Leaving Ashwood

by Cynthia Kraack

  Finally Sadig ignored his communication tools, but his answer was disappointing. “I do not understand this last item. These surrogates were compensated by the government, signed legal documents to relinquish rights to the Regan name. What worries you?”

  David’s nagging about Sadig worried me. When Sadig joined Hartford, Ltd., we temporarily contracted with ABF, a national intelligence specialist, to give him time to become familiar with the breadth of issues. Two years later, Sadig hadn’t grown beyond the narrow vision nurtured as a specialty manager for fifteen years in a multi-corps’ security force. He focused on technology, laws, and physical property. As David predicted, Sadig’s incompetence had become a liability.

  “Have you read ABF’s report that suggests a family member, or someone in a close relationship, provided Deshomm insider information?” Wheezy compression caught my breathing, stopped me from saying so much more about his lack of insight. Sadig pushed a glass of water toward me, but I stood up to get to the suppressant tablets. He stood as well.

  “You need to return to the residence, Ms. Anne, until we have the air filtration system cleansed.” He opened the door. “Come.” One hand, long fingers and pink palm, extended my way. “Now.”

  My eyes watered, the suppressants failed. Holding on the table, I coughed like a seal.

  David joined us. “Everything okay? You sound terrible.”

  “Sadig says . . .” I tried drawing a deeper breath, swallowed, anything to gain control and finish the statement. “Sadig . . .”

  “She should go to the main house.” My security chief finished the statement.

  We moved as a trio, stopping once for me to cough in the long glass walkway between the executive offices and our residence. I felt panic, tried harder to fill my lungs.

  “You sound like one of the metro smoggites, Annie.” David rubbed my back, massaged my neck. “Stop trying so hard. Just pull in a sip of air.”

  When solar panels had become more efficient, we’d replaced the heat-retaining tiled floor with a recycled product capable of muffling noise. Nothing muffled the sounds of my breathing. Looking for an external distraction, I gazed toward the rear of our residence at the gardens our family planted near the backyard pond. My eyes settled on Sarah’s shaded corner where she could rest away from a crowded house. I wished life had given me the time to move slower.

  “I’m better.” My voice cracked a bit. “You both need to get ready for Phoebe.” The smile I expected crossed David’s tired face. “Have you seen your dad?”

  “He’s having a good day.” We began walking again. “He sounds better than you. Maybe you should knock off for the day.”

  “I’m okay.” Then coughed in contradiction. “I have Deshomm documents to review.”

  “Use the desk in our bedroom. The guys and I are heading to Giant Pines. No one will bother you.”

  With a quick nod, Sadig left us. He spoke intensely via his communicator while heading out of the building. I kept my worries about him confidential for the time. “What’s interesting at Giant Pines?” My question ended in a whisper.

  David kept us moving. “John would like to leave the university research team and begin running part of Hartford, Ltd.”

  “He hasn’t said anything to me. Why didn’t you?”

  “Until he had a plan, it seemed premature.” David walked like his father, long steps learned on open farmland, uninterrupted by curbs or other people or the baggage of city life. For a quarter century, we’d walked side-by-side.

  “Isn’t a smallish agribusiness a risk for his career?” More than David, I followed the brutal treatment of young talent in the big corporations. They looked for people with single purpose.

  His arm settled across my shoulder. “If John is really interested in agri­business, there’s plenty within Hartford to keep him satisfied.”

  “I want more than this for him, David. He’s smart.”

  “You’ve been married to the son of a rancher. To a man who traveled the world for work, but never felt alive unless he was here. I don’t know that I want our son to have the hellish life of a government intellectual just because he’s pretty damn smart.”

  Sadly I never grew to love the earth like the Regans, didn’t feel sad about growing food under domes or in multi-story greenhouses. Hartford’s breadth hardly interested them. They were farmers who were never as pleased about a cutting-edge distribution system as new tillable acres.

  Hartford, Ltd., hadn’t invested in new agricultural property for many years. I’ve approved selling small acreage to diversify our holdings, to invest in gold—as a safety for my family’s future if the multi-corps drive the global economy back down. My family will not know poverty again.

  “This isn’t about the business being too simple for John. We agree that Hartford, Ltd., might not be large enough yet to support diverting his contract from the research agency. Are we ready?”

  We walked into our residence, a building constructed by the government during the early post-depression recovery period to house up to a couple of dozen people. We changed its footprint to accommodate more, then reconfigured the space to fit a small family and one of Hartford’s food research kitchens. As much as we’ve tinkered with the place, we’d never completely eradicated the clumsy original design that was more federal post office than family home.

  “Sadig wasn’t kidding about that wheezing.” Doctor Frances and her son waited in the central hall. She and her husband, Terrell, were our closest friends. But at this moment she was all physician. “Tablets not helping?”

  I nodded, aware of an odd mid-morning fatigue. “He thinks someone is compromising my office air.”

  “Your health records are in the Bureau data. It wouldn’t be a surprise if an info merchant mined the system.” Right there, she ran her diagnostic wand up and down my body. “Jeremiah, go to my office and ask Pia to send you back with a nebulizer and one C5 unit.” Her son ran off, a boy with his father’s height and his mother’s temperament. “Where are you heading?”

