasing, as she and the groom knew one another. For some reason, not having any foresight, Lyndy immaturely decided to prank the groom. Rita witnessed it—leading to the most awkward wedding moment ever. If she could go back in time, it’s the one thing Lyndy would change.”

The same coyote began to cover a laugh, but still did not remove its mask.

“So, what. I got it wrong? You didn’t do all those things?”

“Very wrong. In fact, you only got one question correct overall.”

“So, what now? You’re not signing? You’re crazy!” Fred seethed in anger. “For Pete sake, all this cause I didn’t know you pants’ed a dude at a wedding? Big deal. Rita over-reacted.”

Both coyotes stood up, moving toward the fox. They linked arms, standing on either side of the fox. “There isn’t anyone in the Lovelace firm who didn’t later know that happened. It was absolutely legendary, obviously a bad decision. We were getting wine at the reception, surrounded by a dozen people. Lyndy tried to apologize over and over. But Rita wouldn’t have it … Rita shouldn’t have cut all ties and never spoken to her for the rest of their lives. After all the times Lyndy saved her and all the experiences they shared as best friends. Rita was wrong too. Rita did not value loyalty. Everyone knew that.”

“I’m sorry Rita did that to you,” grumbled Fred.

“No, you’re not.”

“Well, what now?” Fred scanned the room. A chill ran through him. “What now? What about the money? We need to lock up that deal.” He tried to kick the table with his knees, but they were bound too tightly. He struggled to free himself, letting out a groan when this final act of defiance failed.

The fox touched fingers upon the fur along her snout, then patted them in a circle below her ears. Fred wondered whether Lyndy were about to remove the mask. But she did not.

“I’ve been told, I’m getting a facial,” answered the fox.

Fred came to later that day on a bench, in front of the airport.

Valley Girl Part-20

Leave a reply

Valley Girl: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-20

[Hi Everyone, Lyndy says have a very Merry Christmas / Happy Holidays! Thanks for reading. –ASC]

Coconino County, AZ, 2010s

Lyndy Life Observation: Telephone answering machines used to have actual cassette tapes, and one could change the greeting by swapping these tapes out (if you were born after 2000 this doesn’t make a lick of sense). While cleaning out my storage unit, I found a box chock full of these old cassettes belonging to my 1980s answering machine—like a time capsule. For fun, I put one in a player to see what random messages might still be on it. I soon hear the intoxicated voice of Catherine Cookson, slurring speech: “Lyn! Lyn, … you won’t believe what just happened to me. I got trespassed out of a See’s Candies for eating too many samples! Hahahaha!”

Miss Thurgood, in a pensive mood, popped the tab on a Michelob Ultra while listening closely to Lyndy’s Santa Barbara saga. Sipping beer and occasionally chewing on a fingernail, she focused her attentive green eyes on The Spitfire the whole time.

Lyndy Martinez told of her encounter with Mr. Fred Simmons, how she met his strange daughter named Gillian, the enormous pile of money at stake, and the fact there was more than a passing resemblance between the fragile girl in the rental and the late Rita.

In truth it was the longest stretch Lyndy could ever recall holding Rhonda’s focus, as the businesswoman had one of those millennial attention spans. Like Maribel, Rhonda could ignore a room full of people in a loud nightclub, if only an Apple device were present.

Lyndy explained how uncomfortable it was to seek out help, as it wasn’t a very Lyndy Martinez thing to do. Admittedly, asking advice from someone half your age felt humbling.

At last, Rhonda crushed out the can. Extending one of her bare ankles and crossing it over the other, she rotated her frame to face the TV. There, a generic cable news channel with anchors like puppets, showed scenes of a hurricane battering Florida. Near the bottom of the screen, a dizzying scroll of stock quotes looped interminably.

“Hmmm,” was all Rhonda said at first. Being this close, Lyndy noted Rhonda had one of her eyebrows pierced, a feature she’d nearly mistaken for a fishhook injury.

Lyndy exhaled, anxiously lacing her fingers, pondering whether the decision to use up an Ace asking Rhonda for help had been fruitless. I mean, why should she care anyway?

But Rhonda opened her mouth again, questioning, “If Gillian actually is the living heir of Rita Lovelace, would you want her to have her inheritance?”

“Of course,” answered Lyndy.

“But if not?”

“You mean if they’re con artists? Well, Rita despised con artists. She hated any kind of swindler. She’d go out of her way to expose them and on occasion ….”

Lyndy trailed off, thinking of a few situations in particular.

Rhonda leaned forward with a grin.

“Hopefully the statute of limitations has expired,” mumbled Lyndy.

“The more I hear, the more I think I would have enjoyed meeting Rita.”

Lyndy nodded in the affirmative. “You would. I was telling Gillian, Rita’s nickname used to be Rita-the-Rocket cause she had so much energy and was unrelenting.”

Rhonda shrugged on her wrap, stuffing her feet into pink flip-flop sandals. She paced to the accordion doors, wide open to the sunny day, revealing a grand view of sandstone cliffs. Those were the same reddish cliffs Wesley Powell might’ve slept under, on his expeditions down the river, long before the reservoir.

“If only there were a way to match the DNA of Gillian to the DNA of the Lovelace clan,” lamented Lyndy. She sipped from her cold, fizzy can.

“Miss Martinez, you ever watch one of those cheesy rom-coms where it’s an American tourist who stumbles into the love of their life overseas? Eventually they have to snag a green card to sneak their partner back into the US. Hilarity ensues.”

Lyndy’s eyes narrowed. “Yeah.”

“Immigration asks probing questions, like uh, what side of the bed do each of you sleep on? Or what brand of toothpaste does your partner use?” Rhonda whipped around with a gleam in her eye. “You mentioned you lived with Miss Lovelace. Did I hear that correctly?”

Lyndy chuckled thinking about it. “Yes, yes, the odd couple.” Her head bobbed side to side. “Heck, we shared the same bed a few times—always platonically, cause sometimes we’d get a hotel suite with only one king bed. We weren’t ya know, into each other.”

“I get it,” replied Rhonda, “I didn’t think the latter. But still, it means you have intimate knowledge. You could make a quiz, one this Simmons fellow should be able to easily pass assuming he’s telling the truth.”

A hunky male bodyguard without a shirt entered the room, his hawk-like gaze fixed on Rhonda. Without a word he moved the kitchen, to hover over Lyndy.

Rhonda locked eyes with him. “Let’s try,” she remarked. “What side of the bed did Rita sleep on?”

Lyndy recalled many a hotel suite in Vegas, shoving their way through a crowded lobby as fans trying desperately to snap pictures with Miss Lovelace, pleading her for an autograph. Touching finger to thumb with both her hands, making the shape of a square, Lyndy replied: “If you’re facing the bed—I can picture her lying curled up against a pillow—it was the side nearest the windows. A fancy glass ash tray on the nightstand. I never asked, but I bet her choice of side related to a lifelong phobia of fire. She believed in the worst-case, a hook and ladder truck would come and she could escape out a window. Whatever side faced the door, it would’ve been me.”

Rhonda giggled at her own idea: “We should make it like a multiple-choice Cosmo quiz: You know, what would my Spice Girl name be?”

Lyndy exhaled, tilting her head back against the padded sofa cushion and shutting her eyes to think. “Right. Right. I like it. So then, we need better questions—something Fred would’ve known being married to the most adventuresome fashion model who ever lived.”

Yosemite National Park, 1990s

Lyndy Life Observation: Maribel had an Alvin and the Chipmunks sing the hits CD (not sure where it came from, but she received a lot of quirky gifts from Kyle’s extended family). We used to play that at home or when driving Kyle’s car, which had a CD player unit in the console. Unfortunately, on a long trip to Arrowhead, after being requested for the umpteenth time, it was mysteriously “lost” (out the window) and never seen again. Wink!

The winding, rocky trail up to the sawmill almost proved too much for Kristen’s aging sedan. The little car huffed and puffed for oxygen, threatening to stall after each switchback. Copious ruts tried their best to swallow the skinny highway tires, causing the engine to bottom out on its oil pan. Good thing Lyndy was adept at working a manual clutch, as she might not have made it.

The crumbling ruins were concealed in thick pine woods. The irony being, back in the day this entire ridgeline would’ve been felled clear by the axes of lumberjacks. The imposing mill structure once stood surrounded in nothing but depressing stumps. Eight decades or so of intervening years allowed forest to overtake the area yet again, albeit the fast-growing tree species and thus with less overall diversity.

Signs along road warned of a restricted area, that park service employees were the only ones allowed to pass. However, Lyndy encountered no gates.

Happening upon a graded pullout where others had parked, Lyndy stopped the car with the engine running. She checked her surroundings.

From this vantage one got an initial view of the 3-story barn-like buildings, clinging to the steep grade on crumbling foundation blocks. Another set of signs warned hikers to keep out of the historic structures.

Lyndy knew it was the place, having gotten directions from Sarah Palmer.

Turning uphill, switching off the ignition, The Spitfire set her sights on the mill. In certain ways it resembled a haunted house: weathered side panels, narrow busted out 8-slat windows, a dock at one end and a rusting crane type mechanism for loading trucks on the other. Colonies of bats probably slept upside down in the eaves.

At the time Sarah described this place, the gruff lady had been hyperventilating, making it hard to answer questions. Lyndy put a finger against her lips, uttering the SHHHH sound. It wasn’t so much she wanted Sarah to be quiet, as she wanted Sarah to breath and stop freaking out over pain. Being so bent out of shape put you at risk of shock.

“I want you to tell me how to get to Charlie,” demanded Lyndy calmly.

Through a series of heaves, Sarah muttered, “The Sawmill.”

Thus, directions brought her to this secluded hideout.

Glancing down, she checked on the baby. Surprisingly, Mari had been sleeping in her sling. Lyndy reached down, adjusting the straps to gently secure the load tighter against her torso.

Stepping from the driver’s seat, Lyndy paused briefly to lace Kyle’s boots. She considered yet again whether to hide the baby. It had been her original plan, perhaps to lock her safe under the hatch. The weather was mild here, a hazy afternoon and she would’ve been okay to breathe.

But that just didn’t make sense. They were in this together.

Lyndy already deduced what type of man would be waiting for her. Though deranged, he’d proven he wouldn’t hurt Maribel. He’d hurt a mom if necessary, that was clear as day. Not a baby. Sometimes you just know someone—call it intuition.

A gravel trail led north from the wide switchback, up an embankment where steps had once been carved, but degraded and washed away by time. Lyndy felt the elevation, as her heart was pounding. Old half-bricks scattered the hillside where they’d come loose from the foundation. As if to foreshadow the purpose, a discarded sawblade with bent teeth could be spotted two-thirds buried in dirt. The rusty steel disk had been over 4 feet in diameter judging by the part sticking up.

Lyndy didn’t bother looking in a mirror. She’d been too busy thinking what to say to him.

Her mind felt cloudy, but in her gut Lyndy was angry. The renegades and bank robbers who caught her eye when she was young were old fashioned outlaws. They couldn’t convince her to join them. Easy choice. There were plenty of good ones out there too: Ted Crawford, Nash Spotted-Wolf, Dale, Rickman, enough to capture her heart. Kyle of course. This man was different. One of those passionate idealists—persuasive too.

Lyndy entered through the western side, where a doorframe canted at twenty degrees, and the door itself had long since been stolen or discarded. The weathered trim surrounding the entrance was all coated in fuzzy green moss, temping her to brush against it with her fingers. She half expected bats, or hoot owls to come flooding out like a Scooby Doo cartoon.

Chan would’ve advised not to enter here at all; a young Lyndy might’ve agreed. There was a time and place for caution. Strands of spider webs hung from the ceiling, adhering to every rafter. Inside it reeked of sawdust, sharp enough one could taste it on their tongue. This dust and sap mixture tarred up, filling every corner and crack.

Moving forward not only were the floors decomposing, they were sinking, folding into valleys wherever joists rotted away. The room was mostly shadows, but it quickly dropped off revealing a larger, deeper void. Indeed, the ground entry was on the second floor, and the taller first floor had been carved into the hillside, shored up with brick. This was the main work space. It took time for her eyes to adjust. A dusty warning sign, with peeling paint was still barely legible: An accident brought you into this world; don’t let one take you out! Sawmill dudes at peak humor.

Ancient equipment, driven by belts and electric motors, sat motionless in haunting vestiges. Even a half-hewn sugar pine log, 8 foot in diameter, sat stuck in the largest circular blade she’d ever seen. Balls of sap the size of grapefruit adhered to the log, turning hard and dark like chunks of real amber. It was eerie to think, one day the whistle blew, the men quit work and never came back.

Maribel murmured, expressing concern.

“I know,” whispered Lyndy. “It’s okay.”

Lyndy treaded along the catwalks at the perimeter of the building, peering down upon the main floors. At the same time she had to watch her feet, to avoid stepping into a gap or upon a board which might breakaway like a rice cake.

Her eyes scanned the room, lingering upon the shadows, gaging if each figure-like object were indeed a person. She heard the rustling of something living and the creaking of a chain. Her eyes were drawn to the source of the sound, a boom like a crane for hoisting heavy logs, erected from the brick wall over the main floor. There straddling upon the tip of the boom, a human silhouette. He might’ve been mistaken for a block and tackle at first, or other wiry apparatus, were it not for the feet clad in hiking boots.

His arms and legs gripped the sides of the wooden beam like a watchful leopard. He’d been waiting, listening to her footsteps, and the baby.

“Your people tried to kill me,” Lyndy voiced angrily.

She heard him heaving a sigh, but it was too dim to see facial features. She simply knew it was Neil Conner.

