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Valley Girl Part-20

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Valley Girl: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-20

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

Coconino County, AZ, 2010s

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Of course,” answered Lyndy.

“But if not?”

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

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

Rhonda leaned forward with a grin.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lyndy’s eyes narrowed. “Yeah.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yosemite National Park, 1990s

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thus, directions brought her to this secluded hideout.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maribel murmured, expressing concern.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why?”

“They’re predictable.”

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

Maribel whimpered again.

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

“No thanks to you,” Lyndy snapped back.

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

“What do you want?”

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

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

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

Mari started wailing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I armed it,” Neil said in a whisper.

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

Neil nodded. “Rubble,” he answered.

Valley Girl Part-19

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Valley Girl: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-19

Yosemite National Park, 1990s

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

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

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

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

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

“Be right back,” Kristen remarked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lyndy frowned. “Why would you help me?”

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

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

“Perfect!” said Lyndy.

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

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

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

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

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

 “Did it work?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Who is Kyle?”

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

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

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

“What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“The Porsche,” thought Lyndy.

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

Lyndy nodded in agreement.

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

Hours later …

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

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

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

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

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

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

To Sarah, it wasn’t funny.

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

Sarah glared at her. “Sleeping?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What happened?” begged Chip.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Valley Girl Part-18

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Valley Girl: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-18

Yosemite National Park, 1990s

Lyndy Life Observation: Don’t ask me why, but when Viagra was still pretty new Col. Rickman got the “bright idea” of saving money by purchasing it in Mexico. Whether through a combination of him not really needing Viagra to begin with, or the dose being too high, let’s just say he experienced an adverse reaction. He claimed he was miserable for two days straight, unable to put on pants, stand for long periods or do any sort of work.

“Drop the stuff,” the fellow barked.

Lyndy’s back was to both the store and the assailant, but his presence loomed. He stood over six feet and sturdy. The sound of a metallic click and a confidence in his tone indicated he had a revolver aimed at her torso. He’d have to be a lousy shot the likes of a movie storm trooper to miss from such a short distance.

Over her right shoulder the distractions continued to unfold, as a fire alarm blared and a panicked station attendant attacked the flames with the foamy fire extinguisher. Meantime the HVAC dude was attempting to get his truck rolling and out of neutral, moving it away from the hellish pool of fire. Those two were so pre-occupied by events, they’d not noticed the sideshow with Lyndy at gunpoint.

She was beginning to doubt her own plan, feeling a wave of desperation manifesting as nausea. She gazed to the woods and the river. She was thinking of Mari, now all alone in the forest. Undoubtedly, the fellow knew how capable and dangerous Lyndy Martinez could be, so he wasn’t taking chances. From her periphery Lyndy could see his companion by the suburban; it looked as though she was putting on gloves.

Thus, Lyndy did as she was asked, letting the c-store items fall to the pavement. Then raising her empty hands skyward, she slowly turned around. Sullenly she responded, “so you’re taking me to Charlie?”

The man dipped his chin in a nod, gesturing with the gun for her to step in the direction of the SUV. “Go,” he commanded. His partner was readying a roll of duct tape, peeling off a four-foot section and wrapping around her wrist, sticky side out. How comforting.

Then something shifted behind the large man, a shadow of a figure in the doorway. She tried not to squint or make any facial tics which might tip him off. She kept perfectly stoic.

Stealthily the bystander began increasing speed, using the rear steps to acquire momentum while charging at the tall man. Having no time to prepare, he took the hit to his spine in total surprise. He didn’t drop the gun, but stooped forward while wincing in pain.

The figure, a woman, bounced back and fell against the stairs. Lyndy knew it was her opening. She decided to go for broke, vaulting forward and wrapping her arms around the gunman’s neck. With her ankles, she anchored about his hips and swung her momentum hard to the right, in order to pull him to the ground. The risky take-down maneuver allowed Lyndy to topple and force him to his knees.

Recovering her footing on solid ground, Lyndy delivered a knee to his temple and then a solid punch to the base of his skull, causing the assailant to fall flat.

She witnessed Kristen rising to her feet, the same missing woman from the Ahwahnee bar and later the bridge. Their eyes met while they exchanged looks of: “It’s you!” She was in what amounted to a cheap disguise: blue jeans, a man’s flannel and a yellow handkerchief wrapped around her scalp—no makeup.

Lyndy remembered the other kidnapper, turning her attention next to the vehicle. The chainsaw woman was loading a handgun of her own, preparing to fire off a round.

Lyndy dove for the revolver. With both hands raised, elbows propped on the hard earth, she aimed back at the female assailant. Simultaneously, the red-headed woman was pointing at Lyndy. Lyndy fired off two rounds and rolled as the other shooter fired back. Lyndy wasn’t sure if she hit her mark or not, but the woman reeled back, then scurried around the edge of her SUV. She had a healthy fear of Lyndy’s aim.

“I have a car,” said Kristen, jangling keys. “I was waiting for you. But so were they.”

“You have excellent timing,” replied Lyndy, hastily gathering up the baby supplies.

Lyndy scrambled up a steep embankment coated in pine needles and moss, pushing Kristen as well, leading up to the shoulder of the park road. This was where Kristen had left a getaway car.

“Wait, I have to grab Mari!” Lyndy explained, clawing her way through the undergrowth back to the hiding spot. Scooping up the baby in one arm, she ski-d with her feet down the hill and across the road. Lyndy stuffed Maribel into the footwell by the passenger seat, nestling her in with the supplies.

Kristen positioned herself behind the wheel of the compact car. It was a decade old Toyota Carolla, silver in color with rust stains and torn seat fabric.

“Drive!” said Lyndy, not to be rude but letting her know she was eager to escape.

Kristen shoved glasses over her face as she revved the motor and jammed the shifter into first. “I’m sorry for how I acted the other day. I was very drunk …. and … I get that way.” She said this as the little car strained on the mountain grade, getting to a mere 45 mph.

Something about Kristen had changed. It was eerily how Miss Lovelace would act, the day after they’d been in a drunken fight. Like they were suddenly on your team again.

“Kristen, all is forgiven if you can get us out of here,” Lyndy pleaded.

