Leaving Ashwood

by Cynthia Kraack

  Stepping back, she leaned forward. “If you will all excuse me, I have a conference in ten minutes and am about twenty minutes behind in preparing. Noah will soon understand that.”

  Another stray from the plan that would have had her join us while Noah spoke. I watched her walk away, not able to leave. Gazing around I looked for someone to fall in step with her. With the exception of Frances, everyone who knew about her attempted suicide and depression stood behind Noah and in front of the media. For once I hoped the brown suits would appear.

  I listened to Noah, annoyed that Phoebe once again took a chink out of our family’s ability to simply enjoy another member’s success. The audience, the media, the Hartford staff present had no idea that David and I were worried about her even as we applauded Noah.

  We deferred making statements in spite of Bureau pressure. David said he did not want to distract from Noah’s day. I gave the same excuse. Fortunately the Bureau organized two interviews with very trusted media representatives so we were spared possible questions about the shooting or Phoebe’s health.

  Refreshments were served in a tented area of the courtyard. I skirted the serving area to check up on Phoebe. Like every key federal employee she had a special tracking chip in her body. But to call for a search would draw attention with so many politically critical guests on the estate.

  Her rooms were empty, she wasn’t with Andrew, and no one sat on the pond benches. The DOE offices surveillance didn’t track her appearance. Lao searched monitors until we saw her sitting on the ground under trees in the oldest apple orchard section. I knew the place as a favorite from when she was a child wanting to get away from her brothers.

  “Keep watching her,” I instructed Lao, “but don’t let anyone disturb us unless I call. Keep the brown suits back.”

  I took off my dress shoes and put on sandals as I walked out a side door the crowds would not notice. In five minutes I approached her.

  “Sorry, I thought I would wander too far from script and just made up that whole story about a conference. Of course you know that no one expects to conference with me right now, but I think I pulled it off.” Her heeled boots stood next to her, she had unzipped the top of her shirt. “You don’t need to miss the party, Mom. Milan probably has people here that you need to know back in the swamp city.”

  “I’d rather you came back with me.”

  “Mom, this is my favorite spot on earth. I’ll be fine here. Tell Frances I needed fresh air and nobody watching me for a half hour.” She grinned. “I know the monitors are on us, but that’s not the same as having an attendant.”

  “Do you mind if I stay for a few minutes.”

  “That linen will be destroyed if you sit on this grass,” Phoebe said as she patted the earth next to her. “You’ll catch eyes in D.C. with that outfit. I want to go shopping with you and help you pick out some real city clothes, some things that don’t say Minnesota. It’s a good thing you look fabulous in black.”

  Phoebe and shopping had nothing in common. Others shopped for her, clothed her.

  “I know what you’re thinking, but I decided this was the way I wanted to look. I didn’t just let people put things in my closet. At least starting a few years ago I stopped letting people dress me.” She giggled. “By the time a woman is twenty-three or twenty-four, she should have some idea of what looks good on her. The cares tend to buy brown and gray. Not good with my coloring.”

  “When I came to Ashwood I had to wear estate matron uniforms.” Calling myself a matron always made our kids laugh. “Simple straight skirts and pants and tops and sweaters or jackets. I was proud that I had had mine tailored in Washington, D.C. I also picked out a few scarves, not uniform code, to show off my hair color.”

  “I have one of those scarves. Dad gave it to me when I was homesick.”

  I knew the drawer in her Chicago apartment where she kept her Ashwood tokens. Pictures, books, pine cones, cups, or whatever else she wanted to remind her that she had roots.

  “Andrew will be gone in a few months. I don’t know if we’ll find a way to be together. I’m a mess.” The homesick comment turned the conversation toward her insecurities.

  “Phoebe.”

  She held up her hands. “Even before he leaves, you and Amber and Noah will be gone. The funny thing is that I want to stay here. I don’t want to think about leaving. I’ll work hard. I really do miss working. I’ve got to get out of my head and learn how to reconnect with life. I don’t need Frances to tell me that.” Her hands locked around her knees.

  “Start now. Come back to the party with me. Noah would be pleased.”

  The tricky part about teaching smart people new skills can be their reluctance to look imperfect. I saw Phoebe process my simple request and stop at that possibility.

  She shook her head. “No, but you should go or you’ll be annoyed that I kept you away from Noah’s big day.”

  I left her under the apple trees. As I walked away I thought I heard her humming, a cheerful sound like when she was a girl.

  Chapter 44

  My days at Ashwood trickled away. I became more convinced that the president had no appetite for tackling ethics in the Bureau of National Human Capital Management. On top of that disconnect, conversations with Milan’s chief of staff uncovered large philosophical distances between the Bureau’s leadership and myself in how to define the breadth of my work.

  “The key difference between our government and the multi-corps is that one is elected with an obligation to represent the needs and protect the freedoms of a constituency, while the other exists to create wealth for its shareholders. The multi-corps have nothing in common with governments except hunger for a low-cost, appropriately skilled workforce.” David listened as I tried for the fifth or twentieth time to describe the conundrum I faced. “So how do we reach consensus on something so intrinsic if we don’t share common values.”