“You’re wrong though. They weren’t trying to kill you. They’re afraid of you.” He raised both arms to get her attention. “Half of em are laid up in a hospital bed, the rest have quit on me.” It was the soothing, baritone voice of Neil.

“You’re like one of those people who say sharks are more afraid of you than you are of them.”

Neil chuckled. “You should have minded your own business and not answered someone else’s phone. You’d still be living your best life. This didn’t have to happen.”

“Damn right it didn’t! That’s why you need to let go of this maniacal plan and leave me and my family alone.”

“I want you to go on a hike with me first,” Neil argued. “Promise it’ll be worth your time.”

“I’m not in the mood anymore for hiking,” Lyndy replied, with anger infused words. She smoothed the wisps of Mari’s hair. “I’ve had a very bad experience these past two days. I’m exhausted. I have a headache. Even my hair hurts. But I have the code, so that’s that.”

“Your boyfriend is boring,” commented Neil. “And hair is dead. It’ can’t hurt.”

“Don’t lecture me. I get enough of that from Kyle.”

Scooting off the side, Neil dropped into a hang on the end of the boom, then let himself descend to the main floor with a THUNK. He landed on his feet, and the decaying boards cushioned his landing.

“How can you stand that guy? He’s such a tool!”

“Kyle’s not a tool. He’s earned my respect. I like boring men.”

“Why?”

“They’re predictable.”

Neil sighed again. “Come on, just go on this hike and you’ll never have to see me again if you don’t want.”

Maribel whimpered again.

“I see you’ve found a way to bond,” Neil added.

“No thanks to you,” Lyndy snapped back.

Neil shrugged. With lightning speed he climbed a ladder, one hidden from view unless you knew it was there. He arrived atop the catwalk, grinning.

“What do you want?”

“I want you to take a walk with me,” Neil repeated, as he rushed toward her. “Why do you have to be so stubborn?” Neil had been concealing something against his arm.

Lyndy heard the crackle of electricity, but had little time to react before a tingle pierced her spine, then rippled through her body causing every muscle to quiver and contract. Paralyzed, but regrettably conscious, her limp body flopped backward on the rotting floorboards. A poof of dust rose in the air.

With breath knocked out of her lungs, Lyndy gasped and Neil easily scooped the baby from Lyndy’s weakened grip. The pain from the cattle prod hurt like the sting of a scorpion, making it feel as though even her fingernails might pop off.

Mari started wailing.

Rubbing her eyes, hoping to clear her vision of stars and floating spiral patterns, Lyndy coughed out the words: “You are such an immature prick!” She tried sitting up, reaching out her arms for her baby, but her swings were wildly off.

Mari continued crying “WAAAAH! WAH!”, even as Neil cradled her, trying to calm her. In his right arm, he continued to grip the charged cattle prod.

“Great! Look what you did!” Lyndy lectured, wiping her forearm across her lip. “She was calm up till now. God that thing hurts like a ….”

“I’ll give you Mari back once we take a walk.”

“You should give her back now,” shouted Lyndy, pushing to her feet with her palm. This placed excess pressure on her bad shoulder. Wincing, she stumbled onto her tailbone again. With the baby crying in his left arm, Neil threatened Lyndy with the poker. One squeeze and it emitted the BRZZZT sound, hurting their eyes with a blinding blue lightning streak. Even the air smelled of ozone.

Though her will was strong, reflexively Lyndy shied away. A part of her wanted to rip that stupid thing from his hand, push him over the railing. Except they were on a catwalk, and if he lost grip of the baby the results would be disastrous. Or worse, he might accidently turn that thing on Maribel.

“For God sake! What is so important I have to see right now?” Lyndy demanded. Clawing for the wall behind, Lyndy pulled herself to a standing position, keeping her gaze fixed on the man holding her baby. “Fine I’ll go for a stupid walk with you,” Lyndy huffed. “But I’m never giving you the code.”

Neil smiled, cradling Mari again and trying to sooth her. “I don’t need it. I figured it out. Took much longer than it should have, wasting tons of precious time, but I figured it out.”

“So, it was a bomb? Now its armed?” For the moment, Lyndy’s concern had shifted from herself to whatever plan this wannabe madman hatched. A half-dozen crazy scenarios began to play out in her mind. Her thoughts went to Kyle. Maybe he hadn’t cleared out like she’d warned him? Things had been quite a daze when they parted. Obviously, he’d be searching for her, but in that case he might’ve setup shop in the hotel. She’d not heard any news, being without a phone or a radio. Anything could’ve happened.

Neil’s gaze shifted from the baby’s face to Lyndy. Her back was pressed against the wall. She looked down at the baby. He continued to hold the prod in a raised position, like golf club he was about to thunk her with.

“I armed it,” Neil said in a whisper.

“So then, the hotel is …” Lyndy trailed off.

Neil nodded. “Rubble,” he answered.

Valley Girl Part-19

Leave a reply

Valley Girl: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-19

Yosemite National Park, 1990s

Lyndy Life Observation: File this under odd superstitions growing up in East LA: we had to freeze in place whenever the Dodgers were on a rally. Suppose you were listening to the game live on radio or watching TV. Any sudden move could jinx the rally. No matter what you were up to, you pretty much had to stop and wait. On a September afternoon Deputy Keynes was in hot pursuit of a speeding Corvette. The driver was fleeing a traffic stop and it happened to be the bottom of the sixth inning. The Dodgers were down by two. Bases were loaded. When the next runner scored—the batter hit a line drive—Keynes was forced to pull over. Meanwhile the perp got away. Que sera sera!

Sunshine warmed her bare, itchy skin and kissed the tender cheeks of Maribel Ellis. The tiny baby seemed pale in this light, another cause for worry. Her brown eyes were slits and she blinked them lethargically. Lyndy inhaled deeply, resting her own eyes and squeezing Mari’s tiny body closer to her chest. She couldn’t let anyone take this precious thing from her. Who knew she could become so attached like this? Or love another so completely? Nurturing, let’s just say it wasn’t a trait running in the Martinez bloodline. But now she felt it—a newfound power.

They followed the park road for 15 minutes more, snaking their way deeper into the Merced canyon, not quite to the actual Yosemite Valley floor. She felt a sense of relief when the car slowed and Kristen took a sharp turn down an unmarked lane. Abruptly Kristen slammed on the brakes, throwing the shifter into neutral. The motor continued idling.

Lyndy watched in the mirror as Kristen hopped out, retrieving a whisk broom from the rear hatch. Hastily she swept pine boughs, twigs and other deadfall into the road to cover their tracks. It was a small precaution, but demonstrated care, something Lyndy appreciated.

With that task complete, they continued along the two-track dirt road til they came to a locked gate—the beefy metal ones meant to stop a truck. Lyndy had wondered if there were private inholdings within the park boundaries. This confirmed her suspicion. The gravel access road was shaded in dense new growth pines, some standing fifty feet tall. Bushes like dogwood intruded into the road, making it even narrower.

“Be right back,” Kristen remarked.

This time she undid a beefy combo padlock and was able to walk the creaky pipe-rail gate to the side. It went squeaking on rusty bearings the whole way to 90 degrees. She felt grateful for Kristen helping her. Lyndy still didn’t trust her of course, but even this respite was a game changer. Unless it was the most elaborate ploy ever, Kristen truly had gone rogue from the cult.

From here it was slow going. None of the rutted, intersecting trails had been smoothed for decades, sporting countless humps and potholes. Some of the puddles held water, and the tires splashed mud into the fender wells of the car.

The Corolla puttered deeper into the flats, where black oaks shaded a series of charming but run-down cabins. The car came to a halt near the front steps of one, with a porch screened by mosquito nets. The cabins had wood siding looking like Lincoln logs and cedar shake roofs, nearly covered in green moss. Shafts of light poked through the canopy, shining on grassy areas once used for picnicking.

Lyndy’s mind was racing, searching for evidence of a trap. Were other vehicles present, figures behind trees, or boot prints in the muck? Nothing sloppy like that existed. Pressing the car door open she stood up, clutching Mari against her body while carrying the formula with the other arm.

“Used to rent out these cabins for tourists,” explained Kristen, as she jiggled the key and kicked at the lower quarter of the cabin door to force it open. “My family would stay here from time to time when our kids were young.”

The interior of the unit was coated in dust. Dark pellets on the floor looked like rodent droppings. Filthy, hazy windows glowed white in midday sun as if they were frosted. The floors were wide plank. Though creaky, they were in decent condition, save for not having a polish in a decade or two. Though outdated, the unit had three rooms and a well-equipped kitchen.

“No electricity here,” admitted Kristen, using a match to light a storm lantern. “These used to have power. Place was nothing short of magical back then. On a summer day birds would be chirping. Kids out here playing, learnin about nature.” Kristen pointed out the kitchen window and exhaled. “Course, it was the seventies. Long time ago. I memorized the code on one of the padlocks and all this time nobody ever bothered changing it. Always had a thing with numbers.”

Kristen moved to the kitchen sink, twisting both the garden hose style knobs until a cold clear tap ran. Lyndy observed as Kristen swallowed a large pill from an amber bottle, washing it down by holding her head under the flow. “Heart failure. Wouldn’t recommend it,” she commented.

While gently rocking Maribel, Lyndy listened for others. She heard nothing out of the ordinary. Good chance the place was deserted. The potential for a trap had yet to materialize. Maribel began to murmur, so Lyndy got to work opening the formula container with her fingernails.

Meanwhile Kristen bent down, checking the lower cabinets, searching for a bottle using the lantern as her flashlight.

Lyndy frowned. “Why would you help me?”

Kristen paused, turning her head to face Lyndy. “I dunno.” She cracked a smile. “My kids are all grown, but I remember what it was like being in your shoes.” One could see Kristen’s face clearly, lit by the lantern and a silvery glow shining through the kitchen window. Weariness showed in many creases around her eyes and sagging skin on her cheeks, but in her day, Kristen must’ve been something. She continued to search the lower cupboards while Lyndy swapped out Mari’s poopy diaper.

“Heard you got tangled up in this mess on the radio,” Kristen added. “Figure with the way they been treatin me, you might need a hand.” The tone in her voice belied truth. “These days my kids don’t want nothing to do with me.” Kristen crouched down and pushed some stuff around under the sink. “Their dad turned em against me after I joined Sierra Spring.” In a burst of excitement, she set aside the lantern and fished her arm as far as it would reach to the corner. “Ha! Check this out.” She whipped around holding an antique baby bottle. The feeding bottle looked to be 40 years old, made of green tinted glass. It had those vertical ribbed sides. “I remembered this cabin number had baby stuff.”

“Perfect!” said Lyndy.

Kristen unscrewed the metal cap—with a trace rust in the lid—and rinsed it for Lyndy. Lyndy felt a wave of relief. The tip wasn’t soft anymore, but Mari would adapt.

“I couldn’t breast feed,” admitted Lyndy, readying the bottle for Maribel.

Lyndy transferred a level scoop of formula into the retro bottle. She filled the rest of the way with water and screwed on the cap, before shaking it vigorously. Technically you were supposed to boil the water, but these were desperate times and the stove was electric. Pulling out a dusty stool, she took a seat at the table, then positioned Maribel in her lap in a feeding position.

Kristen braced against the counters, seeming like she was out of breath again.

“Can I tell you a secret,” said Lyndy. “I didn’t want babies. I had given up on the idea. But I knew Kyle loves kids, so even though I felt too old, I made a decision to put myself through it. Kind of pathetic, but I think I wanted him to love me.”

“Did it work?”

“So far. But now that I have Mari, I’m falling in love with her.”

“That’s not pathetic, it’s smart,” replied Kristen, bitterness in her tone.

With the bottle tip shoved in her mouth, Maribel’s expression changed. Her eyes opened wide with surprise and she began gulping the liquid aggressively. So much so, Lyndy had to prop her up occasionally and burp her to keep her from choking.

“Holy smokes, look at her go. I’ve never seen her this thirsty,” Lyndy remarked with a chuckle. “It’s good. I just hope she doesn’t spit it up.” Lyndy wiped around Mari’s mouth, where it was dripping with milk.

“Right about now brunch at the Ahwahnee is sounding pretty enticing,” said Kristen with a wistful grin.

“Same here. Though I could honestly eat Taco Bell at this point.”

She wanted to ask Kristen many questions: the identity of Charlie. The potential a bomb was planted in the hotel—the reason she was hiding and avoiding her favorite hangout. About the purpose of the pin code. But Lyndy held back, because she could tell Kristen was nervous. She was concealing something.

Lyndy looked her in the eye, continuing to support the bottle for Mari. “Why did you run from that black car on the bridge? I saw you arguing.”

“I can’t remember,” answered Kristen, being rather cryptic.

Lyndy gazed down at Maribel, who continued to gulp formula. “This stuff is literally a life saver. Kyle was ticked at me the first few days, like I’m some kind of defective female.” She laced her fingers together as she held Mari, who was rapidly draining the bottle.

“Who is Kyle?”

“Dr. Ellis. My boyfriend. He’s here for the Silver-Pacific meetings.”

Kristen nodded. She took a seat at the table, scraping dirt from her fingernails while occasionally staring out the dirty windows to the idyllic glen. Perhaps she was recalling something, a pleasant time here with family before the estrangement.

Lyndy tried again. “Were you arguing about the quake?”

“What?”

“The earthquake prophesized in … uh … Luke?” It was a long shot, but Lyndy knew three of the four gospels mentioned something on earthquakes. She retained at least that much from catechism.

Shifting her focus to Lyndy, Kristen raised a suspicious brow as she peeled off her yellow handkerchief. “You mean Luke 21:11?”

Lyndy mimed a, “why don’t you tell me more…” face. She then inverted the bottle Maribel had already finished, preparing another helping.

