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Gasoline and Matches Part-2

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?

Valley Girl Part-22

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Valley Girl: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-22

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

Yosemite National Park, 1990s

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lyndy snorted. “My makeup case?”

“Yeah, that thing,” he replied.

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

How could she leave like this?

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

“What are you scheming?” Kyle questioned.

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

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

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

“Miss Martinez?”

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

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

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

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

“Not sure. Minutes if we’re lucky.”

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

Brandt sniffed. “That I can believe.”

Minutes later …

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Less time than she hoped for.

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

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

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

“What’s a matter?”

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

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

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

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

“Oh right.” That’ll be 5-8-5-3.

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

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

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

“No.”

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

“Where?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yavapai County, 2010s

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They hung their helmets on their handlebars.

Mari sat up in her chair.

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

“Howdy,” said Mari cheerily.

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

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

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

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

He nodded.

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

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

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

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

Mari shook her head emphatically.

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

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

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

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

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

“I’ll show you.”

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

“Follow me,” said Mari.

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

Valley Girl Part-21

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*If you’re enjoying this story, and it’s not too much trouble, hit the “Like” so Lyndy knows you’re there.* TIA! -ASC

Valley Girl: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-21

Yosemite National Park, CA 1990s

Lyndy Life Observation: If Aunt Rose had a superpower, it was the ability to be in a sour mood nonstop for days on end. Rose Martinez hardly ever smiled, rarely spoke an encouraging word and possessed few other likable qualities. On the other hand, her tortillas were extraordinary. I could eat ten of those in one sitting as a teenager. And I can’t say I ever ate a homemade or restaurant style tortilla which could match hers for fluffiness, texture or overall taste.

No part of Lyndy’s body wanted to do a hike—not even her hair. Her skin was itchy. Her stomach grumbled for real food. Her shoulders ached, and every now and then pinched so that her whole neck contorted into a painful clench. She just wanted to crawl into bed. Given a choice of going on a strenuous hike or balancing her checkbook, she’d choose the latter.

Unfortunately, Neil had taken Mari hostage.

“You are the toughest woman I’ve ever met,” he encouraged, but Lyndy continued to grumble without responding. She folded her arms, dragging her feet as she moved.

The trail climbed a steep ridge beyond the sawmill, into a forest of new growth conifers. Ponderosa and Jeffrey pines, hardy incense cedar and some red firs populated the landscape. The understory was a mix of shrubs, huckleberry and heather. Bluebirds flitted from the lower branches, leading them away from their spring nesting sites.

In time, the clouds lifted and sunlight began to poke through, a vibrant yellow in the late afternoon. Beads of water glistened where they adhered to pine boughs and cones, reflecting the natural world into twisted spheres, making the trees sparkle as if they had tiny crystal ornaments attached. And though she wasn’t exactly thrilled, Lyndy began dwelling less on her misery, seeing things she’d not anticipated. Even the blades of grass and petals of a daisy held fresh dew.

The trees began to sway as a breeze picked up. She felt the chill of high altitude and it gave the skin on her arms goosebumps. It must have been a mile and a half in, judging by the passing of time, when they paused for a break.

There, Neil offered up baby Maribel.

At the time Lyndy was busy catching her breath, her palms flat upon her thighs.

“I’ll give you her, if you promise to keep walking behind me,” Neil warned.

Lyndy looked up to meet his piercing gaze. In reality, it wasn’t much of a choice. If she tried to flee, he could easily outrun her. He had longer legs, was better rested and knew the terrain. She’d never be able to outpace him back to the staging area. Exhaling, Lyndy reached out her arms, taking back her baby. Mari squirmed and Lyndy tucked her into the baby Bjorn, like a kangaroo pouch. The baby felt restless, not liking the motion and probably wanting to be fed.

Neil didn’t pause much longer. He turned to scramble higher.

After a few more minutes of trekking the slope began leveling off, and they reached a mesa-like flat zone. Here there was an opening in the canopy, fewer trees overall. She’d been watching her feet, concentrating on not stumbling, but when Lyndy next lifted her gaze, she was overcome by a child-like wonder. A rush of pure delight made her forget her troubles. Across a small stream stood a tree-trunk as big around as a grain silo.

The orangish bark with massive ridges and roots like elephant trunks, helped it seem even more fairy tale like. The settlers would’ve had a heck of a time describing this to their cousins back home. Sure, sure, just one tree branch as big around as a piano!

Lyndy leaned back to take in the scale, straining to spot the crown of the colossal tree. As she twisted her body, she noticed there were more giants towering in the distance. By a quick counting they numbered in the dozens. All she could do was marvel at the sight.

“That’s a sequoia!” she exclaimed, stating the obvious.

Mari’s eyes were doing that googly-eyed baby thing, trying to make sense of her surroundings. But Lyndy would’ve sworn the girl had a smile. In all her days, she’d not seen anything as wondrous. Lyndy looked to Neil. “How old are these trees?”

“This one? Easily, over 3000 years.”

Lyndy remembered the sawmill. “Wait, why would they leave these?”

“Two reasons. Firstly, the wood tends to be brittle for this species, and isn’t as good for building as you might think. But the other reason, is they recognized how special these trees are. They’ve been growing here since the last ice age. The men knew if they felled all the giant sequoias there would be none left for future generations to be in awe of, like us. They wisely set these aside, while logging the lesser trees.”

Neil beckoned Lyndy to hop the creek and make their way into the grove.

Twenty yards deep into the clearing he dropped to a seated position, like someone enjoying a picnic. Patting the soft grasses and pine needles, he pointed out the small wild daisies.

Hesitating, Lyndy paced a circle, afraid to sit down. But after a while, seeing how comfy he looked and that he wasn’t sinking into mud, she settled on a spot to take a rest. She folded her legs in a meditative pose. She glanced to Neil Conner, not deviating from her pouting seriousness. He gazed back making apologetic eyes. She wasn’t falling for that. She couldn’t shake her apprehensive thoughts, what might be happening in the valley.

After the exchange of looks, lacking words to express themselves they leaned back, resting their heads flat on a bed of pine needles. They gazed skyward together—baby and all—to the blueness and the unknown. Listening to the creaking of the upper canopy in the wind, watching the sky with its hints of high cirrus, breathing the cool air, Lyndy lost herself. She felt Maribel gazing up too.

“You know what I was thinking about,” said Lyndy. “On the hike up.”

“What?”

“I was thinkin bout my mom. How I wasted so much time and energy being angry at her for abandoning me and my brother, leaving us with Aunt Rose and disappearing.” Lyndy sniffed. “Lately it occurs to me, she was what, 23 or 24 years old when she did that? What the heck did she know about life or parenting, or commitment? I didn’t have a kid til I was 40, and look at me. I don’t really know what I’m doing do I?”

Neil chuckled.

“You were right about something,” Lyndy managed.

“Bout what?”

“This is a nice spot,” Lyndy agreed. She sighed, contemplating for a good minute or two the sounds of nature—letting her heart soar.

She wasn’t sure whether she dozed off or not, but she’d been lost in a daydream when the sounds of twigs snapping, and the approach of heavy footsteps jostled them both to alertness. She sat up in a blink.

“DON’T MOVE AN INCH!” someone commanded. Gazing to the direction of the noise, she saw the profile of Ranger Brandt. He had his revolver trained on Neil.

Gradually, Neil raised both his hands, showing he wasn’t clutching a weapon.

Brandt’s eyes darted, seemingly aware of a partner nearby, covering him. It was Ruby, emerging from behind one of the enormous tree trunks. He’d been tracking too.

“Lyndy!” Neil complained, like a little kid who’d been caught stealing candy. He eyed her angrily. “How could you?”

“I didn’t do anything,” she argued.

“You didn’t lead them here?” Neil accused.

“No, I didn’t, I swear.” Should have thought of that though, she reasoned. Not like this little walk in the park was going to turn her onto his cause anyway.

“She didn’t lead us here,” Brandt confirmed. “We had a tracker on Kristen’s sedan.” Sheriff Ruby removed a set of handcuffs from his belt. “Get down on your stomach Mr. Conner,” he commanded to Neil.

