The Whore of Babylon, a Memoir - By Katrina Prado Page 0,53
on Gladys’ tone of voice. I sigh. I’m tired of lying to my mother; tired of dancing this tango of fiction, hiding behind this wall of illusion I have created about Robyn.
I move to the counter and make some coffee hoping the caffeine will clear my head. As I wait for the coffee maker to finish its distillation I pop a Rolaids, aware of an inner gnash of pain from deep in my gut. From the junk drawer I extract a small spiral notepad of paper and a pen. I sit down at the kitchen table and try to begin writing:
Dear Mama,
I haven’t been exactly truthful. There are some things that I need to.
I rip the page out of the notebook and wad it up into a ball, tossing it to the far side of the table. I try again.
Dear Mama,
I have some things that I need to tell you. Very important things. I had hoped to get back to New Mexico to see you, but so much has happened here, that I
I rip that page out of the notebook as well, mashing it into another misshapen ball and roll it next to its neighbor. ‘So much has happened’ being a euphemism for my daughter running away to walk the streets, and our entire family being terrorized by her pimp, and beginning its slow, agonizing disintegration.
I pour myself half a cup of coffee, in deep thought about what my next move to get Robyn back home will be. I drink the hot, black brew and burn my tongue.
“Ah!” I plunk the cup down.
There is only one place that I want to be; one place that holds my soul hostage; it is the place where I might find my beloved daughter. I pick up the phone.
“Sister Margaret?” I ask the voice that answers at the Sisters of the Presentation convent telephone.
“One moment, please.”
Half a beat later I hear Sister Margaret’s voice, her faint Scottish brogue still evident.
“It’s Margot,” I say. “Are you going to go feed the girls?”
I feel I can almost hear Sister Margaret smile in the quick silence that is between us.
“God willing and the creek don’t rise,” she says and then laughs.
“I’ll meet you at the convent,” I say.
It is just after four in the afternoon when I turn the corner onto my street from my adventures in the City with Sister Margaret. She gave my face with its gash over my right eye a long look but said nothing. I alluded to a confrontation with a closet door but she only pursed her lips and told me to help her with the cooler full of bottled waters. Girls came and went, most of whom I’d never seen before. One or two looked vaguely familiar. But of course no one had seen Robyn, though I showed her picture to everyone whether they showed interest or not. Before dropping me back off at my car, Sister Margaret and I sat together in the beat up old truck as she led me in one decade of the Rosary. The calming, nearly hypnotic force of our voices praying the Rosary inside the cab against the juxtaposition of madness outside the pickup created a palisade against the dross of the city.
As I edge the old Corsica towards the house, I see Freddie’s large blue van parked on the street. He is standing on the curb, leaning against the passenger side door of the van reading a newspaper. I park in the driveway and get out of the car.
“Hi,” I say, unsure why he is here.
I glance at the windows of the house; Rob must still be gone.
He nods once acknowledging me.
“You ready?” he asks.
“Ready?”
“Grab the Colt; told you I’d teach you how to use it. Sooner the better.”
“Oh.” It is then I catch sight of Mrs. Cotillo staring out at us, arms crossed against her chest.
“Unless now isn’t good.”
I look down at my watch. My body yearns for a long nap, but it’s good to see Freddie again. I can talk to him in a way that I can’t with Rob.
“Where does one shoot a gun in the middle of a city?” I ask, walking over to the van.
“Martinez gun club.”
I nod.
“Where’s the Colt?” he asks.
I pat the side of my purse. He smiles and opens the van door.
Freddie drives the speed limit, north on 680 taking the Marina Vista exit. The day has been overcast, even out here in Contra Costa County, the air is knitted by filaments of the winter