“It’s about Jesus’ return to Earth. It talks of famine too.”

Lyndy frowned. “If you think about it … there is one in the central valley. An ongoing drought. The cattle are starving cause there’s not enough reliable water to grow feed. That’s one reason why they’re building the dam.”

Kristen sighed. “I was trying to explain it to Charlie. We were arguing about that very subject—which we always argue about. He thinks we need to combine our strength to fulfill these prophecies, and I was telling him they will come to pass on their own. I keep saying he should listen to us more and not the outsiders. He’s been perfectly happy taking me and my second husband’s money. Also using our car.”

“The Porsche,” thought Lyndy.

Abruptly Kristen stopped speaking, as if catching herself saying too much. “Ah look, why don’t you rest,” Kristen offered as she stood up. “There’s a set of bunks in the back of each of these units. They’re a little dirty, but you can make do. I need to re-park the car; right now it’s visible from the air. Also take care of some other chores. I’ll get food for us later.”

Lyndy nodded in agreement.

The cabin bunks had one sheet and marginal padding. But she was exhausted. As soon as Lyndy went horizontal, her eyelids became heavy. Maribel, having drank two bottles full and with a fresh diaper change, seemed happy as a clam. Lyndy fell asleep with the baby flat on her chest.

Hours later …

Lyndy Life Observation: Ever see a fifty-year-old fit dude at the beach, working out in blue jeans and no shirt. Like not even breathable modern jeans which incorporate stretchy fabric, the old-fashioned stiff ones. That’s a major character red flag.

Sarah Palmer never much cared for the Gardeners. To her they were zealots, and in the aftermath of a disagreement Kristen was prone to episodes of going AWOL. It was bad for the unity of the group. On the other hand, Charlie tolerated them. He’d welcomed them to the cause as he did anyone who expressed a sincere passion for conserving Yosemite.

The husband at least, had strong ties to the investment world. It got them access to places anyone else in the team couldn’t.

She met Kristen at the pipe-rail gate, the one the park service erected to keep people out of the closed camp. The Chevy was idling, a whiff of steam floating from the tailpipe. As Sarah puffed a cigarette, she looked back at the passengers.

This time she’d brought reinforcements. Two extra Sierra Spring members who were fresh. And her partner Chip, whose cheek was black and blue from a previous encounter with The Spitfire. He had a vendetta now. More firepower too. In the back was his assault rifle, plus their pistols were loaded.

It seemed improbable that a relatively small in stature woman could have done so much damage to the team. Irony was, Charlie wanted her treated with kid gloves. He considered the Latina something of a fragile flower, a new mom with a baby in tow. But he’d been very wrong in that assumption. Their previous attempts at capture had gone almost comically askew.

To Sarah, it wasn’t funny.

Sarah sniffed as she crushed out the cheap cigarette. She leaned an elbow on the passenger window, scowling as Kristen hobbled up. She was pointing to the spot. “See Cabin 4. She’s napping right now. Out cold. I checked on her five minutes ago.”

Sarah glared at her. “Sleeping?”

“You heard me,” confirmed Kristen. “I still want the reward. I’m the one who brought her in.”

From the driver’s seat Chip interjected, “Oh for … that’s bull! We coulda had her already if you didn’t intervene.”

Sarah agreed with the sentiment. “Kristen, you don’t need the reward anyway. Charlie should be punishing you for going rogue.”

“Figure it out later,” grumbled Jim from the back. “We’re wasting time.”

The Chevy rolled on to the middle of camp, stopping just shy of the cabin in question. With its clouded windows, Sarah was extra cautious. Stealthily, she signaled for the two in the rear seats to circle round the left and right sides of the structure. They were to watch the windows, or in case the stroller mom somehow eluded custody.

Stepping up the set of three stairs to the screened entry, Sarah tested the door lever. Behind her, Chip held the rifle stock pressed against his shoulder. He kept a finger next to the trigger.

The door was unlocked. The lever turned with light force and a squeaking noise which Sarah tried to muffle using her sleeve. In Sarah’s left hand she gripped her pistol. They both listened, as Chip joined her on the small porch by the threshold.

Pacing across the oak floors in the kitchen, Sarah felt the springiness in the planks. They creaked as she walked. Her nervous eyes fell upon the counter, where a cylindrical container of powdered formula rested. Some of the powder had spilled, a dusting of white surrounded it. By the round table, a box of diapers had been opened.

Carrying the roll of tape on her wrist like a silver bracelet, Sarah gave it a spin. She had zip ties too in case the tape didn’t work. In the vehicle, a laundry sack had been set aside for the ride to Charlie’s camp. Sarah moved past the corner, as Chip entered the cabin, looking out.

The door to the bedroom was open a crack. She could see to the lower of the bunks, a twin bed. The bed had a lump under a sheet. The sheets rustled, stirring slightly up and down in a breathing motion. They heard the sound of human breath, and the murmurs of a sleeping baby.

Chip sidestepped past Sarah, with the rifle pointed at the lumps in the bed. He advanced to the corner, separating himself by five feet. He made a sideways glance to Sarah and she did the same.

“Alright, let’s go,” barked Sarah. “Wake the F up! I’m takin you to Charlie. Until then, we’re takin your baby.” Seconds passed, with the lumps not moving. Sarah rushed forward, snagged the sheet, ripping it away.

They heard a muffled pop, feathers exploded from a pillow and she felt a stabbing pain in her foot, like someone punched an ice pick straight up through her arch. It pierced every nerve and Sarah grimaced which made Chip panic. She lifted her foot in both hands and fell backward against the wall.

Chip pulled his trigger, blasting the bunk with six rounds and popping her ears with the thump of multiple shots. The old feather pillows which had been stuffed under the sheets exploded.

“What happened?” begged Chip.

Then another snap. This time Chip bent forward. “My foot!” he exclaimed. “Someone shot me in the foot.” Red blood started squirting from his hiking boot.

Sarah, still upright, began hopping madly. She reached down to unlace her boot while blood was oozing from her sock. Chip seemed even more debilitated. He’d dropped his gun and went down to his knees, unable to tolerate the pain.

Suddenly the windows began to explode over the bed. It was the men from the back, shooting blindly into the cabin. Horrified, Sarah pleaded: “NO. NO. NO. NO! HOLD FIRE!”

Chip grabbed both his ribs and collapsed. “I’m hit.”

Sarah dove for the floorboards, inching along and searching the area under the bed. “She’s under here somewhere,” shrieked Sarah, exhaling frantically to blow feathers away from her face. “Get her.” She crawled like a dog, feeling for loose boards, open knots where she could stick one eyeball and peer down. But the area underneath was dark and she had no light.

Glancing to Chip, she could see he was incapacitated with two gunshot wounds. “She’s under the cabin, get under there!” Sarah commanded to the pair outside.

She felt something clamping onto her ankle. The strength of the person was unexpected, drawing her down like a shark. As the boards buckled, she was pulled under into the crawl space. Sarah’s eyes struggled to make anything out in the shadows. She felt herself being dragged along; she clawed using all her fingers on the dirt trying to keep from being drawn backwards. She’d lost hold of her gun somewhere.

Sarah felt the tape being wrapped around her thighs, and though she fought, more and more layers were wrapped around. She bent into a fetal position. When the chaos stopped, she felt the coldness of a pistol pressed against her temple.

“Call them off,” she heard The Spitfire say in a cold, raspy tone. “Tell your partners to run. I’ve got no reason not to squeeze this trigger.” A chill ran through Sarah’s body. For once, she wished she’d not underestimated another woman. Lyndy whispered in Sarah’s ear. “I’ve seen folks die from being shot in the foot. It’s slow, but it happens.”

“She’s got me. Get out of here!” Sarah screeched.

Valley Girl Part-17

Leave a reply

Valley Girl: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-17

Yavapai County, AZ, 2010s

Lyndy Life Observation: One of many life issues me and Rita differed on were the benefits of talk therapy. I tried to convince her to go numerous times, knowing it would be healthy for her. Her chief argument against going, was she’d been a few times but the therapist always ended up seeing she was right, then siding with her in matters—according to her. Every time I recall that BS argument I laugh. That was Rita for you.

She spotted the fast moving sedan on the access road as she was picking bell peppers in her garden. Technically it was Thor who noticed first, doing that floppy ear twitch thing. Lifting his nose toward the eastern ridgeline, he continued chewing cud while he fixed a watchful hazel eye on the silhouette of the oncoming vehicle.

She’d been looking forward to this time in her garden. People said money doesn’t grow on trees and factually she couldn’t disagree. In Lyndy’s world it grew on vines. On her knees in the soil with the clippers, she liked to preserve about an inch of stem length. She only selected the juiciest and most photogenic peppers for her basket, which she planned to sell—a ripe one could go for 3 dollars or more to the right kind of buyer. Lyndy polished one with her thumb to make sure it had a brilliant green hue and smelled lovely. Otherwise, it went to the goats. Ravens and somehow deer had taken their cut of the harvest as well. Though she rarely saw a deer near the trailer.

Holding the ideal pepper in her grip, she checked the road again, where a moon was rising behind the haze. The car she recognized by its bluish running lights and abnormally high rate of speed. Maribel knew every twist and bump in the road. She preferred those low-slung imports with their tight handling and stiff ride. It was a Maribel thing.

Lyndy smiled, knowing her daughter’s love of cars came from the Martinez side. The fact her girl was driving, meant things must’ve gone okay in the court system. She resolved not to bring it up.

With twilight setting in, Lyndy dusted off and tallied her afternoon’s labor: Two large baskets, weighing twenty-five pounds apiece. Probably sixty dollars’ worth. With a section of burlap, she covered them both, looping a string along the rim to protect them from hungry critters.

In the time it took to secure her harvest, Mari arrived, pulling into the turning circle near the airstream trailer. Lyndy came out front to meet her, holding one of the baskets against her hip. She lifted her glasses, folding and hanging them on the collar of her blouse.

The two faced each other, neither knowing what words to say. Mari paused with the car door half open, while her mother lingered by the garden fence. Thor came up behind The Spitfire and nudged her hands, wondering why the cold greeting.

The tension wasn’t about their weeks apart or the false arrest. It ran deeper. Lyndy could feel when Mari was upset. Right now, her daughter was shaking inside like a frightened doe, very unlike her. She was still dressed in a server uniform and wearing full makeup—her outfit consisting of a button-down charcoal blouse, stockings and a modest gray skirt. Mari’s lustrous black hair appeared windblown, tangled from serving drinks outdoors at the riding club.

Moths were circling round the windows of the trailer, where yellow light shown at the edges of the curtains.

Lyndy set down the basket near her steps. “You look like you had a tough day. Wanna come inside,” she offered. Lyndy took off her hat, flicking it like a frisbee onto her outdoor table, then unbuttoning the front of her sweater.

Behind her she felt a whoosh.

Rushing forward, Maribel wrapped both arms around her mother while she was still crouching by the stoop. With her height and long limbs, she swallowed her mom in a tight embrace. She breathed heavily, a hair short of sobbing. “Sorry,” whispered Maribel.

“Yeah. Sure,” replied Lyndy. “What the heck’s wrong with you?” she was thinking.

“Can you sit with me on the bed? Like when I was little after a nightmare.”

“Okay,” offered Lyndy with a shrug, removing her sweater and brushing some straw from her hair. “For the record, I’m not mad at you about this DUI debacle. I’m not mad at all. Cathy filled me in on some of the peculiar details.”

Mari’s eyes were shut and tears were leaking out. “Sorry I lied.”

Lyndy sighed. “It didn’t make any sense. Nobody believed it.”

Mari tailed her mom down the corridor to the rear of the trailer, where the bed took up the breadth side to side. She jumped on and went into a legs-crossed position. Lyndy climbed on too, reaching for a hair brush from the nightstand drawer. This brush rarely got used. She never needed one for her own hair, these days it was at most two inches long.

Soothingly Lyndy began brushing out Mari’s tangled locks, while her daughter built up the courage to explain.

“I spoke to dad last night,” began Mari. “He told me he setup a financial trust for all his children. When we turn 30, we can transfer the funds to our own accounts if we wish. It’s not a ton, but he said if we really need money now and it’s a desperate situation, he can show us how to access it. There’s a way. But he wants us to wait until we’re established on our own.”

“That sounds like Kyle,” replied Lyndy, looping a hand under and continuing to straighten Mari’s hair. It felt so good just to be needed again.

“I know right.”

“Why were you guys talking about money?” questioned Lyndy.

Mari began tearing up as her voice cracked again. “I don’t want you to worry.”

“Sheesh. Too late for that.”

“I got a call on my I-phone. I didn’t tell dad about this. It was from a man who said you were in trouble and needed money.”

“What?” Lyndy’s eyebrows narrowed.

“Yeah. Unknown caller too. I don’t know why I picked up. The man said you were in the process of signing some type of court documents, an affidavit he called it. It would be life changing for us.”

“Wait. How did this person obtain your number?”

“I don’t know. I’ve only had the phone two months. They found me even though we don’t have the same last name. He knows a lot about you.”

Lyndy sniffed and frowned. “Hmmm. That’s … troubling.”

“The caller said if I wanted to be a double-digit millionaire then I needed to remind you to sign that document ASAP. And if you were having second thoughts at all, I needed to convince you to do it.”

“Or …. or else what?”

“Or else they knew where you and I live. He’d be paying us another visit.”

Lyndy exhaled, setting aside the brush. “How original.” She repositioned on the bed, resting on her stomach and cradling her chin in her hands like a teenager.

“That’s why I’m worried.” Mari used her shirt sleeves to dry her cheeks. “I’m sorry they got to me. Normally, I shrug this stuff off. I think its cause you and I were having a spat, I didn’t want to lose you. I can’t lose my mom.”

