Crimson Footprints II: New Beginnings (8 page)

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Tak opened the front door wide enough to let Deena and the children in. Tony eked past, head lowered, not having uttered a word since the revelation of his thievery.

“Get back here,” Tak said.

“Tak, maybe you should calm down before—”

He shot Deena a single, acrimonious look and her mouth clamped shut.

Tony, halfway down the hall and toward the safety of his room, stood with his back to Tak, waiting.

“I’m pretty sure I told you to get back here.”

With a dramatic sigh, Tony returned to the middle of the hall, technically listening to Tak but managed to stay safely out of arm’s reach.

“You’re gonna find that I don’t have a lot of patience for nonsense,” Tak said. “The way this works is that I’m the adult and you’re the child, meaning I tell you what to do, and you do it. Got it?”

“Yeah, I got it.”

“Good. Now tell me why you stole a spoon when we have plenty in the house.”

Tony’s eyes remained on the floor. “But, I didn’t even—”

“Room. Now,” Tak spat.

He watched his nephew slump away, lips thinned to nothing in anger.

“Tak—”

He started for the kitchen, convinced that he didn’t want to hear a thing from Deena.

She followed him.

“Tak—”

He opened cabinets and slammed them until he found the Wheaties he needed. Another handful of cabinets later and he had a porcelain bowl in one hand, a silver spoon in the other.

A spoon.

It occurred to him that they knew nothing about this kid, family or otherwise. Only that he was the son of a confessed murderer, and to his own credit, a thief. In Tak’s overzealous effort to make his wife happy, he’d neglected to consider reality.

Gingerly, Deena placed a hand on his arm. Tak glanced at her, fully intent on railing about the slack hand she had with Tony and the excuses she’d made from Disney to doorstep, but the look on her face stopped him. He knew it well, had seen it often back when Lizzie would go missing and they’d have to go searching. Back then, she looked half hopeful, mostly fearful, and wholly convinced that he’d get some sense and get the hell away.

As if he ever could.

Tak set his cereal aside and embraced her with a weighty exhale. She held him—clung to him, and they stood that way for a long time.

Four hours of ESPN highlights later, Tak peeked into Tony’s room. He found the kid on top of a made bed, fully dressed, including the new Jordans he got so excited about. The moment he’d shown interest in them, Deena insisted that he have not one pair, but three. As Tak took inventory of the new console, sneakers, video games, sports equipment, and clothes, their error was made plain.

In an eagerness to earn his love, Tak and Deena had been unwise in an obvious way. Jordans, video games, the basketball hoop getting installed on Monday—what was it all for? It would bring them no closer to knowing him, or understanding.

Tak stepped into the room and leaned against beadboard wood paneling. Before Tony, the room had been fluffed and preened for guests. It still bore the distinct mark of impersonal hotel accommodations. They would have to do something different.

“You haven’t eaten today,” Tak said. “You’ll worry Deena if you don’t.”

Tony met his gaze evenly. “Most everything still has the tags on it. I was careful not to mess your stuff up. I’ll—be outta your way by morning.”

Tak crossed the room, but Tony sat up quick, scrambling back like a spider—tense, guarded.

Tak froze.
Jesus,
he thought,
what has this kid been through?

He held out a hand to him.

“I’m just going to sit down, okay? Just . . .” he gestured to the portion of mattress furthest from Tony, “just here.”

Only when Tony nodded did he ease down onto it.

Tak waited, judging words and turning them over, conscious of the unfamiliar realm he sought to conquer. He thought back to Tony’s comment and decided to start there.

“Tell me, kiddo, is that how things worked at the foster homes? Someone takes care of you a little while, you screw up and get shipped out?”

Tony glared at him, as if seeking to suddenly intimidate by sheer determination alone. Apparently he’d already forgotten the way he’d scrambled like a hunted animal.

“Nobody gets rid of me,” he said. “I’m no trash recycled from one family to the next.
I
go when I’ve decided I’ve had enough.
I
go when it’s time for me to move on.” He jutted a thumb at his chest proudly. “I take care of myself just fine.”

Slight, hair blooming, ponytail like a peacock’s fan, Tony dared him to contradict, to insist that he needed others.

Tak’s lips curled ruefully. “First truth you’ve told all day,” he said.

Tony smiled reluctantly. He was tough. Tough as his father, it seemed.

“I’m gonna tell you something,” Tak said. “And it’s something you can’t figure by looking at our house, clothes, or boat in the backyard.”

