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Gasoline and Matches Part-12

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

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Lake Arrowhead CA, 1990s

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Page 41 of what? What book!

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

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

“Baby won’t eat?” queried Helen.

“No. And it’s really frustrating.”

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

A few minutes later …

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No hello.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lyndy gazed at the picture somberly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A man’s voice cried, “come in”.

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

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

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

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

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

“Who might you be?” questioned the man.

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

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

So far, neither female was Tigerlilly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I can take you to her,” he said.

Gasoline and Matches Part-11

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

Lake Arrowhead, CA 1990s

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Helen nodded, still somewhat in shock.

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

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

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

Helen chuckled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lyndy nodded yes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You did? What?”

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

Wonder Valley, CA 1990s

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Who indeed.

Gasoline and Matches Part-8

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

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

Joshua Tree CA, 1990s

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She hoped he was kind at least.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lyndy suppressed a chuckle. Sure.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maribel squirmed again as Lyndy comforted her.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lyndy nodded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Well then, do you wanna see it?”

Lyndy nodded eagerly.

Five minutes later …

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah, they meant business in the fifties.”

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

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

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

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

Lyndy stuck out her lower lip in disappointment.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sure. Makes sense.”

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

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

Lake Arrowhead, CA 1990s

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maybe she was simply his type.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He didn’t even ask where she’d been.

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

Perfect, Lyndy thought.

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

“I guess … I thought you’d be mad.”

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

She shook her head no.

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

Gasoline and Matches Part-5

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Gasoline and Matches: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-5

Lyndy Life Observation: Col Rickman once claimed any marriage lasting fewer than 6 weeks shouldn’t officially count. Thus, by his math he was only married two times in his life, not 3. His short-lived marriage to a showgirl in Vegas was a non-starter.

Watching her daughter sleep soundly in her crib, Lyndy smiled to herself and sighed. Putting this child to bed hadn’t always been so trouble free. Gently, she snugged Maribel’s knitted blanket higher onto her chest, swaddling her arms without waking the precious baby. Through an inch crack in the window, Lyndy could hear a serenade of crickets—it seemed to help with the sleep issue. Before leaving the nursery, she spun the colorful mobile of bears, foxes and elk which hung over her daughter’s crib and silently observed it twirling.

Outside the glassy waters of the lake reflected a tranquil sliver of moonlight. The hills surrounding glowed with tiny amber lights, dream-like, from the hundreds of cabins tucked in the dense pine woods. Up here it certainly didn’t feel like Los Angeles was a mere two-hour drive away. On nights like these it reminded her of a holy city, say in Tibet.

The red LED clock on her nightstand read 10:07. Time to be moving.

Lyndy tip-toed to the hallway, then down two doors to the laundry room. She needed to cycle a load without disturbing Kyle or waking Mari. Luckily the newer models had a soft-chime feature, so when a load was finished it didn’t buzz like a fire drill bell.

Lyndy flipped the switch, adjusting a small knob which kept the lights on the dimmest setting. After transferring a dozen or so wet towels to the dryer unit, she widened her arms to grasp a load of Kyle’s plaid work shirts.

Attempting to be absolutely silent, while gathering up as many of the shirts as possible always meant dropping one. It landed on the linoleum floor, which was an off-white shade. Bending at the hips, Lyndy stretched to pick it up, causing her to notice something subtle yet peculiar. She might not have spotted this mystery substance if she hadn’t been anxious.

Lyndy frowned, then stepped over to the light switch to set the dial higher. This made the lighting more intense, confirming what she was seeing. It was a shimmer, from a dusting of glitter smeared across the shirt collar.

“What in the world?”

Pinching the collar and bringing it closer to her eyes for a better look, she confirmed the substance was glitter—the same flakes of color used in feminine makeup. Showgirl type glitter; Rochelle Bishop kept several containers of this at her stand, spraying it on prior to her act. Of course, Lyndy didn’t wear glitter. Nor did she imagine Kyle would be hanging around with her old pal Miss Bishop—too specific. She sniffed, thinking of what to do. Then she remembered there were envelopes in Kyle’s home office. Sliding open the desk door, she picked out the smallest size to save just a bit of the evidence. Once she’d captured the metallic flakes, she went back to finish loading the washer.

45 minutes later …

Lyndy Life Observation: Consider this, in the early 1990s Sears Tire Center advertised a sale on tires and I bought a complete set of 4 for $48, with installation. That works out to $12 a tire! And they were decent quality tires.

