Harvesting Ashwood Minnesota 2037

by Cynthia Kraack

  My first night at Ashwood, Bureau authorities arrested my predecessor for stealing from the estate. On a farm where production was bountiful, child workers with the thin faces of hunger ate dinner of white fish with a small serving of vegetables night after night. Maybe greed brought Jeremiah and his partner to the same fate as Ashwood’s first matron, led out in handcuffs surrounded by officials in dark-blue clothing.

  Some government employees, like all the other intellectual class including David, were paid handsome incomes and lived like the upper middle class in assigned housing. Members of a slim middle class, if they were lucky, might raise their family in a two-bedroom apartment or a shared house. A small sliver of government employees lived exceptionally well. For many, jobs like those on the management team of an estate were the best this country had to offer—good pay, free housing, food, medical care, and education for their children. Military life offered the same benefits if a family was willing to accept the risks.

  Unlike long-standing family farms, Ashwood existed in a quasi-government status managed by people I hired but staffed almost entirely by workers and laborers assigned through the Bureau of Human Capital Management. Jeremiah was the last senior manager I accepted on assignment from the Bureau. As I signed papers authorizing Jeremiah’s release to the authorities, I was reminded of my trust in individuals paid by Hartford, Ltd.

  Thanks to Sarah supervising the kitchen following Jeremiah’s arrest, dinner was served without a hitch. I tried to push aside my concerns to enjoy the early meal with my family. More important than our simple entrée and salad, the love of my kids fed me. The boys sat between Paul and Sarah, with Phoebe at my side.

  “Where’s Dad this time?” Phoebe asked as the boys’ perpetual activity stopped to allow food to travel from plates to mouths.

  “South America, sweetie.”

  “He’ll be hot there, just like us.” Her fork stabbed lettuce and pea pods. “When will he call us? I want to tell him about a new way Teacher Jason showed me to study for the exam.”

  “Talking with Dad’s going to be tough this trip. He’s traveling into mountain areas, and his schedule is difficult.” Our lie flowed easily. Phoebe’s shoulders slumped. “I would love to hear all about it tonight. Do you want to take a walk after my call is done?”

  “I need to show you in the classroom.”

  “Great. We’ll still take a short walk.” I gave her a little shoulder bump. “It’s been a long day, but I have to get some fresh air with my favorite girl.”

  A small worry wrinkle appeared above her eyes. She leaned close. “Since Dad’s not here tonight, could I sleep with you?” The pitch of her voice rose. “Please.”

  I knew Sarah and Paul heard Phoebe’s request, waited for my response to signal if they would be on call tonight. “That sounds like a good idea. No pj party games, though. Dad and I were up early, so I’m tired.”

  “And I woke you up with a bad dream.”

  This time I put my arm around her. “True, but we have been really busy today with big problems.”

  An inward look, more adult than childlike, showed on her face, suggesting she didn’t remember anything or had memories of the night terror that she didn’t want to remember.

  “Hopefully we’ll both sleep well tonight.” The boys ignored our conversation. Sarah and Paul sat back with their coffee cups, which reminded me of the days when sharing coffee in the kitchen gave Terrell and me time to develop a great friendship.

  I wondered what Terrell would think of our little girl and realized few in our family would really remember him. “I have a big announcement.” My in-laws loved good surprises as much as my kids did, and their anticipation lifted me from the day’s fatigue.

  “You’ve all heard me talk about my friend Terrell, who was Ashwood’s cook when you three big kids were babies?” Phoebe and my in-laws nodded. “The really great news is that he is coming back here to take over all the estate food management. Even better, he arrives tonight.”

  Phoebe tilted her head. “He sang to me when I was a baby and taught me to count.”

  Her memory astounded me. “Absolutely, sweetie. Terrell had a beautiful voice and knew just how to rub your back when you couldn’t sleep. He taught you how to walk along the wooden bench in the front hall.”

  “The bench Dad made.” We all heard the whispery longing under her words.

