Crimson Footprints

by Shewanda Pugh

  “What the hell is going on? There was a girl out here! Grandma said there was a girl—”

  “This is my friend,” Lizzie said.

  “Your friend?”

  Deena wondered where in the hell a fifteen-year-old girl met a dark and thickset old man with fish eyes, kinky facial hair and a pop-up belly. And better yet, what would make her call him friend.

  The man offered a corn yellow grin. “Baby, normally I don’t respond to shouting, but since you’re so pretty, I’ll do you a favor.” He extended a calloused hand. “The name’s Larry Wilshire.”

  Deena’s gaze narrowed. “Well, are you aware that fucking a fifteen-year-old is illegal, Larry Wilshire?”

  “Baby, they ain’t got a cell big enough to hold all the guys they’d round up behind your sister.”

  He laughed. And when he did, Lizzie joined him.

  “I—I’ll tell you what,” Deena said. “How about I have the authorities give you a call? They can start with you as far as I’m concerned.”

  “Woo woo, Deena’s getting some nerves,” Lizzie grinned.

  Deena rounded the fat Escalade, dug out her phone, and punched in the tag number.

  Larry joined her around back. “Listen, why don’t you take that phone, punch in my number, and make plans to go out with me.”

  His indifference was staggering. Unable to speak, Deena snatched her sister and dragged her indoors.

  “What the hell was that, Lizzie? What is he? Forty? Fifty?”

  Deena shoved Lizzie into her bedroom.

  “Girl, stop trippin’. I ain’t tryin’ to marry the dude. Just having a little fun.”

  The teen turned on her sister, arms folded. For the second time that day, Deena gawked at the hot pink baby tee with its spilling cleavage and the tiny shorts she’d coupled with it. Pink Converses and hoop earrings rounded out the ensemble.

  “Where in the hell did you get these clothes from anyway?” Deena grabbed the girl’s arm.

  “My friend bought them for me.” Lizzie snatched free of her grip.

  “Your friend, huh? And what did he tell you? That he loved you? That you were the only one for him?”

  Lizzie laughed. “Don’t be an idiot, Deena.”

  She went over to her vanity mirror, a polished white gift from Deena, and retrieved a pack of Juicy Fruit from it. She unwrapped a piece and stuck it in her mouth, before tossing aside the packet. Lizzie plopped down on her bed.

  “He told me that he’s got money. And that’s exactly what I want to hear.”

  Lizzie fluffed a pink pillow and stretched out on her back. Hands folded over her abdomen, she crossed her legs and bounced a foot midair.

  “Money? What do you need money for?”

  Lizzie shot her a look of impatience. “Same thing you need it for. Stuff. I see you got Gucci and Prada. I’m a get mine, too.”

  “These things are my reward for working hard,” Deena said. “Damned hard.”

  “Well, I work hard for mine, too.” Lizzie gave a secret smile. “Damned hard.”

  “And how do you do that? Cause I don’t see any job uniforms around here.”

  The teen grinned. “Girl, I’m wearing it.”

  Deena was nauseated. The room was suddenly too tight and bright, with all its hot pink and fuchsia, coral and salmon. How could a girl, a child with a Hello Kitty throw on her bed and a mammoth collection of teenybopper posters, talk like this?

  “I can’t do this,” Deena said. “I can’t listen to this.”

  Lizzie stared at her. “Look, the way I figure it, you’re gonna have sex anyway. So, you might as well get something for it.”

  Deena blinked back fresh tears. “Yeah. It’s called love. And it’s supposed to be reciprocal.”

  Lizzie shrugged. “Well, what you call ‘love’, I call clothes, purses and shoes. I want what I want and I do what I gotta do to get it. Deal with it.”

  WEATHER IN MIAMI rarely took dictation from a calendar on any wall, and this day was no exception. The air was thick and the heat smothering as ocean waves crashed and receded in a natural spring sonata. Sun and moon traded places in the sky as Tak and Deena walked, footprints trailing along wet sand.

  “God, you know what? I tell you everything,” Deena said. “And I have no idea why.”

