Katrina Prado - The Whore of Babylon, A Memoir

“Yeah,” Freddie says following my lead. “Couple of street punks but I chased them away.

Rob seems satisfied by this explanation. He moves to my side, sitting precisely where Freddie was and wraps me in his arms.

“Oh God, baby, are you okay?” his voice is muffled as he presses me close.

His grip sends wracks of misery through my body. I grimace silently.

“I’ll be going,” Freddie says, letting himself out the door.

I watch the front door close.

Rob releases his grip around me, takes me by the hands and peers into my face.

“I’m sorry, baby. I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I know I need help. Please, please.”

He releases my hands, grasps me by the upper arms and looks me straight in the eye.

“I’m an alcoholic. I need help; I know that. I will do whatever it takes to make this work.”

Sister Margaret’s words run through my head: ‘If your husband had cancer or diabetes, would you just abandon him?’

“Oh Rob, I don’t know. Maybe-”

“Shhh, don’t say anything. Just rest.”

“I don’t want ‘us’ to get in the way of rescuing Robyn,” I say, in protest.

“I get that,” he says. “Don’t worry; it won’t,” he grins. “I’ve got nine days sobriety. Nine days,” he says proudly.

When I wake up next it is to the ring of the telephone. I hear the click of the answering machine, but the volume is too low for me to hear who is leaving a message. Sunlight carves ardent swathes through the opened curtains. I consult my watch: nearly ten o’clock in the morning. Friday morning. Rob is gone. On the coffee table is a cryptic note: I’ll be back. All my love, Rob.

My mouth is brackish from the night before. I wince in pain as I push myself from the comfort of the couch. The ice pack that Freddie made for me is now a sack of water on the floor. I pick it up, and walk gingerly, to the kitchen. A stack of mail looms next to the telephone, brought in presumably by Rob this morning before he left. I sift through the envelopes; the water bill, the PG &E bill, and three offers for credit cards. I punch the recall button on the answering machine. One message:

“Hi Sugar shorts. Just givin’ you a shout. Haven’t heard anything in a couple of days and wanna make sure everything there is hunky-dory fine. Got my test results back too.”

I play the message back a second time trying to get a handle on Gladys’ tone of voice. I sigh. I’m tired of lying to my mother; tired of dancing this tango of fiction, hiding behind this wall of illusion I have created about Robyn.

I move to the counter and make some coffee hoping the caffeine will clear my head. As I wait for the coffee maker to finish its distillation I pop a Rolaids, aware of an inner gnash of pain from deep in my gut. From the junk drawer I extract a small spiral notepad of paper and a pen. I sit down at the kitchen table and try to begin writing:

Dear Mama,

I haven’t been exactly truthful. There are some things that I need to.

I rip the page out of the notebook and wad it up into a ball, tossing it to the far side of the table. I try again.

Dear Mama,

I have some things that I need to tell you. Very important things. I had hoped to get back to New Mexico to see you, but so much has happened here, that I

I rip that page out of the notebook as well, mashing it into another misshapen ball and roll it next to its neighbor. ‘So much has happened’ being a euphemism for my daughter running away to walk the streets, and our entire family being terrorized by her pimp, and beginning its slow, agonizing disintegration.

I pour myself half a cup of coffee, in deep thought about what my next move to get Robyn back home will be. I drink the hot, black brew and burn my tongue.

“Ah!” I plunk the cup down.

There is only one place that I want to be; one place that holds my soul hostage; it is the place where I might find my beloved daughter. I pick up the phone.

“Sister Margaret?” I ask the voice that answers at the Sisters of the Presentation convent telephone.

“One moment, please.”

Half a beat later I hear Sister Margaret’s voice, her faint Scottish brogue still evident.

“It’s Margot,” I say. “Are you going to go feed the girls?”

I feel I can almost hear Sister Margaret smile in the quick silence that is between us.

“God willing and the creek don’t rise,” she says and then laughs.

“I’ll meet you at the convent,” I say.

It is just after four in the afternoon when I turn the corner onto my street from my adventures in the City with Sister Margaret. She gave my face with its gash over my right eye a long look but said nothing. I alluded to a confrontation with a closet door but she only pursed her lips and told me to help her with the cooler full of bottled waters. Girls came and went, most of whom I’d never seen before. One or two looked vaguely familiar. But of course no one had seen Robyn, though I showed her picture to everyone whether they showed interest or not. Before dropping me back off at my car, Sister Margaret and I sat together in the beat up old truck as she led me in one decade of the Rosary. The calming, nearly hypnotic force of our voices praying the Rosary inside the cab against the juxtaposition of madness outside the pickup created a palisade against the dross of the city.

As I edge the old Corsica towards the house, I see Freddie’s large blue van parked on the street. He is standing on the curb, leaning against the passenger side door of the van reading a newspaper. I park in the driveway and get out of the car.

“Hi,” I say, unsure why he is here.

I glance at the windows of the house; Rob must still be gone.

He nods once acknowledging me.

“You ready?” he asks.

“Ready?”

“Grab the Colt; told you I’d teach you how to use it. Sooner the better.”

“Oh.” It is then I catch sight of Mrs. Cotillo staring out at us, arms crossed against her chest.

“Unless now isn’t good.”

I look down at my watch. My body yearns for a long nap, but it’s good to see Freddie again. I can talk to him in a way that I can’t with Rob.

“Where does one shoot a gun in the middle of a city?” I ask, walking over to the van.

“ Martinez gun club.”

I nod.

“Where’s the Colt?” he asks.

I pat the side of my purse. He smiles and opens the van door.

Freddie drives the speed limit, north on 680 taking the Marina Vista exit. The day has been overcast, even out here in Contra Costa County, the air is knitted by filaments of the winter to come. The change is nice and I crack my window to let in the fresh air.

“So what’s next?” he asks.

“Next?”

“Next with Robyn,” he says.

I let out a sigh and gaze out the front window. Immense grey cotton ball clouds obscure the sky.

“I’m not sure, other than to keep going back to the city to keep looking for her.”

“Last night,” he begins. “when Peña got to you.” He looks at me and then looks back to the freeway. “I didn’t get a chance to tell you, but I caught up with that guy I recognized. His name is Breed Love. He’s a CI for San Francisco PD. Used to be a big time dealer. He got clean and now helps the cops try to get the kids off the streets. He knows who Peña is, says everybody does. Has girls all over the City and in Stockton and Sacramento too.”

“My God,” I say below my breath. “Why can’t the police just shut this monster down?”

“I know,” Freddie says, “but it’s not as easy as you might think. They have to actually catch him breaking the law since every hooker that the cops arrest and try to pump for information refuses to divulge any details on Peña.” He pauses, and then adds, “And if it wasn’t Peña it would be somebody else. It’s the way of the world.”