Джонатан Келлерман - When the Bough Breaks

A door to the right revealed a sliver of white tile. Raquel walked to the sliver and peeked in.

“Señora Cruz?”

The doorway widened and a small, heavy woman appeared, dishtowel in hand. She wore a blue print dress, unbelted, and her gray-black hair was tied back in a bun, held in place by a mock tortoiseshell comb. Silver earrings dangled from her ears and salmon spots of rouge punctuated her cheekbones. Her skin had the delicate, baby-soft look common in old women who had once been beautiful.

“Raquelita!”

She put her towel down, came out, and the two women embraced for a long moment.

When she saw me over Raquel’s shoulder, she smiled. But her face closed up as tight as a pawnbroker’s safe. She pulled away and gave a small bow.

“Señor,” she said, with too much deference, and looked at Raquel, arching one eyebrow.

“Señora Gutierrez.”

Raquel spoke to her in rapid Spanish. I caught the words ‘Elena’, ‘policia’, and ‘doctor’. She ended it with a question.

The older woman listened politely, then shook her head.

“No.” Some things are the same in any language.

Raquel turned to me. “She says she knows nothing more than what she told the police the first time.”

“Can you ask her about the Nemeth boy? They didn’t ask her about that.”

She turned to speak, then stopped.

“Why don’t we take it slowly? It would help if we ate. Let her be a hostess, let her give to us.”

I was genuinely hungry and told her so. She relayed the message to Mrs. Gutierrez, who nodded and returned to her kitchen.

“Let’s sit down,” Raquel said.

I took the love seat. She tucked herself into a corner of the sofa.

The señora came back with cookies and fruit and hot coffee. She asked Raquel something.

“She’d like to know if this is substantial enough to would you like some homemade chorizo?”

“Please tell her this is wonderful. However if you think my accepting chorizo would help things along, I’ll oblige.”

Raquel spoke again. A few moments later I was facing a platter of the spicy sausage, rice, refried beans and salad with lemon-oil dressing.

“Muchas gracias, señora.” I dug in.

I couldn’t understand much of what they were saying, but it sounded and looked like small talk. The two women touched each other a lot, patting hands, stroking cheeks. They smiled, and seemed to forget my presence.

Then suddenly the wind shifted and the laughter turned to tears. Mrs. Gutierrez ran out of the room, seeking the refuge of her kitchen.

Raquel shook her head.

“We were talking about the old times, when Elena and I were little girls. How we used to play secretary in the bushes, pretend we had typewriters and desks out there. It became difficult for her.”

I pushed my plate aside.

“Do you think we should go?” I asked.

“Let’s wait a while.” She poured me more coffee and filled a cup for herself. “It would be more respectful.”

Through the screen door I could see the top of Rafael’s fair head above the rim of the chair. His arm had fallen, so that the fingernails scraped the ground. He was beyond pleasure or pain.

“Did she talk about him?” I asked.

“No. As I told you, it’s easier to deny.”

“But how can he sit there, shooting up, right in front of her, with no pretense?”

“She used to cry a lot about it. After a while you accept the fact that things aren’t going to turn out the way you want them to. She’s had plenty of training in it, believe me. If you asked her about him she’d say he was sick. Just as if he had a cold, or the measles. It’s just a matter of finding the right cure. Have you heard of the curanderost”

“The folk doctors? Yes. Lots of the Hispanic patients at the hospital used them along with conventional medicine.”

“Do you know how they operate? By caring. In our culture the cold, distant professional is regarded as someone who simply doesn’t care, who is just as likely to deliver the mal ojo – the evil eye – as he is to cure. The curandero, on the other hand has little training or technology at his disposal – a few snake powders, maybe. But he cares. He lives in the community, he is warm, and familiar, has tremendous rapport. In a way, he’s a folk psychologist more than a folk doctor. That’s why I suggested you eat – to establish a personal link. I told her you were a caring person. Otherwise she’d say nothing. She’d be polite, ladylike – Cruz is from the old school – but she’d shut you out just the same.” She sipped at her coffee.

“That’s why the police learned nothing when they came here, why they seldom do in Echo Park, or East L.A. or San Fernando. They’re too professional. No matter how well-meaning they may be, we see them as Anglo robots. You do care, Alex, don’t you?”

“I do.”

She touched my knee.

“Cruz took Rafael to a curandero years ago, when he first started dropping out. The man looked into his eyes and said they were empty. He told her it was an illness of the soul, not of the body. That the boy should be given to the church, as a priest or monk, so that he could find a useful role for himself.”

“Not bad advice.”

She sipped her coffee. “No. Some of them are very sophisticated. They live by their wits. Maybe it would have prevented the addiction if she’d followed through. Who knows? But she couldn’t give him up. I wouldn’t be surprised if she blames herself for what he’s become. For everything.”

The door to the kitchen opened. Mrs. Gutierrez came out wearing a black band around her arm and a new face that was more than just fresh makeup. A face hardened to withstand the acid bath of interrogation.

She sat down next to Raquel and whispered to her in Spanish.

“She says you may ask any questions you’d like.”

I nodded with what I hoped was obvious gratitude.

“Please tell the señora that I express my sorrow at her tragic loss and also let her knew that I greatly appreciate her taking the time during her period of grief to talk to me.”

The older woman listened to the translation and acknowledged me with a quick movement of her head.

“Ask her, Raquel, if Elena ever talked about her work. Especially during the last year.”

As Raquel spoke a nostalgic smile spread across the older woman’s face.

“She says only to complain that teachers did not get paid enough. That the hours were long and the children could get difficult.”

“Any particular children?”

A whispered conference.

“No child in particular. The señora reminds you that Elena was a special kind of teacher who helped children with problems in learning. All the children had difficulties.”

I wondered to myself if there’d been a connection between growing up with a brother like Rafael and the dead girl’s choice of specialty.

“Did she speak at all about the child who was killed. The Nemeth boy?”

Upon hearing the question Mrs. Gutierrez nodded, sadly, then spoke.

“She mentioned it once or twice. She said she was very sad about it. That it was a tragedy,” Raquel translated.

“Nothing else?”

“It would be rude to pursue it, Alex.”

“Okay. Try this. Did Elena seem to have more money than usual recently? Did she buy expensive gifts for anyone in the family?”

“No. She says Elena always complained about not having enough money. She was a girl who liked to have good things. Pretty things. One minute.” She listened to the older woman, nodding affirmation. “This wasn’t always possible, as the family was never rich. Even when her husband was alive. But Elena worked very hard. She bought herself things. Sometimes on credit, but she always made her payments. Nothing was repossessed. She was a girl to make a mother proud.”