Crimson Footprints II: New Beginnings

by Shewanda Pugh

  “Why did you build the house on the water?” Tony demanded.

  “Because the water’s exquisite,” Deena said. She retrieved a stack of papers from a hallway safe, hidden just behind a painting.

  “The hurricane is strong. Twelve people have died already. It’s sweeping away houses all over the Caribbean. It’ll take this one, too.”

  “This house isn’t going anywhere. I designed it myself. The windows have a thick inner membrane, are impact-resistant, exceed all International Building Code Standards, are able to withstand small and large missile projectiles launched at over two hundred miles per hour. The siding of the house is two hundred forty percent stronger than cement. It can withstand winds of over two hundred miles per hour. The roofing has asphalt and a second shield to maintain a watertight roofing system.”

  “Then why are we leaving?”

  “Because leaving is the safest thing to do. But the house will be here when we return.”

  “What if it’s not here? What if it just sweeps the house away?”

  “It won’t.”

  “The Titanic was unsinkable, too!”

  Deena punched in an intricate code on the wall safe and the door suctioned closed. She swung an abstract painting back over it.

  “We can always rebuild,” she said.

  Tony just couldn’t understand this family notion that expensive things were actually worthless.

  “Did you get the proof of insurance?” Tony asked. “Andrea Gonzalez from Channel 7 News says you’ll need it.”

  Since the storm’s announcement, news was the only thing he’d watch.

  “Yes. And the utilities will be shut off and the property will be landscaped to ensure that dead tree limbs and foliage are removed, thereby negating damage to the house.”

  “Okay,” he breathed. “Okay.”

  Deena knelt down. “Never mind the storm. It’s Christmastime. You’re going to spend tons of time with family, eat till you grow fat, and have a beach right in the backyard.”

  But of all she said, Tony only heard the one word:

  Family.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

  Lizzie rolled over and paused to unravel her body from a tangle of sheets. Next to her, Kenji flipped through the channels restlessly, eyes on the TV mounted high.

  “What’s wrong?” Lizzie said.

  “Everything’s about the hurricane! I had Contenders set to record. I go to watch it and get an hour of how to stock up on water and can goods. What’s to know? Go to the store, put them in your cart, pay the money. The end.”

  Lizzie, naked on her belly, propped up on her elbows.

  “They’re saying it’ll come.”

  “They always say that. How often are they wrong? It’s all guesswork. And they’re always ruining my shows for it.”

  “So, you’re not evacuating with your dad?” Her gaze strayed to the window. “We’re pretty high up, you know.”

  It was a sticky subject. As of yet, only Tak knew about their relationship. Evacuating with her meant revealing it at the worst possible time. Evacuating alone meant abandoning her.

  “No need to leave,” he said.

  Kenji’s way of dealing was not dealing.

  “You let these people work you up because they’re trying to sell wood, water, and potted meat. Don’t be a sucker, Lizzie.”

  He continued to flip channels with a scowl. Lizzie waited.

  “Sorry.” He hadn’t meant to call her a name.

  Kenji leaned forward, tilted her chin up, and kissed her. “You know I get grumpy when they screw with my programming.”

  He pulled her so that she sat up. Another kiss, sweeter, nipping, and promising to deepen.

  Their noses touched. She’d never kissed that way before him, nuzzling even when their lips didn’t meet. Somehow, it seemed more intimate than anything she’d ever done. In a way, everything felt intimate with Kenji.

  “You have to go to work,” she reminded him.

  “And you have to go down to Dade for registration,” he said.

  The community college. Next month, she’d begin a series of classes that would hopefully end in a GED. He read her thoughts just then.

  “You can do it,” he said and brought a hand to her hair. It was messed and matted from sleep, but he didn’t care. He always acted as though it was beautiful.

  “And you don’t need me for it,” he added.

  Kenji kissed her again, lingering, before getting up with a groan.

  “Work, work, work,” he complained.