Jackie agreed to meet up at a 24-hour Gas-N-Go truck stop in Banning.

Sipping bad coffee from a paper cup, Lyndy paged through a well-worn San Bernardino County Thomas guide—something she did often when working at Chan’s.

Meantime Jackie pinched a silver crucifix which hung from her neck, bowing her head to pray. Compared to their previous encounters, Jackie was much quieter. Lyndy chalked this behavior up to nerves.

Finishing her prayers, Jackie looked away, gazing out the window to the busy interstate. Dark sunglasses shaded her eyes, even in the night hour. Her curtain-bangs hid the rest. A purse rested in her lap. It was hard to envision anyone engaging in such a spiritual activity to be concealing false motives. Still, Lyndy had her reservations.

Their mission tonight ought to be straightforward—simply locating a business called “Godzilla Towing” and scouting the premises. They were the ones who flat-towed Sabina’s VW out of the national park campground. It would be a pricey job, not to mention the storage fees. Not only was the name of the business menacing, but the fact police detectives couldn’t get in to see the vehicle had her worried.

Where was AAA when you needed them?

Finding their charming yellow pages ad was trivial, because it featured a cartoon of Godzilla pulling a Jeep tied to his tail. Their trucks were dinosaur green, emblazoned with the same Godzilla cartoon. The address was in 29 Palms, a smallish settlement on Highway 62, smack dab in the middle of the Mojave. The place could rival Amboy for high temps.

No one operating a legit business would base out of there. They’d picked it on purpose; to be hard to reach. A few of the high desert impound lots had garnered a reputation for being black holes, where getting a car out became damn near impossible. The mob loved these. Lyndy memorized the cross street, but she had a suspicion it wouldn’t be hard to find.

Sufficiently caffeinated, Lyndy and Jackie burst into the night air, confidently resolved to face gravel backroads, the darkness or whatever came at them. Normal folks were settling into their beds by now. Only nocturnal creatures were on the prowl. Jackie locked her car while Lyndy dabbed on lipstick, using the reflection in the truck stop windows as her mirror. Then she ducked into the driver’s seat. With a yank of the gear shifter and stomp of the gas pedal, they accelerated onto I-10, speeding along with the overnight truckers. Lyndy kept the radio low. Good stations faded in and out with fluctuations of the atmosphere.

Above the hills, bright stars filled the sky.

It took some arm twisting to convince Jackie the sixties Ford would be a smarter choice for their reconnaissance, versus the modern Porsche. Like any girl, Lyndy was a fan of sexy black Porsches, but the benefits of a less conspicuous vehicle with actual trunk space were obvious.

Lyndy glanced to her passenger a few times as they sped past wind turbines and sand hills, overtaking truck after truck. Sometimes Jackie stared at her Nokia mobile phone with its glowing screen, likely hoping for a sudden call from her daughter.

There were many questions she wanted to ask Jackie, not only about this case but her former life in Hollywood. Perhaps those would come in time. For now, The Spitfire was glad to have someone who wasn’t a chatterbox. Quiet was the second most optimal kind of passenger on the highway. The best were obviously fit young guys with good hearts and sweet personalities, but those were very hard to come by. Practically unicorns.

One hour later ….

Rickman told her he applied for a job one time as a tow-truck operator. The first thing they said to him was a warning disguised in a question: “Do you know how to fight?” This small anecdote had been running through Lyndy’s brain for the last half hour. Ever since the radio ceased getting reception.

It was a mostly uneventful drive through the Morongo Valley, then Yucca Valley and the village of Joshua Tree. She had the windows half down much of the time, to feel the air and help her think. The rumbling 390 cubic inch V8 filled her ears and as an added bonus, it didn’t overheat.

Silhouettes of many armed Joshua trees decorated the hillsides and open flats near the roadside—like scare crows in the night. Above them weathered rock formations loomed. She’d forgotten what a charming and fanciful place Joshua Tree could be, particularly for a young adult longing to experience the natural world.

Eventually, having given up on service, Jackie shut off and put away her phone. Even with the sun setting hours ago, air temps hovered in the mid-90s. The Spitfire could tell by the bank thermometer in Joshua Tree.

They turned off highway 62 at a side-street called Mesquite Springs Road.

