Ashwood

Ashwood

Cynthia Kraack

North Star Press of St. Cloud, Inc.

St. Cloud, Minnesota

Copyright © 2010 Cynthia Kraack

ISBN-13: 978-0-87839-450-8

First Edition: September 2010

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 by Terrence Scott.

Printed in the United States of America

Published by

North Star Press of St. Cloud, Inc

PO Box 451

St. Cloud, MN 56302

http://www.northstarpress.com

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For all leaders struggling to rebuild a world where

people can live together with hope for the future.

1

All that remained of the life that had been mine could be packed in my mother’s leather suitcase. Just a carry-on size bag held the bits and pieces gleaned from carefully maintained rooms of furniture, walls of meaningful art, and boxes of the stuff that made memories. And I counted myself among the lucky to have that much.

At least traveling light made the transfer from jet to train to chauffeured transport easier. Moving out from the curb at the train station, I felt the eyes of the conscripted workers, guilty of nothing more than not having a job, watching the vehicle, hoping for a look inside to see who could afford such extravagance. I kept one hand on the suitcase while bringing my document bag closer.

They can’t see you, miss. One-way, strike-resistant windows. The middle-aged driver kept his eyes forward as he spoke, large work-scarred hands on the transport steering stick. Anyways, this stretch is pretty tame, not like travel in the northeast Twin Cities area. His voice, marking him as a transplant from one of the Dakotas, implied more could be said.

Thirty minutes later we sped up, light gravel and bits of broken tar spitting out from under the transport’s treads as we approached the southern Twin Cities estates region. Gates opened to the secured lands. With one gentle bump, the transport continued accelerating, now on a road as smooth as those from the times before adversity struck. Cityscapes disappeared into government-created country lanes of what formerly had been known as the outer-ring suburbs.

Nothing made these roads different from others I’d traveled. Nothing, except I grew up in a house on a curving street in the subdivision bulldozed to create the fertile ground beneath these very government estates. Trees and corn and grains now grew on the lands where my parents drove us to soccer and dance, to dinners at fast food places, to church on Sunday. This new order erased the life we knew and dropped us back to start over on grounds where historical markings no longer existed.

Buses of workers drove past us back to the city at the end of the main shift—gardeners, carpenters, cleaners traveling six days a week from their homes to daily assignments. A country of workers we are, no place for those who do not labor. With all the deaths due to flu pandemics and long-standing economic depression, there were fewer of us with work skills to keep the nation from sliding back to hunger and darkness.

Riding today in a private transport, I remembered how it felt to be on those buses and am thankful again for being caught in the early unemployment sweeps. At the time I knew only shame for being tossed into the same system with the men who played dice on a corner all day, the poverty-afflicted moms separated from their kids, the immigrants stranded in a country with no jobs. All I wanted was to return to the comfortable classrooms of the school where once I taught. All so long ago.

I hear life’s pretty decent on these estates, the driver volunteered. Don’t know too many people who want to leave for places back in the cities. What will you be doing at Ashwood?

I’m the estate’s new matron.

No offense, I didn’t take notice of ‘Matron’ before your name. He cleared his throat. Sorry, no disrespect intended. You don’t look old enough to replace old Matron Barbara. The place has a bit of a reputation.

I saw him look in the rearview mirror and dipped my head before our eyes could meet. Estate walls zipped past, but I knew he had focused on the gold communications earpiece I wore instead of the inner ear model worn by most people allowed to use such devices. Depending on one’s political leaning, others admired or reviled women who earned the earpiece for service as government-sponsored surrogates for the intellectual class. He cleared his throat again before asking, Boy or girl, Matron?

It doesn’t matter. I didn’t know if I told the truth, didn’t want to talk with this stranger about that phase of my life. How far are we from Ashwood?

Right ahead of us, he said, pointing to my right. See where the darker walls begin? That’s the place.

