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Gasoline and Matches Part-12

Gasoline and Matches: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-12

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Lake Arrowhead CA, 1990s

Lyndy Life Observation: A girl working as a server at the V-P roadhouse returned from maternity leave. She showed us the total hospital bill for her delivery, which I remember being around $125 and we thought that was a lot.

Helen, nursing a chilled Zima and Lyndy bouncing Maribel on her lap, sat across from one another at the main floor coffee table. All eyes were studying the triangular shaped puzzle piece in front of them, trying to make sense of it. This included Maribel.

The edges of the triangle measured one-and-a-half by two inches.

The paper slip was a kind of brittle, coarse periodical material turning yellowish with age. Made Lyndy wonder if it had in fact been torn from a magazine.

On one side, the missing full page must’ve displayed a pen and ink illustration. Only a small segment of the drawing remained, showing detail of a passageway. This tiny, smudged portion reminded Lyndy of a dungeon or sewer map, with shaded corners and a single 90-degree bend. The tunnels—assuming that’s what they were—would’ve continued in two separate legs out into the absent nine tenths of the page. On the flipside, the bottom right corner, a page number appeared: 41. In the footer, along the margin, four capital letters: “J-W-M-R”. These were faint, and Lyndy had no idea what they meant.

Lyndy paused to rest her eyes, running her palms up the side of her head and over her ears to massage her neck. She exhaled a frustrated sigh. Helen took a sip of her Zima, then put a hand in front of her lips while belching daintily.

Mari slapped the table and cried: “DA-DA”.

“Yeah, good thinkin’ Vanilla Bean,” muttered Lyndy. “Kyle might have ideas on this, but no can do. That plan opens a whole nother can-a-worms. Remember, we don’t want daddy to know we’re working on this.”

Reaching for a jar of applesauce and a thumb-size spoon, Lyndy attempted to deliver a scoop of food to Mari’s lips. The baby jerked her head away. Testing a different strategy, this time making that sputtering helicopter sound-effect with her lips, Lyndy twirled the spoon in a descending spiral to entice the baby. No luck. Mari observed, but pressed her lips firmly together despite how close the spoon came.

It crossed her mind; the baby had gotten this stubbornness from the Martinez side. She set aside the jar and spoon.

With her finger and thumb, Lyndy tried rotating the paper, hoping to make sense of the partial illustration. Few alive could match The Spitfire when it came to knowledge of the vast Mojave Desert region. If ever appearing as a category on Jeopardy, she knew she’d clean up. As a youth, she’d borrowed and read cover-to-cover nearly every book Lyndy could find on the subject at her library. This amounted to some 35 different works. She even purchased a few outstanding titles covering both human and natural history. These days housed in her storage locker, was a tub full of old maps waiting to be explored.

Still, none of these items paired up remotely against this obscure drawing. At least none she could recall. Which was frustrating.

“Ever have one of those 1000-piece puzzles from K-Mart,” Helen remarked, “and the middle piece disappears behind a sofa, making the whole thing pointless.”

Lyndy groaned in the affirmative. “Basically, that in reverse.”

There were three possibilities Lyndy could imagine. The map showed a portion of a slot canyon, or of a cave with somewhat sharp corners. Or third, most likely, a mine.

Page 41 of what? What book!

It occurred to Lyndy already there might be a closed, abandoned mineshaft in the area where Sabina went missing. Although every Joshua Tree map she could get her hands on, showed no existing claims in that section of the park. Of course, rangers were known to omit cultural sites on public maps. They’d been doing it for decades, saving themselves the hassle of rescuing mindless tourists who were victims of their own curiosity. Many of the well-known shafts were already filled in or fenced securely, and yet rescues were common. So, assuming there was a hidden mine there, she’d have to find evidence of this in some obscure reference.

Lyndy glanced to the TV, then to the smug face of Maribel, who again refused to ingest any food.

“Baby won’t eat?” queried Helen.

“No. And it’s really frustrating.”

Helen squeezed her watch. “Speaking of which, I should get back to my kiddo. I told the babysitter I’d only be gone an hour and a half.”

A few minutes later …

After receiving poor marks in “home-ec” class, Aunt Rose once proclaimed no sane gentleman would ever want Melinda Martinez to raise their child. Who was laughing now?

By anyone’s measure, Kyle Ellis qualified as a gentleman.

While wiping counters, sweeping the floor in the kitchen and clearing away two days’ worth of clutter, Lyndy used the cordless phone to dial Jackie Cordray.

Miss Cordray picked up after a single ring, eager to hear the news. Without going into much detail on the circumstance, Lyndy informed her the Volkswagen sedan had been recovered. Jackie seemed astounded at the news. One could hear the relief in her voice. Made sense.

Clearly things were becoming dicey; she wanted to give Jackie an easy out. So, in reasoned tones Lyndy offered to turn the evidence over to the police and try again to get them to do their jobs. Lyndy explained the disappointing reality: despite the high cost to obtain the car, nothing of value had been found inside, save for one tiny piece of paper. Whomever dumped it had beaten them to the punch by scrubbing it first.

Of her own accord, she hoped Jackie would come to the realization the situation was getting too intense. Jackie would have none of it. Instead, she offered Lyndy another $25k to keep going. Hard to pass up. Plus, in the time when Lyndy was busy with the towing company, Jackie had been doing some amateur sleuthing of her own.

She’d deduced where the art teacher, Tigerlilly, resided—which hadn’t been easy. It’d only come by haunting every art gallery and gift shop in the mountains, twisting the arms of the owners. Jackie was able to provide Lyndy an address in Crestline; a home and studio complex Tigerlilly apparently shared with an assortment of oddball roommates. She and Jackie made an agreement, that if Jackie would bring the Mustang back up the hill, they could swap for the Jetta.

It took several hours to clean the cabin, but Lyndy didn’t want Kyle returning home to a messy house—after Maribel, Fall River was his pride and joy. Becky would’ve done that at least. She had a lot of time to think; about how foolish she’d been trying to take on the impound yard scammers by herself. And about the unknown criminal ring at the heart of it, folks who might be just a little peeved at her going “full Hulk-mode”, utterly demolishing their illegal business. Course, she’d warned them.

While Mari took a nap, Lyndy made a list of ingredients for meals in the coming week. She wanted to cook something special for Kyle, having it ready when he arrived. It didn’t seem like anything else could go sideways.

You know the feeling, “what else could possibly go wrong?”

Preparing for an uneventful trip to the grocery store, Lyndy put sleepy Mari in her car seat, belting it down in the black Range Rover. She didn’t bother styling her hair.

There were two supermarkets serving the Arrowhead area worth shopping in. Of these, only one carried the yuppyish foods Kyle preferred—meaning a kind of Whole Food’s establishment. And every store here came with the customary for the mountains, cramped parking spaces. Lyndy was minding her own business, simply trying to snag a spot when she happened to pull-in next to another Range Rover. Because nearly all Range Rovers are glossy black, these two parked next to each other were identical twins.

Reaching for her purse, Lyndy made an important mental note that Kyle’s over-priced luxury SUV was the one parked on the right.

Then as she unbelted the car seat, Lyndy heard a hauntingly familiar voice, that of an ex-bestie. “You made the front page of the paper,” announced the female.

It was Rita Lovelace—living legend—in the bratty flesh. If Lyndy hadn’t known for a fact she was deadpan sober, she might’ve chalked this up to a hallucination.

Even so, every muscle fiber in Lyndy’s body contracted at once. She whipped around, spying a forty-year-old version of Miss Lovelace. Her deep brown hair, once flawless and uniform, had strands of silver mixing in—though still chest length and straight. Her eyebrows seemed to have taken the brunt of the graying hit. She maintained full, neatly trimmed bangs which served to hide them. This added a certain youthful radiance. Her lips were thinner, face had creases and age spots peppered across her nose. Lyndy had those too, though Rita’s were easily covered in makeup.

No hello.

No greetings of any kind were exchanged. Legend had it breaking up with a close female friend was harder than breaking up with a man. Lyndy was starting to believe this.

Rita had been in the midst of re-arranging sacks of groceries in the back of her vehicle, but paused to deliver her one-liner.

“I did what?” That was all Lyndy could think to say.

“You made the cover of the paper,” Rita repeated, with a sneer, belying something juicy Rita knew and Lyndy didn’t. By this coy tone, Lyndy knew it must not be anything flattering on that paper.

Lyndy raised one eyebrow. “Huh? How so?”

“One sec,” added Rita, turning sideways and squeezing between an adjacent car to unlock her driver’s door. Opening the door a crack, she retrieved a folded newspaper from the side pocket. With a proud smile, Rita returned to face Lyndy, letting the paper flop open.

At the top of the color picture was Maribel, looking cute with a bow in her hair. Next to her, The Spitfire, flat on her back on a picnic blanket. Her chestnut hair was a mess, some of it tangled in strands across her face. She was obviously asleep, sprinkled in a handful of French fries while seagulls were pecking at the food. A half-eaten cheeseburger had fallen loose from her right hand. Behind the mother and daughter pair, the glistening lake, always pleasant and inviting.

Lyndy’s jaw dropped. “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

It was hard to imagine a less flattering picture, at least with clothing on. And there were a number of doozy snapshots in the wild from her cocktail and dancer days. Out of perhaps the ten worst, this one took top prize.

The caption read: “Being a mom is hard!” It was touted as the “Picture of the Week”. Swell. Lyndy snatched the paper straight out of Rita’s hand. “Oh. My. God.” Lyndy mouthed. Her first thought, “What if Kyle sees this?” But then she thought about the contingent of other lake moms. These Martha Stewart wannabes, who watch the show and take notes—Lyndy was a laughingstock.

“Nice overalls,” teased Rita, with a snort.

Lyndy glanced up, wondering if her ex-best-friend would be diabolical enough to plan something like this. No words were needed, as they could practically read one-another’s mind.

“Me?” questioned Rita, touching a hand to her chest. “Definitely not. I hate to admit, I’m not as clever as whichever evil genius planned this. Plus, why would I want to humiliate you when you do such a grand job of it on your own?”

Lyndy had momentarily forgotten she was holding the handle of the car seat.

“You’re gonna die old and alone,” said Lyndy coldly. “No one will come visit you.”

Unsure where this venom came from, the words stung Lyndy more to say, and she felt her knees buckle. Her stomach turned. She wished she could take it back.

Rita blinked and fluttered her eyelids, as if the insult had a physical effect. Rita’s retort: “Are you done projecting?”

Lyndy gazed at the picture somberly.

Rita sniffed. “I was gonna say something nice about your baby, but I changed my mind.” She hit a button on her key fob, automatically making her motorized tailgate close and latch—in those days it was a major flex to have that feature. Pivoting, key in hand, Rita departed without saying another word.

As she paced the aisles of the store all the fun of shopping had melted away. Lyndy’s eyes teared up more than once, and the biggest reason she wanted to kick herself for being so rude: Rita was probably the only person who might help unravel the mystery of the torn page. Stupid!

Lyndy Life Observation: In the 80s, at the Barstow Sheriff substation one could file a crime report on a pre-printed form which included two carbon copies. Prior to the description, there were several check boxes depending on which unfortunate event happened to you and laws broken. You know, person-on-person crimes such as: assault, theft, robbery, fraud, criminal threat, violation of restraining order and lastly, they had a box for “hurt feelings”. Which I’m pretty sure meant just a pat on the back and nothing more.

In the old-old days, one could dress in a UPS driver costume pretending to have an enticing delivery for the fugitive to sign for. “Gee, someone sent me a package?” Or the old “census taker” disguise. That was a CBB bounty hunter trick going way back. And because of how stupid you had to be to fall for it, it rarely worked.

They called it the Land-Shark. It got so some neighborhoods; no one would ever answer the door for legit reasons.