Godzilla’s vehicle impound lot wasn’t hard to find. She spotted it from a mile away, a fort-like structure looming in the distance, out of character with the ragged homesteads, abandoned cabins and shoestring businesses. The place was ringed with twenty yellow street lamps, like an airport parking lot—an abomination.

Lyndy lowered her window all the way, and Jackie did the same, now that they were on backroads.

Roughly a 2-acre plot of land had been fenced in, except not with customary chain link, chicken wire or even corrugated tin like so many junk yards. This one was nothing short of a medieval fortress. Before approaching what constituted an office, Lyndy took a sharp turn to circle around the block.

Instead of a skinny fence, they’d taken the time to weld sections of iron water main pipe together, basically one upright post every eight feet, connected by a straight top piece. The rust-colored pipes were ten-inch diameter. No telling how deep the uprights had been sunk in the ground—twenty feet was enough to make them virtually indestructible. Except for the gate by the office, there were no gaps in this barrier. Even worse, that was only the middle layer. In front of this, they’d somehow obtained enough concrete k-rail—same stuff used on freeways—to encompass the perimeter. Just one twenty-foot k-rail section weighed approximately 8000 pounds, which she knew from the spray paint stenciling that sometimes could be read on the ends. The k-rail was connected by iron rods, as they did on freeways.

These folks weren’t just towing cars—they were preparing for a Mad-Max style future. All they needed now was a thunder dome and Tina Turner.

After building up these two defensive layers, they’d used a bulldozer to plow a mound of soil ten feet high into a dirt berm surrounding the whole lot. This made it difficult to see in and would slow any type of ramming attack. Smart. Lastly, atop that berm, a jagged metal fence had been constructed from scrap panels of diamond plate. Then for good measure, coils of razor wire had been placed. Something about this reminded her of the Berlin Wall. Only dark forces could conceive of something this diabolical: a fortress meant for stealing cars, and charging folks to get em back.

It was quiet in the Ford as reality set in. Both had an internal monologue. She could tell Jackie was frightened, and for good reason. Lyndy was anxious too. Though she didn’t speak, Jackie was thinking: “I told you so.”

Gathering her hair in a ponytail, Lyndy poked it through a scrunchie and sighed. She noted Jackie chose to wear an all-black ensemble, including black jeans. In contrast, Lyndy was wearing short-shorts plus a white spaghetti strap tank—for warm weather comfort.

After two loops around the yard, Lyndy pointed the wheel to the Godzilla management offices, fronting the street. There a smallish one-story cinder-block building had been erected, accompanied by a macho sign. Two tow-trucks were parked in front, the green ones displaying the logo of the fire-breathing monster which famously destroyed Tokyo. Tracks in the dirt showed they drove in and out fifty times a day or more. The third vehicle was a BMW M5, newish with a botched two-tone paint job. That car looked to be a man’s beloved daily driver.

Spinning fans indicated people inside. A little sign in the window alleged they were open for business—but these places kept long hours anyway.

Lyndy stepped out into the dry wind, facing some regret at her Daisy Duke inspired clothing; especially the tight top which left her hips exposed. Before the baby, this shirt used to fit.

A bell jingled and the AC fan kicked on as Lyndy entered. No surprise, they were awake.

The gang were nocturnal, like her.

“Howdy folks,” said Lyndy, using her deepest and most serious voice.

Two of the three men inside had been playing Mario Kart on a wall mounted TV, with the Nintendo console attached beneath. They were behind a tall counter with two banana style office phones, same setup as rental car agencies. The only art on the wall should’ve been a definite warning: It was a space shuttle but the copycat Russian version, called Buran, launching into the sky with an artfully drawn Godzilla monster pawing at it, but missing.

The walls were painted lava orange—interesting choice of palate.

Jackie, with her hair in a scarf and her sunglasses on, entered a few seconds later. She filled in behind Lyndy.

Another fellow had his arms folded. He’d been watching TV until the bell rang. He was dressed as a truck operator with overalls, baggy carpenter pants and a white cotton undershirt fitting him terribly, sleeves bunching up around his obese arms.

All three men were of eastern European descent; she could tell that much. Someone hit pause on the game. All eyes were suddenly fixed on her like a proverbial stranger entering a saloon.

“Hey Sergei, I must have forgot,” spoke the tallest among them, who appeared like an entrant in an Ivan Drago look-alike contest. She could tell a bad joke was coming. “Did you order a Mexican lap dance?” He had the accent to match, and all three men laughed heartily. His chubbier compadre, presumably named Sergei, who had also been playing Mario Kart had that wheezing laugh of an older smoker. These macho dudes were huge. Minimum weight was probably 220 between them. Multiply by 3, and this worked out to at least 660 pounds of men.

