Tiger Girl (6 page)

I couldn't figure Uncle out.

I waited another ten minutes, just to make sure Uncle wasn't going to change his mind and come back, and then I jumped up and began investigating the apartment. I searched his bedroom, but it was as spartan as the rest of the apartment. A queen-sized bed with a plain headboard, a few blankets, a dresser with his socks, underwear, and T-shirts folded neatly inside. A few pairs of pants, some shirts, and a couple of blazers hung in his closet.

I wondered if he had a second house somewhere, a place he really lived that he wasn't willing to show me. As I went through his medicine cabinet, I found prescriptions, but
nothing exciting. Meds for hypertension, headaches, arthritis. Sudafed. Nicotine gum. Sensitive-gum toothpaste. One toothbrush. A comb with a gray hair winding through the teeth. Tweezers, nail clippers. Something for corns and heavy-duty foot cream. A bottle of Suave two-in-one shampoo and conditioner in the shower, along with a bar of white soap. A towel on the towel bar.

I looked through the trash can under the sink—empty tube of Cankaid, some Kleenex, paper towels used to clean something. I looked through the fridge—a bag of salad greens, Chinese takeout in Styrofoam containers, apples, an orange, soda pop, and a carton of soy milk. The cabinets were almost bare: ramen, rice, Nescafé, tea, bouillon cubes, Campbell's soup, powdered non-dairy creamer, soy sauce, but no fish sauce or even Sriracha. Maybe he had stomach trouble? Maybe he had a secret second family that I didn't know about and he was going to their house? He hadn't told me because he didn't want Ma or Sourdi and Mr. Chhay to find out?

Was he punishing himself for having survived after Auntie died?

I went through the drawers in the kitchen—a cleaver, a couple of butter knives, forks, spoons, a package of disposable chopsticks, a can opener, more Sudafed, matchbooks, emergency candles, a potholder (burned on one edge), plastic wrap, twist ties, sandwich bags, loose rubber bands, a small ball of twine. Under the sink—another garbage can (empty), a box of bargain-brand trash bags, lots of pink plastic bags saved from the Asian grocery store near the donut shop, Comet, Ivory Liquid, a sponge, Mr. Fantastic spray, Lysol, Pinesol, and an unopened bag of sponges. At least he had plenty of cleaning supplies.

I looked in the hall closet by the front door and stood on tiptoe and felt around on the top shelf and pulled down a green
plastic bag of Pampers, half-empty. I wondered whose baby needed these diapers.

I wondered if I should look under the mattress, feel if it had been carved out, see if something could be hidden within? Should I use the tool kit and pry open the electric sockets, see if anything was hidden in the walls? All Ma's usual hiding places. But what would be hidden? Uncle's savings? I didn't want money. Our family photo from long, long ago?

Something of Auntie's?

Something of mine?

I sat on the sofa, the light from the ceiling lamp in the kitchen glowing like the reflection of the moon in a puddle, and wondered what I had gotten myself into.

Late that night, I finally unfolded the sofa and made the bed with the sheets Uncle had left folded on the armrest. I wasn't particularly sleepy, but I thought it was the polite thing to do.

I lay in the dark, listening to a mixtape on my Walkman and watching the streetlamps cast shadows of tree limbs and the iron bars of the patio's guardrail across the ceiling.

The air still smelled of sugar and flour, and I realized groggily before I drifted off into a dream that I should have taken a shower while I had the apartment to myself.

I woke to the sound of footsteps. I opened my eyes and saw a shadowy figure standing in the middle of the room. My heart jerked before I realized it was Uncle. He turned, and I closed my eyes quickly, my first reaction, and then waited for him to say something or move or do
something
. But he seemed to be standing still in the middle of the room, doing nothing. Or perhaps he was watching me.

Finally, when I could stand it no longer, I fluttered my eyes open as though I were just awakening from a deep slumber, but the room was empty. No one was standing over me. Uncle was
nowhere I could see. I sat up slowly and looked around myself at the dark shapes of the furniture, but I was the only person in the living room. Uncle's bedroom door was closed. I couldn't remember if I'd left it open or not. Quietly, I got up and tiptoed to the door. Leaning close, I listened with my ear cupped to the wood. From deep within, I could hear Uncle's soft snores. He muttered to himself occasionally, an anxious but conversational tone, but I couldn't make out any of the words. He might have been arguing or praying. I couldn't even tell in which language he was dreaming anymore.

