Tiger Girl (12 page)

She's going to be no help at all, I thought.

Then the teenagers left and the gangbanger made his move. He stepped forward toward the cash register, without even bothering to pretend to want to buy anything.

“Excuse me,” the gangbanger said softly. He reached under his shirt into the back pocket of his baggy jeans and I thought, This is it, he's got a gun, he's going to hold us up, and dammit, on the very first week we start making real money. I tried to think of something I could do, like pretend to get him a donut and pull out a tray and hit him with it instead, but then he pulled out a newspaper clipping. He unfolded it, smoothed it on the counter, and I saw it was the story about Uncle. The gangbanger pointed to Uncle's smiling face in the picture. “This man, the owner, I'd like to see him.”

I bet you would, I thought. “Why?” I demanded.

“He sure is the owner, sugar,” Anita said. “But he's not in right now.”

The gangbanger looked disappointed. His shoulders slumped, and I wondered why he would need to rob the owner in particular. “I came all the way from L.A.”

“L.A.! My goodness, that's a drive! Well, don't feel bad, sug'. He should be here any minute. He usually stops in to help close up. Why don't you have a seat and wait?” She pointed to the booth, and the gangbanger nodded and went to take his seat.

I couldn't believe how dense Anita was. She offered the wannabe thief some coffee, then tea. We only had a few jellyrolls left that Sitan had dropped on the kitchen floor. They'd exploded, breaking open so the jelly squirted out, but Sitan had picked them up quickly and set them aside so we could eat them ourselves later. Now I heard Anita calling them “a kitchen accident” as she offered one to the gangbanger. “They're still delicious,” she said.

“Anita,” I grabbed the cuff of her blouse. “You don't know what you're doing.”

“Oh, yes I do,” she said. “He's just shy. Look how he's looking at you, girl! He's just working up his nerve to make his move.”

“That's what I'm afraid of,” I said, but Anita wouldn't listen. She picked up the broom and made as though to leave us alone while she went to sweep up the paper and soda cans and cigarette butts and other crap that people left littered in front of the shop.

Then Sitan popped out of the kitchen, carrying his duffel bag. “Is it okay if I take off? I should pick up my girl from the sitter.”

“Wait, Uncle's not here yet!” I said.

“Go ahead, Sitan. You've worked more than a full day, sweetheart.”

“But I need you to help me clean up!” I cried out. I could not believe that Anita was going to leave us alone and vulnerable. I didn't know how to explain it, but I could sense there was something odd about this gang guy. My arms were covered with goosepimples, as though a cold wind were suddenly blowing through the shop. “Can't you stay, Sitan?”

“Okay, sure, Nea.” Sitan put down his duffel, but Anita picked it up and put it in his hand. “I'll help tonight. Go ahead and go. Scoot now!”

Sitan smiled, waved, and headed out the door.

Then Anita disappeared into the kitchen.

At this point, alone with the gangbanger, I wondered if it wasn't fated that I should die ironically in a meaningless robbery in my own father's donut shop in a failed and pathetic attempt to get him to acknowledge me.

Yet the gangster made no moves. He continued to sit in the booth, sipping his coffee and eating the remains of the jellyroll. He had surprisingly good table manners and didn't leave crumbs all over the Formica like other customers, but brushed them up with a napkin.

I decided there was no point in my being a martyr, so I bundled up the trash and left the gangster alone in the shop.
If he wanted to rob us, let him. I carried the Hefty bag to the dumpster on the far edge of the parking lot. It was completely dark now, the night air cold. It wasn't Nebraska cold—I certainly would have considered it a heat wave if it were in the forties in December back home—but I'd grown used to the thick sunshine of Santa Bonita during the day. Now that the sun had set, there were only the pale yellow puddles from the lights in the parking lot and the cacophony of blinking Christmas lights along the strip mall. I shivered as my breath pooled before my head like an empty thought bubble.

A stream of cars pulled into the lot. The lights flashed against the dumpster, the cars turned round the bend, and I thought, This is it, the gangbanger's accomplices, but then some of the cars pulled up to the grocery, and others rattled over the speed bumps and headed out the back exit to the alley, trying to avoid the traffic on the main street. The hair stood up on my arms, and I realized I was chilled and foolish to be standing outside waiting for disaster. I tossed the Hefty bag and ran back to the donut shop.