  “The most beautiful piece of furniture in Ashwood.” I winked at her. “You kids can split my cookie because I have to go back to work.” Folding my napkin next to my plate, I wanted to stay at the table until everyone was through eating, but I had no choice. “Boys, if Grandma wouldn’t mind, I’d like to read with you two tonight and have Phoebe join us.” I looked to Sarah. “Grandma’s welcome to stick around.”

  “That’s a date,” said Noah in a fake deep voice and wicked smile. “Do I sound like Dad?”

  “No,” exploded from Phoebe as she rolled dark eyes. “You sound like a six-year-old.”

  Their laughter raised my spirits. “Don’t rush, Paul. I’m heading over early to go through notes before we start.” He lifted his cup to acknowledge my comment.

  The sounds of their voices soon mingled with thirty other kids arriving for dinner. Unlike young workers at regular estates, ours receive a wardrobe of seasonal clothes when they joined Ashwood, so each table looked bright and unique. For most kids, six outfits and three pairs of shoes represented more hope than they had experienced in their deprived homes.

  When I came to Ashwood, I assigned each worker an adult mentor, but as the number of kids passed the number of adults, we moved into a buddy system of older children accepting responsibility for new arrivals. Our management team still stepped into a surrogate parent role with these little buddy groups. We all did night patrol, listening for lonely tears or sleepless kids.

  Ashwood’s workers represented many economic, ethnic, and racial backgrounds. But since my first Christmas on the estate we had never absorbed a group as large as the ten proposed in the urban initiative. Every estate feared the possibility of gang issues coming into their workforce with older metro kids. From symbols buzzed into short hair to small forbidden tattoos, we inspected every new assigned worker.

  On the way to the DOE building, my thoughts focused on our upcoming phone call. Sitting down, I made a list of strategies for opting out of the Bureau’s new assignments. When the others arrived, the conference with Joel began.

  “I’ll give you an off-the-record summary of what’s happened in the Minneapolis circuit this summer,” Joel began. “The news you see barely covers the depth of poverty saturating the city. Kids schooled in the general education system have high testing failure rates, keeping them out of job-training programs. Their parents’ wages aren’t covering rising food costs, so many families are experiencing hunger. I wouldn’t say we’re anywhere near starvation, but officials are scrambling to get ahead of the situation.”

  Beyond the conference screen, I watched Ashwood outside my windows. A group of girls kicked a soccer ball in the open yard, ignoring the heat in that resilient way of youth. Phoebe’s curly head bobbed in the younger girls’ section. One of our patrol dogs chased sticks thrown by two boy workers sitting just beyond the girls. These kids had rounded faces, muscled arms and legs, shining hair.

  “The Bureau has identified about five hundred kids for worker program assignment.” Joel looked tired; maybe working beyond the typical bureaucratic end of day sapped his energy. “These new assignees are all far beyond the normal age of program initiation—most are at least twelve and a few are as old as fifteen.”

  “That doesn’t make any sense,” I interjected. “Workers enter the system when they’re young so an individual development plan can be put in place to maximize the estates’ schools. By their late teens, the best we can do is impact work behavior.”

  Paul nodded in agreement. “Sounds to me like these kids don’t fit the original profile or have parents who don’t like the thought of signing t
hem into the system. Now there are issues and these kids are too young to force into factories or the military.”

  Bureau legal counsel remained silent. Outside the window Phoebe fell as she ran, rolled gracefully, and caught up with the small crew of girls. Not one of our workers feared for their safety within Ashwood’s boundaries, which gave them the security to study, work, or chase a soccer ball. We relied on their hard physical work to keep the estate productive. They relied on us to offer a protective environment where they could learn and grow.

