Crimson Footprints II: New Beginnings (18 page)

Tak held out an expectant hand. “Phone.”

Tony sighed dejectedly, dug out his cell, and surrendered it.

“You now have tutoring Saturday mornings, too,” he said. “Until you feel more secure about your reading.”

Tony shot him a surprised look, but lowered it when Tak half-smiled at him.

Chapter Forty

Monday nights meant counseling. But for the rest of the week, Deena arrived early and worked well into the night. She called impromptu meetings with in-house engineers, designers and electricians, consultants who verified that her prison was functional if nothing else. When the hour grew late, Deena ventured upstairs to her father-in-law, the only other individual sure to be working. They discussed her letter to
Skyscrape,
Sydney, and even Jennifer Swallows’s subsequent threat to sue for battery.

“She’ll do nothing,” Daichi assured her. “Ms. Swallows is far too ambitious for something so alienating. Trust me, she’s as astute as she is old.”

Deena snickered.

“She also realizes that I could drop dead from overwork, leaving you at the helm of the firm. After all, no one expects me to actually leave Kenji in charge.”

He went back to shuffling papers.

And there it was. The confirmation she knew would come, yet she still found almost impossible to believe. One day, the largest, most prestigious architectural firm in the world would be hers. She thought back to the day she met Daichi for the first time, ambushing him in a snow-covered parking lot at MIT. Back then, she hadn’t thought herself worthy to ask for an internship. Now, she would one day inherit the place.  

Daichi shot his daughter-in-law a look of unadulterated impatience. “Please,” he said. “Try not to look so thrilled by the idea of my death.”

Deena giggled and clamped a hand over her mouth in shame. Soon, Daichi was laughing, too.

“You probably take this news to mean that you’ll get the nod on Sydney should we expand,” Daichi said.

Well, she had anticipated that he would want to move on expansion into Sydney and would possibly even reconsider Singapore, too. Over the years, Deena had contributed so much to the expansion process that she expected to work on opening markets in both cities. Looked forward to it, in fact. 

“You mention it, frequently. Sydney and Singapore. I’ll have you know that I aim to take your advice. We’ll expand into both territories within a year.”

Deena grinned. “That leads me to my next point,” she said.

“You’ll not be part of either,” Daichi said.

Deena froze.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that I plan on leaving you behind when I go to both places. You won’t be playing a role with either.”

“But I want to.”

“I’m aware of that.”

Tak.

“You’ve been talking to your son. He told you not to let me. He told you it’s been causing problems.”

“All I know I’ve learned by watching you. For two weeks you’ve come early and worked late, even when the reason for doing so wasn’t readily apparent.”

Deena opened her mouth to protest; however, her father-in-law held up a hand. “Long ago, I had a conversation with a young and ambitious woman who believed she could balance the roles of wife, mother, and architect. At the time, I was naïve enough to think it impossible. But she showed me otherwise.

“Go home,” he said. “And face whatever demons you hide from.”

Deena rose, her stare never wavering from Daichi. She turned and strode for the door.

“There’s one more thing,” he said quietly. “A reminder, I suppose. ‘Vengeance is mine, thus saith the Lord.’”

Deena turned in confusion. “What?”

“The passage. It’s from your religion, is it not?” Daichi rose and rounded his massive desk before leaning against it, studying her.

“I know what’s happening,” Daichi said. “Your hatred is malignant, eating away at you as a cancer, at what is both good and bad, leaving nothing but the vengeance it nurtures. You will not poison your soul with the help of my name, nor will you use my firm to exact a retribution certain to consume both donor and beneficiary alike.”

Deena’s gaze narrowed. “I’m a Tanaka,” she said. “And I can work on any project I choose.”

Daichi smiled. “Of course you can. But as I’m sure you’re aware, policy dictates that you disclose any conflict of interest the moment it’s apparent. Since you indicated none on your initial filing of intention with the firm, you’re now required to notify senior management the moment your conflict became apparent.”

He continued to smile, even as Deena’s lips parted in horror.

A full meeting, where she would be required to disclose her conflict of interest—her mother—confined in the prison she wished to design. She would need their approval before work could begin. She would need the approval of Daichi, of Jennifer Swallows.

