“If you can find time in your oh-so-important day, you’ll want to be here for the meeting with Tony’s social worker!” Tak shouted after her. “It’s only required to adopt your nephew!”
Before she could retort, he shut the door in her face.
CHAPTER THRITY-FOUR
Thursday afternoon, Tony sat on the edge of his bed, eyeing the lines of his Jordans. Sleek, alternating red and white, a tiny airborne legend plastered to the back side. He didn’t know much about the man behind the shoe—had only once seen a YouTube compilation of some sublime but grainy dunking, but still, he must’ve been phenomenal. Leslie from the group home had once told him that Jordan had screwed up and played baseball for a little while, messing up what probably would’ve been his best years. But Tony never did hold much stock in what Leslie McConnell said, not so long as she swore her real name to be Luisa Fettuccine of the infamous Fettuccine crime family in New York. Being in a group home was part and parcel of the FBI relocation program, if you let her tell it.
Tony looked down at his Jordans once again. They and his thoughts were the only entertainment he had. Tak had insisted he needed to be alone with his thoughts before ripping out everything Microsoft and Sony ever made from his bedroom. Tony, having counted himself at least mildly lucky, waited until his departure to pull out the new T-Mobile Sonic with long-range wi-fi capabilities from his pocket, only to have Tak return with a hand outstretched expectantly. So much for the fighter pilot game he’d just downloaded. He wondered if he’d ever see it again.
How much longer did he have at the Tanaka house? It was hard to say at that point. Tak and Deena were fighting, probably because of him, especially because of him. After all, that was the way it worked. Tony looked down at his socks bulging with the money he’d collected so far—two hundred forty-seven dollars to date. How rich did you have to be to not notice two hundred forty-seven dollars missing from your house? Tony smoothed out the bulge carefully. He wore socks with money in them at all times, in the event he had but a moment to leave. It was his greatest idea yet, because when the social worker came and took you away, there was never any time for suitcases and good-byes. Tony touched the emblem of his Jordans. If he was wearing them when she came, then he would leave in them. For that reason, he made sure he wore them as much as possible each day. And since he hadn’t reconciled himself to the notion of leaving, he assumed it would be with the aid of a social worker when he finally made his departure.
Tak and Deena didn’t allow him to leave the bedroom much, on account of his punishment, which he supposed he could understand. Earlier, while going to the bathroom, he’d heard Tak on his cell with what he guessed was the social worker, confirming the time of her visit. They exchanged pleasantries, and somewhere in between, Tony heard the word “concerns.” He knew what that meant. He knew it well.
Tony smiled. He would miss the meals the Tanakas gave him; they always came with aggressive Spanish lessons. Mrs. Jimenez brought weighted plates three times a day on weekends, and he ate them at a desk with nothing but books on it for entertainment. Yesterday morning, seven A.M., she burst in with a few shouts of levantarse and a huge wad of eggs, tortillas, and spiced chili, all stacked. Right beside it had been a sliced avocado, refried beans doused in yellow cheese and salsa, alongside a huge cup of orange juice. She returned forty-five minutes later with a look of disgust and a few barks of más, más. When he shook his head that he couldn’t do more, Jimenez sucked her teeth and snatched the plate away as if appalled at having been charged with feeding such a wuss.
No matter, because she’d returned less than three hours later with a braised chicken overdosed on steroids and a few meager vegetables on the side. Back when Tony had first come to the Tanakas’, he would swallow whatever Deena or Jimenez put him in front of him. But Jimenez went too far. She brought breakfast, lunch, dinner, and snacks, as if fattening him for a date with Charlie the Cannibal. He would miss Jimenez when the hunger came back.
Tony jumped at the sound of a door slamming. He didn’t dare go out. Easygoing as he looked, Tak had gone over tougher than anticipated, never letting up on the solitary confinement. On the first day he tested him. Tak went out and came back to find Tony on the living-room couch, feet up and watching The Simpsons. Without a word, Tak plucked him up and carried him under his arm back into the bedroom. Tony kicked and punched, but it was against the strength of a guy with his own personal gym and the muscles to prove it.