  “Joel.” I continued to watch Phoebe as I spoke. This fight was for her and my sons and all our workers. “We’ve run the numbers. If these assignments are made, we’ll significantly downsize the number of community laborers and workers at both Ashwood and Giant Pines. There isn’t enough work to support additional workers, even if they are trained.” I placed one hand flat on the table and raised the other as if taking an oath. “We will lay off community workers first, all the kids working in our greenhouses and barns who are not residents. That means they’ll be dumped on the local school district. A dozen kids.”

  Without looking in Jason’s direction, I continued. “We’d also eliminate two full-time laborer positions in order to hire a full-time supervisor for the new workers. Depending on which laborers we choose, our school’s enrollment will be reduced by another three or four.” I saw Jason’s upper body tense as he followed my logic. “That would break our county contract and affect local families financially, as well as change their kids’ educational experience.”

  My managers became still. “Or, if it would make Ashwood less attractive as a dumping site for these assignees, I’d be willing to dismantle some part of our school program—perhaps the postsecondary preparation courses could be closed to all but students identified early as college eligible.” I ignored the discomfort of my staff. “If our numbers alone are not convincing for the assignment team, would restructuring of the famous Ashwood education system help change minds?”

  I knew the very idea pained Jason, who over the past years in Ashwood’s school built curriculum used throughout the national estate system. Appearing to trust my direction, he nodded my way.

  “If we are assigned ten underperforming older urban students, the Bureau will need to provide funding and staff resources for a remedial program,” Jason offered. “We now teach with larger teacher-student ratios than the Bureau requires because of our proficiency with early learners. We do not currently have remedial curriculum or teachers.”

  “Anyway, Joel, what about the gifted offspring provisions of the DOE contract that allows estate schooling?” Only Jason and I had thorough knowledge of these protocols. “How do we meet requirements for preparing David’s daughter and son for their long-term education if we dilute Head Teacher Jason’s system?” Joel’s forehead wrinkled, one eye slightly closed. “I wouldn’t want to ask the DOE for permission to offer less academics for two future intellectuals.”

  The argument ran along a thin line—boarding schools existed for gifted teen-age offspring, but Phoebe wouldn’t be eligible for admission for another five years. When Joel didn’t respond, I decided to pull a second DOE contract into the discussion.

  “If the negative business and community effects of assigning these workers to our estate is not convincing, Hartford, Ltd. will also apply for a hardship stipend to replace income anticipated from DOE contract 11301217 for our privately incorporated school.” My office became quiet.

  Counsel had been caught unaware, his face worked into a tired, neutral bureaucratic pose. He was a decent sort and in the moment I felt bad about springing the DOE contract into the conversation.

  “Did you say that contract began with 1130?” He rubbed a hand over the side of his face. “One of the new gifted arrangements?”

  I nodded. “Yes, we’ve been selected as a regional site.”

  “That would change everything about the urban youth assignment.” Glancing at something in his office outside of our view, he was distracted. “Give me a minute,” he turned away to say to someone. “DOE 1130 contracts trump regional youth assignments. I suggest this call is over. If you don’t mind, I can make the last transport home if I sign off.”

  “Go ahead, Joel. And thank you.” The screen darkened, our conference room stayed quiet. Paul raised one hand and slapped Magda’s extended hand.

  “Well, a dozen smart kids who need a challenging academic experience are probably a better match for this place than ten troubled urban kids,” Magda said. “Trust those kids won’t take jobs from local workers or laborers.”

  “These kids will add labor requirements.” Jason picked up the details. “We’ll add at least one half-time teaching professional and a chaperone/ housekeeper.”

  The soccer girls disbanded. Phoebe looked toward the office even though one-way glass hid us from her view. I knew the day had stretched too long and covered too many rough paths. I missed David.

  “It would be nice if we could help out with the urban initiative in the future,” I said. “You’re all good at finding opportunities. Right now I need to spend time with my kids and get some fresh air.” I stood. “I almost forgot to share big news—Terrell is coming back. Tonight. Lao, please call me when he arrives.” Tired faces relaxed, including mine. “Thanks everyone for pulling through a tough day.”

