Harvesting Ashwood Minnesota 2037 (24 page)

“I want to sleep with you tonight.”

“I don’t know. We’ll have to see what Dr. Frances thinks.” I didn’t tell her there would also be someone else who might want to approve her request.

“Maybe I can sleep in the boys’ room so I’m not alone.”

My girl moved from the brink of fear to problem solving. Her spine unfolded, her eyes engaged with mine. “I think you should talk with Dr. Frances about that right away.”

She looked down. “I’m sorry about last night,” she said gently, quietly.

The demons I vowed to fight crowded near us. “There’s no need for you to apologize. When you’re asleep, you’re not responsible for what you dream.” She played with a loose thread on her shirt, head still down. “Phoebs, I’m sorry I didn’t hear you last night.”

“You always hear me.” Her head came up, a look of surprise in her eyes.

“Last night I was kind of sick and Terrell gave me something to help me sleep. It was really hard to wake up when Amber came for me—kind of like trying to wake you up. But I got to you.”

With her mother’s ability to experience several emotions at once, Phoebe put her arms around my shoulders. “Poor Mom,” she whispered. “Who’s taking care of you?”

“Don’t you worry about that, kiddo. You know that Magda and Lao and Terrell and Grandma and Grandpa are all here.”

“Mom, don’t you think it’s weird that Mr. Peterson might know where Dad is and won’t let Grandpa be with us? It’s like only women and children are left in the fort. Like a weird war story.”

“That’s a big thought, sweetie.”

Phoebe left my side and stood. She waited for me to get to my feet, and held my hand as we left the room.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Milan’s request to meet arrived as Phoebe and I headed to her room. I helped her wash her face, walked her to school, then joined Milan in my estate offices. I wore the same shirt with its spot of coffee and messy residue of Phoebe’s tears, breakfast jam, and snot.

Compared to the DOE’s formality, my small space in this building had more feminine accents with soft yellow walls and clear finished wood furniture. Overnight someone had lined my windowsill with potted plants.  Milan appeared out of synch in this room. Glasses on top of his balding head, he stretched his legs while he rubbed his eyes. Barely past eight o’clock and the day promised more challenges. Neither of us offered a greeting, Milan merely began what might be a difficult discussion.

“You look like you had a really rough night and the morning hasn’t been much kinder.” He lowered his glasses back into position, one of the only Bureau officials to wear traditional corrective lenses. “Anne, you don’t deserve this, and I think it’s going to get rough.” His left hand wandered across his chin as he stifled a small yawn. “I never expected to be summoned with a letter of concern about the Regan children when the doorbell rang at four thirty this morning. Even my wife was quite upset and told me to offer any support she can provide.”

“Your wife is a sweetheart, Milan.” Normally a small joke might follow my statement, but we were far outside normal boundaries. “Talk to me.”

“The children, and anyone else who needs to know, will be told we are taking special precautions because of the media stories. I’ve viewed Lao’s files, interviewed Amber and Antwone. Clearly Phoebe’s walk outside was encouraged to create a crisis that could be recorded by Peterson’s crew.” He stuck one index finger behind the lens to rub again at his left eye. “I’m not beyond thinking Peterson hoped this would distract attention from an internal review of his activities. That said, I am legally bound to follow strict protocol related to Phoebe and Noah.”

I stayed with Milan’s explanation of the investigation process for ten minutes and felt relief that Hajar, a former junior teacher in Ashwood’s school, had been asked to serve as the ad litem guardian. I hired her when her disastrous first posting disappeared. We enjoyed talking about teaching and books and sparkling wines before she left for graduate school.

From where I sat the residence’s summer kitchen gardens were distracting when Milan returned to Ashwood’s financial responsibilities. Young workers picked vegetables under the early morning sun. Andrew could have been among those children if Clarissa had not been persistent. Only a week ago I doubted her story.

“Anne, I need you to listen. I was talking about Hajar.”

I turned my attention back to Milan. “I’m sorry. I do appreciate all you are doing. Hajar is a terrific defender of children.” He didn’t respond. “My kids might not remember her, but many of our long-term employees and workers won’t ask questions about why she’s here.”

“True.” His head bobbed as he appeared to weigh his next words. “You need to keep Ashwood steady until I can move Peterson out of the DOE building and off the estate. Jurisdictions are intricate, so while Peterson misrepresented himself to a couple of critical people, it may take time to unravel who takes responsibility for managing him.”

Living in a country dependent on a large, controlling government meant little surprised citizens about interagency issues. Branches of the government didn’t willingly share data, fought over duplicate resources, evaded difficult decisions. All those inefficiencies meant Ashwood needed Counselor Joel Santos to navigate official requirements and a private attorney to keep pushing issues.

“I don’t know what about us attracts Peterson.” Tired of this distraction, I wanted to be in my regular office with my husband working at his desk. “I’m sure Lao told you that Peterson’s people have twice cracked the double security coding on my DOE office. They’ve rifled through everything in that building.”

Antwone moved past the windows, dragging a small wagon filled with empty produce boxes. Milan and I watched the boy.

He broke our quiet first. “As of this morning Bureau and DOE authorized security have been added to Ashwood’s regular staff. I don’t want you or the children leaving Ashwood without prior clearance. Phoebe’s language exam will happen at some future date. In the outside world, the surrogate story is growing.” Without a twinge of malice, he added, “A number of people in high places are preparing to step down.”

Political fallout was insignificant to me at this moment. My children were worried about their father, their grandfather, the disruptions at Ashwood. Phoebe might be relieved about the rescheduled exam, or she could be further stressed.

“Milan, Paul’s release would make a world of difference to all of us. Isn’t there some way to make that happen?” Phoebe’s comment about leaving the women and children on their own resurfaced. “There is a sense of vulnerability in the residence—a question of who might disappear next.”