Lyndy stood up, brushing off her ruined dress. “Watch out, he’s got a cattle prod. If he tries anything I can help take him.” Lyndy pushed back her hair. “What about the hotel? Is it still standing?” she wondered aloud.

“Of course,” answered Ranger Brandt.

Lyndy looked over at Neil, who had a guilty expression as he tilted his body forward. “Not for much longer,” he mouthed.

Next Lyndy locked eyes with Ranger Brandt. “We gotta move if want to save it.”

Coconino County, AZ 2010s

Lyndy Life Observation: One afternoon at CBB I walk in to find Mr. Chan laughing like a hyena at the TV, almost falling out of his chair. It was unusual for him to genuinely laugh, especially during business hours. Upon investigating, a looney tunes cartoon was playing, the one where Daffy Duck and Bugs Bunny are arguing whether it’s “duck season” or “rabbit season”. That is a classic.

It started innocently. Fred Simmons met Lyndy in the waiting area of the Flagstaff airport. Outside with the sun going down, lights in the parking lot were just blinking on. Lyndy had a big smile on her face and so did he. He had one overnight bag, his dapper suit jacket on and under his arm a box of genuine Mustang parts.

Holding the weathered box out—with its original faded label on the side—he presented it proudly as he rushed to meet her. “This is it!”

“My Ford is in my friend’s hangar. I brought it with me so we can work on it here.”

He’d not thought to question how Lyndy managed to drive onto the airport grounds, whether with a permit or some supposed friend working there. With the kind of woman she was, she presumably had connections. Of course, other cars like the fastback were parked on airport grounds, alongside the private hangars. Most of them were rich people who owned Cessnas.

Lyndy pushed through a beefy gate, which said authorized personnel only. He followed her into the closed area with the private hangars. Once there, she beckoned him into a side door for one of many steel buildings. The lights were out. Peering into the darkened room for any signs of the Ford, he felt two strangers—strong men—grabbing his arms and lifting his feet off the ground. A bag slipped over his head, and before he could yell or manage much of a resistance, he felt himself being rolled into something stiff like carpet.

The next thing Fred Simmons knew, he awoke in a wooden chair with his head face down on a tabletop. Restraints were tightly wrapped around his wrists and ankles, securing him to the chair. Straining to separate them was no use, as he discovered they’d been bound with zip ties.

The room was dim and quiet but he sensed he was not alone. An odor of ancient dust and juniper smoke permeated, tickling his nostrils. His eyes strained to focus in the darkness and he could see five outlines, statue-like figures seated across the room, opposite him on the floor. Their backs were resting against the stone wall, meditative style. He wished for it to be a dream, but it most certainly was not.

The floors were composed of something like packed clay.

Fred soon deduced he was sitting in an underground kiva, the coals at the center still smoldering and glowing orange. The other occupants were dressed in robes, but the curious thing is that each wore an elaborately constructed mask—ceremonial masks. The mask enclosed their heads, blocking their faces completely. As his eyes adjusted to the light of the coals, he could see they were canines: Two of the masks were larger, wolves with lighter whitish fur tones, whiskers and fuzzy ears. A pair of the figures were coyotes. The figure all the way to the right belonged to a smaller person, and the head was a fox with orangish fur.

“This is highly illegal,” declared Fred, lacking a cleverer response. “You all can’t do this. You can’t hold someone against their will. You’re in big trouble.”

No one responded. The fox-masked person on the far right stood up slowly, as if their joints were old and achy. The fox approached him, walking like a woman. Something like fresh creosote had been smeared across the coals, and this mixture began to crackle and pop, emitting a new powerful new aroma. At the same time a soothing, spacey Enya type music began to play from an unseen speaker.

“Don’t be afraid,” said the fox. The voice he recognized, had to be Lyndy Martinez. “We are gathered here today for an unusual but important reason. We are here to honor the legacy of an extraordinary woman, one great admirer of indigenous peoples and culture. In so doing, you will be taking a short quiz.”

“If this is about Gillian’s inheritance …”

The fox put up a hand. “Excuse me I’m talking,” she scolded.

“You guys can’t go around kidnapping people. I will report this.” But Fred’s mind began reeling with a vision of how exactly to report this unusual incident to law enforcement. The description alone would be hard to prove. On top of this, it was Lyndy whom he needed to strongarm into signing the affidavit—not the other way around. He could hardly accuse her of blackmail. “Where am I?” Fred demanded.

The fox turned its head gradually to the left and right. “A kiva,” she answered. The other canines hardly moved an inch, but he knew they were living. They watched him motionless, and it was unsettling not being able to read the reactions of a human face. Their wolf and coyote masks were unchanging. Every once in a while, he swore he could see their eyelids blinking above their snouts, in tiny holes cutout for the eyes.

“Well, what do you want? I already offered you a third share of the fortune. Do you want more? You’ll never be able to spend it all. That’s about 300 million.”

“We are gathered here to honor the spirit of Rita Lovelace. A woman, who I promise never did anything for the money if it meant being dishonest.”

“How is this an honor?” Fred strained against the plastic bindings. He squirmed in the chair, but it made him feel weak knowing he was trapped. He felt himself sweating.

“We are taking a quiz,” answered the fox.

“Okay. Fine. What kind of test?”

The fox cleared her throat, having paused halfway across the room. “Today’s quiz will be titled: How well do I know Rita Lovelace?” Sweetness infused her tone; in ways he’d not remembered. Lyndy Martinez, in spite of her reputation and some years of smoking, still had a youthfulness in her voice. “Don’t worry, it’s multiple choice. You won’t have to conjure anything from scratch.”

“Fine. Fine. I’ll take the quiz. What does it prove though?”

“It proves whether you were wedded to Rita Lovelace. Like you say. If that’s true, you’ve got nothing to worry about.”

Fred exhaled, hating himself for having been tricked. He hadn’t thought she’d do this, as Lyndy seemed so earnest when she met him at the airport. “I suppose if I get the answers wrong, you won’t be signing the affidavit.”

The fox didn’t directly answer, instead offering, “Everyone on our panel has a copy of the quiz, with correct responses marked. That way there’s no funny business.” She unfolded a sheet of stationary, something a wedding invitation might come printed on. The fox cleared her throat. “As we know Rita was born in Phoenix, her father a businessman and her mother a model. What famous woman was Rita named after? A. Rita Moreno. B. Rita Coolidge. C. Rita Rudner. D. Rita Hayworth.”

Fred sniffed, trying not to sneeze at the dust and drifting creosote smoke. “Some of those are too young,” he muttered. “Gotta be Rita Hayworth.”

“That’s right,” answered the fox excitedly. “Cha-Ching.”

“This is stupid,” Fred complained, straining again to adjust his stance, as his frame was bent sharply against the table. He felt his eyes tearing up from stress. “Let’s hurry up.”

The Enya music was maddening in this environment.

“Chompin at the bit, I see. We’ll move on.” The fox cleared her throat again, circling around the fire pit and pacing to the left side of the kiva. She stared down at her slip of paper, though she must’ve known what was coming in advance. “Rita had a lifelong passion for horsemanship, along with western culture. She was a talented rider and raised foals on her ranch in Tucson. What was the name of Rita’s all-time favorite horse. I’ll make it easy, cause Rita loved mares. A. Akrivia. B. Shimmer. C. Nightfall. D. Sunset.

Fred exhaled sharply. He shook his head, then let it droop on the table.

“I’ll give you another hint. There’s a grave marker with this mare’s name chiseled upon it, where she spread her ashes.”

“Fine. It’s B. She liked weird names.”

The fox shook her head plainly. “That’s wrong.”

“I don’t care. Give me another one. We never talked about horses. It would’ve been too painful.”

“For the record it was Nightfall. Okay. Moving on. Rita had a good head for business, owning several art galleries among her other ventures. She valued one quality in an employee above any other. A. Loyalty. B. Results. C. Ability to generate profit. D. Intelligence.”

“I dunno, loyalty.”

“That’s an important one, the root of many future problems.”

“What do you mean?”

“I promise you; in no way did Rita value loyalty.” The fox paced to the opposite side of the firepit, moving away from the drifting smoke. “Moving on. What annoying habit did Rita have after drinking to excess? A. Removing her clothes. B. Throwing up. C. Fighting. D. Dancing with strangers.”

