Ashwood

by Cynthia Kraack

  “My husband had many executives walk out of his company offices over the years,” she said. “I don’t know if I should be honored or annoyed by all this hoopla. I was rather looking forward to a quieter trip to the city before going to my next assignment.” She did not say another word to me personally, but left to pack with Agent Agnes following. She walked with a straight spine, still in control if of only herself.

  One officer interviewed Magda while Barbara packed. Noting her passionate ownership of Ashwood’s food production I knew I needed to build a relationship with the agronomist. They walked through the storage areas, Magda keeping an eye on time so the child workers would not flood into the kitchen while the officer took pictures of empty shelves and bins and the three transport boxes in the cooler labeled for Jensen.

  I expected the agents and Barbara would leave through Ashwood’s front door, but Chen led them a back way through the kitchen. Magda and I stepped aside.

  Barbara walked slightly ahead of the agents and appeared to ignore their directions then altered her direction when it looked as if Chen might place a hand on her arm. She moved as if heading toward a private transport to an important date. Her hair needed trimming to match the once expensive fur coat she wore over her uniform. I began thinking how to break this news to those in the dining room.

  As the transport pulled away and the front gates were locked for the night, I stepped into the dining room to make my first statement as Ashwood’s new matron. “Matron Barbara was called away a bit earlier than expected. The Bureau sent two representatives to keep her safe during a night transit, and they had to move quickly.”

  I hoped some of the workers accepted my story. Again I saw the stillness in Lana, noted that she would need attention. Amber, our youngest worker and Barbara’s pet, dipped her head close to the table.

  While Barbara deserved punishment for stripping Ashwood’s provisions and endangering everyone in this room, I knew I carried the burden of destroying her future. As the children went off with their tutor for an evening of study, I drew the adults together to share news of Barbara’s quick departure. Regardless of their personal relations with Ashwood’s former matron, these survivors of a time of near famine turned easily against the woman who may have jeopardized so many people.

  5

  A familiar shadow of loneliness followed my footsteps through Ashwood’s quiet halls. If the ones I loved could join me for just this evening, they wouldn’t understand our nation or my life in government employment. My father, who predicted the end of the old capitalist democracy, had steered my brother and me toward a future different than the world he knew.

  “The world’s getting smaller, Annie,” he told me when I headed off to St. Olaf College in 2015 with the simple dream of becoming a teacher. “The strawberries on our table come from Mexico, your shoes were made in China, and our car was assembled in Japan. Pretty much nothing comes out of America except corn and brain power. You better pick a career that uses your mind because everything else will be done by people in some poor country.” I thought he worried too much.

  Purging my files for travel to Washington, D.C., I read through my college journals and found lots of entries about increasing gas prices, paying for doctor visits, taking out more college loans. Not even the experts knew how to fix a broken global economy dependent on consumers who could no longer purchase extra shoes, a spare sweater, or enough food. I stopped writing when my father died at the start of the second financial meltdown.

  Did someone like Barbara know people starved in Africa where no one could afford the petroleum to drive farm equipment or that families disappeared in South America as drug wars overextended governments? Did her husband invest in water reserves that became private treasures, leaving fields of wheat to wither?

  Approaching my rooms, the responsibility of feeding these children felt more daunting because I’d failed in the food search before as my mother fought cancer. Four and twenty years into the new century, the American dream narrowed to three meals a day and a roof at night.

  I unlocked my door. I wished I could talk with my father who would never have envisioned the great American economics experiment spawned by TGA. No longer breadbasket for the world, no longer manufacturer of quality goods—all the United States produced was excellent intellectual capability. Would he have been proud of me managing this estate, which existed to provide people with work, raise food and provide havens to educate children while caring for the country’s new gross national product—consultants, researchers, exceptional educators, experts, policy makers, and a few artists—in secured environments? These pampered individuals had no financial stake in the government’s estates. How would I begin to explain the national order?

  This human capital management system, now just a decade in existence, probably saved my life. If I managed Ashwood well, the government would be able to feed everyone on the estate plus people in the community, and produce decent income to support other national programs.

  For this chance, I should be grateful. Only four years ago I stepped into a bus overfilled with frightened, hungry, dirty, unemployed people during a government round-up. The same system that treats intellectuals like precious commodities gave me the opportunity to build a career far larger than teaching school. Yet, to be honest, I was a common woman who resents the loss of the life I wanted—a family and home. I blamed the inept wealthy men who corrupted our government while tanking the country. Men like Barbara’s husband.

  So I became Matron Anne, instead of Annie Hartford. How would my parents have understood that I bore a child I would never know? How would I explain to them this life I had to live behind a positive façade, with my emotional shadows stored in the single suitcase? Ashwood’s halls, while protective, felt more like an institution than a home.

  In my quarters, heated floors warmed my feet, small comfort to be appreciated after years in drafty college dorms. The calm dark of a semi-rural setting outside Ashwood’s covered windows somehow slipped into the room. I wondered where the people displaced for Ashwood’s construction lived today. Or, maybe, how many empty houses stood on this former suburban location before community leaders welcomed a stretch of government estates to erase vestiges of lost prosperity?

