The Whore Of Babylon, A Memoir Part 3

After at last extricating myself from the phone and Carmelita's disapproving tone, I sit for a moment in the kitchen. The refrigerator hums. A car honks in the distance. I detect traces of cold cheese soup in the air, from the dishes still piled in the sink.

The timer on the coffee maker clicks off, and the sudden noise jolts me into action. I head to Robyn's room, my eyes taking stock. Nothing has changed since last night. Clothes are strewn across the floor. Dresser drawers stick out like tongues, and her bed is unmade. I make my way through the chaos to the dresser, scanning the surface for any evidence that might give me a clue as to where she has gone. Only the usual paraphernalia is here: barrettes, a Seventeen Seventeen magazine, and a crumpled up bra. With an instinctive haste I s.n.a.t.c.h the bra from the counter and press it to my nose. Closing my eyes I am overwhelmed. Robyn's scent, a carnation sweetness, floods my brain. I remember a day at the park when she was three or four; her running into my arms after a frightening tumble off the slide. How I had pressed her flesh close, inhaling the sweet perfume of the sweat in her hair, knowing with a luminous clarity that I would never love another human being with the same fierce abandon as I loved this child. magazine, and a crumpled up bra. With an instinctive haste I s.n.a.t.c.h the bra from the counter and press it to my nose. Closing my eyes I am overwhelmed. Robyn's scent, a carnation sweetness, floods my brain. I remember a day at the park when she was three or four; her running into my arms after a frightening tumble off the slide. How I had pressed her flesh close, inhaling the sweet perfume of the sweat in her hair, knowing with a luminous clarity that I would never love another human being with the same fierce abandon as I loved this child.

I clench my jaw, checking my tears. Stumbling over memory lane right now will not help my daughter. I fold the bra in half, letting the straps neatly nestle in the concave petals for cups and open her top drawer tucking the bra away. I rummage through all of her dresser drawers but find only clothes shoved in heaps, a few CD's, the names of groups I've never heard of before, and in the bottom drawer, beneath an old pair of l.e.i. jeans, a battered VHS tape of Disney's Beauty Beauty and and the the Beast Beast; her favorite movie when she was young. I lift the dust ruffle of her bed but find only more dirty clothes, shoes, some socks, as well as the torn fishnet stockings she wore on her birthday a month and a half ago.

Her study desk holds two different brands of hair spray, a can of something called 'hair wax', and lastly, a few books and a couple of binders. I thumb through the books and binder paper looking for something that might have names or phone numbers on it. I mentally kick myself for not being a more involved mother. Why didn't I insist on meeting all her friends? Calling their mothers? I rack my brain for names that Robyn has mentioned in the past, but besides Jenny, I come up empty. I swallow down a bolus-sized lozenge of panic and prepare to leave when, in the corner of my eye, I spy her trashcan. It is heaping to overflowing the wadded up papers, old magazines, and tissues. I drag it over to the bed and sit down, hunching over the paper sprawl.

One by one, I pull out every single paper, every note, and scan through the magazines. Near the very bottom, I find a scrunched up ruled piece of white paper. I unfold it, smoothing out the wrinkles. In the upper right hand corner is Robyn's name, the date and below that, the word 'Math'. On the front are numbered problems in Robyn's handwriting. Several problems, whose solutions have been scratched out and re-figured appear on the front of the page. The last problem has nothing written next to it. I turn the paper over and see what looks to be hand written messages from two different hands, probably pa.s.sed back and forth during math cla.s.s. I read the messages: "But what what do do you you really really think think of of her?" her?" writes Robyn. writes Robyn.

"Jenny thinks thinks she's she's bad bad because because she's she's rich. rich. I I think think she's she's a a b.i.t.c.h." b.i.t.c.h."

"She gets gets all all the the guys guys . . . . ." ."

"Yeah well, well, anyone anyone can can get get guys guys if if they're they're willing willing to to do do nasty nasty things things . . . . . . you you know know that!" that!"

"But Jenny Jenny likes likes me." me."

"Do you you really really think think so?" so?"

"Come on on Krista, Krista, don't don't be be such such a a b.i.t.c.h." b.i.t.c.h."

And so on. Out of it I have a name: Krista. I take the paper and stand up, heading for the telephone. I call Jenny's house. I first ask if there's been any sighting of Robyn, but Jenny's mother tells me no.

"Have you ever heard Jenny talk about a girl named Krista?" I ask.

There is silence on the line a moment and I feel my heart flip-flop in antic.i.p.ation.

"No," she finally says. "I can't say as I've ever heard that name."

I thank her for her time and then call the school. The school receptionist is particularly unhelpful when I inquire about information concerning my daughter's math teacher. I eventually learn that his name is Mr. Thornton who is located in room 312. The receptionist asks if I would like to leave a message, but I decline the offer. I check my watch, just after noon. School gets out on Fridays at 12:45; if I hurry I can be down there before the kids get out. I look down at myself. I'm still dressed in my sweats and cruddy T-shirt from last night, but there isn't time to change. I grab my purse and hurry out the door.

The end of the school day is a parade. Kids that look like really young versions of adults abound everywhere, laughing, running, and calling out to each other. In the parking lot, parked diagonally are two cars; souped up muscle machines with more gleaming silver than a pair of Boeing 747's. All four doors on both vehicles are opened and a deafening hip-hop beat rolls through the air like a war cry. Young men, chests puffed out, swagger around the cars like prideful lions. Some have taken their shirts off and the oversized jeans make them look stockier than they are. Heavy chains ornament necks that will, I think, someday be burdened by even heavier broken dreams.

The hallway smells like reheated sloppy Joes, and the floor is covered by scuffmarks and spots of old chewing gum worn to the color of soot. At the end of the hall a cell phone chirps to the theme song of Winnie the Pooh and a young girl's voice answers with the predictable, first words, 'I'm still at school,' fading away as I round the corner to find room 312.

Inside the cla.s.sroom there is one student, a tissue thin young man with short cropped blonde hair and ears the size of potato chips stuffing books into a ragged brown backpack. At the front of the room, sitting behind the desk is whom I a.s.sume to be Mr. Thornton. He's also thin, medium build with rakish red hair and sunken cheeks. Large, 1980's style aviator framed gla.s.ses balance at the bridge of his nose. He stands to greet me, his movements turtle-slow.

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 cla.s.s today?"

The unibrow breaks into two half crescent caterpillars. He adjusts his gla.s.ses, 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 any information on information on any any student. What. So. Ever. 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 h.e.l.l 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 softens.

"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 h.e.l.l'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 was kidnapped," I argue. 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 c.o.c.ker 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 G.o.d," 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.