The Falling Woman

6 Diane

Just after my father died, during the two weeks when I could not sleep and could not eat, my friend Marcia suggested I visit a psychologist. I went to see Marcia’s counselor, a square-shouldered woman with soft gray eyes that looked out of place in a face composed of angles and harsh planes. On the wood-paneled walls of her office hung watercolors in black frames – an odd combination of softness and severity. She sat in a rocking chair. I sat in an easy chair that was too soft.

She asked me to talk about myself. I considered, for a moment, telling her about the night before my father’s funeral. The memory had haunted me. For three nights running, I had dreamed of the great dark valley spreading beneath my father’s balcony. I remembered the dreams only vaguely, waking each time to a feeling of panic and a memory of falling. While awake, I avoided the balcony, especially at night.

I spent my days sorting through my father’s things – deciding what clothes would be donated to charity, what papers might be of interest to my father’s colleagues at the hospital. Aunt Alicia kept asking me when I had to be back to work. I had not told her that I had quit work and given up my apartment. By night, I drank, watched television, and tried to sleep. But whenever I managed to doze off, I woke from strange dreams, restless and unhappy.

I told the counselor that my father was dead, that I could not eat and I had trouble sleeping, that I was very nervous and upset. She asked me about my father and my relationship with him, and I told her that my father and I had had a good relationship, a very good relationship.

She asked about my mother and I told her that my mother did not enter into this at all. I told her that I had not seen my mother in fifteen years.

‘How do you feel when you think about your mother?’ she asked. Her voice matched her eyes – pale gray and gentle.

I shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Sad, I guess. Sad that she left.’

She waited, studying me. ‘What are your hands doing?’

My hands were clenched in fists. I did not speak.

‘Can you give your hands a voice and let them tell me how they feel?’

I shook my head quickly and forced my hands to relax. ‘Holding on,’ I said in a thick voice that did not sound like my own. ‘I guess they were holding on. I didn’t want her to go.’

The gray eyes studied me dispassionately and I thought that she did not believe me.

On my first morning in camp I woke to the sound of a blaring car horn. The clock on the footlocker said it was 8:00. Already the air was hot. Barbara’s and Robin’s hammocks were empty. Maggie was still asleep, curled up with the sheet pulled over her head. I felt more relaxed than I had in months, and I resolved, lying in my hammock, to adopt Tony’s easygoing attitude and take things as they came.

I slipped out of my hammock and dressed quickly. Barbara was at the water barrel, washing her face. I wished her a good morning and hung my towel in the tree.

‘I wish you wouldn’t be so cheerful before I have my coffee,’ she grumbled, but she waited for me to wash up. On the way to the plaza, we passed the kitchen, a small hut constructed of slats. Through the open door, I could see a thin woman in a white dress tending a small fire and cooking tortillas on a flat black pan.

‘That’s Maria,’ Barbara said. ‘She’s married to Salvador, the foreman.’ A small girl with large dark eyes stood by Maria and watched me solemnly. In one hand, she held a tortilla. When I smiled at her, she hid behind her mother. Maria looked over her shoulder to see what the child was watching.

I smiled but Maria did not smile back. She studied me seriously, suspiciously I thought. After a moment, she turned back to the fire and the tortillas. The little girl smiled at me, then hid her face behind her mother’s skirt.

Tony and my mother were already at the table. Breakfast was huevos rancheros with tortillas, strong coffee, and fresh orange juice. My mother looked tired, but seemed filled with nervous energy. She greeted me and waved me to a chair, then went on making out a shopping list. ‘Yes, yes, pineapples, I’ll get fresh fruit. What else? I know I’ve forgotten something important.’

My mother finished checking over her list, then glanced at me. ‘I’ll be going to the market in the afternoon,’ she said. ‘If you’d like to come along, we can get you a hat.’

‘Sure,’ I said. ‘I’d like that.’

Tony’s eyes were red-rimmed. His voice, when he spoke, was hoarse, rough as wool cloth against the skin. ‘I’ll be going for a swim right after breakfast,’ Tony said softly. ‘Do you and Barbara want to join me? You have time.’

Barbara and I agreed.

The other students were just wandering down to breakfast when Tony, Barbara, and I finished our coffee. Barbara and I returned to our hut to change into swimsuits, then followed Tony down the path.

