Journey on a Yellow Brick Road

To say he was disappointed was an understatement. He had hoped for better things for this girl with whom he had become romantically involved, however brief the involvement. He thought she had the potential to turn her life around. But, maybe not. Maybe she faced hurdles that could never be totally breached. There was no easy fix. Anyway, it was beyond his control.

In the years that followed, he thought of Lynda from time to time. Periodic internet searches, including those on Facebook, yielded nothing. Then, one day during the Biden presidency, when he was perusing a Missing in America web site, he came upon an article written a few months before about a young woman who had gone missing after attending a conference in Cleveland. The conference was geared toward helping people who had experienced difficult childhoods and the post-traumatic depression that followed. "Shed the Darkness," it was called. After seeing the posted picture, Scott realized why he had failed to locate Lynda online: her name was listed as Lynda Paula Duvall. It was her, no question about it. Her listed age of thirty-eight also matched. She was standing by what appeared to be a lake, wearing a blue halter top and a big smile. She sure didn't look like someone who needed that kind of conference. Then again, the photo was taken a few years before. Besides, plenty of unhappy people smile before a camera.

How did her middle name morph from Penelope to Paula? And was she married to a guy named Duvall?

These and other questions compelled Scott to do some serious web browsing, and he started with the article that quoted a guy named Dwight Crim, identified as her fiancé. They had been living in San Francisco, he had told the reporter. He paid her airfare to Cleveland and they had talked up to the time she left her motel to take an Uber to the conference. Then she vanished.

Because there was no follow-up article, Scott wondered if she had ever been found. This Dwight Crim had a Facebook page, and Scott sent him a private message. It took nearly two weeks, but Dwight answered back, confirming her identity and wanting to know how Scott knew Lynda. Dwight then opened up with information. Weeks after the article appeared, Lynda called Dwight. She had been hospitalized with another seizure, she said. Dwight then sent her money to return to San Francisco. All was well, at least for a while. Then, their up and down relationship sank again, and Lynda left to stay with friends in Oregon. But that didn't work out either, and once again she took off. She finally called Dwight from Pennsylvania and asked him for money. When he refused, "she cut off communication with me," he wrote. "And I haven't heard from her since."

Dwight also filled Scott in on other things. Before he and Lynda met, she had a brief marriage with a guy named Gus Duvall. And the middle name, from Penelope to Paula? "That was Lynda's way of trying to erase something from her childhood," Dwight wrote. "She wanted to change her first name also, but I talked her out of it."

Doing further research, Scott found a ninety-second You Tube video of several years before, showing Lynda standing at an easel, doing an abstract oil painting in a San Francisco café that welcomed local artists to display their talents. Barefoot, with her hair reaching almost to her butt, and wearing a short white dress, she looked relaxed and confident, even as a few of the café patrons stood nearby, watching her paint. Still cute also, despite having gained a few pounds. Scott saw it as one of those too brief and too few moments in Lynda's life where she appeared reasonably happy and fulfilled.

Lynda's Facebook page also showed her in happier times. There were pics of her and Dwight by the seashore in California. They both looked happy, smiling for the camera, kissing, shopping in a boutique. Happy times--brief and far between. There was also various quotable postings and a dozen listed friends. None included Dwight.

Scott, meanwhile, now in his mid-forties, was reasonably happy and fulfilled himself. Still with the agency, he had made supervisor and was looking ahead to retirement in a few years. He'd then have twenty-five years under his belt and would be young enough to pursue another line of work, while collecting a pension. Still single with no major responsibilities other than to himself, he had managed to amass a comfortable nest egg. He wrestled with the idea of trying to contact Lynda through Facebook. He had no idea of where she might be. Dwight didn't even know (or so he said). Scott wondered how Lynda might react if she received a message from him. If she'd even get the message or message back if she did. Only one way to find out:

Hi Lynda -- I won't ask if you remember me because I assume you do. I've thought of you often during the years since you moved back to Oregon. Through a Missing in America web site, I learned that you went missing after attending a conference in Cleveland. Dwight Crim filled me in on some of the details after I messaged him on Facebook. Glad to see that you pursued your art. Not so glad to hear about drug use and subsequent arrests. Not judging you, I just had hoped you were doing better. Would like to hear from you. If not, I understand. It's been a long time and you might think of me as nothing more than a footnote in your life.