  Tak shrugged. “Just one of those things. Like figuring out where we all came from, and what we’re doing here.”

  Deena’s eyes widened. “You kidding me? My family’s got that all figured out.”

  “And you? Have you got it all figured out?”

  She frowned. “No. It just seems to me that if you’ve already made up your mind then you can find evidence corroborating whatever it is you believe.”

  “So, what are you telling me? That you’re an atheist?”

  Her eyes widened. “It’s not God that I doubt, it’s people.”

  They continued to walk in silence.

  “And what about you?” she said.

  Tak sighed.

  “I’m sure you’ve heard of cafeteria Catholics,” he said.

  “Yeah?”

  “Well, I’m an ambivalent Buddhist. You know, it’s more about family ties than any clear and all-encompassing notion.”

  “You know what I wish?” she said suddenly.

  He shook his head.

  “I wish that I didn’t want my family’s love so bad. I wish I could be one of those people who wear leather jackets and don’t give a damn.”

  He shot her a look. “You’d be musty if you wore a leather jacket in this heat.”

  She grinned. “You know what I mean.”

  He shrugged. “Who doesn’t want a decent family, Dee? It’s not much to ask for.”

  He paused to pluck a seashell from the sand. Chipped and polished by time, it shone under the glint of a fast setting sun. “I don’t know the answers,” he said. “But they seem to be in things like this,” he held up the shell.

  She frowned. “I don’t follow.”

  He shrugged. “Well, think about it. What’s a shell? It’s just a—a hard, protective outer layer.” He turned it over in his hand. “The same is true with family. They’re an outer layer, a protection from the world. At least, that’s what they’re supposed to be.” He paused. “Think about what happens when you screw with an animal that has one of those hard shells. What does he do?”

  “He goes into it.”

  “Right. He retreats.” He thumbed the shell thoughtfully. “Now imagine if you were to rip the shell off a turtle and expose him. What do you think you’d find?”

  Deena cringed. “Something soft and hurting.

  “And dead, if not close to it. So, our hypothetical turtle, who’s able to stand our shell transplant, for the sake of comparison, needs another shell, another form of protection. And so do you.” Tak handed the grooved and sand-polished subject to Deena. She looked down at it.

  “So, how’ve I been surviving all this time? What’s my shell?”

  Tak grinned. “Tell you what. I’ll let you know when I crack it.”

  He plucked the shell from her hands and tossed it in the waters. They paused, while the ocean rushed their feet, saturating then receding.

  “Who the hell told you to take my shell?” Deena demanded. She would’ve sounded more credible if she could’ve kept from smiling.

  “Your shell? I’m the one who bent and plucked it. All you did was stand there with your hand out.”

  Deena giggled. And before she knew it, she’d shoved him. Never had she pushed someone before. But the feeling it gave her, watching him stumble just a tad, was enough to make her squeal. She darted off, hoping he would follow.

  He did.

  Through the sand they dashed, laughing as their footprints grew closer and closer before merging with her capture.

  WHEN DEENA WENT to work for Daichi Tanaka as an intern four years ago, she was shoved into a cubicle with the breadth and gloss of a sterilized broom closet. Her desk back then was a flimsy white contraption,
held steady by the half dozen texts she memorized as per Daichi Tanaka’s request.

  Of the twenty interns Daichi took on each year, Deena had been the first he’d ever offered employment. With the offer, Deena’s workspace moved from a broom closet cubicle to an office on the third floor. It had a single window, bare white walls and a drab gray carpet. But it was hers.

  Her desk as an intern and the one she had now had both been adorned with a single potted plant—a bonsai named Hope.

  Hope was a forgiving bloom, hacked in inexperience, frustration and anger. Ever lending a patient ear, she listened as Deena prattled on about her apprehensions and fears, and forgave her for skipped feedings and sunlight. Hope flourished no matter her treatment, almost as if aware of how much Deena needed her to.

  Deena’s reliance on Hope was beginning to wane. These days, she found it much more rewarding to seek out a certain guy with an easy smile and a tender touch when she wanted to talk. She hoped the bonsai didn’t mind.

