Katrina Prado - The Whore of Babylon, A Memoir

“Well it sure shouldn’t be.”

Freddie wheels the van into the parking lot of the Martinez Gun Club.

“I gave Breed the picture of your daughter and your telephone number. He promises to keep an eye out for her and says he’ll call if he sees her.”

Freddie opens the door for me.

“Do you think we should try looking in Stockton or Sacramento?” I ask.

“No reason to yet.” He closes my door and leads me by the elbow into the main building of the gun club. “But you might want to think about investing in a cell phone.”

Inside the main building is a large snack bar with a tufted leather armrest running the circumference of the bar. Arranged in precise order around the snack bar are bright red stools with the word ‘ Winchester ’ running around the side of the leather seats in large white letters.

Freddie exchanges pleasantries with a portly woman behind the counter and gives her some money. Above her, on the wall are mounted various animal heads, nearly all with large, pointed antlers. She hands him two paper targets the general shape of a human torso with various lines and numbers on them. Next she gives him two large things that look like plastic ear muffs and two pairs of safety goggles.

We exit through the back door of the building onto the general shooting range. Since it’s a Saturday, the range is fairly packed with people. Mostly men sporting long shotguns, but I do see a couple of women amongst the groups, all in various stages of either shooting or consulting targets containing clean round holes.

Inside the handgun range, Freddie sets up a paper target and then shows me how to load my gun.

“Pop the bullets in like so,” he says showing me the chamber. Once full, he snaps it closed. He puts on his red ear protectors and eye gear and instructs me to do the same.

He hands me the gun.

“Now imagine that target out there is BLU BOY.”

I draw in a deep breath and focus on the shape that is yards away. If only the flat two dimensional figure before me was Antonio Peña. If only, by one small bullet that weighs less than an ounce, I could eliminate my most pressing problem and bring Robyn back home to me; would I do it? Maybe more importantly, could I?

Afterwards, Freddie drives me home. Dusk is rapidly being swallowed up the approaching night, lights from homes on my street wink out at us. I am thinking of a hot bubble bath to ease my aching body, and hopefully Rob will be home and amenable to going to get something to eat so I won’t have to cook. I close my eyes, allowing myself to sink deep into my thoughts.

“Is that cops at your house?” Freddie says, suddenly.

I lurch in my seat, my eyes pop open to see a Pittsburg Police Department black and white parked in my driveway behind the old Corsica. From the large living room window, I can see lights on and figures standing, talking, one of whom looks to be Rob.

“Let me off here,” I say, three houses ahead of mine.

I open the door and fly out of the van scarcely before Freddie has even come to a complete stop. My heart thuds in my chest as I fly across neighbors’ lawns and driveway bounding up the steps of my front porch. Mrs. Cotillo stands on her porch, clasping her jacket tightly to her body, peering intently at me. Her beady eyes remind me of a rat.

The front door hangs open, the wood at the top and bottom hinges splintered. Two policemen stand with Rob, their voices low, telling him something. As I walk into the room all eyes turn to me.

“Where have you been?” Rob asks, doing his best not to sound accusatory.

I look around. The living room is a shambles. Furniture upturned. The couch, lying on its side, sports a long knife-edged gash along the entire length of the backrest. The TV is gone. Mail from the kitchen along with various other papers lies ripped and strewn across the floor.

“What happened?” I ask. “Is it about Robyn?”

Rob shakes his head no. “Someone broke in,” he says.

I scoop the lamp up off the floor and deposit it to the easy chair. Then I right the coffee table, snatching up the remote control and TV Guide as well.

The police promised to interview neighbors to see if they saw anything suspicious, but all I can think about is Mrs. Cotillo’s accusing stare. I’m certain that this break-in was instigated by BLU-BOY or maybe his associates. I said nothing to Pittsburg ’s finest out of fear of further recrimination, and more importantly, not wanting to put Robyn’s life in any greater danger than it was already.

“Where were you?” Rob asks.

The afternoon with Freddie at the gun range seems a million miles away at the moment. Rob’s question snaps me back into reality.

“When I woke up you weren’t here,” I answer. “I met Sister Margaret in the City.”

I move to the kitchen and grab the broom and then return to the living room and begin sweeping the shards of broken glass of the light bulb from the lamp. I choose to omit my outing to the Martinez Gun Club.

“Where have you been?” I ask.

“Meetings.”

“Meetings? What kind of meetings?” I ask.

“AA meetings.” He makes a step towards me. “Margot, there’s so much I have to tell you.” He reaches for my arm, drawing me to him. “Stop for a minute. Look, everything is exactly the way it’s supposed to be,” he says. The look of earnestness in his face defies logic.

I step away from him, spreading my hands over the air in the living room.

“That’s what you call all of this?” I ask, incredulous.

“I know, I know. But we have to accept things as they happen. Acceptance, Baby, that’s the key to everything.”

I move away.

“Help me with the couch,” I say. All I can think about is that if I can just get the house in order my mind will follow. The physical act of doing something mollifies the nearly palpable feeling of violation that is surging through my body. A part of me even sniffs the air to see if I can detect any odor of the persons responsible for the destruction.

Rob just stands there like a mute.

“Have you seen Pickles?” I ask.

He shrugs no. After I get this mess cleaned up I will have to look for the cat. If she got out, she could be hiding out somewhere afraid.

“Are you going to help me?” I ask.

“Nothing happens by accident,” he says.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask.

“I mean that everything happens for a reason,” he says.

I struggle with the armrest of the couch, trying to yank it upright, but stabs of pain at my surgery site prevent me from exerting any more energy. Rob makes another move towards me.

He grabs my arm. “Everything,” he says, his eyes shining with intensity.

I huff out a sigh of exasperation.

“Now that I’m sober, I see things so much more clearly.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I mean us, here. Robyn.”

“What about Robyn?”

“We keep looking and looking for her. But maybe she doesn’t want to be found.”

A sheet of red flashes before my eyes. I slap his face.

“She is a fiftten year old little girl,” I growl. “A child.”

“She hasn’t been a child since we moved to California,” he says. “Have you been blind to the fact that she’s been out of control ever since we’ve been here? The friends she hangs out with, the kind of clothes she wears? The way she talks to us, like we were lower than pond scum? Criminy, Margot, can’t you see what’s been happening around here?” Rob’s face is animated. An untenable mixture of anger and enthusiasm.

“How dare you!” I shout. “You have nothing to say, do you hear me?” I am screaming now, and I don’t want to stop. “I haven’t been the one staying out till all hours, coming home drunk, or not even coming home at all!” My hands are in fists at my side. “I’m not the one who can’t be bothered to do one single thing to lift a finger around here; and that includes being a parent to our child. And I’m not the one who can’t even keep a job!”