Ashwood

by Cynthia Kraack

  “If there are problems with this person, a record of this conversation will be on file,” I said in the same tone as I might have pointed out that there were six workers leaving a building. “If there is nothing more, I have a meeting to attend.”

  “We need to remind you that Ashwood is current on taxes, but has not filed required state student reports or updated employee immunizations. You will have data about Minnesota state system farm production by this afternoon for Ashwood’s crop planning. If you wish to recertify as a teacher in the state, you have six months to complete required coursework. Good bye, Matron.”

  The screen went dark

  8

  The aroma of fresh-brewed coffee and yeasty dough made the kitchen a far more welcoming place my second morning at Ashwood. Cook Terrell’s permanent assignment might have made me unhappy, but this proof of his dedication gave me some comfort.

  “Good morning, Matron,” he said, adding lightness to each syllable. “If you’re a coffee drinker, help yourself.”

  “It smells wonderful.” I pulled a mug from the shelves. A small pitcher stood next to the large coffee maker. “Is this cream? How did you manage to get cream?”

  “It’s actually a Terrell secret that is the next best thing to real cream. Won’t work well in large quantities, but makes a cup of coffee sing. Try it.”

  “What’s in those?” I pointed to a row of ceramic bowls covered by towels. I hoped he’d say bread, although few estate cooks baked.

  “There’s plenty of flour in the supply bins, and I brought my own sour dough starter. These kids look like they need good bread stuffs.” He lifted a corner of one towel, then another to display rising dough. “A helluva lot cheaper than the community bakeries.”

  “Is this for breakfast?”

  He shook his head, but smiled. “Sounds like Matron doesn’t know a lot about baking. This dough is for the midday meal.” He pointed toward a large pot on the stove’s warming burner. “I understand someone made a dynamite batch of oatmeal yesterday that had the workers asking for more. Want a bowl?”

  “If it’s ready. I’m always hungry in the morning.” I helped myself to a bowl and held it out as he ladled the oatmeal, which had a wonderful rich and creamy consistency.

  Circling around the counter, he grabbed a basket of washed vegetables and sat down near me. “That poor girl, Lana, looks tired to the bone, so I’m giving her an extra hour of sleep.”

  Again, Ashwood’s new cook displayed a genuine sense of kindness. As I enjoyed a great bowl of oatmeal in a kitchen that already appeared under control, my respect grew.

  “It’s obvious this place has been mismanaged. I wish I knew how badly,” I said. “Today I’ve got to terminate a caterer’s contract and cut back on other expenses to cover food.” I sipped excellent coffee. “We’ll have to trust each other’s judgment.”

  Carrots, celery, and onions flew into bits and pieces under the power of his knife. The chopping sound ceased. Terrell wiped the knife’s blade on a towel, then wiped his hands, before responding to my statement.

  “You’re a Bureau training program superstar, Matron. And a patriot for carrying a baby. There’s lots of good reading in the Bureau files I found on you before I agreed to this assignment. Just wanted you to know that I do study—something we have in common.” He poured himself more coffee, generously laced it with cream. “What I’ve seen and heard since yesterday is that you’ve got heart and passion. Maybe a little short on experience, but the rest of the package is in place.” He held out a hand. “Shook your hand yesterday to say hello. Now, I’d like to shake in agreement to trusting each other. I’d like the kids to call me Cook, but prefer you use Terrell.”

  I accepted his hand. “I think we can make this place work, Terrell. It’s going to take hard work, and I’m not sure the workers and staff are physically ready.” Thin faces, tired faces, near empty storage shelves pushed my energy this morning. “Small item, but are you comfortable dealing with Director Tia’s food demands?”

  “Matron Barbara may have forgotten these directors are just government employees like you and me, Matron,” he said. “Cancel that caterer, and we’ll deal with Director Tia when she gets home. We’re here to keep her healthy and comfortable, not happy and pampered. There’s a difference.”