  “To our room. David thinks I should work from there while Sadig does his environment assessment.” A cough began, accelerated to a whooping sound with a trailing wheeze. I turned slightly, covered my mouth with my sleeve. “Damn,” I moaned.

  All I could do was watch Frances and Jeremiah outfit the bedroom study with a supplementary portable air filter, a humidifier, and nebulizer. She squeezed a giant dose of antihistamine up my nose. Hot tea and a pitcher of cool water arrived from the kitchen.

  “Could someone let Clarissa know where I’m working? My schedule will be impossible.”

  “No need. I just checked.” Clarissa entered as the kitchen worker left. “One of the kids mentioned you were sick. Quite the news on Ashwood when Ms. Anne needs special attention.” She seldom made me laugh, but the comment inspired a smile. “I hear my nephew will be joining the family gathering.”

  I nodded, breath too precious for words. She placed a pile of documents, each carefully earmarked for my review, on the desk.

  “He’s truly my brother’s son, but you transformed him.” She looked around the room at the nebulizer and medicines. “These things belong with Paul, not you. I’m going to stay on top of Sadig’s staff, but promise me you’ll stay here until your office is clean?”

  Not a physically affectionate person, Clarissa’s slight squeeze of my shoulder as she left was surprising. When the door closed, I felt like a kid on a sick day with an extraordinary amount of homework.

  Chapter 5

  The chances Hartford, Ltd., could outrun Deshomm were not unlike those of our large herd Australian shepherds facing an uncontrolled large pack of aggressive Rhodesian ridgebacks. As I studied our intelligence consultants’ materials in the concen­trated quiet, inconsistencies began to surface. They provided us with critical information as we shed or acquired any bus
iness asset, but not thorough information. In ninety minutes, I traced how three small plots of land acquired for easier access to Hartford acres were purchased with various contingencies to Deshomm-held subsidiaries.

  “Mom?” John’s deep voice outside our bedroom door interrupted what might have developed into a major executive blow up. Any breathing problems at this point were from frustration, not environment.

  “Come on in. This is a good time for me to take a break.” I pushed away my notes.

  John stood inches taller than David with thick wavy brown hair that hung slightly shaggy above his collar. He was a large man, packing close to two hundred pounds on a body of toned muscles. The deep voice that surprised everyone when John was a boy had developed an interesting slow cadence.

  “How about a hug, Mom?” Before I could stand, he bent to squeeze my shoulders and kiss the top of my head.

  “The crew did a good job cleaning the old engineer’s house. Thanks for letting Noah and me use the space.”

  “Are you kidding? Dad and I are so grateful the two of you are able to be here.”

  “There’s nothing to be grateful for, Mom. In fact, I’d like to make being here or at Giant Pines permanent.” He tucked his hands into his pants pockets. “Is this an okay time to talk?”

  “Sure. Seriously, are you sure you want to be tied to a rather national agribusiness, John?” I gestured toward David’s reading chair. I could see the lower back lawns and remembered how often our son set up the badminton net as a child and persuaded people to play.

  “Not exactly. I am interested in part of Giant Pines for a different use.” His voice sounded no disrespect. “I’ve got a co-investor and substantial government grant that could make Giant Pines a regional center of research for agribusiness. The strong, quality operation you and Grandpa and Max built is every attractive to investors.” He paused. “But you know that.”

  As boys, John and Noah played in the orchards outside our office windows with children sent from the cities to spend years on Ashwood as light-duty workers. They chased each other through the young fruit trees David insisted we plant. Nothing quiet could be done inside during those noisy energetic games. By the time John was a teenager, workers arriving at Ashwood were often rough older kids sent to us for rescue. The orchards became off limits for many reasons. Now, machines did everything a teenager or grown adult could possibly do—prune, clear, harvest.

  “A lot has changed here since you left.” Unlike Phoebe, Noah, and Andrew, John is an unaltered person. No genetic intervention and more freedom in choosing a life employer, but less clout in declaring large resources. Leaving the university research group could be a disaster in the long view of his working career. His eyes followed me as I sat back in the chair. “There’s so much more of the world for you to experience before you think of a commitment this large.”

  “I’ve traveled plenty for my grant research. When we finish this phase, our whole team will be contracted out to the highest bidder. I don’t want to be caught up by the multi-corps and live in that whole regime. I want to make my own decisions. To have a real home, not company quarters.” His words slowed. “It’s important to me to start working now and to own some land.” Before I responded, he delivered his greatest surprise. “Because I think someday I’d like to make a run for political office.”

  A dozen or more politicians visited Ashwood each year, some to see how private agribusiness operated, to be seen in the country, to meet real voters. But we had few personal friends involved in big scale politics.

  “Local?”

  He shook his head. “The locals don’t have much muscle today. Mostly deal with street repairs and charities and school attendance. I’ll start at the state level.” John inhaled, placed one arm over the back of his chair. “Hell, I really want to go to Washington, D.C., but I’ve got to be realistic.”

