Tiger Girl (10 page)

“When you're famous, you'll have to come back and autograph this for us!” Anita said to him, and Sitan beamed.

Uncle, for his part, was silent. He kept the shop open only from eight to one on Sundays, for the before and after church business, but he stayed for the whole shift, chewing Nicorette and popping Sudafed tablets to stay awake. I'd been observing
him for a nearly a week, and I'd figured out some of his tricks for keeping alert and working so much. I hoped the article made him proud, or at least pleased that his business was getting some recognition, but he didn't say anything. His old customers smiled at him and told him they'd seen him in the paper. Some said they didn't know he was a Khmer Rouge survivor, how it was terrible he'd lost his family. He thanked them, but I couldn't tell if he was happy or merely polite, or, worse, deep down a little anxious from the attention.

When it was time to close, Anita announced that they'd made double their usual take for a Sunday.

“Must be because of the article,” I said, fishing for a compliment. “Good thing I wrote that reporter.”

“He did a really good job,” Sitan said. “Kept it real.”

“Such a lovely photograph of James!” Anita nodded. “I don't know why the paper never thought to run an article before now.”

“Yeah, they need to step up their reporting,” Sitan said. “This community's got stories. You want to cry, I could tell you some stories. For real, man.”

Then Uncle said that to celebrate he was going to take us all out to eat.

And, for the first time all morning, I relaxed a little bit, the tension in my neck and shoulders releasing just a tad. I hadn't realized how tightly I'd been holding myself, as though waiting to see how Uncle would react were a physical act, like carrying a heavy weight or lifting barbells above my head. Seeing that Uncle wanted to celebrate, I knew that he'd decided the article was a good thing; seeing Anita and Sitan happy had made him happy. Up until that moment, I wasn't sure how he felt, and perhaps he hadn't been sure either.

Uncle drove us to a small Mexican restaurant, El Patio, where the owner knew Uncle's name and greeted him with a
smile and a clap on the back. “We haven't seen you in a while, James,” the man said. “Then I see you in the paper today! Congratulations!”

“It's a lucky day,” Uncle said, smiling.

The man led us to a big booth in the back underneath a wreath of chili peppers on the wall. Christmas carols played in Spanish over the sound system. The room smelled of smoke and chilies, cigarettes and salsa. It was bustling and friendly and the whole family seemed to be working there: from the bored teenage girl at the cash register to the boys carrying the trays and the little kid sitting on a stool spinning round and round at the counter. The place reminded me of the Palace, and I felt a twinge of homesickness.

At the Palace, the twins liked to plant themselves at the cash register up front so they could greet all the customers—said it gave them opportunities to practice their beauty queen smiles—but Sam had taken to working in the kitchen, refusing to come out. Ever since he'd given up wrestling, he'd become withdrawn, solitary, silent. He sat at the prep counter, television propped on a shelf with the volume blaring, as he watched the high school wrestling matches from out of state and all those ads for the army, promising a band of brothers. No wonder my lonely brother wanted to enlist.

While waiting for our food to arrive, Uncle and Anita shared a cigarette and Sitan told jokes about some of his club gigs—the rowdy crowds, the times he'd had to escape quickly, running through the parking lot because he thought he'd be robbed. He spoke as though these tough times were long behind him, as though he were already a star reminiscing about the hard early days, able to laugh now because those days were distant and over.

I wondered—if Sam ever met Sitan, could they become friends? Was this the kind of buddy he needed? Maybe he
wouldn't have to leave us and become a soldier, moving to a base overseas, if he only had a friend here he could confide in.

It was funny how a little bit of good luck, a little bit of good news, could make everybody feel fortunate and optimistic. Even me. Sitting in the red vinyl booth next to Anita and Sitan, watching Uncle smile as he drew on one of Anita's cigarettes and then released the smoke in a long, languid cloud, I could believe that we'd turned a bend in our bad luck, in our difficult times, and that from now on things would only get better and better.

On Monday morning business was booming at the donut shop. Because of the article, we were a curiosity, something to be experienced and discussed. We were hot.

