“Sit down. You ain’t eatin’ no cereal. I’ll get to breakfast.”
Tony took her in, a hand on the back of a dining-room chair. She wasn’t all that tall really, not more than average height, with big grandma tits that sagged. Thick black brows made a “V” of scorn, her mouth a little “O” of meanness. She reminded him of the lunch ladies at the group home, mealy mouthed but cruel, telling him to eat but slapping his hand when he took too much.
A yawn from behind made Tony jump.
“How’d you get in here?” Tak demanded easily.
“Don’t worry ’bout how I got here! I got here one goddamned step at a time, that’s how.”
Tak burst into laughter and rounded the dining-room table into the kitchen, where he wrapped arms around the old lady, even as she pretended to bat him away.
“You crazy ol’ tomcat,” she said. “Get away from me, is what you oughtta do.” Even as she said it, she laughed, obviously enamored with his attention.
“Sit down,” she commanded, “so I can get this breakfast going. Half the thangs in that fridge look crazy, but I’ll do the best I can.”
Tak grabbed a chair next to Tony.
“This is gonna be great,” Tak said. “Wait till you see how she cooks. All the old stuff, eggs, bacon, possum—”
“Possum!” Tony cried.
“Boy, get away from round here telling lies! I ain’t never fed you no possum!”
“Dad though,” Tak said.
“Yo’ daddy a surly man. He needed some to humble him.”
Tak laughed.
“They go back and forth with this bizarre foods thing they do. Trying to figure out who’s the toughest. Only rule is, it has to be from your culture.”
“Possums from her culture?” Tony cried in disbelief.
Skillet in hand, Grandma Emma turned a hard look on Tony, who shrunk instinctively.
“It’s part of your culture, boy, and don’t you forget it.”
And as the old woman cooked, she shared the story of necessity, of slaves who made do with what they had—discarded portions of meat and vegetables, and game like possum, squirrel, and raccoon for survival.
What she put before them for breakfast was a spread more magnificent than any Tony thought possible. Giant pieces of fried catfish, fat and sweating sausages cooked so they split down the middle, salmon croquettes, cheese grits, hoecakes, and biscuits with gravy.
“Is it always so much?” Tony said.
“Try everything and see what you like. Old Tak here like everything so no matter what you leave behind he’ll get to it ’fore the day out.”
Tak grinned, back curved with the eagerness of eating. He licked fingers, grease-laden fingers, and returned to the catfish.
Tony didn’t think he could eat with her staring so intently. Where was her plate?
“Eat,” she barked.
Tony picked up his spoon and tried the grits. Though there’d been no grits in Bismarck, he’d lived in Louisville and Tulsa, where there’d been no shortage. After adding butter, salt, and a sprinkle of cheddar, he found they were as good as he remembered. They ate in silence.
“Boy, I tell ya, it’s like holding a mirror up to yo’ daddy, you favors him so much.”
Tony sighed. He had but one picture of his dad, the one from the news clipping. It got him to thinking about how much he wanted to look like a murderer and drug dealer. Not much was the answer.
“Yeah, I know,” he said.
Again, she gave him the frank look. “Yo daddy was a handsome boy, just as you are. I ’spect the long face then is cause he disappoints you.”
Tak froze, fork to mouth. He looked from one to the other . . . waiting.
“I guess.”
“No sense in saying you ‘guess’ when you know,” she spat.
Tony tossed the fork.
“Jeez! You cook all this food, and then you won’t let me eat! I don’t know my dad! I’m never gonna know him! Okay?”
“Tony,” Tak warned.
But the old woman held up a hand. “Now ain’t nobody keeping that fork from your mouth but you. But maybe what you mean is that the conversation don’t agree with you. And that’s fine. But you gonna eat anyway since I went to the trouble of cooking.”
She waited, glaring at Tony till he picked up the fork again.
“Now you listen here,” she said. “Your parents is your parents. They makes you, but they not you. You decides who you gon’ be and what you gon’ be worth. Don’t matter what you look like. But a handsome face like yours helps.”
