Crimson Footprints Part 43

"Lord have mercy!" Emma cried.

"My G.o.d, I never thought she'd do it," Deena whispered, turning to Tak.

"What are you kidding? My dad would've rode her forever," Tak murmured.

As Emma chewed, her eyes watered.

"Swallow it! You'll only prolong it this way," Daichi laughed.

Emma spat in a napkin and burst into a coughing laughing fit.

"You don't expect that one to count do you? I swallowed a record nine portions of your chitterlings! You'll never get anywhere spewing pieces from your mouth like that," Daichi said.

"I don't know why he's doing this," Tak said. "When he gets back from j.a.pan she told me that she's gonna make him eat possum."

"What?" Deena laughed. "Where in the h.e.l.l is she gonna find possum?"

Tak shrugged. "She says she knows a guy that goes back and forth to Mississippi all the time, and that he's going to bring her some. She claims she hasn't had any in forty years but she's making some especially for dad."

Deena laughed. "This'll go on forever, you know, them trying to one up each other."

Tak touched her hand. "I can think of worse ways this could've turned out." A tiny smile played across his lips. Deena matched it before dropping her gaze to his hand. Instinctively, it fell to the faint and jagged scar running crosswise from his index finger to wrist. It was an ever-present reminder of traits she tried to forget. Cowardice. Selfishness. Deceit.

"Chee-chee pah-pah chee-"

Deena looked up, roused from a memory. "Baby, don't sing at the table."

Mia hesitated, mouth open mid "chee." Wide, silver-plated saucers stared back at her mother.

Deena could see every part of herself in her daughter Mia, sifted through and made better. From the wild and silky jet black curls pinned diva-style in two oversized pigtails to the dollop of cinnamon on oatmeal skin and eyes like wide and polished sterling silver, heavy with the weight of her value. She had the look of a girl who could do or be anything, even at five.

She admired her already.

Mia Tanaka, who ate soul food and spoke Nihongo, who frequented festivals with her ojiichan and Sunday wors.h.i.+p with her great grandmother, had learned in five years of life something it took Deena twenty-five to figure out. That even with all of these seemingly contrary traits, she was just what she was intended to be.

Tucked away in Deena's wallet was a family portrait from the year before. In it, she and Tak sat side by side, her in a simple cream sweater and slacks for Christmastime, him in a white b.u.t.ton-up and blue jeans. His hair, of course, tousled just right. Before and between them was Mia, black hair braided in zigzags before flowing free into two bountiful pigtails. Her ojiichan kept her in runway best, so on this day she wore her favorite Burberry romper accented by a Tahitian pearl long since lost to a sandbox.

Deena wasn't sure why she'd sent the picture to her mother, or why she'd gone to the trouble of restoring the one of her parents and including it, as well. Two portraits, palm-sized, in a single white mailer to Gloria Hammond, care of Broward Corrections. No letter inside, no explanation.

When she received a letter back, with that telltale prison stamp, less than a week had pa.s.sed. Deena took it, and placed it with the others, unopened.

Not yet, she thought.

Not yet.

About the Author.

Shewanda Pugh is a native of Boston's inner city. She has a bachelor's degree in Political Science from Alabama A&M University and a Master's in Writing from Nova Southeastern University. Fueled from a young age, her pa.s.sion for crossing societal boundaries like race, cla.s.s and culture, is the inspiration for both her cluttered bookshelf and her writing. When she's not busy obsessing over fiction, she can be found traveling, nursing her social networking addiction or enjoying the company of loved ones.

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