  Despite the shimmering sunlight of an early spring day, Deena was behind her desk. Her workspace was a streamlined one because a cluttered mind led to cluttered work. She had only her MIT degree on the wall hung with a single nail. A drafting table, L-shaped desk and charcoal gray swivel chair sat in the center of the room. On one side was a bookshelf crammed with must-have references, on another side a high-backed guest chair, and in the center of it all was Hope.

  It was the sort of day when the sky was a silky seamless blue, when the ocean shimmered as if buffed to a high gloss, and sunshine glistened like melting honey. It was the kind of day that emptied out the Tanaka firm like a fire drill. Daichi’s employees found countless ways to get out of the office—lunch with a client, site evaluations, scouting potential construction locations—anything, really. But not Deena: Deena was business as usual.

  She spent the morning working on the plans to remodel a preparatory school, all the while loathing the subsequent phone call with the school’s chancellor. She was a nasty old woman with a penchant for drama who preferred to choke rather than hold the school’s purse strings. The woman salivated over haggling, and when the time came, Deena knew she wouldn’t disappoint.

  “Is it really necessary to raise the toilets?” croaked the disciplinarian. “It seems to me that if we left the toilets as they were we could save a thousand dollars.”

  Deena stared at her fingernails, already annoyed. “It’s a matter of safety, Miss Gleason. It’s the same way with the grab rails. These are small alterations with big benefits.”

  “Big benefits? Benefits to your firm. I’ve heard that you guys mark up the price on everything anyway.”

  She hated this part. The haggling, the selling of a vision, the educating of the ignorant.

  “Miss Gleason, I can assure you that you’re being charged the customary 8% of construction cost and not a penny more. I’ve slashed every possible expenditure to make this affordable—there’s nothing left to cut.”

  “That’s what you say. But why is it that when St. Charles was renovated it cost half of what you’re quoting me?”

  Deena sighed. “I don’t know, Miss Gleason. It could be anything. Your building might be older, or larger, or any number of things. Or, or—”

  “Or it could be you. You trying to rip us off.”

  “If I wanted to rip you off I wouldn’t suggest cost-saving measures, would I?”

  “I don’t know what you’d do. But I’ll tell you this. I don’t like your tone. And quite frankly, I never have. I think you’re a snob.”

  Deena froze. “I beg your pardon?”

  “I said, ‘you’re a snob.’ Right from the beginning you’ve been rude and impatient and—and—”

  “Miss Gleason, hold on a moment. I don’t think—”

  “Don’t tell me to hold! I’m paying you. Now all you’ve tried to do, right from the beginning, is rip me off. We need this, and we need that—way more than what we asked for!”

  “Your building wasn’t up to code!”

  “Says you. Look, I don’t have to tolerate this,” Miss Gleason said. “I refuse to work with you one more moment. Not one more!”

  “Miss Gleason, please. Let’s gather our bearings and—”

  She hung up.

  With a sob, Deena heaved her phone across the room and buried her face in her hands. All that work, all that fighting, only to be fired.

  The woman was impossible. Life, it seemed, was impossible. She wished herself away from this plain-faced office, and on a beach with Tak and his guitar.

  The first time she heard him play was the same day that she had to clean out Anthony’s room. The hour grew late as they sat on the beach, nothing but the gentle strumming of his guitar between them, and, on occasion, a few melodic verses he’d conjure on the spot.

  She’d been stunned by the quality of his voice and the feelings it stirred in her. Smooth and sultry, his tenor was lulling and seductive, and on that night, made exquisite by melancholy. She’d closed her eyes and let his sound wash over her, her pain lessening with the notion that he somehow shared it.

  Deena closed her eyes with the memory, in an attempt to recall the melodic notes which had soothed her once before.

  “That bad, huh?”

  Startled, Deena lifted her head to find Tak standing in the doorway of her office. She smiled.

  “How long have you been standing there?”

  He shrugged. “Long enough to know you need a raise.”

  Deena grinned. “Try getting that one by your dad.”

  He stepped inside and closed the door.

  “School marm?” he said with a sympathetic smile.

