Clarissa and I finished buying Christmas presents, or end-of-the-year gifts for the non-Christians, during the week after Thanksgiving. I left her in charge of housing arrangements for the Regan crowd. I needed Sarah to put her energy behind kitchen holiday activities, but she and Paul remained obsessed with the Stolen Children campaign.
“I’d like to take the images of our kids with me next week to the lawyers,” Paul told me as we left a management meeting. “I want to show them to a couple of our legal partners. They’ll agree to Milan’s terms.”
“Paul, you agreed to keep those absolutely confidential. Not even tell others the images exist.” Milan must have known Paul might talk, but still I made a mental note to forewarn my friend that information might be leaked. “No can do.”
“But, Annie, those images are not yours to keep.” Paul headed us down a road we’d been walking more frequently, drawing a distinction between the Regan children of David and Tia and those I mothered. “Those are my grandchildren.”
“I’m not up for this discussion, Paul.” Pregnancy hormones made me wickedly angry or slightly weepy as my blood sugar dropped about this time of morning. Today I just got angry, fed up with Paul’s obsession. “You’re drawing lines in this family—yours, mine and ours—that David and I don’t like. Remember that I’m the one Phoebe and Noah call Mom.” I tucked a shaking hand in my sweater pocket, upset by the frequency of my arguments with Paul. “Let the lawyers do their work. Government’s slow movement will grind you down.”
We stood close enough to touch, so close I could see thin red lines radiating across his cheeks under wind-dried skin. We shared the same space and air, but trod carefully on these grounds.
“I’m thinking I might need to step out of grains management. I’m seventy years old and these six kids mean more to me than filling production quotas for this government.” He held his head high, a defiance I didn’t expect. “Sarah loves what she’s doing and one of us has to work to keep our government benefits intact.”
“Can we talk about this after the holidays?”
He shook his head. “I want to tell the family over Christmas. I’m hoping a few will jump on board and be supportive of David’s efforts to parent all his children.”
“All right.” I wanted to hug him and to feel those fatherly arms return the gesture. But Paul was too tightly wound. “I’m not going to look for a replacement until after the holidays.” I pulled a handkerchief from one pocket and a small bag of dried fruit from another. “Sorry, I’m feeling shaky.” I opened the bag, extended it toward him, and tried to smile. “Paul, you have to admit that we have a few things to celebrate this season.”
His real nature showed itself with a grin. “Annie, you restore my optimism.” His arms reached out to offer the hug I craved. “You need that dried stuff more than me.”
Chapter Thirty-Six
December settled on Minnesota as if unsure of its direction. On the first day of the month seven inches of snow fell over twenty-four hours, putting an end to working outside in sweaters. Two days later rain fell intermittently for forty-eight hours, running down frozen paths, raising worries about icing. When the rain ended, temperatures bounced back into the forties.
The weather did no harm to Ashwood’s greenhouses or livestock. Magda, Terrell, and I sat down with twenty days until Christmas to take stock of food supplies and estate greenhouse crops. We settled on a rotation of meatless and fish days to hold off butchering until January.
“We’re better off than I expected,” I commented. “Meals have more grains and eggs, but no one is complaining. Good go, Terrell.”
He stretched, smiling as he lowered his hands from above his head. “I’m going to turn my kitchen over to Amber,” he said. “That girl can come up with more suggestions about snazzy recipes than this old man. She should study estate management.”
“Whatever Amber wants to study, she’ll do well.” Terrell, a key character witness in my process to adopt her, nodded as I spoke. Until the courts reached an agreement with Amber’s mother, we kept the action under wraps at Ashwood.
“Good luck with attracting these kids to our jobs.” Magda pulled on her jacket. “They think this is where they send people who can’t do anything else.” She slipped her data pad in a pocket. “Only three weeks until I’m in Europe.”
“I’d like to spend a month away,” I said. “Maybe I should plan on having this baby somewhere else, with a nice long recuperation. I think that was called maternity leave when we were young.”
“The girls in the city still get eight weeks off.” Magda put on gloves. “You’re in the wrong profession, being an owner and all.”
She left and Terrell hung back. “I’ve got some news just for you.” He sat straighter in his chair. “Frances and I are planning to register our relationship in January.”
I was off my chair and around the table for a hug.
“We’d like to apply for housing here if you have space.”
“Of course, Terrell. But your news is mighty wonderful.”
“I think this baby is the top story at Ashwood.”
“Of course, but old news.”
The pregnancy felt no different than my first two physically, but I was closer to forty than thirty. Emotionally I could not clarify how I felt—happy to have another child, yet uncomfortable with the circumstances of its conception. How odd to not use contraception for all those years and then become pregnant in Washington. David saw the timing of the pregnancy as a sign of a different future. I dreamt of a little girl with golden hair running through our orchards, a child of light.
During December David did a small amount of DOE work each day, but most of his time remained focused on recovery. Insomnia kept him walking the residence at night. His physical wounds healed, and he worked out every day to restore stability in his shoulder and flexibility in his back. Those who didn’t know about the ambush would see a very healthy man.