Lyndy smiled but did not laugh, while shoving her thumbs into the tiny front pockets of her jean shorts. Jackie showed no emotion. Continuing to smile, Lyndy nodded, “Yeah that joke’s a knee slapper. Ya’ll hold onto your senses of humor now. God knows … life is tough.” She rocked on her heels. “Anyways …”

“What can we do for you?” asked the chubbier Sergei. Given the circumstances, his eastern European accent sounded downright comical, like someone pretending to be a vampire. But he spoke English well—especially for a Russian. The third man in the trucker overalls, just stood there chewing tobacco like a cow with a mouth full of cud. All the while he was glaring at Jackie like an absolute creep.

“We’re searching for a tourist’s vehicle that came out of the national park,” said Lyndy cheerily. “Couple weeks back.”

“What type of vehicle? We get several per week.”

Lyndy glanced at Jackie. “A Jetta.”

“It was a black VW Jetta,” Jackie confirmed.

Sergei nodded his head. “Yes. Yes. Car is here.”

“Alrighty, we’d like to have that released to us. Jackie has a court order she can show you. How much do we owe?”

“Cost will be fifty thousand.”

Lyndy squinted her eyes, exhaling. Her gaze first fell upon Sergei, who was unflinching. She moved next to the taller guy who looked like Ivan Drago. That man was leering at her chest, making no attempt to hide it. “Dollars?” she asked.

“Yes. Best we can do.”

Lyndy raised an eyebrow. She turned back to the fifty-ish Sergei across from her at the counter, who was now resting both knuckles there. His body language mimed an arrogant pawn shop operator. She blinked, checking on the faces of the other two fellows for any sort of tell that it was still joke time.

“Seriously, just give us the real price so we can get outta here,” declared Lyndy.

Sergei shrugged.

“This is an outrage!”

“How would you like to go on a date with me?” interjected the tall man, out of nowhere. He shoved both his fists into the pocket of his overalls, leaning back against the wall, grinning smugly. “For a discount. I have a fetish for moms.”

In disbelief, Lyndy rotated to face him. “Listen to me carefully. I would rather gallop on a horse all day with an ass full of hemorrhoids … and no saddle.”

The chubby driver laughed, revealing black teeth as his whole belly trembled, then continued chewing. Now it was clear why the detectives had been unable to obtain the car. This place was hardly a business. Without Sabina’s car, she wasn’t sure they had anything to sustain their investigation.

“Look, you guys don’t understand. We’re not here to play games. We’re trying to find a missing person,” pleaded Lyndy. “They could be in grave danger as we speak. We don’t have time for BS. In fact, time is of the essence. If ya’ll wanna F around with me another time that’s fine.”

Sergei smirked. “This is why I love Latin women,” he mused. He touched his chest and said: “They do not whine or cry. Instead, they have the passion inside them.” He sniffed a huge amount of snot, swallowed it, then he scolded his friend. “Do not insult our customers, Block.”

“Wouldn’t want to damage the old BBB rating, eh,” joked Lyndy. “The tall guy is named Block?” thought Lyndy. How fitting.

“Fifty thousand dollars takes time,” Jackie asserted, using one finger to lower her shades. “I would have to get a bank to authorize it.”

Sergei gestured with his elbow and hand, making an “it’s okay” motion. Then he added, “Take time. Sergei will be here.”

Lyndy’s jaw dropped. Abruptly she pivoted one-eighty, spinning her purse around and marching for the door. She put an arm around Jackie, pulling her closer.

But as they were about to exit and have a discussion, the bell jangled once again. A disheveled man in dad shoes and a sweat stained polo shirt entered. Using the front of his shirt again, the newcomer began mopping many beads of sweat which had accumulated on his forehead.

He proceeded to the counter, inquiring about a Minivan which had broken down along the highway, near the national park exit. The vehicle had been towed by Godzilla towing. “Why did you take it into the yard?” he’d asked. They didn’t have an answer for that, but over hearing, he was quoted $8000 for a ten-mile tow.

Gasoline and Matches Part-4

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

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

Wonder Valley, CA 1990s

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Uh. My name is Debbie.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Is it cold?”

