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Gasoline and Matches Part-7

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Check out those cars parked in front of the market! -ASC

Gasoline And Matches: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-7

Wonder Valley, CA 1990s

Lyndy Life Observation: Watching an episode of “I love Lucy”. Supposedly it’s a Saturday morning at their apartment. Ricky Ricardo is wearing a suit and tie, smoking and reading the newspaper. Lucy is wearing a dress and heels, hair done up and not one but two pearl necklaces. She’s also smoking. The doorbell buzzes. A man enters (not Fred Mertz). The visitor is wearing a suit and tie. Ricky offers him a cigarette. Now everyone in the room is smoking and dressed more formally than anyone I know.

It took a few minutes, but gradually Debbie’s heartrate and breathing returned to a resting level. Likewise, she found herself regaining composure, as well as her ability to reason. Sadly, the shocking image of Patty Sue—a bag of dry skin and nothing else—was etched in her memory bank.

She accepted the offer of a warm, expired Yoo-Hoo drink for the sole reason of getting the old guy to move away from the breakfast table slash mausoleum. It was a welcome relief when he, of his own accord, offered Debbie a guided tour of his desert wonderland. Excellent idea. It meant getting out of the stuffy cabin back into the outside environment. The hazy July air wasn’t fresh per se, but compared to whatever particles of biohazard material floated inside the cabin, it must be safer to inhale.

Stepping past the kitchen and down a short hall, Debbie Kowalski realized her pants were all but slipping off her waist. The straight-leg bottoms were bunching around her hiking boots. Perspiration on the hike over caused her to lose so much water weight at the midriff, she needed to adjust her belt buckle. But when she went to bring it in another notch, she noticed it didn’t have any holes left—she was already on the smallest one! In lieu of this, Debbie shimmied her cargo pants up higher on the hips, hoping for the best. With any luck, she might be able to fashion a belt out of a loop of rope, Jethro Bodine style.

Speaking of hillbillies, the old coot reached for yet another shotgun, one positioned by the back door and used this item as a pointer of sorts.

“I use this puppy for shooting at my Jack-rabberts,” he explained. “Keeps them chupacabras far away from my land also.” While the old fella had slaughtered the word Jackrabbit, he’d somehow pronounced the Spanish word for goat sucker using perfect diction.

Debbie rolled her eyes, wondering if this situation could get any more ridiculous.

With one hand holding her pants, the other her drink, she followed the old man out the back screen door to his ramshackle junkyard. This area was modestly shaded by a series of trellises, dying grapevines and a few barely surviving Joshua trees.

Debbie rubbed her eyes with her thumb and wrist.

“Out here’s where I keep all my good stuff,” the old man commented.

Scanning the cluttered scene, Debbie could see at least two potentially road-worthy autos. They had tires on all four rims, so that could be taken as a positive indicator. The first was some model of early Bronco, with the wrong bumpers and no windscreen. The second, a Jeep style truck coming outfitted with four different mis-matched tires, a massively cracked windshield and remnants of at least three prior paint jobs.

Taking a swig from her glass container of warm Yoo-Hoo, Debbie swallowed hard. This powdery chocolate concoction at least soothed her parched throat, though it tasted like sugar flavored mud. Yoo-Hoo was hardly a tolerable beverage cold, imagine it warm. She smacked her tongue, trying to rid herself of the taste. Then she wiped her arm across her face.

“Sir, I can see you have a J10 over there. That’s a fine truck with enough power, it might just pull my Jeep out.”

The old man made a “Baaahhhh” sound, in a scoff. “T’aint workin.”

“Why? What’s a-matter with it?”

“Even if you could get the bastard started, damn tranny will never slide in gear. You can spend all day fiddling on it, but it won’t take.”

The word transmission alone conjured up imagery of sensitive, difficult to adjust components, in a tight tolerance configuration more finicky than a Swiss chronograph. She hated working on transmissions—and when one displayed any hint of misbehaving her first stop was a specialty repair shop. Not going into gear at all was a bad sign, indicating failed parts. If parts inside were indeed broken, there weren’t likely to be replacements in this yard.