Lyndy had her head out the window, focused on the turn-out leading to the gas station. Thick smoke billowed from the woods and more vehicles—official green trucks driven by park rangers—were pulling in to help contain the fire.

Lyndy watched closely until the view was blocked by trees. She hadn’t seen the Suburban. Though hoping for the best, she knew most likely they would regroup. Probably as soon as the tall man recovered from his whomping.

Lyndy leaned back in the seat and sighed, squeezing her shoulder where it was tender. “Really aches after that move,” she thought to herself, knowing adrenaline was wearing off.

With one crisis averted her thoughts shifted to other dilemmas.

The car was a dump, in the way of someone whose car is a reflection of their approach to life. Lyndy reached down, smoothing Mari’s hair and checking her vitals. Mari was stinking, her diaper was crusty and she needed water.

Lyndy lifted and held the baby tight to her chest.

Kristen’s car squeaked and rattled as they rounded tight bends, appearing to be stolen and on its last legs. At least it moved. Kristen drove at top speed, near 60 on the flats, with huge sunglasses like a movie star. Lyndy didn’t know where they were going or if she could trust Kristen. But it felt good to be traveling so quickly again. Hiking was fun, but being on foot and on the run was another thing entirely.

“You have a pretty baby,” Kristen remarked. “I didn’t know you were a mom.”

“Thanks. I need to feed her,” said Lyndy. “Any chance you got a bottle?”

Kristen made a face as she thought. “No, but I have an idea.”

Lyndy kept checking the mirrors, figuring that SUV would be pursuing them. Probably the park service too. Nervously, Lyndy touched Maribel’s forehead and cheeks, combing her hair back. It felt good to have that burst of energy, to overpower and grapple a much larger man to the ground. She was proud of herself. Now it was they who feared her. Yet this fight by no means was over. At best, you might call it half-time.

Coconino County, AZ, 2010s

Lyndy Life Observation: For Christmas one year I presented Mr. Chan an elaborately decorated red box with ribbon bows, the whole nine yards. Inside was a gift certificate for the Anger Management Institute. He became upset and started yelling at me. I responded with: “you see what I mean?”

Ever wonder who the F still uses a pager? The answer was Rhonda Thurgood, and it was the only surefire way to get in touch with her. In reality, it operated more as a messaging service. One dialed the anonymous number, nobody answered, and you were left with a single option: leave a brief message and hang up. If you were deemed worthy, you might receive a text message reply with a place to be, typically nothing more than the intersection of two county roads.

This time, when the text reply came to Lyndy it read: “Miss Thurgood has acknowledged your request. Wahweap Marina. Tomorrow. 10:00 AM.” That’s it. But oh, such an honor to be acknowledged!

It was one of those glorious days in the painted desert, when puffy clouds floated like pearls across an azure sky. One could almost forget the woes of the modern world, listening to oldies, imagining it was the eighties, Miami Vice was on TV and she was young again. A stack of AAA maps shoved against the dash vents and the windscreen, added to this effect. She’d set out early, piloting the Ford on byways north and east to the region where Utah and Arizona come together. This was the landscape of artists and poets.

She was thinking about Rhonda the whole drive.

During her formative years, Miss Thurgood spent much of her time in a cramped, boxcar like office behind an I-40 motel. It was the same cheap, dreary one she grew up in, later managing when her sister passed away—like being raised in a prison cell.

In truth, hotel management was more of a side hustle for Rhonda. True crime ran in her veins. She had a fondness for unsolved and missing persons cases. It surpassed passion stage when she was a teenager, later bordering on obsession. Her desk was walled by stacks of fax bulletins, including missing persons and wanted posters from Navajoland, ones issued by the FBI or Marshals service. Amid this pre-internet era, were magazines like American Cowboy and Soldier of Fortune. It was there, with Rhonda staring at one of the early iMac computers, she and The Spitfire had been introduced. They were destined to hit it off, as Rhonda valued the experience of a legend like Lyndy Matinez. You couldn’t pick up those skills in a classroom. Lyndy on the other hand, needed the dough, since her pension from The Lovelace Corp was under-sized.

Over time Rhonda’s business empire expanded, and visiting her became more of a chore. These days she pulled up stakes more often than a traveling circus, and to Lyndy’s knowledge did not maintain a permanent address. She claimed to be Navajo, but even that status Lyndy wondered about. Judging only from appearances, she had the look, but so did half the residents in this county. Hell, her first name might not be Rhonda. Could be an alias.

Would’ve been more convenient to call on Rhonda any other time, but apparently it was fishing season on the lake and she’d launched a house boat. Thus, her request to meet at the marina. Lyndy had never seen Rhonda fish, but she’d never seen her do a lot of things.

At Wahweep, Lyndy paced about the landing for half an hour, not sure where to stand exactly in this vast open space, or who would be waiting for her. The lake was choppy, yet people were busy launching speedboats, loading up igloo coolers and generally not wearing enough sunscreen.

Lyndy remembered to bring a gift: a Trader Joe’s grocery sack containing her best homegrown zucchini peppers, squash and corn, plus two pints of goat’s milk. Obviously if she waited too long in the sun, the milk would spoil.

At half past ten she witnessed a sharp-dressed man coming on a b-line course from far across the lake, riding a wave-runner at high speed. Those were the bigger, powerful type of jet ski which can seat three people in series or tow a handful of inner tubes. He circled near to the boat slips, trying not to make a wake, while waving for Lyndy to come down. Once she knew this was her guy, Lyndy darted forward to meet him.

“Miss Martinez,” he said in greeting, with a deep voice like the actor Ving Rhames and dip of his forehead.

She nodded yes in answer.

“Any firearms or other weapons in your possession?”

“Of course not,” Lyndy replied, patting her purse. “Just old lady stuff in here. And this sack of food from my garden.” She held up her bag with one fist.

He grinned as she held out the food proudly for him to inspect.

The fellow pointed to the long, soft-padded seat saying, “You’ll have to hold onto me.” Lifting up the seat, he revealed the inner storage area for cold drinks. This was perfectly sized to stash her gifts. After securing the cargo, he took a seat at the handle bars.

