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

Wonder Valley, CA 1990s

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Uh. My name is Debbie.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Is it cold?”

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

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Lake Arrowhead, CA 1990s

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And how long was I out?”

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

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

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

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

“Lyndy Martinez?” repeated the woman.

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

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

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

Still, the stranger was hell bent on making conversation.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Clicking her tongue and inhaling deeply, Lyndy shrugged.

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

Of course. Now it made sense.

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

“That sounds lovely,” Lyndy replied.

“Say, three o-clock?”

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

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

“You mean preschool?”

“No. High School.

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

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

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

“Do you know anyone at Crestwood?” asked Lyndy

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

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

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

“Good advice,” thought Lyndy.