The Whore of Babylon, a Memoir - By Katrina Prado Page 0,4

nice girl. Don’t her parents have money?” I ask. I can’t help but feel that if Robyn associates with the upper crust, their good fortune will somehow rub off on my daughter.

“Besides, moving to California is a fresh start,” I begin. “You weren’t doing well in the schools in Aztec. They’re still in the twentieth century, for heaven’s sake,” I say, trying for a joke.

“But I was happy there,” she pleads.

“But you were failing.” I stop a moment and then continue. “And with Daddy out of a job, we didn’t have a whole lot of choice. Besides, we’re lucky he got this job. The whole economy is starting to get shaky right now.”

“I want my old life back,” she demands.

“I know, honey. But I’m just trying”

“Stop!” she screams, clenching her fists. The jangle of movement from her many bracelets underscores her plea. “Would you just stop trying?” she asks. “All of your trying is freaking choking me!” Her voice breaks.

She stomps away to her bedroom slamming her door so hard I feel the fillings in my teeth rattle in my head.

* * *

I check my watch. If I hurry, I can finish putting away the laundry before getting ready for work.

Robyn is in the bathroom, preening, cooling down from our fight earlier. I decide to put the laundry away for her. Clutching the plastic laundry basket, I stump into Robyn’s room, tsk-tsking under my breath. Why can’t she just get her chores done? I pluck out several pairs of her clean panties from among the washcloths and socks and yank open the top drawer to stuff them in. I shove the underwear into the drawer when the back of my hand knocks against something hard. I clear a space amongst the lingerie to find money, lots of it, held together by a rubber band.

“What are you doing?” Robyn’s voice sounds behind me, accusatory.

I spin around holding up the money.

“Where did you get all this?” I demand. I hold the wad of folded bills in my hand reminiscent, I imagine, of stashes exposed by DEA agents from nabbed drug lords.

“What were you doing in my room?” Robyn says, her voice dry and tight. She peers around, as if expecting to find that I’ve uprooted more of her things.

“I was trying to help you,” I say.

“By snooping through my drawers?” she asks incredulously. She is furious. She swipes at the wad of cash in my hand like an angry toddler. I yank back, retaining the money and frown deeply at her.

“I was not snooping. I thought I’d do you a favor and finish your clothes. I was only putting your whites away when I saw this in your top drawer.”

We stand confronting each other a second, as if neither one has read the script any further to know what the next move should be. I hold up the cash a second time.

“Where did you get this?” I ask again.

She leaps across the room, nearly falling on top of me and snatches the money out of my hand.

“It’s mine,” she says, recovering her balance.

“Where did you get it?”

“Doing odd jobs,” she says.

“What kind of odd jobs?” I ask.

“I don’t know,” she says. “Raking leaves and stuff.”

This is such a bald faced lie it takes me a moment to formulate a coherent response. If my prim and prissy daughter, with her high heels, painted nails, and long blond hair has earned three hundred dollars raking leaves, I am a yak.

“Oh Robyn,” I say, shaking my head. I don’t want her to go on, digging herself any deeper. “Just stop, okay? Tell me the truth. Where did you get all that money?”

“It’s none of your business.”

She turns her back on me and walks over to her dresser, shoving the cash into her purse. She swipes the brush from the dresser and begins savagely brushing her hair.

“I can’t believe you’d go through my things like that,” she says.

She throws the brush onto the bed.

“Robyn, I told you, I was putting your underwear away,” I say defensively.

She whips around, facing me.

“You liar!” she screams. Her face is flushed by anger.

“I’ve had it,” she says. “You’re hella whacked.” She scoops up her purse and then turns around. She doesn’t even look at me, instead, marches over to her closet where she grabs a lightweight sweater.

I huff out an elongated breath.

“I have a right to know what’s going on with my own child.”

“Yeah, right. See ya,” she says between clenched teeth as she drifts by. A cat’s paw breeze