“This is stupid.”

“What’s your answer?”

“Oh, I don’t know. She didn’t drink with me; she’d given it up. I guess B. Throwing up.”

Without words, the fox shook her head. “It’s A.”

“This is so stupid,” Fred repeated, impatience boiling over. “You’re missing out on the big picture. There’s nearly a billion dollars at stake and you would rather play games?”

“This last question is so important it’s worth two points, like a lightning round. You’re still in the game and can tie it up, if you get this right. At a fancy outdoor wedding in Malibu, Lyndy Martinez and Rita Lovelace had their last and final falling out. Lyndy was expelled from the wedding, fired from her job at Lovelace Corp. and Rita cruelly cutoff all communication. They never exchanged one single word again. What embarrassing incident at the wedding precipitated this last straw event: A. Lyndy made out with a stranger in a catering tent. B. Lyndy was drunk and ranting about politics. C. Lyndy pants’ed the groom. D. All of the above.”

A sound of girlish laugher filled the kiva, one of the coyotes breaking character. The high voice meant the coyote was another female, but younger. Perhaps both the coyotes were female, Fred reasoned.

The wolves looked at her and she quickly regained composure.

“What’s yer answer?” demanded the fox.

Fred inhaled nervously.

“D. All of the above,” said Fred.

“Oh my god,” lamented the fox, dropping her arms to her sides and shaking her snout. “How poor is your opinion? Admittedly, Miss Martinez had been drinking that day. And this led to teasing, as she and the groom knew one another. For some reason, not having any foresight, Lyndy immaturely decided to prank the groom. Rita witnessed it—leading to the most awkward wedding moment ever. If she could go back in time, it’s the one thing Lyndy would change.”

The same coyote began to cover a laugh, but still did not remove its mask.

“So, what. I got it wrong? You didn’t do all those things?”

“Very wrong. In fact, you only got one question correct overall.”

“So, what now? You’re not signing? You’re crazy!” Fred seethed in anger. “For Pete sake, all this cause I didn’t know you pants’ed a dude at a wedding? Big deal. Rita over-reacted.”

Both coyotes stood up, moving toward the fox. They linked arms, standing on either side of the fox. “There isn’t anyone in the Lovelace firm who didn’t later know that happened. It was absolutely legendary, obviously a bad decision. We were getting wine at the reception, surrounded by a dozen people. Lyndy tried to apologize over and over. But Rita wouldn’t have it … Rita shouldn’t have cut all ties and never spoken to her for the rest of their lives. After all the times Lyndy saved her and all the experiences they shared as best friends. Rita was wrong too. Rita did not value loyalty. Everyone knew that.”

“I’m sorry Rita did that to you,” grumbled Fred.

“No, you’re not.”

“Well, what now?” Fred scanned the room. A chill ran through him. “What now? What about the money? We need to lock up that deal.” He tried to kick the table with his knees, but they were bound too tightly. He struggled to free himself, letting out a groan when this final act of defiance failed.

The fox touched fingers upon the fur along her snout, then patted them in a circle below her ears. Fred wondered whether Lyndy were about to remove the mask. But she did not.

“I’ve been told, I’m getting a facial,” answered the fox.

Fred came to later that day on a bench, in front of the airport.

Valley Girl Part-18

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Valley Girl: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-18

Yosemite National Park, 1990s

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

“Drop the stuff,” the fellow barked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

With one crisis averted her thoughts shifted to other dilemmas.

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

Lyndy lifted and held the baby tight to her chest.

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

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

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

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

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

Coconino County, AZ, 2010s

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

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

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

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

She was thinking about Rhonda the whole drive.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She nodded yes in answer.

“Any firearms or other weapons in your possession?”

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

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

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

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

Minutes later …

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rhonda giggled at that.

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

Rhonda smiled. “Welcome aboard,” she said.

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

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

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

“Sure.” Why not!

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

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

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

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

“Yeah.”

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

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

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

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

Valley Girl Part-17

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Valley Girl: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-17

Yavapai County, AZ, 2010s

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Behind her she felt a whoosh.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I know right.”

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

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

“Sheesh. Too late for that.”

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

“What?” Lyndy’s eyebrows narrowed.

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

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

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

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

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

“Or …. or else what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you okay, mom?” Mari pleaded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yosemite National Park, 1990s

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

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

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

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

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

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

Minutes later …

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sorry about this environment,” Lyndy whispered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Valley Girl Part-14

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Valley Girl: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-14

Yosemite National Park, 1990s

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

10 minutes later …

Crickets were chirping.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hours later …

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Santa Barbara, CA

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Take it outside,” another fellow remarked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Valley Girl Part-9

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Valley Girl: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-9

Coconino County AZ, 2010s

Lyndy Life Observation: Before America became overly litigious like now, there used to be a family-owned waterpark roughly ten clicks from the V-P. On a July weekend in Barstow, trust me, the place was a godsend and also a prime spot to mingle. They had one particular waterslide—kind of a toboggan run—which launched you at high-speed toward these two enormous humps at the end. The flawed design essentially guaranteed you landed backward and upside down when entering the pond, almost always on your head. Sometimes I wonder how nobody died.

She watched an Anna’s hummingbird zipping through the hollyhocks until it set upon a yellow monkeyflower bush, hovering mid-air to sip nectar.

With a tilt of the wrist, Catherine deposited a pint or two of artificial rain from her watering can to nourish the drooping blooms. Nearby, bumble bees were buzzing all around her sunflowers, legs heavy with pollen. A gentle breeze blew, transporting scents of the high desert, nature’s AC in the heat of the afternoon. In the distance, a neighbor’s windmill twirled and creaked.

She loved her new country home. However diminutive it was, it made up in the soothing charms of Arizona highlands and the newness of the twenty-first century appliances.

Setting down her can and taking a breather in the shade of the back porch, she gazed at the dazzling screen of her smart phone. She remembered a time when every phone had the exact same total of 12 buttons and no screen whatsoever. Clicking on “favorites”, she resolved to try her best friend, Lyndy. It’d taken Catherine several hours to gather her thoughts, and frankly, make peace with the verbal lashing she’d received from Maribel.

Catherine cupped the phone in both hands, as she only planned to leave it on speaker. Lyndy was impossible to converse with using any type of video technology.

The phone rang five solid times, and Cathy had nearly given up, deciding to go back to watering when she heard an answer. There were sounds in the background, noisy children, thumping of people cramming suitcases in bins and random announcements.

“Hello?” answered Lyndy, in a breathless tone. She always sounded as if figuring out how to answer her Apple phone was a fatiguing task.

“Hey, it’s Cath. Where are you at?” Cathy leaned back, kicking one knee over the other and resting against one of the timbers supporting her porch.

“Oh. I’m boarding a plane now,” Lyndy’s voice seemed immediately less tense, and she sounded as though she was settling into a seat.

“Oh, I won’t bother you then. It’s not important.”

“No, I can talk for a sec—they haven’t barred the doors or anything. Plus, this is a luxury flight. It’s all first class. What’s on your mind?”

Cathy frowned. “Really? Where the heck are you going?”

“Santa Barabara,” answered Lyndy.

“Why? Are you with someone?”

“Uh… actually yes. A guy.”

“A guy? You met a dude and you’re flying to California? That’s major.”

“It would seem so yes.”

“Is he cute? Wait, how long have you known him?”

Cathy could hear a nervous laugh coming from Lyndy, and could picture her blushing at the man sitting beside her. “Ummm, like twenty-four hours,” whispered Lyndy.

“24 HOURS!” exclaimed Cathy. “Be honest with me. Are you being kidnapped?”

Lyndy chuckled.

“Click your tongue and say buttercup if you’re in danger.”

Lyndy chuckled again.

“Are you going senile on me? You’re too young for this. Do I need to take your credit cards away.”

“Stop it, Cath,” Lyndy cajoled, through a series of nervous chuckles.

“This is just weird. You’re gonna have to fill me in when you’re not in take-off mode. Call me tonight.”

“I might do that,” answered Lyndy. “But wait, what were you calling about?”

“Oh, almost forgot. I wanted to know Maribel’s date of birth and her middle name.”

