by May-lee Chai
That night, I decided to call Ma from the pay phone near the bus stop. Uncle had been talking on the phone nearly nonstop since we’d come home from church. Everyone was calling him to offer congratulations, to wish him a Merry Christmas, to share their own stories. He talked on and on, apparently having the same conversation over and over. Finally I decided not to wait for the calls to end, stuffed my wallet in the pocket of my hoodie, and slipped outside.
The night air was chilly, and I wrapped my arms around my chest as I ran down the sidewalk. There was very little traffic out—everyone was at home with their families—and the night seemed darker and somehow colder for the lack of cars and people. I could see the blinking lights wrapped around the front of the apartment building, and a few Christmas trees lit up the dark windows. A bench by the phone booth advertised the latest holiday blockbuster, but the stars’ teeth had long been blackened by vandals, the smiling Santa tagged. The giant “Ho, Ho, Ho!” no longer seemed festive now that it was surrounded by obscenities and a giant arrow that suggested it was a slur against any woman who should happen to sit on the bench.
I pulled out my quarters and laid them carefully atop the metal phone. As I dropped them into the slot, I practiced what I would say in case Ma wanted to know how preparations for the internship interview were going (“Busy!”) or what I’d done that day (church and then dinner with my roommate’s family) and a wild card—what if she asked to speak to my roommate’s mother? Ma was pretty confident in her English nowadays. She might just want to check to see if I was behaving myself. I decided I’d tell her that the parents were opening presents and that’s why I’d stepped away to call her.
I waited while the phone rang and rang. Then Marie’s cheerful voice answered: “Hello?”
“Marie! Merry Chris—”
“You’ve reached the Chhim residence. Sorry we had to miss your call, but please leave a message! We’ll get right back to you!”
There was a long beep.
“Hi, Ma! Marie, Jennifer, Sam! Merry Christmas! It’s Nea!” I realized that sounded stupid. I tried again, “I miss you all! I hope you had a great day. It’s really cool out here in California. I mean, it’s actually kind of warm, but that’s what’s cool. There’s a big palm tree right in front of me and—” The phone beeped a second time and cut me off.
I decided to call the Palace and fished out more quarters. Ma used to keep the restaurant open every holiday when I was growing up. She’d backed off after the twins started high school, allowing them to take one major holiday off, but maybe she’d changed her mind this year. I pressed the phone to my ear, hoping, as I listened to the familiar ring.
Then it was Sam’s deep voice: “You’ve reached the Silver Palace. Leave a message after the beep.”
“Merry Christmas, everybody!” I called into the answering machine, just in case they were screening the calls. But nobody came to answer. I left my greetings, then hung up.
Walking back to the apartment, I practiced my smile in the dark. I didn’t want Uncle to see how I felt. I didn’t want my loneliness to ruin his happy day.
PART SIX
If you see a tiger crouching, don’t assume it’s kowtowing to you.
—traditional Cambodian proverb
CHAPTER 16
The Day After
When I was eleven and we were all living together in Nebraska, trying to make the Silver Palace a success, Uncle used to like to talk about the miracles he’d witnessed in Phnom Penh when he was growing up. The canary that learned to sing in Khmer. The new year fireworks that had lasted for three weeks, exploding continuously without ever having to be re-lit. The windstorm that had sent the nuns who taught at his lycée tumbling into the sky on the very day he’d prayed for a miracle because he hadn’t had time to prepare for an important exam. He’d arrived at the school to discover the nuns flying through the air, blown away by the storm, and classes cancelled while the laymen raced on bicycles, chasing the nuns to see where they would land.
Perhaps Uncle was used to miracles, but they made me nervous as a kid. I kept waiting for the day after, when we had to keep living the rest of our lives.
The day after Christmas, business was better than ever at the donut shop. Uncle called me and asked if I could take the bus in to work. He apologized, said he couldn’t step away even to pick me up. There were that many customers.
“It’s a true miracle from God,” Uncle said. I could hear voices in the background, it sounded like singing. I could barely hear what Uncle said next, but it sounded like, “Is your brother back?”
