Katrina Prado - The Whore of Babylon, A Memoir

“Damn this thing!” he says finally. “Friggin’ thing’s broken,” he says, striking the dashboard with the meaty heel of his hand.

“Never mind that,” I say. “Let’s just get there. It’ll be cooler in the City.”

“Yeah,” he says under his breath.

The car accelerates as we fly along the Eastshore freeway, approaching the MacArthur Maze.

“Where did she say she was again?” I ask, glancing vacantly at the industrial wasteland of Oakland speeding past my window. Up ahead I see the Bay Bridge. I sit forward slightly in my seat; a futile effort at getting to Robyn more quickly.

“Some place called the Bread and Butter,” he replies. “She said it’s a restaurant slash supermarket thing.”

I nod. The Bread and Butter Market is across the street from the O’Farrell Theatre strip club, the same place that the police traced Robyn’s calls to Jenny. Anxiety stokes the already burning fire in the pit of my stomach. I pull another Rolaids from my purse.

“Those things aren’t candy, you know,” Rob says, keeping his eyes on the road.

I cross my arms in front of me.

“Let’s just get there,” I say.

Rob combs his fingers through his hair, pressing on the accelerator. The silence between us feels heavy, oppressive.

“Thompson at work said he saw the TV spot,” he says referring to yesterday’s airing of our home video taken of Robyn a little over a year ago by KTVU.”

“They should have aired more of the video,” I say.

“Criminy, can’t you just be happy it was aired?” he snaps.

“Please, Rob, let’s not get started.”

“I’m not starting anything… just pointing out that nothing is ever good enough for you.”

Alternating bands of sunlight and shadow bathe the car as we pass the steel cables of the Bay Bridge.

I swallow down my irritation at his comment.

“Just please don’t start nagging Robyn the minute you see her,” he says.

Flames of rage suddenly billow up my cheeks.

“Nag?” I spew out, incredulous. “What choice do I have? I feel like I’m all alone sometimes!”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“You know exactly what it means. You’re never home! And when you are home, it’s always ‘tell Robyn this’ or ‘tell Robyn that’; jees Rob, you could stand to do some disciplining once in a while too.”

Suddenly, an ambulance is screaming past us on my right. Irrationally, I think it must be heading for the same destination.

“I feel like a single mother sometimes, that’s all,” I say, resigned.

Rob grimaces; he huffs out a disgusted breath.

I close my eyes to a vague perception that I smell alcohol on his breath. Or do I? It doesn’t matter. I don’t want to think about that right now.

Rob shoots me an angry look. “You’re a piece of work, you know that? I work my ass off to provide for this family, and what are the thanks I get? Huh?” He jabs his palm into the air in my direction.

I close my eyes letting waves of anger wash over me.

“I work too,” I say. A silent, involuntary burp scorches my esophagus. I purse my lips; push my tongue back against my throat.

The Corsica feels as if it’s careening out of control along Highway 80 towards the James Lick Skyway.

“That’s right, I forgot,” he says in a sarcastic voice. “You’re the only martyr allowed in this family.

“Take Bryant,” I reply, ignoring his taunt. “We can take Seventh Street all the way up to Leavenworth. “O’Farrell’s a one-way so you’ll only be able to turn right.”

I roll my window down halfway as Rob maneuvers the car along Seventh, past Market Street and onto Leavenworth. A froth of chilly San Francisco air chuffs into the car. I inhale deeply, as if the cold air will quash the blistering fire gurging in my abdomen.

“Here’s O’Farrell,” I say.

My eyes scan every female I see walking the sidewalk or sitting at bus stops along the way, hoping against fruitless hope that I might see my beloved daughter. I spot an address on a storefront.

“We’ve gone too far,” I tell Rob. “We’ll have to double back. Make a left up here at Stockton.”

Rob steers the car onto Stockton Street and I notice he too, scans any female he sees on the street as he passes.

“Another left onto Geary, then Franklin and then left again back on O’Farrell.”

“I know that,” he snaps, though I have serious doubts about that.

Rob noses the Corsica forward as directed, managing to get stuck behind a large white delivery truck that double parks in front of a Chinese restaurant just as we make our way onto O’Farrell Street.

“Oh Christ,” he mutters, jutting around the truck, nearly getting sideswiped by a passing black Mercedes. The driver of the Mercedes honks.

“Up yours,” Rob growls beneath his breath, flipping his finger in the direction of the departing Mercedes.

I lean forward in my seat, palms on the dashboard, straining to see the Bread and Butter Market as Rob scours the near horizon for a parking spot.

“There it is!” I say, pointing to the market as we pass by. Rob slows the car, both of us studiously peering towards the market’s window in a vain attempt to see inside. We have to park nearly a block away. Making the dash down the sidewalk, we pass an indigent old man with no legs sitting in a wheelchair who is pawing through a public garbage can. I realize, as we sprint past him, that I’m already breathing through my mouth, a wasted effort to avoid the rancid odor of the filth of the streets.

“Inside,” Rob says needlessly, as he opens the door for me to the Bread and Butter Market. I fly inside with a breathless impatience.

At the front of the store, on one side are shelves stocked with exotic looking wax covered cheeses along with rolls of meats and sausages in varying shapes and colors. Directly across the aisle stands a man, who looks like he could have just escaped from jail, perusing a rack of porn magazines containing lurid photographs of women in various grotesque sexual poses. Incongruent to the disgusting environment, the delicious aroma coming from the deli, at the back of the market, makes my mouth involuntarily water.

“Check the back,” Rob says, “I’ll go through the aisles.”

I race forward calling Robyn by name as I go, scanning left and right until I’m at the back of the store where the deli is located. A man and woman dressed in business attire are ordering lunch. I can hear Rob’s voice calling Robyn’s name behind me. Seconds later, he appears from the last aisle. Our eyes meet and instantly, I know Robyn is not here. A fissure of despair cleaves my heart. I swallow hard to stop what I know will be an ocean of tears if I should begin to cry.

“You seen a girl, blond hair and dark eyes come by here?” Rob asks the thin man behind the counter.

“Her name is Robyn,” I add, jerking her picture from my purse and holding it up for the clerk’s inspection.

Everyone’s attention is on us, their eyes sweeping from the photograph to our faces.

“Nope,” the clerk replies in a disinterested voice.

The business man looks at us as if we are aliens from Mars. The woman with him steps back a pace, as if she fears catching something from us.

I say and do nothing. I know this action well. It is the natural response of people who are terrified of our bad luck. People whose gaze tells me that Rob and I exist in the valley of the damned. Some of Robyn’s teachers reacted the same way. I cannot fault anyone for not wanting to be in our shoes.

“Come on,” I say, urging Rob to the front of the store. Near the front window are a couple of tables with stools around them. A disheveled man sits at one of the stools, hands tucked beneath his thighs, rocking back and forth, staring at the food on his plate. “I wanted a roast beef sandwich. I ordered a roast beef sandwich. I wanted a roast beef sandwich; I ordered a roast beef sandwich.” He mutters over and over again as he rocks.