Leaving Ashwood

by Cynthia Kraack

  Sitting in the family room Sunday night, listening to Amber describe final wedding details, I shut the door on my political life to be the Regan family’s matriarch. We drove the men crazy with talk about wedding cake versus pie, hair ribbon color, and flowers. Under all the banter, I found myself thinking of extra precautions I needed to take with the first ethics position paper so a media leak wouldn’t taint this family event.

  “You wore a long dress and carried flowers Magda cut from the gardens.” David pulled me next to him in bed that night. “We got married outside. It was perfect.”

  “I was pregnant with John and we were lucky the Bureau allowed you to marry outside the intellectual group.” I relaxed, tried not to think about final packing and meetings in the morning. “Terrell managed to assemble an incredible spread of foods and pastries with only kids to help in the kitchen. He figured out I was pregnant because you kept insisting I sit.”

  “You were tired during those first months and I had no idea how to take care of you.” Already sleepy, David softly snorted. “The circle is continuing with you and me standing where my parents stood.” His body settled into the mattress, no tension left in any muscle. “Are we sure there’s no one from Amber’s family to invite?”

  “No. Her father ran off when she was a baby and her mother died ten years ago. One brother is in the Marines and turns back any communication, the other was a baby the last time she saw him. He has a large family of his own in Los Angeles.”

  His breathing evened. In the dark, I worried about returning to D.C. without Amber the next day. When sleep slipped out of reach, I pulled on a robe and wandered the residence to clear my head. The moon illuminated an empty patio, the pond and lower orchards. Bare branches and twigs of apple trees performed a gentle dance against a clear dark sky. I could be that exposed to the political jackals by the next time I stood here. Mentally I summarized possible fallout and defensive steps Hartford should consider.

  “Pretty isn’t it?” Phoebe, looking young in old running clothes and a generous shirt, surprised me. “I’ve been staying up at night lately to watch the trees and look for stars.” She had gained weight, her hair had shine. “Sorry if I scared you. Everything okay?”

  “Just couldn’t sleep. I can’t stop thinking about the what-ifs of this damn ethics thing.” I pulled my robe tighter.

  “Want a cuppa? I’ve got a pot of calming herbal tea in my room.”

  I hated those teas, but for time with Phoebe would manage. “Sounds good.”

  We walked in silence past rooms six to eight child workers once called theirs, the small chapel that served as Ashwood’s nursery when Phoebe was born. She opened her door. Covers on the large bed were folded back, two small lamps made warm light pools around a stuffed chair and a table covered with papers and books. Cool air freshened the space and pushed the herbal tea fragrance to greet us. Family pictures filled one shelf, a collection of postcard images from places she had traveled made a pretty display on another. A large picture of Stratford on Avon rested in one corner. A carpet I remembered from her Chicago apartment covered much of the floor.

  She saw me recognize the carpet. “I had one of the cares send me a few items. Is it possible for you to swing through Chicago before the end of the year to help me clear out my place? We’d have help packing and sorting. I think I’ll donate most of the furniture.”

  “Do you know where you want to live?”

  The teacup Phoebe handed me was translucent English china, another item from her Chicago home. She filled her own cup and held it to her face, inhaling the tea’s fragrance before naming her next home.

  “Frances and I think Ashwood might be the best place to call home at least through next summer. I can move much of my research needs to the University of Minnesota’s tech group and keep using the DOE facilities. I need time to raise additional funds for a Wisconsin lab. The Fish Creek research campus has signed a letter of intent to work for me.” She sipped, closed her eyes, and breathed out. “Surprised?”

  “Entirely delighted. Dad and Faith must be pleased to know you’ll be staying here.”

  “We’re running together Tuesdays and Thursdays. Dad misses you keeping him active. We try to have dinner together regularly.” She sipped again. “This is part of my treatment—learning to live like a normal person. Make my bed, show up for meals, put clothes in the hamper.” She wrinkled her nose. “I’m looking for a personal assistant instead of a cares. You did a good job of teaching me the basics, but it’s taking more time than I expected to relearn what people really do who don’t have cares.”

  A regular office employee would find this conversation unbelievable. If I hadn’t spent time with Phoebe through the years, I wouldn’t have full appreciation for how divorced she had become from her body and needs. “You’ll stay in these rooms?”

  She shrugged. “It’s almost as much room as I had in Chicago. There are two small houses on the estate that I could move into, but Frances suggested I wait until I can plan and manage that kind of move on my own. That might never happen. These old teachers’ rooms are far enough from the family quarters to give me breathing space.” She smiled, a softness in her face making the gesture look genuine. “Why are you unhappy, Mom?”

  “I’ve been in difficult situations before, but nothing with national conse­quences. Think of the implications of the data you and Andrew and I reviewed. This is huge. If I am not careful, the combination of that information and the anger among elected representatives could take down the administration.”

  White noise filled in the silence while Phoebe thought. I ran my thumb over the handle of my teacup, stared at the blanket on her bed.

