Ashwood

by Cynthia Kraack

  “That’s old, Terrell,” I said as I re-assembled my earpiece and stood up. “But I think you’re dead on.”

  19

  What happened in the dining room?” David caught up with me as I walked to my office to file for James’s replacement.

  “What are you asking about?” I respond with a question to slow down the energy I felt rolling from his body. Good energy, anxious energy, made no difference when directed toward me.

  “Your hand in Tia’s pocket and the rapid shut down of the party. You were rude.”

  I stopped walking. “I’m on my way to ask your wife a few questions about what I saw someone put in her pocket. I’d like to talk with her in private.”

  “That’s not going to happen. I’ve got responsibility to watch out for her interests, as well as those of our daughter.”

  I looked beyond him, out the glass walls of the office passage. The early evening dark-velvet sky rolled over yesterday’s snow, changing the estate landscape. Reports waited my review, academic plans needed approval, and dinner would be served within the hour. I was not entirely empathetic with Director Tia’s mixed-up life, but she claimed top attention.

  Returning to our conversation, I asked, “Does Tia use illegal drugs?”

  “Tia has a complex medication regiment, managed by our private physician and experts during her travels. That gives her access to compounds or drugs not available in the States.” He stood at the doors, hands at his side, face neutral.

  I didn’t know what he knew about Tia’s altered state, but found myself surprised at his response. “And wouldn’t alcohol be a bad mix with most psychotropic medications?” I challenged, sure his natural honesty could be accessed if I asked the right question.

  “Look, Anne, I can’t control Tia. We’re together here maybe ten days each month, and she’s under a shitload of pressure from the DOE. She’s in her office right now because there’s been an accident at the Eastern European testing station. Last time they called her for something like this, she was gone for three months. That’s her life.”

  “Government family policy won’t allow her to be assigned to travel for the next month.”

  David snorted. “Anne, do you really believe that this government, the government that won’t allow women like Tia to carry their own babies, can’t ignore its own family policies to preserve a multi-billion dollar project? Then Gestapo nurse will find a way to insert lack of maternal bonding into her reporting.”

  “Illegal drugs could cost you custody of your daughter, land Tia in jail in many countries, or kill her.” We entered the office building and proceeded to Tia’s office.

  Her door stood open. She finished a call in French. With the exception of the large drafting table where Tia stood, absolutely nothing looked out of place in her office. The cleanliness astounded me. She turned toward us, a commander distracted from battle by interlopers meaningless in what mattered at that moment for field success. “Yes?”

  “I’ll be brief,” I said, lowering my voice and frustration. “The packet Tutor James placed in your pocket held cocaine. Tell me about that.”

  “If you want to do a tox test, I’ll give you a hunk of hair. Scissors are in the top desk drawer. It’ll test positive.”

  David shifted his weight next to me, cleared his throat, maybe considering how to get us out of this conversation.

  “For God’s sake, Anne.” Sarcasm coated each word Tia spit out. “People like David and me are what drives this fucking country. Nobody cares if I’m snorting or injecting as long as I make a miracle happen in some shit hole like Romania. It won’t be my first positive tox screen. Nobody cares. If that’s all you want to know, give me the damn scissors then leave me alone.”

  Her communications device sounded. “I’d like my cocaine back unless you can afford to cover the cost,” she said turning away. “And close the damn door as you both leave.”

  I expected David to say something, to defend his wife or request I not return the cocaine. Instead he moved from her office, in silence to his own, and closed the door.

  Walking back to Terrell, I remembered sitting somewhere toward the back of an old university lecture hall filled with estate management trainees listening to Sandra Goetz talk about the use of illegal substances.