“Sure. What for?”

“I want to request the arrest report for her supposed DUI.”

There was a pause, and Cathy wasn’t certain how Lyndy would react. Perhaps to tell her to mind her own business. “Right. That’s smart,” agreed Lyndy soberly. “Yeah. Something isn’t adding up. You’re right to be suspicious.”

“I am,” Cathy confirmed.

“Alrighty. It’s February 5^th and her middle name happens to be Whitney.”

“I wasn’t anticipating that.”

“Kyle picked the name,” explained Lyndy. “He was a big Whitney Houston fan.” Lyndy paused for a beat, then asked: “Did you talk to her?”

“I did. And you were right, she’s a real delight. I’m licking my wounds.”

“What did she say?”

“Well, nothing about the arrest. But she did get in several home run zingers. Including, to my face that together you and I were the biggest floozies this side of the Rocky Mountains.” Cathy could hear Lyndy making a snort and then a belly laugh. “Thought you’d appreciate that. I didn’t know the term floozies was still a thing.”

“You have my anointed permission to slap my adult daughter.”

“Thank you. I’ve cooled down. Santa Barbara, eh? Maybe he’s a surfer.”

“Yes. That’s where he lives.”

“Okay, better call me later!”

Then Cathy heard a ding, and series of garbled announcements by a flight attendant. Soon after the call ended.

Several hours later …

Lyndy forgot what it was like, driving in Santa Barbara. The one lane, tree lined streets snaking through the hills like backroads of the Alps were better suited to mule travel than modern sports sedans. Seemed the whole town drove like speed demons, disregarding stop signs as mere suggestions. With all the blind curves, it was a miracle there weren’t constant wrecks.

But they made it back from the airport in one piece.

Fred nosed his car into an elevated gravel drive near the crest of a coastal ridge on a 90-degree bend, in the shade of twin Monterrey Pines. Evidently, he’d been renting one of those Spanish style manors—you know the trendy ones with names like “Villa Lagos” emblazoned in iron gates. He didn’t enter the garage, instead putting on the brakes out front.

Lyndy stepped out, lifting her shades to admire the scenic view. To the west, through gaps in the foliage one could spot turquoise waters of the channel. She paced away, recalling Rita once owned a summer home in Santa Barabara. They both adored it, as it was basically a party house for her and her entourage. Which meant Lyndy got to live rent free, performing her security duties. That home, if it still existed, should be in the same neighborhood. Yet things had changed dramatically in 30 years and her memory of Santa Barbara was so grainy, she’d never find it.

“Whaddaya think?” asked Fred, eagerly gathering up his things from the rental.

Lyndy only had one bag to collect, and though Fred offered to carry it, she refused. She nestled her sunglasses atop her pixie cut hair. The air was much cooler here, smelling salty and moist like the Pacific. Sometimes California wasn’t half bad.

“Amazing house!” she answered. “I mean wow.”

“My daughter wanted this one cause the main bedroom has the best ocean view.”

Lyndy observed Fred’s body language. The man appeared solemn, bracing himself on the handrail for the front steps. He paused, gazing down at his white loafers. “She suffers from a series of health challenges ever since that day. These will become apparent when you meet her. But trust me, she’s a fighter. You’ll see.” His voice choked up. “She’s gonna be thrilled to meet you. Cause, she has trouble remembering any details of her mom.”

Coming up the stairs, one had to do a one-eighty to enter the home’s main floor. Beside the staircase, an elaborate mechanical lift mechanism was a clue that someone in the home had mobility issues. The mystery was deepening. There was little time to appreciate the living room with its coffered ceilings and a boho chic décor.

Fred led the charge, beckoning her up another curved flight of stairs to the third-floor bedroom. It was the primary. Lyndy marveled at items she saw along the way, classic western memorabilia and framed movie posters—the image of John Wayne with an eye patch holding a pistol. She’d never imagined meeting a youngster more into western movies and culture. Maybe she’d met her match. They had original posters for everything from The Lone Ranger and High Noon, to Once Upon a Time in the West, Outlaw Josie Wales, No country for Old Men and even True Grit – John Wayne OG version of course.

Fred smiled coyly and with such confidence, like he couldn’t wait to reveal the surprise. The Spitfire was starting to wonder if she had a long-lost child somehow, though she scanned her memory banks and was certain she’d only been pregnant once, with one baby.

By tugging on Lyndy’s arm, he brought her to a set of double doors. He tapped lightly on the door and youngish female voice said: “Enter.” Next, he thrust both doors apart in a dramatic gesture.

The view out the bedroom windows was magnificent. But this paled in comparison to the person standing beside the bed.

Gasping, Lyndy fell against the framed entry. If a spindled railing hadn’t been behind, she might’ve risked a tumble back down the stairs. She almost blurted “Rita!”, yet the young woman couldn’t possibly be older than 20 years. And though her old friend possessed vast wealth and ambitions, she obviously could not bring herself back from the grave nor reverse the aging process. Despite having the lovely triangular face of Rita, right down to the green eyes and auburn hair, the smiling young woman appeared extremely frail.

Fred seemed smug. “Lyndy Martinez, I’m happy to introduce you to the last living heir of the Lovelace estate, my daughter, Gillian Bonnie Lovelace.”

“Holy cow,” Lyndy mouthed. “You …. you …,” she stammered, “look like your mother.”

Indeed, Gillian was among the strangest humans Lyndy ever laid eyes upon, which was saying something. Trust me, she’d met some doozeys. The most noticeable feature, after her striking face, was the way her torso had been encased in an exoskeleton, formed of metal rivets and stiff black plastic. The closest she could compare to was old Roman body armor. It was attached to cover her entire abdomen, encasing her neck and completely surrounding her back. The contraption was secured by black parachute cord which looped back and forth on the sides like a corset. In this form, the girl was alien like.

Could it be? Rita’s own child by natural birth, or a surrogate?

The parts of Gillian’s body still exposed, were noticeably delicate and burn scarred. Even for a skinny 20-year-old. She was alarmingly thin, like somebody with a liver condition. Made her think Rita’s fire curse had come full circle, manifesting in her child.

With her constricting brace Gillian moved in a mechanical way, striding forward and using the corners of a four-poster bed for extra support.

“It’s so wonderful to meet you at last!” Gillian exclaimed. She paused, sensing Lyndy’s discomfort. “Excuse me, I know how I look. Some people need a minute to process. What happened is I survived a plane crash—basically got shoved out a moving aircraft without a parachute and somehow landed in very dense brush. Then came a fireball. To say I was pretty banged up is well …. the doctors didn’t believe I could survive a month, let alone walk. Most of them claimed I would be bedridden.” She glanced at her bed, which obviously was where she spent a majority of her time. “They were almost right.”

Gillian inched forward nervously to approach Lyndy. Lyndy moved closer too, unsure where it was safe to touch this fragile being, afraid of simply crushing her. But they embraced. And the feeling of putting her arms around Gillian, however awkward, brought with it sweet relief.

“Don’t worry too much Lyndy, I’m not made of glass,” coaxed Gillian. “I’ve got bones you know!” And Lyndy squeezed her tighter. “I’m so glad you agreed to come.”

Lyndy was picturing Rita hurling her daughter out an aircraft door to save her, while in the process of crashing. Somehow it did fit within the context of a Rita escapade. Whether it was physically possible to do, she couldn’t say. Seemed farfetched.

“You have a daughter, correct?” questioned Gillian. Her hair was in a bob, the good kind and Gillian pushed the ends behind both ears like any other young lady.

“Oh yes,” answered Lyndy, grinning. “Yep. Maribel. She’s … well …” She couldn’t find the words to describe her child now, let alone her emotional state. Lyndy’s eyes were tearing up. It was a peculiar reaction. She dabbed at them with her blouse.

She felt a need to caress Gillian’s skin again, perhaps confirming the girl was not some elaborate simulation. Lyndy beat her chest with her fist, coughing a bit. Then she moved to the girl’s side, reaching out to squeeze her fingers.

“There’s so many things I want to ask,” said Gillian.

“Likewise,” replied Lyndy, shifting her weight onto her leading foot. When she touched the skin atop Gillian’s hand, it was warm and soft. Human obviously. And Gillian smiled. Lyndy nodded with eyes wide in wonderment.