“In the morning, you’ll contract another firm to complete the project. Then you’ll go on vacation. A week. No, two. And when you return, it’ll be with a renewed vigor for your first love—organic architecture.”

“You’re suspending me?” Deena cried. “For what?”

Daichi shrugged. “Technically, others may call it a breach of policy for failure to disclose. However, I prefer to call it saving my family. Go home, Deena. And come back in two weeks.”

C
HAPTER FORTY-ONE

Punishment for Tony lasted four days, with time off for good behavior. After he’d sulked the first night, he got a second book from Keplar at a cost of seventy-five dollars according to Tak, and spent two days copying the tight script of the two columns that comprised the front and back of the wayward page. There was also a picture with the sun and its planets, which Tak made him draw. When his punishment was over, he got back the much-missed video games and the phone. It was only then that Tony realized how quickly he’d grown accustomed to a better life. At the group home, there’d been no cell with downloadable games and an app to order pizza when Mrs. Jimenez cooked tripe or some other weird shit. And there’d definitely been no
Eternal: Art of War, NASCAR Legend,
or a host of basketball, football, and baseball games to tide him over. There’d been other kids, and that was about it. And of the dozen or so he’d come to know over the years, Tony missed not a one. Not a single goddamned one.

No sooner than did Tony peel the wrap off
Eternal: Art of War
, than did Tak tap on the door. He said he was just checking on him, but he’d checked on him in the same way when Tony got
NASCAR Legend, Medieval Summons, Agent Operative,
and the NBA half-court game with motion sensor detection.

Tak dug the second controller out of a drawer and took a seat next to Tony.

“It says that we’ll be in the same ‘legion.’ I don’t know what that is,” Tony said.

“It’s a military squad,” Tak said, adjusting the battery pack onto his handheld device. “I’ll be commander,” he added.

“No way! I’m commander.”

“Then I’m going rogue,” Tak said. “See you on the battlefield.”

Tony grinned. “Rogue? Well, bring it,
otosan.
”

It came out of its own accord. Tony blushed. How could he have been so stupid as to call his uncle his father? Sure, Tak spent loads of time with him, but he had no dad. The world knew that.

Tak’s mouth curled into a small, heartened smile.

“You’re gonna die on this battlefield, Tony Hammond. Repeatedly. So don’t try and sweeten me with your talk of
‘otosan.’
It’s too late to make me commander.”

Tak powered on the console. “And anyway, ‘dad’ works just fine.”

~*~

For Tony, there was no shaking Wendy. She rode home with him on the days promised and watched him play drums and thumb around on Tak’s guitar before plopping down at his desk and reading aloud her findings on the solar system. She would print out double copies of everything, giving him more work than even the crap he had before.

And the questions she asked. Caesar Augustus fucked that! Always in your brain, kicking around and being weird.
Tony, where’s your mom?

Dead.

Well, where’s your dad?

Dead.

Where’s your grandma?

Prison.

Where’s your grandfather?

Dead.

That’s terrible, Tony. No wonder you exhibit all the classic signs of abandonment. You’ve never had more than a shell of a family.

What kinda kid talked like that?

Tak thought her cute and every so often nudged Tony toward her for the sole purpose of unnerving him. And it worked.

On the day that Wendy read aloud their typed report, and Tony stood by her side, lamely holding a stationary model of the solar system, Tak expressed disappointment at her absence that evening. While Tony was relieved that her constant chatter, which he likened to a boat’s propeller—quick, slashing, and always going in circles—had ceased, he would admit only on threat of irreparable physical distress that he missed her a little, too. 

~*~

Home. Shower. Bed. Gaze upward at the ceiling, Deena thanked money and good fortune for the maid in her employ. They allowed her to slink in, in a funk of self-loathing, tuck the kids into bed, and return to her pity in peace.

Suspension. And she could do nothing. Even then, Deena bit her lip on outrage, tears stinging her eyes. How dare he interfere in her marriage, in her home life, in any of it—father-in-law or not!

Hadn’t she shown that she could balance work and home? Hadn’t she proven indispensable to both?

