ANOTHER CHANCE

1 2 7 R A N O T H E R C H A N C E J A M E S W I L C O X Forbidden to ascend here please. That was what the sign seemed to say in Spanish – and yet there they were, a hefty woman in a sombrero and two men, tramping up the mound of unexcavated ruins. Even from a distance Daniel could tell they weren’t authorized personnel – the sombrero glittered too brightly, a brash halo, pink as Pepto-Bismol. But nothing happened to them – no fine for trespassing, not even a warning. Soon the trio was out of the restricted area and resting on the steps of a nearby pyramid, where the woman sprayed sunscreen on the men’s white calves. Despite the heat, Daniel himself was not in shorts. He’d been told that shorts would be o√ensive to the indigenous people. In the museum, burial urns and skulls were supplied with estimated dates, which he duly noted as his eyes adjusted to the dim light. The Mam might have sacrificed on the tallest pyramid, the one he hadn’t climbed because of this – and his fear of heights. A rival highland tribe then conquered the Mam, who retook Zaculeu later, only to have the Spaniards starve the remaining Mam into submission in their besieged capital. Convert or else. In 1946 United Fruit plastered over the ruins to make them seem more authentic, how they supposedly would have looked to the . . . 1 2 8 W I L C O X Y ‘‘Don’t touch!’’ Glancing over his shoulder, Daniel saw it wasn’t a child being scolded, but a grown woman, who protested she hadn’t touched anything. Barely larger than his neighborhood launderette, the modest museum o√ered no refuge from the squabbling. Every word intruded on the dates he was trying to keep straight. Heading for the exit, he felt something brush against his leg. ‘‘Caballeros? Donde?’’ It was the woman. The pink sombrero he had spotted earlier, glittering blithely over the buried ruins, was hovering now beside her waist, the rim touching his khakis but not her hands, which were filled with brochures. Taking a step away from this enigma, he said, ‘‘The men’s room?’’ ‘‘Si. My ex-esposo . . .’’ She gestured toward the only other person in the museum, a man hunched over a display case of ceramics, studiously ignoring her. ‘‘He’s too embarazada to ask.’’ ‘‘Right outside, to your left.’’ ‘‘Muy gracias. Donald!’’ she called out. ‘‘The señor says it’s right outside to your left. Go now or forever hold your peace. And while you’re at it, tell Harold he better go, too. Where is he, anyway?’’ she added, looking back at Daniel. ‘‘I thought he was right behind us.’’ Daniel shrugged politely. ‘‘In that case, would you mind keeping an eye on eso?’’ she said, lifting the festive sombrero to reveal a three-pronged metal cane, her impromptu hat rack. Gravity hadn’t been defied, after all. ‘‘It’s Harold’s cane, my esposo’s, only he’s too stubborn to use it. He broke his pequeño toe opening a jar of peanut butter just before we left. I told him to dry his hands before he tackled it, but no. Landed right on his bare foot, one of those jumbo jars from Sam’s, which I hate, buying in bulk like that. You always get so sick of it by the time you’re halfway through.’’ ‘‘I’m sorry, but . . .’’ ‘‘Don’t want to bring this into the damas, do we?’’ she added, giving the cane a little spank with the hat. ‘‘Never know what it might pick up. Muy gracias, Señor. I’ll just be a secundo.’’ As she herded her too-pregnant ex outside to the restrooms, Daniel regarded the free-standing cane. His bus would be loading soon – and he didn’t dare miss it. Perhaps if he put the cane behind A N O T H E R C H A N C E 1 2 9 R the desk at the front entrance, where the young Mayan docent had...