The Whore of Babylon, A Memoir

by Katrina Prado

  I long to skip all the formalities, and simply rush to him, grabbing him by the lapels of his corduroy jacket, shaking loose the information I need. Instead, I swallow my anxieties and smile, holding out my hand as I approach his desk and introduce myself.

  “We missed our Robyn today,” Mr. Thornton says as he shakes my hand.

  His palm is clammy to the touch and his fingers feel limp against my own reminding me of string cheese that has set out too long.

  “I was wondering if you could help me,” I say, deciding to get right to the point.

  “My daughter has mentioned a girl by the name of Krista several times,” I begin, a lie forming in my mind as a talk. “I’m having a surprise birthday party for Robyn and Krista is the one friend of hers that I seem to have lost what information I had on her. You wouldn’t happen to have a last name and a phone number?” I ask, giving him a helpful smile.

  “Is everything okay?” he asks.

  I can’t go into it with Mr. Thornton.

  “Everything’s fine,” I say. I force a brightness into my voice. “About Krista?” I finish.

  He frowns deeply, creating an auburn-colored unibrow and looks upwards scanning the surface of the ceiling a few moments. I find myself wondering if this man is on Quaaludes.

  After what seems an eternity his eyes find my own and he cants his head a little.

  “Well, Krista’s last name is Jefferson, but I don’t believe that I have her telephone number. You might try the office,” he suggests.

  I plaster a smile on my face and thank him for his time. Before I go I ask, “By the way, was Krista in class today?”

  The unibrow breaks into two half crescent caterpillars. He adjusts his glasses, and I can see his cheek moving; his tongue working over his back teeth.

  “Why, yes, I believe we did have the pleasure of her company this morning.” He smiles and folds his arms. “We were all about quadratic equations, and whether or not, ‘x’ equals the square root of-”

  “Thank you very much,” I say, interrupting him.

  I find the school office and try my ruse with the secretary, a pudgy, dour-faced woman with a permanent frown ironed to her chubby face, but it’s no use. I’m sure they’ve heard every excuse in the book. I am turned away with a polite but firm refusal to give out any information on any student. What. So. Ever.

  I drive all over town, scouring the East County mall in Antioch, slipping into and out of its stores, hoping against hope I might find my daughter, playing hooky, skipping school to spend the day shopping and goofing off. No luck. Brendan Theaters in Pittsburg yields the same results.

  It is now after five o’clock in the evening. The first thing I do upon my arrival is to check the answering machine for any messages from Robyn. But there is only a series of increasingly desperate messages from Carmelita as to my whereabouts.

  I sit in the same kitchen chair I sat in this morning. Involuntarily, my hand reaches for the back of my neck, sponging the sweat from my skin. The house feels nearly ninety degrees but I refuse to turn on the air conditioner. The fading sun glares at me through the kitchen window, the sheer curtain worse than useless for the overpowering heat that radiates into the room. The freeway noises from Highway 4 throb against the quiet and I imagine I can smell the exhaust even though all my windows are closed. I have called and left messages for Rob but he hasn’t called me back yet. My chest is tight with exasperation. In three hours it will begin to get dark. My daughter is out there somewhere in the world. And I don’t have the slightest idea where to find her.

  I debate with myself in my head. Am I being overly concerned? Too laid back? What to do next? Lurking in the back of my mind is the thought of calling the police. If I do call the police, I am admitting something. I am escalating this drama that is ticking on with each sweep of the second hand. Has she been kidnapped? Has she run away? And where the hell is Rob? I know the dispatch operator at Tasco transfers messages when they get them if it’s a family emergency. Why is he not calling me back?

  I stump my elbows onto the table covering the bottom half of my face with my hands. I close my eyes to think. Something in my mind detonates. This moment in time is the turning point of everything that is to come. What if I do nothing? What might happen if I don’t call the police? My eyes fly open against a series of nightmarish images.

  I rise and go to the phone and dial 9-1-1.