We sold out of everything by the time the noon lunch crowd rolled in. Some of the regulars were disappointed that they couldn't get their usual donuts. Anita whistled. “The after-work crowd is not going to like this.”

I had no sympathy. “Tell them to come in the morning next time, before they go to work,” I said. “We can sell out even faster that way. Maybe we can start taking advance orders.”

Sitan brought out a bag of donut holes that he'd put aside. “It's been so busy, I didn't have time to eat breakfast,” he said. “But I saved us some.”

Anita popped one in her mouth. “My hero!”

Out of politeness, I took a small bite, but to my surprise the dough tasted sweet instead of dusty this time, like a fresh lychee—light and tasty and exactly what I'd craved.

I brought out my notebook while they snacked.

“If business keeps up, we'll have to expand production. Maybe some of the bakers could come in and start another batch of donuts before the after-school and after-work crowds. Also, we could jazz up the menu and start passing out samples
while we're still attracting all the curiosity seekers. Maybe offer picnic lunches to go. What do you think?”

Sitan grew excited. “I had these ideas. You know, kinda make a special flavor of the month? Like Super Fly Chocolate Love and D.J. Fresh Flava Spice. You know, something I can relate to.”

“That's great,” I said, scribbling his suggestions down. I wasn't about to quash his enthusiasm. He could work out the details, like the actual flavors, later. “I'm putting you down for coming up with new names.”

Anita traced the outline of her tattoo on her arm. “I've always wanted to explore the tastes of Cambodia. Maybe do a savory donut. Like cardamom. Or tarragon. Maybe a hot pepper donut.” Anita licked the sugar off her fingers one by one.

“Fantastic!” I said. “Maybe you and Sitan could collaborate?”

Anita took the pencil off her ear and started writing on a paper napkin. “We could do just a small batch to begin. Maybe I'll start small at home so I don't ruin anything.”

“I bet anything you come up with the bakers could design a special icing for. Or a special shape.”

Anita nodded, enthused. “They're real artists. James found two women, the Kasim sisters, who were trained by French pastry chefs before Pol Pot. I bet they could create something unique.”

“Great! I'll let you explain to Uncle what you want to do. In the meantime, I'll design a flyer with some coupons for today. When the after-school crowd comes, even if we don't have enough donuts to sell them, we don't want to turn anyone away empty-handed. I'll give them a flyer so they'll want to come back tomorrow.”

“You a business major, college girl?” Sitan asked. “They teach you all this stuff?”

“No, I have
real
experience. My mother tried everything with our restaurant in Nebraska. I learned from her.”

Then, high from our sugar break, we all set to work. Sitan cleaned up, Anita got a hold of the Kasim sisters, who agreed to come in to work on another batch, and I went over to the Copy Circle and started designing a flyer. All-New Flavor of the Month. Super Fly Flavor of the Week. Secret Flavor Preview! Delicioso Donut of the Day. Mekong Melt in Your Mouth. Naga Magic Eclair. Apsaras Heavenly Cream. I kept trying different combinations of words, wondering if I could find the perfect one that would entice customers. That would make the business a success. That would make Uncle proud of me. The way my plans were working out, I could almost imagine calling the reporter next week with the big reveal: the return of the lost daughter, the family reunion that should land us a story above the fold.

By the time I came back to the shop with a test batch of flyers, two of the bakers had arrived. Anita introduced me to the Kasim sisters. They were Cham Muslims who'd survived the Khmer Rouge, she said, even though most of their family had not. They'd been sponsored by a Catholic church in Fresno, but moved down here after discovering a cousin working in the Inland Empire. They were putting their aprons over their clothes, but still wore colorful checked
krama
scarves draped over their hair. They smiled at me as I greeted them in the kitchen.

I pulled on a white apron. “I'll help. Just let me know what you need me to do.”

They tittered behind their hands. “Mademoiselle, you can watch and stay out of our way.”

They floured the counter and set to work, bringing the bowls of butter out of the refrigerator, and I realized they
were going to make another batch of pastry, not donuts, which excited me. I'd wanted to raise the prices on the pastry, and now, with everything else sold out, this would be the perfect opportunity.

