Gasoline and Matches: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-8

Joshua Tree CA, 1990s

Lyndy Life Observation: In a packed food court scene near old town Albuquerque, Miss Rita Lovelace came face-to-face with my doppelganger. A woman near the taco stand had my same shade of hair, color eyes, matching body type and facial features. She even had my same manner of stride in her walk. Rita, somewhat dumbfounded, approached the young girl asking, “Lyn? What … are you doing here?” The stranger frowned and hurried away from Rita, thinking she was a crazy person. Smart girl to run away.

As the summer day wore on, skies turned gray and overcast. The air temp remained no less forgiving. Fortunately, the gas-guzzling Land Rover had an excellent AC system, keeping both momma and baby comfy.

Reaching across the dash, Lyndy lowered the volume on the radio.

Her lap supported a ring-bound Thomas Guide, open to the Joshua Tree pages. She’d been flipping between them to get here. Looking over her shoulder, Lyndy double checked the street number on the rusty mailbox, knowing it was an odd time to call on someone—in the middle of dinner—with crickets chirping and the sun already dipping below the horizon.

Checking on the baby, she saw Mari was sleeping soundly.

A north wind blowing hard made it uncomfortable to linger outside, as it carried aloft grains of sand and they were sharp on the skin. All afternoon a river of cumulous clouds floated across the desert sky, taking on a silver sheen from ripples of ice crystals and the fading light. With any luck the clouds might turn pink in a few minutes.

She’d called ahead from a payphone. The impatient fellow who answered claimed the tug was still available, then promptly hung up.

She couldn’t have painted a precise picture of a fellow selling a thirty-year-old aviation support vehicle for $390 in the weekly auto trader, but she had some vague stereotypes in mind. She wasn’t even sure what to say, but in theory it was a straightforward transaction. If it simply idled and drove, it passed the key test. Didn’t need a pink slip since the vehicle was never intended for highway use.

The home of the seller was modest, a single-story mock adobe bungalow, a bit run down with no landscaping. But the lot was huge, over three-quarter-acre, including sheds and a Quonset hut. The rest of the property was surrounded by a healthy forest of Joshua trees, yucca and smoke trees. These native varieties did a good job filling in sandy flats between boulders. For the majority of the year the smoke trees weren’t what you’d call attractive, but following a summer rain produced a lovely lavender colored bloom.

Speaking of attractiveness, Lyndy checked herself in the rearview mirror, wishing she didn’t appear so drained. Four decades on planet Earth, plus a later child birth had subtly begun catching up. As a last-ditch effort she re-applied blush and her purple lipstick, attempting a charming smile. But it didn’t take. Her hair was windblown. The skin on her exposed shoulders looked reddish from heat rash. She’d not been sleeping well, having stress dreams about dance again.

Lyndy flipped the mirror back into position, then shifted her gaze to the house. There were yellow kitchen lights on, plus the flickering of a color television in a small living room area. The man was home.

She hoped he was kind at least.

She’d had about enough of males and their cocky attitudes for one week—exhausted by the situation. On the other hand, one of her specialties came in knowing how to disarm such a gruff, prickly character. At least, back in the day it was.

Reaching to the back seat, she stuffed sleepy Maribel into the baby Bjorn carrier. Then gently, she fastened the Velcro, tightening buckles as the baby’s head drooped. Fortunately, the baby hadn’t seemed hungry, as her supply of food had been thoroughly depleted.

Lyndy exhaled, looping her purse strap over her head, then nudging the driver’s door shut. Since no sane individual wanted to be outside in this wind, she didn’t bother locking the car. She hurried up the driveway with slumped shoulders, along a narrow sidewalk path to the door. The entry had a cheap doorbell buzzer and Lyndy pressed this with her fourth finger.

Whatever she’d expected the seller from the ad to look like, she was 100 percent wrong. So much that she went mute when the door creaked open. They stood there staring at one another like two neighborhood cats sizing each other up.

He was taller than expected, with a slim build but strong looking chest and arms—the kind with noticeable vascularity. He had gray hair, but an ample amount, parted in the middle and cut short. He had a chin with a tiny cleft like a movie star. These were the things she noticed first. But he was also poorly kept, a fact which he seemed to become self-conscious of, realizing Lyndy was more feminine and attractive than he’d assumed.

His eyes studied her face, then her exposed legs, then the baby sleeping against her midsection.

He ran the fingers of his right hand over his chin, feeling stubble. Glancing down at his off-white shirt, amply stained with grease, he suddenly became aware he carried a quarter full wine bottle in his left hand. He looked down over the wine bottle with an expression like: “where did this come from?” and quickly stuffed it into an out of view buffet table.