The next morning Uncle made us breakfast—omelettes and toast. He must have stopped by the grocery store before coming home last night.

“Just like a hotel,” he said grandly, a dish towel draped over his arm as he set my plate before me. “Voilà, Mademoiselle.” I giggled despite myself at his fancy manners.

He sat across from me at the table and picked up his fork and knife. “So, do you like your university? You are the first member of our family in America to go to school.”

“It's okay,” I said.

He nodded. “What is your major?”

“I'm still undeclared.” I tried to think of a way to change the subject. “The donut shop is a lot of work for you.”

“I know that university is very expensive in America. I will help you out, of course.”

So that's why he thinks I'm here? To make him pay for my college?
I put my fork down. If he wanted to play games, I might as well forget about being polite and just confront him. Ask him why he didn't tell me that he was really my father, not my uncle. I took a deep breath, and the dry, burnt feeling of toast crumbs coated the back of my throat. I coughed and coughed.

Alarmed, Uncle poured a glass of water and offered it to me.

Tears welled up in my eyes, and I took huge gasps of air, like a fish that had leaped too high and accidentally beached
itself onto its river's bank. I struggled not to panic. Finally, when I could stop coughing, I drank the glass of water, but my throat still felt as though it were coated in fiberglass.

“Don't worry. We shouldn't talk of important things when we're eating,” Uncle said. He took my plate.

I gulped more water. “Sorry.”

Uncle shook his head. “If you're ready, we can go.”

And so we headed back to the donut shop without my getting any closer to the truth.

Anita was already at work. She was serving up donuts for a line of nurses in scrubs who were either on their way to work or possibly on their way home after a night shift.

Miraculously, all the cases were filled with new pastries.

The air smelled like sugar and coffee, with just a faint whiff of Anita's cigarette smoke.

Then I saw him behind the counter, the thug from last night. He was wearing a white apron over a white T-shirt and torn jeans, and his muscled arms were covered in tattoos: long lines of Khmer script, four Chinese characters, and a snarling tiger. I almost didn't notice that his right hand was injured. His thumb and index finger were missing.

“Hi there, sugar,” Anita called out. “Have a bite before you get to work.”

“Thanks, but we already ate,” I said, and I followed Uncle into the kitchen. There were giant batter-spattered metal bowls, rotary blades, spatulas, and baking trays piled high in the stainless steel sinks. “You must have an army of people come in overnight.” I whistled. “I can start on the dishes.”

“Sitan will help you. Normally he'll be back here, but it's busy this morning.” Uncle disappeared into a supply closet and re-emerged with a pile of flattened cardboard boxes.

“More donations?” I asked.

Uncle nodded. “I'll be back soon. Just have to make my morning rounds.”

I knew he was going to give away half his stock again, and the businesswoman in me cringed. But I wasn't here to tell Uncle how to run his business. I bit my tongue.

“You want me to help you assemble all those?”

Uncle looked distracted, and, for a second, he seemed not to understand what I'd said to him. He looked at me sadly, then looked back at the pile of cardboard.

“It's no problem,” I said, and gently took one of the boxes from him and folded it along its scored sides. “I can do them all.”

“I never thought—” Uncle began, then stopped. He turned away.

“Are you all right?” I wondered if he might actually be ill. He seemed paler, and he was blinking rapidly.

“I'm very happy you're here,” Uncle said, but he wouldn't look at me.

After I folded up all the boxes, Uncle filled them with fresh pastries and headed out. Neither Anita nor Sitan seemed surprised by his behavior.

The morning rush had petered out and there was only a young mother with a toddler on her hip grabbing a morning donut.

The thug flirted with her shamelessly, and the woman blushed and smiled and ordered an extra bear claw to go.

“He's a charmer, isn't he?” Anita nudged me. “All the ladies fall in love with him.”