Even as the heat rose in the kitchen—despite the three fans blowing full-force and the back door open with another fan wedged in the jamb to suck out more of the hot air—the sisters did not seem to break a sweat. They conferred with each other, speaking in low voices, their black eyes fixed on the pastry dough that they rolled and shaped on the wooden cutting boards.

I helped Sitan wash the mixing bowls, the blades, the spoons, the icing bags and tips, and the chopping boards while Anita waited out front, serving coffee to all the new people who happened by, drawn by the newspaper article. She remembered to pass out my flyers urging customers to come back again to try our special flavors—changed daily! I'd written, figuring I was only exaggerating a little—while promising that a new batch of pastry would be ready by five.

I could just imagine Uncle's face when he came in after his trip to the hospital, where he was still acting as a translator for a sick family. How excited he'd be to see the donut shop actually crowded with paying customers, people who appreciated his pastries, the throngs at the counter, the line out the door. How happy and surprised he'd be. I'd try to act modest, to defer all the compliments, to remember to share the praise with Sitan and Anita and the Kasim sisters. I'd tell him about phase two of the plan, how we'd use this week or two of special attention to plant the seeds for long-term customers. We'd keep building on the momentum, week after week, until we were the best donut shop in the city. I could get restaurant critics from bigger papers to come by. I'd issue invitations, we could sponsor events, maybe host late-nights when we stayed open just to launch a new flavor. We'd create a brand name. Uncle could
afford to open a second location, and we could renovate the shop—spruce up the front so it didn't have to look old and sad. We could make it look like Phnom Penh as Anita remembered it, before the war. We could add a pretty sign. Sitan would have his own franchise and maybe his girlfriend would come back and marry him. I could work here full time; I could move to California, establish residency; maybe I could get my sisters to go here for college, too. Even Sam might decide not to enlist straight out of high school, and instead move out to work here and find a friend.

But I was getting ahead of myself, drunk on dreams of happiness. That was dangerous, I knew.

I focused on washing the mixing bowl in my hands, letting the hot water slosh over the stiff dough, the soapsuds breaking down the flour and butter, and rubbing the sides with the scrubber until the metal gleamed. Still, I couldn't help but feel I was rubbing a magic lamp, the kind with a cartoon genie that popped out to grant me wishes. My heart felt that light and free.

Business was booming the whole week after the newspaper article ran. Uncle was ecstatic, but not quite in the way I'd expected. “Everyone has read the article. Everyone. And everyone shared with me their own stories.”

“Father Juan showed it around the homeless shelter?” Anita smiled.

“And at the hospital the nurses and the doctors saw it. At the youth center, the battered women's center, the free clinic, everyone read it. Everywhere I go, everyone wants to tell me what happened to them, too.” Uncle shook his head as though he couldn't believe his good fortune.

He told us that from the hospice rounds to the food bank to the daycare center, all the other refugees wanted to tell him
what had happened to their own families under the Khmer Rouge, how their children had died, or their parents, or their families. How they heard the dead crying in their dreams, weeping on the wind, wailing in the dead of night.

How horrible, I thought.

But Uncle was overjoyed. Everyone was talking to him, telling him their troubles, sharing what they hadn't wanted to say before, when he'd seemed like a lucky man who'd escaped before the Khmer Rouge took over, like a man who wasn't like them, a man who couldn't possibly understand.

I'd wanted Uncle to see the donut shop as a success. I'd wanted him to see what a good businesswoman I was and be impressed and proud. Not this.

“There is so much suffering in the world,” Uncle said. “There is so much suffering among my people. But today I know I was spared for a reason. I will devote myself to helping them all.”

I hadn't imagined Uncle's survivor's guilt could get any worse. I was wrong.

I was mopping up the sticky floor, sloshing suds of Pine-Sol across the tile. Hearing Uncle talk, I wondered if he even remembered that I was the one who'd written the press release, called the newspaper, found the reporter who'd written the story in the first place.