“Dr. Frances says the pregnancy is going well.” He looped his arm across my shoulders as we walked to our offices across the estate courtyard the day of Terrell’s announcement. I felt like a college student walking to class. “What do you think?”
We bumped against each other by accident, and his arm slipped then resettled. “I feel fine. What scares me is thinking about how we secure a better future for our kids.”
He turned, blocked our movement forward, his arm now enclosing my shoulders. “Annie, I’ve been in therapy for months to deal with Paraguay. My dad’s working out his fears with dedication to a lawsuit that he hopes will bring control over his life.” His arm tightened. “It’s time we start paying attention to making you feel safe.”
Over David’s shoulder, I could see the resting orchards surrounding a very plain building we called our home. Ashwood’s acres circled us on all sides, sounds from the roadway dampened by earth and rock and all we’d built—a safe, comfortable community of kids and adults moving ahead without fear of starving or freezing or violence. Until Peterson.
Small sleigh bells jingled across the courtyard, tied on the front door of the school building by one of the kids. Rufus raced across the distance directly toward me. David put a hand out to keep the growing puppy from jumping on my abdomen.
“Day by day I find it easier to put the Peterson experience in perspective, but I feel vulnerable.” I couldn’t look into David’s face so I petted the dog’s head, then started walking. “Some of that is natural for a pregnant woman.” Rufus fell into step beside us. “I’d like to have some peaceful time, to get connected with this baby.”
“Then let’s work on those things—making you feeling safe, minimizing legal chatter and keeping you healthy.” Just like a man to made a list and consider our worries solved. He opened the office building door, changed the subject as people looked up from their desks. “No criticism of Ashwood’s offices, but I’m looking forward to the DOE building being finished.”
Milan’s voice called from my earpiece as we enter
ed the building. “Anne, do you have time to talk about the Regan civil case?”
David’s office door closed as I answered. “Sure. Let me close my office door. David and I just spoke about putting this aside until after the holidays.”
He appeared on my desk screen, sitting in his home office. “Renovations at the Bureau so I’m working here for a few weeks.” His voice dropped. “Driving my wife nuts.”
“Remember, David and I are together almost twenty-four seven, so I can’t empathize. I’d offer you an empty office here, but we’re full up.”
“This won’t take long. By the way, congratulations on making production quotas during the last quarter. Your team held everything together during a difficult time.” He smiled. “So Ashwood earns the top bonus award for its region.”
“Milan, I’d rather have food supplies. If Terrell can find products, prices are higher almost daily. But, thanks, I’ll distribute part of that bonus to our team.” In fact I already had given bonuses to key staff members. “You mentioned the surrogate case?”
“I wanted to tell you this news first. You can tell David.” He paused. “Your legal adoption of Phoebe and Noah makes the Regan kids unique in the surrogate scandal. The expert witness of Dr. Frances convinced Bureau officials to amend the original documents signed by Tia and David, and place permanent custody in your name should David die before Noah reaches nineteen years of age. Assuming both you and David are willing to sign the amendment, this removes Phoebe and Noah from one part of the class action suit.” His look turned serious. “If David adopts Andrew, we might be able to extend the agreement.”
The children’s sketches saved from my old office hung next to my desk, and my eyes stayed there as I responded. “I would need to think about Clarissa’s rights as well. Can we bring David in on this right now? It would give us peace of mind.”
I called David to my office and watched his face while Milan went over the details of the proposed amendment. He pumped one fist in the air, his wedding band catching the light. “Send the papers to us and we’ll sign.” David gave Milan thumbs up. “We appreciate your work.”
“I’ll have copies sent to you and your legal counsel this afternoon.” Milan punched into his desk data pad, then leaned into his camera. “I also want you both to know I’m doing what I can to keep a few kids and their parents out of what will be a very big storm. This will be the last we can speak of the case. All conversations with Bureau guardians of affected kids will to be scrubbed by investigators starting tonight.”
I assumed our conversations were already stored somewhere and wondered why he made such a point of mentioning the listeners. “Milan, you and your wife are still planning on attending the holiday pageant December 22? We have workers who are hoping you two will read winter poems again.”
“We wouldn’t miss the pageant. And the reading is up to my wife. Whatever she says, we will do. As long as it doesn’t include a costume.” Normal for our conversations, he responded to another call and left abruptly.
“Excellent,” David said in the quiet of my office. “Milan comes through for us.” He stood, leaned over the table, and kissed the top of my head. “Let’s enjoy what we have until after the holidays.”
Six days before Christmas I spent a day in the Twin Cities to finish shopping, visit a private obstetrician, and have lunch with Milan. Based on how young people dressed on the streets, I guessed that we would have at least one worker return from home visits with only one wide strip of hair. Giant metal detectors as well as pat downs to stop knifings supposedly made shopping safer on some popular streets. Rumors of something called soft bomb hijacks could be heard in store lines.
I wore urban clothes, carried a hidden purse, and kept my eyes focused straight ahead. Everyone moved with a different energy on the sidewalks of Minneapolis. With packages in the transport and an uneventful doctor visit, I walked to a café for our lunch.
