She faced me, nostrils flaring, eyes floating like black lilies in a salty pond, lips quivering like harp strings.

"Everything is falling apart."

She grasped the newel post on the porch rail for support. I came behind her.

"I'm sorry."

"He was always the sensitive one. Quiet, never dating, no friends. He got beat up a lot. When their dad died he tried to take over, to be the man of the house. Tradition says the oldest son should do that. But it didn't work. Nobody took him seriously. They laughed. We all did. So he gave up, as if he'd failed some final test. He dropped out of school, stayed home and read comic books and watched TV all day - just stared at the screen. When the army said they wanted him he seemed glad. Cruz cried to see him go, but he was happy…"

I looked at him, sitting so low he was almost parallel with the ground. Swallowed up by junkie - slumber. His mouth was open and he snored loudly. The radio played "Daddy's Home."

Raquel hazarded another look at him, men whipped her head away, disgusted. She wore an expression of noble suffering, an Aztec virgin steeling herself for the ultimate sacrifice.

I put my hands on her shoulders and she leaned back in my arms. She stayed there, tense and unyielding, allowing herself a miser's ration of tears.

"This is a hell of a start," she said. Inhaling deeply, she let out her breath in a breeze of wintergreen. She wiped her eyes and turned around. "You must think all I do is weep. Come on, let's go inside."

She pulled the screen door open and it slapped sharply against the wood siding of the house.

We stepped into a small front room furnished with old but cared - for relics. It was warm and dark, the windows shut tight and masked by yellowing parchment shades - a room unaccustomed to visitors. Faded lace curtains were tied back from the window frames and matching lace coverlets shielded the arms of the chairs - a sofa and love seat set upholstered in dark green crushed velvet, the worn spots shiny and the color of jungle parrots, two wicker rockers. A painting of the two dead Kennedy brothers in black velvet hung over the mantel. Carvings in wood and Mexican onyx sat atop lace - covered end tables. There were two floor lamps with beaded shades, a plaster Jesus in agony hanging on the whitewashed wall next to a still life of a straw basket of oranges. Family portraits in ornate frames covered another wall and there was a large graduation picture of Elena suspended high above those. A spider crawled in the space where wall met ceiling.

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

"Senora Cruz?"

The doorway widened and a small, heavy woman appeared, dishtowel in hand. She wore a blue print dress, un belted 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.

"Senor," she said, with too much deference, and looked at Raquel, arching one eyebrow.

"Senora 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 senora 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 cfcon'zo?"

"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.

"Much as gracias, senora." 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."