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

Lake Arrowhead, CA 1990s

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And how long was I out?”

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

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

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

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

“Lyndy Martinez?” repeated the woman.

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

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

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

Still, the stranger was hell bent on making conversation.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Clicking her tongue and inhaling deeply, Lyndy shrugged.

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

Of course. Now it made sense.

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

“That sounds lovely,” Lyndy replied.

“Say, three o-clock?”

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

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

“You mean preschool?”

“No. High School.

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

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

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

“Do you know anyone at Crestwood?” asked Lyndy

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

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

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

“Good advice,” thought Lyndy.

Gasoline and Matches Part-3

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Date on card says 2.9.86. The cabins are still in good shape. Nice color! I give this one an 8 out of 10. Would be higher if they hadn’t hadn’t written their note on back with the force of a jackhammer.

Gasoline and Matches: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-3

Lyndy Life Observation: At a fancy steakhouse in Tucson, Rita ordered a porterhouse and when it was delivered to the table, sizzling, her father intercepted the plate. He then spent five minutes meticulously slicing up the steak for Rita, before handing the plate back to her. Mind you, Rita was 32 years old at this time. I might have teased her, but secretly, I envied Rita because she had a dad who loved her.

She used to worry whether they could really do this together, be parents. Could they do it, raising a baby without marriage bonds? One of her 55 daily worries about life and the reason sleep eluded her.

In spite of everything a new hope swelled inside when Lyndy thought about Maribel. The loving way Kyle looked at her made her hopeful. Kyle handled all the nerdy stuff in life, like balancing the checkbook. Lyndy handled the grocery shopping and most meals. They functioned well together. They each had a favorite side of the bed and on a cold, lonely night Kyle reached for her, whispering her name in his sleep. Course their love life had always been passionate—the kind some women dream about. The reason women bought romances, something Rita Lovelace called: a gasoline and matches relationship. No complaints there. So, with the seed of love planted in their hearts, they had a shot.

Which brought her to this moonless night. Windows rolled down, a hot breeze blowing through her chestnut hair—speeding across the high desert in her 67 Fastback, wearing a tank top. Passing her old Route-66 haunts: The Vanishing Point, a legendary roadhouse joint where she once waited tables alongside her rival Catherine Cookson. The former site of Chan’s Bail Bonds, where she later worked as a private investigator, now an auto parts store. The Sunset Motel, where she lived on and off. Room number 22 had a kitchenette. The night club where she dealt illegal card games with bikers, late at night when she was bored.

She didn’t know what primal forces drew her here. Some kind of odd desert vortex. It was like the unquenchable urge to drink reposado tequila; you couldn’t shake it if you wanted to. The Mojave was like that. Haunting. Strangely attractive. She had the radio loud. The song Pink Cadillac playing on the stereo.

One good thing about this near 30-year-old classic car: no seat belt and no idiot lights on the dash compelling you to fasten one. Go right ahead and tempt fate.

If Becky Ellis was correct about one thing it was this. Lyndy E. Martinez would never be an SUV driving, soccer game attending, unnaturally skinny Lake Arrowhead mom. She’d never be the thing Kyle really needed. Boring. But that’s not why he loved her, nor what bonded them.

Somewhere up at the Arrowhead cabin Kyle and Maribel were sleeping soundly. But that was their Ellis nature. Mustangs needed to run. Beavers needed to build dams. Martinez’s needed to break things.

A short time later, she pulled into an open stall at the all-night truck stop. A few spaces away, an out of place Porsche Carrera lurking in a shadow. It meant Jackie Cordray was here waiting.

Initially she resisted Jackie’s requests to meet. She’d answered her at the Disneyland Hotel, a firm “no”. Informed her she couldn’t possibly work her old job anymore. Kyle would blow his top if he were to find out. She needed to focus on being a mom. So much for that.

Lyndy slid into the hard-sided booth opposite Jackie.

Over a basket of fries and two trucker-size Diet Cokes at the cafe, Jackie started to open up. “You’re a pretty girl, Lyndy,” she commented boldly, breaking a moment of awkward silence.

Lyndy chuckled, smiled bashfully, hating complements. Calling her a “girl” at this stage in life was something only a smooth-talking older adult like Jackie could get away with. From anyone else it would’ve been an insult. She studied Jackie’s face, learning what she could from her cues. There was something of an accent in Jackie’s words, an upscale, New Englander way of pronouncing them. And she reminded her of a woman who made their own decisions, not letting others, or a husband push her around.