I rolled my eyes. “Not my type,” I said.

The mother with the toddler headed out, glancing one last time over her shoulder as she waved with her fingertips. I refrained from groaning.

There was a loud cry from a baby seat parked in the corner booth, and at first I thought the woman had actually been so distracted that she'd left her kid behind. Then Sitan hopped over the counter and rushed to the baby's side, cooing and rattling a toy at it.

“You brought your kid?”

“Daycare's a waste of money. What's it to you?”

“Now, you two, don't fight. I have something to show you. You'll never guess what I found waiting for me when I got home last night.” Anita hurried into the kitchen through the swinging doors and returned with a compact box. She hefted it onto the countertop. “My knives came,” she said proudly.

“Yo, that's dope,” Sitan proclaimed.

“Now where did James put the scissors?” She searched through the drawers behind the counter.

Sitan pulled out a Swiss Army knife attached to his jeans by a chain. Holding the package steady with the three fingers on his right hand, he held the knife with his left and carefully sliced open the packing tape.

Anita sorted through the Styrofoam peanuts and pulled out a large knife attached by several dozen twist ties to a thick square of cardboard.

“Is that like a Ginsu?” I squinted at the writing on the package.

“It slices, it dices. It can cut a can, it can slice a tomato! But wait! There's more!” Sitan put on his best infomercial voice.

“No, these are even better,” Anita said. She patiently, carefully untwisted the ties, one by one. “These are my throwing knives.”

“Anita used to be famous,” Sitan said. “She was on
That's Incredible!
, magicians of the world episode.” Sitan added, proudly, “I saw it.”

“You're too young.”

“No, I swear, I saw it. You were da bomb, Anita.” He smiled so that all his strong, white teeth showed. I could see how some women might find him attractive.

“You were a magician? That's amazing,” I said to Anita.

Anita narrowed her green eyes a little, just enough for me to imagine what she might look like when she was genuinely angry. “Oh, honey, no. I don't do
illusions
.” She reacted as though I'd accused her of turning tricks. “I'm a knife thrower. I filled in between acts while the magicians were setting up backstage.”

“She can throw flaming spears, too.”

“Among other things. But mostly I specialized in knives,” Anita said. She took out the long, pointed knife and held it up to the light as she examined the blade.

“That actually looks really sharp,” I said. “I always thought those knives were fake in those shows. So nobody would get hurt.”

Anita and Sitan turned to each other in disbelief and laughed. Sitan bounced his baby on his hip. “You hear that, Lillian? College Girl thinks they're fake!” He made his eyes bulge out comically, and his daughter giggled, too.

Anita shook her head. “Don't touch my knives, sugar. They're sharp all right.” She pulled a paper napkin out of the metal dispenser on the counter and held it over her knife blade, then let the napkin fall. The paper fell into two shivering halves as it hit the metal edge.

“Show her what it'll do to a Coke can, Anita!” Sitan ran over to the cooler case and pulled out a Coca-Cola. “Here.”

“No, no, no. I don't want to waste the blade. But if you're interested—”

“Yeah! Do it, Anita! Show her!”

“I can throw a few for you.”

“You mean, like at a target?” Not at a human target, I hoped.

She smiled girlishly and turned to wink at Sitan. She pulled off her apron and folded it neatly on the countertop. “Well then. Let's go out back, Nea.”

I followed Anita out the kitchen door, where there was a dumpster and a pile of scrap wood and broken cinder blocks. Anita set one of the wood boards on the blocks, which she kicked into place with her foot. She took a step back, squinted, then nodded.

“That should do it,” she said. “Come here. I'll show you something.”

Anita set the knife case on the asphalt beside her and opened it with a click. The sunlight glinted off the long, thin blades within. She pulled her hair back with a scrunchie. Then she slowly raised her right hand and peered between the V formed by her index and middle fingers, while she picked up a knife with her left hand. There was a loud THWONK! The knife hit the board point-first and remained lodged there.

“Five inches to the right.” Anita picked another knife up and, again, it hit the board with a THWONK! before I even knew she'd released it.

“Call it,” Anita said.