Katrina Prado - The Whore of Babylon, A Memoir

“Fine. Whatever,” she says.

“I suppose drinking beer is also mainstream?” I say, yanking the bottle out of her hand.

Cold beer sloshes out of the bottle, all over my hand and onto the carpet.

“We were gonna have all this cleaned up before you came home,” Robyn says, as if this explains everything.

I am so angry, I feel as if I have tunnel vision, and all I can see is my disobedient, intractable daughter. I look around and realize that we are alone.

The pungent stink of beer brings me front and center with countless past fights and arguments with Rob.

“This is unacceptable, young lady!” I am screaming again. “You won’t go to school. You say you want to work, but I seriously doubt that you’ve even applied for a job. And now I come home to this! I won’t have it!”

“I have too!” she shouts back. “I’ve been to every clothing store at the mall, but no one’s called me yet.”

“And so you think it’s okay to hang around the house drinking beer and watching porn movies?!” My voice is incredulous.

“Everyone does it,” she replies, rolling her eyes at my prudishness.

“Not everyone. Not this family.”

“Oh my God, Mom; don’t start up with ‘this family’ crap,” Robyn says, quoting the air with her fingers.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means we’re not this incredibly happy family all sitting around the dinner table talking about how happy we all are like some stupid TV commercial.”

The late afternoon sun streaks into the room, into my daughter’s eyes. The sunlight makes her blue-brown eyes look like two perfectly round harlequin opals.

“I didn’t mean that. What I meant was-”

“You’re so frickin’ rigid,” she spits out in disgust.

“Rigid?” Needles of hatred slash through my body. “Is it rigid for me to have expectations for you? Is it rigid for me to expect you to go onto college, have a career? Have a decent life? Something better than what your father and I have?”

She shudders out a heavy sigh. “You’re just proving my point,” she says. “Look at Dad. He works, but he also knows how to have a good time.”

“Your father is a drunk!” I shout, immediately regretting my outburst.

Robyn’s eyes well with tears. “Stop it!” she shouts. “Can’t you ever just stop! You didn’t want to have me in the first place! Why can’t you just admit it?”

I blanch. “Oh Robyn, that’s not true.”

“Don’t talk to me about truth!” she shrieks. “It is true. I’ve been an obstacle for you since the day I was born! You couldn’t finish college because you got pregnant and you haven’t let me forget it for a single day; always blabbing on and on about LMC and getting your accounting degree until I just want to puke!”

“Oh baby. I never meant it like that.” I set the beer on top of the coffee table and make a move towards her. But now it is Robyn who is in a rage.

“No! I’m so sick of you! I hate you! Do you hear me? I hate you!”

She stomps towards the front door.

“Robyn, please,” I cry. “Please stay. We can work things out. Please.”

Through my own tears the front door seemingly quavers as it slams closed.

I sit on the coffee table, dropping my face into my hands and sob. The telephone rings but I let it go. I gaze out the living room window. The street is bleak and destitute. Tree limbs stretch to the sky like desiccated roots. I realize that I am drenched in sweat. Nausea churns deep in the pit of my stomach. I press my hand to my forehead and feel laminated with sweat. I rummage through recent memory trying to figure out exactly where my pack of Rolaids might be. I think I recall seeing them in the kitchen drawer next to the silverware.

I stand up, but must steady myself by holding onto the TV to maintain my balance. I close my eyes and inhale several deep breaths, calling to mind the words of my doctor. Discussions of persistent stomach pain or bloody vomit that might indicate a return problem stemming from surgery. Never mind about several strategic placed body blows by a vengeful pimp. I swallow down pearls of worry and open my eyes, certain that one or two Rolaids will relieve my symptoms.

I pull a slick wad of hair from the trap in the bathtub, grimacing in repugnance as I deposit it into the trash. Flicking on the tub faucet, I rinse my gloved hand with water. Sloshing water over the porcelain, I next sprinkle Comet all over, avoiding the caustic acid vapors that hang in the air. I run water over my sponge and begin scouring the ringed walls of the bathtub.

I hear the familiar tinks and knocks as Rob helps himself to his usual Saturday morning coffee; the opening and closing of the front door as he retrieves the morning newspaper.

The ordinariness of our lives should be a comfort, but this day it is not. Worries over Robyn’s whereabouts is a fever in my mind. I endlessly rehearse what I will say to her upon her return. And last night was sleepless. Pickles has been missing since the break in. I know it’s just a cat, but the loss is compounded by apprehension of Robyn’s safety. I dandled thoughts of my daughter in my head until nearly two thirty this morning, until finally drifting off into troubled dreams.

Though the bathtub is now clean, I continue to scrub, as if they physical act will also be beneficial on less temporal matters.

“What in the hell?”

Rob’s voice bellows from the kitchen. The feet of his chair excoriates the linoleum of the floor, punctuating his explosion.

I slip out of my rubber gloves and stand up.

“I cannot freakin’ believe this!” Rob growls.

Alarm blows through my chest as I hurry into the kitchen to see what he is so upset about. The newspaper lies open on the kitchen table. Rob is standing over the paper, his face a choleric red.

“Did you know about this?” he says accusingly.

“Know about what?”

“This!” He stabs his finger in the direction of the newspaper.

I approach and peer at the offending story, my mind racing with distressing possibilities.

In bold, black Courier font the title reads: The Trouble with Truancy. It begins innocuously enough.

It’s noon; do you know where your teenager is? The honest answer is that most working parents, however well intentioned, don’t. Truancy in America has reached epidemic proportions, causing public schools to lose hundreds of thousands of dollars in state and federal money; all because junior decides to play hooky.

But truancy hurts more than just our kids or our public schools. In many cases, the truant child becomes a public nuisance.

For example, a local Pittsburg woman, we’ll call her Mrs. C. (and who, incidentally was the impetus for this story) lives on a quiet street, Mildred Avenue, which is typical of many streets in the area. She states that her next door neighbor’s child is out of control.

In an exclusive interview, Mrs. C complains that the daughter rarely, if ever, attends school. “Every day that those parents leave for work, watch out. Oh my land, the music is ungodly stuff and pounds so loud all day long, I get a headache.” And that’s not all. Mrs. C says it is a perpetual party at the house with people coming and going all day long. Says Mrs. C, “The girls look more like prostitutes than young ladies. The clothes they wear are scandalous! Lord only knows what goes on inside.”

The article continues, with several more choice quotes from the “anonymous” Mrs. C. The article ends with the reporter claiming that the ‘out of control teenager’s parents’ could not be reached for comment.

My stomach reels with nausea. I swallow hard.

“I’m gonna go give that bitch next door a piece of my mind,” Rob says.