“I think people expect me to be tougher looking,” replied Lyndy, shaking her head.

“Rita told me you had a half-dozen suitors spread across the county. They were lining up. So why aren’t you married?” asked Jackie innocently.

Lyndy winced. “Ay yai yai. For that I don’t have a logical answer.”

In the bright lights illuminating the diesel pumps, a diamond encrusted Cartier watch glinted on Jackie’s left wrist—the one supporting her chin—standing out to Lyndy cause even a well-to-do housewife wouldn’t own that model.

You could see the watch well as she chewed on her pinky nail. She was awaiting some kind of logical explanation.

“In my defense I was engaged once, to a handsome and hard-working deputy. Thought I had it all. After our relationship ended abruptly, I just … uh … never wanted to go through heartbreak again.” Those words stung to say aloud. “It was a bitter pill—going back to my shitty trailer felt like defeat. I had to get a job.”

Hoping to alleviate the awkwardness of her lifestyle, Lyndy snagged one of the French fries, dipping it in the paper cup of ketchup.

“I’m sorry,” said Jackie. “I shouldn’t have asked such a probing question. It’s rude of me.”

Lyndy shook her head, indicating it wasn’t taken in that vein.

“Anyhow, I hear there’s a great deal more to you than looks. Around town people call you The Spitfire.”

Lyndy nodded, tilting her chin to sip from her diet coke.

“I didn’t know, cause Rita Lovelace calls you Lyn or Lyndy,” Jackie explained. “The Spitfire—that’s like a nickname someone would give the outlaw in a western flick. Not many outlaws were women back in the day, so they became legends.” Jackie cleared her throat. “I also hear you have a knack for bringing powerful men to their knees.” Jackie leaned back, glancing to the door and to the kitchen, as if to check on anyone listening in.

Lyndy waited patiently, letting the complements soak in. “Well, now we’re talking,” she thought. “I like it when people help to spread around the folklore,” Lyndy replied. “It’s good for business.”

Jackie strained to breathe as she formed her next sentence. You could always tell a person going through grief by listening to their speech. Behind an outer shell of glamorous makeup, a heartache resided, eating her up inside. Lyndy knew before her telling that a child must be missing. Gone a long time now, the trail ice cold. Probably a hopeless case, the missing person deceased.

Steadying her nerves, Jackie swallowed hard. “Cause I’m up against some very arrogant men.”

Reaching for the crumpled pack of Newports, Jackie snagged a smoke and stuck the filter between her lips. Squinting an eye, she lit her cigarette with a yellow Bic. Then she puffed a cloud to get it started, checking herself in the reflection of the windows at night. She allowed a puff of smoke to swirl in front of her face.

“When I first came to bloody state, I was pretty like you. And I thought highly of myself to match; like any other young actress in Hollywood. I was competitive, self-obsessed and I took some actions I now regret.” Jackie grinned proudly, glancing to the front entries, as if a photographer would walk in on them. “You probably wouldn’t recognize me, but I was a TV actress of some renown in the sixties and seventies. Appeared in westerns: Gunsmoke, Bonanza, Big Valley, stuff like that. I even hosted a game show. Lately I’ve been on soap operas. Not like, full on, household name level, but I did alright for myself. I’m mostly retired and life was good for any woman my age.”

Now that she mentioned TV, Lyndy thought she did recognize Jackie’s face as a minor Hollywood celebrity.

Jackie sniffed. She stiffened her back, rubbing with one hand while staring back at Lyndy. The corners of her eyes began to tear up. “Bet you haven’t heard this one before. I sold my first-born daughter when I was eighteen, for a mere four thousand dollars.”

The AC fans roared, even louder when a sweaty customer at the C-store opened the glass doors and crossed the threshold into the night.

“You’re right. That’s a new one.”

Jackie pulled a silk handkerchief from her purse and began dabbing her eyes. After a momentary pause, she continued, “Back then, it was certainly abnormal, but it happened. Infertile couples were desperate to adopt. Being focused on my acting I wasn’t ready to be a mom. I had a healthy baby girl and so a man at the hospital negotiated this deal. I made a choice. I traded being a mother for pursuing my career and lifestyle. By the time I snapped out of this dream, I had… come to regret it.”