  She got up as well, allowing sheets to fall away and expose her nakedness. When they were first together, the scars of her body humiliated her. Some had begun to fade, taking on another unexpected purpose. He’d bought scar cream for her and applied it as they talked, eventually coming to know the history of each mark. There were times when she thought he’d fling her away in disgust, but the moment never came.

  “I hate this job,” Kenji said, holding out two dress shirts and frowning at both. “It’s boring as shit, for starters.”

  Lizzie picked out her clothes for the day.

  “Go back to baseball,” she said, thinking not only of his weekly devotion to the sport, but of all the things his former teammates said. “It’s the only thing that makes you happy.”

  He came over and kissed her, a fat smack on the lips that made her smile like a fool.

  “Don’t need baseball. Just fine, right here with you.”

  He went back to the closet and Lizzie frowned, knowing the kiss’s true purpose had been her silence.

  “Zach told me that in April you can try out for the minor leagues.”

  Kenji tossed work clothes on the bed, grabbed towels from the linen closet, and treaded to the master bathroom.

  Door open, Lizzie could hear running water from the sink. The next moment, Kenji stuck his head out and a blue toothbrush jutted from his mouth.

  “Iron that for me, will you?”

  Rebuffed, Lizzie nodded and snatched the clothes up for ironing.

  An hour and a half later, Lizzie punched the down button for the elevator and waited. Already, Kenji had left for work. Though he didn’t believe the storm was coming, everyone else did, including her. After all, Lizzie just couldn’t ignore the ferocious red swath on the radar running the width of Texas. She figured the least she could do was walk the few blocks to a convenience store and buy canned goods just in case.

  Lizzie had no driver’s license, which meant that Kenji caught a conniption at the thought of her driving his second car, a BMW that sat in the garage collecting dust. So, she walked most places, or rode the bus, till the time when they could work on her license. For the time being, however, she didn’t think she had the brain power to study for the GED and for getting a license.

  Walking quickly, Lizzie frowned upward at the steely gray sky. The storm was still a way’s off, but people had begun to evacuate. Tourists first, residents second, bringing a hush to the whole of Miami Beach. It felt eerie.

  There was something about the absence of people that had an ability to unnerve. The loneliness of it all, the implication of having no one felt cruel, cruelest perhaps, of all things humanly possible. She never wanted to be alone again.

  Lizzie slipped into the convenience store, greeted the cashier by name, and grabbed a hand basket. She filled it what she could carry: Dinty Moore beef stew, chicken dumplings, ravioli. The cans were dusty but unexpired, and Kenji would eat just about anything, anyway. Once back at the house, she would set about bottling the tap water. There was a recycle bin on the second floor of the building, always loaded with empty jugs. She’d use those, plus the can goods to ensure that they were okay. Lizzie paid for her purchases and took up a brisk pace back to the condo.

  It was odd, the difference that time could bring. Last year, she’d been a whore, addicted to heroin and crack, and would’ve let a room full of men half kill her for the promise of either at the end. In fact, she’d done just such a thing on countle
ss occasions. Once, in high school, she’d worked a party at a rundown motel on Biscayne. She was alone and yet, in a room with so many men that she could scarcely see the wall. All of them had fucked her.

  How broken and alone she’d been back then no one could know.

  But only Kenji had tried to understand.

  Kenji.

  Her cheeks colored at even the thought of his name.

  She’d first seen him at Tak and Deena’s wedding, an unimpressive thing, awkward and blushing, as if too conscious of himself to stand it. She’d snorted at the sight of him, thinking him an obvious virgin. By that time, at seventeen, she’d already dropped out of high school, left her grandmother’s house, and abused three sorts of drugs on a regular basis. Hell, she’d been high at the wedding.

  Looking back, Lizzie couldn’t help but wonder what her life might have been like had she not been so dismissive of him.

  He had a smile like a hug, a kiss like a blush, and a touch like a blessing. He didn’t see a whore when he looked at her. He saw Lizzie. Just Lizzie.