“Here, here,” Tak said and shoved catfish in his mouth.
“Though I worries ’cause good looks and money goes to some folks’ head.” She nodded indiscreetly toward Tak. “Just don’t let it go to yours.”
Tony grinned. “I’ll try.”
Just then, the sound of silverware clattering noisily to plate filled the room. Somehow, Tak had finished a meal made for two, possibly three. He looked innocently from Tony to Grandma Emma, before getting up in search of more.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
Deena settled in for a twenty-four hour flight with a single connection at LAX. Her father-in-law, seated next to her in subdued Armani grays, immediately took out his briefcase and retrieved his laptop and an assortment of papers. Deena looked down at her novel and blushed. She should’ve known better. On their flight to Shanghai, Daichi had scribbled and typed and scowled for most of the seventeen-hour flight. Later, he attributed it to an inability to sleep midair. Still, it made Deena ever conscious of her constant snoozing and leisure reading.
As usual, he was all business on departure. He declined the morning cocktail the stewardess offered and frowned at Deena’s choice of a Mimosa with her breakfast.
“When you’ve finished vacationing, I’ve something for you to look over,” Daichi said.
Even as she insisted she hadn’t a coherent thought before breakfast, Daichi pulled out a bound stack of sheets. He handed them to her.
Theorizing Architecture, by Daichi Tanaka.
Deena flipped to the table of contents.
“My thoughts on a variety of subjects. Aesthetics. Theory. Urbanism. Ecology. Reactions to varying philosophies. Even a philosophy of my own, I suppose.”
Deena gaped. A flip to the end showed better than six hundred pages.
“This is tremendous. I can’t imagine when you would’ve done it all.”
He shrugged—as if capable of being bashful.
“Years ago, when I worked without ceasing—I did a great deal of it. Afterward, I contributed to it when life permitted.”
“You’ll publish it,” Deena said. “And it’ll become standard text in every classroom in the country.”
“I’d like you to review it,” he said.
“You mean read it.”
“I’ve a fair command of the English language, Deena.”
She blushed. “I can’t imagine what I’d contribute.”
“You’ve contributed more than you know, already. Still, I’d like your input. Read it at your leisure.”
Breakfast arrived and with it, Deena’s Mimosa. She drank only a little before queasiness set in, causing her to send it back. For that much, at least, Daichi seemed pleased.
On arrival in Sydney, a driver transported them to the Four Seasons near Sydney Cove. After dinner at the hotel and some rest, they rose, still off-kilter from crossing the International Date Line, and took a trip to the temporary site for the new firm, a series of rented floors within a fifty-story bank in the central business district.
Anyone who traveled with Daichi soon found that every matter, no matter how small, was related to business. Dinner was taken with deans from the University of Melbourne, Sydney, lunch with prospects at competing firms. There were presentations at universities, talks of internships, and always, always, the offer of a visiting professor position or emeritus, should Daichi decide to retire.
They rose early, respecting neither time nor fatigue,
and worked till Deena’s back ached and her head pounded. Seven days at a stretch they went, and still unable to accept every invitation extended. Even with her daunting schedule, Deena made sure she spoke to Tak, Tony, and Mia each morning before she did anything else. Her seven A.M. phone call from Sydney translated into a five P.M. version back home. All talk was about Tony’s birthday and a Laser Tag party that Mia hadn’t been invited to. When Tak jumped on the line, it was to tell her about all the Spam dishes he’d made that no one else had wanted.
Deena was grateful for the trip’s end, despite her ambitions, so anxious was she to get back to her family. When the time came for her to return, Daichi surprised her by taking the flight with her.
“I’ll return in a few days,” was all he’d give for explanation.
Just as their departure from Miami had been early, the one from Sydney departed at six. On the return, Deena ordered a Mimosa with her breakfast.
“That’s not going to agree with you,” Daichi predicted.
Sure enough, two sips later, nausea caused her stomach to lurch in contempt. She sent it away.
“You’ve been doing quite a bit of that lately,” Daichi remarked.