At the crest of a small rise, I stopped to look around. In the distance, the Temple of the Seven Dolls stood above the barren ground. ‘According to the guidebook I read, this is one of the largest sites in the Yucatán,’ I said. I looked at the jungle that surrounded us and shook my head. ‘Am I missing something? Where are all the buildings?’

Tony stamped his foot lightly on the ground. ‘Underneath you,’ he said. ‘All around you.’ He waved a hand in the direction of the temple. ‘You have to learn how to look. Don’t the mounds look a little more regular than hills should look? And you see how they’re arranged so that they make a nice path from here to there.’ He drew a line in the air with his hand. ‘And look at the rocks that are scattered around. They aren’t your average rocks.’

‘I suppose so,’ I said doubtfully.

‘We’re standing right on top of an old temple,’ he said.

‘How do you know it’s a temple?’

Barbara broke in. ‘Everything’s a temple until someone proves otherwise,’ she said in a mildly derisive tone. ‘We could even give it a name: Temple of the Sun, say. Or Temple of the Jaguar – that sounds good. The names are arbitrary anyway.’

‘Careful,’ Tony said, smiling faintly. ‘You’re giving away professional secrets.’

‘She’ll keep it in the family,’ Barbara said. ‘She’s trustworthy.’

She started down the trail and we followed. I studied the rocks around us as we walked. Occasionally, I saw one that bore the remnants of carving, but most just looked like rocks.

The cenote was a pool of clear blue water, set in the limestone rock. Right beside the path, the rock sloped gently down to the water. On the far side, the rocks rose out of the water in a sheer face that leveled off several feet above the water’s surface. I could not see the bottom of the pool. Water lilies floated at the far end.

We left our towels in the sun on the sloping rock. Barbara and I climbed in slowly. The water was cold, a shock after the heat of the morning. I swam a dozen laps, down to the water lilies at the far end and back. I could see tiny fish, each no longer than my finger, hovering just under the water lilies. When I swam toward them, they scattered, heading down into the darkness.

Tony sat on the sloping rocks, basking in the sun like an ancient reptile trying to absorb the warmth. He had leaned back on his hands and tilted his face to the sun. Now that he had taken off his shirt, I could see how thin he was. His skin, tanned to the color of old leather, seemed to fit him badly, like a shirt handed down from a larger man.

I climbed out on the rocks beside him. Barbara was still in the water, floating contentedly on her back. I spread my towel beside his and he acknowledged my presence with a nod.

‘How deep is this pool?’ I asked him.

He shrugged without opening his eyes. ‘Deeper than you think. According to the team from Tulane University, it goes straight down to a hundred and fifty feet. Keeps going at an angle from there. They did quite a bit of underwater work.’

‘Will you be diving this summer?’ I asked.

Tony shook his head. ‘No budget for it. The university doesn’t think this is a glamorous enough site for the big money.’

I could understand that attitude. So far, I had seen nothing that looked particularly impressive.

‘It’s an important site,’ Tony was saying. ‘The oldest continuously occupied ceremonial center. But to convince the university to let us come back next year, we need to find something spectacular.’

‘Like what?’

‘Jade masks, gold, pottery painted with pictures of important rituals. Or maybe a set of murals like the ones at Bonampak in Chiapas.’ He lay back, setting himself down gently as if his bones might shatter. ‘Something flashy – a tomb filled with treasure would be ideal. Something that can double as a tourist attraction.’

‘You think the chances are good?’ I asked.

His eyes were still closed against the sun. He shrugged without opening them. ‘Hard to say. We’re gambling. We always have to gamble. Liz likes gambling, I think. But then, she’s never lost big. She has luck. The academics don’t like her. But she has luck.’

‘I hope I won’t be in the way here,’ I said. My voice sounded thin and weak. ‘I don’t want to get in her way.’

He opened his eyes halfway and squinted at me. ‘What do you expect to find here?’ he asked. His voice was a low rumble, like the thunder of ocean waves on a warm beach or like rain on a tin roof on a winter morning. ‘Some come looking for secret knowledge; some, for adventure. What do you want here?’

I shrugged. ‘I don’t really know.’

‘You’ll find something, that’s certain. But it’s never what you expect.’

‘What do you want here?’ I asked him, closing my eyes against the sun.

‘Warmth and peace,’ he said. ‘I used to want more, but the years have changed that.’

‘What should I do?’ I asked lazily, my eyes still closed. ‘Expect nothing and see what comes?’

He was silent for a moment. ‘That might work.’ He hesitated. ‘Your mother doesn’t know what to do with you – I can tell you that. That’s why she’s a little stiff. She doesn’t know what role to play.’