Anyhow, Jackie Cordray had done a decent job of tracking down Tigerlilly’s address. If she’d had more time, Lyndy would’ve conjured up an excuse. But she could think of no such reason to visit that wasn’t silly.

She left Maribel in the loving care of Helen for an hour, while she decided to pay a test visit as herself. A check of the trusty Thomas Guide led to a homestead in Lake Gregory, only a fifteen-minute drive from Kyle’s place. While Dr. Ellis’s cabin was in mostly immaculate condition, this two-story farmhouse had seen more than a few harsh winter seasons. It might’ve started life as someone’s vacation home, perhaps for a wealthy individual living in the LA basin, nearer to the coast. But with the ensuing decades and few repairs, the shabby place had seen better days.

An unpaved trail through a tunnel of trees, three-hundred feet in length, served as a driveway. There were no parking pads, just a grassy clearing where three other vehicles were stowed haphazardly. One of these was a Toyota mini-pickup with a cracked windshield.

After shifting the Range Rover to park, Lyndy slid out and tightened her boot laces. Tapping against the screen door, the smell of bacon frying tickled her nose. Note it was 10 in the morning. She could see shadows of figures through the mesh.

A man’s voice cried, “come in”.

Lyndy adjusted her purse before pressing on the door with an elbow. Stepping inside to the main floor—wood slats creaking as she moved—Lyndy entered one of the most bizarre living situations she ever encountered. Working for Chan, she thought she’d seen it all.

A neglected toddler stood in the far corner, petting a seated, panting goat. The toddler’s eyes were milky-white, as though he were blind. A mustached man, roughly 30 years of age sat at the breakfast table. She couldn’t help staring at his eccentric outfit choice: jeans rolled up to the ankles, suspenders, no short, socks or shoes. This left his arms, chest and stomach exposed—also displaying many tattoos. On no man would this have been a sexy look, and unfortunately this white dude was one of those skinny guys with a physique like he’d never touched a weight in his life.

He grinned as Lyndy entered, smoothing his greasy mustache hair. His eyes were shifting, like those of a hyperactive kid. Lyndy allowed her own eyes to wander some more.

In the kitchen frying eggs was another golden-haired woman, perhaps twenty-five. The attractive “babe” wore underwear and a torn, half-shirt. Somehow, she had more exposed skin than the dude.

The goat bleated. Nothing said hillbilly like livestock in your residence. Lyndy checked her watch, trying to remember what decade it was and her own age.

“Who might you be?” questioned the man.

Lyndy was preparing to introduce herself when a new character, a brunette, came dashing down from the second floor. This female—also youthful and model-like—had been dressed in nurse scrubs. While taking the stairs she’d been in the process of stuffing her hair into a scrunchie. She seemed flustered, possibly late for work.

When the woman spotted Lyndy, she froze in her tracks. “Uh hello?”

So far, neither female was Tigerlilly.

“Hi, sorry to intrude on your … uh,” Lyndy stammered. To whatever this was. “My name is Lyndy. I’m a local mom, thinking about enrolling a student in Crestwood Academy. You know, where Tigerlilly teaches art… and uh …. I was hoping to speak with her.”

The dude nodded. “Bout what?” he demanded.

All eyes were suddenly on Lyndy. Even the blind toddler and the goat awaited her answer. At least the male’s response confirmed the address.

“I’m also something of art collector,” declared Lyndy. Cause that sounded believable!

The fellow sniffed, leering her up and down, probably undressing her with his eyes. The other two ladies said nothing.

Lyndy wanted to ask bluntly whether Tigerlilly was in, but Chan always taught her to assume a fugitive was home. It was best to leave the question unsaid, letting co-occupants and roommates fill in the details.

Hard to tell if it was simply her presence or the fact she wanted to speak with Tigerlilly making everyone nervous.

“Are you a cop?” asked the fellow, who had yet to get up from the table.

The girl in the kitchen flipped the sizzling bacon using a spatula.

“Obviously not,” answered Lyndy. “Do I look like a cop?”

The man pushed back from his chair. His knees bumping against the table caused the silverware to crash into the plates, making that clinking sound.

“I can take you to her,” he said.

Gasoline and Matches Part-11

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Gasoline and Matches: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-11

Lake Arrowhead, CA 1990s

Lyndy Life Observation: Behind the counter at the Vanishing Point was a well-loved copy of the board game Smess, and I used to play against lonely dudes like Lt. Col. Rickman, while simultaneously on the clock cocktail waitressing. Cathy did the same. I don’t know which bothered Rickman more. The fact I was a 23-year-old woman, or the fact that it was such a stupid game and he was still unable to beat me.

Helen’s eyes were wide and cheeks flush. She pointed anxiously to the metal bat. “Did … did you manage to scare em off with that?”

“Dios mios,” thought Lyndy. She’d fallen asleep with it balanced on her chest. Obviously, it tumbled off sometime in the wee hours. Landed on the hardwood floor, probably leaving a permanent dent. Thank goodness it wasn’t the Beretta. Now that would be terrifying.

“Uhhhh….” Lyndy always hated to lie, only at this point the truth was even more absurd sounding. “Note to self. I really need to see someone about this narcolepsy.”

Lyndy turned to reassure Helen. “Ummm, you’re right. Yep, I frightened them off. They saw me chasing and the rascals got scared.”

Fanning herself to keep from hyperventilating, Helen’s irregular breathing gradually returned to normal. “Are you … sure you’re, okay?” she asked in a much calmer voice.

“I’m fine,” Lyndy assured, holding out a hand. “Just a little banged up.”

“But … who would do this to you? Why didn’t you call the police?”

After straightening her shirt, Lyndy raced madly around the kitchen island, collecting dirty dishes in her arms to shove into the open dishwasher. She was thinking how to answer, and how best to handle this delicate Helen situation. Cause it would be hard for her to comprehend—even for a sympathetic individual like Helen.

Her concerns ran much deeper than the present situation. She needed friends up here. A mom without friends was a mom without an excuse to get her hair done. Or have a play date. Hillary Clinton once said: “it takes a village.” Wise words. This mountain town certainly qualified, especially if you saw it covered in snow and stretched your definition of “village” to include ski-chalets. Or maybe it was the void of not having a best friend, following the Rita split. Either way she couldn’t run the risk of driving potential friends away.

Helen pointed to the baby. “So then, how is little Maribel? Unharmed, thank goodness?”

Setting the dishes in a heap, Lyndy rushed to the pack-n-play arrangement. Hovering over and breathing a sigh of relief, Lyndy made the sign of the cross. “Yes. Her normal active self. But uh, yeesh. P-U!” Lyndy remarked, pinching her nose. “She needs a changing pronto.” Lyndy exhaled with her arms at her sides. Passing a hand over her totally bare and neglected-ly shaven thighs, she felt a twinge of embarrassment. She literally had nothing on but a tank and thin cotton panties.

Clearing her throat and shifting her perspective back to Helen, Lyndy added, “Ya know, lemme throw some clothes on quick. “Help yerself to a …,” twirling a finger, “a cold Zima if you want.”

Helen nodded, still somewhat in shock.

Alone in the bedroom, Lyndy whipped off her shirt. From the uppermost drawer of the oak dresser, she snatched a pair of sweats and a fresh t-shirt, pulling them on. She threw the bloody clothes in a pile, near the hamper, making a mental note she needed to burn those.

Dashing up the steps, returning to the top floor, Lyndy found Helen crouching near to the pack-n-play, holding out a finger so Maribel could wrap her tiny hands and practice her grip. Mari was smiling ear to ear, her face mesmerized. She adored Helen Mason for some reason.

Bending over the soft webbing, Lyndy scooped Mari in her arms, exclaiming: “Alrighty vanilla bean, the diaper police have caught you red handed! You are being detained.”

Helen chuckled.

Transporting the precious cargo against her chest, Lyndy beckoned Helen to follow her. She led the way to the lower floors of the cabin, careful not to rush the steep knotty pine stairs with a baby in tow.

“Okay Helen, I need to share something with you, but you have got to promise me this secret stays between us. Can I trust you?”

“Mmm-Hmmm,” Helen murmured, trailing Lyndy down the stairs. “Of course.”

At the changing table, Lyndy rested the smiling baby on her back. She undid the sticky tabs on the soiled diaper, prepping the powder and a package of moist wipes. “Helen, you should sit down for this,” warned Lyndy.

Backing up, Helen tested Lyndy’s rocking chair, the only seating in the nursery suitable for an adult. Attracted by the beautiful finish work, Helen traced her fingertips across the smooth side handles. She then studied the animal mobile, suspended above the crib.

Lyndy set her gaze on this charming young woman, with her wavy dye-blonde hairdo and petite frame. She couldn’t have been older than 30 or 31, possessing a certain innocence from this angle. Yet now her cheery countenance had been tempered, replaced by a solemn, thoughtful look in her eyes.

To this day, Lyndy Martinez counted on one hand the circle of women entrusted with her deepest secrets. Even opening up to Catherine Cookson or Rita, had come after a lengthy process of getting to know them. Yet something about Helen—a genuineness—made her seem worthy of trust.

“Can you believe I didn’t change a single diaper until I was forty? Now look at me.” Lyndy chuckled, shifting her attention back on wiping Mari clean with a wet wipe, while she spoke. It made it easier in some ways, not having to look Helen in the eye. “But listen, ever since I was in my teens I’ve had a unique set of … abilities.”

“Okay,” said Helen uneasily, letting Lyndy know she had her attention.

“Some might call it a gift. But I don’t.” Lyndy shrugged, without turning around. She continued wiping Mari clean, but doing so gently to prevent a rash or irritation. “When I find myself in a tense situation—the heat of battle—I take on this alternate persona. It’s called The Spitfire.”

Lyndy paused for a laugh or scoff from Helen. Meantime Mari kept shoving her fingers in her mouth, chewing on them.

“Point is when I’m this other person, it gives me super-human stamina,” continued Lyndy. “More strength and fighting abilities. You might say increased brainpower too.” She sprinkled a dash of the baby powder, rolling the baby side to side to make sure her tiny butt cheeks were lightly coated. “There’s no obvious transition—not outwardly. But when it happens, I can feel it inside. It’s there.”

Lyndy turned, locking eyes with Helen who’d been keeping her hands in her lap. She’d been listening intently.

“That’s how I managed to survive all the crazy circumstances I found myself in, working for Chan’s Bail Bonds. And later, when I was a bodyguard for Rita Lovelace.”

“How did you acquire this gift?” questioned Helen.

“There’s no scientific explanation—if that’s what you mean—other than it seems to run in my family on the Martinez side.” Lyndy paused to fasten the sticky tabs on the fresh diaper. Mari seemed relieved. A huge smile formed on her face as she looked deeply into the brown eyes of her mother. In kind, Lyndy’s heart swelled with joy. “An alternate theory is it may have been passed down to me by a woman named Mabel Dixon. She was the warden at a youth detention center where I was locked up. But we don’t need to get into that.”

Lifting Mari into her arms, Lyndy twirled around, facing Helen.

“The reason I’m telling you this is … well … I’ve been moonlighting as a private investigator since I was in my early twenties. Believe me, I tried putting an end to this life years ago, but I just can’t seem to shake it out of my system. That, and Miss Lovelace keeps sending new clients my way. Used to be only her father would do it, but now her too. Last night, I got in a dust-up cause I needed that black car sitting in the driveway. That’s why I’m bruised. It’s a missing teen’s car actually.”

Lyndy stuffed Mari into a clean onesie, poking each chubby wrist through the sleeve holes one at a time. Once smoothed enough to cover her belly and torso, Lyndy buttoned the flap between her legs.

“Wait. That name sounds familiar.” Helen blinked her eyes, shaking her head. “I thought I heard you say you were a bodyguard for Rita Lovelace—you mean the Rita Lovelace?”