  Spontaneous happiness broke out around the table. Terrell could make that happen.

  Chapter Nine

  My stepdaughter absorbed physical touch like a plant draws water. She snuggled, she leaned against an arm, she sat with her hand on a friend’s leg while watching movies. So we walked through the orchards in this sticky evening hand in hand, her chatting about books she wanted to read, a curious chunk of china found by one of the workers while tilling a new garden. Finally, we talked about David’s current travel.

  “Why now, Mom?” Anxiety built the words into a whine, her intense young personality pushing much smaller worries into bouts of near-obsessive thoughts. “I need Dad here for my proficiency tests. We had plans.” She bumped her body into my arm. “Did he tell you about our plans?”

  “You bet, and plans are still in place for lunch at the History Museum’s restaurant.” I responded slowly, swinging our hands as we walked. “I’m taking the day off. Grandpa Paul and Ms. Magda will manage here.” I squeezed her small fingers. “I’m looking forward to visiting the museum with you. I know you were looking forward to being with Dad, but maybe a girls’ time away could be almost as much fun.”

  She shook free of my hand to throw her arms around my waist. “That’s the best news today.” Freed of one worry, she broke loose and did her young-girl dancing step next to me. And, typical of Phoebe, she stopped midstep with another question. “About Dad’s trip.” Her voice, so clear, carried through the humid evening air. “It feels like you aren’t telling us the whole story.”

  “Well, communication is quite difficult because of where he’ll be based.” I offered a truth buried in soft language. “In fact, I don’t know if we’ll talk at all while he’s away, and that makes me sad.”

  “I thought you might be worried about that boy this morning.”

  The estate grapevine spread innuendo faster than facts. For a moment I wondered who heard Paul or David talking about Andrew, or if Antwone knew more than he shared in the passageway.

  Ashwood ate at my hours, and sometimes emotions. What crops to grow, what animals to breed, where to buy, where to sell, forms to complete, the pressure to feed its people, make the payroll, pay the increasing taxes. And always the drive to care for the children—all those who came to be part of the estate—maybe this boy who may be my son.

  “You heard something today about a boy?”

  “Your surrogate boy.” Phoebe no longer danced as she walked, no longer held my hand. She spoke of facts learned from estate gossip that flowed like water in a rainstorm. “Grandpa says he could be my stepbrother. It’s too bad we couldn’t have another girl. I’ve got two brothers alre
ady.”

  I hoped I heard acceptance of the Smithson boy and envied her ease with the whole question, realized she’d had more time in her day to think about Andrew, a possible new sibling, than I, his possible mother.

  “I’m not quite ready to talk about him until I know all the facts, Phoebe. How did you hear this story?”

  She walked away, bending to pick a volunteer bachelor’s button growing in the orchard path. “I don’t remember. Somebody was talking this morning. Then you didn’t come to lunch.” She handed me the flower. “Race you to the school?”

  The sweet thrill of childish play still sounded in her invitation, although the pace she set suggested the competitive drive I saw in her evening soccer game with the older girls. Only my daily running kept me ahead of her as we neared the building. Inside she still moved quickly, but now with the confidence of a scholar. This was her favorite place at Ashwood, both a haven and a place of joy. An amazing student, she led me through her review drill with competence and intensity.

  We left the school building before the sky turned dark, unexpectedly finding Lao and Terrell on their way to the main residence.

  “Well, Ms. Anne Hartford, aren’t you looking fine.” Not much had changed about Terrell in the five years since he left Ashwood. He stood tall and athletic, his drooping eye a bit more closed, shaved head shining from the glow of a light hanging from the crab apple tree. “And what you have done to this place. Feels like … like a home.”

  He opened his arms and I laughed as I walked into them to be hugged to his strong chest. “That’s what it is, Terrell. Welcome home.” I wrapped my arms around his neck. “You’re the best thing to happen to this place in many months.” I stepped back, inspected him more closely, knew he was doing the same before he looked around me.