I opened my eyes and wrapped my arms around my knees. The sun had dried my skin and the rock was warm beneath me. ‘Neither do I,’ I said.

‘You’ve been doing okay,’ he said. ‘Just keep on the way you’re going.’

I did not look at him. I watched Barbara dive beneath the water and pop up like a cork.

‘I think that having you here will be good for Liz,’ he said. ‘I think she needs people more than she is willing to admit.’ I heard him shift position, but I still did not look at him. ‘Someone once told me that archaeologists are anthropologists who don’t like live people. They dig up dead ones because dead ones can’t talk back. That’s not quite true. But I think live people are too fast for most archaeologists. We’re a slow-moving lot. We look at a change in pottery technology that took a hundred years and say that that’s pretty quick. We’re used to taking our time. You’ll have to give Liz some time to get used to the idea that she has a daughter.’

‘All right,’ I said slowly. ‘I will.’ I lay back on my towel and let the sun warm me.

After a time, Barbara left the water and lay down beside us. Tony left after about fifteen minutes of sunbathing, saying he had some reading to do back at the camp. Barbara propped her head up to watch him go. He waved from the crest of the hill, then vanished from our sight.

‘Ten to one he’ll be on his third gin and tonic by the time we get back,’ Barbara said in a matter-of-fact tone.

I looked at her sharply.

‘Don’t get me wrong,’ she said. ‘I like Tony. Everyone likes Tony. And we all see that he drinks too much.’ She rolled over and lay on her back, her head pillowed on one arm. Her dark hair was slicked back and still glistening with water from the cenote. ‘It hasn’t interfered with his work so far. He’s still a brilliant teacher, from what I’ve heard. It’s just in the field that he lets himself go.’

I remembered what he had said about warmth and peace. Barbara glanced up at my face and shrugged. ‘Sorry. I suppose I shouldn’t have mentioned it. After a while, there’s not much to do in camp except gossip about the other people. Dead people, fascinating though they may be, are not nearly as interesting as the live ones.’ She turned her head and opened one eye to squint at me. ‘Don’t you agree?’

‘I suppose you’re right.’

‘Of course,’ she said. ‘Now – what do you suppose Carlos and Maggie and Robin are saying about us?’

‘What makes you think they are talking about us?’

‘I thought we just went through that. They’re talking about us because live people are more interesting than dead ones. You don’t think that archaeologists talk about archaeology all the time, do you? No, they talk about other archaeologists. So what do you think they’re saying about us?’

‘Ten to one, Maggie thinks that I’m stuck up,’ I said, adopting her tone. ‘Probably thinks you are too.’

‘No bet there,’ Barbara said. ‘And Robin will go along with that, because Robin goes along with anything Maggie says. She has the mark of the eternal sidekick. What about Carlos?’

‘If Carlos has any brains, he’ll stay out of it.’

‘Ah, your first error of judgment. Carlos has no brains. I’d bet that he will try to defend us – at least he’ll defend you. Carlos and I aren’t the best of friends.’

‘So I’d noticed,’ I said dryly.

Barbara shook her head. ‘I can hear those wheels turning,’ she said. ‘And you can just stop. No, I never slept with Carlos. But I watched him sleep with four different women last summer – courting each one with equal energy and passion – and dropping each one just the same.’ She shrugged. ‘The first of the women was a very good friend of mine. She had to hang around the rest of the summer and watch Carlos make his moves on numbers two, three, and four. All of them were very nice women. All of them were burned.’ She shrugged again. ‘I don’t know why he does it, but I think he likes trouble. Be careful.’

‘Thanks for the warning. I’d figured that out already.’

‘John, on the other hand, is a workaholic. I doubt if he even realizes women exist.’ She closed her eyes against the bright sun overhead. ‘So, do you want to place a bet on whether Maggie and Robin will wear mascara on survey tomorrow?’

We lay in the sun and chatted. Barbara had a sharp eye and a sharper tongue and she was quite amusing at the expense of the others.

After an hour or so, we heard shouting and laughter on the trail. A group of Mexican boys, ranging in age from five to fifteen, came scrambling down to the cenote. Barbara and I watched them swim for a time, but packed up to leave when the older boys started a contest to see who could make the biggest splash by leaping into the water from the sheer rock face. The rock where we were lying was right on the edge of the splash zone and retreat seemed the wisest course.

