Harvesting Ashwood Minnesota 2037

by Cynthia Kraack

  No matter how much this man cared to be kind, his words were meaningless. He would travel back to his wife and family, celebrate a child’s birthday, take a walk after dinner. The worst part of this day was over for Peterson. Your loved one has been in a fatal accident, your mother has terminal cancer, your home has been foreclosed. A dozen bad-news deliverers have walked through my life, all decent people charged with a lousy responsibility.

  “What’s being done?” The question came out demanding as I pushed to understand both the situation and the reason for David’s involvement. “There must be some time line from the people who pulled this off.”

  “As I said, no one has claimed responsibility for the ambush.” Peterson sat back.

  “So what are we supposed to do?”

  “Take the day, Anne,” Milan suggested. “Spend it with your family. Then go back to your regular routine. Your family and Ashwood need you to stay strong.”

  How could they understand that my strength began intertwining with David when he gave me the key to an old South Dakota house as promise of a future when we were through with government service? That my regular routine meant waking with David, making decisions with my husband, protecting the world we built together.

  “This is all you know?”

  Peterson shook his head, his lips pressed together, leading me to wonder what words he’d held back.

  “What happens now?”

  “The DOE will maintain this office into the future so you have no fear of financial instability regardless of the outcome of this situation.” Peterson stopped, perhaps hearing the massive insensitivity of his bureaucratic speak. Scientists tell us the body develops pain channels that remain active long after tissue heals. A decade after losing my last relative, one strong channel flooded. I looked to Milan and saw sympathy in the set of his mouth and the seriousness of his eyes.

  My old confidant moved the water glass toward me. “Have a drink, Anne. It’s too early for anything stronger. I did bring light tranquilizers if that would help.”

  My hand sprang from the chair, not to grab for drugs but to clamp over my mouth and a primal moan. I stopped their path, swallowed, pushed out words. “I thought you were just showing up to talk about Andrew Smithson.”

  “There is also news about Andrew.” He placed a small medicine container in my hand, closed his fingers around mine. “You were one of the surrogates impregnated with selected sperm.” He paused. Too numb to protest confirmation of this long ago wrong, I merely looked at our hands. Milan continued, speaking to me in the quiet tone of a trusted friend. “Your instincts were right when you were pregnant—Andrew is your son. The DNA tests matched.”

  “Then he belongs here,” I said. And I wondered if David didn’t return, if I would look at my firstborn child and remember this day. “Don’t make me deal with his aunt. I don’t want any lasting entanglements with that woman.”

  “You would think different if you got to know her, Anne,” Milan said. “In the future you and I and Clarissa Smithson will sit down together.” He demanded eye contact, and I let him see the threat of tears in mine. “I’ll work through the details of establishing your legal status as Andrew’s mother. His guardianship will transfer to me.” He made a note.

  I didn’t know if he moved us toward talking about guardianship intentionally, or if the conversation now slid on its own to that delicate ground. Under Bureau of Human Capital Management protocol, upon David’s disappearance, Phoebe and Noah moved under Milan’s legal guardianship.

  “We have to talk about the children of David and Tia.” He opened with gentleness. “Nothing needs to change in their day-to-day life, and I will assign a temporary waiver for you to do all the things you and David currently manage as parents. We’ll monitor what happens and make decisions after more is known about David’s situation.” Giving my hand an unexpected squeeze before pulling his away, he continued. “Let’s assume he’ll be back here in good time and we don’t have to discuss this further.”

  Peterson cleared his throat. “I’m sorry to rush us along.” He frowned. “DOE has placed this building in lockdown status until David returns. Staff will continue to work here, the lab will remain open. Analyst Jega’s provided us with a list of non-DOE individuals who regularly move in and out of your office, and we will set up limited access for them. Tomorrow, we’ll install a partial barrier to the area beyond your office and coffee counter to secure David’s work.”