“Your father-in-law managed to communicate with someone higher up the ladder than I would think possible for a South Dakota rancher.” Milan laughed, a small sound. “Got to hand it to Paul. He called one of the two or three people who can ultimately hold those above Peterson accountable. I can’t say more, but Paul will be released. Maybe tomorrow.”

“Will Paul be safe another twenty-four hours? Peterson’s people have weapons.”

“We’re planning for the best outcome.”

Bushels of tomatoes stood around the garden’s edge. Antwone circled back without gathering filled containers. Sarah watched the boy, but offered no direction. When he sat down in the wagon, one of Magda’s work leaders approached.

“That boy will need to go home until he can be fully assessed for a different assignment,” Milan said when he saw that my attention had been distracted. “Unless someone here wants to take on a special project.”

I didn’t know what brought Antowne into the estate system—an overextended family, a single parent, a home in the roughest of neighborhoods. A kid was never sent back to that environment without careful consideration.

“I trust your decision,” I said. Milan shrugged. “We’ve sent three or four kids away out of the hundreds assigned here, and I don’t see how we can work with Antwone’s needs.”

“Your harvest reports look strong.”

The change in subject came abruptly, not normal in conversations with Milan.

“True.” I thought he wanted to speak about something else. “Now, if we can hire temporary labor to bring in the remaining crops, we will meet the increased government quotas plus have a nice grain surplus to take to market.”

“And what about estate food reserves?”

“You know where we were a week ago.” I fidgeted, becoming irritated with his avoidance of some issue. “Terrell and Sarah are doing a fantastic job of making use of everything that’s coming in from the gardens and greenhouses.” Milan continued looking out the window, probably not listening. “What’s on your mind?”

He shook his head, just once. “Nothing specific.” His left thumb rubbed back and forth over the inside of his fingertips, a habit I knew indicated thoughts I might not hear. “This investigation is a big deal, Anne. Peterson is no small fish in Special Forces. He’s been demoted because of a number of serious missteps, but no one has actually been able to strip his command.” His eyes stayed focused on mine. “I’ll be honest, I’m worried about David’s safety and your family’s security. Few cross-agency issues are handled this high in the Pentagon. This guy is trouble.”

“Thank you for your honesty.” Milan never exaggerated. His concerns would be based on facts and knowledge of politics. His worry deepened my fears. “How long can you stay?” I hoped he would make this one of those times he stayed through the evening. “The children miss a full dinner table.”

“I’d like to join you and the kids.” He pushed back from my desk. “Maybe early dinner, after I meet with Terrell’s hotshot psychiatrist. I should get out of your office so you can get some work done. I think the new property tax formulas were released this morning.” He rose, gestured toward the door. “Why don’t you say hello to Dr. Frances with me?”

My daughter’s new therapist waited in the reception area. She appeared to be a few years older than I—a short, rounded woman in severe black clothes with ivory-colored skin, closely-cropped gray hair and eyes the color of a copper rich stream. She rose as we walked in and met us in the middle of the space. We all bowed.

“Beautiful estate, Manager Anne. Terrell didn’t exaggerate when he described Ashwood.” Frances had a surprising, beautiful feminine voice with just a touch of Georgia twang. “And you must be Senior Executive Milan. Thank you for bending the regs to allow me to work with the Regan family.”

“Your credentials speak for themselves, Dr. Frances.” Milan waved her toward our conference room. “You’ll have time to become acquainted with Anne, but my time is limited. So let’s you and I get started.”

Alone in my office, I rested in my desk chair and thought about David—just closed my eyes and imagined him sitting with me. He wore sandals, his thin feet always looking slightly unreal when they were exposed in warm weather. His pants were wrinkled, the effect of long travel. I knew his hands would be in his pants pockets, or holding the arms of the chair, a silver wedding band on his left ring finger. But I couldn’t picture his face. The thoughtful look of discussions about our children, the serious concentration he gave to Ashwood, the kindness others saw—not one expression formed fully in my memory. I opened my eyes, experienced doubt about his safety, and a dull realization that I might lead this family on my own.

So I focused on the present, on reports and mail and Ashwood. I apologized to David for turning my mind to work but knew this is what he would want. Wheat, barley, and soybean harvesting were ahead of schedule because of dry weather. We were on target for meeting our government quota as well as meeting our own milling requirements. The first of the corn would be coming in the next week and Paul projected a better than average crop.

Abundant fish and poultry stock would allow us to place more on the open market than in previous years. Paul recommended expanding our dairy operation, a potential battleground with Magda who thought milking detracted labor from the greenhouses. Our winter discussions would be interesting.

New tax forms were indeed in the day’s correspondence. Rough calculations suggested a significant increase in our property taxes. In some odd bureaucratic logic, the Bureau of Human Capital Management also announced a placement fee to be paid by employers accepting trainees in all worker and laborer classifications. Blocked by law from hiring any other trainees or child workers, I struggled with understanding the logic beyond a government grown so large that fees popped up every quarter to support mandated programs.

Correspondence from the Council of the Urban Youth Initiative formalized Ashwood’s exemption from the program in deference to the DOE gifted-student grant. I searched for confirmation of the DOE grant and saw we would accept students with the start of the next academic grading period. Our school would be self-funded for another year.

Notice of rescheduling Phoebe’s language proficiency exam also appeared. Keeping Phoebe calm for this one silly measure of her future potential faded. She would be eight when the exams were next scheduled in January, still one of the younger children tested.

For the first time since his arrival, I had access to Andrew’s Bureau academic and testing records. Clarissa Smithson’s portrayal of Andrew as a not bright enough intellectual elite offspring bothered me. Children of professional citizens weren’t tested and scrutinized like the intellectual elite, but also missed opportunities to attend the best schools.