Crimson Footprints

by Shewanda Pugh

  “She had an affair?”

  Daichi waved a tired hand. “It was a long time ago. Nothing for you to be concerned about.”

  “You don’t—you don’t doubt that Kenji’s yours, do you?”

  Daichi smiled. “No. Of course not.”

  He rubbed his forehead. “Kenji was conceived in a time when our marriage was most difficult, whereas with you, it was a time when I was full of optimism and hope, joy and love. When your brother was born, your mother and I were divorced in all but the most literal sense. Through no fault of his own, Kenji symbolizes everything that has gone wrong with my life, and you, all that has gone right.”

  Tak chewed on his bottom lip. “Do you still love her?”

  It was a question Daichi had been asking himself for two decades…whether he loved his wife. He and Hatsumi had shared so many years, more unhappy than happy, but he’d remained with her nonetheless. In fact, he’d never considered leaving her. Not on the countless occasions he’d found her too inebriated to care for their children and not when he found her in the arms of one of his interns eighteen years ago. But he wasn’t sure that his reluctance to abandon her was tantamount to love. Perhaps it was the guilt and self-loathing he felt whenever he saw her presented in exquisitely perfect fashion, with her makeup and hair in place, as though nothing were more important. He’d look at her and think of that beautiful freshman, hair slightly disheveled as she read Emily Dickinson. He’d think of the bright future she must’ve had before Daichi Tanaka derailed her. Perhaps the guilt kept him there.

  “I don’t know if I love your mother. But I do know that I love you and I’m willing to say it until you believe it.”

  When Tak returned home that evening, he exhibited signs of forgetfulness, confusion and disorientation. He put things down and forgot where they were, faltered midway through sentences and stumbled over words.

  Since Tak’s accident, Deena had delved into medical journals and self-help books in an effort to monitor and assist in his recovery. His behavior was symptomatic of head trauma, and it was something that could exhibit symptoms immediately or over a period of time.

  She followed him around, asking him probing questions about sensitivity to light and headaches until he turned to her quite suddenly, as if noticing her for the first time.

  “Did you know that my mother was already pregnant when my parents got married?”

  Deena froze, a copy of Treating Trauma in her hands. “No.”

  “Oh. Okay.”

  With a shrug, he took a seat on the couch and began untying his sneakers.

  “He told me he loved me today.”

  Deena’s eyebrows shot up. “Who did?”

  Tak grinned. “My dad.”

  DAICHI ENTERED THE master bedroom and cast off his plush robe and slippers. He changed into a pair of silk black pajamas and slid underneath the covers next to his wife. She lay on her side with her back to him. Daichi, taking in the slow rise and fall of her body and, in the lack of other motion, determined that she was asleep.

  He put on his wire-framed reading glasses and delved into the latest issue of Architectural Digest. He fully expected to enjoy the issue, the last of the season, as it featured a retrospective look at the year’s innovations. But his mind was on Takumi and the conversation they’d had. Never had he spoken to someone with such candor, with such vulnerability. Never had his son seen him cry.

  Sighing, he set the magazine back on the nightstand. There would be no Architectural Digest tonight.

  “Hatsumi?”

  She turned to face him. How many nights had they shared like this one? With her back to him, never speaking, never interacting, just him reading until he fell asleep and her simply listening?

  “Yes, Daichi?”

  He’d always thought her voice beautiful. As a foolish young man, he’d imagined that if something as sweet and pure as fruit could speak, it would have the voice of Hatsumi. How was that young man defeated? And better yet, why hadn’t he put up a fight?

  “May I speak with you for a moment?”

  Hatsumi drew herself up on one arm and Daichi frowned at her attire. He was certain what she wore constituted a negligee—black satin and lace cupped her breasts and hugged her mid-section, held up by only the slimmest of straps.

  “Why are you wearing that?” he demanded. “It’s much too cold for that.”

  He kept their home at a cool temperature to ward off bacteria.

  Hatsumi lowered her gaze. “You wanted to speak with me about something?”