Lyndy could hear the TV. It was a pro-wrestling broadcast.

Their stunned silence was lasting a unreasonably long time, both knowing somebody had better speak soon. Lyndy figured she should try.

“Uhhh … uhm … I called you earlier about a five-ton Coleman airplane tug for sale,” remarked Lyndy, with a cheery smile. This was one of those statements which when uttered aloud, sounded absurd. She pushed back her bangs, which had been blown into her eyes by the wind, then pointed to the yard. “I probably sound different on the phone, don’t I?”

This seemed to snap the man loose like oil to his joints, and he answered: “Oh gosh, right. You called me?” He cocked his head like a confused border collie, observing the sleeping baby. “Wait, you’re the one who called about the Coleman tug?”

“Yeah,” Lyndy chuckled. “Is it still available?” she said in a joking way, as if it were such a hot commodity people were knocking down this man’s door to get it.

“Of course,” answered the man. “Yes. Still for sale.” His eyes fell upon her classy Land Rover SUV and lingered there. Then he re-focused, back to studying the shape of her torso. Maribel squirmed without opening her eyes, murmuring something in baby speak.

“Is that a …?” He began to ask an obvious question, but realized how silly he might sound asking if Lyndy possessed a real baby. He shook off the thought. “Uh … what I mean is … why don’t you come in,” he offered, in a good-natured way.

“Awe thanks,” said Lyndy. “Sorry I brought my daughter. Not ideal, I know. Couldn’t find a baby sitter at the last minute,” Lyndy explained. She grinned gleefully, feeling somehow energized. “You’re not like a … serial killer, are you? I have mace in the car, but it’s not on my person. Should I double back for it?” She was joking again, but this wasn’t so far-fetched as to be impossible, given the circumstances.

“Only if you talk to my ex-wife,” answered the man, an attempt at humor which landed poorly and she could see a look of “get it together man” on his face.

He gestured to his living room which had a single Laz-Z-Boy recliner—Archie Bunker style—plus a TV tray, positioned four feet from the rabbit ear equipped television set. The only other seat was stacked three foot tall with car magazines and a year’s worth of Playboys. The man ran to his TV, quickly dialing down the volume knob. In the process, he tipped over a stack of VHS cassettes, which from a distance, appeared to have covers of women in bathing suits.

Lyndy waited in his arched entry to the cramped living room space. She began to brush at her ankles nervously, lifting first one heel and then the other.

The tall man bent over, hastily sweeping all the magazines into a basket on the floor, which was also piled high with periodicals and random guy stuff. There were more playboys, mail and other titles of a bachelor nature. “Dang it! My brother left all his magazines here,” he said, as some kind of explanation for the content. “I wasn’t expecting company today.”

Lyndy suppressed a chuckle. Sure.

As he was rapidly cleaning Lyndy noticed a sleeve of tattoos on his arm. They were military style ones with stars and flags. Among these, an intriguing night hawk bird and a crescent moon stood out.

The whole time Lyndy couldn’t stop grinning, massaging the baby’s scalp in front of her and enjoying this escapade. For the time being, she’d forgotten how upset she was at the tow truck guys. In fact, she couldn’t recall having this much fun in a while.

On the seller’s TV tray was a sad looking chicken frozen meal thing, half eaten and the man carried this to his kitchen to get it out of the way.

“I haven’t had a real visitor in a while,” he remarked, clearing his throat. His voice was fresher than his look, sounding like a thirty-year-old when he spoke. But with the creases on his face and his graying hair, he was probably closer to mid-forties.

On the return trip from the kitchen sink, the man became excited and wasn’t watching his feet. He tripped over a box containing coffee cans full of nuts and bolts, and because all he had on his feet were socks, he stubbed his toe badly.

He winced, bending over and muttering a streak of curse words. The man wiped the back of his fingers over his eyes. “Usually, I’m tidier than this.”

This time Lyndy was unable to contain a laugh, which burst forth as a partial snort and uncontrollable bending at the hips.

While still grimacing in pain, the seller gestured to the now uncovered chair stating, “have a seat miss,” through his gritted teeth.

Maribel squirmed again as Lyndy comforted her.

Lyndy pinched the edges of her dress skirt, shimmying the thing an inch or two lower, taking it as far along the thigh as she could get. Next, she sat down, holding her knees together very daintily and smiling. She set her purse across her lap, covering her mouth to block any other impolite giggles. “I didn’t mean to interrupt your evening. I was thinking I could give you the money and you could show me where the vehicle is.” Obviously, he was hetero, cause he was so dang nervous. “I don’t need any help.”

“Oh sure.” The man hopped on one foot to his Lay-z-boy recliner, practically falling into it. Through the doorframe she could see into the kitchen, where a mountain of dishes were piled in the sink.