  Deena sighed. “School marm. Not to worry though. She fired me this time.”

  Tak waved a dismissive hand. “Screw her. She was beneath you anyway.”

  “No one’s beneath you when you’re as poor as me.”

  But he wasn’t moved. “Deena, listen. Sometimes the slammed door is just a distraction. You know, to the opportunity on the horizon. Every week that woman took a hacksaw to your work, stifling your talents. She had no vision and no appreciation for you. Now trust me when I say that better things are in store for you. Soon.” He pinched her cheek. “All right?”

  “All right.” Again, she smiled.

  “How long has that woman been badgering you, anyway?”

  “Too long. And I rushed through two other projects—small ones true, but still rushes—because she said that I wasn’t giving her enough attention.”

  “And this is how she thanks you.” Tak frowned. “And the Fellowship Hall? Are those beggars still being choosy?”

  Deena sighed. “Yeah. Draft number five was finally approved. All it cost was my sanity.”

  Tak leaned against her desk. “You need a vacation, Dee.”

  “Dee.” She still churned at the nickname. Never had she known how sweet endearments could be on the right lips.

  Is that what she thought of him? Of his lips? That they were somehow right for her? Deena blushed.

  “Let’s do it.” Tak slammed a hand on her desk and Deena blinked.

  “Do what?”

  “Vacation.” He rounded her desk, warming to the idea. “Let’s hit the road. You, me, and the top down on the Ferrari.” His hand sliced through the air. “Just open air and speed.”

  Deena frowned. “But when? Where?”

  “Anywhere. Everywhere. The going is what’s important.” He leaned against her desk. “Now the way I figure it, my dad gives two weeks of vacation for every year of employment. Now, considering what I know about you, that you’ve been here three years and that you’ve probably never used a day, that gives us eight weeks of vacation time to play with. Who knows where we could go with that?”

  Deena lowered her gaze. She was considering it. She could hardly believe it, but she was considering it. The woman whose life was charted out on an Excel Spreadsheet under a file titled ‘Expectations’, the woman who at twenty-four rose, jogged, showered, dress
ed, and ate the same bowl of Raisin Bran each morning before going to work, was considering it. The woman whose Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday of each week had been nearly identical for the last three years, was considering it.

  How had he done that to her? How had he penetrated her life so thoroughly that she would consider throwing her hands in the air and following him round the country? But the thought of it made her shiver. She wanted to. God knows she wanted to.

  “But—what about Skylife?” Deena said. “I can’t skip out on that. I mean, we haven’t started yet but…”

  His father had given an opportunity, singled her out among the hundred or so architects that worked for him, and pegged her to work on a project with him. She was the youngest at the firm, and after that day, the most loathed.

  Tak waved a hand. “Dad’s in Prague. He left yesterday. From there it’s Tokyo for two weeks, then London for another two. Gives you at least a month until he comes looking for you, probably more.” He paused. “I could get an estimated start date if it’ll make you feel better.”

  “But I’ve got other stuff…” Deena said, glancing at her desk.

  Tak sighed. “You’ve got a wheelchair ramp for K-Mart. I know you, Deena. You can have the concrete specs out for that in fifteen minutes.”

  Deena smiled. It was her misfortune to find a man whose mind didn’t wander when she yammered about her work. “Well, there are channels. It takes forever to get approved for time off here. If I put in now I might get cleared in about six months.”

  “Let me worry about that. After all, being the boss’s son must come with some perks. You just make plans to leave tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow?”

  He gave her a sly smile. “Tomorrow, Deena Hammond. Handle the concrete specs today. And tomorrow,” he winked, “belongs to me.”

  He left with a bounce in his step, oblivious to her breathlessness.

  TAK BOUNDED THE stairs two at a time as he ascended to the top floor, his father’s floor. The staircase at the Tanaka firm was broad and winding, with gleaming white marble and wrought iron banisters. At each landing was the Tanaka logo, his father’s pompously grand signature etched in gold, with a transparent globe of the same color in the background. The earth signified his global approach to architecture and the signature, which omitted his first name, stemmed from his conviction that a Tanaka would always be at the helm of his firm.