He wasn’t kidding. Lyndy straddled the seat, wedging both feet on the plastic rail. She hardly had time to throw her arms around his rib cage, before they were accelerating up to speed for a fifteen-minute steady ride to the house boat. Wind and water were slapping her cheeks and blowing her hair out every which way.

Minutes later …

She first spotted Rhonda fishing from the bow, in her bathing suit, consisting of a rash guard top and black bikini bottoms. Her exposed skin was deeply tan, and her brown hair was done up in a true beehive making it tower seven inches over her head—that was a very expensive hairdo at the salon. Forget about swimming with that hair.

Amusingly, the name printed on the stern of the vessel read: “LITTLE BIGHORN”. They were anchored in one of the deeper coves, no other boats around.

Rhonda was in the act of reeling, her body straining with a trophy bass style rod. At her side stood another guard, this one armed with a rifle on his back and net in his hands. She must’ve had something heavy on the line, as she fought bravely, the seven foot rod bending into a half circle arc as Rhonda kept being drawn toward the rail. She maintained her balance, with strong calves on her bare feet. She side-stepped on the deck like a skillful dancer, avoiding a knock in the head from other stowed equipment. As she worked, her tan back and arm muscles flexed—visible even from a distance. But just as suddenly, the rod snapped back and the line went dead. In fact, it had severed.

The fight was over. Rhonda and her male companion shook their heads and shrugged. Lyndy envied Rhonda, remembering being thirty-something, still with a fit, strong body.

As they pulled alongside the house boat, Rhonda had already secured her rod and come to greet her excitedly. She was speaking Navajo to her bodyguard, a soothing and rhythmic tongue.

“Miss Martinez!” she said switching to English, clapping her hands gleefully. She sounded like a literal Valley Girl when she did this. “What a surprise.”

“Just out here checking fishing licenses,” joked Lyndy.

Rhonda giggled at that.

“Trying out the new bikini angling trend?” asked Lyndy, as she stepped carefully from the rocking wave-runner onto the stable deck.

Rhonda smiled. “Welcome aboard,” she said.

“You look fabulous.” Lyndy took a moment to twirl around. “Now this, I can say with certainty, should be called a yacht.” She put her hands on hips. She was rarely jealous of anyone’s living arrangements, as she didn’t care for mansions. But this boat, a floating palace comprising two stories, this thing was pure badass.

Grabbing onto Lyndy’s arm, Rhonda added, “You ain’t seen nothing. Come with me.” She led her through a folding according door to the interior living room and kitchen. The kitchen space was larger than any one Lyndy ever owned on land, containing one of those full-size metallic fridges. There, Rhonda peeled off her rash guard and exchanged it for an open stitch crocheted wrap. She knotted the waist strap to secure it. Her feet were still bare and sopping wet from the deck.

Opening the fridge, Rhonda asked: “White claw?”

“Sure.” Why not!

“Oh, I brought some gifts!” said Lyndy, as the man on the wave runner walked through the living room.

Hastily, Rhonda rolled up a stack of blueprints which were spread across her coffee table, with pencil marks where she’d made notes and little sketches.

Lyndy placed her presents atop open space. “What’s that stuff?” she asked.

“Oh this?” Rhonda stuffed her papers into a tighter roll. “You know those big giant gas stations that have like a hundred gas pumps?”

“Yeah.”

Rhonda reclined on the sofa, casually thumbing through social media. “We’re building one off I-40.” Lyndy couldn’t guess how much it cost, or who the “we” meant. She’d stated it in the way of someone who was putting a shed behind their suburban bungalow. “Everything okay?” asked Rhonda.

Now that was a first—Rhonda caring how she was doing.

“Why do you ask?” said Lyndy, squeezing her arms over her chest and trying to find a comfortable position in her chair.

Rhonda smiled, with a gleam in her eye. “Nobody comes to see me when life is smooth sailing.”

Valley Girl Part-17

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Valley Girl: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-17

Yavapai County, AZ, 2010s

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Behind her she felt a whoosh.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I know right.”

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

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

“Sheesh. Too late for that.”

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

“What?” Lyndy’s eyebrows narrowed.

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

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

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

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

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

“Or …. or else what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you okay, mom?” Mari pleaded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yosemite National Park, 1990s

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

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

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

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

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

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

Minutes later …

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sorry about this environment,” Lyndy whispered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Valley Girl Part-16

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Valley Girl: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-16

Yosemite National Park, 1990s

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She’d earned his respect.

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

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

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

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

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

The radio went dead again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yavapai County Arizona, 2010s

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cathy frowned. “Are you joking or something?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cathy shook her head.

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

Catherine covered her mouth to chuckle discretely.

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

“The throes of anything are never good.”

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

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

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

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

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

Valley Girl Part 15

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

Valley Girl: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-15

Yosemite National Park, 1990s

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Let it go,” reiterated the gunman.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He cursed loudly.

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

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

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

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

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

“They’re … they’re stinging you too.”

“Where are your partners?” Lyndy demanded.

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

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

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

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

“Or?”

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

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

Minutes later …

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why does Charlie need the code so bad?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How can you be sure?”

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

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

“I don’t know what you mean?”

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

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

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

“What?”

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

Santa Barbara, CA 2010s

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s right.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Valley Girl Part-14

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Valley Girl: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-14

Yosemite National Park, 1990s

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

10 minutes later …

Crickets were chirping.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hours later …

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Santa Barbara, CA

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Take it outside,” another fellow remarked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Valley Girl Part-12

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

Valley Girl: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-12

Yosemite National Park, 1990s

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A chain of twenty folks blocked the farm road.

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

That last one made sense.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Minutes later …

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

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

Lyndy pulled the stroller near, tensing up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then the woman scampered off, trying to avoid Kyle.

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

“Fine,” replied Lyndy.

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

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

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

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

Santa Barbara, CA 2010s

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What’s funny about that?”

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

“What are you saying? I’m a liar?”

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

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

Valley Girl Part-11

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Valley Girl: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-11

Coconino County Az, 2010s

Lyndy Life Observation: I’m watching a video on YouTube called “Three hours of nothing but Curly” from The Three Stooges. Excellent use of time.

As the trite phrase goes, they didn’t let just anyone in here.

