Crimson Footprints II: New Beginnings

by Shewanda Pugh

  And reflection, more than anything, separated him from his father.

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  Tak lifted his gaze from the Arts Section of The Herald and followed her with his eyes. If there’d been a moment where she’d stopped talking about Tony, it had been too small for him to notice.

  “Sounds like he’s gonna be a philosopher,” Tak said, jumping in the brief gap of chatter about Tony’s keen insights. He then returned to his newspaper. “We’d better get his trust fund together. He’ll need it.”

  Deena turned on him, a banana sundress in her hands. She’d been going to and fro between it and a flirty white one for sailing the next day.

  “Get John’s friend to do it,” Deena said. “The one who did Mia’s.”

  “Maybe we should wait until the adoption’s complete,” Tak suggested. He caught a glimpse of her glower and returned to his paper.

  “Or . . . maybe not.”

  Deena stood a moment longer, nostrils flaring, before she turned back to her dress. Tak’s gaze shifted just slightly, from an amazing backside to the boy at the door.

  “Tony, knock. Remember?”

  “I did. It wasn’t closed. Just kinda floated open.”

  “All right.” Tak patted the stretch of bed next to him, and the gangly preteen leaped onto the bed.

  “What’s up?” Tak asked.

  “Well, I’m not really asking for anything, you know. For my birthday—”

  Tak raised a skeptical brow.

  “It’s just—I don’t know if you had anything planned, and if we’re doing anything, that’s okay. But if we are—”

  “I’m not taking you and Wendy on a date,” Tak said.

  “What!” Tony cried. “That loud mouth.”

  Tak shrugged. “A man likes what he likes.”

  “I wanna do paintball for my birthday. Just the guys. Me, you, John. He seems pretty cool.”

  “I’ll be sure to pass the compliment,” Tak said. “Just be careful that you don’t find him cooler than me.”

  Tony nodded and slipped out the door.

  Tak grinned. He was getting comfortable enough to ask for things. It was progress.

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  Another night of loneliness in Kenji Tanaka’s house. The dinner she’d prepared, an unintentionally charbroiled chicken and canned green beans, sat on the table, uneaten. From a nearby entertainment center tantalizingly promising love songs wafted through the air. Lizzie couldn’t recall turning it on, though she couldn’t recall Kenji doing so, either.

  She wondered if it bothered him the way it bothered her; if his spirit felt tormented by others singing about a love that seemed beyond their grasp. Or was it her? Was love her dream? If so, when had she first begun it?

  Lizzie sat up. She’d inadvertently used the ‘l’ word. She hadn’t meant it. Or had she?

  “What?” Kenji said softly, guitar in his hands.

  Already, she felt the color rushing to her cheeks. No explanation would come to her mind for the sudden start, no explanation, that is, except the truth.

  Lizzie swallowed.

  “I—I wanted to dance,” she said.

  She couldn’t read his expression. Horror? Anxiety? Discomfort?

  He turned back to the guitar. “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he said, fingers gently stroking strings without plucking.

  She wondered if he meant more than the dance.

  But didn’t dare ask.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  Two-week suspension over, Deena returned to work feeling renewed from her time at home and the notion that the saga of adoption would soon be over. Waiting on her desk were a stack of manila folders she knew hadn’t been there the day she departed. Curious, Deena snatched them up.

  Orders. Half a dozen of them, all requests for homes. She hadn’t done a single family home in years, though they’d been her mainstay in the early days. Why had they come to her? She could think of three other architects who were desperate for this sort of work. Deena tossed them to her desk with a glare. It was only then that a handwritten note slid to the floor, formerly amidst the stack. She recognized her father-in-law’s flourishing script immediately.

  Daughter,

  These projects are to remind you of why you became an architect. Devote to them the spirit and energy you would give a much more prestigious project. The reward will be great.

  Daichi

  Deena trashed the note with a scowl and slumped into her chair. Immediately, she went into the database to return her mediocre projects to the workload and grab something more prestigious. There was nothing.

