The Whore Of Babylon, A Memoir Part 8

I lean forward in my seat, palms on the dashboard, straining to see the Bread and b.u.t.ter Market as Rob scours the near horizon for a parking spot.

"There it is!" I say, pointing to the market as we pa.s.s 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 pa.s.s 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 b.u.t.ter 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 p.o.r.n magazines containing lurid photographs of women in various grotesque s.e.xual 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 d.a.m.ned. 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 wanted a roast beef sandwich. I a roast beef sandwich. I ordered ordered a roast beef sandwich. I wanted a roast a roast beef sandwich. I wanted a roast beef beef sandwich; I ordered a roast beef sandwich; I ordered a roast beef sandwich 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 no trouble in the store. trouble in the store.

Heading back outside, we search two full square blocks encompa.s.sing the Bread and b.u.t.ter 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 b.u.t.ter.

"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.

"Sure," I say, "whatever." I wave him off as he retreats back to the deli.

The disheveled man, still whispering his mantra, at last stands up, seizes his roast beef sandwich and tosses it into the garbage before plodding outside.

I sit on the stool he just vacated and my thoughts turn to Chevy. In my mind's eye her soft brown doe eyes appear. She smiles at me, and I wonder: did she make contact with Robyn? Did Chevy convince Robyn to call home? This whole ordeal simply cannot be a coincidence. I make a mental note to ask Chevy the next time I see her; if I ever do. I'm bounced out of my reverie by Rob tapping me on the shoulder.

"My card was denied," he growls, thrusting the Visa into my face.

I dig through my wallet and hand him a ten dollar bill. Rob wanders back to the deli. I peer at my watch; nearly two-thirty. We've been waiting for the police now for nearly half an hour.

Rob returns, plopping a turkey sandwich with all the tr.i.m.m.i.n.gs down in front of me. Though it looks and smells delicious, fingers of nausea begin to coil around my stomach.

Rob angles his sandwich around left and then right, finding a suitable spot and chomps down, talking as he chews.

"So, what's the deal with the Visa?"

"I told you," I say defensively. "I took an advance out and gave it to Sister Margaret, remember?"

"You said you were going to help her hand out food to the hookers," he says.

"Well, the nuns have to have money money to buy the food," I counter. "Besides, you should see these girls. Any one of them could be Robyn." to buy the food," I counter. "Besides, you should see these girls. Any one of them could be Robyn."

"Well, they're not not Robyn. Criminy, Margot, we barely make enough between the both of us to cover the rent and utilities. We can't afford to feed half of friggin' San Francisco." Robyn. Criminy, Margot, we barely make enough between the both of us to cover the rent and utilities. We can't afford to feed half of friggin' San Francisco."

"I don't want to feed half of 'friggin San Francisco'," I reply, quoting the air with my fingers. "And I told you, we're doing fine. We can make minimum payments on the cash advance as long as we need to. If we can make the Corsica last one more year, that'll help. And we're saving lots of money now that I'm packing your lunches."

Rob rolls his eyes as he pops the last bite of his sandwich into his mouth. "Yeah? Well a man likes to eat more than just baloney all the time." He swabs the corner of his mouth with his thumb.

"You really need to meet this Sister Margaret person," I say, changing the subject. "You know what she asked me?"

Rob gives me a shrug as he shakes the last remnants of the potato chips from the bag into his opened mouth. I have a sudden image of an open-mouthed blue whale pulling plankton through its baleen. I shake the picture from my head.

"What did Sister Margaret ask you?" he says in a flippant tone as he crunches the chips.

"She asked me if I had any faith."

Rob grunts, and then grabs his soda, taking a long pull on the straw. I watch my husband carefully for any reaction about the subject, but he declines to offer me anything. I have thought a lot about that question posed to me by the nun with the bright gray eyes. As if faith were the kind of thing you could just go out and buy, like laundry detergent and then be done with it all.

"Do you?" I ask.

"Do I what?"

"Have any faith?"

Rob shoves the air towards me with his palms.

"Hey. Don't go there with me. You know how I feel about all that stuff."

I nod. From Rob's strict Catholic upbringing had come his fatiguingly irksome one-liner about being a recovering Catholic. Memories of my own Baptist background complete with the terrifying h.e.l.lfire and brimstone sermons that seemed to stretch in ever-increasing length every week until I came to dread Sundays with an unflinching hatred still loom in my own memory.

"I know, I know. But-"

"Didn't you tell me once," he interrupts, "about that preacher your mom liked so much and how he caught got with his pants down, literally, in some motel with the church secretary who was married or something?"

"Yes, Rob, I remember that and I remember all your stories about how the nuns mistreated you in school. But Sister Margaret is different."

"Yeah, right." He grabs my plate and considers my uneaten sandwich.

His eyes catch something in the window. I crane around, to get a look at whatever he is watching. An older woman, obviously a prost.i.tute and a middle-aged man exit the O'Farrell Theatre arm in arm, laughing. The woman glances in the direction of the Bread and b.u.t.ter Market as they walk; her uneven smile reveals several missing teeth.

"Oh jees," Rob says, cringing. He consults his watch. "Criminy, where are the friggin' cops?" He stands up and huffs out an exasperated breath.

And then, as if cued on a movie set, a black and white patrol car eases into view and double parks in front of the market. Two policemen emerge from of the car looking all business and walking tall. It isn't until they are at the door of the market that I realize one of them is a woman.