  ***

  Two policemen stand in front of me. Surrounding them, like an aura, is the scrupulous scent of duty; their posture erect to the point of looking painful. The one asking all the questions is older, with graying sideburns and chapped lips. His cheeks glow with a robust effervescence, as if he has just returned from a ski trip. His thumbs are hooked into the waistband of his polyester pants, among a cornucopia of law enforcement gadgets, the most obvious being the gun; very black and very large, it seems to me. The faint smell of leather from their belts reminds me somehow of my father.

  “Has your daughter ever not shown up at night before?” He frowns.

  I clear my throat.

  “Well, sometimes Robyn stays at her friend Jenny’s house,” I say. “But I’ve already called there looking for her.”

  The younger officer, not looking up to meet my eyes lets out a sigh.

  “Several times.” I add, tucking stringy wisps of dirty hair behind my ears.

  The older officer exchanges a glance with his younger partner who writes onto a form attached to his clipboard. I can imagine the thoughts that are darting through their minds. The wayward daughter; the absent, non-involved mother. A wave of guilt blooms red across my cheeks. I look down and see the flecks of food and dirt on my old sweat pants. I must look like a mess. I prop up one arm in front of me, one hand in front of my mouth, wishing I’d brushed my teeth before they got here.

  “You have to understand,” I begin. “It’s not like my daughter to be gone this long. She always calls or comes home.” I bite my lip to stop myself.

  The older officer nods, pursing his lips. He’s heard this all before, I am sure. His partner, the younger man continues scribbling notes. He hasn’t once met my gaze. I wonder what he is thinking.

  “Any other friends she could be with?” His brow knits.

  In fact, he frowns every time he finishes asking me a question.

  “I’ve called everyone that I know,” thinking of my earlier endeavor of having called twenty-two out of the thirty-four Jefferson’s listed in the Contra Costa County phone directory before finally finding Krista Jefferson’s house. She said she hadn’t seen Robyn in over a day and had no idea where she might be. “But no one’s seen her,” I finish. My hand travels to my throat. The skin on my neck feels parched, like onion paper.

  “Did you two have a fight?” The older officer asks, his voice is noticeably droopier, all Father Knows Best. He frowns.

  I look down. Pickles is busy making figure eights between the older officer’s legs.

  “No.” My eyes seem to involuntarily fill. I look up. “Well, yes, sort of. But we seem to fight a lot lately.” I swallow my tears, willing myself to stop crying.

  I watch the younger officer’s nostrils flare as he breathes in. I want him to look at me. I think that if only he would see this anguish that is crushing the breath out of me, he would understand.

  “I found some money,” I say; it’s almost a whisper.

  This provokes the young policeman’s eyes up from his clipboard.

  “A little over three hundred dollars.”

  “Does your daughter have a job?”

  I shake my head.

  “Does she use?”

  “Use?”

  “Drugs, Mrs. Skinner. Does your daughter use drugs?”

  My hands have found the armrest of the couch behind me. The fabric is scratchy to the touch from where Pickles has sharpened her claws. I back away from these men and sit in order to steady myself.

  I must look as if I’ve just been slapped because the older cop’s face sof
tens.

  “I’m not accusing anybody of anything. It’s just when teenagers have that kind of money lying around it could mean they’re dealing in order to support their habit.”

  I search my mind for any evidence that Robyn might have started recreational drug use, but I can’t think of a single instance where I either smelled anything on her or suspected as much.

  “I don’t think so,” I cede.

  There seems to be so much about Robyn that I do not know. My eyes travel back down to the floor. Flakes of lint and dirt swimming the surface of the carpet remind me that I can’t remember the last time I vacuumed. Why on earth would I worry about my carpet when my daughter is missing? I shove the thought from my head. I swallow down the acid burn that flickers in my stomach, wishing momentarily, that I had a Rolaid.

  “You mind if we take a look around?”

  I blanch inwardly at the request, but can’t make myself refuse. What if they find something I missed? Some telltale sign that might lead them to answer the riddle about where Robyn went that might help them find her?