The gangster was still seated in the booth. He held his head in his hands, his eyes closed, his lips moving as though he were rehearsing something, and I wondered if he was practicing his line that this was a holdup.

Then, as though he could read my thoughts, he opened his eyes and stared directly at me.

It was creepy, the way he looked at me. Startled and intense at the same time. As though I frightened him for some reason. Maybe he could tell I had him figured out, I thought.

Anita offered him some more coffee.

I shook my head and went about wiping down the counters.

After another half hour, the gangster got tired of waiting. He nodded at Anita and thanked her for the coffee and the
exploded jellyroll, then left a dollar tip on the tabletop when she said the coffee was on the house. He folded the clipping back into his pocket and walked back into the dark parking lot.

“You think he's coming back?” Anita peered through the window into the dark. “Poor fellow. Drove all that way.”

“That's weird, Anita. It's not a good sign.” I locked the door and flipped the sign on the window to “Closed.”

Finally, after another fifteen minutes, which felt like thirty, Uncle returned. I watched his headlights flash against the front door as he parked. He bounded in the front door.

“I had the best day,” he beamed. He told Anita eagerly about a family he'd helped. The grandfather had complained of chest pain, but the doctors couldn't find anything wrong with his heart. The man kept telling his family that a ghost was sitting on his chest, and Uncle had recognized this as a sign of PTSD and had been able to translate for the man so that he was able to see a specialist to help with his anxiety. In the meantime, the family was going to contact a monk and see if a ceremony could be performed for the man's wife, who had died under Pol Pot. “The man felt so guilty, he was certain his wife's ghost was visiting him at night, sitting on his chest.” After Uncle spoke to him, the man admitted that he was afraid his wife was lost in the netherworld, unable to find her way to Hell, where she'd be able to be judged and re-enter the cycle of samsara. “I told him the monks would be able to chant her soul back to sleep. He shouldn't worry anymore. We will help him.”

After he told all this to Anita, it felt trivial to brag to him about our great sales. Or to berate him for coming back so late. Or to mention the gangster who'd driven from L.A. Although he'd spooked me, now that I'd had time to think about it, I realized the man was probably just looking for a job.

“I feel I am finally able to help people,” Uncle said, his face slightly sweaty, his eyes aglow from a light burning inside him.

“Did you remember to eat?” Anita asked. “I've told you, you can't just live on my Nicorette and black coffee all day long.”

Uncle nodded, blinking as though he were waking from a long and beautiful dream. “We should eat. Yes,” he said. “Are you hungry? It's dark.” He looked out the windows as though noticing for the first time that the whole day had passed. Then he announced that he'd take us to Denny's. He went to use the bathroom while we waited.

I pulled the plug on the Christmas lights. I didn't want the whole tree to go up in flames while we were out. I traced one of the Apsaras cookies. I wished I could send some home to the twins. My sisters would like these ornaments, I knew, although Ma might find them too racy. Thinking about my family, I felt a little lonely again.

“Cheer up, honey. I bet he'll be back tomorrow,” Anita said, startling me. She'd come up behind me and I hadn't noticed.

“I'm not interested in that gang guy,” I said.

Anita raised an eyebrow, but didn't push the issue. “You know, James is very happy to have you here.”

“No, he's not!” The anger I felt surprised me.

“Honey, he's not very good at talking about his feelings. He's doing his best.”

“Yes,” I said, wishing she'd stop making excuses for him.

“You've worked so hard since you got here. You've really turned business around. This is the happiest I've ever seen James. This is the first year since his wife died that he's had a tree or put up any decorations. I think he was punishing himself. He blamed himself for her death, you know.”

“Wait, you knew Auntie?”

“I met them when they first opened. I needed a job and they hired me.”

I hadn't realized Anita had known my birth mother. I felt suddenly more exposed. She knew things about Auntie that I
didn't. Maybe she knew things about me, too. But then I shook my head. I didn't think Auntie would confide in a stranger. She was too damaged, too embittered. Maybe if she'd had someone she could confide in, she wouldn't have overdosed.

