The Whore Of Babylon, A Memoir Part 19

"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 carca.s.s.

"Mike, get a close-up headshot," somebody murmurs off to my left.

I am a.s.sailed 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 a.s.sault. 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' b.u.t.ton. 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 'h.e.l.lo'.

I swallow hard and respond.

"h.e.l.lo, 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 sh.o.r.e 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 h.e.l.l 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 a.s.suming 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 surrept.i.tiously 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 is Freddie. Freddie. Saw Saw the the news news tonight. tonight. Let Let me me know know if if I I can can help." 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, s.n.a.t.c.h 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 G.o.d?" I ask.

He pauses.

"I want to," he replies. "Do you?"

"I do," I say. "But I want more. I want to know know G.o.d." G.o.d."

"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 not need to be doing now is fighting. 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! need your help!" I shout. "Our daughter might be lying in some morgue and I'm here! All by myself! I I need your help! Haven't you figured that out yet?" 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 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." 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 b.a.s.t.a.r.d! 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 facade 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.

Rob shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans and looks down at the floor. Then he meets my eyes.

"I'm gonna say this the kindest way I know how. We had us some good times back in high school. We really did." He swallows. "But I married you because you were pregnant. Because I wanted to do the right thing. And that's the G.o.d's honest truth.

I've done the best I can over the years. I know I've screwed up. I know that. I've taken the easy way out so many times. I've turned myself into a drunk, plain and simple. But I'm sober now. And I intend to stay that way. No matter what. And being sober means being honest."

My heart wrenches. I close my eyes and stifle a sob, but it comes out anyway. My hand jumps to my mouth because I know now what Rob has known for years: our marriage is over; if it ever really existed in the first place.

"I'm gonna get cleaned up and go to a meeting," he says. "Here's the phone number where the meeting's at. Call me as soon as you hear something." He opens his wallet, retrieving a slip of paper from an inner pocket and drops it on the kitchen table. Then he turns on his heels and heads for the bathroom.

I hear the faucet to the shower shriek on and I bury my face in my hands. But I'm not allowed the luxury of a good cry. Someone is rapping sharply on the front door.

My heart thumps in my chest as I shuffle through the living room. It could be a reporter or it could be the police. I take a deep breath and glance through the peephole. It is neither. I breathe out a sigh of exhausted relief.

Opening the door, I fall into Sister Margaret's arms and collapse in grief.