“How often do you do this?” I ask, as we enter a lull.
“Five days a week.”
“Is it the same group of girls?”
Sister Margaret shakes her head. “Different every day.”
“Where are their parents?” I ask.
“Most of these girls’ parents are either addicts or prostitutes themselves, or worse.”
“Worse? What could be worse than that?”
“Remember Yolanda? Her mother actually sold Yolanda to johns when she turned eleven in order to support her crack habit. She was placed in the foster care system and shuttled from one home to the next for two years. She ran away from the last house because they beat her. She’s thirteen.”
A car alarm screeches a block away.
“The ones that do come from decent homes a lot of times are just too embarrassed to go back home.”
“Don’t you try to get them off the street?”
“You think I’m doing this for my health?” says Sister Margaret jerking a thumb in the direction of the coolers.
“The convent I belong to, The Sisters of the Presentation was founded by a nun whose dream was to establish a safe haven for child prostitutes; boys and girls.
The goal is to get them to stop tricking and into the youth center. But you have to establish trust. That takes time. And that’s something that none of these girls have a lot of.” Sister Margaret squares her jaw and looks away from me.
In the distance, three more girls amble towards us. Sister Margaret seems to give one of them in particular a familiar grin.
“See that one there? The one in the black stockings?”
I nod as they approach.
“That’s Chevy. That girl’s got more troubles than Carter’s got pills. Her mother was a prostitute and both of them lived on the streets. I don’t think she ever did one thing for Chevy. She died of a drug overdose two years ago. Chevy was left to either stay with her mom’s abusive on and off boyfriend or fend for herself. She’s sixteen now. She tends to mother the younger ones.”
“Morning, Sister,” Chevy says as she approaches.
“How you doing today?” Sister Margaret says to the girls, giving each of them a sandwich.
Chevy tucks her long, black hair behind her ears and then attacks her sandwich.
“Pretty good,” she says between mouthfuls. “This here is Bambi,” Chevy says of the girl on her left, “and this is Destiny,” pointing to the young girl on her right.
“Nice to meet both of you,” says Sister Margaret.
Bambi and Destiny murmur nearly inaudible greetings.
“This is Margot,” Sister Margaret says with a toss of her head in my direction as she shows Robyn’s pictures to the three girls. “And this is Robyn.”
“Any of you seen her?”
Bambi and Destiny barely look at the photo. But Chevy’s large black doe eyes consider Robyn’s picture for several seconds. It is then that I see it. A flicker of recognition skims across Chevy’s face. I’m certain of it. I step forward and seize Chevy’s arm.
“Please,” I say. “Do you know where my daughter is?”
Chevy wrenches free, giving me a scowl.
“Hey!”
“It’s okay, Chevy. Margot’s just worried about her daughter, that’s all,” says Sister Margaret.
I grab a bottle of water and offer it to Chevy. “I want to help you,” I say. “Will you help me?”
Chevy considers me a moment before relieving me of the bottled water.
“Yeah, maybe I seen her around. Maybe.”
“Just let her know her mom is worried about her, that’s all,” says Sister Margaret.
“Yeah, whatever,” says Chevy. She bats her eyelashes at us and turns on her heels. “Come on, let’s go,” she says to her companions. As the girls leave, Chevy gives me a backward glance, meeting my gaze and then nods her head once, as if acknowledging there is some sort of a connection between us.
Desire propels me forward, but Sister Margaret’s firm grip stops me.
“You cannot go where they’re going.”
Arrested, I blink away the tears. “I want my daughter.”
Sister Margaret steps between me and the three retreating girls, looking up at me with those ebullient gray eyes. She smiles.
“Tell me dear, don’t you have any faith?”
September 2, 2002
“Look, I’m not trying to be a bitch here, but the Labor Day weekend is coming up and we’re still waiting on your final accounts payable reports so we can finish the July financials,” Carmelita says, frowning as she talks. She leans forward, hands folded tightly in front of her, elbows planted firmly on her desk regarding me a moment.