Then without warning, Lyndy felt an old-fashioned grade-A panic attack closing in. She had to get out of this room. She fanned her face with both hands, then wordlessly darted for the stairs, taking them two at a time knowing Fred would try and follow. She rushed out the open front door, into the side yard where a bird bath stood, encompassed by rose bushes. Lyndy bent over, hands on her knees, panting for oxygen.

Lyndy felt a tenderness for this girl in a way she’d not expected. She hated the idea of it. This was madness! Had she slipped into a time warp sucking her back to her youth? Despite her sentiments, she had zero desire to return to that earlier age. Why should she open her heart? Miss Lovelace, who respected her autonomy so poorly had managed to continue with unfair demands. What a load of nerve!

But she liked the girl. A lot. She felt as if she’d known her already. Why hadn’t Rita said anything? Why not make her a god parent? If she’d run into unforeseen circumstances like the crash, precluding her from raising Gillian, she could’ve easily let Lyndy take over. She was already raising Maribel. How much harder would it have been to raise two girls versus one?

She turned around to see if anyone was there, but they’d let her alone. Mercifully. Lyndy snatched a wad of tissue from her purse and held it against her nose. She longed for a Newport.

Yosemite Valley, CA 1990s

Lyndy Life Observation: All due respect to the late artist Prince, who was a talented musician, the hit song Delirium is super annoying and contains the most pedantic 80s beat ever. Driving with Mr. Chan this song would often play on the radio, and whenever it did I remember twisting up his stereo knob to full blast. He’d be trying to steer down the road and at the same time wrestling with me for control of the volume. I had ninja-like speed too. Good times!

Ranger Brandt was eager to listen to Lyndy’s retelling of the final call and one-sided conversation with the unknown female. The mention of a specific date, Sunday, indicated an unfolding plot. She thoughtfully observed Brand’s body language for any signs of a hidden understanding. But he revealed nothing further. Either Brandt was equally puzzled with the substance of the conversation, or he’d gotten good at faking his reactions. He said he would relay it to whomever would be put in charge next.

As for Lyndy, leaving town seemed more and more the wisest option.

All afternoon she contemplated how to soften the blow while still convincing Kyle she needed to duck out early. The field trip meant something to him, as he’d asked her to promise she’d go. That was one bind. Another, she wanted to tie up loose ends with Neil, regarding his connection to Sierra Spring. Something which would never happen if she disappeared.

Lyndy was agonizing over this decision, when a letter came sliding under the door. The envelope was embossed with the hotel logo. The person must not have lingered and no knock sounded. She eyed it a moment. Though no one besides Maribel was present in the room—Kyle stuck in meetings—Lyndy snuck guiltily to it. She saw it was another note from Neil, this time inviting her to a party in Camp-4. His message said there would be a summer-style cookout with brats, potato salad, desserts and music. And beer. Lots of beer.

Why not? Why shouldn’t she have a little fun on vacation? She gazed at Maribel, splayed out in her crib, exercising her fingers to grasp for the mobile and sucking on a binky. One problem remained. A certain social skill Lyndy had become unacquainted with, the twinge of anxiety when stepping into an avid party scene.

Well two problems. She had one outfit left, which she’d brought only in the event of a special occasion. She pulled on the short jean shorts and cloud white top that tied in the center, similar to the outfit in Dirty Dancing. It exposed a risky amount of hip action, and didn’t look right without shoes and big hair. Lyndy put a finger in her lips, gazing into the mirror and twisting at the hips to check how her butt looked. She held up the top over her body. Using her free hand, she fluffed her perm while locking eyes with Mari. “Well, you’re awful quiet now. What do you think? Cowgirl hat? Headband? Or curls?”

Valley Girl Part-4

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Valley Girl: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-4

Yavapai County, AZ, 2010s

Lyndy Life observation: Rita was on tour promoting a hardcover book on southwest art, which she’d co-authored, doing interviews with print magazines and newspapers. At some point she had a sit down with a publication she’d not heard of, and when the interview came out it was all kinds of scandalous crazy: like she’d fallen in love with her cousin, secretly gave birth to out of wedlock twins afflicted by dwarfism, then refused to acknowledge them as hers. Obviously, none of that happened. The article failed to mention her art book. In the end, we discussed and decided not to respond. It wasn’t worth our time.

Lyndy sniffed, snapping out of a pity party as sunbeams radiated across the meadow like orange lasers. It was frigid in the shadow of the San Franciscos. She was grateful to see the sunrise at last. Soon ranch trucks were rumbling by, diesel smoke wafting from the stacks. Across the road in the dry grass, she could see elk. They’d be nudging away frost from the roots, hungry from the cold winter. All the California tourists, hoping for a head start on the Grand Canyon would come flooding in next. That was the money crowd. Dads with big SUVs, cargo shorts and cell phone holders on their belts.

She tightened her boot laces, walking her sign closer to the highway edge and further south, giving people enough time to slow. Then Lyndy unfolded her camp chair, tugged a Navajo blanket over her lap and dozed off.

She slept a lot these days.

Ten minutes later …

The sound of rigid street tires crunching on gravel stirred her from western dreamland. She shifted abruptly in her chair as her hat fell to the ground. She’d not intended to sleep so hard; it was dangerous. Sitting up, Lyndy pulled her denim jacket tight across her chest, then looped a crocheted scarf around her neck.

The vehicle which veered off the highway was an Audi, velvety black, the top-of-the-line sport model. Two seats. Not typical of folks who stopped at roadside venders. There weren’t even many of those luxury cars to be seen in Flagstaff. But sometimes rich folks decided to open up the wallet, buy her whole lot, in theory to feel more connected to their food supply. So, she perked up anxiously.

The door opened and a dark-clothed figure emerged, the frame of a six-foot man. No passenger. Maybe it was a run-of-the-mill businessman or maybe …. a wave of panic hit. She had nightmares of hitmen. Given her past, shadowy characters occasionally emerged, holding grudges against The Spitfire or Mr. Chan—or worse, Rita. Lots of people hated Rita Lovelace and by extension, Lyndy, her once top bodyguard and confidant. She began to wonder if she should arm the taser.

On the other hand, the visitor seemed far more intrigued by the classic Ford, walking up and circling. She changed her mind. Reaching for her purse, she slipped the trifocals atop her nose. The stranger came into focus, a fellow her age. Decently handsome, for a sixty-year-old. And dapper. He still had hair, all gray, but real hair. He could do AARP commercials. He might be a threat, but the expression on his face turned rather friendly.

“Lovely original,” he remarked, nodding his head in slow motion while admiring the car. He was wearing black jeans and a well fit suit jacket. But the casual kind, a western look that felt natural, not forced. In the eighties, such a fellow would’ve lit a cigarette in that dashing pose. He pointed to where someone had bumped her in a parking lot, cracking one of the taillights. She’d not gotten around to repairing it, fearing cost. “Man, that was a factory part. Can you imagine the mindset of someone who caused this?”

She didn’t respond, still assessing.

He wiggled one wrist, in the process shaking his metallic Rolex watch band to shift it. Sometimes that was a tell in poker, sign of something deeper in the brain. A flock of honking geese interrupted his next sentence, and she watched him arch his back, staring up and smiling as they passed over.

“I lusted over these,” he continued. “The chrome inserts with the horse. It’s a symbol of freedom and the American motorway.” He had a smooth, broadcaster voice, the kind exuding a lifetime of experiences. There was a melancholy about him too, you could hear in his tone. This was no average rich dude out for a weekend drive.

Freedom. She used to believe in that ideal—didn’t mean much anymore. Lyndy cleared her throat and replied. “I know right. Couldn’t have said it better.”

“How much you want for it?”

Lyndy chuckled, rising to her feet. He was teasing. She liked him already. “Okay, now you’re making me laugh. I better watch myself, you’re smooth.” Bending down, she retrieved her hat from the dirt, dusting it off, before pacing toward the stranger. “Mister, I’ve owned this automobile since the year of our Lord, 1976. Can’t call it a car. That pearly white son-of-bitch has nearly been the death of me. I’ve had it stolen twice. Both times I fought burly guys armed with guns to get it back. I’ve driven it hard to practically every state on this continent, broke down in the wildest, most ungodly of places.” Her voice went a little higher as she spoke, since the stranger was so attractive.