I peered up the drive at gates sculpted of durable metal. My brother, an architect who died during the first great flu pandemic, would have called the residence’s design ugly. While some estates used retro-fitted old homes as residences, most of the thousands of government-owned compounds featured one of a couple dozen of exterior designs created during the early stages of reconstruction. The designers seemed to feel a residence could look like a firehouse or school house or something short of a people warehouse.

As we stopped, I could see through the gates where the sprawling gray stucco house sat silent. Dark wooden doors stood as forbidding sentinels warding off strangers from the outside world. Pine trees taller than any human, planted every eight to ten feet, created a natural army dressed in shades of green. Twenty miles from a major metropolitan airport with the city’s hub an equal number of miles away, the residence appeared to be challenging something or someone to breach its isolation.

Here’s your new mailing address: Ashwood, MN. The driver turned in his seat to face me. The gates aren’t going to open, Matron. I’ve been told these folks aren’t always the friendliest. Squinting, he peered beyond my shoulder into the gathering early twilight. Sorry you only got a pass for the walker gate, because I got to leave you here with your stuff. Is that old suitcase heavy? I’m not really supposed to step away from my transport vehicle.

I’ll do fine. Perhaps you can wait until I’m in the front door? I held out a gold-tipped coin. I know you’ve been paid for the drive, but maybe this will keep you here for a few extra minutes?

He hesitated then reached out his hand. Thanks, Matron. Not many folks are generous with anything gold today.

The transport door opened. I don’t think I’ll be spending many coins here in the country.

From the end of the drive, the house looked almost majestic against a purpling skyline. Last summer’s sticks of shrubbery spoke of general dormancy. No dogs patrolled the house’s entrance, no cats lay between curtains and window panes. The house seemingly expected no visitors. Picking up my suitcase, I felt an odd sense of indifference emanate from those within.

Feeling blanketed by the general stillness, I startled as the driver leaned out to say, When I see you walk through those doors, I’ll be on my way. You got the dispatch number if you need us back. I’ll be coming for the old matron day after tomorrow.

The evening’s cold wrapping around my ankles, I walked up the long drive, looking toward the house, wondering if someone would remember the new matron’s arrival and turn on lights. I stood on the long front porch, one hand in my coat pocket fingering a residence security card, the other holding my mother’s bag, wondering what the driver meant by the estate’s reputation.

My card worked on its first pass through the entrance scanner. As doors began opening, I turned and waved to the driver, then carried my things into the first passage then through the opening of a second inner set.

In the empty foyer, I inhaled the purified air of Ashwood’s residence. Lingering scents of cleaning products, a slight hint of kitchen activity, the comforting fragrance of expensive woods defined the building as different from other residences where I lived during training. Like beautifully-appointed judges’ chambers in ugly cement court houses, Ashwood’s rich interior was not unusual for an estate.

This would be my work, my residence, another step away from the life I wanted and deeper into the life I was now assigned. Far from the city, even farther from the few people I still knew in the world, as far away as possible from Anne Hartford, wife and daughter.

2

According to Bureau protocol, I expected Matron Barbara to be waiting in the hall for a formal greeting. Monitors within the house announced my entrance, should have stirred the curiosity of at least a worker or two, perhaps triggered an alarm in the control room. Standing still for an excruciating sixty seconds, I waited for some form of acknowledgement.

Soft light warmed Ashwood’s slate tile floors, a graceful front hall bench, and old grandfather clock which reported atomic time of sixteen hundred hours. All I heard was silence until I tuned into the muted sounds a house produces, stronger than a baby’s breath but softer than that of an adult. As if connecting to Ashwood, my own breath adjusted to its pulse, a kind of contradictory racing calm before something big happens.

Months of virtually touring the house paid off. Closing my eyes, I could place the workers’ sounds. Irritated by the lack of greeting, I decided not to look for Matron Barbara, but to carry my bags to my quarters.