‘It belongs to them the rest of the year,’ Barbara said as we headed back. ‘We only borrow it.’

‘Do they live near here?’

‘Up at the hacienda, I think. You know, the ranch out by the highway. In the middle of the henequen fields.’

‘Long walk down here,’ I said.

She shrugged. ‘When there’s only one place to swim, I suppose it doesn’t matter much how long the walk is.’

The camp was quiet. Tony sat in the shade by his hut, a drink balanced carefully on the arm of his lawn chair. My mother was apparently working on her book – I could hear the tapping of her typewriter. Barbara declared that the only thing worth doing was taking a nap. I borrowed a book from her, took a seat in the shade at one of the tables, and settled down to read.

Chickens scratched in the dirt around me, clucking bemusedly to themselves. A small black pig lay by the wall near the kitchen, taking a prolonged siesta. I could hear the cook’s daughter singing to herself. She was just on the other side of the wall, scratching in the dirt with a stick. I could not understand the words of the song. They could have been nonsense or they could have been Maya. When she peeked over the edge of the wall, I smiled and said, ‘Buenos días.’ She ducked back behind the wall and was silent for a few minutes. Then I heard the scratching of her stick in the dirt and she returned to her song.

The first chapter of Barbara’s book gave a general history of the Mayan empire, profusely illustrated with photos of Chichén Itzá and Uxmal. Dzibilchaltún was mentioned as the oldest continuously occupied site, but the text included no photos. I understood why.

The Maya had occupied the Yucatán peninsula since 3000 BC. They absorbed several invasions from Mexico. From the book, I got the impression that the Maya’s strength was not in their military prowess, but in their ability to absorb invaders, adopt some of the new customs, retain some of their own. For the most part, they held their own until the Spanish came along. The Spanish conquistadors overcame the Mayan armies; the Catholic Church subdued the survivors. The friars seemed, from the book’s account, to be concerned with saving the heathens’ souls even if that meant ending their lives.

I took a break and drank a glass of water from the barrel in the shade. I considered going back to the cenote for another swim, but the prospect of the long, hot walk discouraged me. The plaza was hot, even in the shade. Tony had gone into his hut for a nap or another drink, I supposed.

The second chapter described the Mayan view of time, saying that the philosophy of time was an essential part of their way of thinking. The book failed to make it seem at all essential. I had read the first paragraph over three times and was considering a stroll through the ruins, when the jeep drove up in a cloud of dust. Carlos and Robin were sitting in the front seat; Maggie was alone in the back. ‘Hey, Robin,’ I heard Maggie say, ‘let’s take this stuff to the hut and go for a swim.’

The two women headed off together with their laundry bags, never looking back at Carlos. I suppressed a grin and looked back down at my book, considering the comments that Barbara might have on this particular sequence in the courtship rites.

I tried to concentrate on the book, but the description of the Mayan calendar was as dry as my throat. I had moved on to the second paragraph, but it was little better than the first. Cycles of twenty days made a month; eighteen months made a year. Each day had a name and the Maya believed that each day was the responsibility of the god of that name. There seemed to be an inordinate number of names and gods and cycles.

‘Would you like a beer?’ I looked up. Carlos was holding out an open bottle. The brown glass was beaded with condensation and a wisp of cold vapor curled from the open neck. Carlos set it on the table in front of me without waiting for my answer. He sat in the chair across from me and took a long drink from his own bottle.

I put the book down and took a long drink. The bottle was cold in my hand and the beer was cold running down my throat. ‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘That was a quick trip to town.’

He nodded and grinned. He was tanned and handsome, and he knew it. He wore white shorts and an air of confidence. He pushed his chair back away from the table and propped his feet up on another chair. ‘Just long enough to do laundry and have an argument.’

‘An argument? What about?’

He seemed at ease, sleek and content as a well-fed cat. ‘I got myself in trouble with Maggie by commenting on how pretty you are.’

‘Barbara mentioned that you liked trouble,’ I said.

He glanced at me, then threw back his head and laughed. ‘I suppose I do,’ he said. ‘I seem to find it often enough.’

‘Are you sure you don’t go looking for it?’ I asked.

He shrugged, still grinning. ‘Could be. You are pretty, though. You’re from Los Angeles, aren’t you?’

‘That’s right.’

‘I spent about five years in Los Angeles. I’m from Mexico originally, Mexico City. L.A.’s a nice town. Why the hell did you decide to spend your vacation in this godforsaken spot?’