  Her eyes followed mine. “It was yours. I found it in a box in the storage room and didn’t think you’d mind. Your grandmother made it.”

  “That’s right. She gave it to me when I got married the first time. Some of the flowers are made from scraps of dresses she made for my mother or me.”

  “You probably want to give it to Faith.”

  I shook my head. “I like seeing it here. It belongs to whomever will value it.”

  Phoebe extended a narrow foot to touch my leg. We called this “toe hugs” when she was a child. “Do what you think is best, Mom. We’ll be here to support you. Milan picked the right person.”

  “You won’t be saying that if I have to spend the rest of my life in a safe room.”

  “Not going to happen, Mom. People will probably want you to run for president.”

  “That is not going to happen, Phoebs.” I put down my cup. “Thank you for this great tea and talk. I should try to get some sleep before I head out to battle the dragons.”

  We hugged, her arms offering comfort instead of clinging with need.

  Chapter 46

  Milan echoed my words about taking down the administration when we finally met before Thanksgiving. He looked tired and I felt exhausted. The transport waited for our meeting to be completed. Had our discussion been about a less incendiary topic, we might have held our meeting during the ride to Minnesota. Instead we met in a secured conference room with no printed documents.

  “These senators and representatives are suggesting we return to human capital management practices from decades ago,” he pointed out. “A free market approach to labor threatens global competitive pay and our ability to attract multi-corps’ projects. That’s almost anti-American.”

  “The fact is that you know you’re sitting on one of the most corrupt government agencies of all times, Milan. You want me to lead the charge because these changes will break the cronyism that binds the Bureau and multi-corps.” With the dice now thrown in Milan’s direction, I gave up control. He could make suggestions about changes before this first document went to Hernandez. He could reject the policy paper, ask me to write a new version or have the appointment withdrawn. He could do nothing and
let the president be caught unaware.

  We had minimal debate about the fine points contained in a questionable practices section of the report. Milan was surprised at the depth of corruption and the extent of the labor practices requested by the multi-corps that had become law. I couldn’t detect how much he knew of widespread involvement of the multi-corps in restricting voting rights. His discomfort was obvious about the volumes of documentation we had uncovered about the corporate activities.

  We were both somber on the ride back to Minnesota. Milan avoided talking about his holiday plans before falling asleep. I tried to catch up on Hartford, Ltd., reading.

  “Tell Amber and John I wouldn’t miss their wedding and please apologize for my late response. I’ll be coming alone,” Milan said shortly before we landed. At the airport, large snowflakes were beginning to fall. We stepped out into cold, damp air. He gestured for me to walk down the stairs first. We walked to the terminal together and wished each other a happy Thanksgiving.

  Garlands trimmed the fences and gates of Ashwood. Small twinkling lights lit the drive and surrounded a stunning front entrance decoration. David opened the door as I exited my transport and waited for my packages to be unloaded.

  His smile was welcoming, his arms comfortable around my shoulders. “Magda’s crew outdid themselves,” he said. “I wish my folks could be here to see the old ugly place all dressed up. If you put enough lipstick on a pig maybe it can be a fairy princess.” He lifted one bag. I took my briefcase and his hand.

  I understood David’s combination of sweet and bitter at our decorated door. I squeezed his hand. “I suspect we’ll both be thinking of our parents these next few days. I can hear Sarah making a case for more ribbons in the decorations.”

  David kissed the side of my face before he called to announce my arrival. Our children came to greet me with wine and treats. For that evening we were an American family, blessed to have each other and a life of plenty.

  We kept our Thanksgiving meal simple and shared baskets of real foods with every Hartford, Ltd., employee. In the quarter century after starvation crippled the United States, no one was ever secure about food sources so the Thanksgiving baskets were valued. Terrell and his family, Magda and her partner, and Lao and his family joined us for our main meal. In a tradition started by a young thirty-something matron and a man who made himself into a cook, the meal featured food from Ashwood’s crops with a few side treats of candies and nuts.

  The Friday afternoon wedding was attended by two senators, a congressional representative, the mayor of our region, the Secretary of the Bureau of National Human Capital Management, a few prominent business leaders, our family and friends. Amber looked spectacular in a European-designed dress from a Washington, D.C., vintage shop. Phoebe and Noah stood as witnesses to the ceremony, and I found my thoughts wandering to the layers of bureaucracy built around the simple decision to become life partners.

  I tried not to watch Phoebe and Andrew through the reception and festivities, but they were the most attractive couple moving among our guests. Andrew seemed to know nearly every VIP invited and Phoebe practiced the art of social small talk in the charming, if awkward, manner of many brilliant people. Still quite thin, she looked more like a ballerina than intellectual researcher.

  Milan called Tuesday morning as I stood in the dark courtyard waiting for my transport. “Check the Capitol Chatter,” he said.

  “Can you read it to me? My reader’s in my briefcase and I can see the transport entering the gate.”

