“He killed our cat, Pickles,” I say.
“All the more reason to be careful,” she counters.
“But you should have heard him on the phone,” I counter. “His voice was smug with satisfaction. I could have strangled him right then and there.”
“Vigilante justice is no justice,” Sister Margaret says.
“Believe me, I am no vigilante,” I say, relieved that the little nun knows nothing about the.22 Colt nestled in my purse. I pause a moment and turn, greeting those fierce gray eyes. “But I am going to get my daughter back. No matter what.”
We continue our campaign, down Turk Street, up Leavenworth, crossing Geary, then turning right down Hyde, until all the lampposts or telephone poles on all major streets throughout the Tenderloin have been plastered with BLY BOY’s mug shot.
As we make our way back to my car, I am arrested by the shouting riot of oranges and reds of the leaves of the trees, swelling hugely against San Francisco ’s ash colored sky. The beauty of nature, a dichotomy against the ugliness of the drug addiction and prostitution of this neighborhood. I inhale involuntarily, thinking of past autumns from childhood; the smell of the falling leaves giving way to images of Petra and I laughing and kicking our way through piles of leaves that our Father had diligently raked. But instead of the lusty and potent earthy aroma of autumn here in the Tenderloin, I am met with the pervading stink of rotting garbage braided with the stench of old vomit.
I drive Sister Margaret back to the convent, easing the old Corsica to the curb.
Her fingers are on the door handle, but she doesn’t open the door.
“You know you’re invited,” she says.
“Invited?” I ask.
“It’s All Saint’s Day. There will be a Mass. Tonight at seven. The choir is going to sing the full Litany of the Saints; it’s very beautiful.”
“We’ll see,” I say.
“That means no,” she says, giving me a frown.
“It’s a long way to drive.”
“I could pick you up,” she offers. “In that deathtrap of yours?” I say with a laugh. “No thanks.”
“You’d really love it,” she persists.
“I promise, Sister, I’ll think about it,” I say, a little exasperated.
“I’m picking up Chevy. She says she’s even thinking of converting.”
“Is she doing well?” I ask.
“God willing and the creek don’t rise; she’s determined to get off the streets. She’s starting to see that prostituting for food and shelter and clothing ends up being nothing more than survival sex. She is starting to see that there is more out there to life.”
I smile. I am genuinely glad for Chevy. She is such a sweet girl and the only one who ever bothered to help me when I first began this crusade for Robyn. I only wish my daughter had the same vision.
***
As Sister Margaret promised, the choir singing the Litany of the Saints was truly inspiring. The Catholic Mass is so much more than the modest little services held by my mother Gladys’ little church in Aztec. Sister Margaret, Chevy and I are standing together in front of the church after the Mass. Chevy’s face glows with happiness.
“That was nice,” she says to us both.
Sister Margaret smiles. Someone taps her on the shoulder and she turns, engaging in conversation with a young mother and her two children.
“Sister says you’re thinking of converting?” I ask Chevy.
Chevy nods. “I’m thinking about it.” She angles her head in the direction of the nun who is pulling out two small pieces of candy for the children from the mysterious pouch in her habit. “She can be awfully persuasive,” she adds.
We both laugh. Chevy gives me an earnest look.
“Sister Margaret said that you wouldn’t mind sometime, maybe taking me down to City College to register.”
This of course is news to me. But I can’t ignore the yearning in this girl’s young eyes.
“I’d love to,” I say. “When does registration start?”
“Not until after the winter break.” She looks down. “After the holidays.”
I reach out with one hand and rearrange strands of her bangs that the evening breeze has blown out of place.
“You call me whenever you’re ready,” I say with a smile.
November 3, 2002
After a long day at the office, I wheel the car into a tight spot at the Food For Less parking lot on Railroad Avenue, reviewing my mental list: something for dinner, creamer, bread, and eggs. I push back the guilty thought that I should probably pick up a vegetable or two. I steer the cart through the aisles on autopilot, wishing only for home and the oblivion of a bath.