The house’s work spaces ran along the east side with skylights and sun tubes providing adequate light most days. Walking the long central hall, I turned toward the now dim public rooms filled with custom-built furnishings. I knew the procurement date and price of each piece and optimal placement in the room as determined by the directors’ personal feng shui consultant. In the semi-darkness a tall mirror reflected an outside winter garden, silk drapes covered the northern wall’s energy quilts, an over-stuffed reading chair and foot rest waited in the far corner where a person could watch the yard and residence while remaining almost unseen by others.

Reaching my suite of rooms, my hand moved instinctively around the corner to touch the light switch, as if I had entered here hundreds of times. I looked to the gooseneck floor lamp across the room a half second before it lit, then to a desk lamp near the windows. I closed the door for the first time.

The distance to the book shelf behind the gooseneck lamp was approximately twelve steps. I opened doors above a desk unit to access the residence’s security system, tapped in my code then pressed my thumb to the screen and moved toward a retinal reader.

While the system processed, I turned to enjoy my new space. For the moment I was not Matron, just plain Anne, excited about changing this underperforming estate business.

The residence security center booted slower than expected, building gradual images of the staff within their work spaces. What appeared to be a sleeping woman in one of the guest rooms, possibly Matron Barbara, surprised me. The system was dated, screens refreshing in a staccato fashion. I adjusted monitoring within my suite so that the guard station would track movement here as merely a soft glowing dot.

Across the bottom of the screen, Welcome Matron Anne to Ashwood, MN confirmed my access and system control. The words were replaced quickly, too quickly, by my profile in a small pixilated image. I had official control of Ashwood. The woman, sleeping in a visitor space, would have forty-eight hours to complete transition before stepping on the transport to her next assignment.

The residence’s computer system appeared to use original factory-installed programming with the thinnest of invasion protection. I filed my first report to the Bureau of Human Capital Management about the need for a security update. Each time I wandered from my filing to check Matron Barbara’s room; her sleeping image rekindled my irritation. Was Ashwood deteriorating because of her inattentiveness or was managing this business too taxing for an ill-prepared individual?

Hoping she’d awaken on her own, I explored my quarters beyond the sitting area. A standard bed filled one end of the sleeping room with shelving built into the wall at its head. The bathroom had a small shower, a basin and toilet using Ashwood’s unique water reservoir and reclamation system patented by one of the resident directors. Warmth rose from the floor.

Security alerted me of a person in the hall outside my door. Transition time was beginning. One knock, rather small and timid, sounded as I turned the polished aluminum handle.

I’m called Amber. The thin worker, dressed in oversized clothes, bowed her head slightly as she spoke.

Rituals existed for this first meeting of worker and estate matron. Amber dropped her head further, bending from the waist, hands clasped over her chest. I am to be your worker. Is this the time to unpack your bags?

Thank you for knocking and your offer, Amber, I said, while raising one hand, palm upwards, to release her from position. Bony elbows showed through her light knit shirt, a look I recognized from teaching a classroom of undernourished students. Matron Barbara must think well of your work to send you to be the first person to greet me.

Nobody sent me. Curious eyes looked straight into mine. You are my new assignment. Lana set the timer for when I should announce myself. She stumbled on large words, but maintained visual contact. I’ve passed my five year, you know.

Open your mouth.

The worker did as told, displaying a combination of small children’s teeth, one empty space, two molars and one incisor. Like a terrier following a prized toy, she maintained eye contact, hands held at her sides. Desperate parents were known to fake birth certificates to pass children as young as three into training. This child was merely petite.

I smiled, wanting to ease what I was going to say. Yes, you have passed your five year, and I’m sure you are a good worker, Amber. I’m not sure if I will need a helper without advanced reading skills. Maybe you can read the thirty words?

Most of them. Reading isn’t my best work. Two small creases formed between Amber’s eyebrows as she appeared to think. I clean things good, she announced, then smiled and eased into the room.