Debbie squinted, turning her head back to face the old man. “Okay, what do we know about the Bronco?”

He shook his head immediately. “Son-of-gun won’t turn over. Got a stuck cylinder or two. Motor is totally seized.”

“So bottom line it for me. Does anything here run and drive?”

“Run and drive?” he scratched at the trio of hairs on his mostly bald head. “Nope. Nothing ‘round here works,” proclaimed the old fella, almost seeming proud. “Sorry young lady.”

It was nice to be called young lady for a change.

The old man got a wistful look on his face, though it was difficult to tell where he was staring since his eyes were ghostly white. “Used to be handy with a Snap-On wrench. I mean I could fix anything from a lawn tractor to a front-loading washing machine. Worked over 25 years repairing engines for the Navy.” He sniffed, then took a big gulp of his Yoo-Hoo. “This might come as a surprise—seeing how fit I am—but I suffered a stroke couple summers back.” He grinned, showing his black tooth.

Debbie nodded, trying not to chuckle.

“Darndest thing. Ever since my stroke, I done lost my mechanical faculties. That whole part of my brain musta shriveled up and died. Can’t even hold a wrench now; wouldn’t know which end is which.”

Debbie folded her arms. “Hmmm, this is a conundrum.” She watched desert iguanas and zebra tails doing push-ups, sunning atop piles of rusty radiators, engine blocks, crankshafts and flywheels. Everything in sight seemed beyond repair.

“Over here’s where I show off my minerals,” added the old guy, changing the subject. He pointed to a row of outdoor shelves housing his rock collection, which thankfully was kept under a ramada. The shade helped, but the stagnancy of the air was the real killer. “These ones taste like spoilt milk,” he commented in his wheezy voice.

The “rock collection” consisted mainly of sedimentary and conglomerate rocks, fairly common to the Mojave Desert region. She recognized several ordinary types of limestone, travertine and sandstone, plus a few unpolished agates and opals.

Holding the whitish rock up like a golden egg, he said: “taste it for yourself.”

“Uh, no thanks,” Debbie replied.

“I said taste it,” commanded the man tersely. He lifted his shotgun, not pointing it at her, but clutching it tighter in his grip.

Debbie stuck out her tongue while bringing the rock an inch or two from her lips. Hesitating, she paused for a beat, hoping the fellow would look away. Instead, he watched her like a hawk, waiting for her to actually lick the chalky rock. Faking it wasn’t going to work.

Flicking her tongue against the rock, she caught a taste of it, bitter and salty. “Yeah.” Shaking her head and making a sour frown, Debbie groaned. “I think that might be Dolomite,” she remarked.

“Whenever I feel constipated, I come out here and lick this rock. Cures me right up.”

“Too much info,” muttered Debbie.

Pretending to be interested in rocks one could find by simply stopping your car on the interstate and walking any direction was fine. But the whole time she was wondering about the Jeep J10 truck and Ford Bronco. Perhaps there were enough spares in the yard to MacGyver a fix together. Odds were better, considering she had two vehicular options. A combination of praying and using every IQ point she had might allow her to coax one or the other into running and driving. The loco old guy was a wildcard. Would he try and stop her? Would he be grateful to her for fixing one?

Debbie leaned against a decaying air compressor, where the rounded sides made for a makeshift bench. “Sir, you wouldn’t happen to have a telephone I could use, would ya?”

“Sure, I got me one of them.”

“Oh wonderful …”

“The bugger hasn’t had a dial tone in 26 years.”

Debbie exhaled. “Or a HAM radio set? Wait, wait … let me guess. It doesn’t work.”

“Tube amplifiers blown out.”