Jackie shrugged. She tapped ash from her Newport into a green glass ash tray with the phone number for the truck stop on it. The way Jackie spoke of her relationship with her daughter was unnerving. Lyndy masked a tingling, an urge to shake it off—in part because it made her think of her own AWOL mother. And what Lyndy would say if the one who abandoned her ever came looking.

“When I had my next daughter—thank God for second chances—I promised to never make the same mistakes. I wanted to give her every opportunity. We paid for private school. She attends a prep academy high school, where a lot of other celebrities send their kids.”

“What’s your daughter’s name?”

“Sabina.”

“And she’s missing?”

Jackie nodded, almost unable to say that part aloud. “Eight weeks. Her car was found abandoned near the boundary of Joshua Tree National Park. Sabina was a part of this Desert Explorer’s Club in school, an extracurricular activity which I unfortunately encouraged her to join. Cause I thought it would be good for her confidence. She loves nature.”

“Which brings us to now,” continued Jackie. “My daughter is the only one in the group who didn’t return from an overnight trip to the park. The other students on the trip say they woke up in the morning and my daughter wasn’t there. Her tent was empty. No screams. Nothing out of the ordinary. Beyond those few answers—little bread crumbs—they won’t speak about it. Parent’s lawyers have gotten to the kids, warned ‘em not to talk.”

“What do the police say? What have they been doing for the past 8 weeks?” What Lyndy was thinking was: “why do you need me?”

“The park has been searched thoroughly, a good 2 or 3-mile radius of the campground. I’ve participated. So far nothing. They say they have to obtain her abandoned car to try and recover evidence. The bad part is, it was towed to a private impound lot, controlled by a 29 Palms tow company. No one can get to it.”

“What do you mean no one can get to it? Why can’t the police recover the car?”

Jackie grinned in the manner of someone bringing your attention to a hopeless situation which ought to be easy to solve. “It sounds crazy. But the police are afraid of these tow-truck operators. They won’t release any cars to the police.”

Lyndy raised both eyebrows. “The cops are afraid of them?”

Jackie nodded. “It’s called Godzilla Towing. I heard it’s controlled by the Russian mob.” With a subtle motion of her left arm, Jackie clawed the green glass ash tray toward her and began dabbing out her only one-fifth enjoyed cigarette.

“I’m sorry.”

Even though Lyndy was captivated by the conversation, she felt the need to interrupt. “Forgive me Miss Corday, but I’m going to jump ahead …”

“Call me Jackie,” Jackie replied. Clearly, Jackie could read the skeptical look on Lyndy’s face which said: this has like a one in a billion chance of a positive outcome. “Listen to me Lyndy. You know when you can feel someone is alive? I still feel her light. It’s not out. A mother can feel it.”

Lyndy eased back, letting her body slump in the formed bench seat with no meaningful cushion. Her heels spread to the side. She was thinking of Maribel.

That part at least was relatable

Lyndy placed a hand atop Jackie’s. “I’m going to say something and I don’t want you to take it personally. Assuming what you told me is true, at this point, there’s a cinder’s chance in snow your daughter is still of this world. If Mr. Chan were here, he’d call everything you’re wanting me to do a fool’s errand. But you’re a mother, and so I understand.”

Jackie paused a beat, then reached into her purse. The facts didn’t seem to have any impact on her resolve. It was a very Rita thing to do to send a desperate person her way.

“I have one clue, a letter,” Jackie asserted. “Hopefully more, when we can get our hands on her Jetta.”

Lyndy exhaled, shaking her head at the situation.

“Read this.” Jackie tossed a tattered envelope across the table. The letter contained within became amongst the saddest and most puzzling objects Lyndy ever held. The paper was ripped from a lined journal, written in the blocky all capitals style of a young person, pen indented deeply into the paper. The ink was black. An accompanying envelope had been stamped and mailed from San Bernardino, California, with no return address.

“Go ahead,” Jackie encouraged.

Lyndy gently unfolded it, smoothing the creases with her index and middle finger. One could almost feel the ghostly presence of the person who wrote it.

“MRS CORDRAY, I REGRET TO INFORM YOU YOUR DAUGHTER SABINA EXPRESSED A WISH FOR US TO REMAIN SILENT ON THE MATTER OF HER DESTINY. SHE WANTS YOU TO KNOW SHE’S GONE TO LIVE OUT HER DREAMS ON HER OWN TERMS. WHEN YOU THINK OF HER, PICTURE HER RIDING A BELTED KINGFISHER AMONGST THE STARS IN THE MILKY WAY. HER PAIN NO LONGER HAUNTS HER. SHE SPENT HER REMAINING TIME WITH US EXPLORING THE CANYONS, SHARING HER INNER SOUL AND FINDING HER TRUE SELF. THE SPOT WAS HER LITTLE GARDEN OF EDEN. RESEPECTFULLY, – TIGERLILY

Lyndy squeezed her chin. “Do you know anyone by that name, Tigerlily?”