“This man used those exact words? That he knows where we live?”

“Mmm Hmm. Yes.” Mari sat up, peeking nervously through the blinds.

“Mari, it’s okay. No one’s out there,” Lyndy assured. “I’ve been in the garden all day. Thor would notice a twig snapping from fifty yards.

“I told him he was a dumbass to make a threat against Lyndy Martinez.”

“Yeah, that’s good.” Lyndy chuckled. Chan would’ve told someone like that: “you should go pick out a coffin today.” Course, she was 125 pounds and all muscle back then.

“Are you okay, mom?” Mari pleaded.

“Just disappointed. This thing took the one turn I didn’t want it to.”

“Are you trying to get money for something? Or are we inheriting money?”

“Nah. I didn’t tell you about it, cause I wasn’t sure if I was gonna accept it. This stemmed from a feud involving me and Rita Lovelace. I have residual anger and it makes me want to spite her, but uh …. well … when someone’s deceased what good is taking their money? We don’t need any money. You and I are doing just fine like always. We have people that love us. Money doesn’t just fall out of the sky in a FedEx envelope.”

“What are you gonna do? I don’t want you to fight. You’re too old,” Mari pleaded.

“You’re right, I’m not planning to fight.”

Lyndy glanced down at the nightstand where her phone was charging.

Lyndy wasn’t thinking about a confrontation at all. Gillian and Fred had crossed the one line in the sand she never allowed anyone to. She’d been planning to work with them. All she asked for was time, so she talk to her accountant. They couldn’t even wait that long. Why were they so impatient? Now, they had gone and upset Maribel Ellis. For Lyndy, this was unforgivable.

Outside the moon was rising, bathing the countryside in a whitish glow. Thor gazed at the front screen door a long time, before finally giving up and loping off to join the herd in nightly rest.

Yosemite National Park, 1990s

Lyndy Life Observation: We caught up with a young fugitive near state line, literally crouching in the murky shallows of the Colorado River. He had 5 warrants for GTA, stealing Mercedes-Benz coupes off dealer lots. I remember Mr. Chan told him when we arrested him, a real man is not measured by the brand of car he drives. He is measured by how he provides for his family. I know that young dude didn’t appreciate it, but I thought it was wise.

Her heart ached for Maribel. Earlier the baby had been restless, doing the three fingers in her mouth thing and crying. Now she’d ceased any unnecessary motions. At the river’s edge, Lyndy had taken a long drink by cupping her hands. She tried to use her finger to dribble fresh water in Mari’s mouth, but it wasn’t what she wanted. She tried wringing drops from her dress, but the sweet baby kept turning her head, acting like she was choking on the water.

The baby books didn’t mention anything about this scenario, presuming you would never be without a baby bottle.

In addition to her obvious hunger, Mari had been developing a troubling diaper rash, splotchy red patches on both her buttocks. Though lethargic, she reacted with squinting eyes and whimpers if you touched her anywhere on her lower backside. Lyndy’s own rash from the bee stings was bothering her too. That at least was tolerable, yet it felt unbearable knowing Maribel was suffering.

If Charlie kept sending these lumberjack goons one at a time Lyndy knew she’d be alright. One-on-one, they were no match. Of course, they’d soon wise up, recognizing this was no ordinary soccer mom they were sparring with. She kept in the woods by the river, on a grade lower than the roadway, picking her way east into the park.

Hitching a ride west and downhill would be easier, but they said they were checking vehicles at the exits. Doubtless her and Kristin Gardener were the targets. That wouldn’t solve it, rather she needed the code. Then she needed to get a message to Ranger Brandt, discretely. She’d been puzzling over that one.

Minutes later …

Lyndy rested on her stomach in a bed of pokey pine needles—Mari under one arm—watching the comings and goings at the only mini-mart gas station on this mountain road. The place was constructed in an old-timey cabin style to match the park, selling tchotchke souvenirs and postcards alongside the normal fare. It stood in the shadows of hundred-foot pine trees, providing a damp cool environment.

The station had four pumps total, two Chevron units with a nozzle on each end. These must have been slow as it took 10 minutes filling per vehicle. Most tourists—minivan driving dads we’ll say—gassed up outside the park entrance, saving 75 cents a gallon or more on the price.

Only the desperate and a handful of locals filled up here.

On the other hand, places like this nearly always sold infant formula, alongside the Lay’s potato chips and Snickers bars. One often had to dust off the cartons, but it was there, tantalizingly close.

Without money, she felt like a mama bear, watching from the understory as somebody took out their weekly trash. But already, she could tell it wouldn’t be that easy to score. A suburban SUV, the kind from the late 70s, had been parked there the whole time.

Lyndy hadn’t been able to recognize anyone inside. When the passenger door opened a female, about five and a half feet tall, in an oversized hoody sweatshirt exited. Though she’d not seen the face well, the stance of the person reminded her of the woman with the chainsaw from the previous night. There was no logical reason for anyone to be parked here this long. A second individual, reclining in profile, waited in the car. This was a stake out. They were waiting for the stroller mom.

The woman wearing the hoodie and blue jeans, paced near the tailgate while having her rot-gut brand smoke break. In time she leaned on the tailgate, with her head facing the exit of the C-store, watching. The individual in the car was browsing a newspaper, but even he occasionally raised his head to check the parking lot. Seeing as how this was the only game for dozens of miles, that all made sense.

Lyndy looked down at Mari and exhaled. “Yeah, I know, I’m famished. I could eat anything at this point,” she whispered. “But they have guns.” She was kicking herself mentally for having done away with the pistol. Not to mention how disheveled she looked. The Spitfire’s trademark curly hair had taken on a Bride-of-Frankenstein appearance.

She needed a disguise to get in there. But how?

That’s when she observed the chubby AC man stumbling out of his import truck. He’d had country music playing, which she could hear all the way to her vantage. She watched him fiddle with the screw cap on his tank, then fit the fuel nozzle, depressing the tab so the gas continued to flow. He was wearing overalls and a plus-size t-shirt, maybe size 44 pants. In a moment he yawned, beginning to swivel his head toward the C-store. Not to be judgy, but if he didn’t wander inside to get doughnuts, her faith in the behavior of HVAC servicing guys would be shaken.

“Wait here,” she said, with a finger over lips at Mari.

She waited for the next break in traffic, then stepped gingerly across the road trying to avoid being spotted. She picked a line with a view masked by the pumps.

After the door slammed, The Spitfire began creeping up behind the vehicle. He had some discarded copper tubing, two-foot lengths, coiled in his truck bed. Lyndy snatched one of these.

Edging cautiously around the side of the truck, she kept her head down lower than the fenders. Then touching onto the pump nozzle, she reached for the pump. With both hands, she looped the copper line through the handle, then tightened by bending it on itself. This kept the tab depressed.

“Sorry about this environment,” Lyndy whispered.

The gas began to flow out like a garden hose on high, splashing and forming a puddle underneath the truck. No one noticed at first. Lyndy waited expecting bedlam, but no one stirred. The woman behind the suburban hadn’t moved. The driver of the truck hadn’t exited the store.

With worrisome speed, the puddle began to grow and expand into the flat area under the truck, then began running downhill.

Reaching into her bra, Lyndy retrieved first the pack of cigarettes and then the matchbook. She shook out a Maverick and scratched one match. “Time for a smoke,” she mouthed, standing beneath a bold sign with a red slash indicating the exact opposite. It took a few puffs to get the lousy cigarette lit, and she had to inhale a few times. Her puffs were followed by a coughing bout, which she had to keep as quiet as she could. Once it was lit, she took the pinched cigarette and shoved it end up, into a crack in the asphalt, which was two inches down from the flowing gas.

“Ruh-roh,” she whispered, then dashed for the north side of the store where nobody was parked. She hid behind a corner, out of view from the patrons but a spot where she could see the action at the pumps.

As soon as the gas vapors touched the lit cigarette, it made a FWOOSH noise and glowed bright orange like one of those wintertime yule logs. The flames spread rapidly under the truck and started to smoke some.

Even then it was surprising how many seconds elapsed before anyone noticed. Felt like 15 or more. But then she heard shouting and alarm. The woman in the hoodie yelled and pointed at the flames, but didn’t remove the cigarette from her own lips. The driver of the suburban was roused from his nap and his head swiveled as he searched the scene.

A second later, the driver of the truck and presumably the station clerk came bursting out of the front. The clerk was swinging a medium sized fire extinguisher. At least it was the foamy kind meant for gasoline. The AC guy just stood in panic, bopping his hands on his head and dancing his legs, worrying about his precious truck.

An alarm started blaring, indicating a pump emergency. From the corner of her eye, she witnessed the chubby lady running for the shutoff button, which was smart—more than she’d have given her credit for.

With all eyes on the chaos, Lyndy side-stepped around the corner, back against the wall and slipped in past the screen door. She ducked down when she entered, lower than the displays and waddled along the aisles checking for supplies. Lyndy shuffled all the way down one aisle, looping around the end where the refrigerators were and then looped back. At first she couldn’t see it; a bout of hopelessness came on. Then while frantically shoving aside some ramen noodles packages, the gods smiled down and there were two cans of the dry Similac powder. Next to this was one dusty package of diapers.

This powdered milk was definitely not Mari’s first choice, but Lyndy gathered it up in her arms, as well as some beef sticks and Doritos. Lacking a shopping bag, she wrapped all this loot in a newspaper from the stack, carrying it out as a big ball.

Noticing an exit meant for employees, Lyndy changed course for the back door which she kicked with her foot.

As she raced down the stairs, back to the cover of the trees she heard a man call out: “Freeze. Don’t move an inch.” For Mari’s sake, Lyndy couldn’t bring herself to let go of the goods. But she halted in place.

Valley Girl Part-16

Leave a reply

Valley Girl: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-16

Yosemite National Park, 1990s

Lyndy Life Observation: The north-eastern outskirts of Barstow were home to a popular nudist resort and every year they held a contest called: “Mister and Miss Nude”. It was a beauty pageant you might say, except obviously no evening wear—or any wear. You can’t make this up; it really happened. As a joke someone suggested Deputy Keynes should enter the contest and he said he’d only agree to do it on the sole condition I, Lyndy E. Martinez, participate in the female category. I politely declined. In retrospect, one of The Spitfire’s wisest life choices.

In any conflict where one is outnumbered and outgunned, Mr. Chan used to advise, whomever is more frightened is the one who is losing. Over time, she’d come to internalize this saying as one of his finest commentaries. Except by this measure, Lyndy Martinez was actually losing the battle. No point in ignoring reality.

On the other hand, she intended to flip that script. Age and lack of consistent training had made her muscles tight. She had to account for the fact her kicks packed less force behind them, as did her punches.

Lyndy’s opponent, six-foot man dressed as a lumberjack with two days beard growth, kept a watchful eye while pacing a half circle. A sneer curled on his lips, when he witnessed her discarding the pistol cartridges. He exhaled from his nose.

Calmly, he wiped his bloodied palm on the front of his blue jeans, applying pressure as if his open wound bothered him. He refused to look down, instead raising his fists in the manner of boxer. Using his knuckles he wiped his eyes, all while continuing his arc-like pattern of movement, sizing her up.

Lyndy clenched her fists, but kept them posed nearer to her sides. “At least someone is taking me seriously,” she thought. She shifted to her right, placing more weight on the ball of her foot, maintaining a loose stance.

The rush of the swelling river filled the auditory environment to the point of squashing all background, including traffic on the busy road. She welcomed the sound which helped to filter pain and center her thoughts. Without it, the pounding headache from the bee stings would’ve been far too distracting.

“I ought to warn you, I used to box in prison,” the man proclaimed loud enough to overcome the roaring river. “Don’t test me.”

“Great. A 130-pound new mom should be a breeze,” replied Lyndy. “Why don’t you come over here and subdue me,” she challenged. “Dare you,” she thought.

He gazed at her with a mix of amusement and caution. The man was keeping a healthy distance of twenty feet, almost the whole width of the flat rock.

Lyndy felt her heart pounding, but she consciously steadied her breathing. Now was not the time for panic. With her feet free of the boots, she let her toes find the best footing—the grip surprisingly firm on the granite top and far preferable to the leaf covered slopes.

Her opponent raised his fists to protect and cover his chin, so high they almost blocked his eyes. Kind of an old school style as he started closing in. He was wearing big waffle stomper type boots, the black ones.

He had decent reach in his arms, evident as he threw a test punch. Then leading with his shoulder, he threw a much more forceful blow, which Lyndy side-stepped. Bending at the hips, the punch swooshed past her cheek.

He’d come so close she caught a glimpse of his blue eyes.

The attacker quickly recovered, pivoted to his left, ducked and fired off an uppercut. Again, she felt the whoosh of air, as she dodged out of the way. This time, facing away from him, she bent at the waist and scissor kicked. The ball of her foot impacted his rib, and it felt like she’d impacted one of those leather bags in the gym. The strike sent shock waves through her bones. His body was hard and heavy.

Completing the turn, she faced the man again. He backed up, having felt the impact in a way that stunned him.

She’d earned his respect.

“That was a solid hit,” he grunted. The fellow glanced over one shoulder, as if hoping for one of his buddies to show up. But no one did.

He thumbed his brow, where sweat was accumulating and then started bouncing his knees again. Lyndy maintained concentration, the noise of the wild river helping her. Inside her heart she could feel Maribel, knowing the baby was safe in hiding.

Abruptly the radio crackled to life with static. Both their eyes were drawn to it. “Tommy, you there? Tommy you there? Check in.” The voice was a female, met by silence.