Used to be “salt-of-the-earth” Arizonans with a blue-collar job could scrape together enough cash to join the riding club, on a month-to-month membership. Nowadays it was downtown yuppie village, inhabited by cardiologists, partners in law firms and so-called finance bros. The only ordinary earthlings were gardeners, servers, people who mucked out stalls and the weekly pool guy.

Of course, the club had a poolside restaurant, serving avocado topped black bean burgers in addition to the usual fare of Caesar salads, sandwiches and wraps. The bar had craft beers and trendy mocktails too. When not shouting into a phone about business loans, one could listen to the calming rhythm of canned Jimmy Buffet tunes, or watch the show ponies trot in nearby corrals. Lot of neighing action that way.

Cathy kept her sunglasses on, Liz Taylor style and tried to blend in. Steps away from the grill were cabana chairs, where housewives would lay out and tan while their teenagers did whatever you do on a horse; practice for polo matches or eventing. Some of these people had Arabians too, competing in far off lands like Dubai.

But Catherine wasn’t paying attention to any of that showy stuff. Lyndy had given her a lead on this place, as a prime spot to surprise the elusive Mari Ellis. She’d chosen a seat in the corner where she could keep one eye on the kitchen exit, sipping a diet coke as twenty-something servers came and went.

She recognized the Spitfire-clone easily. Mari was the tallest, and the only cowgirl with the same hair as Lyndy Martinez—dark with natural curls. A perfect smile. Brown eyes. She was wearing one of those neck chokers, shiny silver with a locket. She moved skillfully, whisking a tray of cocktails and beers high above her head. Her halter shirt was sized for a shorter torso, revealing much of her tan back and portions of her colorful tattoos.

Cathy clasped her hands, waiting like a cat ready to pounce on a gopher hole.

On the adjacent table she’d set out a trap: three one-hundred-dollar bills oriented like a peace sign. A handsome tip, from the man who’d been seated here previously. Except that bloke hadn’t left a cash tip, just some scribbles on his receipt. She gazed into the green coke bottle, making the view to the steeplechase like a kaleidoscope.

It was on the return tour, having delivered her many drinks poolside, when the maiden deviated from her bee-line path. Without so much as a passing glance, Mari reached out a hand to claw the money as she zipped by. She hadn’t paid any attention to the aunt-like figure leaning against the rail.

“When is your next court date?” cracked Cathy, knowing she’d surprised the brat.

Mari looked up at her with serious eyes, letting go of the cash and yanking her left hand back.

“I read the arrest report,” added Cathy, her voice lowered so no one would overhear.

“Hi Miss Cookson,” said Maribel, shy and lacking emotion. “Didn’t see you over …”

Deep inside, Catherine was consumed by envy once again. A stabbing feeling in the gut. Some things one never knows they desire in life, until they see a close friend with it. It was that way with Lyndy’s girl. It filled her with regret.

Cathy cleared her throat, then asked: “Did you know my dad was a preacher?”

Maribel nodded with a little “mmm-hmm” setting down her tray. She tilted her head. “Miss Cookson, I’m uh … not too interested in a pep talk today. I don’t know what to say.” She reached up to loosen her collar. Her necklace seemed to be bothering her as well, and she began to roll it between her finger and thumb. “I’m sorry for being rude to you the other morning at the trailer park. You caught me at a bad time.”

“It’s alright,” replied Cathy.

This youngster oozed with the arrogance of her mother at the same age. The way she thought she knew the world forward and back. And yet, Catherine still adored her. She took a breath, pressing down all emotion.

“It’s not okay,” admitted Maribel. “I was being disrespectful.” Mari scooted back the empty stool next to Cathy to rest her arms upon. A moment passed, with no words spoken, just the background of the kitchen and the interminable boat music at the bar.

Cathy tried again. “My dad used to preach, if there was a million dollars in cash on the table—stacked in hundred-dollar bills like a pyramid—he wouldn’t touch it. He wouldn’t take it if it meant he had to tell a lie.”

Mari blinked, exhaling a deep sigh.

“He wouldn’t take it cause it would turn his soul black.”

“Bet my mom would take it, if she could,” countered Mari with a frown.

Cathy shook her head. “I don’t believe it. No way.”

Mari turned to lock eyes. “How do you know? My mom is kind of a schemer.”

“She isn’t motivated by money.”

Maribel sniffed and shrugged. “Everyone needs money.”

“Except this kind of lying isn’t worth it. When you lie, your soul slowly begins turning gray. Every time you do, more and more of it rots til it’s all black. At a certain point, there’s no coming back.”

Mari looked down at the table and the trio of hundred-dollar bills. “Feels like people are always lying and cheating to get what they want. It’s not even a big deal. It’s normalized.”

“Your mom’s closest friend was a billionaire. Your dad is one of the wealthiest businessmen in Lake Arrowhead. Lyndy could’ve finagled anything she wanted from either of those people, because they loved her. Don’t ya think Rita owed her a living?” Cathy gazed out at the tree lined hills. “Don’t go spreading this around. It might cause hurt feelings. But you’re definitely Kyle’s favorite kid.”

Mari chuckled. “What makes you think that? I’m not exactly a success story.”

“Your mom was his favorite partner.”

“Ewww,” muttered Mari under her breath.

“You weren’t the one driving the car, right?”

Mari shook her head.

“It’s funny. When I first met you, I was so jealous of your mom. I had this belief that I would never come to like you—I would never let Lyndy win, by loving her kid. But I was wrong. I came here to give you this noble lecture about lying and all that. But it doesn’t feel right, even to me.” Cathy took another sip of coke, then sniffed. “I started thinking while I was watching you serve drinks; how smart you are. I’ve seen you work on a computer—doing stuff I couldn’t dream of—and fixing those import cars. I started thinking how much you look like your mom. And it made me really mad. Cause why the hell are you riding in a goddamn SUV being driven by drunk people?” Cathy raised her voice. “If that truck overturned at speed, and you were ejected and crushed.” Cathy shrugged. “Maybe it would hurt for only a moment or two. But your mom and dad would have to live the rest of their lives without the most precious thing they created. Can you even fathom that?”

Mari reached down to her waist, retrieving a black bar towel. She began dabbing the edges of her eyes. “You’re messing up my eye makeup.” She hung her head, flicking open her phone. She used the front facing camera as a mirror.