  He lifted the bowl of chopped vegetables and dumped it into another large pot. “Chicken stew for everyone today. Light on chicken, but plenty of flavor and noodles. Traveling bureau folks are used to sandwiches and coffee, but we need to build up these kids.”

  “You’re right and, except for Lana, they don’t work that hard in the residence with catering for the directors, daily cleaning services and all laundry going to a community business.” As soon as I said this out loud I understood where we could save on expenses while staying within estate protocol. “I’ll need to bring that work back inside.”

  “Lana would be glad to escape the kitchen.” Magda entered the conversation. “You two didn’t hear me coming in.” She unwound a scarf from her neck, lifted her nose. “Is that real coffee?” Without waiting for a response, she poured herself a mug.

  From their first conversation after lunch the day before, Magda and Terrell knew they spoke the same language—love of food. She moved close to the stove top and sniffed as Terrell stirred the beginning of his chicken stew.

  “I’ll leave you two to your herb discussion,” I interrupted. “You’re both still comfortable with changing assignments for Lana and Ladd, as well as hiring more part-time adult laborers and child workers to jump-start production?” They nodded. “I’d like to file our requests before the audit team takes my time.”

  Meeting with Ashwood’s tutor gave me reason to worry about more than workers’ underfed bodies. The young man taught four hours six days a week at Ashwood. On the whole the children were bright, testing intellectually near university preparation ability. Their standardized performance scores didn’t match potential, a factor which would negatively impact our application for additional workers. We needed to produce better results than community education to be assigned children with future potential.

  I found James to be a rather defeated teacher with poor social skills. I guessed this wasn’t the first week he spent in the same pair of wool pants, turtleneck, and sweater covered by a well-worn jacket. His attitude, plus Matron Barbara’s cancellation of Saturday classes and enrichment activities, suggested a lack of support for workers’ education.

  We sat across his desk in the workers’ school and recreation room. I moved back whenever possible to escape his unwashed smell. “James, you can feel relieved that I taught school or you can feel threatened,” I suggested after reviewing each worker’s file. “You know these grades are below the community school achievement level. If performance does not improve in this next quarter’s testing, I’ll request you be replaced.”

  He smiled exposing a mouth of yellowish teeth. “I signed my contract with Matron Barbara last week. You’ve got a problem.”

  “Are you related to Matron Barbara in some way—by blood or a past acquaintance or employee?” I asked, frustrated with discovering her tangled connections to the cleaners, launderers, and dry goods providers.

  “What’s that supposed to mean? What are you implying?” Under his words, I heard the weakness of someone easily intimidated.

  “You’re doing a mediocre job of teaching children living in the home of two of the nation’s most brilliant research scientists.” I spoke slowly, as if trying to figure out a puzzle with a nervous child. James sat still, except for flexing one hand over and over.

  We sat in silence, seconds piling on seconds, and discomfort emanating from him. I took out my data pad, as if to check on other appointments.

  “Her late husband might have been my father.” James looked over my shoulder, rubbed at his nose with his sweater sleeve. He sneezed, not covering his mouth. I moved back in my chair. “My mother died when I was a kid.” I heard loneliness and pride under his words
. “Matron lent me significant support, like I was family.”

  Part of me wondered why a woman of Matron Barbara’s generation accepted life with a wandering spouse. Another part of me wondered if she had a few skeletons in her own sexual closet.

  “Well, thank you for your honesty.” Smiling no farther than my lower face, I stood up. “Give some thought to a thirty-day strategy for improving the children’s academic performance, and make an appointment for us to review your plans. I’d like individual learning programs developed for each child worker including how their estate assignments might be used to re-enforce learning.”

  “It could be weeks before I have time to complete a dozen individual learning plans,” he protested. “The forms are time consuming.”

  “Is that why academic reports are overdue?” He stared at me. “Stretch your thinking, James. This is not for your supervisor, just simple documents for our use. We’ll review Lana first.”