“You look great, Anne.” Milan stood as I approached his table. “The cities always agree with you.”
“This is where I expected to spend my life.” I sat down, slipped off my jacket. “I didn’t anticipate an estate would become my permanent address.”
He lifted a hand to attract our waitperson. “We’ll have a pot of your special tea while we read the menu.” I nodded in agreement. “When do the Regans arrive?”
“December 23. Sarah is finally busy baking and reworking meal plans with Terrell.” I sipped my tea. “I’m relieved one of David’s parents is taking time away from the lawsuit.”
In the café light, Milan looked different. Raised veins marked his hands, dark shadows circled his eyes. I wondered how old he was when I first met him and if we both showed the years.
“Annie, what do you want to do with the rest of your life?”
Milan’s question dropped into our holiday luncheon as unexpectedly as if I had found Santa Claus suddenly sitting in the empty chair next to me.
“Why ask?” I waited for an answer. He continued to look at me, not speaking. “David has less than three years of DOE service remaining, and when Phoebe turns thirteen, her schooling could change how we live. I’m fairly content with my life.”
He listened, poured his first tea, and sipped. I did the same, waiting for Milan to respond.
“I ask for two reasons. The more immediate is that there are two underperforming estates in the Ashwood region that I would like to discuss placing under contract with Hartford, Ltd., for management services. We’d leave the matrons in place, but have them report to you.”
A waitperson approached and we ordered soup. Milan continued. “When the Bureau began, we had such high expectations for training a world-class workforce. But the farther we move from the economic depression, the less enthusiasm it seems people have for working hard or following an established plan.”
“Inflation isn’t helping,” I suggested. “I remember feeling that no matter how hard I worked, I couldn’t build any financial security. Don’t you remember that?”
“The country’s heading into a correction. We’ll be fine by the end of the first quarter.” Warm bread arrived. “Whether we’re ready or not, the large international corporations are impatient for the resetting of the economies.”
“You call it a correction, but people are going hungry. I think that’s dangerous.”
“You’re right. We’ll see change soon.” His face became animated, not a word I’d usually connect with Milan. “More important, Annie, we want you to know there is always the possibility of a significant role for you in the Bureau. Maybe when Phoebe starts schooling off the estate, you might be ready for city living.”
Four months ago I thought I knew what the future held for our family. Four months ago we planned for a small place in the city where someone would travel with Phoebe if she attended specialized secondary schooling. We didn’t know our family would expand to include Andrew or a new child. David and I had not thought about the possibility of our dying before our children grew.
“You forget that Andrew might be our first to attend secondary gifted schooling.” I smiled as I corrected Milan. I fidgeted with my wedding band for a few seconds, thought I might need to remove it in the next few months if my fingers swelled. “And, instead of a crew of kids all moving through schooling at the same rate, we will have a little one at home.”
“Are you interested in the Bureau?”
Milan’s calm question held layers of meaning. I thought of his life, of the confusing interagency reporting structures and intrigue, of the travel and possible round-the-clock phone calls, of all the conversations we had about when his job meant missing family events.
“I don’t know, Milan. When I was a matron I wanted to be free of the layers of bureaucracy pulling me so many ways. As a private business owner, I’m always aware of my responsibilities. While I have the joy of living where I work, I carry a twenty-four-hour load like you.” I sipped tea as I thought how to respond. “So I haven’t thought about what I might do next.�
�� I put down my cup. “Retire?”
Milan laughed, a small sound that held little delight. “I think that word only describes what happens to outdated technology. Remember when our grandparents retired from jobs to garden and travel and be with their families?” One eyebrow rose. “Did you ever think you’d never stop working? That the American dream would change this much?”
Looking around the room, I found my memories of the time before the depression were vague—a mash of reality and film fantasy. The place where I had been a child didn’t exist, and the cities where I wanted to live were far different than the places I knew as a young woman.
“Believe it or not, Milan, I just realized that what I really remember from all my life is just the past eight years—the Ashwood years.”
About The Author
Cynthia Kraack is the author of Minnesota Cold, a winner of the 2009 Northeastern Minnesota Book Award for Fiction, and Ashwood. Harvesting Ashwood: Minnesota 2037 is the second book in the Ashwood trilogy. Cynthia is a graduate of the University of Southern Maine’s Stonecoast M.F.A. program in Creative Writing and holds a graduate degree from the University of Minnesota as well as a bachelor’s degree from Marquette University. Cynthia has published short stories and presented at a number of gatherings.
Acknowledgements
After my publisher, North Star Press of St. Cloud, Inc., the most heartfelt thanks go to my writing group for kind support and honest feedback. These terrific writers and friends deserve to be acknowledged by name: Roger Barr, Charles Locks, Loren Taylor, Paul Zerby, Terry Newby, and Pam Davis. Their insights and challenges push my work to a higher level.
I would also like to thank Lynn Marasco for her patient editing and guidance and Terrence Scott for another dramatic cover.
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