“Then you need to come clean!”

“It’s too late Miss Cookson. There’s not much I can do. The part that stings, was seeing how dad looked at me, so disappointed. I’ve never felt that before.”

“Duh. You’re his favorite. He has no reason to be disappointed. You weren’t driving, you goof. It’s not your DUI. It’s your worthless boyfriend’s arrest. You know what you need to do right?”

“What?”

“Go to the court hearing obviously. And when you’re called, you look up at that bench and tell the judge the truth about what happened.”

“What if he doesn’t believe me?”

Catherine smiled. “Show him the arrest report.” She unfolded the photocopy, smoothing it flat on the table. She pointed to where the cop had written in the notes: “Female passenger insisting she was the driver. Male occupant, clearly intoxicated, had switched seats. Female passenger refusing to acknowledge. Fact.”

Santa Barbara, CA

Lyndy Life Observation: At one point in the eighties Mr. Potts, manager of The Vanishing Point instituted random drug screening. The first week we lost five longtime, valuable employees. The kitchen was closed for three days and the roadhouse had to shutter. After that, they still did drug testing, but the bank insisted all employees be given a 3 week notice prior to any tests. From then on, failures were almost unheard of.

Balancing on a cane for support, Gillian rose wobbily to her feet.

Sensing discomfort, Lyndy added. “I don’t mean to ruin any pristine image you have of your mother. She had many admirable traits. Vitality perhaps. She lived every day to the fullest. One of her nicknames, given by her dad was Rita-The-Rocket. When she had a goal, Rita attacked it relentlessly until she got what she wanted and no man, woman or what-have-you stood in the way.”

The young girl exhaled loudly, meeting eyes again with Fred Simmons. “Dad, it’s time to show her,” announced Gillian sternly. “She should know why we brought her here.”

“Oh?” Lyndy remarked. “Then, there is a hidden motive?”

Fred grinned sheepishly. “My daughter is correct. Why don’t you come into the kitchen. Have some wine,” he suggested. “I’ll boot up my laptop. We’ll talk.”

Lyndy nodded, taking a breath and rising. She stuffed her tissues in her purse, then ambled beside Gillian to the back door steps. She kept her arms ready in case Gillian suffered an unexpected tumble, but Gillian was more skillful at balancing than she appeared.

At the ground level kitchen, Mr. Simmons unfolded a newish Apple laptop. It was resting on a heavy marble island, where there was enough room for three stools, facing the stove and backsplash area. Lyndy waited with amusement, thumbing clean her glasses and wondering what these two were up to.

Once Fred was finished typing in a half-dozen passwords, he angled his screen so Lyndy could see better. He then circled to the back of the island, retrieving a wine bottle and cork remover.

The display was swirling with financial data, matrix-like, from a website with poor organization and tiny font. Lyndy shoved her trifocals in place, attempting to focus on the total line, where he’d placed his mouse pointer. She had to move the glasses out by an inch, to achieve optimal clarity.

Working to uncork a bottle of pinot, Fred had a foxlike grin, and when she glanced behind, Gillian seemed to have an eager smile also.

The mouse-print number started with a “9” followed by 8 more digits.

Pinching two fingers on the rim of her glasses she held them steady, while staring at the total again. Murmuring, Lyndy recounted the digits, sliding her left pinky more carefully along this time, but she arrived at the same value: a little over 900 million.

“Wait. Rita had nine-hundred million dollars in an investment account?”

“Technically this is spread over thirty-some-odd accounts, but yes,” Fred explained. He deposited wine in two glasses, in several big glugs from the bottle. “These accounts were set aside for Lovelace heirs, 25 years back. It started at roughly 100 million, which would’ve been a large chunk back in the year 1996. They’ve been multiplying steadily ever since.”

“What were they invested in?”

“Mostly silver and other precious metals.”

Lyndy looked to Fred’s face, then to Gillian, then back over to the screen. “Seriously?”

“Yes. It’s held in trust. However, the money is rightfully owed to Gillian, and you as well. For all your years of faithful service.” Fred tilted his head, sounding more sympathetic. “I understand she put you through a lot.”

“That’s an understatement,” agreed Lyndy.

“As I said, these accounts are in probate, bound in the Lovelace family trust,” he detailed with bitterness. “You see, together we were planning to amend the will. It was a priority on our to-do list. But we had a whole bunch of other priorities that first year of our marriage. It was such a whirlwind, what with her being pregnant. It got away from us.” He shut his eyes, as he uttered the last sentence. “And then more time passed, and … tragically my wife passed away before we could amend the will.”

Lyndy let that part breathe a moment. Fred shoved one of the wine glasses to Lyndy and she caught the base with three fingers. Lifting it by the stem, she took a sip as Fred did the same, standing across from her.

“Oh man, I know this is gonna come across sounding loco. But I wouldn’t want anything to do with that money.” Now it was making more sense, why Fred had been seeking her out. He’d come with a purpose. He wanted to get his paws on Rita’s fortune. “I’ll have to pass. I feel sick to my stomach just thinking about it.”

Setting down his glass, Fred’s expression revealed he expected some reluctance. Coming around to meet her, Fred put his hand tenderly on Lyndy’s shoulder. “Think about what this money could do for you and your daughter. I’m sure it could change her life. Your daughter needs money right? She’s probably out there working the same crap jobs we all do when we’re twenty. If we don’t claim these accounts soon, it all goes to the state of Arizona.”

Lyndy stared at the screen. It had been hard. She thought about it every day, how she’d lived post Kyle split. “Umm. Money was Rita’s thing. Not mine. It makes me anxious thinking about it.”

She watched Gillian and Fred, a quizzical look forming on both their faces. Fred appeared pale, as if someone stating, “money isn’t their thing” was the same as saying “breathing air isn’t their thing.” Neither could conceive of such a declaration.

“Wait. Why is the money stuck in probate?” Lyndy eyed Gillian with scrutiny.

“They need proof,” answered Fred. “I don’t have access to Gillian’s birth certificate.”

“So, get a copy from the county. It’s easy.”