Suddenly, the trill of my cell phone drowns the Muzak version of ‘Muskrat Love’ reverberating through the supermarket. It’s been two days since I posted the flyers. On average, the cell rings two to three times an hour and each time it is a crank call. I sigh, as I flatten the answer button.
“Hello?”
I hear a click. Another hang up. Immediately the phone rings again and I switch the phone to vibrate. Let them leave a message.
Heading home, the tired engine of the old Corsica chunks along. Between the spasmodic growls smoke has begun to bellow from the exhaust pipe. I have asked Rob twice to take a look at it, but as yet he hasn’t made time. All of his energy is directed towards his recovery, his program. It’s as if I have ceased to exist in his life.
Nearly home now, the normally quiet street, nearly always devoid of cars is crawling with activity. Directly across the street from the house is a large white news van, its towering antennae, a spire in the sky. On my front lawn, a bank of strangers, some with large, black cameras hoisted over their shoulders. It is only as I draw nearer that I realize all of these people are reporters. Fear skydives down my chest followed quickly by a dark cloud of foreboding.
I pull into the driveway and as I turn off the engine, the phalanx surrounds me. I open the car door and immediately half a dozen microphones are shoved into my face.
“Mrs. Skinner, is there any truth to the rumor that the dead body of a young girl found off of Beach Street, near Pier 39 is that of your daughter, Robyn?”
“What?” The air feels as if it’s been sucked from my lungs.
“Mrs. Skinner, is it true that your daughter was a teenage prostitute?”
“Ma’am, would you like to make a statement on whether or not your daughter brought her johns home to do business?”
“Mrs. Skinner, we have unconfirmed reports that you and your husband have an open marriage; any comment on that?”
The jostle each other like hungry lions surrounding a zebra carcass.
“Mike, get a close-up headshot,” somebody murmurs off to my left.
I am assailed as if by bullets.
Instinctively, I hold up my purse to my face, forgetting for the moment, about the groceries sitting in the backseat of the car. I hurriedly make my way into the house, slamming the door against their assault. All I can think about is Robyn.
Leaning against the front door I close my eyes, trying to regain my breath, trying to think clearly, but tears are already running down my face. I feel light headed and realize that though it is cool in the house, I am covered with sweat. Nausea rolls through my body and I clamp my hand to my stomach. I barely make it to the kitchen sink in time, retching so hard I feel as if I might have an aneurysm.
I yank the kitchen towel from its hook and wipe traces of vomit from my mouth. I glance at the answering machine. The number five flashes dimly in the dusky light of evening. Unsteady, I stumble to the machine, depressing the ‘play’ button. Desire and dread are tightly knotted, the only thing holding me together.
The first two messages are local reporters requesting information and/or interviews. The third is a hang-up. The fourth is a message from Rob saying that he’ll be home late; he was asked to make something called a twelfth step call. The fifth and final message is the arrow that pierces my heart
.
“Mr. and Mrs. Skinner, this is homicide detective Roscoe with the San Francisco police department. Please give us a call as soon as you get this message.”
He leaves his cell number.
Nothing can prepare a person for this. Not resolve, not character, not brute physical strength, not even rage has any power over the visceral terror that has enveloped my body. Irrationally, I feel that as long as I don’t return Detective Roscoe’s phone call there is a chance that Robyn is still alive. The absurd thought that I will be able to keep Robyn from death if only I can keep from talking to the police invades my brain.
I pick up the phone and dial. After just two rings I hear the familiar ‘hello’.
I swallow hard and respond.
“Hello, Mama?”
“Margot?” she sounds breathless, as if she might faint.
I pour my heart out. My mom listens.
“I’m sorry I lied, Mama. I’m sorry. It’s just been-”
“Sweetie. Don’t worry about it. Do you want me to fly there? I will. I will in a heartbeat. You know I will.”
“No. It’s okay. I’ll call you as soon as I have any news.”
