“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 Peña’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 Peña 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 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.”