“Your uncle used to work in the donut shop around the clock,” Anita continued. “It was a different place in those days. He made the donuts himself. He cleaned the place night and day, he kept it spic and span, but it wasn't like now. I don't mean to criticize, don't get me wrong, but it wasn't exactly a happy place. Then when his wife passed away, James blamed himself. He was at work when it happened. He didn't find her until too late.”

“There was nothing he could have done. She'd tried to kill herself before.”

“But he did blame himself. After that, it was like he hated himself for being alive. He won't say it, but he's been suffering ever since. If God wouldn't punish him, he'd punish himself. But now he's changing. He's got a purpose. He's happier. You've made him feel this way.”

I sighed. Anita didn't know the half of it. For all I could tell, Uncle was manically spending his time with other people to avoid me. But I didn't know how to tell her this. I didn't know how to explain all that had passed in our family, all the complications. And I didn't want to betray my own quixotic dreams, didn't want to be disappointed or exposed or both. Somehow, voicing my desire for acceptance made me feel naive and stupid, like someone who could be lied to, someone who could be hurt, again and again and again. I didn't know how to explain that I wanted to wait for the right moment, a safe moment, when I knew that Uncle was truly proud of me, and that I was truly worthy of love. Only then would I tell him that I knew his secret, my secret. Our secret. If I chose the wrong moment, I was sure I'd ruin everything.

“Ready to go?” Uncle asked behind us, emerging from the kitchen doors.

Anita put a too-bright smile on her face. “You bet, sugar! We were just saying how hungry we were.”

I thought, What a rotten actress Anita is, but I was genuinely impressed at how quickly she tried to mask her own feelings and put Uncle at ease. For his part, Uncle pretended to believe her.

I wished I had their energy for cheerful dissembling, but I didn't.

On Sunday morning, Uncle made breakfast for me, still buoyed by his happy feelings from the night before. He made French omelettes with toast and very thick black coffee, but I noticed he didn't eat. He pushed his eggs around his plate, took a handful of Sudafed with his black coffee, stuck more Nicorette in his pocket, and returned to work. Anita and Sitan had the day off, so it was just him and me, but he didn't speak much to me. Instead he chatted with the customers, thanked them for coming, nodded when they told him stories about their own hard lives. Now that everyone knew the story of his suffering in the paper, people wanted to share, as though he were suddenly an expert in misery. They told him about failed marriages, broken homes, family fights, lost jobs, lost fortunes, lost dreams. He smiled and nodded, as though to say, I know exactly what you mean.

I looked around for the gangster, but he didn't come, and I felt relieved.

The next day, there was a large crowd for the 8:00 a.m. shift, even bigger than the previous week. Sitan greeted me with a smile, waving from behind the counter as he rung up another customer. I had quickly dropped off my backpack in the kitchen, tied on an apron, and come out front, when I realized he was wearing his Snugli with his daughter in it. She burbled
happily, blowing spit bubbles over her fist, which was wedged in her mouth.

That was probably a violation of some health code, I thought. I instinctively scanned the crowd, looking for disgruntled snitch faces, but everyone seemed focused on the pastry cases.

I was feeling grumpy and tired. I hadn't slept well. A week and a half on the sofa was taking its toll. I tried to muster a smile as I took my place behind the counter next to Sitan, who slapped me on the back enthusiastically. “Another boffo day!” he said. “Everybody wants their Cambo-Donuts!”

His daughter took her hand out of her mouth and crowed triumphantly, then socked me with a fist of saliva.

“Another great day,” I agreed, stifling a yawn.

Then we turned back to the hungry crowd.

I was mentally on autopilot till noon, when, along with another wave of customers, Anita came in to take over for Sitan.

That was when I noticed that the gangbanger had returned. He was dressed the exact same as before, white T, baggy jeans, shades. He waited in the back of the crowd, watching, as he let everyone else step in front of him and order their pastry. I thought we should call the cops right now, even if it turned out to be a false alarm. I'd give them a dozen donuts to make up for it.