Well, Amber, if you prepared these rooms, you do clean things well.

Thank you, Matron Anne. Her head bobbed again, she almost wiggled with pleasure at my simple compliment. I wondered about the mind frame of the person who decided the youngest worker in residence was the person to be sent as official greeter.

Right now, I need to meet Matron Barbara. Perhaps you can show me where she is?

I’m a cleaner, so I do have security to open inside locked doors, the child said, holding out her left hand, palm up, a dark bead barely visible in the pad of her index finger.

I’ve reset my entrance. New protocols will be established. I stepped aside to leave Amber pass, then followed her.

She was someone’s young daughter, apparently well-adjusted to living as a worker in a federal government estate. Somewhere a family received her wages, fed their other children slightly better with an enhanced food grant, and worked long days without worrying about her safety. I didn’t know her background story, but guessed that in spite of her thin frame, she had probably never known debilitating hunger. The older worker children would have some memories of the near-famine years when grains were made into fuel, incomes didn’t match food price inflation, and birthrates plummeted.

Do you have siblings, I asked as we walked, curious how she would share the data I already knew.

A big brother who’s mean and a baby brother who has a sick heart. She spoke with sincerity. It’s nicer here. I was in the way at my mom’s.

I thought how her mother might be sad to hear her daughter speak this way, wondered if the woman found it difficult to sign the forms that gave the Bureau of Human Capital Management responsibility for this child. With no children of my own, I didn’t know how women had acclimated to this new-order way of providing stable environments for their offspring. Living outside the Twin Cities’ protected neighborhoods meant danger from gang activities with victims including children. Living inside the protected neighborhoods cost more than many young people could afford. Estates living was often an attractive alternative.

In the hall all remained quiet, and we turned left, heading toward the door of the room where Matron Barbara slept. Amber hung back.

Go ahead, open the door.

Matron is resting, the child said. We should come back.

Isn’t it evening meal preparation time in the food area? Let’s visit with the cook.

The child stuttered, perhaps confused by my changing subjects. We don’t have a person called cook.

She confirmed a gap in Bureau’s files. Who’s in charge of the evening meal if matron is resting?

The directors left this morning, so Lana will feed us.

An older kitchen child feeding at least a dozen young household workers, plus a generous handful of adults, made me think less of the sleeping woman. You’re right, Amber. We’ll leave matron rest. I’d like to meet Lana.

She’s good with soups and breads and keeping things tidy. Amber stayed a few steps behind me as we walked back through the residence to the food preparation area. I turned quickly, let her scurry to keep up.

Inside the food preparation area, workers gathered around the cooking surface. They wore standard daily clothing, but in colors of a bright pastel rainbow, a shocking sight. Turning, they began the greeting ritual. Nine heads bowed with shoulders bending. While training on a handful of estate assignments I never saw child workers looking undernourished. Nothing in the Ashwood’s files hinted at food problems.

Director Tia has a bit of an artsy side, a tired female voice interrupted my greeting. Awful impractical when you consider the laundry that must be done to keep the girls dressed for viewing. She clapped her hands once. The workers snapped upright, turned away, returning to their assigned activities.

A tall woman, her gray hair flattened from the pillow, Barbara stood slightly out of direct light so that shadows softened her face. While trim, she wasn’t thin. You’ll discover they keep odd hours. Sometimes Director Tia appears midday and wants everything to be ‘cheerful’ in the house, even if the children are doing their chores. We have drab issuance to wear when the couple is away or the daily work requires practical clothes. She shrugged both shoulders, an elegant dismissing motion.

I waited for her to introduce herself. Instead we drifted into a less than subtle inspection of each other. She wore the standard matron uniform in black—a sweater over a long-sleeve shirt and pants. Each piece appeared shabby, surprising from what I knew of her background. I wore my uniform tailored in the East Coast tradition versus the Midwest look that was about comfort. Barbara stared at the teal silk scarf I wore around my neck, a gift from my mentor, Senior Executive Director Sandra Goetz.