  School had been Kenji’s idea. The GED, and then onward, to whatever else she aspired. Already she had plans to get a cosmetology license. He would invest in her, like a business, and she would open a shop on the beach. Hers. A hairdresser on South Beach! She could hardly stand the glamour of it.

  She didn’t deserve him—his sweet smile—the one he thought too big—or his gentle heart—the one that made him apologize four breaths after a single angry thought—or his tenderness. She melted under him, melted to him, weakened by his touch, so conscious was she of passion, emotion, worship even, in his every touch. Her eyes watered at the thought. She could never go back to anything less.

  “Get in the car.”

  A voice sliced through her soul, cutting with its coldness.

  Snow.

  Lizzie turned to face a burgundy Monte Carlo.

  God, no. Please.

  “Get in the fucking car before I head down to 5 South Pointe Drive and shoot the first Asian motherfucker I see!”

  Lizzie dropped her groceries to ground and fumbled with the handle of the Monte Carlo before climbing inside.

  Immediately, he peeled off. From the right-side window, Lizzie watched as a half-dozen cans rolled aimlessly along the sidewalk. They raced onward, and quickly, her groceries disappeared from sight.

  “You look good,” Snow said.

  He slammed the brakes at a red light, just before a multitude of gleaming high-rises—homes to the beautiful people.

  “Real good,” he added.

  He reached over and touched bare thigh, sun-bronzed hazel skin that Kenji called candy.

  Lizzie stiffened.

  Snow grinned.

  “You got some money for me?” he asked brightly.

  She said nothing.

  He continued to drive. Toward the highway. Further from South Beach and the groceries on the ground. Further from her life with Kenji. He would kill her. She didn’t need him to tell her that.

  A stretch of interstate later and they where in Overtown. But they didn’t drive toward the apartment she once knew. Southeast he went, never speaking, until he came along a stretch she knew too well. Underneath and near the Metrorail Station women walked, clothes clinging and even absent, filthy even in some cases. It was the place most diametrically opposed to where she’d just come from; it was where lawlessness and hopelessness prevailed, and where people like Snow ruled supreme.

  “You’ll get on the stroll by tomorrow,” he promised. “Back out here making money.”

  Briefly, Lizzie thought of another man, any man who wasn’t Kenji Tanaka, touching her, stroking her, on top and thrusting, groaning, abusing. One word came to mind.

  “No.”

  Snow laughed. Long, hard, and cruel. He put a hand on her thigh and moved up, till he found the crotch of her shorts. Lizzie grabbed his wrist in vain.

  “I own that. And I own you. You gonna learn that tonight. And when I’m done, you’ll be begging for a piece of the stroll, if only to ease your workload.”

  They pulled up to a single jut of dust-white building, offensive in comparison to the gluttony she’d come from. Snow parked the Monte Carlo and yanked Lizzie by her hair from the car.

  She knew this place but could hardly believe the audacity of it all.

  It was to family that Snow had taken her.

  Up six floors they went on foot before he jammed a key in a simple brown door. It swung open, and he flung her inside. Lizzie stumbled and righted herself. This was Aunt Caroline’s old home. Only Keisha lived there now.

  “I need the house tonight,” Snow announced. “For a party.”

  To the left of the door was an immediate kitchen counter. Keisha stood at it chopping onions. She scowled at the sight of Lizzie.

  “You can’t have a party tonight. The girls are coming, remember?”

  Snow’s face hardened; his jaw clenched, and for a moment, Lizzie felt certain he’d hit her. After all, she’d known them to fistfight and knew the look he took on before pummeling her.

  But then, his face softened.

  “All right then,” he said and released Lizzie’s arm.

  Snow disappeared toward the back.

  Lizzie surveyed her surroundings. Not much had changed since the time when Aunt Caroline lived there. Same sagging, rot-brown couch, same coffee table with wood chippings, brand-new TV mounted on the wall. Portions of the wall below it were stained yellow.

