Harvesting Ashwood Minnesota 2037 (39 page)

“Milan, I’d rather have food supplies. If Terrell can find products, prices are higher almost daily. But, thanks, I’ll distribute part of that bonus to our team.” In fact I already had given bonuses to key staff members. “You mentioned the surrogate case?”

“I wanted to tell you this news first. You can tell David.” He paused. “Your legal adoption of Phoebe and Noah makes the Regan kids unique in the surrogate scandal. The expert witness of Dr. Frances convinced Bureau officials to amend the original documents signed by Tia and David, and place permanent custody in your name should David die before Noah reaches nineteen years of age. Assuming both you and David are willing to sign the amendment, this removes Phoebe and Noah from one part of the class action suit.” His look turned serious. “If David adopts Andrew, we might be able to extend the agreement.”

The children’s sketches saved from my old office hung next to my desk, and my eyes stayed there as I responded. “I would need to think about Clarissa’s rights as well. Can we bring David in on this right now? It would give us peace of mind.”

I called David to my office and watched his face while Milan went over the details of the proposed amendment. He pumped one fist in the air, his wedding band catching the light. “Send the papers to us and we’ll sign.” David gave Milan thumbs up. “We appreciate your work.”

“I’ll have copies sent to you and your legal counsel this afternoon.” Milan punched into his desk data pad, then leaned into his camera. “I also want you both to know I’m doing what I can to keep a few kids and their parents out of what will be a very big storm. This will be the last we can speak of the case. All conversations with Bureau guardians of affected kids will to be scrubbed by investigators starting tonight.”

I assumed our conversations were already stored somewhere and wondered why he made such a point of mentioning the listeners. “Milan, you and your wife are still planning on attending the holiday pageant December 22? We have workers who are hoping you two will read winter poems again.”

“We wouldn’t miss the pageant. And the reading is up to my wife. Whatever she says, we will do. As long as it doesn’t include a costume.” Normal for our conversations, he responded to another call and left abruptly.

“Excellent,” David said in the quiet of my office. “Milan comes through for us.” He stood, leaned over the table, and kissed the top of my head. “Let’s enjoy what we have until after the holidays.”

Six days before Christmas I spent a day in the Twin Cities to finish shopping, visit a private obstetrician, and have lunch with Milan. Based on how young people dressed on the streets, I guessed that we would have at least one worker return from home visits with only one wide strip of hair. Giant metal detectors as well as pat downs to stop knifings supposedly made shopping safer on some popular streets. Rumors of something called soft bomb hijacks could be heard in store lines.

I wore urban clothes, carried a hidden purse, and kept my eyes focused straight ahead. Everyone moved with a different energy on the sidewalks of Minneapolis. With packages in the transport and an uneventful doctor visit, I walked to a café for our lunch.

“You look great, Anne.” Milan stood as I approached his table. “The cities always agree with you.”

“This is where I expected to spend my life.” I sat down, slipped off my jacket. “I didn’t anticipate an estate would become my permanent address.”

He lifted a hand to attract our waitperson. “We’ll have a pot of your special tea while we read the menu.” I nodded in agreement. “When do the Regans arrive?”

“December 23. Sarah is finally busy baking and reworking meal plans with Terrell.” I sipped my tea. “I’m relieved one of David’s parents is taking time away from the lawsuit.”

In the café light, Milan looked different. Raised veins marked his hands, dark shadows circled his eyes. I wondered how old he was when I first met him and if we both showed the years.

“Annie, what do you want to do with the rest of your life?”

Milan’s question dropped into our holiday luncheon as unexpectedly as if I had found Santa Claus suddenly sitting in the empty chair next to me.

“Why ask?” I waited for an answer. He continued to look at me, not speaking. “David has less than three years of DOE service remaining, and when Phoebe turns thirteen, her schooling could change how we live. I’m fairly content with my life.”

He listened, poured his first tea, and sipped. I did the same, waiting for Milan to respond.

“I ask for two reasons. The more immediate is that there are two underperforming estates in the Ashwood region that I would like to discuss placing under contract with Hartford, Ltd., for management services. We’d leave the matrons in place, but have them report to you.”

A waitperson approached and we ordered soup. Milan continued. “When the Bureau began, we had such high expectations for training a world-class workforce. But the farther we move from the economic depression, the less enthusiasm it seems people have for working hard or following an established plan.”