The attacker, whose name she presumed was Tommy, shifted his gaze between the radio lying uselessly on the rock, and Lyndy. After twenty seconds of dead air the voice returned: “…checkpoints are active at all 3 Park entrances. No one’s seen Kristen or the stroller mom.”

“Stroller mom?” thought Lyndy. That’s all they got?

The radio went dead again.

Tommy seemed to have regained composure, now on the opposite side of the flat stone. This time Lyndy’s back was toward the river. The fellow began advancing again, working a small arc but throwing out a test jab or two. Probably wanted to get to the radio.

In a flurry of punches, he came at her again, hoping to overpower The Spitfire. This time she dove under his arms, and while crouching, pivoted to sweep out his calves. His momentum carried him forward while she moved her core to the side. The force of her kick caused him to pitch onto one knee, but he quickly recovered. Meanwhile Lyndy jumped back up in a blink, turning to face him. He threw another punch which landed on Lyndy’s shoulder, so quick and forceful she’d not had time to move.

With his left arm, he tried to hook onto her waist.

Lyndy squirmed out of his grip, twisted his fingers and forced him back. The good part was, now the man faced the river again.

Only a foot or two separated the pair, and Tommy thew his upper body onto her with the intention of wrapping himself around her arms. This being the one move she’d hoped for, Lyndy extended her arms, caught the fellow’s grip and used every ounce of strength to swing him. He was exceptionally heavy. The move strained her shoulders, but she worked with his momentum. Then jumping up, she kicked with both feet against the man’s chest.

Landing on her tailbone, Lyndy caught a glimpse of his shocked expression—a this can’t be real look—as Tommy was hurled backwards off the side of the slab. He kicked his feet, but with only a split second in air, he plunged into the icy river. The angry Merced swallowed him like a vortex. His mouth opened, but no words escaped that Lyndy could hear, as he was whisked like a floppy scarecrow into the swirling current. His head disappeared soon after, caught in an undertow by the churning eddies.

Extending her fingers, Lyndy rubbed her lower back. “Ouch,” she grumbled, as she sat up. She snapped at the straps of her VS bra; one had come loose in the fight, falling across her left shoulder. “Damn, I hate this push-up bra. It’s so uncomfortable,” she complained. Leaping to her feet, she took a peek over the side, gazing into the mesmerizing liquid.

Floating atop the water—the only item of note—was a single bluebird tail feather. It floated past in a series of figure eights, then catching the main flow zipped away with astonishing haste. Remembering where and who she was, Lyndy darted back to the spot she’d hidden Maribel, praying to God nothing happened to the gift she treasured more than anything in the world.

Yavapai County Arizona, 2010s

Lyndy Life Observation: At a late-night family dinner Dr. Kyle Ellis—with the table lit by candles—was challenged to name all six of his children’s eye colors solely from memory. The only one he knew for sure was Maribel, who has brown eyes same as me. Apparently, his wife was greatly annoyed by this.

The aroma from the Lucha-Libre taco truck could attract crowds like a pied piper. Its fame spread across the land the old-fashioned way, word of mouth with a tailwind of modern social media. If not this, its colorful displays of Mexican wrestlers locking arms in a ring, wearing masks, made it stand out from the highway like a parade float.

Lyndy could attest to their food being delicious, possessing a smoky flavor.

Standing in a twenty-person queue, Lyndy experimented with her glasses, trying them at distances of 15, 12 and 6 inches away from her nose. She even tested various angles of pitch. Yet none enabled her to focus enough to decipher the specials on the chalkboard. Using an elbow she nudged Catherine, who seemed entertained by this comedy act.

Clearing her throat, Blondie read the handwritten specials aloud, saving Lyndy further embarrassment. She had to shout, overcoming their blaring Ranchera tunes. Eventually Lyndy settled on her favorite, carne asada.

All the best picnic tables were taken as usual, so the pair paced a few more blocks to a playground located behind a church. This prime spot was shaded by mature birch trees and presently free of children. On the way they passed century old mansions of the pueblo and craftsman style, all custom and well above the million-dollar mark.

Lyndy tested out the empty swing set, making sure it would hold weight and the seat seemed comfy enough. Catherine took the swing alongside, but being among the world’s quickest eaters, she was finished with her quesadilla already.

“Wanna ride to Costco later? I have a list of stuff I need for my new place.”

“I’m in,” replied Lyndy, with a mouthful of food. They’d already been discussing various excuses to get together once Cathy got settled in her home. “I’ll even drive.” She knew her friend hated to drive.

Exhaling a bored sigh, Catherine thumbed through selfie images on her phone. “Lyn, I never expected this day to come,” she lamented. “But I look like an older Peg from Married with Children.”

Lyndy chuckled. “Count your blessings. Peggy was a babe.”

Not needing to read anymore, The Spitfire shoved her trifocals atop her head. The outside world returned to a relaxing fuzz she’d been accustomed to—like one of those movies where they smother Vaseline on the lens. Straightening her elbows, she pressed against the swing set chains to exercise her grip. “Al was just haunted by his own poor choices,” added Lyndy.

Cathy made one of her snort laughs. “True,” she muttered.

Lyndy dribbled red salsa onto her tacos before taking another bite.

“Other day I thought this guy was flirting with me. I was proud of myself, until it turned out he was trying to pitch me on a timeshare membership.” Reaching for her soda cup, Catherine snapped her phone case shut, shoving it in the outer pocket of her purse. “Which reminds me, who’s this dude you flew on a private jet to see in Santa Barbara?”

Salsa juices were dripping down Lyndy’s chin on both sides, like a messy vampire after feeding. She quickly wiped with a napkin, but her mouth was full.

Catherine sipped diet coke from a foam cup excessively, causing her to burp like a trucker. She tapped her watch at Lyndy, while her expression continued to ask: “You gonna answer me, or no?”

Lyndy continued to grin. “Look, serious question. Given your experience with Maribel to date, do ya think she bears any resemblance to her mom and dad?”

Cathy frowned. “Are you joking or something?”

Lyndy shook her head sternly as she swallowed. “I need to know.”

“Oh my god, of course! It’s obvious,” Cathy exclaimed. “From the moment we met. She’s the perfect blending of you two creeps.” Lyndy smiled at the insult, while Cathy continued, “She’s got your same passion, toughness and well, how to put it … sex appeal. This combined with Kyle’s cautious and inquisitive nature. She’s got some Spitfire in there.”

Rather than reply with words, Lyndy replied with an utterance: “Mmmm.”

“On the other hand, I have a big issue with your daughter’s taste in men. But that’s for another day. We should talk about it though.”

Lyndy nodded. “We’re in agreement. It’s hard for me to judge. My credibility and all.”

“And the tattoos. The piglet tattoo?” Cathy rolled her eyes.

“Mari has a tattoo?” Lyndy pretended to be surprised, but Catherine saw through the sarcasm.

In the distance, wild sunflowers had taken over a vacant lot where a Victorian mansion once stood. Cathy sipped from her foam cup while staring at the view. “Why are you asking if Maribel bears a family resemblance?”

Lyndy bobbed her head side to side, while taking another bite which included those spicy pickled carrots that make one salivate. “I happened to meet up with Rita’s … uhm … daughter. Self-proclaimed, mind you. Her name is Gillian Lovelace.”

Catherine blinked her eyes, using her arms to twist the swing so it faced Lyndy’s in a melodramatic gesture. “WHAT?” Miss Cookson pretended to turn up the volume on a set of imaginary hearing aids.

“I know. Shocking, right? Hard to believe. It’s like Rita brought herself back to life just to haunt and embarrass me. That’s why I was in Santa Barbara.”

“What’s she like? Does she look like her mom?”

“In some ways, yes. She’s about the weirdest human you’ll ever see. I’m talking weird with a capital W!”

“You and Rita were besties,” Catherine remarked in a mocking tone. “As far as I know, Rita only had one friend. That was you. Why did you two spit up? What was the tipping point?”

“I call it our breakup.” Lyndy turned to meet with Cathy’s stare. “You really don’t know do you?”

Cathy shook her head.

“Admittedly, we were in the throes of alcoholism. Shit bar that was five miles from Rita’s ranch shoulda had a plaque with us two on it for saving their lease.”

Catherine covered her mouth to chuckle discretely.

“No, it’s alright. You’re allowed to laugh at that.” After patting Catherine on the back, she continued. “Separating was the best thing for us. We were healthier for it.”

“The throes of anything are never good.”

“Yeah. Very true. The final straw, you might say, occurred at a lavish outdoor wedding where I was in charge of security. Almost the entire Lovelace company was in attendance. Everyone witnessed her screaming at me that day.”

“Geez, what the heck did you do? Seduce the groom?”

Lyndy shook her head, refusing to fill in the details.

“I don’t think Rita ever mentioned wanting kids,” added Cathy. “Ya know what I mean? Specifically, wanting kids.” Then she started swinging, extending her feet so she could gain amplitude like a little kid. She got going so fast, the wind caught and blew her dress up some, exposing the spanx on her thighs.

Lyndy pondered telling her friend about the big inheritance money, but she knew Catherine wouldn’t understand. The waitress would advise not to take it—cause like her father, she wasn’t motivated by money. A part of Lyndy believed that answer. That part was her gut.

Valley Girl Part 15

Leave a reply

Wonderful Roberts chrome. Excellent print quality and contrast. Maybe 1969? Would sell this one. -ASC

Valley Girl: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-15

Yosemite National Park, 1990s

Lyndy Life Observation: Unlike so-called snowbirds, Rita spent most of the year in Tucson, Arizona, a quirky frontier town she famously described as inserting your head into a pottery kiln. But consider this, two-thirds of her sports cars didn’t possess any type of factory AC. Nor did my ride, the white Mustang. If a car you wanted to drive had leather upholstery, you literally had to put down beach towels to avoid second degree burns. God forbid you forgot the towels, wearing a bathing suit or a tank top. Just the sweat beading atop your skin made you stick to the seats like an octopus tentacle.

Lyndy awoke to a quiet, sickening feeling. It wasn’t hunger.

Mari was crying less, resisting less, her vocals reduced to whimpers. She knew it meant the baby was fatigued and growing weaker.

Humming her pretend lullaby, Just One Look, The Spitfire changed out the icky diaper for her one spare. This time the catchy tune felt grim, as did the moment.

Squeezing pressure on her eye sockets with her fingers, Lyndy contemplated her next moves. She inhaled a steady, deep breath. Putting aside the grumbles of an empty stomach and the immediate hazards, something bold was evolving inside: a powerful shift between mother and baby.

Tendrils of an eternal bond were reaching through the black void to merge. Where they met, they began to pulse with energy, intertwine and strengthen.

Holding Mari up, she kissed her sweetly on her little nose. Then Lyndy brushed her soft curls against Mari’s cheeks, eyes squinted shut, on purpose to stimulate the baby. Mari gurgled in response. She could feel Mari’s breath and heartbeat, but also her emotional state. An invisible link. Lyndy opened her brown eyes, gazing deep into Mari’s. “I feel you,” she mouthed. “I can feel you now,” she repeated in elation.

It was the tiny victory she sought from day one, back in the place where waters from Yosemite and all the other unnamed falls merged into a torrent.

The baby rotated her head to one side. “Mommy is coming back,” Lyndy spoke softly into Mari’s ear, her lips an inch away. “I promise.” Then she snuggled her up in the ruined dress like a baby blanket.

The Spitfire slid backwards, feet first from her bear’s den hiding spot into the frosty morning. Long shadows stretched across the gorge and one could smell drifting smoke from a chimney or two. Due to adrenaline in her veins, she hardly experienced the cold. As Lyndy was sliding, she sneakily palmed a jagged rock. Twisting her hips until she faced up, Lyndy tucked her feet under, then with three fingers pressed herself to a standing position.

Gradually lifting her chin, her gaze fell upon the lone gunman. In one hand he gripped a pistol, wrist twitching nervously because he was young. She raised both arms in submission. A smug look indicated he was proud for having discovered her. The man with longish hair, had a walkie-talkie clipped on the tactical belt at his hip. He must’ve warned his buddies but The Spitfire didn’t care, as it would make it easier to find them too.

With her arms raised, Lyndy still had her fingers clenched tightly on the stone.

“Put that down,” he said firmly, lifting the pistol at his hip to aim at her torso. “You and the baby don’t have to get hurt. We need to bring you to Charlie. That’s all.” He pushed his greasy hair back using his free hand. “Charlie will explain.”

Lyndy closed her eyes, knowing she’d only get one shot at this. She hadn’t been the best at softball, but she prided herself on uncommon abilities with ski-ball and those pop-a-shot arcade games.

“Let it go,” reiterated the gunman.

With a hard flick of her wrist, she hurled the rock skyward on a trajectory impacting the beehive. As she did so, Lyndy dove for the earth, expecting he would squeeze his trigger. The slope was steep and covered in slippery leaves. She began sliding downward on a course for the assailant.

Puzzled, the man with the pistol gazed upward, wondering what Lyndy had hit.

In the blur of a hot few seconds, came a nerve-wracking intermission. Luckily, the rock penetrated the hive like a missile, cracking the lower section and causing a portion of it to dislodge. Gooey honey dripped out, raining upon them. As it was pre-dawn, most inhabitants had been sleeping. But the interlude was short-lived. With astonishing ferocity, the winged insects began swarming their damaged home.

The standing assailant started swatting with his free hand, naturally the worst way one could react. All around the air was filled with loud buzzing. Lyndy did nothing in response to the bees, accepting that stings were inevitable. And now he was sidetracked.

Rising up, Lyndy pivoted on a heel, kicking with her toe to smack loose the pistol. Her intention had been to impact the man’s wrist, but this tested the limits of her reach at a disadvantaged angle—thus her toes only brushed the muzzle. It was enough to throw off his aim. His finger slipped the trigger. He made a motion as if to fire but nothing happened, as he’d not applied adequate force.