  “In the rigorous screening process you’ve all completed, we’ve been inside every aspect of your physical history.” In what I would learn to be a classic Sandra group presentation, she delivered her speech rapidly as if challenging listeners to catch each word or lose important information. “We know every drug that’s been on your home bathroom shelf, how many headache tablets you take each week, if you have ever taken antidepressants, how many times you light up a cigarette or joint. I have the list of who has used illegal drugs. And that particular behavior will be grounds for immediate dismissal from any federally funded training program.”

  We heard the drug lecture often, noted empty seats of those rumored to be users. Street-drug trade flourished in Washington, D.C., frequently fronted by physicians looking for more income. Tia’s willingness to indulge in powder from a loser like James surprised me.

  Terrell expressed little surprise when I replayed Tia’s words with a helping of flavor to correctly capture her attitude. “I’d love to know where a small county teacher like James gets his hands on stuff that pure,” he responded. “If James uses, he’s got some secret source of cash. The picture doesn’t look true.”

  “Do you have resources to track back where this stuff might be purchased? Contacts who might know where James gets his stock?”

  “You certainly don’t have the language, lady.” He gave me a sweet smile, one hand rubbing his chin. “Let me think on it.”

  “Keep an eye on her.”

  “Director Tia will be spending her time in her office with this Romania thing,” he said. “I’ll deliver her food. I’m told she doesn’t like young workers in that building.”

  “How did you know about Romania?”

  “We’re working from the same page, Matron. You haven’t read your Bureau news updates?”

  20

  Phoebe settled into Ashwood as easily as the snow that fell on her birthday. She bonded with David, most often found at his side or in a sack on his chest. Tia, while not sent to Romania, remained virtually locked in the office building nights and days. When I saw her moving between the coffee station and her office she looked thinner and more hyperactive. Certainly Tia paid little attention to David and less to Phoebe. I relied on Terrell to keep Tia safe, and he carried special meals to her while monitoring her mental state. David, Terrell, and I kept Nurse Kim out of the offices.

  Production for market ramped up nicely with Magda increasing green house capacity at a faster pace than I expected and Jack introducing new livestock with minimal disruption to our small herd. The fish farm continued overproducing market goals, bringing a series of creative dishes to our lunch and dinner tables.

  That Thanksgiving we began a new tradition of distributing chowder, warm bread and pie to a dozen families before sitting down for the same meal that evening. Terrell supplemented our dinner with spiced applesauce and a fantastic vegetable casserole.

  Looking around the estate dining room that evening, decorated for the occasion with candles surrounded by an arrangement of dried bittersweet and evergreen boughs from our grounds, memories of the Thanksgiving bounty of my childhood held my mind captive. I missed those years of starched linens, silverware, imported cut flowers serving as a backdrop for turkey, ham, dressing, vegetables, salads, and bread made possible by women willing to work in the kitchen, by grocery stores stocked with specials and someone bringing home regular paychecks. Maybe safe-haven families in the metro area celebrated that way again, but I knew many Americans would not have as much on the table as Terrell produced from our slim larder.

  Sitting among folks who were strangers four weeks earlier, I wanted my husband, mother, father, or brother to walk in for just five minutes to tell stor
ies about what we once knew as a family. My now familiar young workers clearly enjoyed this celebration. They wore clean uniforms, the girls enjoying hair ribbons I salvaged from my own belongings. Few had Thanksgiving stories to share, even fewer happy ones.

  Leading them, I stumbled through the Bureau’s suggested prayer of thanks. All that had been lost in our country crowded out what we now experienced at this table of simple foods. Living in the present required letting go of the past with no promise of a future, walking always on a treadmill of pure existence. My thoughts landed on Phoebe, sleeping peacefully between her parents, a baby born into the Regan family through a stranger’s body to be raised in a home earned by her parents’ work, yet not truly a family home. Her mother sat with one hand resting on the infant’s tummy. Nurse Kim, sitting between two child workers, watched everything around the table, maybe assessing our small holiday celebrations and finding Ashwood lacking.