Scott kept his expectations in check. Then he got this reply a few days later:

Scott -- A footnote in my life? Ohmygod, are you kidding? I've thought of you also, the kindness and patience you showed me, not to mention that dinner in Ellicott City and what came later. No sir, you're much more than just a footnote. I've got tears in my eyes writing this because I feel so ashamed for failing to live up to the potential which you thought I had. My life's been one big mess. Up the down staircase, as I once told you. I did manage to get my GED. But I'm not a forensic artist. In fact, job-wise, I'm not much of anything. For me, it's menial work here and there. Presently, I'm cashiering for Marshall's. Like you mentioned, I haven't stayed out of trouble, haven't totally kicked my drug habit. Relationships? Well, maybe Dwight filled you in on that also. One failed marriage and several failed relationships, including the one with Dwight. Scott, through my own experience, I've come to believe that some people are just born losers. After reading this, if you'd still like to contact me, I'm giving you my cell number. You might see from the area code that I'm now living in York, Pennsylvania. I'm renting a small apartment from an elderly widowed lady in the downtown area.

Scott read it over and over, shaking his head. He wasn't surprised. Still, it saddened him because he really did care about her. It's not that he expected a "happy ending;" it's that he had been rooting for this woman who was now close to middle-age to succeed. Instead, it appeared that she was still plagued with the same old demons and problems. Scott wasn't alone in thinking that his search for Lynda Duvall had gone far enough. Friends told him the same thing, questioned him on what he could possibly gain from pursuing her.

He questioned that himself. His rational side told him that he probably shouldn't have let it get THIS far. Yet his less than rational side--and we all have one--told him to keep going. To what end and to what purpose, he wasn't sure, except perhaps to satisfy some vague, misguided, if not twisted notion of romance, fed by an obsessive-compulsive side to his personality. Scott never lacked for self-insight. It's not controlling his obsessions that sometimes got him in trouble.

Which is why he had called the number she gave him and why on this late Saturday, April morning he found himself driving up I-83 toward York, Pennsylvania. Lynda had sounded excited to see him. He was excited also. He planned on taking her out to lunch at the Black Panda, a Chinese place he found online. Beyond that, he had no plans, no firm plans and no expectations. It didn't matter because he saw this, among other things, as some sort of nostalgic adventure.

Scott's GPS took him to Lynda's place, a two-story, brick townhouse built, like the surrounding blocks, in the nineteenth-century. She rented the second floor. "All I can afford right now," she had told him on the phone. A short, gray-haired lady greeted him at the door, then called Lynda down.

She greeted him with a hug in the small living room. "So nice to see you," she said.

"Nice to see you, too," he said, giving her the onceover. Other than the few pounds she had gained, her appearance hadn't changed much from the way she looked in that You Tube video. Despite all her problems, she still had that glowing smile, beautiful and picture-perfect.

"No more Honda Accord, I see," she observed upon seeing Scott's green Subaru Forrester parked by the curb.

"You remembered," he said, opening the car door for her.

She buckled her seat belt. "Darn right I remembered. I won't ever forgot anything from that night." She looked him right in the eye and grinned.

Neither will I, he thought, as he got behind the wheel, including that red, white and blue sundress she wore. Today, she was dressed in white slacks and a light pink jacket. "Is Chinese okay?"

"Yes, thank you. I always loved Chinese."

On the way to the Black Panda, located in a suburban strip mall, Lynda filled Scott in on a few things. After breaking up with Dwight, she stayed with friends in Pennsylvania until she amassed enough funds to rent the townhouse apartment in the city. She was off meth but still smoked marijuana. Medical weed was legal and recreational use, while still banned, had been de-criminalized for possession of small amounts. "But I haven't been arrested for anything in years," she said. "And I'm not on parole or probation. Aren't you proud of me?"

Scott recognized the cynical, sarcastic tone of her voice. Keeping his eyes on the road, he said, "It's never too late to take the right path, whether you're twenty or eighty."

She nodded. "Ah, yes. You told me that during one of our meetings in your office. I haven't forgotten."

"But do you believe it?"

She shrugged. "I did once. Now...I don't know. Maybe for some people but sometimes I think it's too late in my case. That yellow brick road to Oz was never on my roadmap."