“Inflation isn’t helping,” I suggested. “I remember feeling that no matter how hard I worked, I couldn’t build any financial security. Don’t you remember that?”

“The country’s heading into a correction. We’ll be fine by the end of the first quarter.” Warm bread arrived. “Whether we’re ready or not, the large international corporations are impatient for the resetting of the economies.”

“You call it a correction, but people are going hungry. I think that’s dangerous.”

“You’re right. We’ll see change soon.” His face became animated, not a word I’d usually connect with Milan. “More important, Annie, we want you to know there is always the possibility of a significant role for you in the Bureau. Maybe when Phoebe starts schooling off the estate, you might be ready for city living.”

Four months ago I thought I knew what the future held for our family. Four months ago we planned for a small place in the city where someone would travel with Phoebe if she attended specialized secondary schooling. We didn’t know our family would expand to include Andrew or a new child. David and I had not thought about the possibility of our dying before our children grew.

“You forget that Andrew might be our first to attend secondary gifted schooling.” I smiled as I corrected Milan. I fidgeted with my wedding band for a few seconds, thought I might need to remove it in the next few months if my fingers swelled. “And, instead of a crew of kids all moving through schooling at the same rate, we will have a little one at home.”

“Are you interested in the Bureau?”

Milan’s calm question held layers of meaning. I thought of his life, of the confusing interagency reporting structures and intrigue, of the travel and possible round-the-clock phone calls, of all the conversations we had about when his job meant missing family events.

“I don’t know, Milan. When I was a matron I wanted to be free of the layers of bureaucracy pulling me so many ways. As a private business owner, I’m always aware of my responsibilities. While I have the joy of living where I work, I carry a twenty-four-hour load like you.” I sipped tea as I thought how to respond. “So I haven’t thought about what I might do next.” I put down my cup. “Retire?”

Milan laughed, a small sound that held little delight. “I think that word only describes what happens to outdated technology. Remember when our grandparents retired from jobs to garden and travel and be with their families?” One eyebrow rose. “Did you ever think you’d never stop working? That the American dream would change this much?”

Looking around the room, I found my memories of the time before the depression were vague—a mash of reality and film fantasy. The place where I had been a child didn’t exist, and the cities where I wanted to live were far different than the places I knew as a young woman.

“Believe it or not, Milan, I just realized that what I really remember from all my life is just the past eight years—the Ashwood years.”

About The Author

Cynthia Kraack is the author of
Minnesota Cold,
a winner of the 2009 Northeastern Minnesota Book Award for Fiction, and
Ashwood
.
Harvesting Ashwood: Minnesota 2037
is the second book in the Ashwood trilogy. Cynthia is a graduate of the University of Southern Maine’s Stonecoast M.F.A. program in Creative Writing and holds a graduate degree from the University of Minnesota as well as a bachelor’s degree from Marquette University. Cynthia has published short stories and presented at a number of gatherings.

Acknowledgements

After my publisher, North Star Press of St. Cloud, Inc., the most heartfelt thanks go to my writing group for kind support and honest feedback. These terrific writers and friends deserve to be acknowledged by name: Roger Barr, Charles Locks, Loren Taylor, Paul Zerby, Terry Newby, and Pam Davis. Their insights and challenges push my work to a higher level.

I would also like to thank Lynn Marasco for her patient editing and guidance and Terrence Scott for another dramatic cover.

There are never enough opportunities to thank family and friends for all they add to my writing. Whether daily presence, late night talks, or the lure of lunch outside my office, these people allow the creative fire to stay alive. You have my love—Tom, Emily, Tim, Michelle, Pat, and Eric. For wisdom and endless love, I thank my father, Roman, and my mother-in-law, Helen. Ellen, you have a special place in my life, and I promise to put you in a future book. Thanks to my book club for expanding my horizons and the Dunker Dames for keeping my feet planted in the real world.

Copyright © 2012 Cynthia Kraack

ISBN: 978-0-87839-860-7

All rights reserved.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Cover Art: Terrence Scott.

First Edition: June 2012

Electronic Edtion: June 2012

Printed in the United States of America

Published by

North Star Press of St. Cloud, Inc.

P.O. Box 451

St. Cloud, Minnesota 56302

www.northstarpress.com

North Star Press Facebook Page

https://www.facebook.com/pages/North-Star-Press/100096141174

Table of Contents

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight