Harvesting Ashwood Minnesota 2037 Page 3
“You’ll do fine, Phoeb. You didn’t have one answer wrong on the last practice test.” Sitting back, I drank my water. “As much as I love your smiling faces, I need to grab your father so we can talk about important adult things.”
They groaned. “Drink enough water today, Mom,” John commanded as David and I stood up. “Don’t get summer sick.”
“I promise, John.” I held up my water glass. “You should convince your grandparents to go easy on their coffee.”
We left the table and entered the residence. The sounds of our children still in my ears, I thought about the Smithson boy. Did Antwone’s comments suggest the boy was odd? Was he a normal youngster like our John when the clinic had promised the Smithsons a genius? Was he my son?
“Smithson claims that her sister-in-law was infertile and the boy is actually my child.” An administrative staff member walked past us. “I saw him on the monitors. His hair is exactly like my family’s—red highlights in brown.” David stopped walking. “She wants access to my DNA data, and Milan says there’s a possibility this is true. Apparently some clinics fertilized the eggs of surrogates without our knowledge.”
In the long glass hallway, David placed an arm around my shoulders while we walked. Apples, nearly ready for harvest, dragged tree limbs almost to the ground just beyond the soccer field. “That’s quite a disclosure,” he said. “You’ve talked about how empty you felt after giving the baby to his parents. Wouldn’t it be amazing to discover now that this child is your son? What are your legal rights?”
Classic David, at his finest in offering an orphaned kid part of our home without thinking about the bigger picture. “If he’s your son, you want him to be part of our family, don’t you?” His arm dropped to his side as the DOE security guard opened the office building door.
“Milan offered to research the files and have an attorney review all the contracts related to my surrogacy.” David’s question unnerved me. “I’ve been thinking about all the implications for our kids and their futures. Andrew, that’s his name, might have problems.”
He looked at me with surprise, eyebrows raised. “If this kid was my son, I wouldn’t even ask you before putting an extra bunk bed in the boys’ room.” Lines across his forehead formed easily in the way a forty-five-year-old man’s face ages. “We’ve got Phoebe’s psychologist if he needs help. One more kid won’t break the bank.”
“David, we don’t know that this isn’t all a giant farce.” My voice quivered, surprising me. “I need time to be sure. Time to think through what’s best if this woman is telling the truth.”
“And I’m telling you that you don’t need to think about anyone else if the boy is yours. There’s plenty of resources, and affection, to stretch over one more set of shoulders.” He winked. “We have room for one kid, even if he can pick up coins with his toes like his mother.” His arms settled around my shoulders. I heard his lips kiss my hair. “Now I’ve got to run.”
By dinner we’d all be comfortable with David’s absence, for that was the way we lived—he traveled the world responding to the most powerful customers of the U.S. Department of Energy and I managed the third-largest privately-held agricultural production estate in Minnesota. In my office solar sensitive blinds filtered the morning’s strong sun. Thermal heating and cooling kept the main residence comfortable, but the DOE office building changed systems frequently as a lab setting for future technology. The current system worked less than perfectly against September’s worst weather.
Three hours into my workday I had nothing accomplished. I pulled an old photo collection off my credenza to remember my own family that nurtured me and my first husband, Richard. How young I looked at his side before the economy collapsed.
“Anne. You look like you’re deep in thought. Didn’t we schedule the agricultural operations group meeting at this time?” Magda walked in to sit at her favorite place at my office table. Estate living kept both of us lean, but I thought she looked younger than her thirty-five years while I felt the approach of my thirty-ninth birthday.
“Are you okay?” Remnants of an Eastern European accent gave her deep alto voice a catlike growling quality. Her current life partner, a quiet Jamaican woman named Ena, managed installation of crop rotation in the greenhouses. Together they seemed to be organically a part of all that was green on the estate.
“I’m wishing Paul had another branch of the Regan family tree we could shake for more strong South Dakota workers.” I sighed. “Seven years ago this estate had almost bare food shelves, large market obligations, and not enough laborers. Today we have prosperous businesses with high-demand products and the government ratcheting up its agricultural product requirements while it sucks up most of our workforce. I don’t understand what’s happening.”
She shrugged at my recap of old news. With an ever-growing Bureau of Human Capital Management directing allocation of all labor, there was always pressure on estate management to provide training opportunities as well as jobs for the young and the unemployed. Unfairly, we did our best with little guarantee of retaining the people we trained if other industries had needs.
“When did all these manufacturing companies build factories around the cities?” Magda asked as she stretched. “It’s not like they’re making shoes or something locally useful. It’s all missiles and munitions. Not at all self-sufficiency.”
“This morning’s first group of day laborers didn’t look like the whole lot could produce more than the resources they might use.” I added to her concern. “All city workers trying to put in a full day in this heat.” I put the pictures down, moved from my desk to join her. “I’m worried about having enough people to finish harvest.”
“You always worry about something, Anne.” Magda, a true operations manager, tossed aside easy problems. “Ena’s system of rotating people through time in the greenhouses and the fields minimizes heat issues. We’ll be okay.” She removed a pencil from her thick braid of hair. “Let’s come back to this thought after we go through reports.”
