American Dirt

by Jeanine Cummins

Javier reminded her, in the middle of her mothering years, that life was exciting, that there was always the possibility of something, or someone, previously undiscovered.

Shortly after their formation, everyone in the city knew that “The Gardeners” used guns only when they didn’t have time to indulge their creativity. Their preferred tools were more intimate: spade, ax, sickle, hook, machete. The simple instruments of hacking and trenching. With these, Los Jardineros moved the earth; with these, they unseated and buried their rivals.

“Like Los Jardineros,” Julia says. “I heard they donated money to build a new cancer hospital in Acapulco.” Lydia takes a sharp breath, but Neli waves a hand dismissively. “That’s just trying to buy people’s loyalty,” she says. “Propaganda.”

He unscrews the lid from a jar of minced garlic and instructs everyone to smear some on their shoes as a rattlesnake deterrent.