“Tigerlily,” Jackie replied, with a bitterness. “An art Teacher. Marion Tigerlily Jones. She’s was the adult responsible for the trip. She sponsored the club.” Jackie gestured to the letter. “My daughter loved Kingfishers because they’re so colorful.” Jackie paused a moment then reached for a checkbook. “I can pay you 15 thousand.”

“Let’s say this letter is hinting at the fact your daughter doesn’t want to be found. Anyone in that state of mind is going to be very challenging to locate. I can’t believe I’m saying this … if you make it 20 thousand, I might ….”

“Fair.”

After a long pause, during which both parties were re-assessing their decision, Lyndy tossed out another question: “What else did Rita say about me? Anything?”

Jackie grinned. “She said you belong in Hell with anyone else who likes the taste of Tab cola.” That proved Jackie Corday had met Rita.

30 minutes later…

Lyndy Life Observation: At the Rapid Lube changing oil on some guy’s mid-life crisis souped up Corvette, a fellow complements me: “Hey Lyndy, you look great. Did you lose weight?” I shake my head and reply, “Nope, just wearing my black jumpsuit today.”

Resting a hip against the rear panel, pumping unleaded fuel, she watched a distant thunderhead. Must’ve been fifty miles away or more, almost stationary on the horizon between the crest of two mountain ranges. Now and then the ethereal cloud shimmered and glowed like a lantern, pulsing with a heartbeat as lightning radiated within. The storm remained ever silent though, too far away to thunder.

Lyndy was the only person at the gas station. Even the attendant was MIA. All she could hear were trucks on the interstate, a low rumble.

Paying for fuel with the swipe of plastic card—a big step-up in convenience—Lyndy climbed into the driver’s seat. Twisting the metal key, pressing on the clutch, the 390 four-barrel rumbled to life with 300 horses. Or at least it had that new. She peeled out of town east toward Flagstaff. Here the western desert still ruled and so did the sixties muscle cars.

She twisted the chrome knobs on her radio, trying to remember which AM stations penetrated this no-man’s land. All she found were scratchy music stations surging in and out.

She should have been thinking about Jackie’s case, cause fool’s errand was putting it mildly. She should’ve been thinking about Kyle, the man who loved her—how he would hate what she was about to do next. Instead, she pondered Rita Lovelace. Why did Rita still send folks her way? Rita was the worst “best friend” a person could have. Why did she still think so highly of Lyndy’s abilities? Even when they were no longer on speaking terms.

At the exit for old Route 66, she turned off the interstate. Speeding through the night, the lights of Barstow far behind, her headlights became the only beacons in a sea of darkness. The ridges silhouetted against the stars, the only thing grounding one to the earth. She only passed one other car.

About a mile short of Amboy, she slowed her pace to a roll. In a spot marked by a dying salt cedar and a metal post, she veered onto the dirt driveway to her backcountry trailer. She could see it ahead in the distance, rarely visited now. The shiny outer skin of the airstream reflecting dimly in her headlights.

She didn’t need many things in that trailer hideout. She rarely visited the place now, and her once healthy collection of plants was a dying heap. Only the cacti survived.

Later, by the light of her low beams, she would recover the hidden milk jug buried here. Inside was the 1976 prototype Beretta pistol. That thing was untraceable.

Gasoline and Matches Part-2

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Don’t write on your postcards people! -ASC

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

Lake Arrowhead, CA 1990s

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

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

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

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

She ruined many a dinner this way.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Technically no.”

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

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

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

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

“Did she …?”

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

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

Wonder Valley, CA, 1990s

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Stop wasting time. Need a plan.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Stop wasting time.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Aiden S Clarke, author

Home of Lyndy Martinez

Tag Archives: short-story

Gasoline and Matches Part-12

Gasoline and Matches Part-11

Gasoline and Matches Part-8

Gasoline and Matches Part-5

Gasoline and Matches Part-4

Gasoline and Matches Part-3

Gasoline and Matches Part-2

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