Page 16 of The Good, the Bad, and the Aunties

“Oh no.” Abi shakes his head like a terrified schoolkid. “If it were to come from me, I think she might suspect me of lying. It would be preferable if you folks could explain to her what happened.”

Once again, alarm bells go off in my head. Abi is so jumpy, and what kind of business dealing would occur between two untrusting parties? But I don’t have a choice, so I might as well make the best of it. “Okay, well, maybe Nathan and I can explain to her—”

Big Aunt waves me into silence. “Have you kids be the oneexplaining? Very insulting. I will talk. I am head of family, I explain.”

“Why you?” Second Aunt snaps. “Is my—” She hesitates, glancing at Abi, and I feel the word “boyfriend” almost slithering out of her mouth before she swallows it back. “Abi is my friend,” she says finally. “So I will explain.”

Big Aunt snorts. “You? You will just end up insulting here and insulting there. No, I am best at explain.”

Oh god, this isn’t going well. “Nathan and I will explain!” I half shout. “Because... ah...” I scour my mind for possible excuses as to why it should be us and not them. “Because it’ll show that you’ve all done such a great job bringing me up. I’ll be so, so respectful, I promise.”

Nathan squeezes my hand and adds, “Yes, we’ll do it. We’ll make you all proud.”

Ma reaches over and pats him on the cheek. “Oh, Nathan, we all so proud of you already.”

I don’t know why they’re proud of him but not of me, but whatever.

“Thanks, Ma,” says Nathan the suck-up. “We’ll just apologize to her, explain what happened, and assure her that first thing in the morning, we’ll find the title deed and personally deliver it to her. Sound good?”

We all nod. His plan sounds so simple and straightforward that I can’t help but feel bolstered by it. Short and sweet and to the point. She can’t possibly take offense to that. We can do this. We’ll be home and in bed within the hour. Right, yeah.

But then the car arrives at the front of the estate, and my newfound confidence falters. In front of us is a gilded, ornate gate. The chauffeur opens his window and speaks into the intercom. “I have Mr. Abraham Lincoln Irawan here.”

There is a buzz, and the gates swing open, revealing a massive sprawl of manicured lawn, complete with a Grecian water fountain and about half a dozen black-clad guards milling about.

“Are those rifles?” I croak. “They are, aren’t they? They’re actual rifles. She’s got actual armed guards.”

Abi laughs. “Oh, my dear, they’re fake rifles, of course. Firearms are illegal in Indonesia, don’t you know? Only authorized personnel are allowed to have them.”

I stare at him. “Why would anyone have guards carrying fake firearms?”

“To deter potential burglars, to impress visitors, all sorts of reasons.” He waves at us to get out of the car, and with growing apprehension, I climb out and stare at the behemoth of a mansion before us.

I’d thought that our family home was big, but this house dwarfs it completely. At least five stories high, it looks like an actual Indonesian castle, complete with beautiful stonework. No doubt its grandiosity is supposed to humble visitors, and it works. I feel completely out of my depth, and painfully aware of the discrepancy in power. Compared to the owner of this house, I am nothing but an ant, easily squashed and forgotten. I’m about to beg my family to turn around and go home—no, not even go home, but speed all the way to the airport and jump onto any plane leaving the country—when the front doors open.

A woman wearing a gray pantsuit, her hair tied into an elegant ponytail, stands before us. “Good evening, Mr. Irawan. Ms. Handoko is expecting you. Please, follow me.”

We enter the foyer, where we are presented with a neat row of house slippers. We fumble to take off our shoes and put onthe slippers, after which we are led into the main hall, so large that it feels like a stadium. It feels as though every available surface is adorned with a beautiful carving, or draped with rich velvet, or hung with a priceless painting. It’s the most decadent room I have ever been in. The marble floors are so shiny that they reflect the many chandeliers hanging from the ceiling. As we are led deeper into the house, I jump when I pass by a marble pillar and spot yet another armed guard.

The rifles are fake, I tell myself. The problem is, I also do not believe myself at all.

We’re led into a private elevator, because of course this behemoth of a house has a private elevator. The doors of the elevator slide shut, enveloping us in uneasy silence. I look down at my feet to avoid making unwanted eye contact, and shrill laughter bubbles up my chest. With a huge amount of effort, I swallow it back down and force myself to take a deep breath. Keep it together, Meddy. So what if we’re going deeper inside the abode of someone who is very likely a mafia lord? So what if we’re surrounded by maybe-armed guards? We’ve done nothing wrong. Any sensible person would be able to see that we’re Average Joes, harmless and sincere and well-meaning.

Okay, well, Average Joes who have murdered someone, but that was an accident, so it shouldn’t count. Should it?

I glance around at the others, wondering if they look as nervous as I feel. Nathan is watching the numbers on the screen intently, his eyebrows knitted together in a thoughtful expression. I’ve often seen that same slight frown on his handsome face, usually when he’s trying to work out a knotty business deal. A small smile melts across my lips. Whenever he wears that expression, he’ll come up with some brilliant solution that nobody else would have thought of.

Big Aunt is glaring, eyes narrowed, at Abi, who is pretending not to notice the death glare she’s giving him. Second Aunt is—oh! Is she? She is. She’s holding Abi’s hand. Ah! I want to grin, but it seems highly inappropriate given the situation, so I bite it back, wrestling my mouth into a neutral position. I probably look like I’m having a stroke. Ma is wringing her hands, obviously very anxious. Poor thing. She’s probably wishing she could take a swig of her TCM right about now. Only Fourth Aunt looks like she’s enjoying herself, smiling as she studies her ridiculous nails.

There’s abingand the doors slide open. We all pile out, obviously relieved at not having to be cooped up in such close quarters with one another. We’re on the fourth floor, and as we walk out, our footsteps are swallowed by a lush, thick Turkish carpet. We’re led down the beautiful hallway to a set of double doors at the very end. Our guide knocks softly at the door.

“Masuk,” a voice calls out languidly.

Our guide opens the door with reverence, stands aside, and nods at us to go in. Big Aunt squares her shoulders, lifts her chin, and starts to stride forward, but Abi places his hand on her arm and murmurs, “Let me go in first.” Big Aunt frowns, but acquiesces, and Abi adjusts the collar of his shirt and walks in. Big Aunt follows closely, striding in with her usual confidence, and the rest of us hurry after her like ducklings. Here goes nothing.

The room is massive and decorated in the lavish style of an eighteenth-century French palace. Lush carpeting, silk upholstery, baroque furniture, and huge vases of fresh flowers that fill the vast space with their spicy-sweet scent. Atop a grand sofa sits a woman in her late fifties. She’s striking, her hair an icy silver that makes her look fresh and alert instead of old. It’s puffed up, of course, in the usual huge Chinese-Indo hairstylethat defies gravity. Despite the fact that it’s nearly midnight, her makeup is flawless, her lips colored in perfectly and her eyelids lined so sharply they could cut someone. She’s giving me serious Michelle Yeoh vibes, including Michelle Yeoh’s deadly martial arts ability.

Abi lowers his head in deference. “Julia, thank you for seeing us.”

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