Lyndy nodded yes.

“World-famous model who made the cover of Vogue two times? Wow, I loved her. She was huge! Like, she was a super-model before supermodels were a thing!”

“That’s right.” Lyndy rocked her daughter by swaying her hips side-to-side. Flicking a finger, she spun the mobile for Mari, allowing her to watch and reach out, grasping for the colorful animals.

“Oh my gosh. How did I not know this amazing fact about you?”

Next Helen lowered her chin, gripping the arms while slumping deeper in the chair. Her cheeks drooped and her nose began to twitch, as she sniffed. “Well, to tell the truth, in spite of outward appearances I was mostly unprepared for the trials of motherhood. My own mom did a poor job teaching me anything of value. I knew only what you see on TV. Which is all crap by the way. Also, I once broke up with a nice guy cause I didn’t believe he had enough future earning potential.” She exhaled loudly. “We were genuinely love. And now … now I’m worried I might’ve made the wrong decision. And for what?”

Lyndy rubbed her eyes, not knowing what to say. “Uhmm. Alrighty. Why did you tell me that?”

Helen’s shoulders began to heave. Her voice cracked with heartfelt emotion. “I thought like, it was a bonding moment and we were sharing each other’s secrets?”

“No, it’s not really that kind of moment, Helen. I was telling you all this now so you understood why I appear disheveled, and there’s a strange car in the driveway. By the way, you cannot share any of this prior conversation with your husband. It’s all off limits. Do you understand?”

“Oh, sorry, you’re right,” said Helen, wiping her nose with the back of her palm, getting herself together. “Look at me, I’m a mess too.” She made a hand motion like someone zipping up their lips.

Lyndy nodded to the garage. “Rotten part is, I already searched that damn Jetta twice last night. Which means, I basically kicked the asses of three grifters for nothing.”

Reaching into the tiny key pocket of her yoga pant ensemble, Helen began fishing for something. “Well, that reminds me. I found something strange on the floor of your garage.”

“You did? What?”

“This,” said Helen, holding out a tan piece of paper from a cheaply printed book. The scrap of paper was both torn and hand rolled, like someone had been using it as a makeshift cigarette wrapper. Made sense why she hadn’t seen it in the night, as a cigarette falling out a car wouldn’t have been terribly obvious or unusual.

Wonder Valley, CA 1990s

Lyndy Life Observation: Rochelle Bishop auditioned to be a presenter on a popular TV game show. Mind you she was a well-regarded dancer prior to this, and worked off and on as a cocktail waitress in several prominent night clubs. At the end of her audition, the TV producers told her they loved her energy, quick wit and contagious smile. They even said she was probably the best choice for the job, only she was about 50 pounds heavier than the role required. Too bad. As they called “next”, Rochelle stormed off, saying it took every ounce of self-control not to flip all the tables in the room.

Striking a match against the gritty side of a paper matchbox, Debbie Kowalski watched her tiny spark flicker to life. Sheltering the flame from the sundowner breeze, she undid the metal latch of a dusty storm lantern—the kind made of stamped tin—then transferred the tiny orange flame to the cotton wick.

The glass orb, cracked yet mostly intact, did a great job of protecting the wick.

Due to extreme isolation the Wonder Valley homestead wasn’t connected to the grid. A sliver of moon high in the east was lovely, but didn’t suffice as a work light. With twilight fading, Debbie would need this lantern if she wanted to continue the act of mending things. Her ultimate goal: working her way to the lofty triumph of getting one of two non-operating autos to move under their own power. Using scrap plywood and some cinder blocks, Debbie fashioned a work-bench of sorts, which she could sit cross-legged in front of.

Tucked amongst jumbled scrap piles, near to the precious rock collection, was the old geezer’s tool chest. Above her, limbs of two blue palo verde trees had grown interconnected, providing a canopy of sorts spanning the junk patch. From one of the low branches Debbie affixed the lantern. This then was her shop-light.

Placing a fist in front of her mouth, she yawned.

Perhaps one positive about the Mojave sun going down was the heat breaking. With her headache subsiding, having re-hydrated on warm Yoo-Hoo, Debbie felt like she could think clearly again. Though as her senses returned, she wished for a shower so she didn’t have to smell her own sweaty B-O.

For some reason the overly dramatic intro theme to Dallas was stuck on repeat in her head. She didn’t even like the show. Only her mother did. But that tune was an ear-worm. Nothing she could do about it, but a possible cure if she could get a radio working.

She next turned her attention to a small, cheaply made transistor radio liberated from the porch rail of the old geezer’s cabin. It was a Grayco model sold at Woolworth stores, possibly from the late 1950s. Pursing her lips, Debbie blew away cobwebs and the most egregious layer of dust.

Some might call it a warm up—an easy task to get her electrical problem-solving juices flowing again.

With a no-name brand screwdriver, Debbie undid three of the corner screws, allowing her to detach the plastic cover. The back portion snapped off easily, exposing copper coils, transistors, capacitors, diodes and amplifiers. Being an older device, the circuit board was shockingly primitive. Re-positioning it under the glow of the lantern Debbie inspected the parts. She’d anticipated the batteries were oozing their guts out or the tubes were blackened. But an eyeball inspection revealed nothing insurmountable.

Clawing out the 9V battery, she touched the terminals to her moistened lips, testing it. Sure enough—bit of a jolt. Thus, some juice left in it.

The antenna was a ferrite core type, common in those days, wrapped with fifteen or so feet of copper wire strand. Debbie traced the path from the antenna, through the amplifiers, the tuning circuit, to the intermediate stage and lastly to the cone speaker.

After a moment of deep thought she reasoned the cause. The wire feeding the single cone speaker had frayed to nothing, or else a small critter had devoured the insulating material. The connection subsequently shorted against the case clamps and melted away.

Scratching her head, Debbie supposed the best remedy was to harvest some of the fresh copper wire off the antenna coil itself—it had more than enough. She could use this to field repair the severed connection.

Pulling the knobs on the drawers of an old craftsman tool box, she found they wouldn’t budge. Rusted shut. She yanked harder, in hunt for a pair of wire cutters. As it broke loose a sudden eye motion and the head of a reptile poked out at her, causing Debbie to jump back.

All her muscles seized. Having lived damn near half her life out west, she had a healthy fear of pit vipers. Her tiny hairs stood on end and goose bumps formed on her arms.

Funny thing though, the creature seemed rather cordial, tilting its head like a curious bird. If this animal could talk, it would probably sound like Kermit the Frog.

Recovering from a mini-heart attack, Debbie studied it. This creature was no snake, rather a lizard with gecko-eyes and shimmering, moist skin. With a calmer attitude and a little more light, she recognized the species—an unusual one. These were called granite night lizards, and they had some curious abilities.

If one of her university professors saw this—the wacky reptile guy with the white hair whom she could never remember the name of—he’d be excited.

The night lizard shared traits in common with chameleons. If one were patient enough, their glossy scales would literally change color before your eyes, in the course of a minute or two. Thus, the unusual shimmering nature of the skin. The little guy had adapted to the dull brown of the tool bin, which is why he’d been hard to spot.

Cupping her fingers, Debbie encouraged the friendly lizard to walk onto her palm. He did so with halting, bird-like movement while his eyes studied her. Gently, she offered him a magic carpet ride to a nearby crevice in the trees where he could watch her in safety, while she opened and closed the drawers on the tool bin.

The palo verdes had been imported, however it seemed likely the semi-circular cluster of palm trees were native. Their roots ran deep, thirty or forty feet—predating the cabin—tapping into an underground water source. Which meant indigenous peoples had camped here, likely for centuries. Perhaps the lizards had been brought here by one of these ancient desert-dwelling tribes, transported from a habitat hundreds of miles away.

Another surprising characteristic—these lizards gave birth live. Something about that was unsettling in a reptile. Debbie got the willies thinking about a lizard giving birth.

Cringing, she remembered her halfway toxic mother figure—the woman who could watch Dallas and seem to enjoy it. The voice she used when she lectured Debbie that boys simply wouldn’t be interested in a girl who outwitted them in math, chemistry or worse, had superior mechanical abilities when it came to tools. Add to this, Debbie’s looks were nothing to write home about. Though unspoken, her metabolism and chubby features didn’t match whatever expectations her mother had for how she wanted a daughter to look. Her old-fashioned mother warned her that men liked to be the ones who repaired things and balanced the checkbook.

Her advice was to fake like she couldn’t do math. Debbie rolled her eyes as she twisted the fraying copper strands. She snipped it to the correct length with the rusty, but otherwise functional diagonal cutters.

Unfortunately for her mother, Debbie had been born a scientist—a gifted one at that. When once measured, it was discovered her IQ was almost off the charts. And yet being born a female, that didn’t count for much. On days like this Debbie often wondered if her mother was correct about a thing or two.

Tightening down the wire with the screwdriver, she flipped the radio around. Everything should be attached.

Switching it on, she tuned the dial right-to-left to see if any stations were within range. She half expected a religious sermon, or perhaps Spanish language programming. But no such. She heard music, cutting faintly through the noise.

Debbie tuned it again, twisting the silver-white knob. She could hear a sweet thumping guitar rhythm. Next, she twisted the volume knob, recognizing a familiar masculine voice. The voice of a man born to rock. He was so cool, people called him “the boss.”

Debbie couldn’t help strutting her shoulders, and soon thrusting her hips—miming the way Cathy Cookson or Lyndy Martinez would dance together next to the jukebox at the VP. They were both good dancers. That song was fire!

Debbie stood up and did a little whirl. Closing her eyes, she almost forgot how miserable she was. Maybe this was an omen. Men absolutely loved it when Lyndy and Cathy danced at the V-P. And sometimes Debbie would watch them, fantasizing about being cool.

The song was a B-side originally, not commonly played on the radio. Pink Cadillac.

Debbie was wise enough to know there were branches of physics yet to be discovered, and resonant frequencies which bridged the divide between space and time. Which is why, she couldn’t help feeling someone might be sending her a coded message. Who?

Who indeed.

Gasoline and Matches Part-8

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I like how there’s a business called Dairy King (as opposed to Dairy Queen) with a two-tone forward control Jeep truck parked in front. Good stuff. -ASC

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.

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-6

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Gasoline and Matches: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-6

29 Palms, CA, 1990s

Lyndy Life Observation: At one of her big Tucson birthday bashes, Rita was depressed about turning 36. Obviously, she was difficult to shop for. Someone must’ve forgotten to purchase a gift—or understandably not thought of anything—and amongst the pile of scarfs, aroma therapy candles, sun hats and champagne bottles she found an index card, with a handwritten note that said: “coupon for one free back rub”. Rita was annoyed, so much so, she contemplated flying to wherever this lady lived and demanding her back rub.

Sergei—owner-operator of Godzilla Towing—was unwilling to budge on the absurd price of eight thousand dollars for a simple tow.

“But I’m a AAA member?” the customer argued. “I have towing coverage.”

“Sergei is not affiliated with AAA,” the owner answered. “Sorry.”

Block and his unnamed driver compadre menaced the timid stranger each time he happened to check his surroundings. The poor father said his kids were hot, exhausted and he needed to get his car back. Sergei shrugged.

Mind you it was well after midnight.

Further, the family-man customer also claimed that his yearly annual salary was only 24 thousand dollars, and most of his savings would be eroded if he had to pay their unfair price. Again, Sergei shrugged it off.

Then to Lyndy’s astonishment, the family man wrote a check for the same amount. He could’ve gone out and purchased a good used car for that. Sergei made a copy of the man’s driver’s license, presumably so he could nail him to a wall in case it bounced.