  Daichi looked away. “Yes. I uh, wanted to ask you something. Ask your opinion, rather, on something.”

  He took a deep breath.

  “Do I love you, Hatsumi?”

  She frowned. “I’m not sure I understand what you’re asking.”

  She shifted in her chemise, the cool air upon her breasts. Daichi's gaze faltered momentarily.

  “I want to know whether or not I love you,” he said.

  Hatsumi hesitated. “I don’t think so.”

  He blinked a few times and nodded to himself. When he turned to her once more, she shifted again, her nipples pressing through lace of her chemise.

  “You’re cold," he observed. "Allow me to get you something.”

  He was out of bed and searching for a robe before she could object.

  The last time he’d volunteered to do something for her was two weeks before Takumi’s accident, when he offered to pour a bottle of alcohol directly down her throat, thereby dispensing with the constant refilling of her glass.

  The robe Daichi handed her was his own. Standing to take it, she revealed the full cut of her chemise—the sheerness of the material, the slight curve of her slender body, and long bare legs. He was rendered breathless and, as he stood, he recalled a time when his lips would trace the length of those legs, delighting in the sweet fragrance he found there.

  “Thank you,” Hatsumi said, tying the straps of the oversized cotton robe about her waist.

  “You’re welcome,” he said lamely.

  He looked away in frustration.

  “I, uh, spoke at great length with Takumi today,” he said.

  Hatsumi blinked.

  “We talked about many things, Takumi and I. This is why I asked if I loved you, as it was the question posed to me by him.”

  “And what did you say?”

  “The truth. That I didn’t know.”

  Hatsumi walked to the large window facing the foot of their bed and gazed out at the bay, and, beyond it, the Atlantic Ocean.

  “When we were younger you looked at me and you saw a beautiful woman, an intelligent woman, a woman you were honored to have by your side. But as time went by, that vision deteriorated. I became a woman who sacrificed a promising life, foolishly, according to you, to have your child and be your wife. Quite simply, I became a fool.”

  She turned to face him.

  “But where is it written that I can’t be all those things—beautiful and intelligent, wife and mother? When you look at me, you do so with regret. You think of what I could’ve become. You measure greatness by outward appearances and superficialities. No, there are no monuments erected to pay homage to my ego, and no, I don’t grace the covers of magazines, but I have two beautiful sons and a family that I love. Therefore, I might not meet your standards of greatness, but I am no one’s failure.”

  Hatsumi turned away from her husband.

  “Why do you stay, Hatsumi? Why do you stay in this empty, hopeless marriage?”

  “We can find each other again.”

  Daichi stared at her back, pained by the temptation her words afforded him. Suddenly, he knew why he’d never leave. Daichi, like his wife, had held out hope that love would find them again. Each in their own way longed for something, anything, to rejuvenate the passion they’d once shared.

  Hatsumi took a step towards him and allowed her robe to cascade to the floor. She revealed deliciously subtle curves under dark and yielding fabric. Daichi stared
, his thoughts imbued with images of long pale legs and the delectable enticements he'd once savored.

  Aroused to the point of madness, his hands, his mouth, his body found hers before his mind could convince him otherwise.

  THE LIBRARY STILL plagued Daichi. True, once completed it would be the largest in the state, shared by four colleges clustered in Broward, but it was just a library. He’d designed facilities for some of the largest companies in the world. His work donned the covers of magazines and the glossy pages of books in cities all over the earth. Could a library really be such a challenge?

  At four o'clock, exactly six hours after entering his study, there was a knock at the door. Absentmindedly he told whomever it was to come in.

  Kenji stood with a hand in the pocket of his relaxed jeans, head down, voice soft.

  “Mom wants to know if you're hungry.”

  “Perhaps.”

  Daichi frowned at the computer-generated renderings of his flawed vision. “I just can’t…”

  “You can fix it if you make your promenade wider. And put reflecting pools on both sides.”

  Daichi looked up. “What?”

  Kenji faltered. “I said you should make your—never mind.”