He listened to every word of her rant, then stepped closer. She let him crouch near the bumper for a better look.

“Well, they spared your sheet metal. Lucky in a way. Bezel took the brunt. I’d wager a boat hitch smashed in here. Probably a lifted, oversize truck couldn’t see where they were backing up. Bastards got away I presume.”

She snickered with a sheepish grin. “Happened in the parking lot of an Indian casino. No cameras in view. Of course. I was preoccupied with a series of off-track bets. And I can’t afford to fix it. Serves me right.”

“I was never fond of humongous pickup trucks, especially when they aren’t used to haul anything but sacks of groceries from Whole Foods.”

“Indeed. You know what they say about big ol’ pickup trucks and men who drive them,” joked Lyndy.

“You’re also fortunate. I happen to have one of these assemblies in my garage. Still in the original box.” He rubbed his fingers together to warm them. “I can see it now. Gathering dust.”

That seemed farfetched.

“Course that’s up in Santa Barbara.”

She folded her arms and smirked. “Okay, I see what’s happening. And lemme guess pard’ner. You’re willing to let it go for a low, low price of fifteen hundred dollars.”

He smiled and shrugged. “I owned the same model for years, a 66 in twilight blue.”

“I’ll be damned. Is that so?”

She heard angels singing. This man was her type—highly suspicious.

Lyndy softened her posture, resting a hip against her car door. Time to turn up the charm. She shoved her glasses away in her purse and zipped it closed. At the same time the stranger appeared to be deciding what to say next, his opening having gone far better than anticipated. This was usually where men got tripped up. Meantime Lyndy raked back her pixie cut hair, a habit from the days when she had much, much more of it—when she was pretty. She wished she’d done a better job with her makeup.

Lyndy next patted the roof of the car in a comic gesture. “My daughter learnt to drive stick in this.” She said it mainly to break the ice.

“Then we gotta fix it up. Maybe one day she’ll ask you to hand it down.”

“Fat chance,” thought Lyndy.

“I once hoped to do the same for my kid.” He stared off to the meadow across the road. “Except, that ship has sailed.”

The familiar words hit her like a jolt of electricity. To hear the phrase was just weird—a “glitch in the matrix” as the kids say—cause she’d been thinking about Maribel as a baby. How they had trouble bonding at first.

“Anyhow,” he continued. “What would it take to get you to close up shop for an hour or two. I’ll buy you breakfast, anything you want, assuming you haven’t eaten.”

“Hmmm. That sounds mysterious.” Lyndy attempted her best smile, as she pondered his offer. “I mean, of course. If you help me pack up.” She pointed to her baskets. “Either you seem genuine, or I’ve lost any sense of personal safety I once had!”

He grinned at this.

“What about this idea? I could make us breakfast at home.” Lyndy tilted her head and lifted her eyebrows. “I actually live up that little dirt road a mile. Though, uh, don’t expect too much from my house.” Trailer.

Yosemite CA, 1990s

Lyndy Life Observation: It’s the 90s. I’m 30 weeks pregnant and all these women in town (Lake Arrowhead) start giving me their unsolicited personal horror stories about vaginal birth, how they were in labor 36 hours and every story ends with: “I almost died.”

Lyndy flipped over three pages on her paperback book, hoping it would get to the juicy romance part again and away from outrageously bad dialog.

She was wearing a white one-piece bathing suit. Her third best suit to be honest, but the only one fitting her post baby body. Lyndy had a tennis visor shading her face, as she reclined on a pool lounger. It was just after 10 AM. Her toes were painted plum purple with sparkles. She loved that shade of purple.

Adjacent to her, Maribel was safely shaded from bright sun with her extendible buggy cover. She had a fresh diaper change, had been formula fed, burped and sprinkled with rash preventer. But as usual, she was whimpering and crying, thankfully, at a lower volume.

Lyndy dropped the book on her stomach, sighing and making that motorboat sound with her lips. She shut her eyes, planning for a brief snooze. But just as she dozed off, she felt a poke in her ribs and heard rustling in the bushes.

Her muscles tensed. Rascally kids? Sitting up abruptly, she found no one else in the pool area. She twisted her body, trying to see between slats in the wrought iron fence. In truth, she’d been a little jumpy after what transpired. Her thoughts kept going back to that scene, whether she should report it. But obviously, the act of doing so might drag her into it, and possibly impact Kyle. She dreaded that more than anything.

Tilting her chin, her eyes resolved the pattern of a figure. A person had been hiding which she quickly realized was Neil Conner. She caught him red-handed, grinning devilishly. He’d been poking a twig through the fence, behind a screen of hedges. He was dressed in his work uniform. Conscious of being watched, she hopped up from the chair, tickled as she tip-toed femininely across the concrete. She then crouched near the fence.

“Hey! Peeping Tom, get outta here,” she scolded in an angry whisper.

He chucked her a folded note, penned on wide rule paper like a 5th grader.

She couldn’t help but giggle, catching and shaking out the hand written note. Then she hastened back to her lounger, taking a seat and getting back in her former graceful position before reading it. She pretended nothing happened.

His male cursive was atrocious, but she could decipher it. “You look AMAZING. Lunch break with me?” 1:00 Check box. Yes or no? Degnan’s Deli okay?”

Lyndy checked the yes box and re-folded the note. She couldn’t stop smiling, standing up and flicking the note like a football back across the fence.

Before laying down, she reached to the buggy and stuck a water-filled bottle in Maribel’s lips. That quieted her down. Neil snuck away. She was feeling proud of herself. Until literally five minutes later, with Mari still sucking on the bottle, a shadow of an enormous ranger’s hat fell over her. The ranger was flanked by a sheriff’s deputy, younger and armed with a holster.

The ranger man had sun-damaged skin on his arms and neck, stemming from decades of working outdoors. And wrinkles around his eyes from squinting. Those were typical, but other key differences separated him from his peace and nature devoted colleagues. For one, he had a gold-plated badge, like a homicide detective. His brown eyes blinked impatiently as he stared at the baby, then his gaze transferred to Lyndy. He studied her up and down, which she didn’t care for. This wasn’t the type of fella who guided groups through a 20-minute walk pointing out different species of ducks.

Drill sergeants wore a similar hat to forest rangers. She only just noticed that. Also, kind of a bad time to be in a bathing suit. Lyndy wiped Maribel’s face, then capped the bottle. She wedged a pacifier in place, to prevent Maribel from making those gurgling noises.

Lyndy exhaled, as she turned back to face the men. “Can I help you?”

“Are you, Melinda E. Martinez?” He paused, staring down at a small slip of paper. “Known as Lyndy or … The Spitfire?”

She was thinking about a joke: “Ya got me. You caught The Spitfire.”

The ranger waited. He’d done his homework, or at least looked her up in the reservation system. Even knew her middle initial, which was hard to come by. His nametag said Brandt.

“What’s this regarding?” she asked innocently.

Ranger Brandt got down in a crouch. Lyndy winced. He did that thing older guy’s do with their hand to pull in the crotch of their pants. “Got anybody who can watch this youngster for an hour or two? Nanny or something?”

Lyndy adjusted her visor, glancing back to the hotel. “Not really.”

“Are you staying here by yourself?”

That was a test question, as of course he’d know the answer.

“I’m with my boyfriend. Dr. Kyle Ellis. But he’s on a business retreat with his colleagues. They’re in planning meetings all day.”

The men exchanged glances.

“For the Silver-Pacific construction?”

Lyndy nodded. She sat down, using her bare foot to roll the stroller back and forth. Hopefully it would be at least a few minutes til she needed to change this kid or anything else went wrong. Course, having her cry her brains out wouldn’t be the worst thing. She rubbed her hands on her thighs uneasily.

“Were you a witness to anything unusual last night or early today?”

“What?” It was difficult to fake surprise, but she acted off guard anyway. Kinda like those clowns at the circus who have to plan to take a pie in the face.

“Any crime?” prodded Ranger Brandt.