“We need to chat pronto,” whispered Lyndy, looping her arm through Jackie’s while pushing open the exit door. A part of her wondered if that steel door had a secret button to lock it. Whether or not it did, Sergei allowed the pair to exit, Lyndy pulling Jackie with her.

Outside in the glare of the yellow streetlamps, Lyndy folded her arms while Jackie leaned against the car. Both their hearts were racing, and sweat had begun accumulating on Lyndy’s exposed skin.

She gazed at the barricades protecting the car storage area. Unfortunately, she couldn’t spot the Jetta from here. Next Lyndy studied the front of Godzilla Towing, where the office connected to the one and only gate. The arms of their gate were constructed of the same ten-inch water pipe as the rest of the fence line. They had a guard shack, made entirely of iron, with a tiny peephole window. Behind the gate arm, another barrier, this one seeming to have been a shovel for an enormous CAT bulldozer. It was attached to the hydraulic system, which could raise and lower it. Currently the barrier was in the upright closed position, looking beefy enough to stop a tank. Any hole or gap had been stuffed with razor wire.

Bracing on the trunk of the Ford with both elbows, Jackie heaved a series of labored breaths. Her back arched up and down as she continued panting, letting out the tension. For a brief moment she appeared ready to throw up. Recovering some, Jackie twisted to face Lyndy, pinching her tiny crucifix. Still struggling with words, and now with tears pooling in her eyes, Jackie spoke in a halting speech pattern. “Maybe … maybe I can go to a bank branch tomorrow … start the process of moving funds? They probably have one in Redlands.” Jackie slapped her hands lightly at her cheeks, feeling light headed.

“I disagree. No F-ing way we pay these creeps ransom money,” argued Lyndy. “In any case, let’s not make the decision in front of em. We need to jet; work this out someplace else.”

Moving swiftly to the driver’s door, Lyndy ducked into the bucket seat while Jackie circled to the passenger side.

As Lyndy inserted her key, the office door flung open and the tallest man in the overalls and wife-beater came striding out, showing amusement on his rectangular face. In his right arm Block casually brandished a Kalashnikov, pacing with the muzzle pointed toward the ground. The curved magazine was inserted, but no way to tell if it was loaded. Best to assume yes.

He gestured with his chin. “Classic car!”

Lyndy narrowed her eyes. “I’ll be back,” she shouted, over the roar of the motor.

She couldn’t hear his response, but Block’s chapped lips mouthed something like: “I’ll be waiting.”

Block continued mad-dogging her as Lyndy slammed it in reverse, performed an expert Rockford turn, then kicked up a rooster tail of sand as she accelerated away from the parking area.

A half mile later, they veered off pavement at a McDonald’s franchise with an outdoor patio. Due to the early hour the restaurant was closed, doors inside locked and the play place looking rather austere. The parking lot was devoid of customers.

Lyndy hopped a smallish brick wall to enter the patio and reluctantly, Jackie followed. Crickets were chirping loudly in the night—seemed like a plague of them.

“What if they follow us?” she whispered in a worrisome tone.

“They won’t,” stated Lyndy confidently.

Jackie shivered, not from the cold but the surge of adrenaline.

Positioned along the cement walkway to the restaurant entry, were a series of newspaper dispensers. Two of these were for real newspapers. The third in line, contained a free copy of Truck-Trader.

“Oh perfect!” remarked Lyndy, dashing to the display unit. Lifting the lid made the hinges creak—piercing the calm—but she yanked out a fresh copy. This three-quarter inch printed volume came chock full with advertisements for trucks available in the inland empire and high desert area. Best of all, most ads were private party.

Lyndy took a seat backwards in one of the plastic chairs, flopping the book on the table. She opened it straight to the last twenty or so-pages, containing the oddball vehicles.

Meantime a hot wind started blowing, lifting her permed hair and causing Lyndy to press the edge of the pages with a firm hand to keep it steady.

“What’re you planning?” Jackie questioned, beginning to puff on a sheltered Newport and bouncing her weight from ankle to ankle.

“I don’t know yet,” muttered Lyndy as she studied the pages, each comprising a dozen or so ads. After a few seconds she flipped the page to the next, holding her hair in one hand, keeping it from blowing around too much.

Prior to this, she’d never had much interest in the weird stuff. The back consisted mainly of rare makes, a category of kit cars, some homebrew Frankenstein shit and vehicles with unusual purposes. For example, circus trucks with big iron cages for moving gorillas and elephants. And trucks with ramps for motorcycle stunt shows.

“It’s never a good idea to fight people,” scolded Jackie. “I didn’t hire you to do that.”

Lyndy sniffed, ignoring the remarks.

“Why do we care about these rude men? We just need the Jetta,” Jackie pleaded.

“I fully agree with you. I don’t care about them,” The Spitfire replied. “But no effing way they’re getting what they want. We’re not paying them a penny.”

Jackie shrugged. “Where do we go from here? We need the car. We should pay them.” She commenced sucking on her cigarette, reminding Lyndy of someone trying to suck in a thick milkshake through a straw.

Lyndy exhaled, flipping to the next page in the book. “How many other private eyes have you worked with?”

“Two, not counting police detectives.”

“Did they get any results?” Lyndy knew the true answer before asking, but Jackie’s silence only served to confirm. “Look Jackie, you are welcome to hang back and stay safe. But it doesn’t matter what you want. I’m going to destroy that place.”

“You have a death wish. You’re insane!” shouted Jackie, and she stormed off.

Lyndy breathed a sigh of momentary relief. She continued to study the pages. Two ads caught her attention. The first was a White Manufacturing cabover diesel semi-truck, which was not outfitted for long-haul freighting. Rather, the White diesel was for rugged use in ports, for moving heavy containers over short distance. How it ended up in the desert was anyone’s guess. The second, another unusual make, was a Coleman aircraft tug.

Given the two were equally enticing, Lyndy favored the Coleman Tug, because that vehicle was advertised as being located in Joshua Tree.

Jackie had marched to the highway by herself. She didn’t get very far. She’d looped back and then sat down on a table, facing the road. “Jesus would say turn the other cheek,” she muttered.

Lyndy popped the cap on a bottle of Tab she’d saved in the trunk, taking a series of long gulps. “Maybe so. But remember, Jesus also flipped over a bunch of tables at the temple cause he was pissed at the money changers. So in that sense … ” Lyndy trailed off.

A small tremble of a smile formed on Jackie’s face.

“By the way, I haven’t been to confession in like 8 years.”

Jackie’s arms were open wide, her fingers dangling in air on both sides of the table. A detectable tremor also lingered in her extremities, and her feet continued bouncing heel to toe. The effect of the excitement had long worn off on Lyndy.

“Are you okay?”

Leaning her head all the way back, til her eyes were pointed at the stars in the Milky Way, Jackie let out a slow breath. “Yes. It’s just, I don’t think I’ve felt anything in a while. I’ve been numb to it all … other than grief. I honestly forgot what the sensation of living was like.”

5:50 AM, Lake Arrowhead, CA 1990s

She awoke to a frightening, chaotic scene, and a sound she hoped to never endure again. It was terrifying, the room in shadow, hearing the man she loved moaning in pain. Men were more sensitive to pain, yet his cries were genuine.

For a brief instant, Lyndy didn’t know where she was. Darkness still covered the cabin, and dawn’s first light illuminated only the tips of the pines. Meaning an early hour.

Thrashing side to side, she felt the sheets of their bed all bunching and crinkled up. Using her fists, Lyndy grasped onto anything she could. In the cold darkness, her vision was blurry. She could hear Kyle writhing on the floor in the fetal position. From the next room, the baby began to whine and cry, hearing the commotion.

Lyndy jumped out of bed into a fighting stance, ready to do battle with any lurking creature she could find. Funny part was, there didn’t seem to be any invaders in the room. Her head swiveled about, but the only other person was Kyle, in typical sleeping attire: boxers and a white under shirt. Her first thought was, “how did he fall out of bed?”

Through gritted teeth, he began to speak: “God damn you. You kicked me and threw me out of bed.”

Lyndy began feeling guilty.

“You kicked me right in the stomach.”

“Oh my God! Oh my God!” she exclaimed, rushing to the side of her boyfriend. Crouching down, Lyndy grabbed onto his shoulder in a panic. “Are you okay?”

He took a breath, letting it out slowly. “Somehow you pulled me sideways, flipped me and then thrust me against the wall.” Looking over to the wall, she could see he’d bounced off the decorative birch bark wainscotting. That stuff was not easily damaged.

“Is … is anything broken?” Reflexively she began checking him, feeling along his arms and legs for broken bones.

“What the hell got into you?” Kyle demanded. “You were having a bad dream. I simply reached over to comfort you.” He groaned, rolling onto his back out of the fetal position. Still, his eyes remained squinted shut.

Becky would never let this happen.

Lyndy sat up on her knees. She was in her sleeping shirt and panties. “Sorry.” She kissed him on the cheek though he was still writhing.

The baby’s cries became louder. Lyndy sniffed and instinctively changed her voice to a tone of tenderness and caring. “Want me to bring you ice?”

“No.”

“I feel awful. Are you gonna be okay?”

He nodded his head.

She pointed to the next room. “I’d better go comfort Maribel.”

“Getting my ass kicked by my girlfriend is one way to wake up,” Kyle lamented. “Not my favorite though.”

Lyndy frowned in shame.

By breakfast time, tensions at Fall River had cooled some. Mari was content watching baby cartoons. Kyle still seemed upset, and just a tad suspicious. He glared at her while spooning corn flakes into his mouth. “What were you dreaming about?” he kept asking. But she couldn’t remember, except fighting was involved.

She wanted to ask him about the mystery glitter substance. Didn’t seem like the right time though.

Lyndy Life Observation: At one of the contracting companies where Col Rickman worked, someone left behind one of those gimmicky LED retirement clocks on their desk. If you’ve never seen one, it basically has an always-on display which counts down the days—stupid I know. Rickman punched in the year and month he anticipated retiring, and the thing reset to a number in excess of 5000 days! He said it was a real punch to his gut, ruining the rest of his week.

She felt a little uncomfortable whenever she backed Kyle’s Land Rover out of the garage and down the hill. Growing up in an East LA barrio, it never felt right driving a yuppie automobile—like she stole it. Aunt Rose had a silly saying. Whenever someone would offer them a ride in a fancy vehicle, she’d decline, explaining: “that’s much too nice for us.” And Lyndy remembered hating Aunt Rose for saying this. What kind of fool turns down a ride? However, now that she’d grown close to the same age when Aunt Rose had uttered those words, Lyndy began to understand. What she meant was, she didn’t want to get too used to riding in a fancy car, because it made you desire the same for yourself. One could easily catch a bad case of new car fever. And pretty soon you’d be in debt, paying through the nose for a car you really couldn’t afford.

But another part of Lyndy loved this road boat. The stately British auto had plenty of power, and you sat high in the seat like riding a war horse. It wasn’t even bad in mountain curves. It had some kind of suspension dampeners which adjusted to the twisting road.

Better yet, the steering wheel was wrapped in exquisite leather.

She had an excuse for driving it. It held more groceries, especially for those mid-week Costco runs. But more importantly, it had attachments for car seats. The 67 Mustang had no such. In the sixties you just kind of set the baby on its back, hoping for the best I suppose. All in all, the Mustang was a bit of a death trap. And while Lyndy didn’t mind death wish cars, she certainly wasn’t about to subject Mari to the same.

She could see Maribel snoozing in the back of the SUV whenever she adjusted the rear-view mirror. It had one of those spiffy CD players in the dash. (That’s a plastic-coated metallic disk containing tunes for you younger folks). But the only CDs in the SUV were Kyle’s, and she didn’t care for his taste in music.

She’d dressed in an outfit suitable for a mountain housewife. Something Helen Mason would approve of. This was key to her mission. Mom jeans, earrings and a Pendleton shirt with her hair neatly done up. But not too proper.

