When The Bough Breaks

"I haven't eaten yet," she said. It was less an angling for an invitation than a complaint.

"No brown bag?"

"I threw it out. I make a lousy lunch. On a day like today it's too lousy to take. There's a chop house on Wilshire."

"Can I drive you?"

She looked at the Vega.

"Sure, why not? I'm low on gas, anyway. Toss those on the front seat." I put the books down and she locked the car. "But I'll pay for my own lunch."

We left the school grounds. I led her to the Seville. When she saw it her eyebrows rose.

"You must be a good investor."

"I get lucky from time to time."

She sank back in the soft leather and let out a breath. I got behind the wheel and started up the engine.

"I've changed my mind," she said. "You pay for the lunch."

She ate meticulously, cutting her steak into tiny pieces, spearing each morsel individually and slipping it into her mouth, and wiping her mouth with her napkin every third bite. I was willing to bet she was a tough grader.

"She was my best friend," she said, putting down her fork and picking up her water glass. "We grew up together in East L.A. Rafael and Andy - her brothers - played with Miguel." At the mention of her dead brother her eyes misted then grew hard as obsidian. She pushed her plate away. She'd eaten a quarter of her food. "When we moved to Echo Park the Gutierrezes moved with us. The boys were always getting into trouble - minor mischief, pranks. Elena and I were good girls. Goody - goodies, actually. The nuns loved us." She smiled.

"We were as close as sisters. And like sisters there was a lot of competition between us. She was always better - looking."

She read the doubt in my face.

"Really. I was a scrawny kid. I developed late. Elena was - voluptuous, soft. The boys followed her around with their tongues hanging out. Even when she was eleven and twelve. Here." She reached into her purse and took out a snapshot. More photographic memories.

"This is Elena and me. In high school."

Two girls leaned against a graffiti - filled wall. They wore Catholic school uniforms - short - sleeved white blouses, gray skirts, white socks and saddle shoes. One was tiny, thin and dark. The other a head taller, had curves the uniform couldn't conceal and a complexion that was surprisingly fair.

"Was she a blonde?"

"Surprising, isn't it? Some German rapist way back, no doubt. Later she lightened it even more, to be really all - American. She got sophisticated, changed her name to Elaine, spent lots of money on clothes, her car." She realized she was criticizing the dead girl and quickly changed her tune. "But she was a person of substance underneath all of that. She was a truly gifted teacher - there aren't many like that. She taught EH, you know."

Educationally Handicapped classes were for children who weren't retarded but still had difficulties learning. The category could include everything from bright kids with specific perceptual problems to youngsters whose emotional conflicts got in the way of their learning to read and write. Teaching EH was tough. It could be constant frustration or a stimulating challenge, depending on a teacher's motivation, energy and talent.

"Elena had a real gift for drawing them out - the kids no one else could work with. She had patience. You wouldn't have thought it to look at her. She was - flashy. She used lots of makeup, dressed to show herself off. Sometimes she looked like a party girl. But she wasn't afraid to get down on the floor with the children, didn't mind getting her hands dirty. She got into their heads - she dedicated herself to them. The children loved her. Look."

Another photograph. Elena Gutierrez surrounded by a group of smiling children. She was kneeling and the kids were climbing on her, tugging at the hem of her skirt, putting their heads in her lap. A tall, well built young woman, pretty rather than beautiful, with an earthy, open look, the yellow hair a styled, thick shag framing an oval face, and contrasting dramatically with the Hispanic features. Except for those features she was the classic California girl. The kind who should have been lying face down in the Malibu sand, bikini top undone, smooth brown back exposed to the sun. A girl for cola commercials and custom van shows and running down to the market in halter and shorts for a six - pack. She shouldn't have ended up as savaged, lifeless flesh in a refrigerated drawer downtown.

Raquel Ochoa took the picture out of my hands and I thought I saw jealousy in her face.

"She's dead," she said, putting it back in her purse, frowning, as if I'd committed some kind of heresy.

"It looked like they adored her," I said.

"They did. Now they've brought in some old bag who doesn't give a damn about teaching. Now that Elena's - gone."

She started to cry, using her napkin to shield her face from my eyes. Her thin shoulders shook. She sank lower in the booth, trying to disappear, sobbing.

I got up, moved to her side and put my arms around her. She felt as frail as a cobweb.