Lyndy unzipped the top of her purse. “My name is Lyndy by the way,” said Lyndy.

He held out his hand. “Oh right. Whitney Stevens.” He cleared his throat again.

“Is your foot okay?” asked Lyndy. “Cause your sock is turning red.”

“Yeah. It’ll be fine,” Whitney answered, dismissing what must be a painfully stubbed pair of toes. “Lot of people round here, they think it’s funny my name is Whitney. Sometimes people call me Major Stevens. But my folks didn’t know if they were having a boy or a girl, so they thought it would be convenient if the name was universal.” He tilted his head. “You can call me Whitney.”

Lyndy nodded.

At last Whitney seemed to regain composure. “Say, I was wonderin. It’s not really my business, but uh, how does someone like yourself come to be interested in 1950s aircraft support vehicles?”

Lyndy leaned back some, clearing her throat. After placing one leg atop the other, she straightened her outfit again for modesty. “Uh, you know …,” Lyndy sniffed, thinking of what to say. “All the moms my age are into heavy duty aircraft towing equipment.”

A smile formed on Whitney’s face, causing him to have dimples in his cheeks.

“Used to be minivans, but that was like … five years ago. Once you hit your late thirties it’s all tugs.”

“Is that so? Guess I’ve been out of the game a while.”

Lyndy couldn’t help but chuckle too, feeling herself blushing again.

“Well then, do you wanna see it?”

Lyndy nodded eagerly.

Five minutes later …

Under the amber glow of a storm lantern where moths circled endlessly, Whitney Stevens uncovered the vehicle for sale by removing a green tarp. He limped his way to the side, pulling more of the dusty tarp, rolling and folding it over to move it out of the way.

Leaning against a workbench, Lyndy noticed a ten-pound sledge. Cupping one hand, she covered Mari’s tender ears. Then lifting up the hammer, she heaved it over her shoulder like Paul Bunyun, giving Whitney a startled look. Next, she swung it mightily against the bumper of the Coleman Tug. She hadn’t even paid him money.

Despite a reverberating gong-like sound rivaling a church bell, and the heft of steel, the mark in the bumper was hardly noticeable. That’s how thick and heavy grade it was.

Mari opened her eyes as though stunned. “It’s okay,” whispered Lyndy, bouncing her knees. “DA-DA!” exclaimed Mari, then her head slumped back down against Lyndy’s chest.

“She says DA-DA a lot,” explained Lyndy whilst blinking her eyes and wedging a pinky in her ear. “Wow, that’s solid!”

“Yeah, they meant business in the fifties.”

“She’s a beauty.” Lyndy folded her arms, setting her chin on her fist. “How much can it pull?”

“I heard like eighty thousand pounds. You’re not pulling any 747s if that’s what you’re picturing. But you could easily shuffle a fleet of F/A 18s around.”

Lyndy affected a deeper, more macho tone. She was imitating the voice of men in a corvette owner’s club. “How fast does she do a quarter mile?”

“Unfortunately, she doesn’t. Not running. In my defense, I didn’t say in the ad,” Whitney answered firmly. “If she did fire up, top speed is only around 40 miles per hour.”

Lyndy stuck out her lower lip in disappointment.

“Upside is, with a day of work, I think it will run,” he added.

Lyndy locked eyes with Whitney, shooting him a fierce look to help with negotiation. “You can get it running?”

“Yes,” he replied confidently, leaning against the workbench.

Lyndy nodded. “Okay-doke. I’ll be back tomorrow.” She wet her index finger. From her wallet she pulled three one-hundred-dollar bills, offering them to Whitney.

He reached out his hand slowly, with a skeptic’s eye and a dose of caution as though she were about to play a trick.

“I’ll give you the rest when that turd is moving under its own power.”

“Sure. Makes sense.”

“One more tiny request,” voiced Lyndy, in a hushed whisper. She bobbed her head side-to-side, “got any ammo for a Beretta 92FS?”

He paused for a beat, with a serious gaze. She figured he might direct her to a legitimate gun shop, where there would be a record of her sale. But instead, he asked: “regular or hollow point?”

Lake Arrowhead, CA 1990s

Lyndy Life Observation: On a first date, Rochelle Bishop was having a lovely time with a handsome, fit fellow she met at the V-P. They passed a city park with a half-court basketball setup—and conveniently a ball left abandoned by the hoop. She and the man played the game HORSE and the dude lost 5 times in a row. He never called her back.

The baby was sleeping soundly when Lyndy arrived back at the custom lake cabin—car rides will do that. By the hands on her watch, it was past 8 o-clock. In the shade of tall pines, dusk came early. One had to be alert for deer, as the twisting mountain roads leading to the cabins became dark tunnels in the woods.