  Open assignments were available on a hierarchy at the firm. The newest architects had access only to the lowest pool, where Deena suspected the house orders had come from. Those were the firm’s most basic projects. In many cases, there were requests for bringing a building up to code instead of designing one at all. Midlevel architects had access to remotely better endeavors—shopping plazas and midsize public facilities in addition to the lower level work. Only senior level architects could access the mouth-salivating enterprises—million-dollar projects limited to only those who were partners, unless, of course, your name was Kenji Tanaka. He was allowed nowhere near such monumental work.

  Again, Deena scowled at the database. Though the icon next to her name still clearly indicated she was a senior level exec, dozens of better projects were grayed out and unavailable, leaving her only with her pile of homes or another.

  She picked up her desk phone and punched in Daichi’s direct line.

  “Deena, do as you’re told. We’ll talk later.” He hung up the phone, and she hurled it at the wall.

  Deena left work soon after, stoking fury in a flurry of curse words that hardly helped the situation, driving at top speed. She knew why she wanted to be an architect and didn’t need some self-righteous old man reminding her. What was it to him if she built one thing or another, so long as it didn’t hurt his bottom line? Wasn’t that all he cared about, anyway?

  Deena slowed. She knew that not to be true. Daichi Tanaka had offered her the first job she ever had, with the bonus of it being both close to home and more prestigious than any she rightly hoped for. Had he not, she never would’ve come back to Miami, or within a hundred miles of the family she despised. Hadn’t it always been her hope to meet someone in college, or later, marry them, and draw a straight line from Miami to the point furthest but still within the United States? There was the place she’d intended to move.

  But then she met Tak, Daichi’s son, without her knowing it. Boy, had he stirred something in her—something dead, dying; perhaps never existing without him. And now, she had more than a poor black girl with a dead father and murdering mother could rightly deserve. She had everything.

  Because of Daichi Tanaka.

  Deena had another revelation shortly after that. Much of the Tanaka firm’s policies and overall code of conduct were adopted from The American Institute of Architects’ Code of Ethics and Professional Conduct. How much of it had she violated? There was a clause about obligation to disclose conflict of interest to the client, another about candor and truthfulness, a third about upholding human rights in all designs. Violation of these tenets could result in harsh disciplinary action. She could’ve lost her license for the price of retribution. Her father-in-law had known that all along.

  Deena returned to work early the next day and set about designing the first of a series of houses. She pulled down books that, no doubt, had newer editions, and read over philosophies she’d long since dismissed. She compared them to that of her dead idol, Frank Lloyd Wright, called her “dead” version because Tak insisted Daichi the living one. Passion stirred in Deena once again. How was it that everyone didn’t see the necessity of harmony with humanity and nature in architecture? It seemed so plain. And yet, it was only then that Deena realized how far she’d flung herself from long cherished ideals when she sought to deprive her mother of these very things.

&n
bsp; Deena sketched concepts by hand, researched the latest in cost-effective, energy-effective architecture, and implemented them in every single design. For weeks she worked, careful not to bring her projects home, no matter how much she longed to, but rising early to address the first of the many loves she now had.

  A month and a half was her usual design time for a small-scale house; she was able to do the first in a month. After submission upstairs and then onward for client approval, Deena was called up to Daichi’s office.

  “Very nice,” he said. “Your design just passed my desk. Usonian?”

  Deena shrugged. “I guess.”

  She closed the door behind her, uncertain of why she felt embarrassed.

  “One of the mainstays of the Usonian design is the emphasis on the main living area. Large enough to encourage congregation of the family in a central location.”

  Deena blushed, but said nothing.

  “Did you enjoy your time off?” Daichi said.

  She nodded head down.

  “Good. I’m leaving for Sydney in a week. I’d like for you to join me.”

  “Are you serious?” she cried.

  Daichi raised a hand. “You’re only there in an advisory capacity. Two weeks and you return. I expect to be there for a month.”