Scott sighed in frustration. "You're an artist, so paint it on your roadmap." Pause. "Sorry, I don't mean to be flippant. Look, life's a struggle for us all."

"Yes, but it seems like I struggle more than most people. Not complaining, just saying."

Scott nodded but didn't reply right away because he knew she was probably right. She struggled more than he, more than any of his friends, more than most of the people on his old caseloads. From what he knew of her history, that struggle had commenced from day one. Finally, he said, "Just don't give up. You're still young enough to change. And keep making beautiful art. I hope you haven't given that up."

"What little money I manage to save goes into art supplies. It's the only thing that keeps me sane." She brushed back a tear. "Oh, crap, I made a resolution that I wouldn't cry in front of you."

Scott reached over and patted her leg. "Hey, it's not New Year's, so there's no need to make those kinds of resolutions, even if it was. Just don't cry into your egg drop soup."

She managed to laugh. "Actually, I prefer wonton."

"Yeah, me too."

*****

They both got wonton soup, along with a couple eggrolls and warm tea that came with their Moo Goo Gai Pan lunch combo. "This is a real treat for me," Lynda said, forking into her fried rice.

"No fellas around here to take you out?" Scott took a sip of tea from the small saucer, then paused to hear her response.

"Socially, I've become somewhat of a recluse these days. Soured, burned out on relationships. Friends take me out once in a while and guys have tried to hit on me at work. But right now, I'm just not interested. Anyway, some are real jerks. Just last week, I'm at my register and this creepy biker type guy leans into me and says, 'Damn, you smell good. What time do you get off, baby?' Like he thought I'd go for that. Unbelievable. I hope I don't look like a girl who'd go for guys like him."

"No, but I also believe that all sorts of guys would go for you. You're still so pretty."

She stretched her mouth into a cautious smile. "Thanks, but I don't feel very pretty. My life...well, you read my Facebook message and what I've already told you. When you're down on yourself, you don't feel very attractive, no matter what others might think."

"Just do your best," he said, not knowing what else to say.

Dessert came in the form of peppermint ice cream and two fortune cookies. "'Everyone seems normal until you get to know them,'" Scott read out loud. "There's more than a grain of truth in that."

Lynda opened hers. "'If you want the rainbow, you have to tolerate the rain.' Yeah, that's for sure. And I'm still waiting for that rainbow." Scott's weary expression conveyed to her that he was all talked out on that thread. "Yeah, I know. Just do my best." She changed the subject. "Look, it's a nice day. Let's take a walk. And after that, I'd like to show you some of my artwork."

"Sounds like a plan," Scott said, handing his credit card to the young Chinese waitress. "Good thing I've got my Kiziks on. They're prefect for walking."

****

Lynda was telling Scott how charming she thought downtown York looked, as she strolled along the sidewalks in her orange Keds, he in his black Kiziks. "My landlady told me that some of the homes were built during Colonial times," she said. "It's kind of cool seeing buildings that people who were alive before the Revolution saw."

Scott nodded. "And just picture what it must have looked like back then. Unpaved streets. Horses and carriages. And people walking around in knee britches and three-cornered hats."

When they returned to the townhouse, Lynda said, "Mrs. Rowland, my landlady, might be out shopping. Her car is gone. She's pushing eighty and still drives."

Upstairs, where Lynda stayed, were two bedrooms and a full bath. The downstairs, where Mrs. Rowland lived, had been renovated and expanded years ago to include a bedroom, den and full bath. Lynda did her art in the spare bedroom. Canvasses were everywhere, on the walls and on the floor, leaning against the walls. The original hardwoods lay bare. The room looked like something out of those mythical tales of bohemians living in garrets.

"This is impressive stuff," Scott said, gazing at her work, canvasses filled with swirls of color that she used to depict a variety of things: an owl, the faces of two blue-faced women facing each other and the headshot of a man with long, stringy hair, beard, mustache and glasses that reminded him of what an arty friend of his looked like years ago. "How often do you work?"

"Most every night, for an hour or so," she said. "Longer on weekends. Like I said, it keeps me sane."

Keeping his eyes on her work, he said, "Lynda, I bet you could sell some of your work. Have you tried that? And have you displayed in shows around here?"