“Right of course.” Debbie nodded. She sensed water pooling at the corner of each eye. Her lungs heaved and she felt her legs weakening. Lowering herself to a crouching position, salty tears started dripping to the soil where they quickly evaporated. She was simply too exhausted to fight an onslaught of emotions. Though she hadn’t wept openly in years, Debbie began to sob, as hopelessness swept over her in a great wave.

Redlands CA, 1990s

 Lyndy Life Observation: An engineer and mathematician stopped by the V-P diner one night for drinks. Somehow the topic of conversation turned to imaginary numbers. Catherine Cookson became convinced they were pulling her leg about the whole idea of “imaginary numbers”. As I passed by to deliver a tray of beers, I overheard her saying: “Stop it you guys, that’s silly! That’s not a thing!” No argument could convince Cathy otherwise. Remember, there were no smart phones or widely available internet in those days.

Lyndy waited until school was out of session, but before the principal departed to make her introductions. Majority of the students—ones who were already driving—peeled away sharply by 2:45. This left behind only faculty and those staying for a practice.

You know when they say being a teacher is a calling? Well, this parking structure sure indicated otherwise, judging by the quantity of German made luxury sedans. Somehow, someway the teachers at Crestwood were making bank.

Placing Maribel gently into her baby buggy, Lyndy wheeled up to the administrative office. When she asked to see the principal, she was informed Mrs. Dalton was busy. No surprise there—she knew this wouldn’t be easy. Lyndy offered to wait.

The receptionist’s desk had a brand-new, fancy Mac computer. Lyndy didn’t feel particularly welcome, but she wasn’t here to make friends either. And of course, arriving unannounced was her fault. But Lyndy had the distinct impression she was secretly being described in an instant messenger box of some sort. The receptionist would periodically look up, glance at Lyndy, then go back to typing furiously on a keyboard.

She was pretending to smile at the same time, but it was obviously fake. In the storage pocket of the buggy, Lyndy had brought Mari’s colorful toy xylophone and the accompanying steel mallet. She offered this to the baby, whose eyes went wide with excitement. Thusly, the next twenty minutes were filled with random notes: BING-BONG-BING-BONG-BOOONG.

The Spitfire remained calm, herself pretending to browse a copy of Reader’s Digest. She slipped her readers over her nose, which Lyndy knew would help her look smarter.

She became so bored she did a word search puzzle.

30 minutes later …

Amongst the notable decorative features in Principal Dalton’s office was a slotted oak paddle, displayed atop two brass supports. This thing measured three feet long. Certain laws regarding corporal punishment discouraged her from using it. At least such rules applied to public schools. How the particulars translated in a private school setting, Lyndy didn’t know.

“This is a school for gifted students,” explained Mrs. Belinda Dalton, making eye contact. She was a fiftyish age woman with a fat swash of white in her formerly blonde wave, a facelift and a banker’s disposition. She offered Lyndy a pamphlet, detailing the many benefits to enrolling one’s brilliant offspring in private school. Lyndy shoved this in her purse. “We prepare our students for entry into elite colleges and universities.”

Lyndy glanced down to 12-month-old Maribel, grinning in her blue onesie. The baby with the same curly, chestnut hair as her mother, had been chewing on her Sophie giraffe while a small bead of drool rolled off one corner of her lips. Hastily, Lyndy wiped it away with the corner of a cloth. A smile formed on Mari’s face.

“Mari’s brilliant,” Lyndy declared. With a pause and a shrug, Lyndy added, “though she’s only a year old.”

“What makes you believe that?” A tight, skeptical frown formed on Mrs. Dalton’s face. Reaching into a drawer on her desk, she yanked out a used Sesame Street baby book. The stiff pages of the book sported colorful drawings of the main characters. Flipping it to a random page, Mrs. Dalton held it up. “Who is this?” The picture had a cartoon drawing of Big Bird.

“Come on Mari, you got this,” thought Lyndy, trying to will her daughter to speak, though she’d only ever said one recognizable word before.

