little longer." He studied my face over the rim of his glass. "Being in the Yucatán for a while will change your view of time. The people who live here think like archaeologists. Two thousand years ago, their great-great-grandfathers burned over a plot of land in the monte and planted corn with a digging stick. This spring, Salvador will burn over a plot of land in the monte and plant com with a digging stick. People who work on such a grand time scale don't worry so much about how long it takes to have a drink with the daughter of an old friend." He shrugged.
"You stay here a while, and you learn that attitude. You learn to take your time."
I looked down at my drink, turning the plastic glass in my hands. "I had to talk to my mother," I said. "I know I should have written or called or something, but ..." I shrugged. "It's pretty weird just showing up here with no warning."
"Some people say it's strange for a grown man to spend his summers digging in the dirt. Personally, I try to avoid making value judgments."
"I should have written first," I said.
"I don't see that it's a real problem," he said. "We can always string another hammock. You can learn to sleep in a hammock, can't you?"
I nodded.
He took the empty glass from my hand and poured me another drink without asking if I wanted one. I was taking my first sip when I heard footsteps outside the hut, a knock on the wooden doorjamb. "Hey, Tony," a woman's voice said. "What's this about a visitor?"
The blaze of light when the curtain was lifted aside blinded me for a moment. I blinked, staring toward the figure in the doorway.
My mother's hair had more white in it than I remembered. Her hair was damp, the tendrils curling on her neck as they dried. She carried a towel slung over her shoulder.
She was frowning. I tried to smile, but once again, I had lost the knack. "Hello," I said. "Surprise." I stood up, feeling awkward. I did not know what to do with my hands. She looked worried, I thought, in that first moment. Startled and worried, not angry.
"Diane?" she said. "Are you all right? What the hell are you doing here?"
Tony was making himself busy, pouring another drink.
"My father's dead," I said. "He died two weeks ago." I did not cry and my voice was steady. I waited for a reaction, but my mother's expression did not change. She sat down on the edge of the footlocker.
"I see," she said.
"He died of a heart attack." I was talking too fast, but I could not seem to stop. "I wanted to talk to you.
Dad never wanted me to talk to you. I thought 1 could come and stay here for a while."
"Here?" She still looked worried, a little puzzled. "For a while," she said. "I suppose you could."
"She could take the place of that student of mine who cancelled," Tony said, handing her a gin and tonic.
"Don't you think? We'll teach you to sort potsherds," he said to me.
I was watching my mother. She nodded cautiously and accepted the drink that Tony had mixed. Did she look relieved? Annoyed? Concerned? I could not read her face.
"Do you want to do that, Diane?"
"I'd like to try it," I said. "I promise I won't be in the way. I'll be no trouble at all. Really."
Tony sat in the lawn chair and my mother sat on the footlocker and they talked about which hut I would stay in, which work crew I would be assigned to, and other inconsequentials. I held my glass and watched my mother's face and hands as she talked. For the moment, I relaxed.
Before dinner, my mother took me on a tour of the central part of the ruins. She walked at a brisk pace, talking about people who had been dead for over a thousand years. She seemed quite fond of these dead people. As she walked, she looked at the rocks around us, at the trees, at the ground beneath our feet. She did not look at my face—she did not seem to be avoiding my eyes; she just found the rocks and trees and barren ground more interesting than me. Her straw hat shaded her face. She wore khaki pants and a baggy long-sleeved shirt.
We