I stare down at the dregs of coffee in my cup, which rests in my lap. The foment in the pit of my stomach could momentarily be staunched if only I took a sip, but I can’t.
“This isn’t like you, Margot. You’ve always been such a super achiever. Connie in Accounts Receivable says you even dropped out of the advanced Excel class you were taking at Los Medanos. I know you want to get out of doing just A/P work and I’d like to bump you up to assistant bookkeeper, but you don’t show up for work. You don’t return my phone calls.”
It’s only eleven twenty in the morning but I attempt to picture myself on my lunch hour, gazing contentedly at the magazine rack at Long’s, letting my mind meander across outrageous headlines of the glossy covers, but I can’t do that either. A single tear falls from my cheek.
“Robyn has run away,” I say, scraping the tear from my face. There. I’ve said it. Acknowledged it publicly to my outside world. At once it feels terrifying.
Carmelita’s jaw drops. Her perfectly manicured eyebrows rise in shock. I relate the abbreviated version of events to her, keeping as much emotion out of my voice as I can.
“The National Center for Missing and Exploited Children has faxed her picture to police all over the country. Also to airports and bus stations.”
“My God, Margot, I had no idea.” Carmelita sits back in her chair. Her hands fall to her lap and her shoulders drop. “Is there anything I can-we can do from here?”
I shake my head. I share the suspicion that Robyn might be living somewhere in San Francisco, but omit the notion that she might be prostituting herself, or worse, being pimped out by BLU BOY.
“Since she’s still considered a runaway, the F.B.I.’s CASKU unit won’t get involved.”
“CASKU?”
“Child Abduction and Serial Killer Unit,” I say in a barely audible tone.
“My God,” Carmelita’s hand rises involuntarily to her mouth. She looks as if she will be sick. Her eyes dart from me to the framed picture of her son and daughter at the corner of her desk.
“Everybody’s been interviewed. Teachers, her friends at school. Jenny’s been called into the police station twice, but the only thing she’s repeatedly stated is that she got a phone call from Robyn telling her that she’s okay and living in San Francisco.”
I close my eyes, letting the fingers of one hand press against the flames battering my gut. In my mind’s eye I picture the foil wrapper of the Rolaids I left on the desk in my office.
“The police checked something called the LUDS on Jenny’s phone in order to find the origination of Robyn’s call. They traced it to a payphone on O’Farrell Street.” I skip the part about the pay phone being located inside the O’Fallell Theatre, which features live strip shows.
Carmelita begins gathering the sheaf of papers on her desk, as if she were brushing a pile of leaves together.
“Don’t worry about this,” she says of the reports. “Connie can fill in for you and get these-”
Just then, Belinda, the secretary pokes her head in the door.
“Sorry to interrupt,” she says to Carmelita and then angles her gaze towards me.
“Your husband Rob’s on the phone. He says it’s urgent.”
I stand up before I remember the cold cup of coffee in my lap. It plashes to
the carpet, making mottled, toothy stains. I snatch up the receiver of Carmelita’s phone and jab the flashing button.
“Rob?”
“She called!” he says. The hope in his voice makes my heart nearly lurch from my chest.
“Where are you?”
“At home,” he says.
My mind refuses to understand the sequence of events. It’s eleven-thirty on a Thursday morning. How can Rob be home? How can Robyn have called him and not me?
“What are you doing at home?”
“She wants to be picked up,” he says. “Come home. Let’s go get our daughter.”
The blaze searing my stomach is exceeded only by the summer heat of Pittsburg trapped inside the old Corsica. Beads of sweat blanket Rob’s forehead as he drives.
I steal a Rolaids from my purse and pop it into my mouth. Rob notices from the corner of his eye but doesn’t say anything. He rakes the back of his hand across his forehead and then glares at the dashboard. The air conditioner sprays out tricklets of lukewarm air. He angrily fidgets with the knob.
“Damn this thing!” he says finally. “Friggin’ thing’s broken,” he says, striking the dashboard with the meaty heel of his hand.