  Everything in my suite was as I first found it at seventeen-hundred hours—the gooseneck lamp lighting as the door opened, my coat folded across the chaise longue. I picked up Mother’s old suitcase and headed toward the dressing area, anticipating the feel of my own pajamas, robe, and night socks.

  There were reports to complete before sleeping my first night at Ashwood—transfer papers from Washington, D.C., to the residence in Minnesota, fiduciary responsibility for Ashwood’s management for the regional federal Bureau people, a commitment to provide a quality life while educating the child workers for the state of Minnesota. I authorized county and state authorities to access my Bureau files as necessary for taxation or other legal actions. I signed a commitment to continue Ashwood’s current crop and livestock production, including an agreement to notify the State Board of Agriculture if our production might negatively impact family farmers in the area.

  The confounding interweaving of multiple levels of government authorities flowed through the two dozen documents in my official papers. The federal government held me accountable for the health of their prized employees and fiscal success of the estate. Minnesota expected residents living or working on the estate to be fed and provided minimal healthcare, children to be given shelter and educated to their appropriate grade level. The county received food for the poor, access to daily labor openings for the unemployed while providing law enforcement and fire services. Every level taxed the estate.

  “Matron Anne, please respond.”

  A female voice defying age, regional influence or ethnic orientation, came in through my gold-knot earring. Inquiries from the Bureau of Human Capital Management required an answer. After six tense hours at Ashwood, I felt I earned a few minutes of peace and contin
ued walking across the sitting room area. At least, I’d slip out of my uniform first. I put my suitcase down, removed my scarf and jacket, and began undoing the fasteners on my trousers.

  “Matron Anne, please respond.” A woman’s face appeared on the security system screen. My resetting the security system meant the Bureau could detect only my presence, not what I was doing. Still, I hesitated.

  Both the image and voice were computer-generated. I knew the image suggested immediacy, which could be followed by a high pitch alert through my ear. My experiences as a wife, teacher, and boarding home manager left me a more mature trainee than my peers, which made me valuable for placement. But jumping to a Bureau inquiry, no matter what might be happening at the moment, rankled me much as obeying calls from higher up the hierarchy as a teacher. Before the third page preceded an inner ear alarm, I turned my back on the pleasure of pajamas.

  “Matron Anne, number 953, responding from Ashwood.” Taking my data pad from a pocket, I grabbed the quilt from the footrest, sat on the chaise, then brought up my legs.

  “Madame Director is pleased with your quick analysis and action this evening. She has sent a note of commendation to your file as well as notifying your teachers of these actions.”

  “Thank you,” I said, then waited, wondering why the call couldn’t have waited for morning.

  The odd government communication process began. As in the Wizard of Oz, a human spoke into a voice generator on the Bureau’s end, the emotion of its words remaining largely unknown. Each Bureau entity created its own “face” and “voice” for consistency of messages. The whole experience was like speaking with a high-end avatar. I wanted to talk with a real motherly businesswoman who could rub my emotional back while holding me accountable for increasing agricultural production, improving water restoration or helping a ten-year-old develop stronger cognitive skills.

  “Matron Anne, five Bureau staff will arrive at nine hundred tomorrow to audit all estate functions. They are allocated for three days. Auditor Milan will be your contact. Reports are to be generated midday and end of day. Directors David and Tia Regan have been updated about today’s actions. They look forward to meeting you when they return from their individual travels in seven days. Is there anything you need in light of this unorthodox transition?”

  I violated the key rule of managing government-owned estates and spoke out loud about Ashwood’s food situation.

  “We need food and a cook. I’ll know more in the morning about produce, dairy and meat production available for the near future, but, as I stated earlier, Ashwood’s storage units are virtually empty. Even a skilled cook would find it difficult to feed our residents with current provisions. At the least, the audit team should carry their own food.”

  For emphasis, I slowed delivery of my next words. “If Ashwood’s barns and greenhouses are as depleted as its kitchen storage, there will be little beyond eggs and oatmeal for all of us in the coming months. Ashwood will not be able to produce food for market if I am to keep the children and staff alive.”

  In the silence, I knew the Bureau minion hidden behind that generic face didn’t like hearing these words, much less having a permanent record created of a provisions shortage. Rumors of food or water shortages spread like dust blown off hot fields. Avoiding food riots surpassed everything, absolutely everything, in government bureaucrats’ daily deliverables.

  The voice answered back without a moment’s breath. “Perhaps the cellars will be stocked. Ashwood’s cook surely filled the shelves.”

  Maybe, the Bureau voice was right about the cellars. Night lockdown made unnecessary trips to the outer buildings too difficult, but this possibility meant I could go to sleep with a small amount of hope.

