Katrina Prado - The Whore of Babylon, A Memoir

Diamond Youth Center looks more like a teenage hangout than anything else. A girl with hair several colors of the rainbow leans against the brick wall by the doorway. She has several piercings along her ears and a large silver stud in her chin, just below her lower lip. She is wearing a short, tartan plaid skirt, and beneath the skirt, bright pink tights finished off by black military style boots. She is laughing and talking with a boy who looks barely old enough to be a teenager, dressed in what looks like camouflage garb, but is covered with large silver zippers sewn at all angles up and down the legs of the trousers. Both of them are smoking. On the other side of the doorway are a handful more kids in similar attire; I scan all the girls faces, realizing in an instant that Robyn is not among them.

Though my heart sinks, I draw in a resolute breath, opening the door to the youth center. Inside, I am greeted by a gentleman who looks like a throwback from the sixties. His long, gray hair falls in spirals along his shoulders. His skin is a light brown, like aged shoe leather. A small gold stud catches the light in his left earlobe. On his desk sits a phone and a couple of two-inch dirty white binders. On the floor, next to his desk is a large box filled with containers of deodorants, boxes of bar soaps, and toothpastes. Behind him, through an opened door, I can hear the noise of teenagers; music and voices, punctuated by occasional laughter. On my left, the entire wall is wallpapered by posters and pictures of missing boys and girls.

“You look a bit lost,” he says with a sympathetic grin.

I give him a weak smile, my hand already plunged to the depths of my purse, retrieving another of the endless copies of Robyn’s pictures.

“I’m looking for my daughter,” I say and thrust the picture into his hands.

He gazes at the photograph for a couple of moments. When he looks up at me, I see a vale of compassion in his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he says, “I haven’t seen her. But that doesn’t mean anything. There are nearly two million homeless kids in the United States; five thousand or so in San Francisco alone. Are you local?”

I notice that he does not perfunctorily hand Robyn’s picture back to me.

“From Pittsburg,” I say.

He nods once. “I assume you’ve already contacted the police?” he asks.

“Yes,” I look down. “They seemed to think Robyn was just hiding out at a friend’s house for a few days.” I look up and meet his gaze. “But it’s been almost two weeks now.”

“That’s pretty common when you’re talking teenagers. Do you know, did the cops enter her name into NCIC?”

I frown. “What’s that?”

“ National Crime Information Center. It has a missing persons file.”

I shake my head. I have no idea.

Just then, a young man’s voice erupts into an angry shout.

“Come on, man!” he yells, batting the air like a gorilla. He looks to be sixteen or seventeen. His long black hair is pulled back into a ponytail. His clothes are clean, but his jacket looks two sizes too big. He towers over a short woman, a nun in a black habit, her head adorned by a black wimple trimmed in white. She crosses her arms and draws in a breath; her shoulders seem to inflate. Her feet are bolted to the floor between the young man and the front door.

“Carlo, that is not acceptable,” she counters. “You promised me you would study. I know you can ace that test if only you will try.”

The man behind the desk chuckles. “That’s our local ‘Mother Teresa’,” he says.

Carlo hunches his shoulders. He kicks at a spot on the floor, his face scowling. “Man,” he says, glaring at the nun, “Lisa said I’m a real man,” Carlo says, puffing out his chest. “She ain’t gonna wait for me forever.”

The man behind the desk leans towards me and whispers, “she’s small, but tough. Think ‘grandmother’ on steroids. The kids love her.”

The nun shakes her head at Carlo. “She can wait a few hours; at least until you’ve finished studying.” She steps close to the boy and ribs him with an elbow. “Get on back in there,” she says, reaching out and giving his shoulder a firm pat. “Real men keep their promises.” She gives him a steady gaze.

Carlo reluctantly retreats into the back room.

“Sister Margaret?” says the man behind the desk.

Sister Margaret angles her head towards us and smiles. She walks to the desk and holds out her hand.

“Hello,” she says, smiling.

Her handshake is firm, though her hands are aged. Her doughy face, captured by the wimple, is the face of an old lady, except for her bright gray eyes. They glisten with an ebullient spirit.

“This is,” says the man behind, the desk, “I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name.”

“Margot,” I say, “Margot Skinner.”

“Margot, this is Sister Margaret.” He looks up at the nun. “Her daughter is missing.” He hands the photograph of Robyn to Sister Margaret. She considers the picture a moment, and then returns her attention to me.

“I remember seeing a spot on the news.”

“Yes!” I say. A flutter of hope trills in my chest.

Sister Margaret glances at her watch.

“I’m late,” she says. She looks up into my eyes. “Wanna go for a ride?”

A ride? I shrug. What have I got to lose?

“Sure,” I say.

“Come on,” Sister Margaret says, nodding towards the front door. She snatches Robyn’s picture from the hand of the man behind the desk.

Before opening the front door, she spins around. “And Jerry, if Carlo so much as steps one toe into the lobby before he’s done studying, tell him he’s going to have to answer directly to me!”

“Yes ma’am,” Jerry says, giving her a mock salute and a grin.

Outside, the air feels even colder and I tug my sweater to my chest. The haze of stale Chinese food hangs in the air. Sister Margaret is walking so briskly that I am almost trotting in order to keep up with her. We round the Center, and behind the large building is an alley. Parked in an alley is an old pickup that looks like something from The Andy Griffith Show. In its bed are a dozen large coolers in various colors and brands. The truck’s maroon paint is pocked by large deposits of rust and the front bumper is tied onto the truck with dull yellow nylon rope. Sister Margaret opens the driver’s side door, motioning me over with a nod.

“Hop in,” she says.

The look of surprise on my face makes her laugh.

“Passenger side door is broken.”

“Oh,” I say sheepishly.

I slide across the worn bench seat, smoothing out the blue flannel blanket which covers various gouges and rips in the Naugahyde as I go. The smell inside the cab reminds me of a thousand pleasant memories.

We lurch forward and I try to conceal my alarm as I notice that Sister Margaret is so short, her feet barely reach the gas and brake pedals.

“Come on, you old bucket of bolts!” she exclaims, giving the steering wheel a sharp rap with the heel of her hand. The truck cannons onto the street, and rounding the corner of the alley, I feel the back end pitch upwards as the back wheel strikes the curb. The cover to the glove compartment flops open. Sister Margaret eyes the cover and then looks at me. I snap the cover closed and give her a hopeful smile.

“This whole outfit is held together by prayer and Scotch tape,” she says with a broad grin.

We wind our way down city streets, Hayes to Baker, and then onto a major thoroughfare, Oak and to another rundown looking area. Murals of colorful graffiti cover many of the dull grey walls of the buildings that otherwise look abandoned.

“How long has your daughter been gone?” she asks.

I recount the events of the previous two weeks. Sister Margaret grimly nods as I talk, as if she’s heard all of this a thousand times before.