In Lyndy’s pocket, she had a color photo of Sabina.

First order of business: Crestwood Academy. She needed to appear like the type of mother who would send her kid to a private school. Which probably meant looking like someone who watched Martha Steward and cared. Driving the right kind of car helped, one box checked. The missing element would be the voice. It would be tough to hide her roots in East LA. For while Lyndy’s appearance was pure north Mexican beauty, her voice gave her away. She had the SoCal accent, largely influenced by surfer culture.

The school had been positioned on a slanting plot of land, terraced into three big levels in the rolling hills of Redlands.

Gasoline and Matches Part-4

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Note the original Skyway Fantasyland station in the back near those pine trees. If you’ve been to Disneyland in the last 30 years or so, the change in this view is remarkable. Fun Fact: As a toddler I rode Dumbo and cried because the ride went so high in the air. -ASC

Gasoline and Matches: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-4

Wonder Valley, CA 1990s

Lyndy Life Observation: The absolute dumbest, bottom-of-the-barrel episode of The Brady Bunch had to be when Mike Brady installed that payphone next to the kitchen. Then later, there was some sort of afterhours business deal requiring Mr. Brady’s input, and of course he didn’t have enough change for the call. Couldn’t see that plot twist coming.

Arriving at the screen door, Debbie hesitated. She removed her hat, raking her curly hair away from her face, breathing a deep sigh. Half her water was used up and her hiking shirt was drenched in sweat. She knew she smelled awful.

Despite the fact the miner’s cabin appeared to be occupied, she still hadn’t detected any signs of motion from inside. No footsteps on the floor boards. No rustling of curtains.

The cabin included a shaded cement porch. This area had been swept clean of sand with a broom resting against a two-by-four, supporting the eve of the roof. Whomever lived here cared about this place. Course there weren’t any chairs to sit upon, but one of those plastic crates had been inverted. Presumably this was the exact spot where the cabin’s owner relaxed to take in the view.

Glancing to the water tank, mounted on stilts, she could see clear water dripping from a leaky spigot. This scant trickle had nourished hollyhock plants growing around it. Bees were buzzing near the large blooms or drinking from the puddle in this otherwise desiccated scene. Every once in a while, she heard the unmistakable hum of a hummingbird’s wings. How they survived out here she couldn’t guess.

She reached for the handle on the screen door, pulling it toward her. Like any screen door, it screeched in a most ear-buggering fashion, pivoting on rusty hinges and an overused spring mechanism. Behind the screen was a regular door, with most of its lead paint flaking away to bare woodgrain.

“Uh, hello?” Debbie called out, as she pounded a fist on the door.

Something similar to this happened in many a cheesy drive-in movie, and even in the famous Rocky Horror Picture Show, cept in the latter case that was a rainy night. Which sure would be nice.

When no one answered, Debbie cupped her fingers onto the latch handle and tested it. It turned. Pressing it about 45 degrees down, she felt the catch releasing from the frame. She assumed next she would just push it open. But then the face appeared.

This dude could’ve given the HBO “Crypt Keeper” a jump scare. His hair was ghostly white and so were his eye balls from untreated cataracts. He had wrinkles all over his face and huge liver spots on his arms.

Acting on pure instinct, Debbie reeled back off the porch. Then she noticed the 16-gauge shot gun in his hand. He gripped it in his left like one would carry a pipe wrench. Even the spot where his hand rested was noticeably shiner because the finish had worn off. When he gazed at her, his eyes were pointed roughly 30 degrees from center. Probably this was to “see around” his horrendous cataracts.

“H-H-H Howdy,” Debbie stammered. Was this a nightmare or reality she wondered?

“Nance, is that you?” asked the elderly man.

“Nance?” Debbie looked over her shoulder. Obviously, no one was standing behind her.

“Uh. My name is Debbie.”

You know that smell old people have? And the unexplained wheezing of someone in the normal course of breathing. Grandma Kowalski, when meeting a man in this condition would’ve made one of her snide remarks. Something like: “this gentleman has one foot in the grave and the other on a banana peel.”

Debbie pointed a finger far off in the distance. A tiny glint represented the windshield of her stuck Jeep, reflecting into the haze. “Sorry to disturb you, sir. I’ve had a breakdown a couple miles down the road.”

Again, it was difficult to tell whether he was looking at her, something in the horizon or a phantom of someone named Nance who wasn’t there.

Debbie forced her lips to curl into a smile. “You wouldn’t happen to have a phone, would you?”

“Why don’t you come in?” offered the man with a nod. Then he did an about face.

Something smelled off. But she figured everything smelled off. The situation was off.

“Pardon the clutter,” muttered the fellow, as he shuffled toward the kitchen. Indeed, rusty cans, old newspapers, mail and just about anything else littered the floor so that one could only pass in a narrow trench across the room. Even his jeans were coated in dust, looking as if they were last washed when Eisenhower was still president.

Letting the screen door slam behind, Debbie stepped across the threshold into what must be the entry and a one-time sitting room. She watched as the man set his gun against the wall, stock resting on the floor, in a position where it could easily fall over.

Passing through an archway and rounding the corner into the kitchen, her gaze fell upon the fifties style round kitchen table. In the nook, next to the window, her eyes caught sight of something which registered as a Halloween decoration. You know those life-size witches sold at big-box hardware stores? Families who were way too into Halloween put those in a chair on their porch, next to the bowl of candy. Sometimes they’d take it one step further, putting this witch’s fake rubbery hand into the bowl.

That’s what her brain told her she was seeing. Textbook movie scare. She almost began to laugh, and her rational person’s response would’ve been: “Nice decorations dude. Very amusing.”

Then she felt her internal organs spasm. Her heart ceased pumping, and her lungs involuntarily seized, making her gasp. “What the F is that?” Grabbing a fistful of her flannel shirt, Debbie pulled it over her mouth and nose, squinting her eyes. She began to gag, and if she’d had any food in her stomach she would’ve vomited right up.

“Oh sorry,” commented the man. “Ought to have warned you about that.” He stopped in his tracks, making that wheezing sound as he breathed. He stood perfectly still, almost in reverence.

You know how skin begins to dry and turn brown in the weeks and months after death. It becomes brittle, the texture of rawhide. Well probably you don’t. And why would you? But that’s what happens.

“That there is my late wife, Patty Sue. She passed about a year ago now,” he said, with a touch of sadness in his calm voice. “Haven’t had the heart to bury the old gal.”

Debbie’s legs felt weak and she lowered into a crouch. With both hands over her eyes, wishing she would wake up she began to whisper. “How … long … were … you … married,” she managed through gritted teeth. Then her coughing continued.

“Forty-three years,” said the old man proudly.

With her sense of balance restored, Debbie began gaining control of her gag reflex. She studied the partially mummified body before her. The dry air must’ve stemmed the decay. Course, the ladies’ eyes were totally gone, just black holes in the skin.

“You must be thirsty,” said the fellow. “How bout a Yoo-Hoo?”

“Is it cold?”

“No,” he answered bluntly. With a shaky hand he opened one of the lower cabinets. Inside was indeed a shelf full of Yoo-Hoo bottles with the yellow cap. “Lot’s of people think Yoo-Hoo is chocolate milk, but it’s not. It’s a chocolate drink—never goes bad.”

Lake Arrowhead, CA 1990s

Lyndy Life observation: Cathy Cookson’s mother once claimed to have cut back to just 2 cigarettes per day during her pregnancy with Cathy—for the sake of the baby.

Funny thing about stress dreams, they could take a wide variety of forms: from rabid dogs chasing you through misty woods, to accidentally driving your car off a series of cliffs, to having to perform a complex speaking part in a play at a crowded theater. But somehow you never even agreed to be in a play. Like how the hell did you get here? Was this Carnegie Hall? When did you sign up for this?

In this case it was learning a tricky dance number, a type of synchronized performance which could be surprisingly stressful. She was training for a show with Rochelle Bishop, a woman whom she always felt she needed to impress. In spite of how hard Lyndy tried, she couldn’t master the moves. Rochelle was becoming frustrated. And it pained Lyndy not being able to duplicate something Rochelle considered a basic step. This lesson was taking place in a darkened room backstage at a dance hall, lit by kerosene lamps in a non-descript frontier town. She had one of those big ruffled dresses with the corset—whole nine yards. And Rochelle was in her thirties, not having aged appropriately, or at all. For that matter, Lyndy was young too, maybe 28. Which made zero sense.

Why were her feet not listening to her brain? With each repetition, she only managed to find new ways of stumbling and messing up. She could hardly control her body and even intelligible speech became a struggle.

She could hear little kids giggling inappropriately. Why would children be laughing with the mirth of a kid on the swings reaching unsafe heights.? How come toddlers were even allowed in the dance hall or in any way witnessing this? Then she thought she detected Maribel’s giggling voice, with a kind of spittle sound and her chubby little fingers clapping.

Her brain circuits started firing. Wait, the dance lesson was a dream! Rochelle criticizing her ability was all imagined, but the laughter was not. It was mid-afternoon and she’d dozed off in a public place. The children were real.

Squeezing both hands to cover her face, Lyndy sat up. Her rapid rise frightened off the pigeons and most ducks, but as one of them took flight, it carried away the remaining portion of her fast-food chicken strips. The birds had encroached on her picnic, scattering her fries, dipping sauce and even poking at her chocolate cake from the desert counter.

“Shit!” Lyndy cursed, brushing off some feathers and loose French fries. She’d fallen asleep in a quaint little park adjacent to the lake. It was one-thirty on a sunny afternoon.

As her eyes adjusted, she could see children on the swings. They’d been laughing at the birds, who managed to peck and swipe most of her lunch. Lyndy frowned at them. Then she glanced at Mari, who was smiling ear to ear.

“Excuse me, it’s not funny. Why didn’t you scare off the ducks?” Lyndy demanded.

Mari’s expression changed to one of concentration. Her intense brown eyes focused on her mother, listening and reading her mood.

“And how long was I out?”

Lyndy felt a gooey substance oozing off her forehead, threatening to leak into her eye. Reaching up with her palm, she wiped away barbecue flavor dipping sauce.

Of course, the lakeshore was lovely, the mountain air warm and dry. No wonder she’d nodded off.

“Lyndy, is that you?” A female with a youthful voice called her name.

Lyndy passed one elbow across her perm, then smoothed it back over each of her ears. Scooting closer to Mari, she folded her legs under Indian style.

“Lyndy Martinez?” repeated the woman.

Peering over her shoulder, Lyndy spotted an attractive housewife pushing a stroller on the path. One had to have a key to get into this park. It was no public beach. Only home owners technically were allowed to access the lake. Of course, Lyndy’s key came by way of Dr. Ellis.

Squinting for a better look this new arrival was a knockout, probably thirty-one or so. Though dressed as a housewife, her snazzy outfit passed for peak fashion in this town: stonewashed jeans (baggy of course), a chunky knit sweater tied in front and what could only be described as “Martha Stewart hair”. This chick could go from walking her kid around the block, to raising the sails on a vintage boat, to hosting a party for the PTA with just a change of shoes. Speaking of PTA, her mind probably contained sacred knowledge regarding school districts, and it would be a good guess to assume she were on a “board”.

The cheerful face seemed vaguely familiar. Sadly, Lyndy’s brain was so fried, she couldn’t place her. There were dozens of lake moms resembling her within a two-mile radius of this beach. After waking from this kind of nap Lyndy hardly knew her own name, let alone a woman she’d crossed paths with a time or two in five years.

Still, the stranger was hell bent on making conversation.

Hurriedly, Lyndy gathered her frizzy perm over one shoulder, then stuffed the chestnut-colored mess through an outsize scrunchie.