But then there was a loud voice and he was distracted, telling someone the price of the palmières, and even though I said, “What did you say? I couldn’t hear you,” over and over, loudly, into the receiver, he hung up without saying anything more.
Had he slipped and referred to Paul as my brother? Or was I merely imagining what I’d wanted him to say?
I threw on a sweatshirt and jeans and ran a comb through my hair. I jumped into my shoes, grabbed my backpack by the door, and ran all the way to the bus stop. I was so excited. So eager.
Even before the bus stopped, I could see the line wending its way around the donut shop, through the parking lot, and down the sidewalk of the strip mall, past the grocery, the Copy Circle, the video store, and the tanning salon. I hadn’t realized until this moment how a priest’s word of a miracle would be good for business, how one man’s found son might inspire hope for other wishes to come true: a marriage repaired, a lottery won, a wound healed. I had forgotten how people in a small, poor community would bank on the hope that luck was contagious.
I ran in the back entrance through the kitchen, where the fans were whirring nonstop and the Kasim sisters were still working, showing a group of teenage girls how to knead dough. I greeted them with a sompeah and a smile, hung my coat on a hook on the wall, then ran into the front room where customers were lined up patiently as Uncle dispensed the remaining donuts and pastries, one each, into white paper bags and Anita rang up the purchases. Uncle was explaining to one woman how he’d prayed every day for ten years, longer, and finally his prayers were answered. “If only my wife had lived to see this day,” he said, “but I know she sees from Heaven and she is smiling.” The woman clutched the bag with the donut in it to her chest and nodded, tears welling up in her eyes. She grabbed hold of his hand and whispered something I couldn’t quite make out. “I’m sure your prayers will be answered, too,” Uncle told her. “Look at me. I am proof.”
I sidled up to Anita at the cash register. “Glad you’re here, Nea. Your uncle’s been working nonstop. If he doesn’t take a break, I’m afraid he’s going to drop!”
“I can’t believe all these people are here. We could charge double,” I whispered.
“Oh, hush. It’s all I can do to keep your uncle from giving the donuts away.” But then Anita winked, so I figured she must have managed to talk him out of that plan. Plus, it was a good sign that someone had called the Kasim sisters and the bakers. Thinking ahead, trying to keep the pastry in stock, training new workers. Business was going so well, I almost couldn’t believe it.
If only Paul were there, I knew Uncle would be perfectly happy.
Where that left me, I wasn’t sure.
By sunset, around five, it was just Sitan and me manning the counter. Anita had finally convinced Uncle that he needed to rest. All the Nicorette, Sudafed, and caffeine in the world could only go so far. The crowd, however, had not thinned. In fact, it seemed that coming for miracle donuts was supplanting the return of gifts as the Day After Christmas activity of choice. Sitan and I had taken to selling the donut holes one at a time to make them last, but when I saw that we’d clearly be out of pastry, I ran up and down the line outdoors telling people they’d have to come back tomorrow. I handed out a flyer that I’d quickly made up at the copy shop: “Come back tomorrow! Fresh pastry! Hear about the miracle LIVE!” I’d included our operating hours and phone number and a coupon for catering,
which I wasn’t sure if Uncle ever wanted to offer, but it seemed like a good idea, like something to branch into.
Now as I stood next to Sitan as he bagged up the last three donut holes, I could see the rest of the people outside staring inside. Our shop was the brightest thing in the strip mall, our fluorescent lights bouncing off the linoleum and the white walls. I felt like a fish in an aquarium, exposed to eyes that I couldn’t even see. The sun had long set, and darkness had settled suddenly on the parking lot, the few streetlights sparking to life, their bulbs glowing dimly like small yellow candles on a large dark cake. They cast a crooked triangle of light throughout the parking lot, but not directly onto the sidewalk in front of the donut shop. People emerged from the darkness into the bright white lights of our windows and peered wide-eyed at us inside. I felt bad when I had to tell them we were finally out of donuts, but at least nobody got angry. They clutched the flyers I handed them, nodded without arguing, and marched away into the dark parking lot, some of them heading toward the bus stop across the street. I guess people who were looking for a miracle had a particular kind of patience.