I did not look at his face; I considered the condensation on the beer bottle. One drop traced a path through the other drops and reached the table. I shrugged. ‘I really just wanted to spend time with my mother.’

‘I see.’ He turned the book, which I had set down on the table, and read the title. ‘I would have thought you knew all this already. Being Liz’s daughter.’

‘I don’t know much at all,’ I said. ‘This is my first dig.’ On the wall by the kitchen, a small blue lizard marked with yellow stripes was sunning itself. The black pig shifted its position, sighed, and continued its nap. I could still hear the little girl singing softly. The chickens were scratching in the dirt. I watched the chickens and regretted having accepted the beer. I did not want to talk about my reasons for coming here.

‘Why don’t you tell me something interesting about the ancient Maya?’ I asked.

I could see him weighing possible comments. ‘Your eyes are the most beautiful shade of green I’ve ever seen,’ he said at last.

I raised my eyebrows. ‘That has nothing to do with the ancient Maya.’

‘That’s true.’ He paused, and when he spoke again, he spoke slowly, as if choosing each word with care. ‘The ancient Maya carved elaborate ornaments of jade using nothing but stone tools. The jade that they carved was just the color of your eyes.’

I couldn’t help smiling a little. ‘A little better. Try one more time, and leave my eyes out of it.’

He tapped a cigarette from his pack and lit it, studying my face as he did so. Then he said, ‘The people who have put their minds to translating the Mayan hieroglyphics have come to the conclusion that many of the symbols are puns and puzzles. “Xoc,” for example, means “to count.” It is also the name of a mythical fish that lives in the heavens. So the Maya used the head of the fish to represent counting. But since the fish was difficult to carve, they substituted the symbol for water, since that’s where fish live. The symbol for water is a jade bead, since both are green and precious. So jade means water means fish means to count.’ Carlos paused, took a drag on his cigarette, and blew out a cloud of smoke. ‘And as confusing as all that sounds, it is simplicity itself compared to the mind of a woman.’ He tapped the ash from his cigarette and looked at my face. ‘Is that better?’

‘I don’t think so,’ I said, but I couldn’t help smiling. He worked so hard at being charming. ‘Somehow, I think that I’ll learn more about the Maya by reading a book.’

‘Could be. But I’m much more amusing than a book. You did smile there for a minute.’

‘You got me there.’ I studied his smiling face. Clever and dishonest and charming. ‘How many times have you used that line before?’

He shrugged. ‘I never use the same line twice.’

‘Was all that about the hieroglyphics true?’

‘It may not be true, but I didn’t make it up. I leave that to the professors. When I get to those exalted ranks, I’ll make up my own outlandish theories.’ He leaned back in his chair, his arms locked behind his head, his legs outstretched.

I believed him when he said he never used the same line twice. He was a fisherman, choosing his bait carefully with a certain fish in mind.

A moment of silence. The lizard suddenly lifted its head and ran away across the wall. The little girl’s singing had stopped. As I watched, she peeked over the wall at us.

‘What’s the little girl’s name?’ I asked Carlos. ‘She won’t talk to me.’

‘That’s Teresa. Qué tal, Teresa?’

She smiled at him and muttered something in Spanish. He said something else to her, but the only words I caught were ‘la señorita.’ Teresa shook her head and said something quickly that I could not begin to understand. She turned and ran away to the kitchen hut.

Carlos looked at me. ‘I asked her why she wouldn’t talk to you. She said that her mother told her not to.’

‘I wonder why.’

Carlos shrugged. ‘Maybe she’s worried that getting to know loose American women will corrupt her little girl.’

‘What makes her think we’re loose?’ 1 said.

He raised his eyebrows and grinned. ‘All American women are loose,’ he said. ‘Ask any Mexican man.’

‘Somehow, I wouldn’t trust you as an expert on American women.’ I leaned back in my chair and noticed my mother watching us from the door of her hut. I waved to her and she strolled out into the plaza.

‘I’ll be leaving for town in fifteen minutes or so,’ she said.

I finished my beer and stood up. ‘I’ll be ready.’

She glanced at Carlos, and turned away without saying anything. ‘You know,’ he said when she was out of earshot, ‘I don’t think your mother likes me.’

The ride to town was hot. The truck hit the potholes in the road hard and the seats were poorly padded. The roar of the engine made polite conversation impossible. Now and then, my mother would shout over the engine to point out a landmark – the road to a small village, the henequen-processing plant, a local high school.