Fred tilted his head, acknowledging the logic. “Well, I would do that, if the hospital had any records. We don’t have those either. Maricopa County has no proof of her birth.”

“Alrighty,” said Lyndy, removing her glasses. Her radar was up.

“You know how Rita was. She wanted Gillian to be a secret.”

“You’re a lawyer. Why would you agree to that? That isn’t very smart.”

Fred shook his head. “I know.”

Lyndy shrugged. Placing hands on her knees, she rose from the chair and paced to the door. She felt the ocean breeze on her face. The slider faced the gardens. She gazed outside to the gardens, shaded in meticulously trimmed oaks. “It’s surprising to me Rita would’ve chosen this place to settle down.” She was thinking about the rental house Rita once loved.

“Why do you say that?” asked Gillian.

Lyndy turned back. “I don’t see a pool here. Rita’s favorite—and really only form of exercise was swimming. She loved to swim.” Lyndy paused, then added, “she also liked to show off her body. There was that.”

Gillian squinted at the yard, almost as though she was becoming skeptical too.

“I dunno. Aren’t there shadowy internet characters who forge documents? I’ve seen that in movies. Just hire one of those freaks and leave me out of your scheme.”

“I can’t do that,” stated Fred firmly.

There was an awkward exchange of glances between Fred and Gillian. “Yeah, we tried that idea,” said Gillian, with irritation. “It didn’t work.”

Lyndy held up her hands. “Not my problem.”

Fred Simmons exhaled. “Let’s take a moment to cool off here. I’m not asking you to keep money you don’t want. You don’t think I understand, but I do.”

“Then spit it out. What do you want me to do?”

Gillian inched forward while her green eyes betrayed something sinister. Through them one could see her real soul. “Had she been wrong about this girl?” Lyndy pondered. Because in all her years with Rita, Rita had never once given her a look like that. Rita’s eyes shone with determination, mischief on occasion, but never with pure evil.

“Miss Martinez, it’s simple,” Gillian argued. “We’re not asking you to mis-appropriate or steal anything. Nothing is wrong about it. All you have to do is sign an affidavit stating that I am the living heir of the Lovelace estate.”

Lyndy shook her head, shrugging on her cardigan and looping one of two buttons in the front. She tried to recall the last time she took her blood pressure pill. “Whelp, I’m not much for wine. Tequila is more my style. And I’m in a beach town. It’s been decades since I’ve visited Santa Barbara. I think I’ll make my way to a bar,” she announced. “Any good Tiki bars around?” Meantime she fisted a hexagonal pill and slipped it in her mouth, dry swallowing.

Valley Girl Part-10

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Valley Girl: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-10

Yosemite Valley, CA 1990s

Lyndy Life Observation: You know how the great inventor Steve Jobs went through an “apple phase” whereby he only ate apples morning, noon and night? Allegedly this is how the name Apple Computer came to be. Well, me and Rita went through a “hot dog” phase, where we consumed grilled hot dogs every living day without fail. I don’t recommend this habit, due to the nitrates which we knew nothing about. Between us we went through gallons of mustard in a month, and I remember one time we drove to the grocery store and they were out of buns. Rita practically had a meltdown in the bread aisle.

A veil of smoke drifted in between the pines catching rays of light, ghostly but smelling of summer. The warm dry air was soothing to the skin, making one want to put on shorts or a dress—perfect for a cookout. Strolling from the bus stop, this was the Camp-4 scene: party R&B music on a boom box, charcoal grills sizzling, huddles of people laughing, talking.

Lyndy spotted Neil holding forth, recounting his “big wall” adventure stories to a circle of younger climbers. Picture a sensei surrounded by pupils. She could see how Erica might describe him as a celebrity. He paced confidently as he spoke, walking a figure-eight, delighting each admirer whenever he happened to meet their gaze.

Everyone had a cold drink in hand.

A few of the ladies present were college age, with hardly what could be considered a top—they were enthralled just as much. Spaghetti strap tanks were about as modest as it got for these campers. Lyndy felt out of place, as she and Neil were likely to be the two “elders” on site.

Lyndy rolled Mari’s stroller into a flat, out of the way spot, shielded by a tree stump. She then raised the retractable roof extension to block out some of the stimulation. There was no avoiding the thumping music though. Hopefully Mari would adapt. Nice to have something tickling the eardrums other than constant baby whimpering.

Next, she spotted Erica in the clearing, working a hula-hoop like an absolute boss, with those glowing plastic necklaces one gets at concerts.

Then she locked eyes with Neil. Neil stopped everything when he saw her, parting the crowd and marching up to Lyndy as his friends watched. He helped her place a towel over the opening on the stroller, for shade and to help Mari feel more comfortable.

“Glad you made it!” greeted Neil. “There’s a whole potluck table set up over there,” he explained. “Help yourself to anything you want to drink.”

Lyndy darted to the table, scanning for a stack of red solo cups. Searching in vain, she realized everyone else had brought those metal cups you get at camping stores. “Oh shoot. You’re supposed to bring your own tin cup?”

“You can have one of mine,” answered Neil. “Lemme just rinse out the gunk first.”

Lyndy examined the selection of red and white boxed wines, positioned on the ends of the table allowing one to hold a cup under the spigot. There were five boxes in total, enough for a small army.

Next to this were white igloo coolers, brimming with ice and import beer bottles denser than a fish market. The rest of the table was stacked with potato salad, chips, hummus dip and cantaloupe cubes.

“Yikes,” muttered Lyndy.

Someone had taken all her vices, her gluttonous desires, and packed them onto one epic picnic table. Inner demons were running wild. She reached for the white wine, dribbling it into her borrowed cup.

As she strolled to join the circle, Neil returned to finish a story. She sat down on the end of a bench, intending to rest and listen. Instead, one of the Neil’s pals whom she’d met at Degnan’s—fella with the shaggy hair—came stomping over to chat.  

The man sidled up, uncomfortably near, and spread one of his hairy arms behind her shoulders on the table. He leaned over, not so suavely and said: “I want to tell you a secret. I have a thing for new moms.”

Lyndy nodded, masking her cringe with a grimace. “Oh cool,” she replied, voice cracking, sipping her wine.