  “You understand what you're looking at?” Daichi stood.

  Kenji’s gaze returned to the floor. “I guess so.”

  Daichi frowned. Suddenly seized by an idea, he snatched a pencil and sheet of paper from his desk and drew frantically. When finished, he held the sheet up before Kenji.

  “What's this?”

  He looked from the paper to his father's expectant face.

  “A column.”

  Daichi pursed his lips. “What kind?”

  Kenji looked again. “Tuscan.”

  Daichi allowed the paper to fall as he snatched another. He sketched frantically, then wielded his work.

  “And this?”

  Kenji looked from Daichi to the paper.

  “A trefoil.”

  Daichi whirled as if seized by madness, searching, rummaging wildly.

  “And this? What's this, Kenji?”

  He brandished a copy of Architectural Record.

  “A magazine.”

  “The building, son, the building.”

  “Oh,” Kenji gave it a second look. He bit his lower lip and looked up uncertainly.

  “You can do it, Kenji. You're my son. It's in you.”

  Kenji frowned before returning to the picture.

  “It's a church.”

  Daichi sighed, already turning away.

  “Gothic Revival?”

  “What?”

  Kenji hesitated.

  “Look again.”

  Kenji studied the picture carefully.

  “Now what is it?”

  He frowned. He was trembling ever so slightly, never taking his eyes off the cathedral on the cover.

  “What is it, Kenji?”

  He looked up. “Gothic Revival?”

  “Say it like you mean it.”

  “Gothic Revival.”

  “Louder.”

  “Gothic Revival!”

  Daichi tossed the magazine aside and took his seat again. “Tell your mother we'll take our lunch in here.”

  Kenji raised an eyebrow. “We?”

  Daichi looked up. “Yes, ‘we’. Unless you're unwilling to share a meal with your otosan.”

  Kenji grinned and disappeared from the room.

  DEENA’S KHAKI LOUIS Vuitton clutch was perfectly suited for the iridescent capris and form fitting three-quarter length white button-up she chose to wear to meet her grandmother for coffee. Grandma Emma, on the other hand, donned a barnyard red potato sack dress complete with looming white buttons and white orthopedic slippers. As they exchanged icy greetings Deena was perfectly aware of the violent contrast they made.

  They’d not spoken since Deena brought Tak over for Sunday dinner two months prior. The meal had been a fiasco from the onset. When they arrived, Grandma Emma peered behind the two as if she were expecting a second, more acceptable man as Caroline, Keisha and Lizzie gaped in wide-eyed astonishment. And the questions! Deena’s cheeks still burned with the shame.

  “So Tic,” Aunt Caroline said as she leaned forward. “What part of China you from again?”

  “His name is Tak, not Tic. And he’s not Chinese,” Deena said.

  “I’m—I’m actually from here,” Tak said.

  “What do you mean, here?” Caroline demanded.

  “I mean here, here. Miami. I was born here.” Tak shifted in his seat and cast Deena a single, amused glance.

  “Oh,” Aunt Caroline said.

  “Well, where your daddy from?” Grandma Emma asked, mashing collard greens and cornbread together with her fingertips. “What parts a China he from?”

  Tak sighed. “My father’s from Phoenix.”

  “But he wasn’t born there though, right? He was born in China. Right?”

  Tak shot Grandma Emma a pointed look. “My father was born in Phoenix and his father in San Jose, California.” He took a sip of water. “But I do know what you’re asking me. I’m Japanese.”

  Deena recalled the poise with which Tak handled everything, from being offered pig entrails to fielding questions as to whether he was “some kin” to the Chinaman who ran Chan Wok’s on 69th. And just when she’d been certain that she could tolerate no more, Deena discovered that she was right.

  “So, you been down to the prison to tell your momma you getting married?” Caroline asked.

  Deena closed her eyes and buried her face in her hands. She would not cry. She refused to cry. Next to her, Tak squeezed her shoulder.

  “Hmph. You know she ain’t told him that. No man in they right mind going to fool with a woman that’s got that kinda evil in her blood. You carry that stuff in your blood, you know. Evil ways,” Grandma Emma advised with a wave of her fork.