"I'm working on that, or at least thinking about it. I don't have a car, so transportation is an issue. I depend on buses and Uber. Sometimes Mrs. Rowland takes me places. But there's very few art shows or galleries around here."

"Okay, so let me at least take some pics of your work. My metro area has quite a few art galleries. Well, at least it did before the recession and then the pandemic. But a few still thrive and maybe they'd agree to take your work on consignment."

She shrugged. "Sure, if you'd like." Her lower lip began to tremble and she looked away, doing her best to stifle her tears.

Scott reached out to her. "Something I said?"

She embraced him in a tight hug. "I'm just so touched that you still believe in me."

He kissed her, then said, "I'm doing it because I really think this stuff has the potential to sell. Look, I know you do it to keep your sanity, and that's fine. We all need passions to keep us sane. But what a shame to keep your talent hidden from people who I think would appreciate it as much as me. In fact, I'd like to buy a couple of your works myself. And I know just where I'd hang them."

She flashed a look of comic outrage. "No way! After what you've done for me, I wouldn't let you do that. But I'll be glad to give you what you want."

She watched as Scott took a few pics with his cell and then set aside a couple paintings he wanted for his personal collection. Then she asked if he needed to be back at a certain time. He didn't, he said, and then she said, "Well then, I'd like you to stay a while longer. And I don't mean to look at my artwork."

She didn't have to say any more. He reached out for her, she reached back, and moments passed without anything being said. Scott hadn't realized how much he missed her until this moment, his lips locked with hers, his cock stirring, his emotions running on a weird sort of high that reached back to those days when he supervised her and especially to that magical time in Ellicott City. If he hadn't fully understood what drove him to pursue her earlier, it was becoming crystal clear now.

Lynda's heavy breathing when they decoupled spoke similar feelings. "Ohmygod, Scott, you still do it for me. My bedroom is just a few steps across the hall, you know." She reached for the snap on his jeans. "Please don't hate me for being presumptuous, but I went back on the pill in anticipation of your visit."

He chuckled. "Lynda, presumptuousness can sometimes be a good thing, and today is one of those times. It slipped my mind to bring condoms."

He followed her for those few steps into her bedroom, just a wee bit bigger than her art room. A couple cheap blue scatter rugs lay on the floor close to her twin bed. Other than a desk and small bookshelf, the room was bare.

Scott had seen her with her hair up before, usually when she was in his office. But this was the first time he had seen her take it down, and the sexy, head-shaking way she did it ramped his lust up a few notches. It showed through his underwear after his jeans came off, and when his briefs came off, it REALLY showed. By that time, Lynda's blue panties were off as well, along with her green blouse and bra. "I know, I put on a few pounds," she said. "I hope you're not disappointed."

Yes, he noticed; but no, he was hardly disappointed. It was just a few pounds, and she still felt firm enough, still projected that image of the petite sexpot. "Not disappointed at all. Besides, I've put on a few pounds myself."

She playfully slapped him across his belly. No huge paunch but no six-pack either. "But you still have those thick, round shoulders and thighs that could crush me if you wanted to. You're still lifting, I presume."

"Still lifting and also eating more. Too many starchy carbs, to be specific. My diet can best be described as not the way to get ripped."

She ran a finger down his chest, then kissed him between his still impressive mounds of pectorals. "Well, ripped or not, you still look great in my eyes." She looked down and wrapped a hand around his full erection. "If those starchy carbs can do this, you should eat more of them."

"It's you who's doing this," he said. "Just like you did since when I first saw you."

She splayed her leg to the side and ran a finger over her pussy. "Oh, my, I'm soaking wet." She pointed to her bed. "Please join me."

He wasted no time in accepting that delicious invite. Taking top, he buried his head between her boobs. Not huge, but larger than they were back in the day, if he wasn't mistaken. He felt between her legs, first with his finger, then with his tongue and yes, she was soaking wet, fully prepared to take him in. Long foreplay has its time and place, but today wasn't the time or the place. Per Lynda's request, Scott cut his oral prelim short and slipped between her legs. "I'm making love to you, really making love to you," he said, a purposeful echo of what she had said to him during that night in his Owning Mills townhouse. As if to convince her, he poured on a bunch of passionate kisses while maintaining his rhythm.