“I shore do love you sugar pot. And I’ll say a prayer for you. And Robyn.”
“Thank you Mama. I love you too.”
November 4, 2002
Dawn breaks cold and bleak across the sky in Pittsburg. Although my body physically droops with fatigue, my mind is riddled with a grim and crushing apprehension. My pillow is still damp with tears. I sit up in bed and bring my palms to my eyes, rubbing away the exhaustion. Next to me, Rob quietly snores.
Last night, after the phone call with my mother, I screwed up the courage to phone Detective Roscoe. He told me that SFPD had found the body of a girl believed to be between the ages of fourteen to eighteen dumped near Pier 39. She had been bludgeoned to death. Her face had been beaten so badly it was unrecognizable. He requested the name and telephone number of our dentist, saying it would be much faster than DNA. He apologized for the trouble and said he ‘hoped like hell it wasn’t Robyn’. I rifled through my address book until I found the last dentist that Robyn had been to, a Dr. Rarebit in Aztec and gave the detective the phone number. Detective Roscoe said that assuming the dentist could fax over the dental records the following day that they would know within twenty-four hours and to stay close to the phone. I said that I would and also gave him my cell phone number.
I thanked him for his time and concern and then hung up the phone and sobbed like a baby for an hour and a half. Rob must have come home after I fell asleep from exhaustion because I never even heard him come to bed. We need to talk, but I can’t will myself to rouse him. I’ll wait until he wakes on his own.
I fight down an unusual feeling of dizziness, wiping away the clammy sheen that seems to have developed on my forehead and rise, heading to the kitchen. My brain is numb. I peel a coffee filter from the stack and measure out the grounds, willing myself not to think. After pouring water in the coffee maker, I drag a chair over to the counter and stare blankly at the pot as the water hisses and coughs through the machine.
I suddenly realize the sunrise has been replaced by a beryl-blue sky. I physically shake my head, willing myself to action. I shuffle into the living room and surreptitiously peek out the front window. I expect to see tents pitched next to smoldering campfires. But no reporters are hovering on the lawn, although the big white news van across the street is still there and has been joined by another one from a different station. Great.
I pour myself a cup of coffee and dig through my purse, looking for the cell phone. My hands briefly stumble over the.22 Colt while I’m searching for the cell. The metal of the gun is cold to the touch and sends a shiver through my arm. I quickly shove it aside, jerking out the phone. I had forgotten to switch the cell from vibrate back to ring when I got home last night.
I have six messages. I follow the prompts to retrieve them and find that nearly all are hang ups or crank calls. One is from Freddie. I smile as I listen to the satin-deep timber of his voice:
“This is Freddie. Saw the news tonight. Let me know if I can help.”
He leaves his cell number, a phone number that I have by now, memorized.
I glance at the hallway, listening, though I know Rob is still asleep; I can hear him snoring. I dial Freddie’s number with my thumb and steal a sip of coffee as I wait for him to answer. After only one ring I hear his voice:
“Yeah. This is Freddie.”
“It’s me,” I say.
He sighs before answering.
“You holdin’ up okay?”
“Not really.”
“You want me to come over?”
I laugh.
“I don’t think that would be such a good idea. Rob’s here.”
“He won’t bother me. ” he says sincerely.
I laugh again, in spite of my heavy heart.
“Seriously,” he continues, “just tell me what you need. You know I’ve already been down this road.”
I nod but can, for the moment, say nothing. I swallow hard.
“We’ll hopefully know something today,” is all I can manage.
“You shouldn’t be alone.”
“Rob’s here.”
“Like I said, you shouldn’t be alone.”
We leave that alone for now. I turn my head to look out the kitchen window and catch sight of the rosary that Sister Margaret gave me, sitting on the kitchen counter nearby.
“I’ll call Sister Margaret later,” I say.
“Ah, the venerable nun.”
“She’s the most amazing person I think I’ve ever met,” I say.
I walk over to the rosary, snatch it from the counter and clutch it to my breast.
“Some people find comfort in religion in times of crisis,” he says.