  Deena squealed. Sydney. Two weeks. Another Tanaka firm that she would have a hand in opening. If only her father could see her now.

  She only hoped that Tak would be as overjoyed.

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  For weeks, Kenji’s best friends had been e-mailing, text messaging, and social networking him to death about the upcoming Comic Con festival in Tampa. Through four years of high school as teammates, Kenji and Brandon Sweets had made attendance at the annual comic book festival a priority. When they got to the University of Miami and found like souls in Zachariah Palmer and Cody Holmes, they bonded just as swiftly as the moment college roommates George Charles and William Webber woke with a sudden fluency in Swahili in the graphic novel Prelude. Two friends became four in the transition from high school to college, with Kenji’s group swelling to include Brandon’s roommate, Zachariah, who they introduced to graphic novels, and Kenji’s roommate, Cody, who was already acquainted. As athletes only roomed with athletes, all four were already members of the baseball team.

  Before Lizzie, Kenji spent most of his free time with his favorite teammates. Now that he had her—though he felt certain he didn’t even know what “having her” meant—he saw them less and less. Brandon, his oldest friend, had taken to complaining first.

  And now Comic Con had arrived and suddenly Kenji was too busy even for that. Better still, he couldn’t explain why.

  It was one of those weird things, where two people seemed to be together, yet no one had the gall to utter it. Thinking of her with another pained him, yet he knew he couldn’t truly claim her for himself. Still, it didn’t stop him from wanting. In his waking hours, it was as it was in his dreams, when a large and loud man shrouded in shadows laughed at the thought of a prostitute being anything other than a prostitute.

  Kenji scolded himself for allowing his mind to drift once again. He returned his thoughts to Comic Con. After all, the guys were pissed that he’d bailed at the last minute, indicating he couldn’t go only once he realized they expected him to. And now, as he sped from office down the interstate, bursting with an idea, he realized he’d created a false dichotomy: go with the guys or don’t go at all.

  He made four phone calls. The first to the ABC Costume shop downtown. Second, to a hotel. Third, to Brandon, whose attitude laxed only when Kenji promised to meet up with them in Tampa. The fourth was to Lizzie.

  Why shyness seized him so suddenly he’d never know. But by the time she picked up on the third ring, he was ready to call the whole thing off. With a burst of faux nerves, Kenji took a deep, unsettled breath and told her to pack a pair of weekend bags for both of them.

  “But why?” Lizzie said. “Is something wrong?” Panic. “Is someone hurt?”

  “No, it’s—well, there’s something I do every year. Usually with a couple of the guys I went to UM with. I just—thought you’d be game and want to get out of the house and, you know, all that. But it’s kinda lame, goofy as far as stuff goes.”

  “Well, what is it?”

  Kenji swerved to avoid a merging car and nearly missed his exit in the process.

  “Comic Con. It’s a comic book convention in Tampa. You go dressed up as your favorite superhero, and there are all these comic book and sci-fi legends there signing autographs. The big guys show up and unveil stuff that isn’t even on the market yet. Dealers sell vintage Marvel Comics, DC Comics, everything. Network execs premiere prime-time pilots and ask for audience opinion. There’s really nothing like it. Three years ago, my friend Sweets snagged a rare copy of The Eagle once.” When she met him with silence, he added. “It’s an old British comic.”

  Lizzie paused.

  “I’m sorry, did you say ‘dress up’?”

  Kenji blushed. “Last year I was the Joker.”

  “Everybody goes out in broad daylight dressed up?”

  Kenji scowled. If she had a mind to laugh, he wished she’d just get it over with.

  “Yes.”

  Lizzie giggled.

  “I dunno, Kenj. Sounds kinda . . . corny.”

  “Yeah. Well, it is,” he snapped. “And immature and a bunch of other stuff I don’t wanna say. But, I like it anyway. And I thought maybe that you . . .” He took a deep breath. “Never mind.”

  “Are you mad at me?” Lizzie said.