  We played games in the large gathering room that evening—great, noisy competitive marathons of current-day Monopoly. Some of the workers left for calls with home, some wished their names would be called for a brief visit with parents or siblings. The games continued as a distraction as well as entertainment. Finally David and I made huge bowls of popcorn and filled a tray with bottled sweet drinks for a rare treat while Terrell played the piano. Mentors and workers found each other, adults sitting still to listen to children’s small stories of their young lives, here and there a shoulder providing a soft landing place for a lonely soul. And, to my amazement, we discovered Nurse Kim to be the most amazing storyteller, filling the time after Terrell’s songfest with a tale about a mouse exploring Chicago on Thanksgiving morning.

  An easy snow fell the next morning as I climbed into a transport for my first time away from Ashwood. My main goal: to hire a new tutor. I didn’t look back at the great grey house, didn’t choose to carry with me the foreboding of its dark front doors. I looked ahead, through Ashwood’s tall pine trees and rows of crab apple trees to the open road.

  Puffs fell from trees. Small clouds of windblown flakes rose from branches and disappeared into the grey sky background. Traveling through the estates, the quiet beauty implied that life was peaceful for those within the walled fields and yards. All appeared normal—snow piled at the roadside, cattle with their backs to early winter breezes, horses walking toward out buildings, adults shoveling pathways.

  Pulling out from the estates’ road gate, my driver engaged snow treads for the remaining miles to the metro. He waved to a Dakota County public safety officer working the area. Work transports, supply trucks and a few private vehicles traveled along the same rugged, unplowed county road. Security felt loose until we entered the Minneapolis-St. Paul area, where street cameras, robo patrols, and the presence of community-services officers advertised some level of street safety.

  “How’s your first month been, Matron Anne? I was the one who dropped you off that night. Wasn’t sure I should leave you at the gate.”

  A simple comfort, someone who knew my name and story. “Thank you for remembering.” I edited out hungry kids, slim food supplies and the rest of Matron Barbara’s history. “Ashwood has a new cook, weathered the big snow storm and welcomed a baby. It’s been busy.”

  “I transported the nurse and baby. Cute little one. My wife and I have three of our own, so I consider myself something of an expert on kids.”

  I half-listened to the driver while assuring myself all would run smoothly at Ashwood in my absence. Terrell would watch the residence, deliver food to Tia, who now nearly lived in her office. Magda could lead the workers’ lessons for the day. The tutor interviews claimed priority, plus I had personal appointments in the cities.

  “We’ll get to your Bureau meetings faster if I take the metro’s secured route, Matron, if you don’t mind being charged for the toll.” The driver’s voice broke my thoughts. “It’s not as scenic, but I’d like to by-pass the central city route.”

  “Go ahead. That sounds like a good idea.” We rumbled over a washboard section of county road. I held myself steady with my hands before settling back into the seat. “What’s your name? Sounds like we’ll see each other now and then.”

  “Van.” He chuckled. “My dad’s brother’s name was Vance. Kind of turned out funny with what I do.”

  We shared a smile. I envied his life of family, appreciated his kindness.

  “Where do you live, Van?” Hungry for information about a normal family, I wanted all the details.

  “Because of our jobs—my wife, Lizzie, is a nurse—we have a townhouse in the Highland Park safety zone. We’re real lucky, and our kids go to a private school about a block away that’s supported by the nurses’ and protective employees’ unions. It’s a decent life.” He sneezed once, a large manly sound. “Excuse me. My wife keeps our place absolutely immaculate so the kids don’t get sick, but this transport is another story. A bit dusty.”

  Trucks, buses, and transports rolled to our left as we exited the major metro for a quiet, restricted street. People walked to transit stations, adults accompanied children to a school, and an elderly man displayed his wealth by strolling three small dogs on leashes. A line of adults waited for the kind of coffee or tea only available in the metro safe havens.

  Children from these homes and apartments wouldn’t find their way to estates or government training unless tragedy or scandal enveloped their families. With lots of hard work and a few connections, Ashwood’s young workers might find their way to some similar safe neighborhood as adults.