I realize that the only thing I really know about Freddie is that he lost a daughter to the streets.
“Do you believe in God?” I ask.
He pauses.
“I want to,” he replies. “Do you?”
“I do,” I say. “But I want more. I want to know God.”
“Whoa. You thinking of joining the convent?” he says with a grin in his voice.
“Not exactly,” I say, smiling involuntarily.
“Anyway,” he begins, his voice again deadly serious.
“Who are you talking to?” Robs voice suddenly barks from the hallway.
I shift ramrod straight in my chair; a feeling of guilt scuttles through me as the rest of Freddie’s sentence dissolves in the air.
I quietly flick the phone closed.
I stand up and refill my coffee.
“No one,” I lie, responding to Rob. What we absolutely do not need to be doing now is fighting.
I pull a mug from the cupboard. “Coffee?” I ask, pouring a cup for him. He doesn’t respond.
I walk the cup of coffee over to him and can see by the look on his face that he is in a foul mood.
“We have to talk,” I begin.
“I heard,” he says, his voice flat. “I don’t know if you noticed or not, but the house is surrounded by vultures.” The sarcasm in his voice is unmistakable.
“It might help if you were ever here,” I say.
“I left you a message. You knew where I was. I was helping a guy. A wet drunk who rolled his car and is now facing charges because his wife was thrown from the vehicle and is still in the hospital. She’s paralyzed from the neck down. And all this guy wants to do is drink himself to death.”
My back is to him. I say nothing, biting my lip, trying not to lash out at him.
“He needed my help,” Rob says emphatically.
I whip around. “ I need your help!” I shout. “Our daughter might be lying in some morgue and I’m here! All by myself! I need your help! Haven’t you figured that out yet?”
“My help?!” he spits out. He points a finger accusingly at the living room window. “Looks like you don’t need my help. You
’ve got every bloodsucking reporter bearing down on us, just waiting for the cops to announce that it is Robyn they found. And I hope you’re happy, because those friggin’ posters did it, Margot.”
“We don’t know she’s,” I stop; I can’t say the word. “We don’t know anything at this point.”
“Don’t we?”
“Is this what you want to do?” I say, my eyes filling with tears. “Argue while the medical examiner is comparing Robyn’s dental records with that dead little girl? Is it?” I scream. “Don’t you get that our daughter needs us? She out there, somewhere, lost!”
Rob shakes his head. “She was lost a long time ago. You just chose to ignore that fact. Just like you ignore anything that doesn’t suit you.”
My body shakes with rage.
“You bastard! Don’t you make me out to be the bad guy here. I’ve been the one who has kept this family together. I was the one who found you this job in California when you got laid off in Aztec. I was the one who made the phone calls, arranged for the interview. I got the Bay Area newspapers and found this house to rent, along with everything else!”
Rob stands, silent. His silence frightens me. Over the years I have become accustomed to his bellowing reactions in our very familiar fights. But today, now, he just stands there, his façade is calm. I wipe the tears roughly from my cheeks and shake my head.
“I’m sorry, Rob. It’s just the stress of all of this has both of us worn out. I don’t blame you. Honestly.”
Still he says nothing.
“I know we both felt that the move to California would be for the best. We’ve always been a team. Ever since we got married.” I give him an imploring look. But I cannot read his face.
I sniffle, wiping my nose with the back of my hand.
“Let’s you and me start over,” I say. “Back to the time when we were in love.”
The tears are flowing freely again now. I blink them away and gaze at Rob. And it is then that I see it. Or, I should say rather, it is then that I don’t see it. There is no love in my husband’s eyes.
“Rob?” I say. “We were in love,” I say again. “You and me? And we got married?” I pause. “We’ve been through so much. But no matter what, we’ve still got us…” my voice trails off because deep in the pit of my gut, I know the truth. And maybe I’ve always known it, but as Rob said, all these years I’ve chosen to ignore it.
The Whore of Babylon, A Memoir Page 16