I was wiping down the counters while Sitan filled up the mop bucket in the back when there was a sharp rap on the glass door. A baby-faced little boy smiled back at me.
I pointed to the “Closed” sign, and he pointed to his mouth and shook his head.
I wiped my hands on my jeans and went to open the door. “I’m sorry, we’re all sold out today. You’ll have to come tomorrow when we’re open.”
The kid shook his head at me. Suddenly two men in ski masks ran up to the door, shoved me hard so that I fell backward into the shop, and slammed the door behind me.
One of them grabbed me by the arm and threw me against the counter. “Open the cash register, bitch,” and I felt a sharp metal something jammed up hard against my ribs.
I tried not to panic. Everything seemed too bright. I could see the empty counters, the dishrag on the Formica, the black metal of the register.
“Hurry up, bitch, or you’re dead.” The man’s voice was slurred, breathy.
My ears were ringing, hypersensitive. I could hear the water in the pipes, the traffic on the street, the hum of the fluorescent lights. Only my heart was gone. I couldn’t hear its beat.
I wanted to warn Sitan, who had gone into the kitchen, but I couldn’t speak. I pressed “sale,” but the register wouldn’t open. I tried again.
“Hurry up!” the man growled.
Sitan emerged from the back carrying the bucket and the long-handled mop. The second man lifted a piece of pipe he’d been carrying and ran at Sitan.
“No, wait! Here’s the money! Here!” I shouted, finding my voice at last. The cash door sprang open, and I waved a fistful of cash in the air.
The second man hit Sitan, who fell to the floor. I screamed and, remembering Anita’s knives, I patted around on the shelf under the counter till I felt the edges of the wooden box. I snapped the lid open and pulled out a long blade. The metal was cold under my fingers, surprisingly heavy, but the weight well balanced. It felt lethal. “Get out!” I shouted, and threw the knife. It whizzed through the air, missing both men by a good three feet and striking the Christmas tree with a thwack, but at least I got the second man’s attention. He stopped hitting Sitan. I grabbed another knife, and even Sitan ducked this time.
“Crazy bitch!” The thug crouched, holding up his arms like a shield before his face. “Let’s go!”
The first man grabbed the cash from the register. He pointed the metal pipe directly at my head. “Watch it, tiger girl.”
I raised another knife, held it between us, and then, narrowing my eyes, aimed at his head. “Grr,” I said, threatening to throw it.
The two men ran out the front door.
Blood gushed down Sitan’s face. He clutched his head with both hands.
I pulled some napkins from the dispenser and handed them to Sitan. I ran to the front door and locked it. I ran to the back door and locked it.
Someone was screaming. I assumed it was Sitan, but when I ran back into the front room, Sitan was standing quietly, patting his head with the napkins.
I swallowed, and the screaming stopped.
“I’m calling an ambulance! Don’t move!” I said.
“S’alright. Don’t call an ambulance. It’s just a cut.”
“You’re bleeding all over the place!”
“I can’t afford an ambulance.” Sitan kicked the wall, then kicked the kitchen door. It swung into the bucket and dumped it over, spilling soapy water all over the linoleum. “I can’t believe it. I let myself be sucker punched like that.”
I called 911. “I’m calling to report a robbery. At Happy Donuts. Six-two-five-five El Camino Boulevard. There were two armed men. And a kid. I think the kid was part of it—”
“Slow down, miss.” The dispatcher’s voice was unimpressed. “What exactly happened now?”
“Armed robbery. Two men. My friend’s hurt. He’s bleeding. A lot. There’s blood everywhere.”
She seemed happier to hear that. Or at least more alert. “I’ll send an ambulance.”
“Don’t send an ambulance. Just the cops. I mean, the police.”
“If he’s hurt, I’ve got to send an ambulance.”
“He’s gonna drive himself to the hospital. Actually, he’s already going. Just send the police.”
Then the operator wanted to know what the men had looked like, and I realized I couldn’t tell her. “They had ski masks.”
“You got any closed-circuit security cameras?”