  “Anne Hartford, who has prepared more workers for the gristmill of life in government or multi-corps’ ranks and two Intellectual Corps stepchildren, reportedly doesn’t appreciate how the Bureau of National Human Capital Management does its business in protecting the people part of the nation’s capital assets. Well-known for sponsorship of local educational programming, and a history of leadership in more than one agribusiness special interest group, Hartford reportedly is spending her time listening to legislators concerned about the state of American labor. Hard to discount a patriotic surrogate who began her post-Depression career as an estate matron and built a comfortable business empire on the concept of sustainable agriculture.”

  His voice, low and gravelly, stopped. “Welcome to the fish bowl.”

  “What do you want me to do,” I asked. The transport driver lifted my bag into the vehicle. I motioned that I needed to finish this conversation.

  “I hoped we could stay out of media attention until after the holiday recess.” I could hear other voices on his side. “How about you work from Ashwood until January? Congress adjourns December seventh and you know they’ll keep the White House staff busy.”

  “If you can free up that short list of Bureau directors for virtual meetings. Without those meetings, I can’t vet board members.” The driver pointed at her timepiece. I turned away. “Is that a deal?”

  “You can count on four names. We’ll run times through Clarissa.” He coughed. “And, Anne, don’t talk to the media. Use your assigned communications specialist.”

  “Thanks, Milan.”

  I had the driver carry my bags back to the residence’s front steps and sent her away with a decent tip. Six in the morning and I could change into my estate wardrobe, have a decent breakfast, and look forward to working in my office and time with my family.

  The Minnesota Post picked up the story by nine and ran an entire story stitching together old information and quotes from the two senators who ate at our table four days earlier, a congressional aide, and someone close to Milan. There wasn’t a lot of meat to the Capitol Chatter snippet, but I wondered if there were writers and editors waiting for a way to open exploration of the American labor structure.

  Brown suits were allowed back inside the residence to scour every room I entered. A lead suggested an inside tapping source. I spent two hours that afternoon in our safe room talking with a highly placed Bureau director, one with lots of dots on Andrew’s chart, who spoke fluently about a classical definition of ethics while skirting any discussion of the future of American workers. By the time David, Phoebe, Faith, and I finished dinner, part of that conversation had been broadcast.

  I passed a paper note to Faith before we left the table, asking her to find Lao and direct him to our stable conference room. Her puzzled look said she didn’t understand, but she carried the paper away.

  He showed up with Terrell, and unlocked the door. The room was cold, the air stale. “No one’s been in here for months,” Lao said and fidgeted with the air system. “Should have brought blankets or coffee.”

  “We don’t need a lot of time. The brown suits scoured the safe room before I spoke with that Bureau director.” They listened. “Two hours later an audio clip from our meeting is on national media. Who is listening to conversations at Ashwood?”

  “Probably recorded within the Bureau.” Terrell looked to Lao for confirmation.

  “The brown suits are known for working for multiple agencies,” Lao added. “You’re under special protection because of the Capitol Chatter. We’re better set up to handle issues onsite.”

  “I suppose the first director raising her hand to be interviewed, might see the contents of this interview as an opportunity to jump to the head of the class if Milan is asked to step down.”

  The sound clip made me uncomfortable that my words implied an assumption that the Bureau must be changed. White House communicators had to be buzzing. “The congressional recess and holidays should dampen this story. Lao, I’m nervous about security here, for everyone.”

  “Lao and I were talking about estate holiday plans when Faith appeared.” Terrell took a deep breath. “With you and Phoebe in residence, it’s impossible to stage the annual Ashwood holiday pageant. Too many temporary workers, too many undocumented visitors.”

  The pageant had grown from an effort to distract child wor
kers who couldn’t go home for Christmas to a loved community event held under a big tent inside the gates. There were a dozen ways cancelling this party could make for bad media coverage for Hartford, Ltd.,

  “What about moving the tent to the Schneider farm acres? Except for David’s herd, there’s not much going on there. No one can enter Ashwood from that land and we could get away quickly if needed.”

  Terrell pulled at his chin as he thought through the proposal. Lao’s communicator distracted him, but he was nodding his head by the time Terrell answered. “If David approves, we got a plan. All the public places we might have booked are in use that night.”

  “Let’s engage the communications specialist I’ve got under contract to handle the announcement. We can claim family grieving time as an excuse, but absolutely no mention of the ethics board or Phoebe. I’ll talk with David.”

  Media hits on the Ethics Board proposal filled my data pad news feed by the morning. Clarissa put an office assistant in charge of monitoring the file and running simple analytics. I became the name and face of the president’s ethical dilemmas, a voice for oppressed citizen laborers. With inflation driving up the cost of food and threatening holiday season buying, the story snowballed.

  Congressional leaders flooded anyone with connections to me—the small Washington office crew, Amber, Clarissa, our children—with their thoughts or demands. A significant minority of the messages prophesied that the U.S. economy would sink if the existing labor allocation and reimbursement systems were changed. Some of the messages offered personal insults, a few included threats to Hartford, Ltd. or me.