Lyndy “docked” the massive Range Rover in its normal covered spot, adjacent to the vintage sixties Mustang.

She noticed first, the black rolling suitcase by the stairs to the garage. A floppy label dangled from the handle; the words Dr. K. Ellis printed neatly in the text boxes. Kyle had scribe-like penmanship, especially for someone with a doctorate by their name. From this scene, she knew he was going on a business trip. He might have said before, but frankly, the prior week had been so chaotic she hardly remembered her own name.

Lifting the baby into her arms, Lyndy backed toward the landing. Mari squirmed and shifted, irritated at having been moved. But her eyes remained shut. Flipping the light switch, Lyndy maneuvered carefully in the dim light illuminating a flight of stairs, leading to the first floor. Sometimes there were creatures here, raccoons or the occasional skunk. Thus, she’d learned to never stumble blindly onto the stairs.

The fact Kyle was going away wasn’t such a bad thing. She would have more time for her nightly business of finding Jackie’s daughter, without prompting more of his suspicions. On the other hand, she’d need to find someone to watch the baby. And she didn’t know any of the neighborhood moms well enough yet. Except maybe Helen Mason, but for that matter she didn’t exactly know where Helen lived.

She wondered if Kyle would be in a sour mood? He’d come home from work to an empty house, and no dinner waiting other than what simmered in the Crock Pot. If their roles were reversed, she imagined she’d be annoyed.

Before proceeding to the top floor, she wanted to put Maribel to bed in the nursery. She found the lower floor was darkened.

She thought of their first encounters, in her mid-teens, when she waited tables at The Vanishing Point. They rarely exchanged words. Early on he seemed more interested in Catherine. Years went by until they had anything resembling a date. Though their feelings went unspoken, the pair developed an easy, natural bond. Perhaps it was a mutual love of wilderness, blue skies and curiosity about the wonders of the Mojave Desert. It certainly wasn’t education, as Lyndy couldn’t match him there. But Lyndy held her own in the street smarts department, and she loved to read.

Maybe she was simply his type.

When they were in their twenties, he used to visit her at her desert hideaway, the trailer in foothills near Amboy. In those days, few men were bold enough to approach her residence, but somehow that lonesome field geologist had the confidence.

He had a habit of coming unannounced—not so unusual in those days before cell phones. Sometimes she’d be watering her plants, or cooking a spaghetti dinner on her two-burner stove. Other times, it was late into the night and she’d been sleeping when he arrived. She’d feel his touch on her hips, or the small of her back. She’d offer him a beer, a sip of tequila or the occasional ice cream bar from her freezer.

They’d speak of their desert adventures, filling in the gaps of when they’d last seen one another. She’d make him laugh with her silly jokes. And soon they’d undress, making love with the windows open, feeling the night breeze. Sometimes there were multiple rounds depending on how much build up preceded. Even so, he nearly always left before dawn.

Cut to the present. Not much had changed, except now two decades on, she’d just given him a beautiful child. His favorite child. She wondered if he was having an affair even now—except it wasn’t an affair—because heck, they weren’t even married. So, what was it? A breaking of some unspoken promise? Who did she have to blame, sneaking around all the time. Was it worth asking about?

Opening the door a crack, she saw Kyle standing in the kitchen, watching the small TV which hung under the cabinets. Some kind of ESPN SportsCenter broadcast.

Hearing the door creak, he turned around with a smile. “Oh hey, this turned out good,” he commented, pointing to a soup bowl on the counter. She recognized the stew she’d had simmering all day in the slow cooker. “I already ate two bowls. Beats like three-quarters of the recipes Becky knew how to make. Don’t tell her that,” he said with a laugh.

He didn’t even ask where she’d been.

“By the way, I have to fly to Boulder tomorrow. I’ll only be gone two days. Not too bad. Except I think it’s supposed to rain the whole trip.”

Perfect, Lyndy thought.

“What’s a matter?” he asked, spotting the mournful look she must have on her face. “You’re quiet. I’ve learned that’s cause for suspicion.”

“I guess … I thought you’d be mad.”

“Why?” he asked with a shrug. Approaching each other, their bodies came within inches of touching. With one arm, he gently squeezed his hand on her shoulder and pulled her close enough to kiss. “Are you hungry?”

She shook her head no.

“That’s perfect,” he answered, resting his other hand on her hip and nudging her back against the island. He brushed her cheek with his fingers, like he used to. She smiled back and felt the tension melting away. Her breathing slowed. She found herself blushing. She pulled her hair from its ponytail, forgetting everything else that was troubling their relationship. He followed as she led him to the bedroom.