  “Sure,” I say, and lead them to her room.

  “Anything missing?” The younger officer asks.

  “Maybe some clothes,” I say, “I’m not really sure,” I add almost beneath my breath.

  “Her purse here?”

  “No.” I say.

  I wince as they walk into Robyn’s bedroom. Traces of her sweet smell are soon obliterated by the sterile odor from their uniforms; probably chemicals from the cleaners. Their boots are heavy and thick on the carpet. Her room is just as I left it; in a shambles. I have the sudden thought that the state her room is in is in some way a representation of our life. Chaotic, messy, undisciplined.

  Their presence in Robyn’s room seems somehow obscene to me as they mull about, pawing through her drawers, peeping beneath her bed, slipping meaty hands between box spring and mattress. In the middle of their search I hear the front door. The officers look up at me as I bound from the room.

  But it is only Rob.

  “What the hell’s going on?” he asks.

  “Robyn’s still gone,” I say. I give him a rundown of events to this point as I lead him to where the police are finishing up their search of Robyn’s room.

  The older cop is talking to us in measured tones. All about how Robyn will probably show up in a day or two, after she cools down. How kids this age can be impetuous, hasty.

  “So, like I said Mrs. Skinner, we’ll put out a runaway bulletin. It’s local, but if anyone outside Coco County runs her name they’ll see our bulletin and give us a call. Since her purse is gone and maybe some clothes, she probably just took off. Here’s my card. Feel free to call me if you remember anything more or if she turns up back at home.” He thrusts his card into my hand and gives me a wink.

  The young cop has stopped taking notes and is sliding his pen into his front shirt pocket. His thumb hikes to a thin, dark eyebrow and he scratches absently, eyes blank, his mind already far away.

  “But isn’t there anything you could do?” I ask.

  “In the case of a child that’s been kidnapped the F.B.I. would be called.”

  “But maybe she was kidnapped,” I argue.

  “From what you’ve told us, I think it’s much more likely she’s just angry and is hiding out at a friend’s house for a couple of days.”

  He gives me a patronizing smile and pats me on the shoulder like he would the family cocker spaniel. “I wouldn’t worry too much, ma’am. I’m sure your daughter will be home before the weekend.”

  “He’s probably right,” Rob says, staring at the front door after the cops leave.

  I walk up behind him, slip my arms around his torso and lean my cheek against his back, breathing him in. He smells of sweat and cigarette smoke. My hands move upwards, finding his chest. Pressing him to me, the flesh of his chest feels soft, flaccid.

  “Oh God,” I whisper and begin to cry.

  Rob turns around. I can see that his jaw is tight. He’s gritting his teeth, damming up his emotion.

  “Don’t worry,” he says. “She’ll be home soon.”

  I nod but can’t talk as I swallow down the acrid bite of fear fiercely roiling in the pit of my stomach.

  Beneath the tenor of his voice I hear an unmistakable note of doubt.

  August 22, 2002

  It is four-ten in the morning.

  A week has elapsed. I can scarcely believe that seven days and seven nights have come and gone with no word or sight of Robyn. I’m amazed that the world continues grimly on; Rob and I have gone to work, managed to eat food, taken showers. Each day feels surreal, has become its own miniature horror to be endured, like an out of control amusement park ride skidding towards destruction.

  Sleep eludes me most nights. I brush my teeth and don an old nightgown as if everything were normal. I fold myself into my bed, enveloping myself in the familiar smell of nylon and cotton. Tucking myself between old, too-warm sheets I maybe glance at my nails; perhaps pick up the emery board that sits on my nightstand to file an errant fingernail. But before the job is done, tears cloud my eyes and I stop. I lie down, eyes burning, the familiar heavy-handed grip of fatigue holding me firmly in its grasp; and I will the telephone to ring. I stare at the ceiling and think about praying, and maybe my lips move discreetly, air from words that feel empty and meaningless dribbles out as a small and stubborn hope dares challenge a gauntlet of despair. Where is my daughter?