We are questioned together and then separated. Rob is ferried towards the back of the market by the tall black cop, out of my sight and earshot. I am ushered towards the front window by the young Chinese woman whose condescending smile makes me already dislike her. We go through a series of standard issue question and answers. I try to contain my impatience with her as the swirl of fire in my stomach begins turning again into nausea. I clasp my midriff with my hand, which startles the policewoman.

"You look a little pale. Are you okay?" she asks me.

"I'm fine. Please. You're not listening to me," I say in protest. I suddenly feel clammy; I wipe my hair back from my face with my forearm. "My daughter. Her name is Robyn. Here's her picture. She's-"

"I know, Ma'am. She ran away."

"She didn't just run away," I reply curtly. "I already told you. She's listed as an endangered endangered runaway. Her picture's been distributed by the NCMEC. You should have a record of that. She called my husband," my voice cracks with emotion, betraying me. runaway. Her picture's been distributed by the NCMEC. You should have a record of that. She called my husband," my voice cracks with emotion, betraying me.

"Calm down, Ma'am."

"I am calm!" I reply angrily. "Why don't any of you people take me seriously?" I realize I am on the verge of hysteria. I pull down a deep breath of air, trying to still the pa.s.sion of my despair.

The crackle of the policewoman's radio perched on her shoulder breaches our war of words. She turns her attention to the radio and responds. I step towards the front window and lean my forehead against the cool pane of gla.s.s, closing my eyes. My G.o.d I feel sick. The aching in my stomach feels as if it has pushed deeper into my body. Instead of the usual ebb and flow of pain, it is now a persistent, roiling, volcanic explosion, seemingly burning flesh upon flesh.

It is when I open my eyes that I see it. Through the window; I see the car, the BMW from my very first visit to this G.o.d-forsaken part of town. BLU BOY. I watch, frozen for precious seconds as the BMW slowly cruises by, its driver flashing me an evil grin, his arm around the blond in the seat next to him.

"Robyn!" I scream.

I explode out the door of the market before the policewoman reacts. Already, all I can see is the fading letters of the distinctive license plate as the BMW jets away, its tires defiantly screech at me, the sweet blond head of hair fleeing from my view like a ghostly apparition.

And just as suddenly, a convolution of events takes place. A fiery arrow of distress pierces my body, throwing me to the ground. Hunched over, my body writhes, in a futile effort at escaping the savage, white-hot pain detonating throughout my abdomen. I feel the hands of the policewoman on my back, shouts of concern drift by me. I think I may even hear Rob's voice, distraught, hovering near my side, but I can't be sure of reality; the pain has taken control of me now. I open my mouth to talk but no words come out. I am retching, my body twisting in agony, as I vomit a spray of b.l.o.o.d.y foam into the putrid gutter of the streets of San Francisco.

"You're in post-op. The doctor said the surgery went real good."

Deep inside a formless darkness I hear Rob's voice. My mind is veiled by layers of woolly fog. I will myself to move, but my body stubbornly resists. My consciousness drags from shadow to thought as I open my eyes. I see Rob's face, his body is bent over me and then I become aware of his hand on my own. He squeezes my fingers.

"Hey Babe," he says, bending down to kiss me on the forehead.

"Robyn," I say, my voice froglike.

I try sitting up but a shock of pain radiates through my abdomen. I cough, attempting to clear my throat and that too, produces another spasm of agony. I groan, releasing my head back down on my pillow.

"Relax," Rob says. "You just had laparoscopic surgery to repair a bleeding ulcer."

My hand finds the three small patches of bandages on my stomach.

"They want to keep you overnight just to make sure."

"What about Robyn?" I croak.

"They were in pursuit when the ambulance came and got you. The cops promised to send somebody by the hospital to let us know what happened," Rob says.

His hand on my shoulder feels dictatorial.

"The Bread and b.u.t.ter, BLU BOY," I mumble, fighting against an anvil of somnolence.

"Shhh," he whispers. "You need to stay quiet."

A nurse drifts by, and plays with one of the tubes attached to my body and I fall back into a black void.

September 3, 2002.

I am dreaming the sweetest dream. I am cradling my infant daughter, nestling her as she dozes contentedly in my arms. I touch my face to her and smell her baby scent, its sweetness so dear, the aroma stirs a tickle of ecstasy deep in my heart. Her fine, downy hair is moth-wing soft and I have never been so happy in all my life. And suddenly, like the bursting of a balloon, she is gone.

My eyes open to the small hospital room. The room has no windows and is dark save for a small, weak light off to the side by the sink. Several feet away from me sits Rob, his crumpled form asleep in a chair. A mottled gurgle of sound escapes me as I bring my hand to the incisions on my stomach. Rob stirs.

"Hey," he says, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

"Robyn?"

"No one from SFPD's come by yet," he says, standing up. "But they promised they would as soon as they had something definite to tell us."

He walks over, washing the exhaustion from his face with his hands.

"What time is it?" I ask.

He consults his watch.

"It's seven-thirty in the morning. Labor Day weekend."

"Rob, it's important that we contact Bart Strong, the private eye."

I feel his mood immediately cool.

"If the police come up empty-handed, Bart might not. He can do things the cops can't, you know."

Rob frowns. "A private eye takes money." He gives me a look.

"I'll get another advance on the credit card," I say, coughing out the cement dryness of my throat.

"That card's already maxed out," he snaps.

"Then I'll get a new card!" I rasp out with irritation.

A tap at the doorway interrupts us.

"Mr. and Mrs. Skinner?"

A tall man in a dark beige sport coat walks into the room. His dark hair is neat, combed back. As he approaches the bed, from the shadow between his coat and crisply pressed shirt, I catch the outline of a gun and holster strapped to his side.