We drilled through planting, harvesting, and produce distribution. Paul joined us to talk about the grain harvest. His knowledge of the flat plains of southern Minnesota and South Dakota saved our crops in many situations. Forty minutes passed.
“Even field staff breaks at some point.” David stood in the doorway. “I need a minute with my wife and father.”
“I need to supervise a vendor arrival,” Magda said as she gathered her things. “We’ll talk about the day crews later.” David stepped aside to let her pass, then closed the door.
Our son had David’s dark eyes, his grandfather’s high eyebrows, and the large hands of my father. Paul sat with his back to the estate map hung on one wall of my office while my regular chair allowed me to look out the windows.
“I received notice that this is a top-security mission to Paraguay.” David closed one eye and looked at his father. “They’ve given me a few additional hours to clear up other project work. I’ll be gone at least ten days.”
“Let’s not tell your mother about the security aspect.” Paul spoke directly to David. “She’ll think about her brother getting caught in that Afghanistan aid business and worry.”
Under Paul’s words, I heard a tone that suggested he wanted to protect me as well. “It’s not the first time you’ve been in a top-security mission,” I said. “Think of China and the month you spent inside Ukraine.”
“I don’t know what’s going on in Paraguay, but it’s different.” David’s words came out slowly as he clenched one hand and released it.
I wanted to calm him, to put my hand over his, but I knew the need for comfort was mine. David and Paul continued to talk as I watched, hearing under the conversation that there was information my husband couldn’t share. I decided not to become worried unless he passed the DOE/U.S. military starred security packet to me before leaving. Those were the times I feared.
“We’ll be out of communication for the entire assignment.”
“With my departure time moved back we have a chance for us to speak.” He gave me a “be brave” smile. “Maybe we’d better let Dad in on your visitor this morning?”
Paul sat back in his chair. I could see the worry he’d carry about David’s safety in small tension lines hidden in creases above his eyebrows that didn’t release once we moved to a new topic. While my husband was still attractive in his mid-forties, his father was a handsome outdoorsman with close-shaved silver hair and an easy smile. He tilted his head and raised a few fingers, cuing me to share.
Trying to be succinct, I recounted Clarissa Smithson’s story and claims and Milan’s response. “So, I might have a son we’ve never met or someone trying to draw me into caring for a surrogate who is no blood relation.”
“You’ve been rescuing kids as long as we’ve known each other, Annie. Think of having your boy come home.” His voice was genuine. “Shows God is still ruling the universe.”
“I don’t know yet that he is my son, Paul. Clarissa isn’t the first adult to come here with some version of this story.”
“Well, what do you think?” Paul asked. “You’ve got good maternal instincts. What did you feel when this boy was born?” He quirked an eyebrow upward. “And what’s his name? Did you meet him?”
“Andrew.”
“The warrior.” Paul interrupted. “My grandfather’s name. He flew bombers in World War II.”
I nodded, mystified by my father-in-law’s interest in this boy. “David can tell you that I find Andrew’s birthday difficult each year. Does that mean I’m his mother?”
Paul reached across David to pat my hand. “If he is your son, he’s a lucky boy. And I’ll have another reason to be pissed as hell at the bunch of assholes who have been running this government.”
“Thanks, Paul.” I pulled my hand back slowly. “I appreciate your support.” Their enthusiasm was governed by pure emotion, as if this child was a stray cat and not a person who could influence the entire future of our family. “Legally I have no obligation regardless of the boy’s biological relationship. But if he is truly my child, I will want him here to be part of our family.”
“Whatever you decide, you’ve got my support,” David said. “I wanted Dad to know before I left.”
“Until we’re sure, please don’t tell anyone else.” Paul looked surprised. “I don’t want Phoebe distracted if Andrew is not my son.”
“Fair. Let’s talk about Phoebe.” David started us down a puzzling path. “I don’t know if you heard last night, Dad. It was bad.” Paul nodded to show that he and Sarah did hear Phoebe’s screams.
“The psychologist visits again next week. I’m wondering if Phoebe’s having more night terror because of the proficiency tests or if there’s something else going on.” David worried almost excessively about our children’s future. “I know it’s difficult to find pediatric psychologists, but this woman doesn’t have my total confidence. Maybe Milan can find someone stronger?”
“That’s not Milan’s job, David, and Phoebe does like Dr. Wanda.” Our conversation was repeated each time Dr. Wanda’s visit approached. Paul looked uncomfortable being in the middle of our mild disagreement. “Let’s stay with Dr. Wanda and keep Phoebe’s life as calm as possible. She doesn’t need to know you’re on a different kind of trip.” David straightened in his chair, and I rushed my next sentence. “I’ll call Terrell for advice.” A former member of Ashwood’s team, this friend had a counseling background that could be helpful.
“How do you deal with my not being able to talk to the kids while I’m gone?” I extended a hand as if touch could ease David’s anxiety.
“The language testing is early in your trip. She understands time differences and how demanding projects can be on your first days.” I noticed that the time for lunch service was close. “Honey, I’d like to have lunch with the kids, so I have to leave.”