  “You’re suggesting that the multi-corps aren’t vested in the countries where they do business? That’s kind of extreme.” He fussed with a broken bootstrap as we talked.

  “Let’s not talk about it. Just leave the light on for me if Washington, D.C., doesn’t like Anne Hartford asking value-based questions.”

  We laughed that night, but as I boarded the Washington transport a few mornings later I wondered if some conspiracy had been hatched to distract my attention from Hartford as the next Deshomm-style challenge developed. We landed with an hour before my first meeting with Congressional leadership. They claimed there was interest in holding hearings on severing a tradition of Bureau and multi-corps collaboration. For every success story, multiple failures could be told. Higher education controlled by former benefactors, public institutions turned privatized that became priced beyond voters’ means. The increasing demand that low-cost, highly trained labor held communities hostage from developing strong, diversified industrial structures.

  Hartford, Ltd., had trained close to a thousand young workers over the years and had educated even more children. In the beginning the government funded that effort, but for the past decade state or federal government units chintzed on paying their share. Where once city kids came to Ashwood for food, education, and protection, the typical student worker now came from a broken home or living on the streets and needed to be prepared for the work world. There was always pressure from multi-corps to equip older teens with training for specific industries.

  Like China, India, and Russia, the United States brokered increasingly larger groups of cheap labor in transportation corridors near raw materials to inter­national multi-corps. Limited voters didn’t silence a swell of unhappiness. Some saw the labor assignment process developing into labor conscription as their kids were sent to jobs thousands of miles from home.

  “Listen, Anne, the Bureau survived the surrogacy program scandals when your kids were young, and we have a vibrant s
ystem in place now to ensure genera­tions of critical intellectual discovery.” Milan and I had dinner in his office that night. The food was elegantly prepared and served as if we were at a four-star restaurant. An identity chip had been placed near my right shoulder blade that afternoon and I was distracted by its existence.

  “We made the jump from government-sponsored work to private industry jobs with few hiccups by building a solid federal payroll system. This Bureau establishes competitive pay to protect workers.” He leaned toward his plate and looked over his glasses at me. “The federal government ensures an office worker in Dallas that they are paid the same as someone doing the same job in Chicago or Manhattan by separating cost of living issues from the value of work. So the question of ethics should be limited to how Bureau employees conduct business with representatives of private industry.” He speared a small tomato and raised his fork. “Issues like conflict of interest, accepting gifts, punishment for accepting bribes, nepotism, and such. That will keep you plenty busy. Stay away from Congressional politics. They’d have you bust this place apart.”

  I understood that a country where over fifty percent of the work force was unemployed in the 2020s would take pride in nearly one hundred percent employment. But my heart understood the stories state representatives and senators each told me that afternoon about the inability to protect communities and workers from giant corporations.

  “The Congressional hearings will focus on policy matters related to ethical treatment of citizens bound to employers by the Bureau.” I feared Milan’s bloated Bureau wouldn’t be pleased that I saw a need for new models. “They want this board to deal with issues like hours of work, forced relocation, withholding of wages for required tools, and work injuries. They would move the Bureau’s role in genetic engineering away from that program’s execution.” I placed my palms on the table. “So expectations are miles apart. The president doesn’t seem to have an opinion. The folks I met with today are preparing for elections with a message that she doesn’t like.”

  “You brokered some great resolutions in the middle of fierce opposition on definition of agricultural products. And you aren’t dealing with the Russians or Chinese here. This should be easy.” Milan let the big bureaucrat façade fall away. “The president doesn’t know what to think, that’s why we’re here. You can steer the conversation to specific areas within the Bureau and give her important platform wins for the election. Congress is asking to turn around a ship that’s too far away from port. They want a way of life that can’t be found again.”

  I wanted to get him out of this office and walk through the roads of Ashwood to have an honest talk about what he wanted from these final years of his own work. At his age, he could sit on boards, teach, work as a mentor. Instead he was giving away his health to sit on top of this administration.

  “My plan is to listen before drafting the first ethics board mission statement. President Hernandez must sign off on that document. Then we’ll vet members and develop a schedule.” Fatigue dulled my mind. “We’ll see how far we can go in the next eleven months.”

  “Enough work, Anne. Tell me how it feels to be mother of the bride and the groom?” He visibly relaxed as he steered conversation to the Regan family, and I realized that for all the bureaucratic histrionics, Milan had no clue how to steer the ethics conversation.

  When I returned to my apartment late that night, Amber had created a small sense of home. We drank tea in cups brought from Ashwood. She went to bed, but I began writing the document that would make it to President Hernandez’s desk months from now. Heads might roll, hopefully including mine because I believed this time the elected officials knew the issues of their districts better than those in the fortress known as the Bureau. The disconnect between the executive and repre­sen­tative parts of government had never been wider.

  Chapter 45

  Before I risked walking the political suicide plank, David and I set out to safeguard Hartford, Ltd., and our family from what could turn into powerful fallout. We created a Minnesota land grant entity at Giant Pines to preserve the environmental research foundation for one hundred years. Raima worked long hours, and charged major dollars, to build legal walls around our businesses that used government regulations to keep the multi-corps away. Our personal wealth had long been separate from Hartford, Ltd., but we updated all documents. In the process we created walls around the children’s trusts so they would also be beyond the courts.