Deena shrugged. “Australian food disagrees with me. While I’m glad to say that I’ve tried barramundi, I don’t think I’ll be revisiting that adventure again.”
“There were other things that disagreed with you, too,” Daichi said. “I shouldn’t think French fries too exotic for your palate.”
Deena scowled. But even as she did so, realization dawned. Vomiting she attributed to foreign food. Fatigue from jet lag. Backaches from standing. But there was one thing she couldn’t blame on Australia.
Her period was overdue.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
Grandma Emma was over at the stove, cooking again. And she said odd things when she dumped food before Tony, about needing black folk’s food. Was it true? Could a race of people need a particular kind of food? He would ask Tak when she left.
Before him was dinner. On that day, he’d already eaten enough food to shame him into contacting a homeless shelter and confessing—but that was the norm with Grandma Emma. She was a damned good cook, flavoring food so skillfully that he watered at the thought of it, anticipating the moment it would dance on his tongue.
Wendy came by. First on the pretext of returning a magic marker she said she’d mistakenly taken from his room. Grandma Emma forced her to eat, though she protested at the idea of eating fried food. After the first day, she came back three more times, for more fried food and to watch M*A*S*H with Tony and Grandma Emma. No one could make him admit it’d been fun.
Tony sat at the table with a mound of fried chicken, mashed potatoes and succulent gravy, country biscuits, and collard greens, all on a Wednesday evening. As usual, Grandma Emma sat at his elbow, inspecting his plate, demanding he eat more and fatten up.
“It’s good, ain’t it?” she demanded.
“Of course,” Tony said. He’d taken to smacking his lips like Tak when he ate her food. It came automatic.
Tak, who painted in the living room that evening because Deena wasn’t there, cast sidelong glances at Tony’s plate. He remained steadfast in his assertion that he would finish his work before eating.
“I needs to ask you something,” Grandma Emma said and stole a glance at Tak out the corner of her eye.
The hushed tone was so at odds with her usual bellow that Tony paused.
She leaned forward, arms on the table. “Why you tell these folks yo momma died in a car accident?”
Horror singed Tony. He turned to his plate with vigor.
“She did,” he mumbled.
“Regina Sanders ain’t die in no car accident! Regina Sanders—”
“I know how she died!”
Grandma Emma glanced over at Tak, and Tony’s gaze followed. He continued to paint.
“If you knows, why you ain’t tell the truth?”
Tony’s nostrils flared. “Cause she’s not my mother. She’s nothing. Only mother I knew—”
“Is your aunt Pam.”
Tony scowled.
“If you know so much,” he demanded, “why you didn’t know to come get me?”
Emma shrugged. “Anthony says you wasn’t his. Who was I to say different?”
Tony stabbed at his drumstick with a fork.
“My mother killed herself. You think I want somebody to know that? My dad killed people, and my mom killed herself. Who wants a kid like that?”
Grandma Emma snorted. “Let me tell you something. And I hope it shows you how far and how much in life you still got to learn.” She tilted her head toward Tak.
“You see that man over there? He’s a good man. Good as they come. He loves hard. Him and Deena.”
He believed her. Somehow, he believed her.
Tony found Tak the next afternoon on his feet and before the TV, scowling. His first thought was to come back later. He shook it off.
“Tak?”
Tak glanced up at him, the frown still etched on his face.
“Can I talk to you?” Tony said.
In old cartoons, little mischievous boys always dug a toe in the dirt when they were under scrutiny. There was no dirt here, only Deena’s ten thousand-dollar carpet that Tak had covered with tarp the day before. Tony dug his toe in that, instead.
Tak turned off the TV.
“Of course. What is it?”
“I told you a lie when I got here. About my mom.”
Tak waited.
“My real mom . . . didn’t die in a car accident. She killed herself after I was born. They said it was post partial or something. I don’t know what that means. But it was my aunt, Pam, that raised me till I was seven. She’s the one that died in the car accident.”
Tak looked thoughtful. “Why didn’t you tell us before?”
