The Whore of Babylon, a Memoir - By Katrina Prado Page 0,27

are you doing at home?”

“She wants to be picked up,” he says. “Come home. Let’s go get our daughter.”

The blaze searing my stomach is exceeded only by the summer heat of Pittsburg trapped inside the old Corsica. Beads of sweat blanket Rob’s forehead as he drives.

I steal a Rolaids from my purse and pop it into my mouth. Rob notices from the corner of his eye but doesn’t say anything. He rakes the back of his hand across his forehead and then glares at the dashboard. The air conditioner sprays out tricklets of lukewarm air. He angrily fidgets with the knob.

“Damn this thing!” he says finally. “Friggin’ thing’s broken,” he says, striking the dashboard with the meaty heel of his hand.

“Never mind that,” I say. “Let’s just get there. It’ll be cooler in the City.”

“Yeah,” he says under his breath.

The car accelerates as we fly along the Eastshore freeway, approaching the MacArthur Maze.

“Where did she say she was again?” I ask, glancing vacantly at the industrial wasteland of Oakland speeding past my window. Up ahead I see the Bay Bridge. I sit forward slightly in my seat; a futile effort at getting to Robyn more quickly.

“Some place called the Bread and Butter,” he replies. “She said it’s a restaurant slash supermarket thing.”

I nod. The Bread and Butter Market is across the street from the O’Farrell Theatre strip club, the same place that the police traced Robyn’s calls to Jenny. Anxiety stokes the already burning fire in the pit of my stomach. I pull another Rolaids from my purse.

“Those things aren’t candy, you know,” Rob says, keeping his eyes on the road.

I cross my arms in front of me.

“Let’s just get there,” I say.

Rob combs his fingers through his hair, pressing on the accelerator. The silence between us feels heavy, oppressive.

“Thompson at work said he saw the TV spot,” he says referring to yesterday’s airing of our home video taken of Robyn a little over a year ago by KTVU.”

“They should have aired more of the video,” I say.

“Criminy, can’t you just be happy it was aired?” he snaps.

“Please, Rob, let’s not get started.”

“I’m not starting anything . . . just pointing out that nothing is ever good enough for you.”

Alternating bands of sunlight and shadow bathe the car as we pass the steel cables of the Bay Bridge.

I swallow down my irritation at his comment.

“Just please don’t start nagging Robyn the minute you see her,” he says.

Flames of rage suddenly billow up my cheeks.

“Nag?” I spew out, incredulous. “What choice do I have? I feel like I’m all alone sometimes!”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“You know exactly what it means. You’re never home! And when you are home, it’s always ‘tell Robyn this’ or ‘tell Robyn that’; jees Rob, you could stand to do some disciplining once in a while too.”

Suddenly, an ambulance is screaming past us on my right. Irrationally, I think it must be heading for the same destination.

“I feel like a single mother sometimes, that’s all,” I say, resigned.

Rob grimaces; he huffs out a disgusted breath.

I close my eyes to a vague perception that I smell alcohol on his breath. Or do I? It doesn’t matter. I don’t want to think about that right now.

Rob shoots me an angry look. “You’re a piece of work, you know that? I work my ass off to provide for this family, and what are the thanks I get? Huh?” He jabs his palm into the air in my direction.

I close my eyes letting waves of anger wash over me.

“I work too,” I say. A silent, involuntary burp scorches my esophagus. I purse my lips; push my tongue back against my throat.

The Corsica feels as if it’s careening out of control along Highway 80 towards the James Lick Skyway.

“That’s right, I forgot,” he says in a sarcastic voice. “You’re the only martyr allowed in this family.

“Take Bryant,” I reply, ignoring his taunt. “We can take Seventh Street all the way up to Leavenworth. “O’Farrell’s a one-way so you’ll only be able to turn right.”

I roll my window down halfway as Rob maneuvers the car along Seventh, past Market Street and onto Leavenworth. A froth of chilly San Francisco air chuffs into the car. I inhale deeply, as if the cold air will quash the blistering fire gurging in my abdomen.

“Here’s O’Farrell,” I say.

My eyes scan every female I see walking the sidewalk or sitting at bus stops along the way, hoping against fruitless hope that I might see my beloved daughter.