Tiger Girl (9 page)

Then the front door to the apartment opened and Sitan staggered in.

I jumped up.

“Oh, hey. Uncle gave me the—um, you know, whatcha callem.” He tossed the keys on the top of the bookshelf.

“Are you drunk?”

“Chill, girl. Been out with my homeboys.” He tried to take off his shoes and fell over. He lay back on the carpet, his hands on his stomach.

“Aren't you working in the shop now?”

“Mmm hmm.” He was drifting off to sleep.

Disgusted, I gathered up my clothes and locked myself in the bathroom to get dressed. When I came out, Sitan was snoring loudly on the floor.

The phone rang, startling me.

I ran to the kitchen. “Hello?”

It was Uncle. “Nea, is Sitan there?”

“Just arrived. He passed out on the floor.”

“Thank goodness. I wanted to make sure he got home safely.”

“He's not home,” I pointed out. “He's on the floor of
your
apartment.”

“He must be very tired.” Uncle sounded worried. “Just let him sleep. He can come in later when he wakes up again.”

“I don't think I could wake him if I tried. His royal highness seems pretty plastered.”

Uncle sighed. “He's been doing so well. He's been making a lot of progress.”

I decided not to argue. “I won't wake him up. Are you coming back now?”

“No, I can't. I'm sorry. There was a call. A family needs a translator. I'm going to the hospital to help. Don't worry. You can just stay at home today.”

“Uncle, you've worked all night. You should rest.”

“I'm fine.” He hung up.

And I thought, he's going to drop dead if he keeps working like this. Then a worse thought came to me. Maybe Uncle was
trying
to work himself to death. Maybe this was how his survivor's guilt was manifesting. Like a death wish. And what would Ma say if I just stood by and let that happen?

I paced in the kitchenette as the cheerful yellow light from the rising sun began to pour inside, lapping at the countertops and the white Frigidaire, splashing against the walls like a wave of honey. I peered out the window into the parking lot, and watched sparrows wheel across the sky, which grew brighter and more blue with each passing minute. A hummingbird hovered by the bougainvillea. It was hard to remember that it was December, that Christmas was only two weeks away. I'd left Nebraska fallow and frozen and taken a bus to arrive in a whole other season. Traffic zoomed by on the street below, and I watched as a bus barreled past; an ad for
Die Hard 2
wrapped around the bus featuring a Christmas wreath superimposed over Bruce Willis's shoulders.

Something about the combination of December and blooming flowers and warm sunshine made me feel unnaturally optimistic. I flipped open the phone book on the kitchen table and examined the map of bus routes in the front so that I could head to the donut shop on my own. Better to get working on my PR plan than to wait in the apartment listening to Sitan snore.

Anita was surprised to see me when I came running in the front door. “I took the bus,” I announced proudly.

“It's been kind of a slow morning. But I'm happy to have your company.” She looked up from the paper, where she'd been working on the crossword. “Would you like coffee or are you a Coca-Cola in the morning type of girl?”

“Coffee, thanks.” I pulled my notebook out of my backpack. “You know, I was thinking of ways to drum up more business. The pastry is fantastic. People just don't know this place is here. It doesn't look special.”

“Your uncle's kind of low-key about the business end,” Anita said. “He got a small-business grant to train people. I helped him write up the proposal myself. I think he thinks of himself more as an educator than a businessman.”

“Well, I think of myself more as a capitalist,” I said. Then I showed her my list of marketing ideas. “I thought I could make some of these flyers over at the copy shop. What do you think? I want to help Uncle. I want him to be happy. I don't want to be a burden. I want to show him I can earn my keep.”

“You're not a burden, Nea,” Anita said. “James is very proud of you. You have no idea. He's told me so much about you.”

“That's a surprise.”

“He doesn't always say what he's thinking or feeling. That's not his way.”

“I haven't done anything yet,” I said, growing impatient. I threw three creamers into the coffee and gulped it down. “Since it's slow, I'm going over to the Copy Circle right now and I'll get started. Just give me a call over there if it gets busy and you need help.”