“It’s me,” said the woman. “Helen Mason”

Bracing with one arm, Lyndy pushed herself to a standing position. “Helen Mason?” Now that they were toe-to-toe, Lyndy reached out to shake the dainty hand of Helen. Lyndy wished she weren’t so disheveled, wearing mom overalls and a white blouse from K-mart. Internally she chastised herself, knowing she needed to be more careful these days. She wanted to peek into her makeup case mirror, but doing so would be impossible to disguise.

“So, this is your daughter?” questioned Helen.

“Yep, that’s the little devil baby,” Lyndy replied, still not entirely sure to whom she was speaking. Bending down, Lyndy scooped Maribel into her arms. “When that doctor told me it wasn’t bloating, I was actually pregnant, I about slapped him right off of his stool.” Maribel grinned as the young woman reached down to pinch her nose.

“Oh my gosh, she’s so precious,” declared Helen. “I think she has your hair.” Helen cleared her throat. “You don’t know who I am, do you?”

Clicking her tongue and inhaling deeply, Lyndy shrugged.

“My husband works for the same engineering firm as your boyfriend.”

Of course. Now it made sense.

“Tim and I are having a few friends over on Saturday. We’ll be grilling on our deck. We’d love for you and Kyle to join us.”

“That sounds lovely,” Lyndy replied.

“Say, three o-clock?”

Just a hunch, but Helen seemed like a good source of info on preppy academies.

“Oh hey, I had a question. We are looking into private schools.”

“You mean preschool?”

“No. High School.

“Already?” Helen pretended to bump a fist into Lyndy’s shoulder. “Well, aren’t you one heck of a planner!”

“Ya know how it is—college getting harder and harder to get into. With the giant brain on Kyle, little Maribel might end up being an engineer too.”

Helen grinned, her whole face shining with kindness. In this day and age, the world so cynical, Lyndy found herself doubting the authenticity of unexpected kindness. But not everyone hated her. It took a certain kind of narcissist to think so.

“Do you know anyone at Crestwood?” asked Lyndy

“Great school. Expensive. But nice. It’s down in Redlands.”

That was a valuable fact. Not as far a drive as she anticipated.

Bending down, Helen adjusted the little sailor’s cap on her own child, a precocious two-year-old boy with red hair. “Ya know what I think. Most all of us just have destinies. No sense in putting too much pressure on yourself to make Maribel into something she isn’t.”

“Good advice,” thought Lyndy.

Gasoline and Matches Part-2

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Don’t write on your postcards people! -ASC

Gasoline and Matches: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-2

Lake Arrowhead, CA 1990s

Lyndy Life Observation: Rochelle Bishop had one of those 30-inch-wide natural hairdos popular in the seventies. She loved her enormous hair, but admitted it had drawbacks. Certain cars were dreadful to ride in, due to the low roofline and showers were practically impossible. One evening strolling out of Cadillac’s night club a small bat collided with her head, becoming tangled in it. Neither she nor the bat were harmed in the end, but Rochelle said she resolved it was time for a trim. This wasn’t an unheard-of occurrence back then, just ask any lady who had a giant beehive.

Kyle’s new cabin stood proudly on a bluff, with towering vistas of Lake Arrowhead. She found it challenging to describe the setting to one who’d never visited, other than comparing it to a tranquil slice of the Pacific Northwest transported to Southern California, then placed atop a mountain over the smog. The mountains were dense with vegetation in those days, mainly Douglas fir, ponderosa pine and incense cedar.

The custom cabin became the first home Lyndy lived in with solid non-tile counter tops. The kitchen was a true marvel. Those granite counters were an anthracite color, with flecks of embedded rock crystals reflecting light. The floors were real oak, textured with knots and little sanded imperfections. There were exposed beam trusses supporting the ceiling, and a tall set of picture windows with logs framing the lake.

One could get lost in that view, ever changing with the moods of the day. At daybreak or golden hour, the great room filled to the brim with inviting, natural light. Near sunset it could be distracting. It made you want to go out onto the deck and snap a picture, then rest your arms on the railing, take a breath and soak it in. You’d flick your shoes off, plop into a comfy chair and daydream. Soon you’d forget about the lasagna in the oven or the rice on the stove until a burning smell, or the beeping smoke alarm would jerk you back to reality.

She ruined many a dinner this way.

The more time one spent in this tree-house like environs, the harder it would be to return to desert living. Mornings on the lake were cool and crisp. Afternoons were sunny and warm. Colorful boats were constantly zipping from one side to the other. Throw in the change in seasons, like fall colors with mist swirling amongst the pines and it felt like another state entirely; Montana maybe. With a home like this one didn’t really need a TV. She spent many enchanting hours on that deck.

Another quirk: with the right angle of view, on the southernmost portion one could spot a corner of Rita’s mansion. You couldn’t see into Rita’s house per se, just a small piece of rock work. Enough to know it was there.

The name of Kyle’s cabin was Fall River, stenciled into a sign which hung by the door. Therein, another first. No one she grew up with lived in a house important enough to have a name. They didn’t give double-wide trailers names, nor did they give them to shitty stucco tract homes. Only custom homes had names. And Fall River was a very cool name, not because there were rivers anywhere near the cabin, but because of a place Kyle liked to fly fish.

On the lower level of the home paired with the bedrooms, the architects included a laundry nook containing both a washer and dryer. Such a welcome upgrade in convenience. Most places Lyndy lived had neither appliance, and she spent many weekend afternoons in the Amboy coin-op laundromat. But Fall River didn’t require a stack of quarters.

Course it wasn’t all an episode of Fantasy Island. With the house so new, it lacked furniture—two chairs were all they had for the table. No nightstand on either side of the bed. The clock radio rested on the floor. Worse, it also lacked any sort of baby proofing.

At 6 am, sun not yet rising on the lake, Lyndy kept busy hand-drilling small pilot holes for the plastic doo-hickey’s which restricted the lower cabinet doors from opening. Humming to music, she’d gotten into a groove. She worried most about the area under the sink, which she started on first, because here the cleaning chemicals were stored. Setting down the drill she began tightening the screws on these devices.

Using a towel to muffle the sound, she did her best not to make any unnecessary noise.

A few minutes later Lyndy was on hands and knees pushing the little plastic caps into the outlets when she heard Kyle’s footsteps on the stairs. She heard him yawn too. As his groggy head and shoulders poked above the landing, he spotted her.

Kyle was clutching the baby on his shoulder, supporting her bottom in the crook of his elbow. Mari was dressed in her favorite onesie.

“Couldn’t sleep again?” His voice sounded calm and sympathetic, even though she might’ve woken him.

“I got a few Z’s.” Lyndy sat up, still on her knees.

“What’s this?” he asked, poking at the open package on the island.

“It’s the baby proofing stuff I ordered. Remember?” Duh, she thought. What was wrong with dudes? Hadn’t he been through the process three prior times?

Kyle nodded as his expression morphed into “oh yeah.”

“In case you haven’t noticed, Mari will be crawling soon. She’s already reaching for things and putting random stuff in her mouth.”

Kyle gestured to the empty great room, near the windows. “Another thing. I was just thinking how we have no living room furniture.” He set Maribel down on the counter, in a seated position with her little legs dangling, which of course was unsafe. Lyndy quickly jumped up and scooped her off the edge.

“We need a sofa.” Reaching into the pantry cupboard, Kyle began pushing cans and bags of rice around.

“I made some coffee,” Lyndy remarked, holding the baby and walking a circle around the island.

Kyle sniffed. “Thanks.” When he turned around, he’d snagged the pancake batter mix and was holding the box on display with both hands. “How ‘bout I make breakfast?” He gestured to the sack of baby-proofing hardware, and the many lower cabinets still needing to be drilled. “After breakfast we’ll get the rest of those knocked out.”

Lyndy smiled, taking a seat with one of her legs folded under on a kitchen stool, while resting Mari’s bottom atop her thigh. Mari watched her father’s every move with attentive eyes as Lyndy gently bounced her up and down.

“I need to ask you something … and it’s … hard to picture,” Kyle stammered, in a tone balancing disappointment and understanding at the same time. “But did you call Rebecca Broom Hilda at the pool?”

Lyndy didn’t know how to answer, other than. “No. Of course I didn’t call her Broom Hilda. I mean … why? That’s preposterous!”

“So then, you didn’t call her a witch—any type of witch?”

“Technically no.”

By the letter of the law, I did not call her a witch. Lyndy held her tongue.

Stepping up to the commercial grade stove, Kyle twisted one of the big red knobs, making the natural gas his. He had his back turned as he slid his favorite cast iron pan into place, positioning it centrally over the burner. The hissing sound seemed to attract Maribel, making her even more interested. With a click of the igniter a ring of ten neat little cones of blue flame appeared, accompanied by a FWOOSH sound.

Maribel clapped her hands and said: “F-F-F-F-ire!”

Lyndy’s jaw dropped. Kyle whipped around, eyeing the baby in disbelief. He was holding a spatula which he pointed at Mari. Lyndy squeezed Mari’s sides, twisting and tilting the baby for a better look. She happened to have some spittle around her lips.

“Did she …?”

Lyndy’s wide-eyed expression was the same as Kyle’s.

Maribel glanced up first to her mother, then rotated back to face Kyle. Seeing her two parents so excited she knew she’d done something special. “Fwire!” she said again, louder and accompanied by a giggle. Then she stuck a finger in her nose. And that’s how the milestone of Maribel Ellis’s first word came to pass.

Wonder Valley, CA, 1990s

Lyndy Life Observation: Col. Rickman once remarked Swanson’s Hungry-Man TV dinners should change their slogan to: “official meal of the divorced American male”. Every time I think about that I laugh.

She threw down her shovel with enough force it dug in and stayed upright in place. Backsliding two paces, Debbie Kowalski allowed her drained body to collapse against the tailgate, resting her tailbone on the bumper. With a slow turning of her wrist, she ran her arm all across her forehead, shaking loose so much sweat it drizzled to the desiccated soil. She squinted her eyes at the bright July sun, feeling cramps in her stomach.

Weariness was taking hold. She needed a plan other than continuing to dig.

Debbie always took pride in self-reliance. Some of this stemmed from experiences with her Polish grandmother, a woman who not only survived a concentration camp, she literally worked as a slave sewing new uniforms for the Nazis. Suffice it to say, Grandma Kowalski was as tough a survivor as they come—a little piece of her spirit lived inside her granddaughter Debbie.

Debbie wore men’s pants, cowboy shirts and cowboy hats. Her high intellect and strong frame allowed her to do any job a guy could do. She went on adventures alone, fixed her own cars and generally solved any problem she came upon. She’d worked as a park ranger, a soil scientist for the USGS, a geo-chemist for a petroleum company and a cartographer. She’d hiked, driven and ridden horseback into some of the most remote spots in North America. She’d camped alone in grizzly country and trekked over sand dunes in Death Valley, carrying a fifty-pound pack.

Thus, it was disheartening to admit how hopelessly stuck in soft sand she was in the heart of her old stomping grounds. This was the Mojave Desert in summer, yet she hardly recognized the landmarks. The outlines of mountains were unfamiliar. The roads didn’t match the maps, and everything was powdery sand, burro brush and smoke trees. The only animals were distant vultures, circling hundreds of feet in the air. Gazing south, the horizon itself became distorted by heat convection.

Bending down, Debbie took another peek under the car. No change after shoveling. The Cherokee rested its four tons on the middle portion of both solid axles, colloquially called the pumpkins. Everything below, including two-thirds of the wheels were buried in the aforementioned fine sand. Like the car version of Ozymandias.

She cleared her throat. She had about a quart of Gatorade and a half gallon of drinking water. Two Mountain Dews. Should’ve brought more.