Tony raised a brow in skepticism.

“We argue sometimes,” Tak said. “We get angry, say stuff we don’t mean, make mistakes. But you know what?”

Tony shook his head

“There’s only one thing around here that isn’t okay, and that’s giving up on ourselves and each other. You do something wrong, you work to make it right. Especially when it comes to family. What you don’t do is walk out. You don’t ever walk out on your family, you got it?”

Tony lowered his gaze and said nothing.

“Now listen to me,” Tak said. “You’re eleven. Halfway to being a man.”

Tony sat up straighter with the admission.

“And what a man would do is make this right,” Tak said.

“But how?” he whispered. “We got kicked out of the park and everything! Mia kept crying. And Deena, too.”

“You begin by apologizing to your aunt and cousin. Then you wash up for dinner, sit down, and eat everything she puts in front of you. And you compliment it constantly.”

Tony smiled despite himself. “I don’t think—”

“I mean it. I’m teaching you about women here, too, so you need to listen. She’s making salmon tonight, which doesn’t taste that good. But you’re gonna act like it’s a mountain of Snickers on Easter Sunday. Got it?”

Tony giggled. “Yeah. I got it.”

“And afterward, you’re going to clear the table and load the dishwasher. While you’re working, you don’t want or need Deena’s help. And when that’s done, you’re going to read Mia all the stories she wants to hear, enthusiastically. You okay with reading?”

“Yeah,” Tony sulked. “I read baby books okay.”

“Good. Then you’re going to read to your baby cousin until it’s time for bed. You then shower and tuck it at the same time. Not a peep of complaint. Tomorrow, you get up and write a letter of apology to the Disney company and ask your aunt to mail it. And it’s your own idea, not mine.”

“All that for a spoon?” Tony cried.

“You prefer jail?”

“No.”

“Good. Then go clean up. Dinner’ll be ready soon.”

C
HAPTER NINETEEN

Tony stood before the man with tiny square eyeglasses and blinked when he blinked, unable to help himself. For reasons beyond him, the man squinted and peered as if he’d never seen a boy before, despite his school being full of them. Briefly, Tony wondered if it was the hair, and regretted rejecting Deena’s offer to braid it the night before. 

“Edinburgh Academy, as I’m sure your uncle has told you, offers a rigorous liberal arts curriculum and a small yet distinguished faculty. You will find more foreign language courses here than in any private school outside of New York. Students begin laboratory sciences as early as fifth grade, and by the time they’re ready for upper-level courses, why, the selection is substantial.”

He sounded like a butler to Tony. A butler in a big white house, maybe the White House. It occurred to Tony then that he now lived in a big white house.

“So tell me, young Mr. Hammond, how does robotics sound to you?”

Tony looked from the man to Tak. Certainly, they meant to teach him more than how to use remote control toys?

“Sounds okay,” he murmured when they both seemed intent on hearing his answer.

Butler Jeeves smiled. His cheeks were massive and red, giving the appearance that they’d been scrubbed to swelling. Jeeves came around his desk and sat on the edge. In his hand was a slim manila envelope.

“I see you’re from Bismarck.” He flipped a page. “And a few other places.”

Jeeves scanned the contents, flipped forward, then back, before finally settling on a scowl.

“There’s a gap here. Three months, in fact. Is another file coming?”

Tak and Tony exchanged a look.

“There is no other file,” Tak said. “He was out of school that long.”

Jeeves’s scowl look set to scar. “Illness?” he guessed.

Tak shifted in his seat. “No. He, uh, stopped going. And lived on the streets for a few months.”

Jeeves tossed the file on his desk, papers scattering and floating to the floor. He hardly seemed grieved by the mess.

“Edinburgh Academy is known for its excellence, Mr.—”

“Tanaka,” Tak supplied.

“Mr.
Tanaka.
We offer courses in biomedical sciences, engineering, architecture, and law. Our students go on to Ivy League schools regularly.”

“Yes, I know. My daughter’s here,” Tak said.

He looked around, as if searching for the help Tony knew wouldn’t come. In fact, Tony knew it didn’t even exist.

“He’s had a rough start,” Tak said.

“This is not an alternative education program.”

“Yeah, sure. What were those subjects you specialize in again?”

“We offer biomedical sciences, law—”

“And architecture, right?”

“Our architecture program is the most innovative—”

“Hall, please.”

Tak leaped from his seat and out of the dean’s office, leaving Jeeves to stare after. The old man glanced at Tony briefly, declaring with his eyes that this was most irregular.