  A wall, even temporary, in the space where David and I spent much of our working day suggested a permanence I wasn’t willing to accept. I took a breath. “What that says to Ashwood’s people feels rather alarming.”

  Milan slipped into his strange undefined role between the DOE and the Bureau of Human Capital Management to block Peterson’s plan. We moved to talking about anticipated media coverage, how I would receive private updates, what the media would cover, and circulating a written statement to our staff.

  I looked at my office clock and noticed it was six-fifteen. When I raised my eyes to the window, the estate’s normal morning activities continued with the drive needed to grow food, raise livestock, feed people. In the near distance Lao walked with a day laborer, a kindly man from Lakeville who worked at Ashwood to provide a high-quality education for his daughter in our school. A man who frequently stopped to talk with David about sports.

  “What do I tell our children?” The question cut through Peterson’s placing a DOE security folder in front of me. “And his mother? Sarah lost a brother in Afghanistan twenty years ago. What do I tell Sarah?”

  “If you’d like us to stay an hour or so, I’m willing to talk with whomever you choose as a representative of the DOE. We want Ashwood’s people to understand there is no reason to be worried about their own security or continued operation of the estate.” How could he understand that David’s role at Ashwood had nothing to do with the daily business operations, that my husband gave all his work effort to the DOE? The people of Ashwood would miss the essence of my husband, the man who knew their names and their kids’ plans, the farm kid who could clear brush when needed. Together David and I built an atmosphere at Ashwood estate, and that’s what people would miss.

  Their transport left the estate through the DOE small drive before the residence workers brushed their teeth. Except for Jega at the entrance, I stood alone in the office building. David’s locked door, always an affront when he traveled, now felt threatening. Today I would be with my family to tell them the news of David’s disappearance and Andrew’s arrival. Tomorrow I’d focus on bringing my husband back.

  Chapter Eleven

  Knock, knock.” Paul pushed my office door open. “Need a friend?” One wide eyebrow, turned white by age and living under bright sun, raised into a questioning line above eyes like those of his son. Under gentle words the hint of a tremor implied that he’d seen the government’s silver transport depart.

  “Please.” I stood by the windows as if solutions for today’s problems were hidden in leaves and fields just beyond its glass. As if David might jog up the drive covered with sweat and a layer of road dust and stop in my office on his way to clean up for breakfast. “You saw the transport?”

  “They were here about David?”

  His hands settled on the back of a chair, fingers spread, age spots and raised veins snagging my attention. With so few urban baby boomers surviving the big D, Sarah and Paul were among the oldest people in our new economy. Decades of living each day outdoors hid their age until moments like this reminded me how fortunate we were to still have David’s parents in our lives.

  “The media will be reporting the ambush of a mixed U.S. consulting and military leadership group at the Asunción airport overnight. No one knows who is responsible for that action.” Paul’s face lost elasticity giving him the look of a general facing battle. “That’s all we know, or at least all the DOE will say.” Shakiness started in my upper legs, a forgotten reaction to extreme danger. “The DOE sent Milan and one of th
eir executives to tell me before news stories are released.”

  A chair whirled on its casters as Paul pushed it aside on his way to where I stood. His arms folded around me, blocking the morning sun with well-worn cotton over well-developed muscles. I closed my eyes in the safety he offered. We leaned on each other in silence.

  “So he’s alive?” A father’s voice mixed defiance and doubt, not unlike David’s challenging the Bureau’s therapist about treating Phoebe’s night terrors.

  “No one said anything else.” My lips quivered, and I brought one fisted hand to my mouth. “He has to be alive.” On Paul’s chest I let tears fall even as I released my fingers to stretch my own arms around his body. “We need to tell Sarah and the children before one of them hears the morning news.”

  “If you’ve told me all you know, I’ll talk with Sarah.” He brushed a hand down my back as we moved apart. “If you want to wait, we’ll join you and the kids.”

  “What am I going to tell them, Paul? Watching Phoebe these past two nights already has me worried. David’s her rock of strength.”