  “Who have you talked with about this ambition?” I remembered my brother talking about this dream and tempered that with the reality of David’s almost forty years working for the increasingly bureaucracy-bound U.S. Department of Energy.

  “You.” No smile accompanied his answer. John, being serious, was difficult to influence. “And Milan.”

  He surprised me with his seriousness. Confiding in my oldest confidante, a very highly placed national bureaucrat was a mature person’s action, not just a young man with dreams.

  “Milan makes sense.” Parenting even adult children happened without advance warning. Like contaminated air in an office or unexpected power surges, your offspring brought their world to you unannounced.

  “Statistics would be against you even at the state level.” I felt my way through the challenges facing his dream, looking for the opportunities. “To cast a vote for the state legislature or elected officials requires two consecutive years of minimum land ownership. Most state voters are about forty years old. Federal elections have higher land ownership requirements plus a threshold of personal taxes paid for three years.”

  He blew air out through his nose, a low snorting sound. “You remember when a person just had to be eighteen and a citizen.”

  “Your father lost his federal voting rights because of restrictions on citizens in high homeland security positions. Remember that quote by one of the multi-corps chairperson about how the vote of a shareholder is a commitment to building a better world while the vote of a citizen is an uneducated guess at what liar is the most trustworthy?”

  “Who can vote is just one issue on a significant list of civil rights that need to be returned to Americans.” John shifted on the chair. His voice strengthened. He could be a good consultant or sales person. “I want to talk about Giant Pines. Politics is the long-view goal.”

  “Of course, but first will you tell me how Milan responded to your political dream?”

  One shoulder raised, stayed that way. “He was honest about how difficult it is to be elected and how tough it can be to stick to your principles in office.”

  “I have a half hour for you to tell me about this plan for Giant Pines.” I cleared the desk and motioned him to move the chair closer. “Just for the record, Noah’s decision to refuse the Intellectual Corps career wasn’t a huge surprise. Andrew’s move from the multi-corps energy group for the consulting world surprised Dad. Your political aspiration will blow him away.”

  He looked so serious, so hopeful. I wanted to witness his success. “I’m proud of you, John. Dad called you and Faith our free children, not tethered to the Intellectual Corps standards. Grandpa would like to hear about your big dream.”

  This was one reason Hartford, Ltd., existed, to become large enough to offer our children escape from government work assignments. We’d be testing our financial model. “Maybe your baby sister will do something even bigger.”

  “She will, Mom.” He projected a business plan onto the desk. “I’ve got thirty minutes to make my case to Hartford’s CEO. Can we start?”

  Chapter 6

  With security inspections of my office still underway, I took advantage of the beautiful summer day to read additional intelligence reports on our screened porch. From my table I could hear the trees rustling, muffled noises of people moving about, and machinery in the fields.

  Across the porch Faith sat at her own table and studied her book. Conceived during the lowest point in our marriage, she developed as the most serene of our kids. She looked like none of us—or maybe like the most perfect blend of our genetics. Auburn hair fell thick and wavy like mine when I was young. Blue eyes, centered under naturally curved eyebrows, were the gift of some long-forgotten relative. Trailing her siblings by many years, she absorbed some of their best traits—Noah’s humor, John’s responsibility, Phoebe’s intellectual curiosity, and Andrew’s kindness—all with more balance. She’s the only one of our children who ever chose to study in my office instead of our residence or the school buildi
ng.

  “Mom, do you think Phoebe will be happy to be home?” Her question wasn’t meant as light conversation.

  “What’s on your mind, Faith?” I had moved from discovery to strategy in my work, a good time for a break.

  “Phoebe lets me follow her network, but I haven’t talked with her for the longest time. She’s kind of become different than us like that whole thing of having a cares to do everything for her.” Faith wrinkled her nose. “That’s creepy.”

  “I’m kind of there with you on the cares thing.” These silent laborers lurked around the Intellectual Corps night and day to keep their lives free from mundane tasks. They also supposedly listened to all conversations and reported back to the intellectual’s handlers. I realized I had assumed Phoebe would come without a cares in attendance. “Her life’s different than ours. People expect a lot from her and she’s only nine years older than you.”

  One hand pushed hair off her shoulder in a natural and pretty gesture. David and I are amazed by Faith’s wholesome good looks.

  “Would you have let her go to the university so young if you knew how the Intellectual Corps would treat her?” She flexed a toned arm, prettiness chased aside. “Will she expect special treatment?” Lines showed on her forehead. “Grandpa doesn’t need any upsetting.”

  I thought of the times David or I made quick trips to Chicago to calm Phoebe through rough times. She was eccentric. The trips, always unexpected, were organized by the Bureau. The summons carried national security ratings and trumped running a corporation. She could be working on social theory or the scheduling of drone invasions. We never knew.

  I didn’t think Phoebe was unstable, but I no longer understood what drove her. Intellectual Corps wasn’t a normal path open to just any of the three hundred seventy million people living in the United States.

  “I used to love talking with her about books or music or where she was traveling. Now I can’t think of one thing we have in common besides being sisters.” Faith voiced some of the questions David and I discussed the night before. “I don’t get what she does or how she lives.”