The dude seemed unsure where to go from there. He fidgeted with his beer, before taking another breath and spewing forth the words: “So do you like Porsche’s?”

Lyndy shrugged. “I dunno, maybe I do.” Though she actually preferred macho muscle cars to fancy German coupes.

“Cause there’s a sleek black Porsche hidden in the woods. Like a quarter mile from camp.” He looked over his shoulder, making sure no one was listening. “They put a bunch of tree bark and branches over it, making it look like a pile of yard clippings. But I could tell there was something underneath there so I dug it out.” The man shifted, squeezing his nose and exhaling. “Sorry, I gotta be honest. I’m outta practice talking to women.”

Lyndy’s ears perked up. “It’s okay.” She was about to ask a follow-up question. But the party got hushed. Somebody turned down the music which was most noticeable by the lack of bass. Two tall climbers, whose dress and appearance revealed their Europeanness before they uttered a word in French, had entered the clearing.

The mood shifted. One of them helped himself to a craft beer, popping the cap by whacking it on the edge of the table. The other was pointing to an imposing granite boulder which looked utterly unclimbable. This thing was as big as a house, and so heavy they’d not bothered to clear it when they built the camp. With a raised hand he was charting out several spots where there were chalk lines. Which meant, despite its polished smoothness, climbers did occasionally perform their training exercises upon it. The route was 20 feet in length, and a fall from the top end meant landing in packed dirt and a broken leg or worse.

The blonde men began speaking to Neil in aggressive tones. Neil was in a crouch, his trademark “aww shucks” modest expression on this face.

Erica moved right beside him. She grabbed onto Neil’s shoulders, ready to defend him.

Lyndy could only hear bits of the conversation, but it was obvious the foreigners were goading him, accusing Neil of being over the hill. With his hands and body language, Neil was waving them off. He wanted them to get lost and leave the party.

Out of nowhere, it escalated. The dude who’d been chugging the beer took his bottle and slammed it against the rock, causing it to shatter. The crowd got even more hushed. Neil and everyone else at the table instinctively put-up hands to shield their eyes from an explosion of glass shards. But now Neil seemed upset. A line had been crossed. Neil spoke something firm like: “I hope you’re planning to clean that up.”

The drama was making Lyndy uneasy and she glanced to Mari’s nearby buggy.

It was clear the gauntlet had been thrown. Neil arose with folded arms and the taller challenger began dipping his fingers into a chalk bag. Slapping his hands together, he created a puff of white, then rolled his shoulders and bounced in place.

Neil walked a semi-circle, facing the rock, hardly ruffled but now with more intensity in his eyes. He reached for his climbing shoes, which were upside down on a tarp next to his other equipment. He started to dust them off. Meantime the cocky fellow approached the smooth rock face, and it must’ve been agreed he would go first.

Jaunting the few yards to Lyndy’s seat, Neil whispered in her ear. “Watch this,” he spoke confidently with a wink, and began lacing up his shoes one at a time.

The blonde man started his ascent with his partner spotting. He moved upward with gecko-like abilities, requiring only the tiniest flakes to make progress. These holds were so small they were invisible from afar. His arm muscles tensed and flared, and sweat beaded on his back, which was mostly visible through a ventilated beach shirt.

Neil studied him, while tightening his laces. The specimen of a man was grunting and breathing heavily, but continued to make progress inching up the wall. His feet were splayed in different directions like a tree frog. Soon his forearms were shaking, fingers pinching onto sandpaper-like grips. On the ground his partner had hands ready to soften his pal’s landing. He’d even put down his beer, thus indicating he was serious.

Neil leaned over, cupping his hand around his lips. “That’s like a grade 8 route.”

Lyndy, knowing nothing about the sport of bouldering, was ready to believe anything Neil said. It sounded intimidating—even life threatening—from where she was sitting. Neil again whispered in her ear: “Forgot to mention you look smoking hot right now in that outfit. I can’t take my eyes off you. You’re the best-looking woman I’ve ever seen.”

Lyndy blushed. Perhaps a desperate man had uttered those same words to her, in her prime, but she couldn’t recall the last time. It felt delightful and warm inside all the same. She pointed discretely to the route. “But you’ve climbed it before, right?”

Neil bobbed his head side to side, then lifted up one leg touching his heel to his butt, stretching the hams. “I’ve climbed it once. Except I was 28 years old at the time.”

All eyes from camp-4 were on the French climber, when suddenly he made a noise and gravity brought him back. He slammed into his partner with a FWOOSH, both men landing in a heap on a crash pad. The blonde challenger jumped up immediately with a smug grin, self-assured in his performance. Having been roughly two arm lengths from the summit when he slipped, he seemed to believe this was unbeatable. Meantime his partner clutched his head and frowned, having had his bell rung.

Now it was Neil’s turn, as the other two were licking their wounds.

“You gonna be okay?” asked Lyndy.

“You worry too much,” said Neil, unbuttoning his shirt. For a man nearing forty, he had no sign of a beer belly. Every inch of him was lean. He tossed his dusty shirt to Erica.

Neil strode forward to place both hands on the rock, steadying himself at the base. The guy with the curly hair jumped up, ready to provide the spotting.

Neil studied the rock for half a minute, gazing vertically and taking in the details; in his mind working out the moves like a chess master. Lyndy couldn’t eat or drink she was so nervous for Neil. She pushed her cup and a paper plate away, then gripped the edge of her seat with both hands.

With one deep inhalation Neil started up the granite face. The moment both hands and feet were off the dirt, his mission had begun. Stretching with his long arms, fingers clawing for a grip, he snagged a hold. Then with his bicep power pulled himself two feet higher, re-positioning his shoes. He couldn’t turn back now.

All attention shifted to Neil, including those of his two rivals.

Lyndy could see the muscles in Neil’s back were tense, as his spine curved so he could twist a foot onto a higher grip. Her own heart began to pound, and her fingers began to curl. She could feel the grittiness of the rock on her fingers. His breathing got heavier and when the moves were tough, he exhaled a sudden rush of air. She breathed just as hard.

At the apex, where the climb tilted to a negative slope, he cupped both hands over a knob extrusion on the rock, launching himself with the power of his forearms and shoulders.

Lyndy glanced to Erica who had knotted up Neil’s shirt and was biting it.