  He remained sitting, eyes squinting and lips pressed tight. I closed my file of the children’s education records. “Any questions, and you know where to find me.” I stood, he did not. “Protocol, James.” When he shook his head just a tad, I stood taller. “Subordinates will rise when a Bureau supervisor stands until granted permission to …” I let the words trail. He pushed himself from his chair, his body still bent at the waist and hands flattened on the table. I left.

  Not one day in my first week held pleasant surprises. The night before the directors returned, I sat at the long dining table with notes and spread sheets to finish Ashwood’s first business plan, focusing on a healthy and profitable future. We had a cook to manage food stores as well as preparation, production stock to rebuild depleted herds, sensible arrangements with our primary service vendors, and sufficient short-term staffing. An infant could be brought to Ashwood with assurance that the residence had food, water, and a safe climate. Not that I didn’t wonder about the parenting skills of two adults who failed to notice a dozen weakened kids in residence.

  From a management perspective, no one could fault my work, but I knew nothing about how directors David and Tia would respond. Matron Barbara left not one note about her relationship with the directors or their desired level of involvement with Ashwood. That was a bridge left to cross without instructions.

  So I prepared to share with them why so many changes came to be at Ashwood in their brief time away, starting with the facts behind Matron Barbara’s departure. They could be interested, angry or apathetic. I hoped they would want to partner with me, but I worried that they might treat me like an uppity housekeeper.

  I played with the pearl-blue pen Richard gave me as an engagement present, the only possession left from that era of my life. In the room’s quiet, I closed my eyes to think through the next day and the Regans’ arrival.

  “Matron?” Lana’s soft voice carried across the perfect acoustics of the room.

  I opened my eyes. She walked toward me carrying a tea pot and one cup.

  “I thought you might like tea.” She put both down on the table. “You look tired. My mother always gets tired working so late at night.”

  The children didn’t talk about their families in our hearing, much the same as in my training estate experiences. I wondered how such extended separations would impact this first generation in government-assigned situations.

  “Thank you, Lana. Would you like to get yourself a cup? I could use company,” I said.

  “I don’t really like tea. But I’ll stay for a bit if you’d like.”

  I pulled out a chair around the table’s corner. She sat, quiet throughout her body. “Tell me about your mother,” I invited. “What does she do?”

  “She’s a wonderful person. I look like her.” Her voice brightened. “She says we two are fair to plain.” Lana smiled at me, a sweet smile with a mix of child and teenager. “I came here ’cause she got in a bit of trouble for not being able to control my older brother. They sent him to a training school and put my younger brother in all-day school.”

  “What about your father?”

  “He’s a runner. Left before Jessie, my younger brother, was born. We were pretty poor, even though Mom worked in an office. My older brother and me and Mom did laundry for two city couples to make extra money for food.”

  I didn’t ask Lana if she missed her family, or wanted to go home for a visit. I did extend my hand across the table to cover hers. “She must be proud of you, Lana. I’m so impressed with all the responsibility you’ve taken on at Ashwood.”

  “I’m glad you came, Matron. I was scared we wouldn’t have enough to eat and the Bureau would send us all to other places.” She paused. “Ladd says you’re mad at James for not teaching us good enough.”

  That boy listened to every adult conversation. Either that or James had stooped to complaining to a student. I thought before responding, but Lana wasn’t through sharing her thoughts.

  “I’m kind of the quiet worker,” she started each word with care. “I’m good at math and logic. Before I came here, my teachers said if I could learn to read and write as well as I do numbers, I could be university potential. I’d like to go St. Olaf and be a teacher, like you. But my scores aren’t so good.”

  I saw her tears before she bent her head, and moved to the chair that stood between us so I could put an arm around her shoulder. “Lana, I was amazed when I arrived and discovered that a twelve-year-old girl was feeding an entire estate with almost no help. Then I saw how few provisions were in the cupboards, and you earned my respect. There’s been a lot on your shoulders, and I wouldn’t be surprised if you haven’t had enough rest and time to devote to studying.”

