The Whore of Babylon, a Memoir - By Katrina Prado Page 0,48
the heat of the day from my body.
I drop my purse to the floor and close the door behind me. The little pamphlet that Sister Margaret gave me the other day about praying the Rosary falls to the floor. I pick it up and fan through the pages. Inside are various pictures with titles like, “Second Sorrowful Mystery”, and “Fourth Glorious Mystery”. Though reading through the entire pamphlet seems daunting, I open to a single page of Christ holding bread out to his disciples gathered round him at the table. The title at the top of the page is “Fifth Luminous Mystery”. I begin reading the meditation below the picture when I am interrupted by the telephone. I stuff the booklet back into the folds of my purse and sprint to answer the phone.
“Hello?”
“Mrs. Skinner?” a male voice asks.
“Yes?”
“John Simpson here. From Peaceful Acres.”
His voice is taut with an unnerving disquiet. My heart flips in my chest.
“Yes?”
“I’m afraid I have some bad news.”
“What’s wrong?” Needles of fear prick my spine.
“Robyn was doing really well; we felt she was ready for a field trip to an NA meeting with the main group of young adults.”
“And?”
“It was all a ruse. She snuck out of the meeting, gave our administrator the slip, I’m afraid.”
My body is suddenly gelatin weak. “How can this have happened?” My voice has risen in volume and timber.
“Look, I’m very sorry, but like I said. We thought your daughter was really getting the program when it turns out all she really wanted to do was gain access to the outside world so she could escape. There’s no way we can foresee that kind of deception.”
I realize that any continued conversation will just turn into a pissing contest and so thank Mr. Simpson for his time and hang up the phone. Helplessness splatters through my body like spilled red wine on white carpet. I glance at my watch while simultaneously dialing Bart Strong’s number. I have no hope that he will pick up at this hour, but it doesn’t matter. He owes me a phone call anyway.
To my shock and satisfaction he picks up on the first ring.
“Bart Strong,” the familiar husky voice answers.
I explain what happened.
“BLU BOY must have found out where she was, and convinced her to leave the treatment center. He was probably waiting for her when she ran off.”
“Maybe,” he says. “Or maybe she just ran away on her own.”
“I’m going back to San Francisco tonight,” I say.
“Hold up a minute. You don’t even know if that’s where she is.”
“Right now it’s the only thing I have to go on. Maybe I can get someone in the Tenderloin to talk to me.”
“I wouldn’t count on it. Look, sit tight for a few minutes. I’m going make a couple of phone calls.”
I huff out an impatient breath and give my watch yet another glance: seven twenty.
“I’m leaving at eight,” I warn.
Hanging up the phone I immediately begin mobilizing various articles that I surmise might be useful for my foray into the dark San Francisco night. I stuff a flashlight, a pair of binoculars I picked up a month ago at an Army surplus store, my ubiquitous bottle of water, a sweater, and my Rolaids, just in case, into a small canvas bag.
I pace the living room, one eye on the portable phone on the coffee table, one eye on my watch, willing the minute hand to hasten its glacial sweep towards the twelve. With five minutes to go, I am suddenly startled to hear a knock on the front door.
I flip on the porch light and peer through the peephole. I twist the lock back and open the door.
“Freddie? What are you doing here?”
The man who helped Bart and I rescue Robyn stands before me; again, dressed all in black, his black moustache the most prominent thing about him.
“Got a call from Bart,” he explains.
The dark blue van is parked in front of the house.
“Let’s go,” he says.
He opens the passenger side door to the van and I get in, tossing my canvas bag onto the floor in front of me. He closes the door for me and heads for the driver’s side, but not before our eyes meet.
As he hops into the van, I peer out my window to see Mrs. Cotillo staring at us. This time she makes no effort to hide the fact that she is watching my movements. I want to smile, but I don’t. I turn my face away as Freddie pulls