Lyndy touched her heart, pressing her fingers on her chest as if to feel for an invisible entry wound. His attention turned back to the fight and he re-acquired his grip, as well as his aim. In the meantime, The Spitfire went back into a spin kick posture, this time executing it on firmer footing. She landed the outside edge of her bare foot on his elbow, sending the gun flying. Next, she changed up her stance, finding a thin ledge from which to make a front kick.

The man continued to swat the bees. This time Lyndy executed a full front kick to his chin, though it hurt her big toe. The knock—worthy of the “All Valley”—caused the man to fall to his knees in a daze, while Lyndy was sent into a tumble. She lost balance completely, catching herself on her left wrist, unfortunately the injured one. Her body collapsed under the strain and she rolled.

By now the bees were everywhere, a cloud of constant attacks, slamming into their faces and eyes. She was even questioning her own judgement. The man rose up, knowing Lyndy was down and trying to win the upper hand. He managed to kick Lyndy in the ribs, sending her further away down the slope. Scrambling back to higher ground, he tried to locate his gun in fallen leaves. This task was near impossible, as the man kept having to slap at his bare arms and neck where bees were stinging by the dozens.

He cursed loudly.

Lyndy could feel them landing on her back and thighs too; the stings were maddening. But she scrambled to her feet, climbing higher to meet the attacker head on. Charging him with a head butt to the stomach, she rammed him into rocks. As he attempted to block her and push back, Lyndy extended her arms, pushing his fists away, then with her good arm knocked him in the chin. Lastly, she kicked off a rock, jumped up and brought her elbow down with max force on the base of his skull. He went down hard, not unconscious but close.

On the ground the fellow rubbed a hand wildly over his swelling face, scraping angry bees away from his eyelids. He knew he’d lost and seemed acquiescent. “The bees …” he muttered, grimacing and catching glimpses of Lyndy’s face.

Lyndy caught her breath, standing in the glow of the rising sun.

“The b-b-b-bees …” the man stuttered, rolling onto his back as if to die.

“I’ve noticed them. So what?” asked Lyndy.

“They’re … they’re stinging you too.”

“Where are your partners?” Lyndy demanded.

The fellow winced. “I dunno …. close … the river’s edge.”

“Good.” Lyndy squinted her eyes, brushing a dozen stingers from her bare neck and chest. She spotted the barrel of the gun, sticking out from a tuft of green moss. “If you survive, I want you to give a message to Charlie.” Lyndy stooped under a tree limb to retrieve it.

“What?” asked the man, gasping for air.

“Tell him he has a choice. Leave me alone and never speak of this.”

“Or?”

She leaned over to rescue the gun from the dirt, blowing on it to remove the moss. The bees were still swarming, but their stings were bothering her less. “Or, if he truly wishes to see me, then keep fighting and I’ll come for him. I’m The Spitfire.”

The fellow only chuckled, in the way of someone who believed her. Then he lowered his chin as a man preparing to die.

Minutes later …

The Merced River, undammed here and swollen with April thaw, thundered over and around boulders with the force of big waves crashing upon a rocky shore.

This allowed The Spitfire to slip through the tangle of willows and oaks lining the shore, unnoticed. The nearby park road, busy with tourist traffic, made it harder to be stealthy, as scant margin separated the road’s edge and the course of the river. It was the kind of narrow mountain highway which flooded often, but being a natural point of entry it’d been constructed nonetheless.

With each step her feet were sinking to the ankle bone in marshy soil, a spongey muck threatening to swallow Kyle’s boots. She wasn’t at her best. Lyndy’s vision was clouding at the periphery and her balance was off too, no doubt a result of the bee stings. Yet she felt stronger in a way she couldn’t quantify.

She recognized the second attacker by his jacket from the night before, crouching upon an enormous granite boulder with a flat top. This remnant of a decades old landslide jutted into the main channel, making the river flow deeper and more treacherous.

By his stiff stance and lumberjack attire, anyone would know the man was not a tourist. She observed him like a cautious animal for a few minutes. She had the baby on her chest, but Mari was playing possum now, entirely mute. Only the slow rhythmic breathing let Lyndy know the baby was alive.

This fellow was bigger than the last. Compared to the previous fellow, he looked like was pushing 43. So, of similar age. Standing tall, he repeatedly paced the square rock, moving near the edge then coming closer to the shore. As she watched, he brought his radio to his mouth, asking for someone to check in. No responses came.

Having flicked between 75 and 100 stingers off her skin, The Spitfire knew she looked like she’d marched straight out of a zombie apocalypse. Her expensive dress was absolutely in shambles. Still, this was no fashion show.

Bending down, Lyndy laced together a few long twigs, forming a crude and misshapen basket. Atop this she put down leaves and pine boughs, then rested Mari in this makeshift crib. She worked swiftly, putting a finger to her lips, mouthing: “Quiet.”

With a load off Lyndy climbed over the rocks into the daylight.

He caught her moving from a distance of 20 yards, lowering his radio to his feet. He was fumbling, reaching to his hip for his holster.

Lyndy raised her right hand to waist level, holding the gun from before, a smallish 32 caliber R51. The taller man’s demeanor changed, seemingly judging whether she had any chance of tagging him at such a distance. He tilted his head, then raised his hands to about shoulder level.

“This Charlie fellow, he’s some kind of conservationist? Am I correct?” demanded Lyndy, loud enough to be heard above the river.

The lone man took a couple of steps back, nearer to the water’s edge. Making sure he wasn’t about to fall off, he kept checking behind. He nodded as he did so.

“Why does Charlie need the code so bad?”

An amused smile formed on her opponent’s face. He reached for his waistband, but Lyndy squeezed her trigger first. Her gun made a pop and a rip opened in the fellow’s jeans, blasting his piece out of his waistband. The weapon he’d been concealing flew back off the edge, into the water. The fellow collapsed to one knee, putting a hand over his thigh.

“ARRRRGH. Son of a … you hit my hip,” he groaned. Raising his hand, he saw blood.

“Why does he need this code?” repeated Lyndy. “Are more of you coming?”

The fellow was wincing, staring at his radio. He wanted to call for help.

“Just answer me!” she demanded. She began closing in, stepping gingerly up and over a series of boulders. She kept her gun aimed at the opponent.

“Gloria got picked up by the Feds,” groaned the fellow, throwing his head back. “She was supposed to supply a four-digit code to Kristen.” Grimacing, he forced himself into a standing position, facing Lyndy.

He was one tough dude she’d give him that.

Lyndy paused to think. “What is the code for? Does it arm the device?”

The fellow shrugged. “Not sure,” he answered through gritted teeth. “I guaranty more are coming. Maybe lots more. He wants that number.”

“How can you be sure?”

“There’s a price on your head. 75K to the one who brings you in.”

“Eeesh! He’s acting like a terrorist, not a man who cares about the Earth.” Lyndy scrambled up one side and then down a tent-shaped rock. She weaved round a jammed log, then sprang over a crack with gushing whitewater below. She never let go of the pistol. “Where is the second device?” questioned Lyndy, pushing her body up onto the flattish stone the man occupied. This placed the two roughly fifteen paces apart.

“I don’t know what you mean?”

“Two models of the dam were made. One is in the hotel. Where is the other?”

Judging by his pained expression, it seemed genuine he didn’t know.

“I’ve got one more thing to say to you.”

“What?”

Casually, Lyndy popped the magazine, then pulled the slide on the gun spilling all the bullets on the ground. She casually tossed it into the deepest part of the river. Getting into a fighting stance, she added: “Sorry you won’t be collecting your reward.”

Santa Barbara, CA 2010s

She’d not ridden in a car with heated seats for as long as she could remember. When the Range Rover pulled around, a rear door flung open. Gillian was riding shotgun. Fred helped Lyndy up, then scooted in beside. Once inside he commanded the driver to “Punch it,” knowing he didn’t want to get into a spat with SB PD. The suspension was plush but modern, and the SUV glided with precision over primitive country roads.

Hastily, Lyndy checked that she had everything, including her purse. Then she balled up her sweater pushing it against the windows and the door jam. Her skull was starting to pound and her ears were hot, like lava was sloshing about inside.

No one said anything in the car, but Lyndy knew Gillian and Fred were keeping a close eye on her. And why wouldn’t they? She was their meal ticket to a bigger payday than the average Joe would see in about twenty lifetimes.

She recalled a Rita memory from the eighties, which for some reason hadn’t surfaced yet. Perhaps the reposado had shaken it loose.

A magazine came to interview Miss Lovelace for a western lifestyle piece. They’d expended several rolls of film that day, at the Tucson ranch in its heyday. Like action shots of Rita brushing a horse’s mane, or throwing a saddle atop a mare.

Later they interviewed Rita as she relaxed poolside, a breeze blowing through her long dark hair—it extended to her hips in those days. Her knees were drawn to her chest and Rita was smoking as the setting desert sun flirted with the horizon. Lyndy was working as her bodyguard, seated in the shade of the porch, across the railing and away from the pool. Lyndy was dressed in men’s attire, including a flannel shirt and wide-brimmed hat, cause she didn’t like to draw attention on days like this. She was probably drinking beer, though this fact she couldn’t remember.

The question asked by the interviewer: “What about kids? Do you feel your life would be more meaningful and complete with a family?”

Rita came as close to blushing as she ever did. A shy smile molded on her face, and she remained quiet for half a minute. Inside she was fretting at how to answer, and she glanced to Lyndy with the same sly smile and a twinkling in her green eyes. She even tapped some of her ashes into a planter, extending the meaningful gap in conversation.

“Well, I certainly haven’t met that special someone. And not for lack of trying.” Rita inhaled deeply, whisking her long hair behind her in a move she made about a hundred times a day, which became annoying once you noticed it. “I’ve been told I can be a tad high energy.” She looked to Lyndy again, who kept her mouth zipped, as she exhaled a puff of smoke. Rather than simply high energy—also true— the words coming to Lyndy’s mind were: willful, selfish and often demanding.

The writer was scribbling shorthand notes, and for redundancy had one of those reel-to-reel tape recorders running.

Rita stood up. “But one day when I’m expecting, I think I’d like—well, I hope for—it to be at the same time as my best friend. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about this. I want to experience motherhood together, so we can share the adventure.” Rita paced into the shade of the porch. “We’ve talked about it. I know she would be an excellent mom.”

“Who would you say is your best friend?” The reporter seemed confused, knowing Rita wasn’t seen with many women friends. She was known as a tomboy.

Rita placed her fingers atop Lyndy’s shoulders. “This lady right here.”

Lyndy winced bitterly as the embarrassing scene replayed on a projector in her mind. What a complete joke. Miss Lovelace wanted to be pregnant at the same time? Oh yeah, right! Another broken promise from the queen of broken promises. The hairs on her arms began to stand.

The Spitfire touched the top of Fred’s hand, causing him to look at her. “What happens to that money? You were saying it reverts back to Arizona if we don’t act?”

“That’s right.”

Lyndy nodded and exhaled. “After all I did. She called me her best friend, then cast me off like a wad of used toilet paper. She owes me more than a cheap stack of Costco prints. This is beyond insulting.”

“So, you’ll sign the affidavit?” questioned Gillian eagerly, from the front passenger seat.

Lyndy gazed at the smart phone she didn’t know how to use. It indicated the time and that she had no new messages. “Yeah, I’ll do it. I’ll sign the documents and I only have two conditions.”

“Okay? Sure, what is it?” asked Fred, touching Lyndy’s shoulder.

“I need to consult a tax accountant first.” Lyndy paused. “I know. Shocking. I have an accountant. He’s an H&R Block guy who used to do my taxes and knows a lot more than I do. Probably knew me when I was still cute, which is why he’s nice to me.”

Fred chuckled. “Make sense,” he answered. “I mean, the first part, about getting the tax advice. But what’s the other thing?”

Lyndy grinned. “You sir, owe me a taillight repair on my Mustang.

Fred snapped his finger and thumb together. “Dang! You’re right. I almost forgot about that.”

“Well, I haven’t,” replied Lyndy. She half expected him to answer, just pay somebody now that we’re going to be rich. But he didn’t.

Exciting Lyndy News October 2024

Leave a reply

Very Exciting Lyndy News: Chapter-1 of “Sunriver Heart” received Honorable Mention in the 2024 Southwest Writers Contest. (Happened to be the 40th anniversary of SWW as well). Had a lot of fun there meeting people. “Sunriver Heart” is a complete unpublished manuscript looking for a home. It contains a heretofore never seen love story arc between Lyndy and the cowboy, Nash Spotted-Wolf. In many ways it’s my favorite Lyndy story. Unfortunately, Lyndy still isn’t satisfied with my performance. I’ll tell you, she gave me an ear full on the flight back, but I told her to knock off her complaints, order from the drink cart and be happy. -ASC

BTW: The chapter appears in the compendium book “Mosaic Voices: An Anthology of Winning Stories and Poetry From the 2024 Writing Contest” which is pretty cool and quite an honor. Thank you SWW!

Valley Girl Part-14

Leave a reply

Valley Girl: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-14

Yosemite National Park, 1990s

Lyndy Life Observation: Kyle noticed a part-time opening at his company and a light bulb flipped on over his head. Arguing this would be a great way to get me out of the house and help dip my toes back in the workforce, he encouraged me to apply. Translation: he figured this job would keep me out of trouble in Lake Arrowhead. But the catch was, you had to pass a typing test to be an admin. I practiced for a week. They actually place a box over the keyboard so you can’t see your hands while you’re taking the test. That evening, he inquired how it went and I answered confidently: “I did great, probably like a B or B minus.” I was wrong. Needless to say, I didn’t get the job offer and Kyle grumbled that I might’ve “flunked the test on purpose”.