Beyond, the children watched our mutual visual assessment as they moved about the food preparation area.

Obviously, I am Matron Anne, I said to break the silence. Ashwood is a beautiful residence, and I know you’ll have much to share with me before you leave.

Sure. She uttered the single word slowly as if unsure.

Not knowing what to say next, I glanced around the work space, which appeared to be organized according to outdated protocols. Cups and bowls and plates stood where glassware and serving items should be stored. Seasonings and spices were left on an open shelf where heat from the cook top or ovens could leech their flavors. Step stools had no stacking location.

Barbara acknowledged my study of the room. If you’re thinking we ignore protocols, it’s just that they change so often I won’t waste our time, she said. These arrangements make sense to me.

She turned and began walking away. You know, it’s not easy to run this size of residence with only children as workers. The words carried patrician tones.

Understanding she would keep moving as long as I trailed, I stopped. I won’t be efficient until I learn your systems. If protocols haven’t been implemented, transition might take longer than we expected.

Barbara slowed, spoke over one shoulder. I was up much of the night clearing your rooms, so excuse me if protocols don’t seem important right now. She cleared her throat, her voice became stronger. My transport arrives in forty-seven hours. You’ll have to study quickly. She turned, ready to walk back to her sleeping quarters, one hand extended at chest-height leaving a smudge along the polished glass tile.

Young faces kept their eyes glued to small unimportant tasks, but I knew their ears heard every word, every nuance of our exchange. Attempting to keep her in the kitchen, I looked for something to talk about related to dinner’s prep. Surprised, I counted enough portions for the children, Ashwood’s four adult managers and my difficult peer.

Matron Barbara. I called her name. Heads of every child except Lana swiveled to watch her back. With effort I smiled, willed lightness into my voice. We need to talk. Let me walk with you.

3

Almost ten hours had passed since I ate my last meal as a student in Washington, D.C. Government jets and transports seldom carried food for mere underlings like a matron. Hungry as I felt, what Lana had cooking failed to arouse my appetite. I used the missing portion as a starting point of discussion with Barbara instead of calling attention to her attitude. All those teachers and family members who once chided my sharp tongue would have been proud.

Matron Barbara, I said when I reached her side. I think I read there are twelve domestic child workers and four managers beyond you eating meals in the residence.

You’ll meet everyone at dinner. Barbara cleared her throat, resting one hand to her chest, clearly uncomfortable. I noticed you counting what Lana is cooking. Your food allotment hasn’t been authorized. Month end always arrives before our next food shipment, or I would have directed Lana to add something to the meal for you. She shrugged, settled her hands in the pockets of her long sweater. I noticed a small well-mended place near one cuff. Life isn’t always easy on the estates.

Life wasn’t always easy on estates, but food was typically plentiful. Staff could eat well on the eggs and fresh produce raised on an every estate’s acreage. That was part of the general business equation for providing the estates with precious land allotments—enough food must be raised for the estate staff as well as a certain market quota.

I didn’t see any estate training time in your biography, Barbara said while shrugging again in what I began to think of as a nervous habit. In contrast, challenge seemed to creep into her voice. She turned, walking us away from the food area and the workers.

As long as the children might possibly overhear our conversation, I kept my tone neutral while following her. It’s not easy to identify some estates within metropolitan Philadelphia and Washington, D.C., because many use street addresses of the houses razed to create crop growing areas.

I’m sure you weren’t in charge of these urban estates as a trainee. Barbara’s words were clipped, old economy affluence coating each syllable.

That’s right. Fighting against impatience, I slowed my answer. I rotated through responsibility for supervising child workers, production planning, nutrition management, inside maintenance, operations supervision, and general security.