Lyndy blinked and inhaled a deep breath.

The county deputy tagged in with his opener next: “There are tracks from a stroller with eight wheels, in the sand bar near the Merced River. Happens to be a good view from there to Stoneman Bridge.” He got down into a squat, touching the wheels with his fingers. “I’ve seen these for sale in San Franciso, but I have to admit, there’s hardly any up here. Very unique. Probably not anyone else staying in the hotel.”

She reached for her purse, thinking, “that all you got?”

Before she could respond, Ranger Brandt added: “I found a cigarette in the gravel. Fresh one.” Rangers hated litter.

“That doesn’t mean anything. I don’t smoke,” assured Lyndy. She used her snobbiest sounding tone in the exact way Rita would dismiss a rival whom she didn’t care for.

Amusement shined in Brandt’s eyes.

“But, since you mention it. I do remember something unusual. I was out for a walk with my baby.”

“Perfect,” he answered. “You’re not in any trouble. We need to talk. Shouldn’t take longer than an hour. You’ll be on your way. I’d rather you come to the ranger station to get a sworn statement. Obviously in private.” He glanced down at the baby again. “But uh …” He shoved his fingers in his pockets.

Lyndy shot him a glance, like, “never gonna happen.” Priority numero uno on this vacation: avoid any appearance of going to a police station or involvement with the law. Not willingly at least. The consequences to Kyle and his reputation, she didn’t want to fathom. She’d embarrassed that poor man quite enough.

“Is there another place we can speak privately?”

Lyndy stared down at her old-timey brass key. The fourth-floor room seemed the safest bet, far preferable to a sheriff’s cruiser, whatever they were called. “I have to change anyway.” She said it casually, again using the Rita tone. And it must have worked as the man seemed to grapple with the idea, but then relented by nodding his head.

Valley Girl Part-3

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Valley Girl: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-3

[Author’s Note: This chapter includes quite possibly the #1 best Lyndy Life Observation of all time. It’s the current winner at least, unless a better comes along. See if you can spot it. 😉 ]

Yosemite National Park, 1990s

Lyndy Life Observation: Rita Lovelace went on a date with a male model, probably in the mid-1980s. And things were going swimmingly, until halfway into the meal he casually let slip he owned five sports cars, but never changed the oil. Literally he owned Mercedes-Benz’s and Beamers with over 75k miles, nary an oil change or a tune up. Rita was horrified. She made up an excuse about feeling sick and split. Later when she told me this story, I pointed out the hypocrisy seeing how she owned like 50 cars and she’d be taking a car in a week if she actually maintained them. That was Rita for you.

It was a clear night, cold enough for Lyndy to see her breath. Typical Sierra weather in Spring. Tiny willow leaves were blowing across her path.

Her high-tech stroller had eight inflated tires—the cushy kind on a delivery cart. The rubber tires functioned as a Jeep-like capability, rolling with ease on dirt paths, softening the bumps and potholes. This came in handy, say if you were raising a baby on the rocky planet Mars. Or more likely, on a hike behind your white bread suburban community.

The nearest trail to the hotel crisscrossed through a pine forest, hugging the channel of the Merced as it snaked in a series of 90-degree bends. Through openings in the tree canopy, one could see Half Dome towering, a cap of snow reflecting white, and twinkling stars making up Orion’s belt.

The valley was tranquil at this odd hour, much as it had been in ancient times. No smelly tour buses belching out soot. No hordes of people clogging roads and sidewalks, snapping photos, or tourists of any kind. The rocking action, plus the calming effect of nature were working their magic. Thank God. Mari started to cry less, her eyelids becoming droopy.

Anyone sane in the campground was snoring by this hour. The flickering campfires from before had been doused, but their scent lingered. At a sandy embankment Lyndy guided the stroller downward to the water’s edge, where the current rippled against tiny pebbles. With her big toe, she put the brake lever in place to park it.

Lyndy leaned over Mari to snug her blanket. She’d finally calmed down, cried herself to sleep. Was it the river and woods? Or the power of the night? Lyndy didn’t know what forces were involved, but she wished she could bottle up that magic, save it for home.

From someplace deep in the pines, she heard the call of a nightingale. Or maybe it was a dream, she reckoned.

Fifty yards down, a castle-like bridge spanned the river to the south. It was the kind of arched structure found in amusement parks, designed as much for visuals, as for strength. She spotted the outline of a figure atop, doddering down the road center; the first soul she’d seen walking since departing the hotel.

Her body shivered with a sudden chill. Lyndy studied her surroundings, listening for any other movement. Hopefully there were no bears. Of course, somewhere in the valley there would be bears. It was their park too. But just like humans, they were probably asleep at this ungodly hour.

Setting aside thoughts of danger, she crouched in the sand next to her baby. From a hidden fold on the underside of the carriage, she undid a Velcro flap. This allowed her to slip two fingers inside and retrieve her hidden, emergency pack of Newport cigarettes.

The pack had been there a month, without anyone touching them and without Kyle knowing. She had a Nancy Griffith song stuck in her head, one of many, about leaving Mississippi, listening to the radio. She hummed the tune peacefully, as she flicked the lighter and puffed to get a smoke going. Ah, sweet comfort.

The Spitfire paced off a healthy 20-foot buffer zone, same way Aunt Rose would. With the flow of air, she knew the wisp of smoke particles would be transported safely away, nowhere near Maribel. She exhaled a ring, which floated overhead before dissipating.

“We can’t keep on like this,” Lyndy spoke aloud, her voice defeated. “Not bonding I mean.” Lyndy gazed at her baby. It broke her heart to think she might not love this child as much as a new mother should. “I seem to be lacking a mothering gene or two.”

To think that Kyle adored their baby more than she. How was this possible? Well, she must be his favorite lover. That much she felt certain of. And his love grew from their passion. The embers of a twenty-year romance, on and off. She’d seen it from the first night at the hospital, the way he looked at her with new eyes when she held their baby. He’d never shown her so much genuine affection. Maribel had elevated her to the highest pedestal, number one. Then why the resentment?

She exhaled another smoke ring. “You and me babe, have to come to … a mutual agreement, or I will lose it. Like two people on the same sports team. I warn you, I will flip out.” Lyndy paced back to the water’s edge, turning her attention to the view. “God knows I can’t watch you grow up the messy way I did.”

The view of Half Dome, patches of snow glistening, was sublime. The murmuring river was the only sound, and a distant car if she strained her ear. She stuffed the lighter and the remaining pack back in the secret spot, thinking about her life before Maribel. Then she bowed her head to pray. Her daily prayer, to make it through, when she heard the squealing brakes and tire skid. It made her jump, coming from the direction of the bridge, like someone setting off a bottle rocket.

Lyndy flicked her cigarette into the sand, near the stroller. Without any sudden moves she craned her neck to view the bridge. Instinctively she ducked, keeping herself low so she’d blend into the scenery. She observed the silhouette, same person who’d been walking. She suspected it was Kristen now. They were tall, with a long coat, same intoxicated stumble of a woman in heels. Also present, the outline of a sleek car, steam rising from its tailpipe. As it inched forward she recognized the rumble of the motor, the taillights and the roofline, a Porsche.

The woman and the driver were arguing. The Porsche must’ve been speeding, rounding a curve and nearly slamming into the person on foot. She’d reeled back, but continued to lecture the driver with a raised fist. Pumped full of adrenaline and hubris, the woman strode up to the car window. Angrily the driver sat up, extending his arms to clutch onto her sleeve. But she ripped it away and he let go. They exchanged words, and though Lyndy couldn’t put her finger on why, she got a sense they knew each other.

“Was it her husband?” Lyndy wondered.

The engine revved and the driver zoomed off. The lone figure—certainly Kristen—stormed across the bridge, to the south end of the valley. Seconds later her shadow merged and disappeared into the dark woods.

Eeesh! It was bad to be wandering in such an intoxicated state.

Lyndy ran her palms across her face, not knowing what to do. She checked on her baby. Should be alright to leave for a moment or two. Logic dictated to stay out of this dispute, but what if Kristen needed help?

Lyndy dashed off toward the bridge.