He dumped Tony in the bed like a boy, told him to holler if had to pee, and locked the door behind him. Tony had screamed in rage at being treated like a toddler, but it did no good. And when Tak stuck his head in, asking politely if Tony needed the bathroom or food, he’d heaped a slur of curse words on him to provoke him. Far from the beating he expected, Tak only looked at him as if mildly disappointed.
“Hmm. Let’s add a week to your punishment,” Tak said cheerfully, “till we figure how to clean your mouth.”
When he closed the door it was on a second helping of curses.
Deena was home early. Tony could hear her heels on the wood floor in the hall. She had a quick step, as if always needing to be somewhere other than where she was. Louder, louder. And then it stopped. There was a tap at his door.
“Tony? The social worker’s here.”
Tony took in the first room he’d ever had to himself. He could’ve easily brought two friends and played a half court pickup game. As it were, he didn’t have any and didn’t need them, with the motion sensor console game that let him leap around the room with a thousand simulated ones. It would’ve been nice to take the console with him wherever he went next. But with the money in his socks, the Jordans on his feet, and Deena waiting in the hall, Tony said good-bye to the room.
He would always remember being a Tanaka.
Deena led Tony to the dining-room table, where they joined Tak, Mia, and a middle-aged black woman. Mrs. Jimenez excused herself to put on coffee as they took their seats.
They exchanged pleasantries before quickly switching over to business.
“You should have a number of documents for me. We discussed them in court.”
Jesus, Deena’s thoughts circled around to a memory of court. There’d been a mention of something not long after the hearing, a follow-up phone call by Allison—but somehow it had escaped her.
Deftly, Tak produced a stack of papers from underneath the table.
“It’s all there,” he said. “Marriage certificate. Birth certificates, copies of driver’s licenses, verification of employment and financial statements from the bank. Three character reference letters, proof of insurance, and a background check for me.”
He looked at Deena. She colored.
“Mrs. Tanaka?” the social worker said, shuffling through papers. “You don’t have a background check for me?”
She didn’t, of course. Thankfulness segued to annoyance as she silently cursed Tak for leading her to this moment without reminding her. He’d wanted to humiliate her, to show that it was him and not her who’d forged ahead in this matter. Well, now, he’d made his point.
“No, I actually . . .” Deena faltered. “I’ll have it for you soon. There—there was a delay.”
The social worker’s head lifted swiftly. It was the wrong thing to say.
“You know what?” Tak said. “I do have her background check. Our attorney got it for us, thank goodness.” He shot her a superior look. “Here you go.”
He handed over a paper from under the table. Clearly, it had been resting in his lap with all the others.
“Very good,” the social worker said and scanned the contents of the report before shoving it in the stack.
They turned to talk about their experiences in the home. Despite their insistence that life with Tony and the Tanakas bordered on euphoric, the reports from Edinburgh Academy told a different story—one that included disruptive behavior in class, bullying, and assault. The social worker now wanted to hear how the Tanakas doled out discipl
ine.
Deena expected Tak to parse his words, as she’d found his quarantining a little harsh. However, he detailed Tony’s days, spent without fail in his room as punishment for the latest fiasco, and explained that while Deena had grown up with corporal punishment being the norm and him without it, he wasn’t beyond a firm hand if he thought it necessary.
“But you haven’t used one yet?” she said.
“Don’t say ‘yet,’” Tak replied with his trademark smooth smile. “It implies you think they’ll be a need for it.”
She smiled with her eyes and mouth. He was charming her as he charmed all women.
“Let me show you around,” Tak suggested.