  “You’re wrong about that. She worships David, but she leans on you. You’re the one she wants when the night is bad. You’re the one she calls mother, and there’s no role more sacred.”

  Family breakfast would be served in twenty-five minutes—sleepy boys, Phoebe reading at the table, Sarah drinking strong coffee. “Paul, there are two more things I need to tell you.” I took a deep breath before touching the first painful topic. “Milan is legal guardian for Phoebe and Noah. If David …” I faltered, looked to the floor for words before telling David’s father hard information about our world. “The way Bureau protocol works for children of intellectuals, legal guardianship is usually not held by their parents. Because of Tia’s instability, protocol ruled.”

  “Phoebe doesn’t need to know that.”

  A horse-drawn wagon carried laborers to produce gardens on the far edge of Ashwood where a single farmer had tried to make a living. Potatoes grew right up to a small yard area remaining around his two-bedroom house. “You’re right, but I’m trying to tell you that if anything happened to David, Phoebe and Noah could become wards of the Bureau.”

  I had no magic bullet to change this reality. Paul now knew one of our secret burdens.

  “David and I explored every possible legal action to break the contract that was signed before the kids were conceived. No one is willing to take on the case.” I drew in a breath, saw Paul’s unwillingness to accept that his grandchildren could be taken away. “No one,” I repeated. “Milan assured me he expects everything to remain unchanged.” I didn’t tell him about the temporary waiver. “Sometimes it’s uncomfortable to remember that, beyond being a friend, Milan represents the Bureau’s interests.”

  “Well, let’s take him at his word.” Paul, on his way to the door, stopped. “What else?”

  The words came out like the impatient question of an action-oriented man already thinking of the immediate task of breaking the news to his beloved Sarah.

  “Andrew Smithson is my biological son.”

  He blew air through his nose and made an undecipherable sound before speaking. “Goddamn if timing isn’t everything. Three kids who need you now and an orphan boy dropped into our house with a whole different set of needs. When does he arrive?”

  I didn’t respond immediately, struggling with surprisingly defensive emotions raised by Paul’s tone. Just yesterday he and David encouraged me to open our home to Andrew regardless of the boy’s DNA. Today the reality of this child, my son, sounded like a burden to the family. “Not until next week.” I moved from my window view. “I don’t want to tell the children about Andrew today. Maybe we’ll know David is safe soon, and we can focus on my son’s arrival.”

  I hadn’t had my wits about me to seek access to the child’s files. Andrew might have any assortment of metro behaviors, might detest estate dwellers, carry a personal weapon. Clarissa had kept him safe so I hoped he would be a good kid. I’d have years to learn his face, his characteristics, his dreams. If only David could be here.

  “I love David so much that I can’t imagine him in such danger.” I bit my lip, held it between my teeth, knowing that losing David would be deeper and more painful than my first experience as a widow. “I know life goes on, but this life is one we built.”

  “Hold on, Annie. This is my son. He’ll find a way to get back to you.” My father-in-law and friend returned to my side. “You two are the best matched of all our boys and their wives. Inviting us into your lives made Sarah about as happy as she has been since the depression. Don’t ever doubt that you and all the children are as much Regans as David.” He gave me a squeeze. “We’re family.”

  My father-in-law was more of a rookie in experiencing the loss of immediate family in an unnatural order. The families of David’s siblings owned land that served as the Regan home address for seven generations. My family and first spouse shared wall space in a Minneapolis mausoleum.

  For Paul, family still implied the sweet trail of genetics. I saw family as a fluid collection of people bound by emotion and experience and expectation—like Magda and Lao and the children who grew up at Ashwood. David and I, with our children, created a core family, but as a survivor I let my love grow beyond those with a common last name.

  Paul held open my office door, placed a roughened hand under my elbow, and escorted me from the office building with the kindness of an older generation. We supported each other as we walked through the windowed passage, speaking quietly and projecting hopeful thoughts into the thin information we knew about David’s disappearance as if practicing what to say to Sarah, Phoebe, Noah, and John.