Mari gazed to her mother, knowing Lyndy wanted her to do something. She looked wide eyed at Principal Dalton and then at the book she was holding up. No mistaking, it was obviously a picture of Big Bird. Mari was thinking.

Lyndy pointed to the book. “Who’s that?”

“DA-DA,” answered Maribel, holding the giraffe in one hand. Then she lifted and shook her bead filled rattle with her other hand, as if to underscore her wrong answer.

Lyndy put a palm over her eyes. “Shit,” she muttered.

Principal Dalton chuckled. “Pretty sure your father isn’t Big Bird.” At least she had a sense of humor. “No that’s Big Bird. See?”

Mari, knowing she’d given the wrong answer, had a sad look. “ELMO?” she supposed, trying again. She lowered her rattle and went back to chewing on the giraffe.

“Do’h,” Lyndy muttered.

“Big Bird,” corrected Principal Dalton. “Can you say Big Bird?”

A tear started rolling down Maribel’s cheek, knowing she’d let her mother down.

“Ya know, I was bad at tests too. I think it runs in our family.” She turned to the baby. “It’s okay sweetie,” said Lyndy lovingly, reaching and pulling the baby into her arms. She held her butt with one elbow and patted Mari’s back with the other.

“I have to say Miss Martinez.” Belinda Dalton seemed surprised at her own words, “Most 12-month-olds can’t speak any words at all. There’s a small possibility this child may actually have an above average IQ.”

“That’s good to know! Cause in addition to a well-rounded education, the arts are particularly important to our family.” Lyndy sniffed.  “If possible, I’d like to meet the art teacher? Tigerlily.”

“Sorry, she already left for the day.”

“May I ask which room is hers?”

Mrs. Dalton shot Lyndy an inquisitive look, as though re-evaluating her estimation of The Spitfire.

“By the way, that’s a heck-of-a paddle ya got hanging there,” declared Lyndy.

Belinda Dalton turned in her chair, so she could gaze up at her magnificent paddle. Then she turned back to Lyndy.

“One other thing. I hear there’s a missing student,” Lyndy remarked.

“Tragic case. Seems like a runaway.”

“Sure, about that?”

Mrs. Dalton shrugged. “It’s all we know. Happened on a field trip; nothing officially associated with the school.” She began straightening a stack of papers on the corner of her desk.

Lyndy inhaled, changing both her voice and expression. Using one hand she pinched her cheeks together. “Know what that paddle reminds me of? The warden at PineGate Youth Detention camp. She used to beat us with broom sticks for sport. One night she whacked me a good 25 times with one. Not gently by any means, I’m talking full force—swinging the whole arm. Wouldn’t stop unless you went unconscious or pretended to.”

Mrs. Dalton shifted uncomfortably, clenching her jaw.

Lyndy leaned forward, lowering her voice. “Her legal name was Mabel Dixon. That’s why I believe in demons to this day. Only logical explanation I can think of, Mabel Dixon was possessed by a demon. She used to drag me by my belt loops across the floor boards, and rusty nails were sticking up where the wood slats had worn away, cause the camp was in such poor condition. I still have scars on my ass from that.”

“Sorry, that happened to you. Sounds like you’ve overcome a lot.” Mrs. Dalton looked at her watch. “I should be heading home.” She attempted to dismiss Lyndy, packing away a planner and some pens into a bag.

“I hope you’re not holding back information.”

“Nice meeting you,” said Mrs. Dalton, hastily. She’d have sworn Mrs. Dalton’s hands were quaking.

“I was just heading home myself. I’ve got shredded chicken and potato stew in my slow cooker. You know how it is. We love those crock-pot dinners on weeknights.” In her mind Lyndy was thinking, “I hope you’re not obstructing.”

Jackie’s prediction must be right. These people were instructed not to speak about Sabina’s disappearance. Which was beyond annoying. But mostly what got her blood boiling was spending any time thinking about Mabel Dixon.

Gasoline and Matches Part-1

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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.”