  I worked four days a week in the halls of Washington and continued working even harder over the long weekends as chairperson of Hartford, Ltd., On his way to Harvard, Noah spent a few days with Amber and me in the capitol.

  As August ended and legislators headed home for their September break, I spent fourteen days in Minnesota. During his final days of sick leave, Andrew offered help in researching potential political minefields for the ethics board. Questionable relationships between Bureau managers and multi-corps individuals speckled the organizational chart he developed like mouse droppings in an unprotected cereal bin. Milan sat on top of the mess unblemished. The links were more tenuous among elected officials where the lack of funding disclosures made it impossible to identify hands pulling strings behind the curtains. Except for President Hernandez who attracted big donors from the biggest multi-corps.

  Andrew and I had interesting discussions about those links. His experience as a consultant inside a few multi-corps tested my assumptions about their power. Phoebe joined us to tell her stories about multi-corps reviewers’ sway in Bureau research projects and the large contracts frequently negotiated by agents for Intellectual Corps specialists in direct violation of their government agreements.

  Frances approved Phoebe’s part-time return to work. David watched as Phoebe kept to a schedule in the DOE labs. They spoke about her work and the hours she spent daily re-acquainting herself with personal maintenance activities. No one else would understand that Phoebe picking up a lunch tray in Andrew’s room was an achievement. During my time home I didn’t ask about her medications, but admired her thoughtfulness and calm exterior. Most late afternoons I saw her carry work out to the orchard.

  Before I returned to the capitol, final information arrived on the individuals we hoped to invite to join Hartford’s new Board of Directors. I began making calls, asking for their involvement in exchange for a combination of compensation, land, and organic food for their tables. Raima, our lead banker, Andrew, David, and three outside directors agreed to serve as the corporate board of Hartford, Ltd. I placed a communications consulting wizard on retention to manage Washington issues. The boutique firm specialized in crisis management.

  Paul would have said that we had put our ducks in a row, and encouraged me to let all hell rip. We even paid Faith’s McGill tuition in advance and secured private lodging in Montreal should it be necessary. But, as I sat in the transport on September eleventh, I felt neither adventurous nor brave. Suddenly I saw Milan’s strategy that in advancing my name he trusted something big would happen purely because I found the status quo so unacceptable. He took a gamble that I might pull a trigger that would bring down a president or the largest government agency.

  I delivered treats from Ashwood to Amber who had stayed in Washington to button down scheduling issues and explore the city. We chatted about home and the November wedding plans. With the good talk out of the way, I asked about our schedules for the week. She sweetly held one finger to her lips and pointed at a table lamp, the mechanical panel and the spare wooden arm of our small sofa. We walked to a noisy Indian restaurant for dinner, and I shared with her about my insight into Milan’s choice of me for the ethic mess.

  “That would explain who calls me back with open meeting times and who is stonewalling.” Amber drew out her data pad. “You are booked through the next three days with three quarters of the representatives and senators we contacted. About eight senators not on our list would like time. Most are
interested in serving on the ethics board if asked. Members of the Moderate party are hesitant. I think they’re waiting for a signal from Hernandez’s people.”

  Amber fit into the Washington, D.C., scene that always favored young, beautiful people. She wore her long hair up this evening and a sleeveless light yellow linen dress with a single fake-silver bracelet. No one dared wear real precious metals or gems on the street. Two men, senate staffers, stopped by our table to say hello.

  After the second visitor left, she returned to her lists. “I’m not having much success attracting key Bureau managers. It might be time to ask Milan for support.”

  “First, I wanted to say how impressed I am with the way you have mastered this city. I had some pushback from Hernandez’s staff about bringing someone unfamiliar with the capitol into this role. Of course, they didn’t know you move mountains with government types in your Ashwood duties.” She rolled her eyes. “I’ll speak with Milan, but he may balk.”

  He did resist. Over the next weeks I held dozens of informal meetings, hired a handful of key staffers, and drafted the ethics board’s first position paper while he remained quiet. By November first, three months into my twelve-month appointment, I gave Amber the green light to schedule a meeting with Milan to review the position paper and to send a formal request to the White House for a meeting with the president early in the new year.

  His chief of staff required that Amber physically appear at the Agency’s office three consecutive days before granting a meeting on the Tuesday of Thanksgiving week. The bureaucrat acted quite put out by managing Milan’s schedule, but passed on his invitation to fly back to Minnesota in his government transport.

  Milan had not responded to an invitation for the wedding when Amber and I flew home for an early November weekend. The formal signing of John and Amber’s pre-nuptial agreement was the real reason for that trip. David and I acted as their witnesses at the regional register of deeds where the document was filed along with a marriage license application. A marble legacy from earlier in the century, the marriage hall was an odd mixture of solemnity and joyfulness. We partied at a dinner club in St. Paul and called a driver to take us home after a few bottles of wine.