“Never mind that,” I say. “Let’s just get there. It’ll be cooler in the City.”
“Yeah,” he says under his breath.
The car accelerates as we fly along the Eastshore freeway, approaching the MacArthur Maze.
“Where did she say she was again?” I ask, glancing vacantly at the industrial wasteland of Oakland speeding past my window. Up ahead I see the Bay Bridge. I sit forward slightly in my seat; a futile effort at getting to Robyn more quickly.
“Some place called the Bread and Butter,” he replies. “She said it’s a restaurant slash supermarket thing.”
I nod. The Bread and Butter Market is across the street from the O’Farrell Theatre strip club, the same place that the police traced Robyn’s calls to Jenny. Anxiety stokes the already burning fire in the pit of my stomach. I pull another Rolaids from my purse.
“Those things aren’t candy, you know,” Rob says, keeping his eyes on the road.
I cross my arms in front of me.
“Let’s just get there,” I say.
Rob combs his fingers through his hair, pressing on the accelerator. The silence between us feels heavy, oppressive.
“Thompson at work said he saw the TV spot,” he says referring to yesterday’s airing of our home video taken of Robyn a little over a year ago by KTVU.”
“They should have aired more of the video,” I say.
“Criminy, can’t you just be happy it was aired?” he snaps.
“Please, Rob, let’s not get started.”
“I’m not starting anything… just pointing out that nothing is ever good enough for you.”
Alternating bands of sunlight and shadow bathe the car as we pass the steel cables of the Bay Bridge.
I swallow down my irritation at his comment.
“Just please don’t start nagging Robyn the minute you see her,” he says.
Flames of rage suddenly billow up my cheeks.
“Nag?” I spew out, incredulous. “What choice do I have? I feel like I’m all alone sometimes!”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“You know exactly what it means. You’re never home! And when you are home, it’s always ‘tell Robyn this’ or ‘tell Robyn that’; jees Rob, you could stand to do some disciplining once in a while too.”
Suddenly, an ambulance is screaming past us on my right. Irrationally, I think it must be heading for the same destination.
“I feel like a single mother sometimes, that’s all,” I say, resigned.
Rob grimaces; he huffs out a disgusted breath.
I close my eyes to a vague perception that I smell alcohol on his breath. Or do I? It doesn’t matter. I don’t want to think about that right now.
Rob shoots me an angry look. “You’re a piece of work, you know that? I work my ass off to provide for this family, and what are the thanks I get? Huh?” He jabs his palm into the air in my direction.
I close my eyes letting waves of anger wash over me.
“I work too,” I say. A silent, involuntary burp scorches my esophagus. I purse my lips; push my tongue back against my throat.
The Corsica feels as if it’s careening out of control along Highway 80 towards the James Lick Skyway.
“That’s right, I forgot,” he says in a sarcastic voice. “You’re the only martyr allowed in this family.
“Take Bryant,” I reply, ignoring his taunt. “We can take Seventh Street all the way up to Leavenworth. “O’Farrell’s a one-way so you’ll only be able to turn right.”
I roll my window down halfway as Rob maneuvers the car along Seventh, past Market Street and onto Leavenworth. A froth of chilly San Francisco air chuffs into the car. I inhale deeply, as if the cold air will quash the blistering fire gurging in my abdomen.
“Here’s O’Farrell,” I say.
My eyes scan every female I see walking the sidewalk or sitting at bus stops along the way, hoping against fruitless hope that I might see my beloved daughter. I spot an address on a storefront.
“We’ve gone too far,” I tell Rob. “We’ll have to double back. Make a left up here at Stockton.”
Rob steers the car onto Stockton Street and I notice he too, scans any female he sees on the street as he passes.
“Another left onto Geary, then Franklin and then left again back on O’Farrell.”
“I know that,” he snaps, though I have serious doubts about that.
Rob noses the Corsica forward as directed, managing to get stuck behind a large white delivery truck that double parks in front of a Chinese restaurant just as we make our way onto O’Farrell Street.