“Take your time, Nea,” Anita said. She looked down at the counter and pursed her lips as though she wanted to say something more, but then thought better of it. “You should do what you think is right, of course.”

“Great,” I said. “See you later!”

And I ran out the door and across the parking lot, confident I could make a difference.

I typed up coupon offers, flyers, and finally the letter to the reporter from the newspaper who'd had the front-page story about the runaway rabbit. I told him I had an even better story for him. I told him about all of Uncle's travails—having to flee Cambodia shortly before the Khmer Rouge took over in 1975, living as a refugee, coming to America. “The chaos of war caused Mr. Chhouen Suoheang to flee his own country. He hoped to send for his family after he'd settled in a safe country, but alas the Khmer Rouge sealed the borders and he was separated from them for years. Two of his sons died under Pol Pot. He was reunited with his wife in the United States. Unfortunately she was ill after sustaining injuries during her escape through a minefield and died in California.” I thought it best to leave out the complicated parts, the troubled reunion, the poverty, the illnesses, the fighting, Auntie's overdose. And me, the forgotten daughter. These were the details that I'd witnessed, that I'd lived through, but they weren't going to get Uncle any customers, I figured. Papers that led with stories about cute bunnies liked a softer version of life. So I cut to the chase: “Out of this tragedy, he has now opened La Petite Pâtisserie Khmère to train former refugees. He believes in giving back to the community that has offered him safe harbor after so much tragedy. The Petite Pâtisserie Khmère serves the best French-Cambodian pastry in Southern California.”

I put down the address and phone number. Then I bought a stamp and mailed the letter right away.

For the next three days, I busied myself placing flyers in the strip malls up and down the street and in the foyers of the
apartment compounds in the neighborhood. I accompanied Uncle on his volunteer rounds and left flyers with coupons at the hospital and the youth center. We needed to get these people to come into the shop on their own. They were spoiled. But with any luck, they could develop a sugar habit, and, most importantly, come pay for our donuts rather than waiting for them to be delivered free.

For three days, I put on my happiest face. I didn't argue, I didn't complain. Uncle seemed to relax around me finally. Or perhaps it was because Sitan stayed over at the apartment for two of those days, and Uncle liked having him around. He liked to give him advice and ask how many bookings he'd gotten for rapping at local clubs, and when Sitan said he didn't have any at present but this owner he knew liked him and was going to give him a chance in the new year, they just had to work out the details, Uncle clapped his hands together and nodded, “You see! All your hard work is paying off.” And because I was being good and pleasant, I refrained from rolling my eyes and instead said, “That's great, Sitan. Congratulations.”

But despite my efforts, Sitan merely flashed me an angry look. “Don't jinx me, man! Don't say that.”

“Fine,” I said. “Whatever.”

“Break a leg,” Uncle said helpfully. “That's what you're supposed to say.”

“Yo, thanks. Uncle gets it. He's dope. He's my number one fan.”

I thought but did not add, “He's your only fan.” Instead I curled up on the corner of the sofa with my paperback and bit my tongue.

On the third day, I was at work in the donut shop when the phone call came for Uncle. Anita answered the phone. “Why, no, sugar, he's not here right now, but this is La Petite Pâtisserie Khmère. Can I help you?”

I knew something was up immediately, because nobody called it that except Uncle. Nobody but Uncle and me in the letter to the reporter.

“Why, he should be in later this morning. He's usually back a little before noon.”

I listened eagerly to Anita's end of the conversation, but it was mostly affirmations, “Mm-hmm,” and “Yes, that's right,” and then driving directions.

She turned to me. “Strangest thing. A reporter from the newspaper called. He wants to interview James.”

“All right!” I slapped my hand against the countertop triumphantly. “I knew we could get them interested! I told the reporter we're having a Grand Opening. So if anyone asks, tell them that. For the New Year. For the training program. We can make up an excuse. When we started the Palace in Nebraska, Ma had a new Grand Opening every time she changed the menu or needed to get some new customers in.” I took off my apron and hung it on a hook on the wall. “I better run over to Copy Circle and make some signs.”

“Did you tell your Uncle?”

“No, it was going to be a surprise.”