But even as she thought, a memory tugged at her pride. It was of Tak at the table, clearly abreast of the adoption proceedings, making her out to be the fool. She’d been angry at him, was still angry at him, for propping himself up by standing on her. True, she hadn’t remembered the documents they’d needed, but it was hardly an indication of neglect on her part. It was easy for Tak. He was home, could work at his leisure, or not work, she supposed. Either way, he knew the wealth would keep coming. But for her, being wife and architect, mother and corporate executive hardly came with built-in vacation time. It was only natural for Tak to pick up her slack.

Deena slipped into uneasy sleep with these thoughts on her mind, fists clenched at her side.

~*~

Darkness.

Darkness again.

Deena’s heart pounded in fright from the unnatural stillness. Nothing before her, nothing behind: just a void where things should’ve been. Even the baby had stopped crying. She could hear her heart beat, pounding in her ears. Her mother’s face slipped out from blackness.

“Run!”

Deena woke with a start.

The next night she dreamed of men—five of them, at the door for her father. No more, no less, just . . . men.

And yet she woke with a scream.

Three nights in a week Deena woke, sweat drenching her in a bath of fear. Twice Tak came to her side, and twice she pushed him away. On the third, however, he refused to move.

“What is this, Deena? What’s happening?” he demanded.

“I don’t know!” she shrieked. “I don’t know what’s happening!”

She grabbed fistfuls of her own wild hair and let out a traitorous sob, unable to mask the torment of frayed nerves and little sleep. Tak pulled her hands from her head.

“Dammit, Dee, talk to me. What’s happening when you sleep?”

She shook her head, overwhelmed in her search for the words. “Nightmares. Memories. I can’t even tell.”

He stared at her. “Would it help if you talked to someone? Someone who could give you something to sleep? Be a listening ear?”

But a doctor wasn’t the answer, so she shook her head before he could finish.

“I need answers, Tak. Answers a shrink doesn’t have.”

He stared at her. He knew. Already, he knew. “I’ll go with you,” he said.

She looked away. “I need to go alone.”

Tak opened his mouth, but shut it automatically. “If you need me,” he started again. “Scrap that, if you
want
me, I’m there for you. No matter what.”

Deena knelt before him and took his hands in hers. “I love you for that,” she said. “But I need to visit my mother alone.”

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

Quite a few years ago, Lizzie walked out of school for the last time. Poised to become a ninth grader for yet another go-around, she found a world of quick highs and fast cash more compelling than stumbling through Shakespeare and squinting at the kind of math that called for letters and numbers. She never thought of dropping out as quitting, but rather, getting on with the business of her life. Early on, her clientele consisted of boys with a crumpled fist of cash, willing to blow a week’s allowance on a quick rub off from her. Later, when the right people understood that she was, in fact, a whore, her customers expanded to include a portly gym teacher, an old janitor with piecemeal teeth, and a guidance counselor who’d initially approached her with a then-sincere wish to help her sort out her life. That conversation ended with Lizzie on her knees and an out-to-lunch sign on his door. A few weeks later, with a little encouragement from Snow, Lizzie realized the money she could make by forgoing her façade of an education and devoting herself to whoring twenty-four seven.

Lizzie squinted at the series of thick blue books lining the shelves of the bookstore. There was no deciphering one from the other.
GED Prep in 30 Days, Ace the GED, A Complete GED Study Guide.
She looked to Kenji for help.

He shrugged. “Get whichever. I don’t care.”

Lizzie turned back to the books, her gaze settling on
GED Prep in 30 Days
. It would be great to have her high school equivalency that fast. But how smart did she already have to be for that? She remembered a statewide assessment they had to take in the ninth grade. Results indicated that she read on a fourth-grade level. The shame of the moment colored her cheeks, still. Even after all he knew about her, Lizzie couldn’t bear Kenji finding out that she sounded out words and counted on her fingers.

“Never mind,” Lizzie said. “I don’t need anything.”

The smile slid from Kenji’s face. “What do you mean, ‘never mind’? It’s a high school diploma. You kinda need one.”

Lizzie had a memory. Some poem, some stupid, stupid poem about a raven—and her standing—standing and sounding out aloud.

Whore. Stupid whore. Sounding out like a dummy.

She’s a retard! You let a retard suck your dick! Hope you don’t catch it!

She’s best at sucking dick, Teach. Just leave her to her talents!

Lizzie choked on the memory.

“Liz?” Kenji said uncertainly.

