Katrina Prado - The Whore of Babylon, A Memoir

“What the hell does that mean?”

“It means that if you’d gotten yours and gone on to college or some vocational school we wouldn’t be scraping by just to make ends meet,” I declare with more bitterness in my voice than I intend.

Rob nods slowly, his eyes screwed in umbrage.

“Oh, I get it. It’s time to play the ‘blame game’, huh?”

“I’m not blaming you, Rob. I’m just trying to point out that Robyn can do better. Better than both of us. But she needs the chance to succeed.”

“Oh, and you’re livin’ in some dream world where you like to think you’re a CPA; you’re an accounts payable clerk, for cripe’s sake!”

“Well at least I’m trying to get back to school and better myself Unlike you!” I shout back.

“Rub my nose in it, why don’t you? Tell me again what a complete failure I am again. I don’t think I heard you the first thirty thousand times,” Rob shoots back.

I huff out an anguished breath.

“This is not about you, Rob. It’s about Robyn.”

“Well then. Why don’t we ask Robyn what Robyn would like to do with her life?” Rob asks.

We both turn to Robyn, but she has long since left the room.

It is then I hear the screak of the shower faucet.

I stare at the cursor on my computer screen. It is only three o’clock and I’ve yet to complete the report that Carmelita said she must have for the board meeting tomorrow. Thoughts like a school of minnows dart pell-mell inside my head, cluttering any meaningful contemplation I try to achieve. I’ve become accustomed to staying until at least six in order to catch up, but I doubt I can even make it to five, much less six.

Robyn hasn’t been back a month yet and the mood at home is fraught with ominous clouds of discontent. She informed me that she will not go back to school, but that she wants to get a job. Never mind trying to reason with her about the types of jobs she is qualified to do; my helpful comments are kindling for the fiery arguments that inevitably end up with Robyn storming out of the room, raging against me.

A large flat screen TV appeared last week; which she claims was given to her by a “friend”. Adding insult to my injury is that after work I come home to find Robyn lounging around the house; sometimes with girls she says are friends but who look more like professional exotic dancers rather than high school aged teenagers. Invariably, the television is blasting out nearly obscene lyrics to a beat that sounds like something out of a ghetto. Never mind about the soft porn of the music videos that plays out on the screen. I order the volume to be lowered. After a period of time, I am met with the sudden fall of silence, like a great, black, velvet curtain, followed by the slam of the front door. And then I am alone.

Rob is no help. His newfound sobriety means that he is absent; attending AA meetings even more than when he was submerged in beer at the bars. When he is home, he lobs clever platitudes my way; little gems such as “Let go and let God,” or “Live and let live”, which only make me want to flatten his head with a baseball bat.

And the pain is back. Inside my gut, like a worm, creeping through my stomach, dragging behind it, boughs of thorny pine needles of misery. I refuse to let my mind explore the worry that my beating by BLU BOY may have done any significant damage to my recent surgery.

I close my eyes and realize that I’m so tired I could lay my head down on my desk and easily plummet into an unconscious sleep. Biting my lip, my eyes travel to my purse under my desk. I reach down and dig through the side pocket until I find a small note of paper. On it is only one word: Freddie. His name followed by his phone number. I know I shouldn’t. I can almost see Sister Margaret’s stern look of disapproval. But I dial the number anyway and before I am ready for it, the soft cadence of his voice greets me.

“Hello?”

My voice catches in my throat. I stare at the cradle of the phone where I am trying to will my hand to replace the receiver, but I remain frozen.

“Hello?” Freddie says again.

“It’s me,” I say timidly.

“Margot.” If a voice can smile, I am certain Freddie’s is doing so at this very moment.

I called him the day after Robyn came home to let him know that all my prayers had been answered and I supposed I thought we would never speak again.

“Is everything okay?” he asks.

I tell him of my frustrations with my beloved daughter.

“You’re both trying to adjust,” he says. “Give it some time.”

“I don’t know that I have that much patience,” I say, only half joking.

“Your daughter isn’t the same person she was. She’s seen and done a lot of things that most people don’t even know exist in this world.”

“I know, but-”

“She came back, Margot. That’s the only thing that matters.”

I nod but say nothing. I wipe away a tear that escapes down my cheek.

“Thanks Freddie.”

“No sweat.”

“I gotta go,” I say.

“Take care,” he says.

And then he is gone. I hang up the phone and sigh.

Although it is late October, summer clings to Pittsbug like a heavy wool sweater. My window is down as I coast along Power Avenue. I avert my gaze from the worn cyclone fence and the dying stumps of brown weeds in the front yard, keeping my eye on the front window, as if to glean any advance information of what Robyn and her friends might be up to. There appear to be more cars on the street than usual, and I peer at neighboring houses to see if anyone nearby might be having a party. But everything looks like it does every other day of the week. Neighbors shielded from one another by brick and mortar; doors and walls and locks, bulwarks against hospitality.

Above the tired groan of the Corsica engine I catch the rhythmic thump of rap music and realize that the closer I get to the house, the louder the music becomes. The repaired front door hangs open and a clot of young people occupy the front porch. Profanity flies from my mouth like a flock of startled birds. I flatten the accelerator, wheeling into the driveway with such force the shrieking tires testify to my rage. I yank the car into park, and stalk from the driveway towards the house. Already the kids on the front porch dart away, one even leaping over the porch railing that makes him look like he’s trying out for the summer Olympics.

I stand at the front door, shocked by what I see. In the living room, another array of teenagers loom, standing in groups of twos or threes. On the couch at one end is a young man and girl necking, his hand down her pants. Several of the kids are holding Budweiser beer bottles. On the television I see a man and woman, both naked, having sex on top of an office desk. The woman is moaning and writhing in apparent ecstasy. My stomach lurches. Two kids catch a glimpse of me from the corner of their eye.

“Oh shit!” one of them says.

At that moment, Robyn herself emerges from the kitchen. As she walks, she twists off the lid of bottle of beer.

“What in the hell is going on here?” I shout at no one in particular.

“Mom!” Robyn says.

Everyone’s eyes are suddenly fastened onto me. Kids begin to leave quickly. The couple on the couch stand up, the girl smoothing her hair and edge towards the door. I realize that I know her. It is my daughter’s friend Jenny. She shoots a look of daggers towards me.

“What is that?!” I bellow, my finger pointed towards the television.

Robyn casually glances at the screen and then shrugs. “It’s a movie,” she replies.

“It’s a pornographic movie!” I yell.

“Porno’s mainstream now, Mom.”

“Not in this house, it’s not,” I menace. I stomp towards the TV, but Robyn beats me there, quickly popping out the DVD. The TV now makes a low, hissing noise, as if it too, is angry.