Anita nodded. For a second I worried that she might be upset, that she might not understand, but then she only winked at me good-naturedly. “Well, you're quite the businesswoman. You know, this might be just the thing James needs. I better call him and make sure he comes back here before the reporter arrives.”

“Thanks, Anita!” I grabbed my jacket from the kitchen and ran out the back door. The sunlight seemed particularly bright. I'd never realized the sky was quite this blue, like a cerulean ocean, unbroken by any cloud. The pale gray pigeons pecking for garbage in the parking lot scattered as I ran past. They floated into the air like large, well-fed doves. It was a beautiful
day. My scheme was working perfectly. This was going to be the best Christmas ever, I just knew it.

By the time the reporter arrived, we were ready. I'd put up a “Grand Opening” banner across the front window. I couldn't afford the all-weather version, so I'd had it printed on regular paper and hung it on the inside. Anita had called Sitan and managed to get him to mop the front room and clean all the windows. I wiped down all the counters and rearranged the pastry case for maximum appeal while Anita piled her hair up on her head in a massive bun with a pair of shellacked chopsticks sticking in the back and re-applied her makeup in the bathroom. When she re-emerged, she looked spectacular, like she must have in her knife-throwing days, like a real badass. She even convinced Uncle to go back to the apartment and put on a suit. When he returned, I was shocked at how well he'd cleaned up. He'd only worn a suit once before that I'd ever seen, when he was trying to convince some Chinese gangsters from Omaha to buy our restaurant, but he'd been nervous then, exhausted, and the suit had been too large. It hung on his frame, and he'd looked merely desperate, and the gangsters hadn't bought the restaurant in the end.

Then I remembered. Once upon a time I'd seen a black-and-white photograph of our family from before the war. I was just a toddler in it, dressed to match my mother, with a bow in my hair. The handsome father in the picture had been unrecognizable to me, nothing like the man I called Uncle, who looked old and tired and had missing teeth. I was used to seeing Uncle look haggard, in work clothes, dark circles under his eyes, smelling of restaurant oil and the prep station. But in the photograph, Uncle was wearing a Western suit that fit just right over his shoulders. His hair was thick and black and shiny with pomade. He had all his teeth and he'd looked as handsome as a movie star.

Now, as Anita adjusted Uncle's tie, I caught a glimpse of the man from the photograph. He looked prosperous and intellectual, like the man he'd once been before Pol Pot, like somebody who'd gone to university and hadn't expected to work with his hands over hot oil the rest of his life. And the thought came to me that it wasn't just because this suit fit better, but rather it was the way he looked at Anita as she brushed the lint off his shoulders. His face was relaxed, calm, pleased even. It occurred to me that Uncle might be in love with Anita and that she probably loved him, and that they hadn't wanted me to see this right off the bat. They felt the need to hide from me, as though I represented something uncomfortable for both of them, and that my showing up might have inconvenienced them or at least complicated their relationship in ways I couldn't quite understand.

It wasn't like I cared if Uncle remarried. It wasn't like I'd report back to Ma. And even if I did, did Uncle think she shouldn't know?

Before I could contemplate this new situation, the reporter showed up, and we all put on our happy smiling faces and there wasn't anything more for me to observe.

That Sunday the article about Uncle made the front page: “Khmer Rouge Survivor Revives Sweet Culture.” It was a fluff piece, sentimental, and absolutely the kind of publicity I was hoping for. The article ran below the fold, which was a disappointment, but it was accompanied on the front page by a large photo of Uncle holding a tray of pastry, smiling and looking prosperous in his nice suit. There were a couple of smaller pictures on the jump page: the outside of the donut shop and a group shot of Uncle, Anita, Sitan, me, and three of the women who worked nights in Uncle's trainee program learning to make donuts and pastry. I was just a tiny dot in the background of the photo, but I folded the whole article up neatly and pressed it into my notebook.

Anita and Sitan were thrilled. Anita said she was going to buy a frame and put the article up on the wall of the donut shop, and Sitan circled his own face with a red pen and drew an arrow pointing to the Snugli hanging around his neck. He wrote his daughter's name in the margin.