The market in Mérida was housed in a corrugated-steel building: a place of noise, low ceilings, strong smells, and confusion. A beggar woman wrapped in a fringed shawl huddled beside the doorway. My mother dropped a coin in her hand and started into the crowd. I followed a few steps behind.

A woman in a white dress, embroidered with flowers at the neck and hem, carried a plastic basin filled with strange yellow fruits. She balanced it on her head, steadying it with one hand and making her way purposefully through the crowd.

A man shouted behind me and I stepped aside. He carried three crates in a stack on his back, secured with a rope wrapped around his forehead. I let him pass, then hurried after my mother.

An old peasant woman held out a plastic bowl filled with peppers, calling out the price. A younger woman, her daughter I think, squatted beside her, carefully arranging glossy peppers in a neat pile on a square of white cloth.

My mother stopped by a stall in which a wizened old man stood, surrounded by burlap sacks filled with beans. Each sack was open to display its contents – red beans, black beans, rice, dried corn. My mother fingered the black beans and exchanged a few words with the man. He shoveled several scoops of black beans into the metal dish of a scale and poured them into a smaller sack.

My mother glanced to make sure I was with her, beckoned me to follow, and continued through the crowd. ‘Maria does most of the shopping,’ she commented. ‘She’s better at bargaining. I’m just picking up a few things.’

Another stop – this one for chickens. My mother bargained and the chickens watched her nervously from between the wooden slats of their crates. Chicks peeped from the back of the stall, and three large turkeys, exhausted in the heat, lay in the dust of the aisle. The three black hens that my mother bought pecked at the hands of the boy who carried them, still crated, to the truck.

My mother made her way through the crowd with confidence, not stopping to glance at the butcher’s stall, where vacant eyes stared from the face of a butchered pig. She seemed undisturbed by the warm sweet scent of overripe fruit and the underlying aroma of decay. She stepped around the squatting women who haggled over the price of tomatoes. She sidestepped to avoid the small dog licking at a crushed mango on the pavement. Now and then, she nodded to a shopkeeper, stopped to buy something – a plastic bag packed with ground pepper the color of blood, a bunch of bananas, a bag of small yellow squash.

I followed her, carrying her packages, stopping when she stopped. I was out of place here – I did not understand a word of the rapid transactions that were taking place all around me. But as long as I followed my mother, I felt protected. She obviously belonged here. I stayed close to her.

‘Are you doing all right?’ she asked just as we were about to plunge down another aisle of stalls, through the dim light and tropical heat. Without waiting for a reply, she said, ‘We’ll stop for a drink soon.’ She bought two pineapples, a bunch of radishes, and two heads of wilted lettuce.

We left the food in the truck with the squawking chickens and she bought me a Coke – too sweet but at least it was wet. We sat at a counter and the crowd surged past us.

‘It’s confusing,’ I said.

She shook her head, smiling. ‘At first, I suppose. You get used to it.’

‘I’d like to.’ And that was good. Maybe I would have the chance to get used to it.

When we finished our drinks, my mother led me to another area of the market: a line of stalls filled with dresses, hammocks, shawls, sandals, blankets, tourist trinkets. She stopped at a hat-seller’s stall and chatted with the man behind the counter. Something in her manner had changed. She had slowed down, relaxed a little. She lit a cigarette and laughed at something the man said. I stood to one side, fingering the brim of a hat, grateful for the breeze that blew in from the street, fanning away the heavy scent of decay.

The man held out a broad-brimmed hat with a high crown. ‘Try it on,’ my mother said. The man nodded and smiled and said something in rapid Spanish that made my mother laugh again. When she replied, he shrugged and spread his hands in a gesture of denial.

‘He says that you look very pretty,’ my mother told me. ‘And he says that you look like me.’ She smiled and leaned against the counter. ‘I told him that he was just trying to make a sale.’ She looked younger when she laughed, her blue eyes caught in a net of wrinkles, her face shaded beneath the broad brim of a straw hat similar to the one I wore. ‘What do you think?’

I glanced in the mirror that the man held out. ‘Great.’

Bargaining for the hat took longer than bargaining for food, proceeding at a more leisurely pace, with more smiles and laughter. Final sale and my mother dropped the stub of her cigarette, ground it into the asphalt at her feet, and used both hands to adjust the hat on my head. She eyed it critically and nodded. ‘Looks good. Wear it on survey.’

That was it. We drove back with our produce, and the chickens squawked each time we hit a bump.