Katrina Prado - The Whore of Babylon, A Memoir

I pour myself a cup of coffee and dig through my purse, looking for the cell phone. My hands briefly stumble over the.22 Colt while I’m searching for the cell. The metal of the gun is cold to the touch and sends a shiver through my arm. I quickly shove it aside, jerking out the phone. I had forgotten to switch the cell from vibrate back to ring when I got home last night.

I have six messages. I follow the prompts to retrieve them and find that nearly all are hang ups or crank calls. One is from Freddie. I smile as I listen to the satin-deep timber of his voice:

“This is Freddie. Saw the news tonight. Let me know if I can help.”

He leaves his cell number, a phone number that I have by now, memorized.

I glance at the hallway, listening, though I know Rob is still asleep; I can hear him snoring. I dial Freddie’s number with my thumb and steal a sip of coffee as I wait for him to answer. After only one ring I hear his voice:

“Yeah. This is Freddie.”

“It’s me,” I say.

He sighs before answering.

“You holdin’ up okay?”

“Not really.”

“You want me to come over?”

I laugh.

“I don’t think that would be such a good idea. Rob’s here.”

“He won’t bother me. ” he says sincerely.

I laugh again, in spite of my heavy heart.

“Seriously,” he continues, “just tell me what you need. You know I’ve already been down this road.”

I nod but can, for the moment, say nothing. I swallow hard.

“We’ll hopefully know something today,” is all I can manage.

“You shouldn’t be alone.”

“Rob’s here.”

“Like I said, you shouldn’t be alone.”

We leave that alone for now. I turn my head to look out the kitchen window and catch sight of the rosary that Sister Margaret gave me, sitting on the kitchen counter nearby.

“I’ll call Sister Margaret later,” I say.

“Ah, the venerable nun.”

“She’s the most amazing person I think I’ve ever met,” I say.

I walk over to the rosary, snatch it from the counter and clutch it to my breast.

“Some people find comfort in religion in times of crisis,” he says.

I realize that the only thing I really know about Freddie is that he lost a daughter to the streets.

“Do you believe in God?” I ask.

He pauses.

“I want to,” he replies. “Do you?”

“I do,” I say. “But I want more. I want to know God.”

“Whoa. You thinking of joining the convent?” he says with a grin in his voice.

“Not exactly,” I say, smiling involuntarily.

“Anyway,” he begins, his voice again deadly serious.

“Who are you talking to?” Robs voice suddenly barks from the hallway.

I shift ramrod straight in my chair; a feeling of guilt scuttles through me as the rest of Freddie’s sentence dissolves in the air.

I quietly flick the phone closed.

I stand up and refill my coffee.

“No one,” I lie, responding to Rob. What we absolutely do not need to be doing now is fighting.

I pull a mug from the cupboard. “Coffee?” I ask, pouring a cup for him. He doesn’t respond.

I walk the cup of coffee over to him and can see by the look on his face that he is in a foul mood.

“We have to talk,” I begin.

“I heard,” he says, his voice flat. “I don’t know if you noticed or not, but the house is surrounded by vultures.” The sarcasm in his voice is unmistakable.

“It might help if you were ever here,” I say.

“I left you a message. You knew where I was. I was helping a guy. A wet drunk who rolled his car and is now facing charges because his wife was thrown from the vehicle and is still in the hospital. She’s paralyzed from the neck down. And all this guy wants to do is drink himself to death.”

My back is to him. I say nothing, biting my lip, trying not to lash out at him.

“He needed my help,” Rob says emphatically.

I whip around. “ I need your help!” I shout. “Our daughter might be lying in some morgue and I’m here! All by myself! I need your help! Haven’t you figured that out yet?”

“My help?!” he spits out. He points a finger accusingly at the living room window. “Looks like you don’t need my help. You’ve got every bloodsucking reporter bearing down on us, just waiting for the cops to announce that it is Robyn they found. And I hope you’re happy, because those friggin’ posters did it, Margot.”

“We don’t know she’s,” I stop; I can’t say the word. “We don’t know anything at this point.”

“Don’t we?”

“Is this what you want to do?” I say, my eyes filling with tears. “Argue while the medical examiner is comparing Robyn’s dental records with that dead little girl? Is it?” I scream. “Don’t you get that our daughter needs us? She out there, somewhere, lost!”

Rob shakes his head. “She was lost a long time ago. You just chose to ignore that fact. Just like you ignore anything that doesn’t suit you.”

My body shakes with rage.

“You bastard! Don’t you make me out to be the bad guy here. I’ve been the one who has kept this family together. I was the one who found you this job in California when you got laid off in Aztec. I was the one who made the phone calls, arranged for the interview. I got the Bay Area newspapers and found this house to rent, along with everything else!”

Rob stands, silent. His silence frightens me. Over the years I have become accustomed to his bellowing reactions in our very familiar fights. But today, now, he just stands there, his façade is calm. I wipe the tears roughly from my cheeks and shake my head.

“I’m sorry, Rob. It’s just the stress of all of this has both of us worn out. I don’t blame you. Honestly.”

Still he says nothing.

“I know we both felt that the move to California would be for the best. We’ve always been a team. Ever since we got married.” I give him an imploring look. But I cannot read his face.

I sniffle, wiping my nose with the back of my hand.

“Let’s you and me start over,” I say. “Back to the time when we were in love.”

The tears are flowing freely again now. I blink them away and gaze at Rob. And it is then that I see it. Or, I should say rather, it is then that I don’t see it. There is no love in my husband’s eyes.

“Rob?” I say. “We were in love,” I say again. “You and me? And we got married?” I pause. “We’ve been through so much. But no matter what, we’ve still got us…” my voice trails off because deep in the pit of my gut, I know the truth. And maybe I’ve always known it, but as Rob said, all these years I’ve chosen to ignore it.

Rob shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans and looks down at the floor. Then he meets my eyes.

“I’m gonna say this the kindest way I know how. We had us some good times back in high school. We really did.” He swallows. “But I married you because you were pregnant. Because I wanted to do the right thing. And that’s the God’s honest truth.

I’ve done the best I can over the years. I know I’ve screwed up. I know that. I’ve taken the easy way out so many times. I’ve turned myself into a drunk, plain and simple. But I’m sober now. And I intend to stay that way. No matter what. And being sober means being honest.”

My heart wrenches. I close my eyes and stifle a sob, but it comes out anyway. My hand jumps to my mouth because I know now what Rob has known for years: our marriage is over; if it ever really existed in the first place.

“I’m gonna get cleaned up and go to a meeting,” he says. “Here’s the phone number where the meeting’s at. Call me as soon as you hear something.” He opens his wallet, retrieving a slip of paper from an inner pocket and drops it on the kitchen table. Then he turns on his heels and heads for the bathroom.