  She should’ve felt safer with Keisha there, her cousin. She should’ve been able to run to her, and together they’d plot an escape. But what she felt was fear magnified even more. Keisha watched her, gaze guarded and fixed, never bothering to speak. Their history of hostility was long, born and nurtured by Snow.

  He reappeared.

  “You look clean,” he said. “How long you been clean?”

  Lizzie looked down. “A few months now.”

  “Hmph,” Keisha said.

  “Your cousin helped me find you.” He nodded toward Keisha. “Kit’s description of the Asian knight in shining armor was enough for her to figure it out. I went to his job and followed him home one day,” Snow explained. “Came back today and found you.”

  It didn’t surprise Lizzie. Not at all.

  “Where’s Kit?” she demanded instead.

  While she and Keisha had been openly declared enemies, Kit was supposedly her friend. She would answer for betraying Lizzie.

  “Dead,” Snow said brightly. “They found her in the trunk of a car. She’d been beaten to death. Surprised you didn’t hear about it.”

  Their gazes met. And Lizzie said nothing, suddenly understanding why it had taken him so long to find her. Kit hadn’t been forthcoming at first. He’d bludgeon the information out of her, and then killed her for withholding.

  But there’d be no arrest, no prosecution, no public outcry for a whore found dead.

  There never was.

  Slowly, Snow’s mouth spread into a smile.

  “Got a lot of new girls. Needed you around to show ’em the ropes. Had you stuck it out, been faithful, you would’ve been out the game by now.”

  Lizzie said nothing. It was clear that there was only one way out the game, and Kit had just taken it.

  Snow dropped onto the couch and dug weed from his pocket. Keisha went to a drawer in the kitchen and withdrew a package of cigars without question. She brought them to him and retreated to chop more onions.

  “How many new girls?” Lizzie said, asking and not wanting to know.

  “Seven,” Snow said and pulled a Swiss Army knife from his sock. He flicked it open and cut a cigar down the middle.

  “Let me tell you how I got ’em. Shit’s genius,” he said. “I get a young dude looking to come up. Pour a little money into him, take good care of him, and the girls flock to him, you know? Eventually, he steps to one. A shy one, not that good looking, looks like she comes from a real holy-type home like you. He asks her out. You know, movie,
dinner, some bullshit that makes her feel pretty. She agrees; he picks her up in a nice-ass car. Then he takes her here or some other private spot I like to use. Tells her he needs to stop and pick up more cash. Invites her inside. Gets up in here and handles business, you know? Take that shit no matter what she says.”

  Snow lit the blunt, its spark like the hot anger in Lizzie’s belly.

  “But here’s where the shit gets ingenious.”

  Snow took a deep tote.

  “I’ve got fellas staked out, taking pictures while he’s fucking her. Dozens of these shits. So, she leaves, all fucked up in the head from getting the shit fucked outta her and a few days later he approaches her, tells her he wants to see her again. When she says ‘no,’ he shows her the pictures. Now what’s she gonna do? Dude is telling her that her mom, dad, preacher, hell, the whole fucking school, is about to see her with her pussy out like a freak, with her mouth gobbling dick. So, what’s she gonna do? Whatever the fuck we tell her. And that’s how she gets pimped. Right now, I’m using your little cousin T3, or Baby Tariq, to help me out. Dude’s a natural. You should see him.”

  Lizzie stared. Once, she talked to Kenji about how dirty she now felt about being a whore and how stupid she’d been. He’d told her that girls like her, from certain families, were preyed on and manipulated by men. She hadn’t believed it. But as she stood there, listening, she realized that every moment of her life, every thrust she’d taken, every ounce of crack and heroin, had been orchestrated by this man or another.

  She stole a glance at Keisha, who stood motionless, thoughts far from the room. What could she be thinking? Lizzie’s aunt Caroline and Keisha had always prided themselves on Snow’s ability to “take care of business.” Well, here was the business transaction. And there were absolutely no refunds.

  This time, when Snow went into the back, Lizzie made for the kitchen.

  “How many girls are you gonna let him do this to?” Lizzie hissed. “How many girls does he have to hurt?”