Her response came back as polished as if she’d said the same thing to others before I arrived. Well, you’ll find Ashwood more complicated than making sure three meals are on the table and things are dusted. I’d love to be able to stay and see what the Washington, D.C., gurus thought would prepare someone to run a beautiful place like this. A suggestion of disapproval, or maybe disillusionment, lay under Barbara’s voice. I suggested that you apprentice here for a year or so to ensure that the directors don’t suffer from the disruption of an untried girl.

The haughty witch certainly wanted recognition of her importance in these remaining hours. Aware that children could always find a reason to work near us, I kept my voice light while giving no ground.

I just turned thirty, Matron Barbara. Before labor assignments began, I taught elementary school. By the time the great adversity began, I was married and managing my own home. After my husband passed away and my mother was diagnosed with terminal cancer, I managed her bed and breakfast during one of the worst years of the crisis. I paused, should have stopped, but couldn’t help myself. What were you doing before labor assignments?

With some satisfaction I noticed Barbara’s back straighten, her shoulders elevate. She raised her left hand, well groomed with perfectly formed nails and the slightest indent on one finger suggesting a long ago wedding band. I guessed her to be the kind of woman who once wore a string of pearls even with casual clothes. Her fingertips settled at the base of her collarbone. She looked beyond me into the gloom of the semi-lit hallway toward my suite of rooms.

Of course I knew her story—widow of a wealthy corporate executive husband, children educated at expensive boarding schools, homes in wonderful resort locations, then some awful fall from grace. I wanted to test Barbara’s honesty. Seconds passed.

I’m sure you’re a smart young woman, she said as if praising a pet. You’ve read my biography and know about my children, my deceased husband’s career, our homes.

She took in a deep breath, fussed with her collar, seemed distracted by something behind my head. I’ve been left in this place, away from everyone I know, far longer than expected. Now I’ve been told I have to take on a new assignment in upstate New York for another twelve months before I receive my visa. She paused, taking a deep breath. I’ve been hoodwinked.

Yet you proposed staying here for a year of transition?

You’re a super achiever, graduating a year early from that elite training academy. I assumed you would catch on quickly and everyone would see that I wasn’t needed.

Albany’s a lot closer to where you lived than Minnesota. Being closer to friends and family might bring some comfort.

You don’t come from the same society where my husband and I lived before this awful collapse. If there had been just another million dollars in our assets, I would have been exempt from moving into this impossible situation. Her tone implied she knew I’d never seen a million dollars. I’ve worked like a common woman for the last three years because of calculations prepared by a crooked government agent.

She stopped speaking. I thought she had made her point, and I searched for words of empathy. But she had more to say.

Since I was just a girl, I have had people like you around me to manage the details of my personal life. Once again the voice of the wealthy. This is impossible. She quirked an eyebrow. My daughter has servants, a nanny, a personal secretary. That’s the life I know.

I can hear that assuming Ashwood’s responsibilities without more support made you unhappy. I kept my voice neutral while signaling I wasn’t going to be sympathetic. Do we have time for a tour before dinner?

Her type made my life miserable as a school teacher. Syrupy condescending voices chiding the grading of a daughter’s history project or suggesting a son really couldn’t complete so many pages of homework. I guessed Barbara’s husband had developed powerful political enemies who enjoyed the once pampered widow’s situation. Maybe Barbara snubbed one of their wives in her past life of status, spoke to the wrong person in these same elegant but elite tones about some obvious inferiority.

Go ahead and explore, she said, turning away. I’ve decided to have dinner served in the directors’ dining room to give you a feel for how they like everything set up. Before you wander, bring your data pad to the dining room and I’ll fill in details. She clapped, and a worker appeared from the hall. Set the dining room for a weeknight eighteen. We’ll eat our evening meal around the directors’ table.

As we walked back toward the children, I asked the most important question for the moment. Why does it appear that the workers are so thin?

Barbara turned her head. I remember telling you we have difficulties with our food allocations.

"But what about the eggs and dairy products raised right here? Every production report I’ve