Kristen was down on both knees by the time Lyndy got another view. She’d traveled as far as the perimeter of the woods, bordering an 80-acre meadow. Her profile faced Half Dome, in a praying position, as one might do at the nave of a church.

Lyndy watched from the bridge as Kristen appeared to be mumbling into cupped hands. Light glinted from her silver-blonde hair, and the white coat, making her glow like an angel. Hard to believe it was the same drunk she’d backed out of the bar.

Half a minute elapsed and Kristen rose to her feet again. She began a steady march into Stoneman Meadow. From her coat pocket she retrieved an item the size of a paperback book. She briefly gazed at it, before tossing it casually over her shoulder to discard it. She continued walking, though lacking a path her feet sank and post-holed in the sticky mud. Any ranger who spotted you trampling a meadow would give you the sternest lecture of your existence, or at least since grade school. But Kristen seemed determined, driven to carry on with barely a nod to her surroundings.

“Hey! Hey! Are you okay?” yelled Lyndy, but there was no response. It was as if Kristen could no longer hear, her spirit leaving her body. “Do you need help?”

She’d been quite loud enough. Anyone, inebriated or not, would’ve heard.

Lyndy turned to the beach. The outdoor stroller was still there, a dozen feet from the river. No one was near, particularly not a bear or recognizable threat. Only serenity. She surveyed the roads and distant buildings. Not a ranger in sight. Sleeping probably.

Lyndy brushed her hair from her face. “Ay, yai, yai,” she mouthed anxiously. She tried again, cupping a hand around her mouth. “Kristen, are you okay? Where are you going?”

Kristen continued hiking straight across, by now halfway.

“This is no bueno,” Lyndy whispered. “Kyle would freak if he found out.” She felt panic setting in. Maybe she should run to the hotel front desk. Or the campground host. Most campgrounds had one. Or shout “Help”?

She wanted to follow her instincts, the urge to tail Kristen. But then again, she hated the idea of trampling a sloppy, springtime meadow. Next Lyndy heard a buzz which startled her out of her skin. It was a Motorola phone, unusual to carry, inches away in the grass. Must’ve been the thing Kristen tossed away. Most people didn’t own them. Only doctors and businessmen carried those. And any call to the valley would’ve been analog. The signal would be weak, only one bar.

She watched the screen blink: “Incoming Call – Incoming Call”, and the heavy brick-like device continue to buzz like an angry snake. While there was still nobody in the vicinity of the bridge, lights were coming on in nearby cabins. She could tell through the trees. People were getting up—awakened by the commotion on the bridge—and soon would be coming to investigate.

Lyndy couldn’t help herself.

Reaching for a stick, she poked the button to answer the call, then leaned over so her ear was near the receiver. It was faint, with a hissing, but someone was definitely there. She thought she heard a frantic breath, and the noises of a city at night.

“Uh, hello,” Lyndy mouthed, wincing and covering her face as she realized her actions were only making things worse. It worked though; the caller on the other end answered: “Kristen? Kristen …. you paged me, girl. Look, I spent the last hour arguing your side with Charlie. He said we’re still a go on Sunday. The pin is your favorite verse, in Luke. Use the B-channel. He knows you didn’t want Sunday of all days, but you were over-ruled.” There was a break and the call became fuzzy. “Charlie mentioned something.” Long pause, with erratic breathing. “The most dangerous person to any organization is one who won’t stop telling the truth. Thought you should know.”

After that Lyndy heard a click. The lights on the phone flashed “Call Ended.”

Lyndy took one last glance at the meadow, but Kristen’s silhouette was absent, having dissolved into the landscape. Like a ghost. “What a strange place,” thought Lyndy. Stoneman meadow, with the shadow of Half Dome looming.

Lyndy heard car engines, saw headlights traveling the loop. People would be arriving soon to investigate. She sprinted as fast she could across the bridge, into the woods and down on the sandbar. Once she had the stroller back on the walking path, she slowed her pace, but felt jittery all the way back to The Ahwahnee.

Yavapai County Arizona, 2010s

Lyndy Life Observation: On a road trip with Chan, we were sharing a cheap room and I’m unable to sleep cause he snores like a moose. At three AM out of desperation I stagger into the bathroom, shut the door and fall sound asleep in the tub. Coincidentally I had big spaghetti sauce stains on my night shirt. Hours later I awake to a panicked Chan attempting to resuscitate me. Apparently, he saw me there and figured I’d been murdered. I was just surprised he wasn’t more relieved to find me dead—I was super annoying back then. Sometimes I think this story perfectly encapsulates my relationship with Chan.

It was so early crickets were chirping and Venus hung low in the eastern sky. Scattered lenticular clouds like flying saucers framed the horizon, reminding her why she lived here. She rubbed a sleeve-padded knuckle against her eyes as she yawned. Then she began unloading the old trunk, setting her things on the dry level gravel, using a headlamp and the glow of early dawn.

Mari Ellis once dreaded these days. Not because she didn’t love autumn. Those months were precious in the Arizona high country, with crisp, frosty mornings, azure skies and sunny afternoons to warm your spirit.

No, what Mari hated were the Saturdays. Her day off from school, spent rising with the dawn, picking and selling vegetables by the road alongside her mom. In overalls. This activity occurred chiefly in the fall months, when the harvest from their garden was at its peak.

Lyndy adored the farm stand.

On a pleasant weekend they’d set up a folding table opposite the long driveway. Then put out a hand-painted, no frills, sandwich board reading: “ASH FORK FARM”.

Together they’d arrange baskets of fresh vegetables for tourists. Mostly green peppers, tomatoes and zucchini, with a white goat on a leash as a side attraction. The pretty 67 Ford Mustang, parked nearby, was its own kind of draw. In those days Lyndy had a giant perm and sometimes a yellow bandanna. She’d wear faded overalls; they were somewhat in style and added legit farmer vibes. Mari would count out the change, which Lyndy alleged helped her learn math.

Sitting in those tube-frame camp chairs together, Mari Ellis in a pink cowgirl hat, passers-by used to stop, thinking Lyndy and her daughter were cute. Or maybe it was the goat, munching on a bale of hay. Mari claimed she found this whole exercise painfully embarrassing. But little kids wanted to pet and feed the goat, adults wanted to chat with Mari, so it worked like a charm. Men wanted to talk to Lyndy.

For lunch, the pair would close up briefly and drive to the nearest El Pollo Loco at the I-40. They could freshen up. But she didn’t dare setup shop in view of a freeway, as the highway patrol would bust your ass for not having a permit. County government could suck the fun out of anything.

Kyle Ellis hated the farm stand activity too, thinking it beneath their family dignity. He’d stop by, in his black Range Rover (U2 music blaring on the stereo) and tell Lyndy to quit the charade. Said she ought to be ashamed using their daughter for manual labor. But it only strengthened her resolve.

In truth, she relished it. Often, she sipped beer from a paper sack while on duty. Mari accused her mom of becoming more flirtatious and apt to give away free items as the day wore on. And she’d apologize for her, when she’d say something outrageous but typically Lyndy like: “Complement me in this crop top, receive a twenty percent discount.”

If Kyle stopped by and Lyndy was smashed like that, he’d be extra irate.

But after counting at the end of the day, they’d sometimes have a few hundred dollars. They’d keep the profits as mad money, buying a night at the movies or a new outfit for each of them. For this reason, Mari tolerated the stand.

These memories helped take her mind off the fact the cold was making her joints ache. Lyndy was grinning to herself, as she arranged a selection of yellow squash and bell peppers, on a bed of hay, with prices on sticks. There would be no assistance from Mari Ellis today. Hadn’t been in several years. She’d been working real jobs at the country club on Saturdays. And now her daughter was even more pre-occupied with her new pad and apparently, a budding romance.

Lyndy kicked out the legs on her sign, thinking of the hardships they’d endured together. Maribel deserved a stout dose of happiness. But she missed the old days, when she wasn’t so lonely.

Aiden S Clarke, author

Home of Lyndy Martinez

Tag Archives: travel

Gasoline and Matches Part-2

Valley Girl Part-22

Valley Girl Part-21

Valley Girl Part-18

Valley Girl Part-17

Valley Girl Part-14

Valley Girl Part-9

Valley Girl Part-4

Valley Girl Part-3

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