  “I’ll check on the cellars in the morning. But, do you think an estate could keep adding to its cellars without a cook’s directions? From what I studied of Ashwood’s books, the cook left around June. Five months, particularly during harvest, is a long time for a twelve-year-old to be working the kitchen without supervision.”

  My caller ignored the question and stayed on task. “Before we sign off, it is our understanding that you are asking for a cook to be assigned to Ashwood and a more timely infusion of supplementary provisions. Is that correct?”

  Sandra, my primary mentor during estate leadership training—the real name for the matron education program—encouraged speaking with the Bureau in concise terms. Dealing with the screen person reminded me of the education world’s excessive lexicon and few easily identified measures of achievement.

  “You have the general idea,” I corrected. “Let me recap what I requested: We need food. Ashwood needs a special kind of cook to move the estate through what could be a difficult winter without adequate provisions. Within the next few days, I’d like to see three to five candidates who meet at least level-three qualifications. You may assign a temporary cook to accompany the auditor team’s stay.”

  I waited for some sputter of acknowledgement. Exactly at the moment when I heard a long inhalation, implying the beginning of a response, I spoke first, claiming my rightful authority over the estate’s direction.

  “And, let’s be very clear that the food situation at Ashwood is critical. We need more than supplementary provisions to feed the audit team and keep Ashwood’s people healthy.”

  It was impossible to know if the neutral voice answering, “We’ll send a confirming message,” covered exasperation that a new matron could be so demanding or dread of a messy estate situation.

  “Do we need to talk about the infant?” I heard my voice soften as I changed our discussion’s direction. In the last six hours, I tried not to project how everything might impact the expected arrival of the directors’ first child. With the surrogate scheduled to deliver in mid-December, Ashwood appeared unprepared to care for the baby and a six-month nanny. “I know the Bureau felt Matron Barbara should not know about the child, so there is much to be done here to prepare both staff and the residence. Are the directors ready?”

  The long pauses following my questions suggested to me that my Bureau caller knew facts, but not the big picture for Ashwood and felt ill-prepared to answer queries that pushed beyond sharing plain information. “Hello, are you there?” I asked when thirty silent seconds passed.

  “Yes, I am looking for the data you requested. The delivery is still on schedule for December 19, with expected date of arrival of the infant girl at Ashwood on December 24. Do nothing connected to the child until after the directors return to the estate. Furniture and other basic supplies are scheduled to be shipped from the city on December 12. You can access inventory of the ordered materials after eleven hundred hours tomorrow.”

  I did not respond except to mumble a sign off. Director Regan’s child would be born on the same date I delivered a baby as a surrogate three years earlier. Although that child was not biologically mine, the months I was pregnant provided a temporary sense of having family. For nine months I felt not so painfully alone. Even more important I regained some sense of being able to care for another person emotionally as well as physically.

  Baby Regan, just as Baby Smithson, would never need to know who made their birth possible. That’s what the Family Management Bureau told each of the women chosen for surrogacy. The credits I earned for accepting the assignment provided opportunity to change my career in the future. The money I earned for carrying Baby Smithson remained invested, some in the States and some overseas.

  But there was no real compensation for the empty arms I experienced when returning to my life. We surrogates wore a solid gold communications earpiece for accepting this significant assignment for the nation. Because we were willing to accept the dangers of pregnancy, some woman whose work really mattered to the United States could still become a mother. Her DNA might create another genius instead of another worker. That’s what they told us. Whether everyday society would respect our contribution to the United State’s future was still to be discovered.

  6
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br />   Bureau protocol directed that estate cooks prepare light breakfast for outdoor workers by five each morning. Ashwood’s kitchen stood empty at that time. I made a note for Magda.

  Hungry, I started a large pot of oatmeal, the only provision Ashwood had in surplus beyond frozen fish. Like most other estates, Ashwood’s food preparation area flowed around an eight-burner gas stove with triple ovens surrounded by stainless steel counter tops. I’d never been in an estate kitchen with grimy corners and disarray in its open cupboards until this morning. At six-twenty, with workers expected at breakfast in ten minutes, I put a kettle on for tea and stacked dishes on the serving counter.

  The girls arrived at six-thirty with the boys following close behind. They were tidy—faces and teeth clean, hair brushed, drab work clothes in good order. Three of the boys appeared dressed to work outside.

  “Did we get a cook overnight?” Lana asked.

  “No.” I watched faces turn from me to the oatmeal pot. Keeping my voice neutral, I picked up a serving ladle. “What do people eat for breakfast at Ashwood? Who feeds the outdoor staff?”

  The children stood silent. Lana paled. “I put out bread and milk for all of us,” she gestured toward her peers. “The directors have their caterer.”

  I touched her bony shoulder before handing her the first dish. Every eye followed my motion. “Since Matron Barbara left last night, we won’t have a transition time. I don’t know how you worked, but starting right now we’ll talk about how Ashwood will run.”

  The workers’ reaction to my little speech reminded me of kids on the first day of school. They didn’t much care what was said until they saw their teacher in action.