by May-lee Chai
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 spe
ctacular, 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.
CHAPTER 9
The Good News
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.
“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 donu
ts. 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.