The rugged terrain folded sharply beyond the plateau at Foresta, having been carved to a V by the river over millennia, and in places, ancient glaciers.

Her knees were starting to wobble with fatigue, compelling Lyndy to rest when she didn’t want to. Bending into a squat position, balancing on her toes, she squeezed at the joint by her thigh muscles, hoping to ease the spasms and increase circulation.

Mostly the soreness was concentrated in her knees. But reaching up with her right arm, she pinched on her bad shoulder. It felt tender to the touch. She tried, but couldn’t raise it past 90 degrees to her core, or the aching became unbearable.

Age was catching up to her. Having a baby weighing her down wasn’t helping the situation. Meantime, The Spitfire’s heart continued pounding, but some of that was fear. A good kind of primal fear, making one more aware of their surroundings.

Beneath the sounds of her own huffing, and Mari’s whimpering, Lyndy could hear distant cars traveling the road in the canyon bottom. In addition, she perceived a thunderous roar from the rush of spring meltwater. The sound of that river in her ears was welcome, encouraging her.

With a jolt of knee pain, she pushed off rising to standing position. She wanted to keep moving, and so commenced weaving her way through the tangle of oak branches.

The slopes were lined in layers of exposed granite. The boulders here weren’t smooth like in the valley, but had a rough texture not conducive to climbing. In between boulders, where one could skirt past, the ground was composed of scree or coated in a slippery layer of deadfall leaves, bark and moss—all at an angle of 45 degrees or greater. In the tightest of sections, she lowered herself using opposition, placing her feet firmly on one rock while bracing her back on the other side. She’d taken several fresh falls and her hands had new scrapes to show.

Another discouraging problem: the sun had dipped below the horizon 30 minutes prior, meaning she only had ten or so minutes of workable light.

Lyndy assumed they would find the wreck, split up and send someone to the lower road. At least one man from above, and likely two from below, to close in on her. But the driving distance was substantial. Without studying a topo map, they wouldn’t be able to judge precisely where she’d emerge—she was counting on that. And the slow bushwhacking meant it would be harder for those in pursuit as well.

Mari’s diaper was beginning to stink. She had one spare jammed in a pocket, but she was saving it for when they bedded down. She possessed no formula. No water. No baby bottle.

Would she be getting an award? Mother of the year? Surely not. She felt like a fox on the run again. The hunters, she prayed, were inexperienced.

10 minutes later …

Crickets were chirping.

Battered and exhausted, Lyndy arrived upon the narrow, flat strip of El Portal Road, as a line of motorcycles buzzed past. She could see their red taillights vanishing into the trees, smell their exhaust. But they hadn’t spotted her, or if they witnessed anything, it would’ve been two eyes reflecting. That’s how dark it was.

She quivered in fear, thinking each low sound was an approaching auto, or each twig snap someone sneaking around in the undergrowth. The river did thunder here, which was good. But she needed a hiding spot, at least until moonrise. With a crescent moon she might be able to carry on. But rest seemed vital.

She worked her way upslope, bushwhacking west along the canyon wall. The going was difficult and slow. She prayed for a solution, as twilight faded and she began to stumble. She scrambled between layers of rock, sliding back a step with each two of progress. When a small stone let loose and went tumbling, she froze, fearing somehow the invisible chasers would spot her. Then she saw the cleft in the rock.

It wasn’t what she’d hoped for—an abandoned mineshaft would’ve been ideal—but it was something. Ordinarily, she’d have poked into the crevice with caution, using a long stick to probe for any wild critters. Mainly it was serpents she feared.

There was no time for caution. She clawed at the ground with both hands, pulling rocks free like a dog trying desperately to burrow under a fence. On both knees she continued to scrape until she made an opening large enough for her and her baby Bjorn to crawl through without Mari being crushed. She could reach a forearm into the hole, knowing there was an air gap there. She had to continue to push through a tangle of roots.

A humbling experience for sure, especially for The Spitfire. She wormed her way in, kicking with her toes and bending her back. She pushed upward with her palms; in the same motion one uses in yoga class. Then Lyndy tucked her knees, so her whole body drew inside the cavity.

Once in the confined space, she flicked the lighter, hoping she’d not entered a raccoon’s den or worse, a porcupine!

The soft flame bathed the tiny cave in a flickering orange glow. The space was smaller than an average Labrador doghouse. At first, she saw only unremarkable rock in front of her face. A few dead bugs, but no mean looking spiders. On the lower half, where some knobby crystals formed a sharp edge, she observed a tuft of brown fur. Unmistakable which species left this piece of their hide behind—the previous tenant. How humiliating!

“Oh God, it finally happened,” lamented Lyndy, breathing heavy. “I’m a bear.”

It felt good to be secure, if even in a false sense. Mari was cranky and stinky. Lyndy unhooked her baby sling. She knew those men would be probing every inch of this canyon.

She cradled Mari in her arms, gazing into her eyes. “You’re hungry I know. Thirsty I assume.” Lyndy rubbed her palm across her face as she caught her breath.

She felt shameful. Bunching up her dress, she eased it over her head. The move was tricky, with the tight quarters and one shoulder that wouldn’t bend. She twisted her elbow to squirm out of the dress.

“I’m sorry I can’t do it,” Lyndy whispered, setting the dress aside. “I can’t do it Vanilla Bean. You know I can’t.”

The baby books and one twenty-something nurse, attempting to make her feel better, explained some women her age simply weren’t able to lactate. There was nothing to be ashamed of. Replaying this scene felt unbearable, when she was tired and the pregnancy had been so difficult. They called it geriatric for God’s sake.

Abruptly Lyndy balled up a fist, punching her own head. She did this repeatedly, in a rage until she couldn’t feel. Then, taking a breath, she clutched Mari against her chest with her eyes shut. Maribel kicked her legs in a baby protest, but Lyndy held firm.

Hours later …

That night, the air temperature in the canyon dipped to near freezing. The shelter of the bear den was a marginal refuge. She held Maribel close, through fits of shivering.

Sleep came in only brief doses, a few Zs at a time.

It was against her better judgement, but she couldn’t help it. Not knowing what time of night it was, she had an unstoppable urge to look out. Gently she set down Mari, wrapping her in her dress and snugging it around her neck. The baby girl was sleeping. Then sliding backwards, Lyndy emerged from her hiding place.

She gazed first at the clear mountain sky overhead. The milky way arched above in a heavenly fashion, bursting with twinkling stars.

Nature was calling in other ways. She needed to pee, but even that act she feared might reveal her whereabouts. Lyndy scrambled a little higher, to where an oak tree clung to the cliffs like a climber. Once there, she heaved her bare stomach over the largest branch and ascended into the canopy. From this vantage, she could look down over the cliffs, seeing part of the river gleaming and a bend in the road.

Something was off. An unnerving hum permeated the area, so faint she hadn’t noticed it at first. Like the sound of electricity, when one listens closely on a peaceful night. Lyndy strained with her heightened senses to locate the source, scooting higher along the branch. As she climbed higher, she could smell it.

At last, there it was in front of her eyes. She’d been looking too far away. At an angle of 30 degrees to the oak, attached to a pine bough, hung a classic acorn silhouette. The ball of energy was anxiety inducing, a beehive like ones in a Winnie the Pooh cartoon. The humming was from a few guards at the entrance, while thousands of others must be inside sleeping.

Lyndy exhaled relief. She inched back, using gravity to slide lower to the ground. Then came a yellow flash, like a beacon.

She froze with fear. Beneath her, The Spitfire witnessed two flashlights searching—the big Maglite variety. They hadn’t given up. The distance, hard to judge, might be a range of twenty-five yards—if she were lucky. She clung to the tree, flattening her back to help her blend in.

Listening carefully, she could hear them talking to one another. Saying things like, “In there, under that bush. Poke in with the hiking stick.” The cones of light shifted, occasionally scanning over the slopes with the menace of searchlights in a war zone.

Her heart started thumping and eyes started watering. She really needed a miracle. She prayed Mari wouldn’t start with her crying.

As delicately as she could, Lyndy backed off the tree branch. She crept down slope, trying not to rustle leaves or make even the faintest noise, working back to the crevice. She squirmed into the cave. Right on cue, the baby started gurgling. Lyndy brought Maribel to her chest. She closed her eyes, pressing the baby’s ear onto her heart. If ever there were a time for the primal bond, it was now. She needed to achieve the equivalent of baby nirvana.

Santa Barbara, CA

Lyndy Life Observation: Mr. Chan used to say, as a rule anyone who utters the phrase in a confrontation: “Hey buddy, you’re messing with the wrong guy!”, is almost a hundred percent of the time, unequivocally not the “wrong guy”.

The aggressor with a mostly balding head, ironically had a bushy chin-strap beard. This dense beard was his distinguishing trait. He stomped closer to her stool, continuing to go on about his brother being wrongfully imprisoned.

Her ears were ringing, in part from the tequila shots, and in part from her boisterous surroundings.

Lyndy held her purse closely tucked between her thighs, a habit she’d developed from many years in bars. She felt for the taser with her fingertips. Once she touched its rough plastic texture, her fingers moved until she sensed the button to arm it.

With her other hand, she reached out, downing another shot.

“Sir, you need to calm the F down,” scolded the bartender. He’d been threatening to call the police.

Lyndy stacked the pictures neatly, shoving them back in the envelope.

“Look man, you need to understand,” Lyndy began. “People have been making claims in the name of Lyndy Martinez for decades. It doesn’t mean I had anything to do with it. Don’t get me wrong, it’s nice to have a legacy as a certified badass. But I couldn’t have done one-tenth of the things attributed to me. Fact is, over the years, I’ve lost track of what’s real and what’s not. I have memories of things that probably never happened.”

“Don’t give me that bull,” countered the man, grabbing onto her arm. “You know what you did Spitfire.”

Lyndy cringed, as the fellow had the grip of an iron worker. But rather than go along, with her left she pressed the nose of the taser into his ribs and squeezed the trigger.

It made a loud BRZZZT sound, jerking the biker backward, as if he’d been shocked by a set of defibrillator panels. He seemed more aggravated than anything. After a brief respite and a shrugging of his shoulder muscles, his strength returned as did his hot mouth.

Lyndy backed off the stool, but kept the taser out and pointed at the attacker. A bystander stood up, clutching the biker’s jacket. “Hey man, cool it,” he said.

“Take it outside,” another fellow remarked.

The angry man continued to stare at her, with malice in his eyes.

“I warned you. Leave me be,” argued Lyndy. “I don’t know or care who you are. I’m sorry yer dad went to prison. It wasn’t my fault. I’m too old and I’m not in the mood. Nowadays I just wanna be left alone.”

One of the bartenders was on the phone and security arrived with astonishing speed.

But Lyndy felt someone reach around from behind, grabbing her hips and yanking her backwards. Tensing up, she could barely fight them.

“It’s me,” whispered the voice of Fred Simmons.

Pivoting her frame, her eyes fell upon a figure with a shawl covering their face, who was propped in the back corner. Once she’d seen that Lyndy was being pulled away, the ghost like figure turned the corner and hobbled down the street. By the way the person moved, in a mechanical fashion, she knew it was Gillian Lovelace. Or was it her real name?

Valley Girl Part-12

Leave a reply

In my opinion this is one of the riskiest things you can do on a horse or a mule. In that moment, the animal seems to know exactly what you’re doing and they’ll take full advantage. -ASC

Valley Girl: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-12

Yosemite National Park, 1990s

Lyndy Life Observation: One balmy August night at the VP myself, Rita, Catherine, Rochelle Bishop and Debbie K. were occupying one of the tight booths, drinking beer. It’s probably the only time I remember us all being in one place. A table runner passes by with a tray of banana splits and I said something like, “you can leave those here.” Rita casually let slip this gem: “You know I never tasted a banana. Are they good?” It was like one of those record scratch moments. The roadhouse goes silent and the four of us chant at once: “YOU’VE NEVER EATEN A BANANA???”

The next morning Yosemite Valley was enveloped in fog so thick it dripped from the building eaves, and a mist of water beads coated every painted surface. It was also the day of the dam tour, an event Lyndy dreaded, but felt obligation to attend. If only to show solidarity with Dr. Ellis, a man who’d put up with so much. Now, after the events at Camp-4, she felt even more guilty. Deep down, he probably didn’t want to go either.

Rented vans were idling for them in the covered lobby entry. Her injured shoulder was throbbing so bellhops helped Lyndy load up Maribel’s buggy, along with a satchel of baby supplies. She pitied the unfortunates who might endure a ride with her, as they’d be trapped in a white tour van for a gurgling, babbling scream fest.

Boxes containing croissants were passed around, to substitute for breakfast.

The atmosphere in the car couldn’t have been more awkward if somebody died and they were on their way to a funeral parlor—with the body in the car. Nobody wanted to make small-talk, especially not Kyle. Mari continued to whine, but gradually dozed off as the van got up to speed.

What wasn’t being said, is what made it uncomfortable: How Dr. Ellis lectured her the night before, catching her red-handed at a climber party. His bitter words: “Why did I think you would change once you had a baby? What’s wrong with me that I assumed you were growing up? Did I have some outdated notion, when a free spirit is responsible for a child, they’ll adapt?”

Her comebacks were tepid and she hardly defended her actions. Lyndy already knew the answers. Saying aloud, “I require constant validation and it makes me prone to emotional cheating,” would’ve been pouring gasoline on a fire. She kept the truth to herself.

They’d gotten little sleep. She stared out the window in silence, keeping peace.