Tony shrugged. “My dad killed people, and my mom killed herself. I didn’t want you to think I was a nut job.”
Tak nodded as if conceding the point.
“I should be honest, too,” he said. “Since you gave me a secret, I should give you one.”
“You have a secret?”
“I always wanted a son,” Tak admitted. “But I didn’t think he’d be four feet tall when we met.”
Tony laughed, stupidly, a big guffaw that turned into a sob. He didn’t know how. When Tak embraced him, he returned the favor.
“I love you,” Tony said. “Is that okay?”
He couldn’t tell the rules anymore, or if there were any at all.
Tak squeezed. “Of course, kiddo. I love you, too.”
Was this what a father was? How a father made you feel? God help him, Tony couldn’t be without one again.
He looked up, sniffling. “Should I call you ‘dad’?”
“Only if you want.”
“And what about Deena?”
Tak shook his head. “No. She wouldn’t want to be called that.”
Tony grinned.
“You’re ridiculous.”
But he soon turned serious with the thought of calling Deena ‘mom.’ He’d never had a father before, didn’t know what they were like. But mothers—mothers left him. They killed themselves, died in cars, or changed their minds about being a mother altogether.
“I don’t think I could take another mom leaving me,” Tony said.
Tak hugged him again. “Neither one of us would ever willingly leave you. You’re our son. And you owe us money.”
Tony wrestled away from his embrace, declaring that he would never pay Tak, only to be tackled amid a fit of tickles that made him writhe and near pee. In the end, he agreed to pay.
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
When Lizzie woke, it was to the sight of a blackened room, silenced like a sinkhole at night. Next to her, Kenji slept with an arm across his eyes and a smile on his face, naked beneath the sheets.
Her heart pounded. It was the pound of a marathoner’s run to exertion, pain, collapse. Sweat prickled her face,
cool on clammy skin. She smacked chapped, stiffened, and fat lips as muscles yawned and creaked with the slightest of motions; though she supposed that could’ve been from so much sex with Kenji.
She looked back at him regretfully and stood.
It came all at once, a flood, an avalanche, a drowning so complete that even Kenji disappeared. She needed something. Something coursing through veins, ascending her up and out, showering her with pleasures so intense: so thrillingly intense that sight, sound, and touch magnified in a euphoric mania.
She couldn’t wait. There was too much time between that top-level condo and the streets of Overtown; she needed a fix, a buzz, a taste, a high—she’d die without it. Panic detonated and Lizzie shot like a rocket, out of the room and to the only place that promised relief.
She pitched into the bathroom with a fit, tore open the medicine cabinet and hurled Band-Aids, dental floss, cotton swabs, aftershave, rubbing alcohol, and various bottles over her shoulder. She dropped to her knees and dove into the under-sink cabinet swiping out great swaths of goods. And then she saw it. The tiniest bottle of Tylenol: unassuming in the shadows. She snatched it and stood, hurrying to unscrew the top.
Four.
Four goddamned pills.
He kept no alcohol in the house. No beer, no wine, no vodka, no alcohol.
Or so it seemed.
Lizzie lunged for the bottle of rubbing alcohol and was snatched midair. Kenji’s arm swept her in a single motion, heaving her out the door.
Lizzie howled as they struggled down the hall. She clawed at him, through him, for the fix she’d been promised. No matter how she struck, how she tore at his flesh, he held to her—firmer and stronger than she ever thought possible, muscles flexing as they moved from bathroom to bedroom, where he tossed her onto the bed.
Lizzie shrieked and bolted for him, talons bared, but he snatched her into in an embrace, blunting her blows.
He wouldn’t let her go this time as he bear-hugged her in a side shuffle back to the bed, arms so tightly bound that she could only snort and pant her fury.
They dropped onto the mattress together, her beneath him, straining and beating in vain.
“Forever,” Kenji blurted. “That’s how long I’ll hold on to you, if it means keeping you from hurting yourself. So you might as well calm down.”
Crimson Footprints II: New Beginnings Page 24