“Have fun. I’m eating in my office while I do calls.” We all rose. David and I hugged, me resting just a few seconds longer than usual against his chest. “I’ll leave the starred packet on your desk before I leave,” he said into my ear as he squeezed me tight. “I love you.”
“I know. I love you, too. Take care of yourself and come back quickly.” We kissed again, the starred packet setting this farewell apart. I knew the packet’s contents—his will, directions for accessing DOE funds, a final video.
Paul and I walked back to the main residence, his talk about the corn, soybean, and grain harvests filling my ears. To him, Ashwood was just another big farm where rain fell or didn’t fall, where bugs caused problems and machinery worked or didn’t work. What kept Paul young and involved lived in our residence—his family.
“Ms. Anne, Mr. Paul.” Ray, a longtime member of the agriculture day staff, waved us down as we exited the residence to walk to the Ashwood production offices. “Did you know some government agency is here to claim our combine? They got a big rig here to haul it away.”
“What the hell,” Paul said as he turned to me. “You saw that mail yesterday. The one about requisitioning surplus equipment for national security.”
“I never thought they meant agricultural equipment.” All three of us covered the ten-minute walk in five. “Did Homeland Security talk with you or Magda about this?”
Paul slowed. “I talked with a Homer Penfeller last week. Told him we didn’t have anything here but farm equipment and a few used transports. I thought that was the end of the conversation. He had the complete inventory we filed with the estate’s taxes.”
“The Security people have a lot of paperwork with them. I tried to explain to them that this combine will be used by many of our neighbors in the next few weeks, and crops will rot in the fields if we lose it.” Ray rubbed his hands together, then swabbed his forehead and neck with a pocket kerchief. “City guy obviously. Don’t know his elbow from his, well, you know what I mean.”
I called Ashwood’s government-appointed lawyer while we walked, then placed a quick second call to our private attorney. Raima would understand the impact of losing that single piece of extremely expensive equipment for Ashwood as well as for a half dozen other estates.
“Paul, they must know we’ve been asked to use our equipment at a discount cost for work on federal jobs. Whatever would Homeland Security do with a farm combine? What can you do with it beyond harvesting grains?”
The black Homeland Security transport parked outside our ag office building looked out of place in this busy yet tranquil setting. Day laborers gawked at the vehicle while our regular staff looked determined to not stare. Dozens of local people depended on Ashwood for their families’ financial stability as well as for services like day care and schooling.
I looked at the sky, at the sun shimmering in midday heat. “Hell of a day, isn’t it?” I asked Paul or Ray or maybe myself. “Let’s talk with the feds.”
Chapter Six
In the early days of recovery from the big D, we all wore uniforms related to our jobs. Federal bureaucrats belonging to certain agencies were the last holdouts from that time. My challenge as I walked into the estate offices was to find the one dress detail in the group of strangers filling our office that designated their leader.
I chose the man whose small flag pin displayed gold trim. This person was either a bureaucratic hero or manager of the crew. “You look like the person in charge of these people,” I said, walking toward him and extending my right arm. The feds watched my action with looks of concern. Before their leader could step back from my germ-laden hand, I stopped and dipped my head in mandatory protocol. His dipped further than mine, a sign of respect for my position as a business owner.
“You must be Matron Anne Hartford.” The gold flag man advanced my way.
“Your information is old,” I said, wondering what his reference to my former role signaled. “As owner of Ashwood, I carry the federal title of General
Manager Hartford.”
“You are an honored surrogate, a volunteer safeguarding our nation’s treasured intellectual citizens.”
His soliloquy, delivered with a certain robotic quality, grated on my nerves. He ignored the small gesture I made to indicate we should move into a conference room while continuing with his grandstanding.
“I am Homer Penfeller, deputy detail supervisor of requisitions for the Midwest Homeland Security sector.” Straight as a steel rod, without warmth or grace, the flag-adorned man dipped his head as if sharing his name brought us both great pleasure. “I spoke with Mr. Paul Regan about a piece of machinery.” He acknowledged my gesture toward the conference room by taking one step during his last words.
I walked first, then Penfeller moved in front of Paul, who hurried his own pace so that the two reached the door at the same moment. My father-in-law allowed his dislike for what this bureaucrat represented to show. Paul made a point of reaching ahead of the man to open the door, as if inviting Penfeller into the room. For his part, Penfeller turned toward the crew he’d brought to Ashwood and lifted a hand. Seven men and women moved from the outer office area toward the conference room.
“Supervisor Penfeller, this room is small. Surely we can speak without all of your staff.” I rested my hands on the back of a chair as I spoke.
“Matron Anne, I have three estates to visit before the end of this workday. My staff will record our discussion.” He forced a smile, eyes involuntarily blinking as the edges of his lips raised. “Time is important to all of us.”
“Then perhaps I’ve underestimated the importance of this meeting.” We all remained standing. “If you require seven people to witness talks with an estate owner, I am led to believe that this is a very serious matter. Ashwood’s attorney will conference with us,” I referred to my data pad, “in ten minutes.”