In literature they called the present condition a damsel in distress. Could one still be a damsel at forty-one? Maybe. Debbie checked herself in the driver’s side mirror. Her once carrot-colored hair from her Irish side, was turning a bit silvery. Her cute freckles peppered across her face, now looked suspiciously like age spots from too much time spent outdoors. Currently, this was covered up by the strawberry flush of heat. She was sweaty, probably smelled bad.

A younger version of herself had been a bit on the chubby side, but gradually she’d been losing some of the plumpness in her cheeks and also around the middle. With every year passing, Debbie found herself becoming the one thing she never thought she’d be—a slender woman. It was a strange turn of events.

“Stop wasting time. Need a plan.”

Debbie knew she was becoming disoriented. The symptoms of heat exhaustion were piling up. She’d tried any and everything she could think of to get the 1974 Jeep Cherokee unstuck, including unloading her gear to save weight. Still too much American steel and sheet metal. Even if she had an electric winch installed it wouldn’t have mattered. For miles around there was nothing sturdy enough to winch off. She possessed exactly one shovel, but anything she tried only seemed to make the problem worse.

Cupping her hand to shade her eyes, she tilted her chin back to study the sky. Not a single cloud. All these years, defying the odds. Being the greatest outdoors woman this side of … uh … Nelly Bly. Had her luck finally run out? The matter was settled. For the first time in months, she needed another person. As much as it stung her pride, a middle-age man with tools would be useful about now.

Debbie checked her watch, noting it was 2 in the afternoon. She staggered a few paces from the car, scrambling up the side of a berm iguana stye, to the nearest high point. With binoculars pressed to her face, she scanned along the horizon. Nothing manmade. Nothing moving.

Lyndy Martinez used to say: “anyone kooky enough to like it out here was automatically suspicious.” That was solid advice, under normal circumstances. But now, she was desperate.

The valley surrounding this spot was a western basin, an area in the rain shadow of multiple inland ranges with no outlet. Hardly any vegetation coated the soil. The mountains and hills were covered in exposed boulders, some of them a black or grayish color. Like a big Japanese rock garden. On summer days the sun roasted these stones, thus in each direction the horizon became distorted by the same rippling heat waves radiated by the rocks.

She tried again, scanning side-to-side across the mountains for anything man made. Could’ve been a mirage, but she stopped panning when she happened on a squarish cabin with two windows. The windows glinted in the harsh midday sun. Finally, a miner’s cabin! Had to be. She guesstimated the distance. Two miles perhaps? Though out here, distances could be deceiving, especially on a day like this.

Stop wasting time.

Jumping up, Debbie surfed down the slope with her boots. Slowing her speed and cushioning herself, she hugged on the car door excitedly. Next, she slipped the binoculars back in her Jeep. She left the windows down and her gear exposed, but crammed the keys in her shirt pocket. Without heavy equipment nobody would’ve been able to move that vehicle. A passer-by seemed unlikely out here. Besides, she planned to return to this point at the latest tomorrow morning.

She thought about writing a note. But what would it say? In case I don’t make it, here’s who I want to give my stuff too…

Hmmm. That felt too much like inviting the worst outcome.

Reaching in the cooler, Debbie popped the top and shot-gunned a cold mountain dew. She kept thinking about Lyndy’s warning not to trust someone who lived out here. Course, maybe the cabin was abandoned anyway. After shaking out every precious sugary drop, she tossed the empty can in the back. Then Debbie slapped her hat against her thigh, removing some of the dust.

Re-positioning her hat on her head, Debbie shouldered the one remaining jug of water and started off walking.

It took longer than anticipated, nearly two whole hours to hike from the jeep to the rolling hillside she’d seen from afar. When her tongue happened to touch along the edges of her lips, she tasted salt. But as she came nearer to her goal things were looking up. The shack dwelling appeared lived in. A handful of live plants, including a row of hollyhocks near a water tank were in bloom. Great news.

The other thing catching her attention was this hermit must be a bit of a collector. Her assumption at this point was a guy. Of course, anyone who lived out here was a hoarder by the classic definition. Out of necessity one had to hoard supplies to remain self-sufficient. She couldn’t fault them for that. But this person’s property was littered with aircraft parts—not barnstormer stuff but modern parts for jets. Expensive parts. They had pieces of an F14-Tomcat, including an engine. A few yards away stood the tail section of a DC10. On the other hand, they had D5 dozer parts too, including sprockets and rollers for the tracks. Hard stuff to move which must weigh tons.

“I don’t think UPS delivers out here,” she muttered.

Hopefully with any luck they were a mechanic type, with a running diesel truck or a flatbed to help get her out of here.

Zig-zagging her way uphill through the personal junkyard, she kept watch of the windows. She detected no motion in them, not even a flicker or glint of light. Nothing to indicate someone was watching from inside. Unfortunately, that meant surprising them.

No barking dog. Would she have to knock on the screen door?

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.”

Valley Girl Part-22

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Valley Girl: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-22

[Important Lyndy News: Hi everyone, this chapter will be the final entry published online for the “Valley Girl” story arc. Our conclusion (chapter 23) will appear in the print version of this narrative titled: “Stonewater: A Lyndy Martinez Story”. I am having an awesome new cover prepared now and will post an update as the plans materialize. In the meantime, we are pivoting efforts to focus on the romance story: “Sunriver Heart” with hopes to build on the successes of last year and market the novel to a more mainstream type of publisher or an agent who can assist us. To that end, I’ve been polishing up some of the scenes and the story elements within the novel. I’ll plan on posting a synopsis for Sunriver Heart, but in short it focuses on the romantic entanglement between young Lyndy Martinez and Nash Spotted-Wolf during the 1980s in a small mountain town. If you’re curious you can find the opening chapter for the novel in the Southwest Writers 2024 Mosaic Voices volume. As usual, thanks for reading and being patient with the process on this one. And just to let you know, I have a couple of new Lyndy story arcs planned for our blog, and news of that will come later in the year. Please feel free to reach out to me if you have any suggestions or comments. -ASC, Jan 2025]

Yosemite National Park, 1990s

Lyndy Life Observation: At a family gathering somebody asked the kiddos what they wanted to be when they grew up (classic!). Maribel’s half siblings had well-reasoned, noble answers. When it gets to Mari’s turn, I start to get worried; she shrugs and says: “I’m looking into various clown colleges.” To my chagrin, that is the moment I learned Mari had inherited my sense of humor and with the tables turned, I could truly be embarrassed in public by my own daughter.

By the way Brandt was violating his own park speed limits, Lyndy knew he wanted to save the historic hotel as much as her. Perhaps more so.

Neil hadn’t been much help, his remarks cryptic and misleading.

They tracked in and out of radio reception with each bend in the highway, but he knew the Ahwahnee had been evacuated. That much was reassuring. Lyndy tried feeding Maribel, except holding her steady as they drifted into the corners going 75 to 80 miles per hour proved impossible. The little baby wasn’t going to keep anything down this way.

In between attempts to radio, Brandt explained how sturdily The Ahwahnee had been constructed—out of sculpted concrete and rebar no less. Would’ve taken a great deal of explosives to bring it down, yet the size of the model was immense and heavy. The scheme was making sense from that perspective. Their goal had been to get something massive inside the building—something no one would be suspicious of—and they’d succeeded.

Despite the gravity of the situation, Lyndy became awestruck upon re-entering the deep valley. Mere photographs couldn’t do this place justice. El Capitan, a tower of pure granite soared over their heads, merging with a streak of cirrus and blue sky in the clearing of the storm. The waterfalls roared, creating graceful curtains of white. The meadows were green, plants rejuvenated by the gift of a springtime rain. Nature seemed unaffected by the goings on of humans, if only a transitory illusion.

They arrived at the access road and parking for the hotel, breathless and leaving Lyndy more than a touch carsick. The place had lost its peaceful appeal. They were met with a set of improvised barricades. Also, a mass of confused guests huddled in circles, wondering what the heck was going on. A news van was setting up. The scene was frenzied; some cross looking hotel patrons were milling about in pajamas and bathrobes. Of course they were, as the price per night was outrageous and now this disruption! Piloting an official green vehicle Brandt was able to carry on, inching by using the shoulder of the road.

Not quite an eighth mile from the entry gates they were forced to stop again due to a jam. There wasn’t any space to skirt by now. Killing the engine, Brandt went to work immediately; he marched off and set to work herding folks who seemed lost, recommending everyone be moved further back. Some guests were sneakily trying to reenter the property—and worse, the main hotel lobby. Brandt’s mere presence and look of authority shamed them into complying—something about that ranger’s hat.

Stepping out, Lyndy used the rail of the SUV to gain a height advantage, assessing the scene, searching unfamiliar faces for that of Dr. Kyle Ellis.

At first, she found no one she recognized and disappointment took hold. Lyndy began feeling colder and more exhausted. Ducking back inside, she gathered what remained of her meager things and got ready to carry the precious baby in her arms. Then she heard a whistle and shout. Her heart began to soar. She’d not anticipated what a sweet relief it would be to lay eyes upon her boyfriend.

“Lyn” he shouted. Kicking the door wide, she smiled and felt him grip her at the hips. Kyle lifted her and Lyndy fell into his embrace, shutting her eyes and wanting to stay like this for hours. He squeezed tightly though she must’ve been a little gross, badly needing a shower. Kyle rotated her body and brought her gently to the ground.

With feet planted firmly, Lyndy passed Maribel to Kyle as they kissed again. She watched the delight grow on his face while cradling his daughter. Mari wasn’t in a pleasant mood, her face grimacing. Lyndy tried to soothe her by caressing her cheek and saying “daddy is here”. He held his baby up proudly, bouncing her gently in his arms. Behind him, Lyndy noticed the one physical possession she once saw as a vanity. She realized now, in a new light, how much she missed it. “Dang, I really missed this thing!” she exclaimed, running to it with glee. Kyle and some bystanders laughed. Clicking off the brake, Lyndy twirled it through a full 360 turn, exercising the wheels.

Lyndy longed for a hot shower and real food. She wanted a whole pizza, to eat by herself. She glanced behind, as the containment line was being expanded. Rangers began pushing the crowd to disperse. “Step away! Step back everyone,” barked the park employees.

“I have the Range Rover loaded at the village. We had to leave quickly but I got your purse and …,” stammered Kyle. He tried to describe some of her possessions miming hand gestures to indicate sizes, “… the thing like a tackle box and has all the cosmetics.”

Lyndy snorted. “My makeup case?”

“Yeah, that thing,” he replied.

Lyndy felt self-conscious. “I could use a change of clothes. I think this dress is officially kaput.” But that got her pondering. The last words of a faint, scratchy phone call: Kristen’s favorite verse in Luke. The glow of a snowcap atop Half Dome.

How could she leave like this?

Without warning, something stirred inside. Lyndy scanned the crowd wondering how to find Ranger Brandt. She pivoted to face the buildings. She bit her lower lip. An irresistible urge to act gripped her, drawing her in.

“What are you scheming?” Kyle questioned.

Lyndy didn’t know how to answer. She offered him a look of apology as she turned to leave.

Kyle shook his head, but a knowing guise of resignation came upon him as he took one bated breath. Gently he snugged Mari into her baby buggy. Reaching out he latched onto Lyndy’s wrist. He pulled her back—only an instant—planting a kiss on her cheek. It lasted until Lyndy squirmed away, flashing a final charming grin. She then darted off, pushing her way into the clamor.

She located Brandt conversing in hushed tones with a group of other rangers and park personnel. Knowing there was no time to waste—not wanting to think through the possibilities—Lyndy cleared her throat to get his attention. He turned, tipping back his hat.

“Miss Martinez?”

“I have the code. I’m going in,” Lyndy declared, covering her mouth as she spoke to conceal her words. He turned and, in his eyes, she knew he shared her sentiments.

