Crimson Footprints

by Shewanda Pugh

  “Any regrets?”

  “About you?”

  He nodded.

  Deena shook her head. “Not one.”

  JOHN AND ALLISON danced to a few familiar songs, a random selection from the top twenty pop and hip-hop charts, and in-between downed a few drinks. Three beers for him, two daiquiris for her. He was loathed to admit it, but his cousin’s presence had done them some good. Before Tak and Deena’s arrival their relationship had been teetering on the brink of extinction. Fights about washing laundry and drinking the last swallow of milk seemed to drive as much of a wedge between them as his lipstick on the collar.

  But there was something about Tak and Deena, something about them that was invigorating, inspiring. Something about the way he leaned into her when she spoke, as if fascinated by her. Or the way he placed a hand at the small of her back or on her arm, as if he had this never-ending need to make contact with her. Or the way she looked at him, as if absorbed, as if the object of her infatuation was not only adored but admired.

  John wanted that for himself. And he could see in Allison’s eyes that she wanted it too. When had they lost their ability to laugh, to play, to love so easily? Long before the lipstick on the collar, before the months of laundry-induced screaming, too long perhaps to remember. But as Allison pulled John into her arms, and the soft curves of her body melded into the contours of his, he knew that it was his to have back, should he want it.

  Tak watched from the barstool as John and Allison approached. Four Screaming Orgasms and twelve hit songs later and Deena was fast becoming part of the furniture. John grinned, leaning in for his cousin to hear.

  “It doesn’t count if you drag her onto the dance floor unconscious, Tak.”

  Tak laughed. “She’s not the victim here. She’s the one ordering all the drinks. I’m just keeping count.”

  “Sure you are.” John waved for the bartender. “Send a pitcher of beer to the table over there. We’re going to run a tab, courtesy of this guy.”

  Minutes later the four sat, music blaring, as they downed a round of Heineken.

  “I’ve been meaning to ask you, Deena. Like, what are you? What’s your ethnicity?” Allison shouted.

  Deena tensed. “I’m black and white.”

  Allison’s eyes lit up. “Really? Like what specifically? Irish? Italian?”

  Deena shook her head. “I—I don’t know.”

  Allison frowned. “Well, maybe we can figure it out.”

  “Allison…” John warned.

  “No John,” she waved him off. “It’s cool. What’s the surname? That’s a good place to start.”

  “It’s Knight,” Deena said.

  “Knight? Yeah, that’s not very helpful. Is it your mother’s side or your father’s? Because maybe you could ask—”

  “There’s no one to ask,” Deena snapped.

  “Hey!” Tak leapt to his feet. “Feel like dancing? Allison?”

  “Dancing?” She blinked her confusion.

  “Yeah!” He turned to Deena. “That all right, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah. Sure. Whatever.”

  “Good. One song. We’ll be back.” He grabbed Allison’s hand and near-dragged her away.

  JOHN STARED AT Deena over the pitcher of beer. “She means well. She doesn’t know any better, but she means well.”

  He was met with a flicker of irritation.

  “They both have good intentions. But you can’t expect them to know what it’s like to be half of something and all of nothing.”

  Deena looked up.

  “Take me for example. My mother’s white. There’s this whole side of my family that’s blue-eyed and lily-colored. Now they’ve never mistreated me, never said an unkind word to me, but still. I don’t feel white.”

  “I don’t feel white, either,” Deena said.

  John grinned. “Problem is, I don’t feel quite Japanese, either. I feel more Japanese, but not all Japanese. Probably because I’m always being treated like an outsider.” He shrugged. “For a long time I tried to prove I was one of them. My Nihongo is pretty damned good and my history is stellar. But if they take one look at these eyes, it means nothing.”

  Deena lowered her gaze; thoughts of soul food, hip-hop, and desperately trying to blend in made her smile. “We’re a lot alike, Mr. Tanaka.”

  John shrugged. “Only if you’re lucky.” He refilled her pitcher of beer. “So, which side do you identify with? The black or the white?”

