The Whore of Babylon, A Memoir

by Katrina Prado

  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.

  “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.

  October 29, 2002

  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.

  “Rob, no. We don’t know for sure who ‘Mrs. C’ is. What if it isn’t Mrs. Cotillo?”

  Rob snorts. “Screw that!” He bats the air with his hand, banishing my concern. “Mrs. C? On Mildred Avenue? How many Mrs. C’s do you think live on Mildred Avenue, next door to a teenage girl?”

  Rob stomps towards the front door.

  “Rob, no. Please,” I say following behind him. “What possible good will this do?”

  But he ignores me, slamming the door as he leaves the house.

  The telephone rings. I traipse back to the kitchen soughing out a disgusted breath. I lift the receiver.

  “Hello?”

  “She came back to me, bitch.”

  It is BLU BOY. I bristle against the rasp of his voice.

  “What?” I say, incredulous.

  “She es mine, now.” He laughs a menacing growl.

  My heart tumbles in my chest, my palms are instantly sticky with sweat. Inside my head I am screaming at this evil man, but nothing comes out of my mouth.

  “Jou hear me? She es mine!” He laughs again, this time a hearty, bellicose guffaw.

  And suddenly, rage born from the beginning of time explodes inside of me. I feel capable of reaching through the telephone and killing this beast.

  “No!” I shout. “Do you hear me? No!”

  BLU BOY only laughs again in response.

  “Now jou listen to me, bitch.”

  In the background I hear the forlorn wail of a cat. Pickles. Her cry is interrupted by firing of a gun. Then, silence.

  I sit in shock a moment, trying to comprehend what this monster has just done. My eyes flood with tears and a white hot rage explodes in my heart. If he can be that callused with a cat what on earth is he capable of with a fifteen year old little girl.

  “I will kill you.” It is out of my mouth before I realize it.

  “Jou can’ kill me. Jou don’ even know me. Jou don’-”

  I hang up the phone. I hear my words echo: I will kill you. They repose in my heart like a talisman.

  November 1, 2002

  “I still think you look lousy.”

  “I fee
l fine,” I say.

  Holding the printed flyer against the lamppost with one hand, I yank off a stretch of wide blue painter’s tape from a roll, tearing it free with my teeth. I adhere the top of the flyer to the lamppost and then repeat the process with the bottom of the flyer. I stand back a moment to admire my handiwork. The flyer features a 5 X 7 photograph of Antonio Peña’s mug shot the last time he was arrested a little less than a year ago. In it, he is not the pseudo-handsome, swarthy young man in a smart three piece suit sitting in his aqua BMW, the way I first saw him just three short months ago. The photograph reveals bloodshot eyes and disarranged hair, which gives him a faintly clownish look. Below the photo is information linking Peña with Robyn and offering a reward for anyone who can provide me with a bonafide tip leading me to my daughter, along with a telephone number: my newly acquired cell phone.

  From the doorway of the Maryland Market the clerk tosses me a doubtful look. I ignore her and cross Turk Street. Sister Margaret dutifully follows behind me with an armful of flyers. Another corner market, another lamppost.

  “If you feel so fine, why are you still popping Rolaids like they were candy?” Sister Margaret inquires.

  I give her a pointed look. “Nerves,” I reply.

  “Think a visit to the doctor surely wouldn’t hurt,” she says. “From the standpoint of…” her voice trails off.

  I stretch out my palm in her direction as I swallow down the smoldering burn in my stomach. “Flyer,” is all I say.

  She peels a copy from her stack and hands it over saying, “Speaking of, how on earth did you manage to get BLU BOY’s mug shot?” she asks.

  “Bart Strong, the P.I. I hired back in August.”

  Sister Margaret raises her eyebrows but says nothing.

  “Technically, mug shots are public domain, but they can be hard to get. Bart has friends in high places,” I say and smile.

  Sister Margaret’s face is pensive.

  “You should be careful,” she says.