  He was mad at himself. For assuming she’d want to do something so dumb. For making all those plans—

  “I think it’d be nice to dress up,” Lizzie said softly. “Pretend I’m someone else.”

  “Pack,” Kenji said. “I’ll be there in a minute.”

  He was there in fifteen. True to their agreement, she was ready; two hardback and hastily packed suitcases full of necessities were propped at the door. Kenji grabbed both and headed back down the elevator. The drive to Tampa took a full five hours from the beach and already it was 5 o’clock rush hour. Briefly, he cursed himself for not booking flights.

  They crawled along the interstate. Why she wanted the top down on the Audi while parked amidst the smog of the city he’d never understand. Fingers drumming the dash, Wild Boyz on repeat, then Thrice Jacobs, an indie rock group that made Lizzie complain. How she preferred the whining of R&B to that, he couldn’t figure. Still, he’d make time for it, as he’d done the other night, when she’d asked him to dance.

  By Tampa, Kenji’s eyelids drooped, while Lizzie still looked sunny and fresh, probably on account of sleeping from Naples north. They checked into the Hyatt Airport and headed for the top floor. And, of course, Murphy’s Law dictated that he could no longer sleep.

  There were two beds. Lizzie sat gingerly on the edge of one, ruby fingernails running along the stitches of a plush white blanket.

  Kenji, who’d collapsed atop the bed while still wearing his canvas Ralph Lauren lace-ups, blinked at her wearily.

  “You don’t know what you want,” Lizzie said softly.

  There was no need of an explanation.

  “And you do?” Kenji said.

  She dropped her gaze.

  “I don’t . . . like to want things. It’s better not to hope and hurt.” She stole a look at him. Kenji rolled onto his back and sighed.

  “Did you bring your GED books with you?”

  She recoiled.

  “No.”

  “Well, you should have.”

  He was met with silence.

  “You don’t have to treat me this way,” Lizzie said suddenly. “I’m going to pay you back for everything you’ve done for me.”

  Kenji lifted his head.

  “What?”

  “The place to stay, the food, the help with schoolwork. I’ll repay you. You don’t have to treat me like a child you’ve gotten stuck with.”

  K
enji rolled his eyes.

  “Okay, now you’re just being dramatic.”

  “I am not!”

  “You’re yelling,” he pointed out.

  “Because you’re pissing me off.”

  “I’m just trying to get some sleep. You already got yours,” Kenji said.

  “Fine. Get your fucking sleep.”

  She chucked a pillow at his head. Kenji knocked it to the floor and turned on his side, so that his back faced her.

  Too angry to sleep, he lay there, jaw clenched until the soft sound of sobs chastised him.

  He was being a fool.

  Even with the knowledge of that, he couldn’t go to her; something prevented him. But whatever it was, Kenji knew it wasn’t his heart.

  Lizzie hated being treated like a child. Or worse: like a patient. Where Snow had been her cancer, Kenji had designated himself her chemo.

  He fed her, clothed her, and helped her with schoolwork, careful to retrace their boundaries in thick chalk. Originally, for a moment, she had thought she repulsed him. But at least that was a real emotion. This, she knew, was far worse. She was his patient, and all that she clung to was but a mistake for him, a brief lapse in judgment. It wasn’t passion for her that he felt, but pity, responsibility, she now realized. Their relationship was as sterilized as she was stupid.

  Meaning completely.

  “Kenji?” Lizzie said, her voice but a quiver.

  He snored in response.

  CHAPTER FIFITY-THREE

  Kenji and Lizzie rose early enough for breakfast and dressed in their costumes. For Lizzie, it was her first time in one, since Grandpa Eddie, and, by proxy, Grandma Emma, believed Halloween was of the devil. But when Lizzie unraveled the stretch of black leather and a blonde wig slumped to the floor, she looked on in confusion. However, since Kenji had awakened complaining about missing the Preview Night and pre-kickoff festivities, she wasn’t about to delay him any longer by questioning him about the getup.