He reached for her, but she couldn’t bear for him to touch her—not with those voices wreaking havoc in her head. Lizzie recoiled, choking on the memories, and took off. She blasted
through an old man on her way out of Barnes & Noble. Her lungs burst with the fill of outside air.

It appeared she would have time to calm herself. With a hand on the brick face of the bookstore, Lizzie scowled at the glass doors she’d nearly shattered. Where in the hell was Kenji? Why didn’t he come after her?

When Kenji pushed open the doors, he held a straining plastic bag in one hand as an old man sparked off wildly, arm flailing behind him. A squint revealed that he was the man Lizzie had shoved.

Kenji appeared at her side.

“I, uh, bought a couple of selections. And I apologized to your friend.” He shot a careful look back. “But I think we’d better go.”

He placed a hand at the small of her back and led her to the Audi. Lizzie glanced behind her, just once, and in time for the old man to flip her the middle finger.

~*~

Kenji didn’t know a thing about tutoring. As it turned out, exceptional grades were but one more Asian stereotype he didn’t adhere to. In high school, he was far more likely to be at baseball practice or Heroes & Villains, his favorite comic book store, than cracking the books on any day. And then there was always TV to consider. At any given time there were at least half a dozen new shows worthy of at least cursory attention. Cancellations, schedule shuffling, and firings meant constant changes in the prime time lineup, which he prided himself on keeping abreast of. It would’ve been nice to say that even after all that, school came next. But there were the latest hip-hop releases and friends to hang out with. Only once he’d exhausted all that did he turn to books.

In high school, Kenji had been a solid B student. To him, his grades proved not that he was some budding genius, but that school was some bullshit operation that most could eek by on with at least consistently minimal effort.

Which led him to Lizzie.

She’d asked him where to start. So, Kenji thumbed through the book atop a stack,
Ace the GED,
and
suggested
she begin with a few of the assessments. He plopped an alarm clock on the table to time her and left to put on a pot of coffee. Grinds in the filter, water in the machine, Kenji leaned against a solid granite counter and watched her watch the clock. She looked at it. And looked at it. And looked at it. Finally, Kenji marched around the counter and snatched the clock from sight.

“No clock,” he said. “Just . . . take your time, okay?”

Lizzie turned back to the book. Eyes wide, she inhaled so deeply her chest bloomed in response. How long she held it, he did not know.

“Breathe, Lizzie.”

Him, book, him, book, her gaze flitted back and forth. Finally,
finally
, she settled on the book.

“O-P-E-C, or the or—or—”

“It’s O PEC. The letter ‘o’ and then ‘pec’ altogether. Like a bird pecks.”

She looked up at him.

“It’s an abbreviation. See? O-P-E-C.”

She held up the book at him. Kenji took a seat. “Just trust me, okay? It’s O, and then PEC.”

Lizzie turned back to the book with a scowl. “OPEC,” she shot him a look. “OPEC, or the or—or—”

He leaned over. “Organization.”

“Right. Organization of puh—puh—pet—”

“Petroleum,” Kenji said.

Lizzie looked at him.

“They make gas from it.”

Lizzie leaned forward, faced pinched as if constipated. “OPEC or the or—organization of petroleum eh—ex—ex—puh—por—ting cuh—countries is a per—per—”

Lizzie sighed hopelessly.

“Hey, listen,” Kenji said, “it’s okay. How about this? I’ll write down every word we have trouble with. Then we’ll work on them one by one.”

It’s what I should’ve been doing, instead of fucking her. Helping the girl figure out how to read, how to be self-sufficient without selling her body. Not getting your fill.

Color drained from his cheeks.

“Maybe you and me can just hang out,” Lizzie said with a weak smile.

She placed a hand on his thigh and squeezed. It felt obscene. After all, somewhere in her passion for him had to be realities of which neither could avoid. She had to realize that it was he who fed, clothed, and provided a roof over her head. She had to realize that it was he that protected her from what she perceived as her only other option: Snow. And she had to be grateful for the stupid rescue mentality he’d taken on, whereby he whisked her from poverty and into rehab, and even now, taught her to read and write. How, then, was it that he could treat this as love, when a romance comprised free will and a willingness on both ends? He’d all but bribed her into loving him, it seemed.

“Liz, let’s focus on the schoolwork, okay?” He removed her hand from his lap.