“You’re a mother?” Brandt argued half-heartedly, leaving the question open ended.

By his tone, she knew he wasn’t about to stop her. His companions gaped at him with astonishment. They were fearful at what he seemed prepared to do.

“How much time do we have?” questioned Lyndy.

“Not sure. Minutes if we’re lucky.”

“Not to brag, but I have a knack for situations such as these.”

Brandt sniffed. “That I can believe.”

Minutes later …

Taking a circuitous route, out of view of anyone including park officials, Brandt snuck Lyndy into the restricted zone. They came in through a side exit, passing the kitchen and a series of offices behind check-in.

The abnormally quiet lobby with dimmed lights felt unsettling. Each footstep echoed on smooth walls and bare concrete floors. On the other hand, a fire alarm chirped incessantly. In a tense situation she would’ve preferred a bell, as the electronic beeping could be grating on the nerves. Moreso, because Lyndy felt tired mentally.

Through the mosaic windows she spotted employees rolling out yellow tape, wrapping trees on the farthest extent of the meadows. It gave her pause, thinking of how deep the blast zone might extend—they were preparing for the worst. The building smelled of dinner foods: prime rib, fish, hot rolls and such left to waste in the kitchen. Her stomach rumbled.

Weirdly a herd of deer were grazing in the field, looking serene, probably wondering why the humans were acting so skittish. Lyndy set aside her feelings of doom as much as possible. Of course she wanted to see Mari grow up; it was something to live for. Plus, she needed to experience all those firsts her own mother had never been around for.

All the same, she hadn’t been born to sit idly by while a disaster unfolded.

With a flashlight Brandt guided her up the main stairs, wide and grand for a ball style entrance, but now empty. She rushed up them two at a time, even with her level of fatigue, feeling something of a second wind brewing.

At the dam model, Lyndy and Brandt paused for a beat. The thing was far too large to move, nor had anyone wanted to touch it. Facing the wall, Lyndy crouched, hugging her knees to her chest. She leaned back until her spine rested flat on the cold floor. Next she squeezed her way under the model, a crawl space with 18 inches of vertical spacing to the floor. Brandt struggled to get on his hands and knees, and couldn’t have easily scooted under. There simply wasn’t room for a grown man.

Lyndy extended her palm, wiggling her fingers to get Brandts attention. She heard the sound of peeling Velcro, then he set his smaller black mag light into her hand. Shining the light along the edges, it revealed a series of thumb screws attaching a particle board backing. Using her lips Lyndy blew back her bangs, which clouded her vision. She began a laborious task of undoing the screws quick as possible, knowing this was just a protective cover masking the true purpose.

For some reason Lyndy had the original Love Boat theme song stuck in her brain on repeat. It wasn’t something she’d have chosen for such a grim moment. Probably caused by too much time spent watching reruns, feeding Mari in the middle of the night.

Setting the heavy cover piece aside, Lyndy again shone the light into the void under the model. This time, as The Spitfire moved the beam it revealed a grid of bluish, polymer clay looking bricks. A knot formed in her empty stomach. Shining the light in cervices, she could see dozens more bricks taped to the plywood underside of the model. Each of these were wired, not with blue and red wires, but all black leads. Lyndy put the light into her mouth, gripping with her teeth, directing the light onto a small panel in the middle. It looked like guts of a radio transceiver, but with a small digital display. Scooting further under until her legs were engulfed, she shone the light into every nook until she confirmed the place where all the wires converged was indeed a transceiver circuit.

Lyndy exhaled. She assumed all that blue stuff was highly sensitive. Too bad. She could’ve used a relaxing smoke. In the movies they had wire clippers and screwdrivers. That would be nice. Would be nice to have a bomb squad too—but that rescue was hours away. She pushed the only button she could see, a small black switch. The digital display came to life, flashing 30:16. It was counting down.

“It says 30 minutes,” whispered Lyndy, to Brandt. “I hope this thing is honest. I had a kitchen timer once that didn’t keep good time.”

Less time than she hoped for.

“Takes like a couple minutes to get out too,” added Brandt.

“Agreed,” said Lyndy. Can’t panic yet, she thought, as she envisioned sliding down the stair rail and bursting out the front doors followed by a fireball explosion.

Below the display was a 10-digit number panel, like an old-fashioned TV remote. Lyndy poked the numbers in the order of the verse she remembered from talking to Kristen. 2-1-1-1. Ironically, a laughably simple code. The display continued its merciless downward descent. On instinct Lyndy tried again, this time hitting the star button she presumed to be like hitting enter. She cursed herself for not being better with computers and electronics. “Dang. Dios bendiga,” whispered Lyndy, doing the sign of the cross.

“What’s a matter?”

“I thought I had the code, it’s not working.”

She tried reversing the numbers. “Was hoping you diffused these in the army or something?”

“Sorry, no,” replied Brandt. “I was a tank commander.”

“What did Luke work out to in numbers?” asked Lyndy. “On a touch tone phone.”

“Oh right.” That’ll be 5-8-5-3.

Lyndy tried various combinations of the verse, the word Luke—swapping them—and other buttons. Alas nothing affected the relentless countdown. By then, she knew she wasted five precious minutes. Her heart sank. She let out a deep sigh. “Crap! I don’t want to give up but the only thing I can think of now is to start pulling wires. Wish I was smarter.”

Brandt chuckled. “I don’t think that’s the problem.”

“Did you know if there was another of these models?”

“No.”

“I heard there were two.” Lyndy shimmied out, coming face to face with Ranger Brandt.

“Where?”

A ghostly look came over Brandt. He removed his hat. “Two! The same folks made that one?” He put his fists upon the model, as though he wished to smash it.

She pressed her palms into her eye sockets. “I think …” she paused. “I think this one is a distraction.” Lyndy pointed a shaky finger North. “The … the dam. The big reservoir! They must’ve put one there to display.”

Brandt raced to the door, hesitating only cause the stairs were dim and he’d need to shine his light. It gave her just enough pause to jump up, scrambling to keep Brandt from leaving. “Wait, wait. Tell me something before you go. The voice on the phone mentioned something else.” Lyndy gripped both palms around her head. If Chan were here, he’d be very upset, particularly at her forgetting an important detail. But obviously with the 48 hours she’d had things were blurring together. “B channel. Does B channel mean anything?”

Brandt stopped in his tracks, pushing his other worry aside. The quiet was eerie. Brandt yanked his radio from the holster. He stared at the knobs which altered the comm channel or controlled the volume. “Yeah, I remember.” He set it down on the railing, using his thumbs to pry apart the back cover. “There’s a little instruction panel here. It has something to do with how the signal is transmitted.” Lyndy shone the light on the tiny schematic and mice type print, taped to the cover.

“Scratch that. I have a better idea,” pleaded Lyndy, gripping his wrist. “How quickly can we get to Camp-4? Can we make it in 20 minutes?”

Brandt took a labored breath. “Ordinarily, yes. With the traffic, I’m not sure.”

Yavapai County, 2010s

Lyndy Life Observation: Rita went to a doctor’s appointment complaining of digestive issues. The doctor went through a series of printed questions from a clipboard, including about alcohol use, as in, “are you a light drinker, moderate drinker or heavy drinker?” Rita waited a long time before responding, then finally answered with: “Sorry, can you please define those categories? Be as specific as you can.”

Delicate wisps of fog hovered over the boggy wallows in the meadow, like veils of lace. These were highlighted in amber by rays of sun, filtering through pines. It seemed just as one began to single out any of these forms, each morphed, dissolving into an illusion.

Mari Ellis listened close, thinking she’d heard a loon call, distant and faint like the howl of a wolf. While taking in such a sublime Arizona sunrise, she wrapped her scarf several more passes about her neck, puffing it so it protected her chin. Hearing a rustling, she turned back toward the farm stand. She smiled, watching white Thor paw and nibble on dried remains of wild daisies, a passel of which had grown up along the posts of a rail fence. He was in his element. Thor heard the loon too; he paused to gaze off at the meadow, still chewing.

She’d been busy arranging fresh green peppers, alongside bushels of ripe tomatoes and yellow zucchini, nesting them on beds of hay. She’d taped little white labels onto kabob sticks, with prices drawn creatively in her neatest cursive. Mari sighed, feeling satisfied with how tidy everything looked. She even had a spot on the table for clover honey. The stand looked good and her mother would be proud.

Tromping through high weeds along the roadside in her favorite boots, Mari paced to the Honda, where she retrieved the folding sign. She carried this closer to the highway, setting out the legs and making sure it was visible from a good distance, so people had time to slow.

From the camp chair at the stand, Mari gathered her hair in a ponytail across one shoulder, then snugged her favorite cowgirl hat on her head. She observed a V-shaped flock of geese in the clear blue sky, honking and flapping their way south. She watched Thor snacking his way further along the fence. Then she pulled out her kindle to read, waiting for tourists speeding to the Grand Canyon entry gates.

Not long after sunrise, Mari heard a low slapping thunder of Harley motors approaching around the bend. Early riders were sometimes part of clubs, retired guys mostly, but as they came into view through the woods, the pair began to slow. She could tell by their unflinching, somber expressions and the purposeful way they kicked out their stands these two weren’t here to incorporate more healthy fruits and vegetables in their diet.

They hung their helmets on their handlebars.

Mari sat up in her chair.

The shorter one, a Hispanic fellow with a mustache, stomped over to the folding table. She hoped he wasn’t going to kick anything, as she’d taken great care in setting this up. Thor stood on his back legs, propping both his front hooves on the table, sniffing in the direction of the two bikers.

“Howdy,” said Mari cheerily.

The man grinned. As he folded and stuffed away his sunglasses, he revealed his eyes. To her they seemed hateful. Looking to the other man, he was stocky and taller, kind of bear like. He had the same smug grin and an equally hateful demeanor.

Mari Ellis cleared her throat. “Lookin for something? Honey is on sale,” she commented. She stood up, dusting off the butt of her jeans and stepping up behind the stand, next to the cash box.

“Hello miss,” said the more outgoing one. “How old are you?”

“Uh twenty, but I don’t see how that’s relevant,” answered Mari.

He nodded.

Mari looked at Thor and he looked back at her. She pushed him down, back to all fours. The tall biker pointed to Thor. “Is that a goat?” he asked.

His partner chuckled. “Yes. Dumbass.” He turned back to Mari. “We were hoping to meet the Mexican lady who normally operates this stand. We’re old friends of hers. She’d be happy to see us. Do you know where she is?”

Mari tipped her hat, loosening her scarf. “Who would that be?”

“Goes by the name Lyndy Martinez, some would say a legendary figure in these parts. Your last name doesn’t happen to be Martinez, does it?”

Mari shook her head emphatically.

“Some people call her The Spitfire. It’s a nickname from when she was younger.”

While they spoke, the taller biker wandered to where the Honda Civic was parked, peering through the tinted windows. Mari assumed he was checking to see if anyone was inside, sleeping.

“Lyndy was seen about a month ago, in Santa Barbara,” explained the shorter biker. He held out his hands. “See, it’s been a long time since anyone sighted her. Some are concerned. That’s why we’re hoping to catch up with her.”

Mari squeezed her chin, glancing down at Thor. “You two are in luck. I know where she is.”

“Oh, fantastic,” said the biker, rather insincerely.

“I’ll show you.”

The men turned to face each other. “Hear that? She can take us to Lyndy.”

“Follow me,” said Mari.

Unhooking Thor’s leash, she led the pair through the fence rails, having to duck, into the countryside beyond. The bikers seemed confused, but as Mari ventured deeper into the pine woods, they resolved to follow. She hiked over a hundred yards to a small hill.

Valley Girl Part-21

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*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.

Aiden S Clarke, author

Home of Lyndy Martinez

Tag Archives: motherhood

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