And so it was that Tak stood and the social worker followed, with Tony, Mia, and a thoroughly useless Deena bringing up the rear. He swept her through the house, showing her not only the master bedroom and the two for the children, but the guest rooms, three restrooms, game room, theatre, office, kitchen, and spacious backyard. He pointed out little things, like the child-safe lock on the medicine cabinets, the strategically placed fire extinguishers, the fireplace screens, the coverings for the Jacuzzi and pool, the smoke and carbon monoxide detectors, and first aid kits, not only in the bathrooms, but out back in the cabinet of a locked bar. Deena frowned at the last, not having recalled putting it there.
As they walked, the social worker inquired as to how they handled stress, both individually and collectively. She was curious about which relationships they considered most important and past experiences of loss. Tak rambled on as if chatting with a good friend, pointing out his paintings and instruments as the ultimate in stress relief and carelessly mentioning that Tony had taken up guitar and now showed promise. Finally, when he talked of relationships he held dear, he glanced at his wife with a subdued smile and admitted that even after all these years it was her he couldn’t do without.
Tak told her of an awesome extended family, including a cousin and best friend who lived next door, a father with the world’s best advice, and a little brother he could still count on for a good race around the block. And when it seemed that she would turn the question on Deena, he added that it seemed she held his family even closer than he did, and would routinely call on his aunts for advice.
By the time they walked Miss Kingston to the door, she had both an offer of staying for an after-hours drink and a standing invitation to go out on the bay with them one Saturday. On her departure, she threatened to take them up on the latter before promising to return for a second visit soon.
The moment the door slammed, the smile slid from Tak’s face.
“Go back to your room,” he barked at Tony.
The child opened his mouth to protest, thought better of it, and disappeared down the hall.
“Daddy—”
“You go to your room, too. Miss Parker tells me you had a tantrum today during math.”
“But it wasn’t my fault!” Mia cried. “Toby Martin—”
“Room,” Tak said, and Mia stomped off, Mary Janes abusing the hardwood.
“Tak—”
He brushed past Deena before she could say more and veered for the west wing, leaving her standing in the living room, unmistakably alone.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
The center released Lizzie at twelve noon that Friday. In a slight variation on his promise, Kenji met her in the lobby, instead of the revved car in the parking lot. He stood there looking tall and awkward and unsure until she emerged from the main hall with a smile.
He hadn't expected her to look like that. Hair damp and heavy on her shoulders, plumper in the cheeks, thighs, and middle, she wore a simple white sundress, pure against butterscotch skin. She bit her lip at the sight of him, shylike, and something in him awakened.
Down boy. Down.
“I just—I have to sign out,” she explained after their weird, greeting-less greeting.
He wanted to say something. About how beautiful she was or how healthy she looked, but his tongue simply lay there, useless. So, he led her to the car, opened her door, and climbed in, wishing courage would find him some way. Without a word, he started off.
He imagined that it would be like it was when he’d dropped her off, but it dawned on Kenji that such a thing was impossible. The woman he’d fallen for had been high and abused, while the one next to him might be little more than a conglomeration of medications. In other words . . . a stranger.
“Where are you taking me?” Lizzie asked.
He glanced at her.
Why had he left this conversation for so long, the one where they determined what was best for her? They’d made no arrangements, and now they coasted . . . on a ride to nowhere.
“My apartment, everything I owned, was all from Snow. I gave up everything when I left him. I don’t have anywhere to go. Or even any clothes to wear.”
She looked down desperately at herself. “Even this stupid dress is from the center.”
“You can stay with me,” he said quietly. “No strings attached,” he added, when she gave him a distrustful glance. “I have a spare bedroom that never gets a guest. And as for clothes, I can just buy you more.”
“No.”
Kenji glanced at her.
“This is the way it starts with men. You need something. They get it for you. Now you owe them. I don’t—I don’t want to owe anyone else.”
Had he asked for anything? When he’d spent twenty-five grand on her drug rehab, did he ask her for an IOU?
Her comment was like a dash of acid. Still, he figured she must’ve had a lot of self-healing to do. Better to let her reach her own conclusions about him than to force-feed her any of his own.