  Raising her head, Lana nodded. “I’ve been pretty tired. And, you know I had to skip school hours when deliveries came in or boxes had to be packed for the Jensens.” Her shoulders drew back, defensive. “I’m sorry about the Jensen thing. Matron told me that they would be processing stuff for us.”

  “That’s not your problem.” I handed her my handkerchief. “I’m going to help Mr. James put together a plan to bring you up to testing standards. If you need some assistance, you and I will find time for tutoring.”

  “It’s not too late for me to make the university cut?”

  “The Bureau looks at fifteen-year-olds’ tests. So, if you can do the work, you’ve got years to pull up your scores.”

  “I’ll work really hard. I promise.” I’d heard those words from dozens of students while teaching, but not with the commitment of this child worker who appeared to want more out of life than a semi-skilled job.

  After a small rub of the back of her hand, I sat back and stretched as well. “I’ll hold you to that, Lana.” I said. “Thank you for the tea and your willingness to share. Tomorrow will be a busy day. You go to bed, and I’ll put these things away when I’m done.”

  Standing, she bobbed her head and said good night.

  The great house quieted, lights turned off while heating levels moved into night settings. At Lana’s age, my hopes were so much more immediate and material—if I could convince my parents to buy me an iPod, if we’d have a summer vacation on Lake Michigan, if braces made me look goofy. Terrell’s wondering about how the United States would feel when this generation of child workers stepped into leadership stayed in my mind as I finished my tea.

  9

  Snow threatened the directors’ homecomings the next morning. Terrell and I shared a pot of coffee while sitting at the kitchen counter with a window view of the lighted yard where heavy snowflakes stuck to everything.

  “Sure does soften the place,” he said. “Maybe the house won’t look so creepy from the front steps.” He poured himself more coffee, stirred in sugar. “I hear those doors were designed by Director Tia herself. Will be interesting to meet that lady.”

  Our coffee talks gave mornings at Ashwood a feeling of home. Two early risers, Terrell and I trailed each other around the kitchen, pulling together our own breakfasts. Until we both finished our first cup of
coffee, we kept conversation light.

  “You’ve got a way of making these domestic beans taste like a dark roast,” I said and held out my mug. “Even with non-dairy creamer, it is heavenly.”

  “I re-roast the beans with a little oil then brew it twice. That’s all I’m going to say, or you’ll be stealing my tricks and taking over the kitchen.” He laughed. Not the loud guffaw I heard when workers filled the kitchen area, but a sound that implied a different level of relationship.

  Ladd walked in, dressed in a bright-blue shirt and black pants. I saw the surprise in Terrell’s eyes. “Well, I’ll be,” he chuckled. “Don’t you look like somebody’s idea of a houseboy? Why don’t you pull a kitchen coat over that shirt so we don’t have to look at it?”

  “Director Tia likes us to wear bright colors when she’s home,” Ladd said with what sounded like a combination of chagrin and defensiveness. “She says it makes the place more ‘conducive’ for work.” He stumbled over the word. “These shirts are custom-made in Chicago.”

  I stepped in before Terrell’s teasing could start. “Bright colors aren’t protocol at most estates, Ladd, which is why Cook Terrell is surprised. And on most estates the Matron chooses clothing colors and styles. Another way Ashwood is unique.”

  He pulled on the kitchen coat, buttoning it as he moved to set out breakfast foods. Terrell and I changed our discussion to the fine points of what needed to be completed in the kitchen before our directors arrived. As he moved about his work, I knew Ladd listened to everything, an annoying trait that kept me from liking the boy.

  Studying files didn’t prepare me for the arrival of Director Tia. She defined “unique.” A tiny woman with curly black hair and small dark eyes, she exuded a large, unstable kind of energy the moment she walked in the front door and threw her fur-lined red coat to the floor. “Fourteen hours of travel across the Atlantic, and I almost got stuck in Milwaukee because of snow.” She shook her head, a small sprinkle of snow dotting the woodwork. “You’d think a guy running a snow plow would be able to clear a fucking road.”