Most irregular.

Hadn’t he heard a Jeeves say that on TV once? White gloves, polished silver, back perched like a telephone poll
. “This is most irregular!”
He hoped to use that one out loud one day.

Jeeves slipped outside. Tony sat in the chair facing his desk, black leather and high backed, as he stared at the paintings. The stuff on the wall was Cubism, like Pablo Picasso. He’d seen it once in a crumpled
Design & Style
magazine at Dr. Wayneworth’s office in Bismarck. There’d been few times in his life he’d had cause to see a doctor, and because of that, he wasn’t apt to forget any of them.

Tak and the dean returned.

“Anthony? Mrs. Henderson, down the hall will work with you in designing your schedule. Your father tells me you’re ready to begin.”

“Father?” Was that what the hell he was? He wasn’t calling him that.

“Let’s get moving, Tony,” Tak said evenly.

“Now?”

“Yeah, buddy.
Now.
We talked about starting today, remember?”

Tak clapped him on the back, like a friend. Tony had had grown-ups for friends before. Friends who thought him only good for the state money that came attached or for their own gross satisfaction. But he’d never let one of
them
get the better of him.

Yeah. He’d had grown-ups as friends before.

Shiny.

Tony’s first impression of Edinburgh Academy had conjured a single word, and that had been it. As he stood in the hall, recalling gold letters embossed against red brick at the front, he figured the moniker alone must’ve been spit polished each day. Inside was no different. The floors were a dazzling bronze, the walls a deep wood. Centered in the main hall were trophy cases stuffed with rich kids’ awards, accolades for robotics, chess, golf, debate. Somehow, he couldn’t fathom where a kid who’d gratefully eaten half a Big Mac out of a Dumpster would fit in.

“How about I come with you?” Tak suggested.

What did he think? After a few square meals, a handful of clothes, and a bit of fatherly advice, he was suddenly a man Tony couldn’t do without? Had he realized how long he’d survived on wit alone, on sheer grit alone, when wind and ice and hunger were the only realities in abundance?

“I don’t need you,” Tony said.

He waited for the burst of anger, righteousness, of outrage at the very least. But nothing came. So Tony rose slowly, certain of nothing except his own uncertainty.

“I’ll be there in a sec,” Tak said as he headed for the door.

Tony shot him a look of impatience. Hadn’t he said him he could manage? Hadn’t he proved as much? Try as he might, he couldn’t affix a stamp to Takumi Tanaka. Time, Tony supposed, would help him with that. Tony plucked open the door and slipped out, but not before overhearing the dean.

“Mr. Tanaka, how soon before your father can address the student body?”

He slammed the door on Tak’s response.

Tony’s new shoes squeaked with each step he took. Jordans. Vintage limited edition. Still, he couldn’t believe it. Bobby and the other guys back at the Bismarck group home would’ve never thought it possible, either. He knew the advice they’d give him; it was the advice he pressed himself to take: “Self before else.” In a house with more rooms than he had years on the planet, there was but one thing to do. Grab all the cash he could, all the valuables he could manage, and work over the Tanakas before the opportunity dissipated
.
He’d drifted in on a fairy tale, believing food and a better family would somehow make him less of a liar or a thief. Hadn’t he committed himself to the notion that there would be no more reasons to lie once he found the things he needed most? But of course, there were reasons to lie, reasons to cheat, to steal. And always, he could count on himself to find them. What else from the son of a drug-dealing murderer and an addict? What else but deviance?

Tony threw open the door to Enrollment Services. An ancient woman shot up from her seat like a rocket, white haired and trembling, tight-mouthed in her outrage.

“Exit and enter properly!” she shrieked.

Tony inched out, knocked, eyes frozen midroll as he waited for her invitation. When it came, he stepped inside.

“Here, at Edinburgh Academy, there is excellence in all that we do!” she drawled. 

Tony blinked. More startling than the haughty English accent was the Little House on the Prairie blouse she insisted on wearing, buttoned up as if to check her turkey-gobble neck. He imagined her as a pod for an alien of some sort, with angry popping eyes and skin like crepe paper. Should her shirt ever have occasion to tear open, something monstrous would surely spring forth. 

“Anthony Hammond?” she shrilled.

“Tony Hammond. I—”

“
Anthony
Hammond,” she corrected as if she’d known him longer than he had. “Now take a seat. I am Edith Eberdine Mueller, head of enrollment.”