“All right,” Kenji said. “Wear the same dress every day. See if I care.” He did, of course.
A flicker of skepticism wrinkled her nose. But, like that, it smoothed again. “Good,” she said evenly.
Kenji glanced at her again. Before inviting an ex-drug addict and prostitute to live with him just a moment ago, the most spontaneous thing he’d ever done was to call Aimee Winchester in the tenth grade so that he could ask her to the Spring Fling. He hung up, of course, at the sound of her voice and with the realization that through twelve years of school they’d spoken only twice, the last time when she’d bested him in the sixth-grade spelling bee. In the end, he’d skipped the dance altogether, but got to hear from his buddies later about how she’d arrived on the arm of Marty Sams, starting fullback for the Miami Beach Hi-Tiders.
“I’ve been doing some reading,” Kenji said. “On your situation.”
She gave him a look.
“Your recovery,” he tried again.
No better.
“I, uh, know it’s going to be difficult,” he said. “But I want you to take it easy. Concentrate on taking care of yourself and staying healthy.”
“What are you, a doctor?” Lizzie smiled.
Kenji couldn’t help but return the favor. “Yeah. I’m a doctor. Dr. Tanaka. And here’s my prescription. There’s a stretch of beach behind my condo. You can only access it from the building. Or rather, our building. I want you out there every day that there’s sunshine.”
Lizzie blinked.
“What do you mean you can only access it from the building?”
“It’s private.”
Lizzie sat back in her seat, face thoughtful with some private revelation. “And what would be the point of going to the beach every day?”
He wasn’t sure, exactly. But he knew that in the days after Anthony had been killed, in the days when Deena battled grief, old hurts, and resistance to courage, the beach was where his brother brought her, day after day, it seemed. Their father had always said that the beach was where chi met sui, or rather, earth met water. As two of the five elements in Japanese philosophy, chi, or earth, represented the solid, hard, and unchangeable, whereas sui, or water, was fluid, forming, and formless. It was where resistance to change met change itself.
“You’d be surprised,” Kenji said q
uietly, “of what a little beach could do.”
Lizzie had a nightmare her first night at Kenji’s house. Her screams made him leap from bed and skid down the hall, thumping his toe on the door jamb like an asshole. What started as a serious bid to rescue ended with him limping in and sitting humbly and painfully on the edge of her bed.
She’d been about to shoot up. It was the best kind, high-quality, none of that black tar shit that Snow sells. There’d been a long moment of hesitation before starting—and after—goodness could she feel the high, like a jolt of intensity jump-starting her nervous system. But just as that magnificent sort of happiness found her, skeletal hands did the same, out from under the bed, groping and disappearing. When she went to look, the floor fell out beneath her. Lizzie tumbled in darkness, screaming in a descent that should’ve ended in death, only to land intact alongside her dead brother. Anthony sat up and called her a fool.
Kenji expected her to cry, but a few sullen blinks were enough to chase the tears away. Still, he hugged her, stayed with her, and fell asleep sitting up in her bed after she climbed back in and turned out the lights. When he woke, he was underneath the bedspread too.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Deena spent the morning in her office devouring the Sydney report from Jennifer Swallows. Already, a handful of the world’s most prominent firms were in Sydney or Melbourne gobbling up work in greed. Government projects, corporations, art galleries, shopping malls—the list of missed opportunities read like a horror story for the wallet. Deena flipped to the stats on recent graduates from two Australian institutions—they had the distinction of being among the top in the architectural world. It was no surprise that most remained home in Australia, some at less-than-prestigious firms. She imagined the Tanakas could steal them without much effort. There were a few she had her eye on in particular, young upstarts who’d earned recognition through local write-ups. In a margin, she jotted down the few who came to mind. Afterward, she read through the summary of economic conditions in Australia while subconsciously counting the days till her arrival.
Crimson Footprints II: New Beginnings Page 14