  Deena shrugged. “It’s hard to say. I mean, I don’t even know the white side. After my mother ki—”

  John froze, mid-pour. “After what?”

  She inhaled massively. “‘After my mother killed my father’ is what I was going to say.” She cleared her throat. “My mother killed my father.”

  John stared at her, the beer now overflowing. “Are you kidding me? Cause if you are, that’s the worst joke I’ve ever heard.”

  Deena burst out into laughter. Only a Tanaka could make her laugh about something so terrible. “I’m serious, John. My mother killed my father. She shot him. And I can’t believe you made me laugh about it.”

  He looked down, noted the mess he made and reached for napkins. “It’s a certain charm I have.”

  Together the two mopped the spilled brew. When he looked up, he did so as if remembering something. “Tak says you don’t dance.”

  “Oh, I do. A little. I’m just not that good at it.” she smiled.

  John shrugged. “No, no. I understand. I’m the same way. But I like to do it all the same.” He paused and stole a glance at her. “I thought everyone did.”

  “I suppose so.”

  John leaned forward. “Allison’s like Tak, you know, a real good dancer. She won’t even dance with me. She says I make her look bad.”

  “That’s horrible!”

  “It’s okay. I mean, I wouldn’t want to dance with someone who was really good at it anyway. It’d be nice to dance with someone who was a little uncomfortable or wouldn’t mind if I lost the beat.”

  “Someone like me?” Deena whispered.

  John’s eyes widened. “You’d do that for me?”

  Deena nodded.

  “Well then,” John stood. “What are we waiting for?”

  TAK STOOD IN astonishment, watching as John and Deena moved. He would’ve laughed at the absurd way his cousin insisted on thrusting his pelvis had Deena not looked so damned sexy. Her hair was loose and damp, and a thin sheen of sweat covered her. Her hands found her hair and her hips swayed. She threw her head back and laughed when John whispered something in her ear.

  Okay. Enough of that.

  Tak pushed his way through the crowd and tapped his cousin on the shoulder. He turned to face him mid-thrust.

  “You mind?” Tak said. “You’ve earned your money already.”

  “I can see why you like her so much, Tak.”

  “Get your ass out of here.”

  Tak fell in step with Deena. “Hope you left some of that for me.”

  Deena grinned. “It’s all for you.”

  With a bite of his lower lip, Tak pulled her into his arms, his hands dropping to her waist. Deena arms found his neck.

  “I missed you,” she admitted.

  “Somehow that doesn’t make me sad.”

  Tak turned Deena’s back to him, found her midsection, and pulled her in close. Dancing came natural to him; it was about feeling the moment as all art was. Their hips moved with the pulse of the music. Promises of sex and wild fulfillment coupled with alcohol and skin on skin for an ethereal intoxication. His hands caressed her waist, her hips, and her stomach.

  “God, you feel incredible,” Tak said.

  “So do you.”

  His breathing was loud and labored. He dragged wet lips across her throat as strobe lights bathed them. He found her breast, grazed it, and then fell away. His erection pierced her back.

  “You’re killing me, Dee. I can’t—”

  His words were clipped when she turned an
d kissed him. He met her, his mouth open and hungry. He gripped the back of her head and tilted, wanting more than her kiss could give.

  Tak sliced the crowd in his rush to the bathroom, his hand clasped tightly with Deena’s. The two disappeared into the men’s restroom, fumbling, stumbling, then meeting.

  WHEN TAK AND Deena woke the next morning, it was not because of the time—nearly twelve noon by then—or the bright rays of sun baking the window, but rather because of the blare of Deena’s cell phone. Groggily she reached for it, frowning at the disturbance of her sleep, and the pulsating of her skull.

  “Hello?”

  “Deena! What an unequivocal pleasure. To hear your voice on this, the twenty-third day of a thirty-day vacation.”

  Deena bolted upright. “Daichi?”

  Next to her, Tak sat up.

  “Indeed. Are you enjoying the vacation?”

  “Sir, I—”

  “It’s a simple question, Deena. Have you found this leisure time enjoyable? Fulfilling? Satisfactory at the very least?”