She smiled. It occurred to Lyndy that although Erica had said she had a boyfriend, that she was actually hopelessly in love with Neil. If one counted her own crush, well that made two of them.

As Neil kicked up his left shoe, one of the French climbers scoffed. He was approaching the crux move, now twelve feet over the soil. A fall from this height would be hard to soften, and his buddy Rick with the shaggy hair, had both arms raised and eyes fixated. He was nervous. Neil was battling gravity with his muscles and his brain, but all his buddy could do was dance a small circle with his hands up.

Neil’s back like iron, began to glisten with sweat. Yet this and his heavy breathing was the only evidence of exertion. The rest of him was deep in concentration. In a tense moment, Neil managed to heave his core above the negative section onto a polished, but positive sloped pitch. From there, it was the friction in his shoes and the chalk on his hands that kept him glued to the rock. An impact from the full height couldn’t be softened now. His spotter backed away. Probably he would be hospitalized if not dead.

Lyndy couldn’t watch so she covered her eyes, but continued to peek through the cracks in her fingers.

The Frenchmen scoffed again. One of them said in a thick accent: “I knew he could do it. I wanted to see the way it should be climbed.” But everyone knew that was bull.

Neil topped out onto a flat summit, peering down at the party like a perched gargoyle, with a very broad grin.

“Hey Lyndy! See, I made it,” boasted Neil, like a proud little kid.

Lyndy stood up and clapped. So did Erica. It took a few seconds for Neil to skid down the back, where he used a pine tree to gracefully descend and lower himself to the ground. He marched across the circle to the tables and Erica gave him a hug.

The celebration didn’t last. In the corner of her eye, Lyndy spotted a fish out of water man, wearing khaki pants, a loosened tie and plaid business shirt. He was poking around near where Maribel’s buggy had been stowed.

“Ohhhhhh shit,” Lyndy mouthed in slow motion. Kyle caught sight of her at the same moment, and the anger was plain to see. He stormed across the circle of tables, disrupting even the French climber dudes.

He grabbed hard onto Lyndy’s wrist, with a cold rage.

“Hey man, what’s yer problem?” argued someone.

Kyle dragged Lyndy across the camp; she followed out of sheer embarrassment. As he brushed past Neil—who’d been in shock—he said words which were etched in her mind for years to come: “Lyndy Martinez is a lot of fun isn’t she? Well, she can’t come out and play anymore.” He swiveled his head, making sure everyone was watching. “Lyndy can’t come out and play cause she’s a mom now! For Christ sake.”

Kyle kicked the buggy until the brakes let go, then he pushed it with one arm while not letting go of Lyndy’s wrist. Maribel was crying. Hard to tell if it just started, or she’d been wailing for an extended time as so much excitement had gone on.

“Dude, wait up,” said Neil, attempting to follow.

Kyle stamped the ground in a threatening manner.

“Now are you her boyfriend or are you Lyndy’s dad …

Kyle glared back at Neil, daring him to finish the sentence.

“… cause right now it’s hard for me to tell,” said Neil.

Kyle pointed to the east end of the valley, the direction of the hotel. “Your boss will be hearing from me. This is unacceptable.” Kyle looked at the crowd with disdain. In his eyes they were losers.

Santa Barbara, CA 2010s

Lyndy Life observation: As a new mom I often wondered how many of my personality traits Maribel would inherit versus Kyle’s. I remember one early warning sign came from a teacher’s report the first day of Mari’s kindergarten. They had nap time of course and apparently there was another little girl who was sniffling and complaining about missing her mother. After ten minutes of this, Maribel rolled over and scolded: “Oh be quiet, people are trying to sleep!”

They waited a long time before coming to get her. Lyndy spent the alone time seated in the yard, listening to the rustling of leaves and chirping birds. But then she heard a door unlatch and creak.

“I know it’s a lot,” remarked Fred, stepping from a side entrance off the patio. He had both hands in his pockets as he sauntered to her. Behind him, his daughter emerged, using a cane for support but moving more easily than expected.

Gillian hobbled across the lawn to her stone bench, resting beside The Spitfire. Then she placed a hand atop Lyndy’s. Her green eyes were inquisitive and wistful.

“Miss Martinez, could you please tell me something about my mom?”

“What do you want to know?”

“Anything. I was so young, I only have a few precious memories, like still frames of her with nothing substantive.”

Lyndy cupped a fist under her chin, while flashes of her youth played on a projector in her mind. The reason some of these were hard to access was obvious. She didn’t like to think about those days.

At last Lyndy answered: “Your mother enjoyed Mexican food. A LOT. Homemade tamales especially—the more authentic and lower budget the better. With red and green sauce. But obviously not from chain fast food joints.”

She could hear Fred exhaling a laugh. But when Lyndy glanced to the curious eyes of Gillian, she could tell the girl felt unsatisfied.

“No. Like what I mean is, tell me something good about my mom. Something positive she did for others or yourself.”

“Uh. Geez. Lemme think,” said Lyndy running her hand over head. She accidentally dislodged her glasses, catching them in her lap and preventing the pair from falling to the stone path. Lyndy smirked, as an old memory floated itself from the murky depths. “This one time we were flying to Denver and Rita was in first class. I was stuck in coach, of course.” Lyndy turned to squeeze Gillian’s shoulder. “This was back when flying was still hip, and first class was worthy of the name. As she was boarding, a stewardess presented Rita with this zippered goody bag. It was scarlet red, with the logo of the airline and inside were all sorts of girly items. There was a hairbrush, some pink sunglasses and an eye mask. And like little candies and stuff. But Rita didn’t want it. After we took off, she wandered back to coach where I was sitting—probably in a middle seat—and she handed me the bag, saying something like: “Here. I don’t’ want this.” She glanced to Fred and then back to Gillian. “That’s something nice right? Proves Rita was thinking of me.”

“That’s all you can think of,” sighed Gillian. “What about her philanthropic work?”

Lyndy shrugged. “Philanthropy? Rita had her moments. She often donated to charity. But your mom wasn’t known for being what others consider quote-unquote nice.” Gillian glared at Fred. There was an unspoken grievance, possibly with the truth about her mother being revealed at last.