  I am watching Rob as he sleeps. His dark eyebrows are soft, his mouth slack, lips slightly parted. Robyn was born with his eyebrows. I remember her coming out with fierce, darks tufts of hair above her luminescent dark eyes; she reminded me of Groucho Marks. As she grew into a toddler they lightened up a little bit. But other mothers at playgrounds always commented on Robyn’s Brooke Shields eyes.

  When we were first married, I used to always love watching Rob sleep. Secretly, I used to let my fingers steal across the smooth bands of hair as he slept, amazed at how soft eyebrows could feel. I used to think of Rob’s sleeping face as a perfect replica of one, perfect man at peace. But now I see different things in that calm, undisturbed face. A word, ‘failure’, flashes into my mind. I jerk my head away from him in a quick, violent motion, shaking that word from my mind.

  I throw back the covers, and slip to the window. The carpet is cool against my feet even though it will be another hot day. From the bathroom, the steady plink of the leaky sink faucet marks the passage of time. I draw back the curtain and gaze out through the glass.

  Somewhere out there, beneath this same slate blue-black sky is Robyn. Is she asleep? Safe? My stomach churns with a heavy sickness contemplating the alternatives. I rest my hand against the windowpane, as if this action might somehow allow me to communicate my love to my daughter.

  Yesterday I had finally managed to get one local television station interested in our plight. A scraggly cameraman and a field reporter from a local channel, both of whom stank of cigarette smoke, came out and interviewed Rob and I. I was calm and did my best to speak in a slow, still voice. With clammy hands we held the eight by ten of Robyn’s freshman picture along with our phone number in twenty-six-point courier font in front of the cold, uncaring lens and were promised a spot on the six o’clock news. But due to a head-on collision that killed six on the Bay Bridge, Robyn’s story was relegated to little more than a flash of her picture on the screen after the sports highlights. Nearly the entire interview had been deleted.

  Still, hope clings to me like an orphan. Her picture is out there now. Though I’d made up flyers days ago and stapled them to every telephone pole I could find in the greater East County area, I feel that having the television exposure, however brief, is a step in the right direction. I went to bed last night with the unreasonable expectation that Robyn would see herself on TV and come right home.

  Suddenly, the telephone rings. I leap to the dresser, snatching up the receiver.

  “Hello?” I say, breathless. I look at th
e clock on my nightstand: four forty-five.

  “Your daughter is dead. I cut her.” The voice is gruff and full of hate. “Did you hear me? I cut the bitch-”

  I slam the receiver down. The raw and sour taste of bile rises in my throat. Rob stirs.

  “Who was that?” he asks.

  “Another crank call,” I say.

  The reporter warned us that this would happen. He said there were lots of sick people out there who enjoy it when others suffer.

  I walk back to the window fighting the sting of tears, my back to Rob.

  “I want to hire a private investigator,” I say.

  I hear the swish and flutter of blanket and sheet.

  “How much will that cost?” Rob asks as he makes his way to the bathroom.

  “What difference does it make?” I respond.

  The plash of urine against water followed by the flush of the toilet obfuscates my question. Rob tramps back into the bedroom, pads across the room, directly behind me.

  “We don’t have any money,” he says sadly.

  Though we are not touching, I can smell his familiar odor: stale sweat and morning breath.

  “We’ve got two thousand dollars in savings,” I say. “And we could probably get an advance on the MasterCard.”

  “Isn’t that card maxed out?” he asks. He runs his hand through his hair. “Besides, what’s a PI gonna do that the cops aren’t already doing?” he asks.

  His hand snakes round my shoulder. I lean my head against his chest, tears filling my eyes yet again, stopping for the moment, the constant burn of exhaustion. The bitter tang of salt coats my tongue.

  “I don’t know,” I say. My voice is so high it is nearly a squeak. “But we have to do something.”

  His other hand his on my head now, fingers gently and tenderly massaging my scalp.

  “She’s probably staying at a friend’s house,” he says.