There were twenty-nine star sapphires, thirty-six rubies, and forty-seven emeralds, sparkling in the sun’s bright light.
Uncle Ho was a rich man.
“There were many men who did not have the money to pay their gambling debts,” Uncle Ho explained. “They paid me in gems. That gave me the idea to convert some of my other earnings into what you see here. I wrapped them in bird droppings so no one would know what they were.”
He turned to Madam Jia then. “I think it is best to wrap them now, in soft cloth, and put them back in the birdcages. It has been a safe place for many years. I will take them with me toJames’s house and think about what I should do next. But I must decide before tomorrow afternoon.”
“Why tomorrow afternoon?” I asked.
“I must be at the airport then to rejoin the group.”
“Were you supposed to go with them to the Grand Canyon?”
“Yes, but after we arrived in Los Angeles and passed through immigration, I slipped away. Since there were only six of us, it is certain that I was missed. When I join them, I will just say that I lost my way in the airport in Los Angeles. It is a confusing place.”
Maybe they’d believe him, and maybe they wouldn’t, but what I wanted to know was what happened after that. “And just like that, you found someone to drive you here? How did you manage that?”
Uncle Ho smiled. “I will tell you that at another time. We must go now.”
I got up and said goodbye to Madam Jia and told Uncle Ho I’d wait in the car for him. Madam Jia let me out through the garden.
It wasn’t long before the front door of the shop opened and Uncle Ho appeared with a birdcage in each hand. Madam Jia held the door for him. To anyone who might be watching she was just saying goodbye to a customer, not someone she had known a lifetime ago.
It was well past lunchtime when we got home. Uncle Ho said he wasn’t hungry and wanted to rest for a while and think about what he should do next. I helped him upstairs with the birdcages, aware of how much wealth I held in one hand.
I made myself a sandwich and thought about all that had happened since my parents had left for work that morning. I grabbed a Coke from the fridge and went into the family room and turned on the TV. It was set to the local news channel. A bulletin came on, obviously a follow-up to a story they’d been monitoring all morning. One of the local anchors was reading an announcement.
Two helicopters collided and crashed in the Grand Canyonshortly after dawn this morning in a surprise lightning storm. There are no survivors. The bodies of both pilots have been identified. The passengers were Chinese tourists, traveling in a group. Their final destination in the U.S. was Las Vegas. There is some question as to whether there were five or six passengers on board the flights. Only five bodies have been found.
I sat there, staring at the screen, thinking I should probably call my parents, but I couldn’t imagine telling them all of this over the phone. I thought of Uncle Ho. I wasn’t ready for that either.
Another bulletin came on.
The families of the pilots have been notified of their deaths. Authorities have released the names of the six Chinese tourists who were scheduled to be aboard the two helicopters. As a special service to our viewers in the Chinese community, their names can be found on our Web site.
I went up to my room and sat down at my computer. The Web site listed the names in Chinese with English transliterations beside them. There were six names. Ho was one of them. I went back downstairs and flipped on the TV.
I must have fallen asleep, because the next thing I knew my mother’s hand was on my shoulder, shaking me awake. Dad was standing beside her. The TV was still on.
I sat up and stared at them. For a minute I thought the whole thing had been a dream.
“We heard the news as we were driving home,” my mother said. “It’s dreadful. I wonder if it’s the group Uncle Ho was traveling with.”
“Where’s Uncle Ho?” I asked.
“We just got home. I guess he’s in his room.”
“I’ll go check.”
I started up the stairs. All sorts of questions were chasing around in my head. One thing was sure. The next time the relatives got together, I’d have an Uncle Ho story to top them all.
HOUSE RULES by Libby Fischer Hellmann
If Marge Farley had known what was in store during her vacation to Las Vegas, she might have gone to the Wisconsin Dells instead. At the very least, she might not have taken the side trip into the desert. But she’d been craving something new and different, which was why they’d come to Vegas in the first place. And she’d surprised her husband Larry with a trip to Red Rock Canyon to cheer him up.
But Larry ignored the petrified sand dunes, the waterfalls cascading into the canyons, and the red-tailed hawks soaring high above the Mojave. Polishing off both bottles of water, he stomped back to the car. He swiped beads of sweat off his forehead. Wet bands ringed the back of his shirt. “This isn’t fun. It’s too hot. And dusty. Let’s go back.”
Marge tried to focus on the craggy rock formations in the distance. The desk clerk at the hotel concierge said this was the place to visit. And Dr. Phil said there were times you had to decide what was important in a relationship. Lord knows, she was trying. But Larry’d had what you might call a setback last night. A fifteen thousand-dollar setback.
“It’s not fair.” He moaned when they’d stumbled out of the casino. “Why couldn’t we have Benny Morrison’s luck?”
She’d heard the story a thousand times. How their friend Benny took his wife to Vegas and won fifty grand at the tables before they even unpacked. How he flew up to their room, grabbed their bags, and told Frances they were going home-that very minute-to build a swimming pool in their back yard. Larry still did a slow burn every time the Morrisons invited them over.
But Larry had never had much luck. Marge pulled the visor of her cap down and contemplated a pink cactus flower not faraway. So they’d skip the next vacation. Postpone the bathroom remodeling. Life wasn’t about money, anyway. It was a spiritual journey. Like they said on “Oxygen.” In fact, hadn’t some woman said something about mantras last week? How they made for peace and tranquility? She should share that with Larry. As she tried to remember exactly what the woman had said, something near the flowers glinted in the sun and broke her concentration. “Look at that!”
Larry grudgingly turned around. “What is it now?”
Marge took off her sunglasses. “Something’s over there. By the flowers. It’s glittering.”
“It’s probably a frigging gum wrapper.”
She headed over. “Then we should definitely pick it up. How could someone even think of littering in a place like this?”
“Marge…” Larry followed her over, bumping into her when she came to a sudden stop. “What the-?”
“Look!” Marge pointed. Behind the flowers a piece of metal was sticking out of the sand.
“Lemme see.” Larry squinted and crept closer. “Looks like some kind of box.” He peered at it, then felt around it with his shoe. They heard a metallic thump. Larry’s eyebrows shot up. He bent over the box.
“Wait!” Marge cut in. “Don’t touch it.” She hugged her arms and looked around. “You have no idea what’s in there.”
Larry looked up. “For Christ’s sake, Marge, it’s just a box.” He squatted down beside it.
“Hold on. Stop. Isn’t-isn’t this where they dump all the radiation stuff?”
“Huh?”
“You know, spent fuel rods, the waste from reactors? Like they talk about on TV? They transport it into the desert and dump it in places where nobody lives.”
“Marge, that’s in Wyoming. And you’re talking about huge containers. The size of railroad cars. Not little boxes.”