The Whore of Babylon, a Memoir - By Katrina Prado Page 0,42

off. Carmelita was so grateful that the situation with Robyn had been solved that she readily agreed if it meant getting me back to a semi normal schedule.

I smile inwardly as I open the cabinet beneath the kitchen sink and retrieve the Comet and sponge. It seems indescribably splendid to be thinking about school again. Already my mind is beyond the two years I’ll be at Los Medanos and is plotting how I’ll manage getting to classes at the UC extension in Concord. By that time Robyn will be college-aged herself. Perhaps the two of us will go to school together; trading silly commentaries on our professors, sharing notes as we sit in the cafeteria, books and papers sprawled over a table, as we linger over café mochas and decadent cinnamon rolls.

Earlier, I dusted and vacuumed the entire house, taking special care in Robyn’s room, having arranged everything just so. Yesterday I bought and hung new curtains with a matching comforter and pillow shams, all in a lovely pink with lavender and green colored sweet peas. I am hoping that when she returns and sees her room so perfect, so welcoming, she might realize how much she is loved.

As I cross the living room making my way to the bathroom, I glance at the living room window; the curtains are parted slightly, permitting streaks of morning sunlight into the house. I imagine that the days must be growing cooler, disregarding the sweat that covers my body like a wetsuit.

I soak the sponge beneath a rush of cold water in the bathroom sink and shake the green powder across the top of the wet sponge. The tang of the disinfectant coils through the air, giving me a feeling of deliverance from the past two months of hell. I scrub the porcelain to a bright shine and then start in on the silver spigot. This ritual, this ablution, is a comfort. It is a reminder that everything can be made right if only enough rigorous effort is exerted.

As I finish scouring the bathroom sink I think of Rob. He’s been gone two weeks, has called and left several messages, but we haven’t yet talked. In truth, I don’t know what I want to say to him. Most of me misses him terribly. Beyond that I haven’t allowed myself to give any thought.

I am midway through sluicing water along the walls of the bathtub to remove the last of the cleaner when the telephone rings. I mutter to myself as I peel off the yellow rubber gloves and sprint for the phone. The remote is in its stand in the kitchen, right next to the caller ID display. I know there are two messages left by my mother, and until now, I’d managed to forget about the need to return her call. ‘Unknown caller’ shows on the readout. I know from previous phone calls that it isn’t John Simpson from Peaceful Acres. I think momentarily of letting the answering machine pick it up, but then think better of that decision and grab the phone, depressing the ‘talk’ button.

“Hello?”

Silence.

“Hello?” I say again.

“Es no finish, señora.”

My heart is suddenly a staccato of gunfire in my chest. I will never forget that voice. It is BLU BOY.

“You will never see Robyn again!” I yell into the phone. “Do you hear me?”

I hear laughter, the sound of evil incarnate.

“No puede hacer nada.” He laughs again and then his voice is a thin whisper: “she es mine.”

“You will never ever touch her again. Never!” I scream. I click the ‘end’ button and drop the phone. It clatters to the counter. My body is shaking with rage. The phone begins ringing again. ‘Unknown caller’.

I let it ring but the caller hangs up when it comes time to leave a message. I pull out a chair from the kitchen table aware that my legs feel like wet ribbon. How did BLU BOY get this number? I can’t believe that Robyn would have given this monster her home number. Maybe Chevy knew and BLU BOY beat it out of her. If he knows the phone number, maybe he knows the address too. A feather of dread whispers down my back.

I stand suddenly and lurch for the front door, twisting the lock with all the force my hand can muster. I am on the couch now, peering surreptitiously from behind the drapes, looking for the telltale BMW. But all I can see is my neighbor, Mrs. Cotillo, watering the dogwood hedge that