  “Actually, I know all about her mother,” Tak said. “We talked about it a long time ago.”

  “Well, you know Emma, not everybody even believes in good and evil, God and the Devil. The boy probably don’t even know Jesus Christ died for his sins.” Deacon Moore, an increasing regular at the Hammond table, turned his attention to Tak. “Do you know that, boy? Do you know that Jesus died for your sins?”

  “Oh my God! If you don’t shut the hell up!” Deena cried. “Will you all just shut the hell up?”

  “This girl has lost her damned mind,” Keisha whispered.

  “I knew she lost her mind when she brought that Chinese boy around here like somebody ordered some wonton soup,” Caroline said.

  Deena stood. “One more word. One more word about him and, as God is my witness, I will come across this table and—”

  “Deena.” Tak grabbed her arm.

  “You’ll what, Deena? What are you gonna do to my momma?” Keisha stood to meet her.

  “Bring it, Keisha,” Deena said through gritted teeth. “You bring it and I’ll shove it down your goddamned throat.”

  Grandma Emma stood. “Sit your ass down before I come cross this table! Anybody gonna be putting hands on somebody it’s gone be me laying holy hands on your ass for bringing this Chinese boy round like dis.”

  Deena and Grandma Emma stood, staring at each other as Keisha lowered herself into her chair. Around them, each Hammond gaped as Deena, still on her feet, defied the will of their family’s matriarch. Never had it been done so brazenly.

  “I don’t answer to you,” Deena said. “Not anymore.” She turned to Tak. “We’re done here.”

  When Deena and Tak left, it was with the belief that she’d been ejected from the fold. After all, had not her grandparents turned their backs on their only son when he married her mother, a white woman? Had they not remained steadfast in their contempt up until his death ten years later? So it was with shock that Deena answered the phone when Grandma Emma called weeks later and suggested they meet.

  “Can I get you something, Grandma Emma?” Deena asked with a touch to
the old woman’s shoulder.

  Emma looked up from her work-worn and wrinkled hands.

  “They got Sanka?” Grandma Emma asked from her seat in the center of the Starbucks. Deena sighed. Shaking her head, she made her way over to the counter, to stand in the weaving line.

  After ordering two cups of venti decaf, Deena carried the sweltering brew to a corner table in the eclectic coffee shop, where she gestured for her grandmother to join her. While she told herself that she’d chosen the corner table in regard for Grandma Emma’s hip and back concerns, she was aware that it offered a semblance of privacy from the boisterous regulars that crowded the café. The spot seemed detached from the rest of the room.

  “Deena, you know I love you. I love you more than anything. I raised you and your brother and sister like you was my own. So when I tell you things it’s with your best interest in mind.” Grandma Emma tapped her temple.

  “I know you seem to think so,” Deena said carefully.

  “No. No. No. I do. I don’t tell you things for my own benefits. Like this here I got to tell you. For your own good.”

  “For my own good,” Deena echoed distrustfully, her eyes trained on the wisps of steam escaping the lid.

  Grandma Emma looked up at her, nodded, then leaned forward conspiratorially, her synthetic wig shifting in the process.

  “You can’t marry that Chinese boy.”

  “Japanese,” Deena said.

  “Chinese. Japanese. Really, when you gets down to it, it’s the same thing,” Grandma Emma said.

  Deena stared at her. “Alright. I’ll humor you. Why can’t I marry him?”

  Grandma shook her head. “Your whole family against it. Ain’t that mean nothing to you?”

  “Not anymore,” Deena murmured.

  Grandma Emma stared in shock. “Look here, gal. Ain’t they got no black men whereabout you could find?”

  Deena’s patience evaporated. “I don’t want a black man. I want him, Grandma. I love him. Weren’t you the one who told me that if I found a man that I loved, that treated me right, that I should hold on to him, no matter what?”

  “Chile, you takes my words and you twists ‘em. You twists ‘em to suits you.”