The Whore Of Babylon, A Memoir Part 18

Though the bathtub is now clean, I continue to scrub, as if they physical act will also be beneficial on less temporal matters.

"What in the h.e.l.l?"

Rob's voice bellows from the kitchen. The feet of his chair excoriates the linoleum of the floor, punctuating his explosion.

I slip out of my rubber gloves and stand up.

"I cannot freakin' believe this!" Rob growls.

Alarm blows through my chest as I hurry into the kitchen to see what he is so upset about. The newspaper lies open on the kitchen table. Rob is standing over the paper, his face a choleric red.

"Did you know about this?" he says accusingly.

"Know about what?"

"This!" He stabs his finger in the direction of the newspaper.

I approach and peer at the offending story, my mind racing with distressing possibilities.

In bold, black Courier font the t.i.tle reads: The The Trouble Trouble with with Truancy Truancy. It begins innocuously enough.

It's noon; noon; do do you you know know where where your your teenager teenager is? is? The The honest honest answer answer is is that that most most working working parents, parents, however however well well intentioned, intentioned, don't. don't. Truancy Truancy in in America America has has reached reached epidemic epidemic proportions, proportions, causing causing public public schools schools to to lose lose hundreds hundreds of of thousands thousands of of dollars dollars in in state state and and federal federal money; money; all all because because junior junior decides decides to to play play hooky. hooky.But truancy truancy hurts hurts more more than than just just our our kids kids or or our our public public schools. schools. In In many many cases, cases, the the truant truant child child becomes becomes a a public public nuisance. nuisance.For example, example, a a local local Pittsburg Pittsburg woman, woman, we'll we'll call call her her Mrs. Mrs. C. C. (and (and who, who, incidentally incidentally was was the the impetus impetus for for this this story) story) lives lives on on a a quiet quiet street, street, Mildred Mildred Avenue, Avenue, which which is is typical typical of of many many streets streets in in the the area. area. She She states states that that her her next next door door neighbor's neighbor's child child is is out out of of control. control.In an an exclusive exclusive interview, interview, Mrs. Mrs. C C complains complains that that the the daughter daughter rarely, rarely, if if ever, ever, attends attends school. school. "Every "Every day day that that those those parents parents leave leave for for work, work, watch watch out. out. Oh Oh my my land, land, the the music music is is unG.o.dly unG.o.dly stuff stuff and and pounds pounds so so loud loud all all day day long, long, I I get get a a headache." headache." And And that's that's not not all. all. Mrs. Mrs. C C says says it it is is a a perpetual perpetual party party at at the the house house with with people people coming coming and and going going all all day day long. long. Says Says Mrs. Mrs. C, C, "The "The girls girls look look more more like like prost.i.tutes prost.i.tutes than than young young ladies. ladies. The The clothes clothes they they wear wear are are scandalous! scandalous! Lord Lord only only knows knows what what goes goes on on inside." inside."

The article continues, with several more choice quotes from the "anonymous" Mrs. C. The article ends with the reporter claiming that the 'out of control teenager's parents' could not be reached for comment.

My stomach reels with nausea. I swallow hard.

"I'm gonna go give that b.i.t.c.h next door a piece of my mind," Rob says.

"Rob, no. We don't know for sure who 'Mrs. C' is. What if it isn't Mrs. Cotillo?"

Rob snorts. "Screw that!" He bats the air with his hand, banishing my concern. "Mrs. C? On Mildred Avenue? How many Mrs. C's do you think live on Mildred Avenue, next door to a teenage girl?"

Rob stomps towards the front door.

"Rob, no. Please," I say following behind him. "What possible good will this do?"

But he ignores me, slamming the door as he leaves the house.

The telephone rings. I traipse back to the kitchen soughing out a disgusted breath. I lift the receiver.

"h.e.l.lo?"

"She came back to me, b.i.t.c.h."

It is BLU BOY. I bristle against the rasp of his voice.

"What?" I say, incredulous.

"She es mine, now." He laughs a menacing growl.

My heart tumbles in my chest, my palms are instantly sticky with sweat. Inside my head I am screaming at this evil man, but nothing comes out of my mouth.

"Jou hear me? She es mine!" He laughs again, this time a hearty, bellicose guffaw.

And suddenly, rage born from the beginning of time explodes inside of me. I feel capable of reaching through the telephone and killing this beast.

"No!" I shout. "Do you hear me? No!"

BLU BOY only laughs again in response.

"Now jou listen to me, b.i.t.c.h."

In the background I hear the forlorn wail of a cat. Pickles. Her cry is interrupted by firing of a gun. Then, silence.

I sit in shock a moment, trying to comprehend what this monster has just done. My eyes flood with tears and a white hot rage explodes in my heart. If he can be that callused with a cat what on earth is he capable of with a fifteen year old little girl.

"I will kill you." It is out of my mouth before I realize it.

"Jou can' kill me. Jou don' even know me. Jou don'-"

I hang up the phone. I hear my words echo: I I will will kill kill you you. They repose in my heart like a talisman.

November 1, 2002.

"I still think you look lousy."

"I feel fine," I say.

Holding the printed flyer against the lamppost with one hand, I yank off a stretch of wide blue painter's tape from a roll, tearing it free with my teeth. I adhere the top of the flyer to the lamppost and then repeat the process with the bottom of the flyer. I stand back a moment to admire my handiwork. The flyer features a 5 X 7 photograph of Antonio Pena's mug shot the last time he was arrested a little less than a year ago. In it, he is not the pseudo-handsome, swarthy young man in a smart three piece suit sitting in his aqua BMW, the way I first saw him just three short months ago. The photograph reveals bloodshot eyes and disarranged hair, which gives him a faintly clownish look. Below the photo is information linking Pena with Robyn and offering a reward for anyone who can provide me with a bonafide tip leading me to my daughter, along with a telephone number: my newly acquired cell phone.

From the doorway of the Maryland Market the clerk tosses me a doubtful look. I ignore her and cross Turk Street. Sister Margaret dutifully follows behind me with an armful of flyers. Another corner market, another lamppost.

"If you feel so fine, why are you still popping Rolaids like they were candy?" Sister Margaret inquires.

I give her a pointed look. "Nerves," I reply.

"Think a visit to the doctor surely wouldn't hurt," she says. "From the standpoint of..." her voice trails off.

I stretch out my palm in her direction as I swallow down the smoldering burn in my stomach. "Flyer," is all I say.

She peels a copy from her stack and hands it over saying, "Speaking of, how on earth did you manage to get BLU BOY's mug shot?" she asks.

"Bart Strong, the P.I. I hired back in August."

Sister Margaret raises her eyebrows but says nothing.

"Technically, mug shots are public domain, but they can be hard to get. Bart has friends in high places," I say and smile.

Sister Margaret's face is pensive.

"You should be careful," she says.

"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 am going to get my daughter back. No matter what." 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 prost.i.tution 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 l.u.s.ty 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 Ma.s.s. 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.

"G.o.d willing and the creek don't rise; she's determined to get off the streets. She's starting to see that prost.i.tuting for food and shelter and clothing ends up being nothing more than survival s.e.x. 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 Ma.s.s 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 Ma.s.s. 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 b.u.t.ton.

"h.e.l.lo?"

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 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 prost.i.tute?"