  “Sir—” Deena swallowed. “It’s been satisfactory, yes.”

  “Twenty-three days away and ‘satisfactory’ is your assessment? A disappointing conclusion for those of us who continue to toil.”

  “Well no sir. I am enjoying—”

  “Perhaps my abrasive tone has escaped you. Could it be that your idle time has led to atrophy of the mind, leaving you unable to assess an individual’s given demeanor?”

  “No sir, I can tell that you’re upset.” Deena glanced at Tak.

  “Good. Provided you’re still interested in being an architect, I would recommend you report to my office on Monday morning, nine a.m.”

  Deena swallowed. “Yes sir. Thank you, sir. I’ll be there.”

  Daichi hung up.

  DEENA HUSTLED INTO the Tanaka firm Monday morning and rode the elevator to the thirteenth floor. Her hands trembled.

  Sliding glass doors parted for her as she stepped off the elevator and onto the gleaming marble logo. Angela, Daichi’s secretary, greeted her with a tight-lipped smile.

  “He’s waiting for you, sweetheart.” Her eyes were sympathetic.

  Deena swallowed and gave a nod, unwilling to speak and thereby betray the extent of her fear.

  She’d only been to the thirteenth floor once or twice. It was vast. Once past the soundproof sliding glass doors, the receptionist lobby where Angela was housed featured a twenty-foot high ceiling, lacquered white wall paneling and chocolate Spanish marble. An acoustic sound system mimicked a babbling brook, while a seating area comprised of sleek Italian furnishings served as the waiting area.

  The entrance to Daichi’s office was nearly as daunting as the man. Massive round-top double doors of thick African mahogany were made even more prominent by the polished Tanaka logo inset in stained Tiffany glass. She suspected those doors were worth more than her salary for the year.

  Deena raised a fist to knock, took a deep breath, and shot Angela a single look of quiet distress. But the older woman was distracted, her face in her files, so Deena returned, fist wavering, and watched the door open.

  Daichi stared at her, his square face hardened by a perpetual frown. He stepped aside and let her enter, his lids heavy under his watchful gaze. He slammed the door behind her, and took a seat behind a dark, broad desk.

  “Close to a month of vacation, Ms. Hammond, and you’ve earned my undivided attention. Do share what one does with such an abundance of time.”

  Deena froze. She’d spent over an hour with his son, trying to anticipate his questions. But they had not anticipated this. Already, she’d been caught off guard.

  Daichi’s fingertips formed a steeple and he frowned at her. “Are you…unable to recall?”

  “Yes, sir. I remember.”

  “Well, I’ve not the time to linger, in case you were wondering.”

  She lowered her gaze.

  “I went on a road trip.”

  “Oh? Where?”

  “A few places. Atlanta. Memphis. St. Louis.” She wanted to stop, but his silence was demanding. “Chicago. Cleveland. New York.”

  “Ah. And did you see the Gateway Arch? The Willis Tower? The Empire State Building, perhaps?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “How charming.” Daichi’s smile froze steel. “And do you feel that you’ve earned such a celebrated vacation by way of the caliber of your work here?”

  She looked away. “I don’t know, sir.”

  “Well, I do.” Daichi stood. He rounded the desk, hands clasped behind his back. “You are an undisciplined talent, Deena Hammond. You are neither hot nor cold. Idealistic yet ambivalent, presumptuous and timid. You are as inconsistent as you are capable, a greater sin than ignorance. And with your tepidness, you’ve proven yourself dispensable.”

  Daichi ventured to the broad floor-to-ceiling windows and frowned down at the cobalt waters of Biscayne Bay.

  Deena’s vision blurred. Even as a pig-tailed girl she wanted to be an architect. It was her father’s dream that she become an architect. The two of them would spend hours holed up in a room, drawing and planning, measuring and building a small-scale community they called Hammondville. The name still made her smile, it was so stupid. Back then, they’d maneuver the streets of Brickell, admiring the brilliant towers of Miami. “That one there,” her father would say, “it’ll be nothing compared to what you’ll make.” And Deena would look at him and feel pride and purpose.