“Oh Christ,” he mutters, jutting around the truck, nearly getting sideswiped by a passing black Mercedes. The driver of the Mercedes honks.
“Up yours,” Rob growls beneath his breath, flipping his finger in the direction of the departing Mercedes.
I lean forward in my seat, palms on the dashboard, straining to see the Bread and Butter Market as Rob scours the near horizon for a parking spot.
“There it is!” I say, pointing to the market as we pass by. Rob slows the car, both of us studiously peering towards the market’s window in a vain attempt to see inside. We have to park nearly a block away. Making the dash down the sidewalk, we pass an indigent old man with no legs sitting in a wheelchair who is pawing through a public garbage can. I realize, as we sprint past him, that I’m already breathing through my mouth, a wasted effort to avoid the rancid odor of the filth of the streets.
“Inside,” Rob says needlessly, as he opens the door for me to the Bread and Butter Market. I fly inside with a breathless impatience.
At the front of the store, on one side are shelves stocked with exotic looking wax covered cheeses along with rolls of meats and sausages in varying shapes and colors. Directly across the aisle stands a man, who looks like he could have just escaped from jail, perusing a rack of porn magazines containing lurid photographs of women in various grotesque sexual poses. Incongruent to the disgusting environment, the delicious aroma coming from the deli, at the back of the market, makes my mouth involuntarily water.
“Check the back,” Rob says, “I’ll go through the aisles.”
I race forward calling Robyn by name as I go, scanning left and right until I’m at the back of the store where the deli is located. A man and woman dressed in business attire are ordering lunch. I can hear Rob’s voice calling Robyn’s name behind me. Seconds later, he appears from the last aisle. Our eyes meet and instantly, I know Robyn is not here. A fissure of despair cleaves my heart. I swallow hard to stop what I know will be an ocean of tears if I should begin to cry.
“You seen a girl, blond hair and dark eyes come by here?” Rob asks the thin man behind the counter.
“Her name is Robyn,” I add, jerking her picture from my purse
and holding it up for the clerk’s inspection.
Everyone’s attention is on us, their eyes sweeping from the photograph to our faces.
“Nope,” the clerk replies in a disinterested voice.
The business man looks at us as if we are aliens from Mars. The woman with him steps back a pace, as if she fears catching something from us.
I say and do nothing. I know this action well. It is the natural response of people who are terrified of our bad luck. People whose gaze tells me that Rob and I exist in the valley of the damned. Some of Robyn’s teachers reacted the same way. I cannot fault anyone for not wanting to be in our shoes.
“Come on,” I say, urging Rob to the front of the store. Near the front window are a couple of tables with stools around them. A disheveled man sits at one of the stools, hands tucked beneath his thighs, rocking back and forth, staring at the food on his plate. “I wanted a roast beef sandwich. I ordered a roast beef sandwich. I wanted a roast beef sandwich; I ordered a roast beef sandwich.” He mutters over and over again as he rocks.
We query the clerk at the front register, a fat balding man with a black mustache, but he only gives us a gruff reply with a shake of his head. He claims to have seen no one matching Robyn’s description. Ever. And by the way, he wants no trouble in the store.
Heading back outside, we search two full square blocks encompassing the Bread and Butter Market, querying everyone we see on the street as we go, including the line of homeless men and women waiting in line for a meal and a bed for the night at Glide Memorial Church. Our search is fruitless.
We trudge back to the Bread and Butter.
“We need to call the police,” I say.
Rob squeezes his eyes shut and then washes his face with his hands. “Yeah,” he replies.
We ask to use the market’s phone and after waiting fifteen minutes, we figure it’s going to be a while, Rob says, “I gotta eat something. You want a sandwich?”
The burn in my stomach has begun to flare higher, up into my throat. Though I have a couple of Rolaids left, I know a bit of food would calm the fire heaving in my gut.
The Whore of Babylon, A Memoir Page 7