She pointed a crooked finger at an old man’s leather chair, and he dropped into it. Without preamble, a glossy blue book was dropped on the desk just before him. A handful of smiling kids, all white and locked arm to arm, stood before Edinburgh Academy.

“You’ll find course descriptions for the sixth-grade offerings on page forty-two.” She flipped to the appropriate pages as if she could hardly be bothered to wait for him. “While math, literature—”

She pistoned off “literature” with an emphasis on each syllable, making Tony giggle until one hot look straightened him out. Mueller cleared her throat.

“Math, lit-tra-chure, general science, English, and geography are
required
. In addition, you have a choice of two electives.”

Tak slipped in without knocking. Tony sat up straighter, eager for the Mueller rebuttal, but scowled when none came. 

“Mr. Tanaka, so glad you could join us. Please, have a seat.”

He lowered himself into the chair next to Tony.

“See anything good?”

Tony shrugged. “Not really.”

Tak took the brochure from him. He ran a finger down the print, frowning as he read. “There’s lots of great stuff here, Tony.”

“Like what?”

“There’s art, music—”

“I don’t know how to play anything.”

“Well, they teach you. That’s the whole point of school.”

Tony lowered his head. “I don’t want to look dumb.”

Tak snorted. “As if they could. Bismarck to Miami? I guarantee you the dean couldn’t pull that one off.”

Mrs. Mueller stood up straighter, eyes widening at the jab. But Tony grinned. Maybe this Tak guy was decent after all.

“You could take up the drums,” Tak said. “I could help. I’ve got a pair at home that’ve been catching dust for a while.”

“You play drums?” Tony heard the wonder in his voice and immediately regretted it. Being impressed with a person put you at a distinct disadvantage.

“Sure,” Tak said. “Drums. Keyboard. Guitar’s my baby, though. So, how about we get you on one? Music’s a balm for the soul, you know.”

Tony looked at the floor. He’d never heard that before. Probably because the closest he’d ever come to a music lesson was Mrs. Peabody’s kindergarten sing-alongs in Louisville.  

“Drums sound pretty cool,” he said softly.

Tak beamed. “So, music and what else?”

Mueller cleared her throat. “If I may, I’d like to suggest a start on upper-level coursework. Advanced mathematics or—”

“Art,” Tony said.

“Art,” Tak sat back as if done.

“Sir, it might be advantageous, if I may, if you’d allow me to—”

“You may not,” Tak said evenly. “He picked art and music. Now print out his schedule. He’s eager to start.”

Tony shot him a look. He was, of course, not eager to start—but admired the old guy’s panache in setting Mueller straight. 

At eleven fifteen, Tony received a printout of his schedule. According to it, he was supposed to be in literature, second floor, Room 238. So, he slumped out of Enrollment Services, climbed the gilded staircase, and tapped on the appropriate door.

A man answered, which was his first surprise. He had dry, curly hair, his second. Though he’d never actually seen a live reference, Tony suddenly knew what people meant by Jew-fro. He touched his own hair, wondering if he had a Jew-fro too. After all, the texture between his hair and the lit-tra-chure teacher’s wasn’t all that different, both wild and full of volume. But was having a Jew-fro predicated on being Jewish? He couldn’t be sure. It irked him not to know.

The teacher before him had a widow’s peak, sunburned scalp, and a big mouth of a smile. He stuck a hand out and hesitantly, Tony shook it. When a few from the class snickered, he realized the teacher expected his schedule. 

“Anthony Hammond?” he confirmed.

Tony nodded.

“Excellent. Introduce yourself to the class.”

Tony sighed. Fourteen schools and this part never got easier.

He stepped into the classroom, moved close to the dark wood desk up front, and opened his mouth. What came out sounded like a croak. He tried again.

“I’m Anthony Hammond from Bismarck, North Dakota.”

“And what brings you to Miami, Mr. Hammond?”

Reflex.

“My dad got a new job,” he said.

“Wonderful!” he exclaimed. “And what does your father do?”

Jesus, he should’ve said mom. What the hell did Tak do? Nothing so far as he could tell.

“He’s an architect. Real important, you know.”

In having made lying a pastime, Tony knew that deviating little from the truth helped hold it together.

“Wonderful,” the lit-tra-chure teacher said. “You may find that you have much in common with Brian Swallows. His grandmother is an architect, too.” He cast an indulgent smile on a pasty pale boy in a sweater vest and button-up, blond hair separated down the middle by a severe part.