The drive down from the mountains, toward the central valley was a study in contrasts. Deputy Keynes used to say you could feel the weight of a long drought. The land itself smelled different. As he described it, even the trees were visibly wilting. Like a thirsty houseplant.

Where up high, winter snowpack and heavy spring storms nurtured the lush meadows and pine forests, this rapidly gave way to parched conditions. The hillsides below were dotted with a few evergreens, but most nurtured scrubland and grass prairies. The ecosystem had long been thrown out of whack by fire, invasive plant species and ranching.

After a while, she glanced over to see what Kyle was up to. He was dozing, and she contemplated touching his fingers. Hoping to improve her situation, Lyndy had worn a black and white dress, fancy gloves and a fashionable wide brimmed hat—something the Ellis family termed garden or tennis match attire. Kyle preferred it when she dressed her age and like one of his family.

Sadly, the quiet interlude didn’t last. The annoying woman seated next to her, a civil engineer’s spouse, couldn’t possibly hold it in. She began regaling Lyndy with a tale about New York City shopping, lunch in Bloomingdale’s and bumping into someone famous, Liza Minelli maybe—Lyndy cared so little she didn’t catch the name—in a night club. Crazy. The Spitfire only feigned interest in these topics, while avoiding solid eye contact. Even the perpetual whimpering from Maribel didn’t seem to faze this lady. Fortunately, the twisty turns of the mountain road soon made the woman queasy, then she held her tongue.

The weather cleared as they exited the park boundary, beginning a steeper descent. With this transition the temperature rose, and in place of clouds, a layer of smog clung to the adjoining foothills. The sky was literally a shade of grayish-brown by the time the caravan neared the flats, reminding her of a summer day in LA. It was a jarring transition in such a short time. The park and the Sierras truly felt like an oasis.

A half-hour later they exited the highway, took a sharp right and bounced down a dirt road. The outside air became hot. She could feel it through cracks in the windows. The convoy of vans followed the dusty trail into a sprawling ranch, where oaks clumped in patches, interspersed with rolling cow pastures. The seasonal grasses had cured to golden brown, while the trees, mostly the evergreen variety had taken on a bluish green hue. Here and there, cattle wallowed in muddy ponds to escape the oppressive sun.

Lyndy retrieved her sunglasses from their pouch, slipping them over the bridge of her nose, protecting from the glare. She expected the day’s activities to include boring speeches, a walking tour, drinks in those clear plastic cups they use at weddings and maybe a tray of chocolate cookies. What she hadn’t been anticipating were protestors.

A chain of twenty folks blocked the farm road.

The driver in front honked their way through, dispersing the line of people holding signs. The group parted, but continued chanting as each van passed. She watched, reading a few of the picket boards as they moved slowly by. One said: “Stop Bleeding Farmland Dry” another “Save the Salmon” and another “No Dam, Use Less Water.”

That last one made sense.

Seconds later the tour parked in a circle at an overlook, where one could see across a grass valley terrain. It spanned perhaps ten to fifteen miles until the visibility lessened and the hills faded to featureless outlines.

Lyndy squinted at the scene, envisioning another of those eyesores: an earthen clay dam rising 300 feet, like a landfill in profile, backing up the wild river and forming a ponderously big lake. Probably a muddy reservoir with murky waters the shade of a schoolyard puddle. A far cry from the model she’d seen on display at the hotel. She tried to make sense of it all, but some things weren’t there to look pretty.

They fashioned a makeshift podium, with the Silver-Pacific logo on a banner pinned to the front. Publicity photos were taken, which Lyndy declined to be in. Kyle held binoculars, listening politely to the speakers, going with the flow on the rest of the tour. Yards away, The Spitfire fanned her face, pushing Mari’s buggy back and forth and keeping a bottle of water on her lips. She wished she’d brought a book.

After the chief engineer spoke, he gave an opportunity for questions. No one raised a finger, knowing it was a formality. Who would even bother? But Lyndy did, holding up her good arm. Because they were ignoring her, she cleared her throat, tilted back her hat and lifted her glove a bit higher. She even rose onto her toes for extended reach.

The fellow in a business suit and cowboy hat put his palm up to shade his eyes. He was looking over the crowd to see who made the sound.

“Yes?” he said, spotting her at last. He braced with both hands on the podium, and a gruff, skeptical look came over him. After all, it was only a female, someone’s spouse—or so he thought—asking a question. Probably expected something silly, like “when does the food arrive.”

Instead, Lyndy shouted, “Who built the scale model you have on display in the library at the hotel?”

The engineer hadn’t anticipated the question, evidenced in the way he grinned and rocked back. One of his eager assistants stepped up to intervene. But the chief waved the youngster away. “No. No, I can answer,” he declared. “Happy to answer.” He began folding up and putting away some notes to prevent his papers flying away. While doing this he hunched to speak into the microphone and replied: “we contracted with a small firm in San Francisco. Their artists construct miniatures for the motion picture industry.” He shifted his gaze back to the crowd with a smug expression. “They built two of those beauties.”

“Then where is the second model?” Lyndy asked.

But the man didn’t respond. He pretended not to hear, switching off the microphone and strutting away.

Lyndy glanced to Kyle with a raised brow. He was shaking his head with his hands in his pockets, distancing himself. With the speeches ending, Kyle got caught again in conversation, this time with representatives from the state water agency.

Meantime Lyndy took Maribel for a short stroll, keeping her shaded and fanning her face. Her cheeks were turning red and she didn’t want the poor infant to faint while simply trying to entertain her. Lyndy stayed within sight of the group.

Minutes later …

The protesters couldn’t be kept away indefinitely. They snuck in to interrupt the meal and generally make a nuisance. Lyndy watched with amusement, from the shade of a tree and next to an abandoned barn structure. She was busy pushing and pulling the stroller, when she felt the presence of another soul following her.

It was a tall, fiftyish woman, with tangled hair and a crazed look her in her eye. She had the hippie vibe but lacked any sort of friendliness. On one shoulder she had a hemp backpack and on the other, she carried a sign.

Lyndy pulled the stroller near, tensing up.

“Oh, I didn’t see you sweetie,” hissed the lady, with a squeaky voice. “Look at you.”

Lyndy maintained eye contact, but spoke nothing and tried not to express any emotion. She was assessing one of two possibilities: this strange woman was just an ordinary harmless protestor, or the latter, this woman was fresh out of a halfway house and off her meds. While the first option was more likely, she felt she needed to stay on guard, in case it was the latter.

“Look at you,” the woman repeated in disgust. “Still got your looks. That’s nice. Got your boutique summer dress. And your two-thousand-dollar baby stroller. Your husband’s down there, trying to close another deal. Sell our water to some city 300 miles away, where the homes cost half million a pop and us farmers have to pay more. I know you. You’re the Valley Girl.”

She knew it would shock this woman to find out Lyndy was an old-fashioned east L.A. girl. Back in the day Aunt Rose would’ve been offended if anyone accused her of being from “The Valley.” Heaven forbid! They couldn’t rightly be considered Angelinos to her aunt. Still, it was hard to argue with the larger points.

Lyndy tilted her head. “You all don’t know me,” she argued, though she didn’t elaborate. She wasn’t sure why, except there was nothing to explain. It’s not as though the Martinez family had any part in this boondoggle. If any Martinez’s were involved, they would’ve been the ones getting hoodwinked out of their farm water.

“Charlie thinks you’re the one who answered the call.”

“What call?” Lyndy countered. “And he’s not my husband.”

“Oh. You wanna talk now?” said the woman facetiously. She circled gradually to one side, continuing to eye her, like a witch preparing to cast a hex. “The call was meant for Kristen Gardner. Charlie thinks it was you though, impersonating Kristen. He thinks you got the code.”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake, you folks need to find a new hobby,” Lyndy admonished. “I’m serious. The state decided the outcome of this dam situation, not some holding company. Nobody here made the decisions and it won’t benefit me one dime.” Lyndy paused, took a breath and put her fists on her hips. “Stay away from my baby.”

The woman seemed confused. She kept staring her down, but once in a while her eyes shifted to the baby. Although it got under Lyndy’s skin, she kept her cool. Pretending to be unruffled, Lyndy reached down to stroke the hair away from Maribel’s forehead. She felt better as Kyle came charging their way, having noticed the protester. “Hey, you! You need to rejoin your people,” he scolded, meaning the protestors.

The crazy woman gave one last look and said, “Charlie wants to know what you heard. He wants to meet you. He’s coming.”

Lyndy rolled her eyes and made a face, to say, “I have no idea what you’re ranting about.”

Then the woman scampered off, trying to avoid Kyle.

“You alright?” asked Kyle, as he arrived out of breath.

“Fine,” replied Lyndy.

“I didn’t think there’d be so many of em here—they aren’t even farmers. They’re from the city, San Jose mainly. The dang tour wasn’t announced until the last minute.” He took a hold of the stroller and began pushing it. “You look great by the way. I don’t know what you’re doing, but keep it up.”

Lyndy laughed, playing with the ribbons that were meant to keep her hat in place.

By now Maribel was napping hard. Perhaps it was the heat taking effect. “Between you and me, I’m having doubts about this project.” Kyle whispered to her as he kissed Maribel’s forehead. “There’s an active fault crossing the valley right here. The dam will be straddling it diagonally, which I’m not totally comfortable with. I might be changing my mind.” He shook his head, sounding disillusioned. “My business partners aren’t going to like this.”

After the tour was over, they ate a picnic lunch, but it was far away from the podium where they wouldn’t be bothered. She couldn’t stop thinking about the model. When she got back the first thing Lyndy wanted to do was peek underneath. Ninety-eight percent chance it was nothing but white foam and plywood. Two percent chance, Charlie had planted a bomb.

Santa Barbara, CA 2010s

Lyndy followed the narrow, sloping drives until she arrived in the flats of downtown, a gridded maze of streets lined with boutique shopping. It was a brisk walk with pleasant weather. And while much had changed in the presidio, at least a few things were familiar—basically any building over a hundred years of age!

She located a nice bar, open to the busy sidewalk and with seating available. The joint was loud, with constant sounds of glasses clinking, young people laughing.

The hip saloon had Herradura Blanco on their top shelf, the real deal. She would’ve known if they tried to pass off the horseshoe-stamped bottle with a lesser substitute. Even the smell brought back sweet memories.

The bartender was a young, dark-haired man. She motioned for the tequilas, miming a horseshoe shape with her two pointer fingers, then miming a shot. Wait no. Two shots.

The bartender grinned kindly, setting out two shot glasses in front of her.

Her head was filled with recollections of Rita. She thought of those color prints Fred had given her, still in her purse. Around her spot at the bar, fencing the shot glasses, she set a few of them out: A fashion shoot. A trip to Santa Fe. The Grand Canyon with a race car. A bucking horse. A night club, both of them wearing party dresses. She wasn’t sure who’d taken that one. A snapshot of Rita holding a magazine, pointing to herself on the cover, big smile on her face. That one was pretty cool, at a grocery store checkout line. The next, in the not-so-cool category, was Rickman slow dancing—quite embarrassingly—with Lyndy his date making a silly face. Rita had taken that.

Presently, Rickman was resting six feet underground at the National Cemetery.

Lyndy tilted her chin back, downing the liquor and wiping her lips. She slammed down the glasses. These feelings were suffocating. Like ropes binding her arms and chest, they were cutting off circulation. She held her cheeks in her palms. She could feel sands of the desert swallowing her toes. She could feel the grit of the dust. She could sense the hair of the horse’s mane, strong and soft at the same time, brushing upon her cheeks. The wind whipping it so it tickled her nose at full gallop.

You know, maybe she deserved a share of that money? Fred Simmons had a point.

And she heard a gruff, angry male voice: “Hey, are you Lyndy Martinez?”

Lyndy lifted her head, rubbing her eyes with the back of her hand.

It was a man with a shaven head, fifty years of age and macho looking. That cliché scene from a Western movie, except lacking the bullet vests and the holsters. In some ways scarier. He was dressed as a biker.

She wasn’t sure what came over her, but she answered, “yes”, meekly.

The fellow clenched a fist in front of her and said: “My brother went to jail for life cause of you.”

“Huh?” Lyndy reached for the other shot glass and made sure none of the colorless liquid remained. She’d drained both, asking “hit me please,” in the direction of the bartender.

“When did this occur?” asked Lyndy. “How?”

“In the late nineties. You turned him in to the Feds.”

“I did?” The cogs started turning. She recalled her life raising young Maribel in Lake Arrowhead, wearing those silly dresses and hats for Kyle Ellis. The Spitfire laughed. It seemed like a dream sequence or one of those fifties’ era TV shows: Donna Reed. It wasn’t timely, but she couldn’t help laughing.

“What’s funny about that?”

Lyndy downed another fresh shot and wiped her lips. “I wasn’t even … I mean … I didn’t do anything resembling my old work from 1995 until the year 2011. Literally. I was a stay-at-home mom. Not a good one, mind you. My kid’s kind of messed up like me. I reminded her every day she’s an Ellis, not a Martinez, but I can see it in her. I can see the Martinez blood in her. Makes me sad.”

“What are you saying? I’m a liar?”

By this time, the bar crowd had turned their attention to the weird exchange with the angry dude. Anyone under 40 had probably not heard of Lyndy Martinez, especially not if they stayed out of the desert.

“Yes, I think you are a liar,” Lyndy echoed confidently.

Aiden S Clarke, author

Home of Lyndy Martinez

Category Archives: MyBooks

Gasoline and Matches Part-1

Valley Girl Part-21

Valley Girl Part-20

Valley Girl Part-19

Valley Girl Part-17

Valley Girl Part-16

Valley Girl Part 15

Exciting Lyndy News October 2024

Valley Girl Part-14

Valley Girl Part-12

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this: