Katrina Prado - The Whore of Babylon, A Memoir

I wander back into the kitchen and bolt down three more Axid’s, realizing that I need to talk to someone. My mind jumps immediately to Sister Margaret. I reach for the phone just as it rings again. For one harrowing second I worry it might again be BLU BOY, but caller ID says: ‘Aztec, New Mexico ’. It is my mother. I groan but pick up the phone anyway. I need to hear somebody’s voice in my head other than BLU BOY.

“Hello?”

“There you are!” Gladys’ southern accent already grates on my nerves.

“Hi Mom. Look, I haven’t called you back because it’s been really-”

“How you doin’ Sugar? I hadn’t heard in a couple of days and thought you might have forgotten about my biopsy.”

“On your arm, right?” I say, proud to be able to call to mind her latest medical predicament.

“My land, you should have seen the size of that needle!” she bellows. “I liked to had a conniption, it hurt so bad.”

“When do you get the results back?”

“Day after tomorrow, bless Patsy. The sooner the better, I say. But look, I didn’t call just to bore you with all my problems.”

Really?

“I wanted to let you know how the photo shoot went.”

Ah, The Baby and her commercial launch into greatness. Gladys recounts each and every elaborate iota of information about poor Petra ’s dreadful ride to the airport, the traumatic flight, the harrowing cab ride, and the unmitigated filth of the city. Followed by the glitz and glamour that surrounded The Baby, the pomp, and the fanfare, as studio execs fawned and slavered around the sweet little dear until I think I might go into diabetic shock. Gladys finishes by telling me to be looking for the launch of the new Gerber Baby Food commercials soon, staring the cutest little baby on the planet.

“But listen to me go on,” she says. “How’s Robyn?”

“She’s doing great,” I say, my eye on the latest magazine cover lying on the table. The cover article is about the latest pop sensation, Avril Lavigne. Her face is that of a child. Her eyes are heavily made up with thick black eyeliner. Another sign of the times.

“She got the lead in the school play,” I lie. “She’s playing Juliet.”

“Oh my!” Gladys says.

“And she placed first in the spelling bee,” I add, my thoughts far away, wondering about how BLU BOY got our phone number.

“Oh, I didn’t realize they had spelling bees for high schoolers,” she says.

I am jolted from my daydreaming.

“Oh, it’s just a local thing that the English class did. No big deal,” I say.

“So anyway,” Gladys says, changing the subject. “Is it still hotter than the hinges of hell out there? News said you got a real spell goin’ on.”

I toy with my prescription bottles, arranging them like little soldiers.

“I have to go, Mom. I have an appointment,” I say looking down at my watch. Already I am half an hour late to see my counselor. My heart sinks. I extricate myself from the telephone conversation with my mother and decide to blow off my appointment with my counselor.

Instead, I call Sister Margaret. I tell the little nun all about Robyn’s rescue, Rob’s arrest and subsequent departure from the house, and of my overwhelming feelings of betrayal. Sister Margaret said she could use some help the next morning at the church and could I please be there by nine in the morning.

“Grab those candles; replace those on the altar that are in the candlesticks up there.”

From a box on the front pew I remove two large, crème colored candles and hand them to a small Hispanic woman with hair as silver as a candelabra. From the number of people milling about, slowly exiting the church; it is evident they have just had a morning service. There is a young man with dark brown skin still sitting at the organ, toying with soft, dulcet chords that float through the air like winged seraphim. Sister Margaret though, is a flurry of activity, directing several volunteers who are dusting and sweeping the mammoth area that is St. Dominic’s Catholic Church.

“We’ve got less than three hours until a wedding,” Sister Margaret says to no one in particular. She is busying herself with deadheading a vase of roses left by a parishioner. She plucks the faded blooms and tosses them into a large plastic trash container at her side that one of the volunteers has just dragged to her side.

I have come to this place and I don’t know why. I am not a religious person by any stretch, certainly not Catholic, and yet. Sister Margaret seems to be the only person that I am able to talk to without fear of judgment or recrimination.

As I pull faded gladiolas and wilting lilies from a huge glass vase, my chest is squeezed by strangled emotions. What have I hoped to find within these neo-Gothic stone walls? The high altar looms, castle-like, enormous and beautiful; its carved crucified Christ with bowed head seemingly endorsing my presence here. The stained glass windows, twenty plus feet high above the altar evoke a sense of transporting one’s soul back into history itself. How can I not find comfort here?

We prep and preen vase upon vase of blooms until my head nearly aches from the sweetness of the blossoms. Sister Margaret dusts off her hands and then instructs one of the male volunteers to remove the plastic garbage can to the parking lot to be dumped in the trash bin. She stumps her hands on her hips and regards me a moment.

“Come on,” she says, “follow me.”

The nun is on the move again. We amble to the right, between columns to an open area. At its center is a gold box and beside it, several lit candles. There is a small grouping of pews and except for one older Vietnamese man at the very back, the area is unoccupied. At the front, above the candles is a large white statue of a woman holding a baby. Mary and Baby Jesus. Sister Margaret makes her way to the front pew, pulls down the kneeler and then lowers herself to her knees and crosses herself.

I am unsure what to do, and so stand there dumbly. Those vivid gray eyes smile at me in a friendly, mocking sort of way and she motions for me to sit down next to her. After a brief moment, she lifts herself off the kneeler and sits next to me. From the shadows of her habit, she removes a long circular string of crystal beads interspersed with gold plated roses. At the very bottom is a crucifix. It looks like a necklace. She hands it to me.

“This is a rosary,” she says. Then from the same hidden pocket she pulls out a small booklet titled, “ How To Pray The Rosary ”. “Here, put this in your purse. You can read it later.”

She stuffs the little booklet into an open pocket of my purse.

“Do what I do,” she says. She takes hold of the crucifix with her right hand and crosses herself again. “In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit,” she says. I clasp the crucifix in my right hand and cross myself in the same way. It feels strange and intimate at the same time. She prays words I’ve never heard before, but that somehow sound familiar. She moves her fingers along the beads with each prayer, demonstrating for me to do the same. I recognize the Our Father, but am not sure if I should pray with her or remain silent. As she leads me through a series of Hail Mary’s, I begin to feel the constriction in my body loosen. A sensation, ephemeral yet immutable at the same time falls over me as the recitation of words becomes a sort of meditation of grace. After the first set of beads, Sister Margaret stops and crosses herself again. She sits back in the pew.

“That was one decade,” she says. “But you’ll read all about it in that little pamphlet I gave you.”

“But I’m not Catholic,” I say.

“Hey,” she says, winking and ribbing me with her elbow. “Nobody’s perfect!” She lets out a quiet cackle.