The Day of the Dog

Everything on the garlic field is coated in a fine, choking dust. Rows of brittle brown stalks sit trapped in the August dirt, waiting. The Mennonite women wear wide-brimmed hats that hide their faces, while their husbands, clad in heavy overalls, bend over the rows like fishhooks weighted by a catch they can’t quite haul in. The field is an ocean; the families are so far apart they look like mere ink dots on a map. Two blue Porta-Potties stand near the barn, the only landmarks other than a rotting beehive. They are a five-minute walk from our corner of the field, but we aren’t allowed to go alone. Mother or Father follow us closely.

Working. That has been our entire world for the two months that we and other Mennonite families have come from Mexico to work in Canada. Monday through Saturday, the five of us pile into the minivan as the sun bleeds over the horizon and crawl back home when it sinks. “Good, honest, godly work,” Father says. “We’ll be blessed, blessed, blessed.” During the second week, I find a twenty-dollar bill on the floor of the plastic bathroom. “See, Chrissy? God is already paying attention.”