“No. I don’t think so.” I looked around the donut shop, hoping there were security cameras I’d never noticed before, but no. No cameras. Nothing.
“Just stay there. Don’t let your friend go. I’m sending a squad car.”
I was shaking by the time the cops arrived. Furious at myself. I must have lost my edge in college. I’d forgotten to always keep an eye open, to never let my guard down. Now I couldn’t identify the robbers; I didn’t remember what they were wearing beyond the black ski masks and the heavy dark puffer jackets, the jeans. I wasn’t sure of how tall they were, their weight, their ethnicity. I couldn’t even tell the police how much money they’d stolen. We hadn’t had time yet to count the day’s take.
“Most important thing is you’re okay,” the first police officer said after I’d given my worthless account. “Staying alive, staying healthy, that’s the important thing. I always say, Don’t play a hero. That’s how you end up dead.”
“Well, I didn’t play any hero.” To my surprise, I suddenly burst into tears. Hot angry tears, the kind I used to cry when I had a fight with Ma, when she wouldn’t listen to me, when she acted as though all my efforts to help were a burden.
“It’s okay, miss,” the second officer said. “This is the kind of ending we like. Where everybody’s alive. This is the happy ending, as far as we’re concerned.”
I nodded and tried to smile, but this wasn’t the happy ending I’d been imagining. This wasn’t happy at all, and I turned my face to the wall so they wouldn’t see me crying, wouldn’t see how my face turned red and splotchy, how my eyes swelled up, how my nose ran like a snot faucet.
I couldn’t help but feel I’d screwed the whole day up.
“There was a kid,” I said, remembering just as the police were going to leave. “He was this high.” I held my hand just below my shoulder. I didn’t know if he was white or just pale.
The police gave me the report number so I could call if I remembered any more important details, and I knew then that this was the end of it.
There was nothing to do after the police left but to finish cleaning up. Sitan didn’t want to go to the hospital; he said he was fine, and there was no convincing him otherwise. So I said I’d tell Uncle the bad news when I went back to the apartment. Sitan put the boom box on full volume and turned the dial to a rap station so we could clean to the angry growl of N.W.A.
“You know, it’s kinda fun
ny. I used to belong to a gang,” Sitan said, pushing the mop in rhythm to “Straight Out of Compton.”
“You mentioned that.” Sitan with his round Buddha face and his gentle smile. I couldn’t imagine him carrying a gun or a knife, threatening to hurt people, but I also didn’t know him very well.
“Sold crack for a while, too,” he said. “That was a messed-up time for me.”
“Is that when you met your girlfriend?”
“Naw. Afterwards. That’s why her parents didn’t trust me. They thought I was some gangbanger. They know my brother’s in prison. They figured I’d end up there, too.”
“They’ll come around,” I said. “They’ll see you’ve changed.”
“I wanted a family, you know? I thought the gang was where it was at. I thought: These are my brothers. They’ll look out for me. I’ll look out for them. That’s what they want you to think,” he said. “But they really just thought I was some stupid little kid who’d do anything they said. Didn’t see that until too late. I got arrested. I got a record now. And now my girlfriend’s parents think I’m no good.” He methodically dipped the mop in the bucket, wrung it out on the side, dipped it in again, wrung the liquid out of the filthy yarn head. “I had to leave Lillian with her mother again today. I know what her parents are thinking. They think I can’t support my own kid.” He mopped the floor now as though he were plowing a field
Sitan reminded me of my brother, Sam. They both struck me as fundamentally lonely. I thought of Sam working prep, sitting alone in the kitchen of the Palace slicing carrots, dicing bell peppers, all his athleticism concentrated in the smooth, precise chops of his knife. He’d grown used to being the only Cambodian boy in our town. He’d dropped out of wrestling; he hadn’t been able to find any new friends in that too-small town. No wonder he wanted to join the army, I thought. All those promises of finding an entire band of brothers. I wished he could meet Sitan, but then I’d have to admit to Ma that I’d lied, that I’d come here to find Uncle. I didn’t see how I could arrange one without the other, and I wasn’t ready to face Ma’s anger.