  I saw the boys, faces freshly washed and dressed for the day, lounging in our family quarters. Before they could see me, I snuck past the door to the kitchen to my old friend.

  “Terrell, could I talk with you for a second? Maybe in your office?”

  Morning meal preparation stumbled along, workers not used to Terrell’s methods. Sarah, who knew the team and the kitchen, was absent. He wiped his hands as he followed me to his office.

  “I know what you’re going to say about David. The DOE hasn’t shut me out of their employee communications yet and I read about the ambush in the morning briefing report. When I saw that transport leave, I figured they came with bad news.” He folded his arms across his chest, but the softness around his eyes told me of his empathy. “How you doing?”

  “I’ve known far better days. We’re trying not to get ahead of ourselves.”

  “I remember your wedding out where the kitchen gardens are now. He built you a rocking chair as a surprise and made you sit in it while he filled a plate at the buffet. That’s how I guessed you were pregnant.”

  Stories of shared history make my world a little brighter—when you lose all the people who know all the special stories about the big and little times of your life, having others build new memories is a gift.

  “This is going to be rough.” I hung my head, rubbed at my nose. “I can’t fall apart. I have to talk with the kids.” He gave my back a small rub. “Can you hold family breakfast until I buzz you?”

  “Phoebe’s out reading next to the porch,” he said. “I haven’t seen your boys.”

  “They’re hanging out in our quarters. They wait there for David or me before breakfast.” I thought ahead to change my morning schedule to be there for the kids. “Thanks, Terrell.”

  Our girl sat in a porch rocker, slippered feet pushing herself back and forth as her eyes traveled down her reading tablet. Not even the creak of floorboards brought her head up.

  “Morning, sweetie,” I said as if this morning was the same as the past ninety days of summer. “I love watching you read out here where the flowers smell so good.” She raised her head, eyes telling me some other place and story still held her mind. A hair clip held back curls. “I need to talk with you and your brothers before breakfast, so turn off your reader and walk with me.”
/>
  “It’s Daddy.” Voice quivered around the most important word of her vocabulary. “I couldn’t find him when I dreamed last night.”

  I took one hand, held it in both of mine as we walked. “You’ve been on the same wavelength so long.”

  “Is he dead?” The question should never come from a young child’s mouth.

  “Ambushed. That’s all we know.”

  “Oh, Mommy.” Thin but strong arms circled my waist. “Oh, Mommy.”

  “We have to think positive thoughts, Phoebe. Don’t let your mind race ahead.” Lowering my head, I kissed the top of hers. Birdsong marked the time as morning, early worker sounds carried from the production areas, conversation bits could be heard as day laborers left the dining building. I rocked Phoebe in my arms, connected to David through another living, breathing human who also loved him. “The boys need to be told before they hear the news from somewhere else.”

  Terrell moved a worker aside as Phoebe led us through the kitchen. She held my arm across her shoulders so we walked in awkward unison.

  None of the family joked about our son John’s extra sensory perception. Sarah suggested he inherited the gift from my Native American great-grandmother. I dreaded what the Bureau of Human Capital Management might want from our boy when they discovered his gift during mandated assessments.

  Our youngest child waited at the door to our family gathering room, his six-year-old face still and pale under a light summer tan. Noah stood slightly behind, favorite stuffed dog in one hand. “What’s happened to Daddy?” John asked. “How will he get home?”

  My hand slid away from Phoebe as she rushed to embrace John. “Johnny knows Dad’s all right,” she cried. “You wonderful brother.”

  Shrugging her off, he came to me. “What’s happened to Daddy?” he asked again, this time tearfully, the eyes he inherited from David latching to mine before he tucked his head into my ribs. Noah followed. I didn’t know the answer. Phoebe joined us, and my arms stretched to surround her.