Katrina Prado - The Whore of Babylon, A Memoir

This last chastisement wipes the smug, holier-than-thou look off his face. But I can’t stop now, even if I wanted to. My thoughts of rage spew out into every crack and crevice of the room.

“And now you come waltzing in here with a whole week of sobriety, telling me that everything is as it should be? That I have to accept the fact that Robyn is out there somewhere, selling her body to the lowest form of dirt and filth?” “Don’t you even go there,” I menace. I hold my hands in the air defensively.

“In fact,” I add just for good measure, “I think I liked you better when you were drunk.”

The end of this tirade produces the look of hurt I so vehemently intended.

Rob crosses his arms in front of him and glares at me.

“Yeah? Well at least I’m not screwing some guy in our home.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Mustache man, that’s what I’m talking about!”

“You mean Freddie?” I ask.

“Are there more?” Rob says sarcastically, shoulders shrugged, palms in the air, animating his question.

And on it goes; the fighting and evisceration of each other’s hearts, carving away every last vestige of care and affection that ever had hoped to exist within the gossamer mantle of our marriage. The rubble and draff that I had so hoped to leave behind us in New Mexico has caught up with us and is here now; a firestorm of fury and discontent that threatens to burn up both of us, leaving nothing but cinders.

“If you were ever around, you would know that Freddie was recommended by the private eye, Bart Strong,” I spit back at Rob.

“I told you to let the police handle it,” Rob retorts. “But noooo; you’re on a freakin’ crusade. You’re gonna save every hooker in San Francisco with your buddy, Sister Mary of the Bleeding Heart Liberals!”

“Stop it!” I shout. “Just stop. Fighting isn’t helping anything. And it certainly isn’t going to bring Robyn back home.”

Rob wipes the sweat from his forehead, chuffs out a sigh of exasperation.

“I’m tryin’ here Margot, I really am. I just wish you wouldn’t make it so freakin’ hard.”

He bear hugs the end of the couch and flips it upright in one motion.

When the doorbell rings, I wonder momentarily if I imagined the sound. But as Rob turns his head in the direction of the front door, scarcely dangling from its hinges, I also look and see the shadowy figure of a young girl. My heart spills out of me.

It is Robyn.

“Hello Mama.”

The scent of pancakes fills the kitchen. Though I am exhausted to the point of breaking, my heart sings so loud I wonder that even nosy old Mrs. Cotillo next door cannot hear its joyous strains.

I flip the next batch of pancakes from the electric skillet, and pour out four more quarter cups of batter. As I pour myself another in a series of strapping cups of coffee the microwave croons that the bacon inside it is cooked to perfection. I survey the kitchen and living room, making sure that everything looks right. An old sheet tucked into the corners of the couch obscures the knife gashes, and as long as the eye stays away from the gaping hole where the television used to be, everything looks almost normal.

The happy homecoming that I’d imagined wasn’t to be. Robyn, who looked as if she’d been dragged to hell and back, had said she was tired and just wanted to clean herself up and go to bed. She promised that we would talk this morning. Rob and I stayed up another two and a half hours cleaning up, in addition to Rob jerry-rigging the front door until today when he promised to make a trip to Home Depot to replace it.

I return my attention to the pancakes which are ready to be flipped. Behind me I hear the pad of slippers. Robyn traipses into the kitchen. Without saying a word, she heads for the cabinet to retrieve a coffee cup and pours herself some coffee.

“Good morning, Sweetheart,” I say.

Her eyes roll up from the coffee pot and skip briefly to my face, glancing momentarily on the wound beneath my right eye, but she says nothing.

“I bet you’re starving,” I say.

I toss a stack of pancakes onto a plate and add three pieces of crispy bacon to the plate and bring it to the table.

“Here, come and eat ’em up while they’re hot,” I say.

“I’m not hungry,” Robyn says.

“Oh that’s silly,” I say, a forced gaiety to my voice. “You’re nothing more than skin and bone. I’m sure you haven’t been eating right.” I force a smile. “Come on, honey. How about just a couple of bites?” I pour out a liberal amount of Log Cabin syrup on top of the pancakes. “For old Mom?” Keeping the smile pasted to my lips I drag out the chair. The feet of the chair squawk against the tile floor in protest.

“No,” she says.

I suck in a deep breath and replace the chair. My stomach contracts in pain from my recent encounter with BLU BOY, but I swallow down the distress.

“That’s okay. You can eat later,” I say. “I’m just so very glad you’re home,” I say. I approach, holding my arms out to embrace her.

“Mom, please!” Robyn says. Her voice is all irritation and angst.

I open my mouth to reprimand her but just at that moment Rob rambles into the kitchen wearing only pajama bottoms. It is then I notice that some of his chest hairs are starting to turn white.

“Hey Princess,” he says to our daughter.

“Hi Dad,” Robyn says.

He wanders past her towards the coffee pot, his meaty hand tousling her hair as he passes. She ducks from his show of affection, but he either ignores her rebuff or doesn’t notice it and gets his coffee.

In the back of my mind I am thinking about the day ahead. Since so much of our mail, including bank and credit card statements had been rifled through with the break-in, I will need to close all of our accounts and open up new ones. I also want to address the issue of school with Robyn. She will have to be enrolled today. I can only imagine the amount of catch up work that she’ll need to do in order to get back on track.

“Anyone gonna eat this?” Rob says of the plate of food growing cold on the table.

“Go ahead. I’m going to get cleaned up,” Robyn says.

I frown as Rob sits down and begins devouring Robyn’s breakfast.

“Good,” I say to Robyn. “You can come with me then.”

This time it is Robyn who frowns. “With you? Where?”

“I have some errands to run and we have to get you registered for school. You’re already a month behind.”

“School?!” Robyn looks as if I’ve just slapped her across the face. “I am so not going back to school.”

“That’s ridiculous,” I counter. “Of course you are.”

“The hell I am!” Robyn says, her voice is pinched with anger.

“Criminy!” Rob shouts. “Can we just have a little peace and quiet around here?”

“You have to go to school!” I say again to Robyn and then turn to Rob, as if giving directions. “She has to go to school!”

“Why in the hell does everything need to be decided at eight o’clock in the freakin’ morning?” Rob growls back.

“Robert Skinner!” I complain. “Don’t you dare tell me that you’re considering that our daughter will not go back to school?”

“Relax, will ya?” Rob yells back. “All I’m saying is that Robyn hasn’t even been back home twenty-four hours and already you’re planning her whole life out before breakfast.”

I stump balled fists on my hips. “I’m not planning her entire life! But I do expect her to get her high school diploma.”

“Well, why don’t you at least talk to the girl, and see what’s goin’ on in her head?”

“Rob, a high school diploma is non-negotiable. You of all people should realize that.”