  But he’d been wrong. She would make nothing. At twenty-five, she was done.

  Daichi whirled, startling her from nostalgia. He stalked as if to pin her down, his approach quick and confrontational: predator to prey.

  “I ask you. Deena. What good is talent without gall? Brilliance without conviction?” His dark eyes narrowed in disgust. “You lack the audacity for greatness. You’ve not the stomach for it.”

  It was not the lecture she was expecting. When she opened her mouth, her voice came out small. “That—that’s not true.”

  “No?” Daichi stared, as if astonished with the contradiction. “How many designing competitions have you entered? Prizes have you vied for?”

  Deena shook her head. “I—I’ve been busy with other projects. I’ve had a full load—”

  He stared at her until her back pressed the chair and her own head began to shake. She sounded stupid, and they both knew it. “What good is it, Deena? What good is any of it? Knowledge? Talent? What purpose can it serve if you sit on your laurels, content to design wheelchair ramps and take month-long vacations?”

  He was shouting at her, and she was crying.

  “I don’t know. I’m sorry.”

  He turned away and a pause followed.

  “You’ll be handling the pre-design phase of Skylife. On my desk in one week, I expect to see the following.”

  Stunned, Deena fumbled with her briefcase for pen and pad, cursing herself for not considering the possibility she might still have a job.

  He paused as if showing her mercy.

  “I expect to have the agenda for this project. Concrete goals. Anticipated obstacles. Your design team.”

  “My design team?”

  “Yes.” Daichi turned to her. “The individuals you anticipate will best be suited to carry out your vision. You should have covered this in an undergraduate course.”

  “Yes sir, I did. But where do I get them? From here? The firm?”

  Daichi rolled his eyes. “From Bangkok if need be.”

  He began to pace. “Your work will serve as the blueprint for the entire project.” He glanced at his watch. “You have one week. Seven days, to the minute.”

  Deena nodded and tucked away scribbled notes into a rough and tumble briefcase.

  “Failure to provide this will be indicative of your desire to no longer be in my employ. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Crystal, sir.”

  Deena stood and hesitated, briefcase in hand. “Daichi, I—I just want to apologize for—”
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  He held up a hand. “You are young. And it is to this that I attribute your inability to ascertain the best time to exit. So I will tell you.” He gestured to the door. “Leave. And no more vacations.”

  DEENA SAT STARING at her desk as she contemplated how to lay the groundwork for a structure worthy of the Tanaka name. In a week’s time she was to turn nothing into something, and something damned good. Failure meant the loss of her livelihood.

  She thought back to her initial conversations with Daichi about the project. In them, they’d agreed that originality, consciousness, sustainability and function were most important. And the more he talked, the more Deena came to know how he’d earned his rightful place as a brilliant mind in the annals of architecture.

  “You err when you think of sustainability as a set of practices to reduce our carbon footprint,” Daichi told her. “You must look at it as survival. Whose survival, you might say? Ours is the obvious answer. Or the planet’s, perhaps. But as an architect, you must look at it as the survival of the building. What is the building’s unique contribution to the community? To our craft? To the world? When you can answer that, you’ve created a design that is truly sustainable.”

  Deena stared at her desk. Her task was clear. She was to create a building whose contribution to the world was unequaled, and she had one week to lay the groundwork for it.

  An hour later, she abandoned her staring contest with the desk in the hopes that fresh air would bring fresh ideas. When Deena stepped out of the posh marble lobby, heat and humidity accosted her like a slap in the face. She squinted at the sunlight, paused, and took a deep breath.

  Deena rounded the firm and admired its symbolism. The glass sheath invoked fluidity, the running water, renewal. Its triangular shape was a primitive symbol for fire, the only naturally occurring element man could create. Thus, fire as an element bridged the gap between mortals and gods.

  The Tanaka firm stared back at Deena, a towering prism of prestige. It taunted her, warned her that she could not emulate all it encompassed—that she could not be Daichi Tanaka. She feared it was right.