  We joined morning traffic through the residential area. Here and there, Christmas ornaments trimmed a front window, evergreen boughs hung on a door, a menorah caught the morning light. Like a confused sparrow, I searched every residence for the signs of the life I once thought normal. And like that fragile bird, I beat my emotions against glass barriers that held Matron Anne apart from the simple comfort of being the woman who lived in four rooms in a multi-family residence with daily worries about balancing work, home, and family.

  When the transport dipped into a long tunnel, I closed my eyes against its blue-white lights and dirty, mustard-colored tile walls. We swerved. My hands grasped for stability. We straightened.

  “Sorry, Matron. Looked like you were ready for a nap. Pothole the size of a toolbox. Surprised this road’s been left to deteriorate that way with all the government officials traveling this way.”

  “A pothole killed my husband. During the bad years. His tire exploded, and he over corrected his steering.” The story ran with ease and pain. I couldn’t stop telling this stranger what no one at Ashwood knew. “He swerved into the next lane and into a delivery truck.”

  “You were a young widow. I’m sorry.”

  “The world has changed so much, it feels like a long time ago.”

  Van said nothing. In the quiet, I pushed myself to review tutor candidates credentials. My left hand shook. I lowered it to the stability of the keypad, tapped out the first candidate’s name, brought up the candidate listing, clicked on the first name: David.

  21

  The Bureau’s non-descript building spread over a city block. Pollution darkened the white cement walls. Pigeons perched on the shit-dabbled ledges of small square windows.

  About half a block from the building, Van said, “The transport has to be parked under the building. I’ll drop you at the front entrance.” He eased between parked vehicles.

  “I’ll call when I’m done.” I gathered my things, waited for the door to open.

  “Matron Anne.” I turned at the urgent sound of his voice.

  “I’ll stay here until I see you enter the building. I’d suggest you stay inside until I return. If you decide to walk around outside, remove your earpiece and conceal anything of value. Two Bureau employees were abducted from here last week. Take care.”

  I climbed stairs worn from the thousands of bureaucrats and applicants entering the building six days a week. Inside I waved my left arm, the one with my mic
rochip, through the employee security scanner, then found my way to my assigned room. No one approached me, no one greeted me, in odd contrast with the often crowded halls of Washington, D.C., Bureau offices.

  Our job assignment specialists prepared a slate of four candidates for personal interviews. David, Hajar, and Luis represented typical tutors or community teachers—all in their late twenties with university preparation and limited teaching experience. Credentials of the last candidate, Jason, made me nervous. I had never met an estate candidate for any position over fifty years old. He brought decades of classroom teaching and education leadership, probably a misfit of some sort. Through the first three interviews I felt the authority of my position, accepted the young applicants’ respect.

  Jason and I completed the approved interview questions quickly, me feeling a bit foolish asking the wheelchair-bound, gray-haired man standard questions about lesson planning skills, assessment capabilities, knowledge of traditional kindergarten through secondary grades learners. I finished with the last question on the approved listing. “What else do I need to know about what you could bring to Ashwood, Teacher Jason?”

  “I’m obviously not a traditional candidate.”

  He shifted, settled his hands on the arms of his chair. While not roughened, his fingers suggested that Jason once worked beyond intellectual labor. Our heads level across the table, the candidate let me look directly into his face where creases and lines marked the quadrants of muscles used regularly for smiles and thoughts. My father might have looked like this man.

  “You shouldn’t be concerned about this chair. I do walk, but find it easier to keep up with young people when I’m on wheels. You know I was shot by a student who needed lunch money during the time of great adversity?”

  He checked for understanding, no emotion coloring his history sharing. “When I finished rehab after the shooting, I left academia for woodworking. Eventually, pressure came down for me to return to a classroom. I taught gifted kids here in the metro.”