Page 59 of The Good, the Bad, and the Aunties

Another complaint? But this one looks like it came from Kristofer. I’m so confused right now. I take out my phone and open up a search window. I pause for a second, unsure what to look for. Finally, I Google the address “Jln. Tulodong No. 1, Jakarta Selatan.”

The first hit is the official website for a huge skyscraper. The byline says: Jakarta’s Premier Office Building. I click on the site, scroll down the page, which is filled with impressive pictures of the eighty-floor steel and glass structure, all the way to the bottom, where there is a line saying: Owned by ABLIN Corp.

ABLIN. Abraham Lincoln.

So the property at Jln. Tulodong is a skyscraper owned by Abi, and when he was in the middle of building said skyscraper, Kristofer had lodged a complaint to the buildingregulations ministry to sabotage him. I Google the address on the other letter, and sure enough, it comes up with a hotel that’s owned by Kristofer’s company. I sift through the other documents, all of them in the same vein. Complaint after complaint after complaint. These two men consistently, doggedly reporting each other to the regulations board to try to disrupt each other’s businesses. And, more than that, there are other documents—ones showing how Kristofer had tried to outbid Abi on a plot of land, another showing that Abi had made a merger with a company Kristofer had been eyeing, and so on. They go back as far as thirty years ago.

Hopelessness threatens to crush me. This war was a long time coming. I’d had an inkling before coming here that there’s history between Abi and Kristofer, but I hadn’t known, would never have guessed, how deep their hatred toward each other runs. It was inevitable, then, after decades of subterfuge, for things to escalate to this point. I can’t see any possibilities that would lead to the two men backing down.

But right on the tail of hopelessness comes the anger in a surprisingly strong wave. My hands ball into fists, paper crackling underneath them. These two men. These two selfish, childish, petty men. No, not men. They’re boys. Boys who think the world is their playground, who think that sabotaging each other’s businesses is part of playtime. Maybe it was. Maybe when it all started, they were legit rivals. But over the years, it has festered into something more, something resembling hatred, and now they’ve dragged my family into this twisted game of theirs. How dare they? They must not care for anyone else but themselves. Bastards.

I storm out of the study, a battle rhythm pounding in myhead. But as soon as I get into the hallway, uncertainty clutches at my stomach. What am I doing? What’s my plan? Am I about to go down and tell Kristofer and Abi off?

Yes.

In Kristofer’s own house?

Uh-huh.

Surrounded by his men?

Okay, maybe I need to rethink this for a bit. What I need is some form of protection. A weapon. I gnaw on my lower lip. It feels as though my mind is moving so fast, crashing in every direction, that I can’t even really tell what makes sense and what doesn’t. Yes, I need a weapon. I glance back at the study, then think better of it and go instead into Kristofer’s bedroom. I’m willing to bet that Kristofer is the kind of guy who sleeps with a gun under his pillow.

The master bedroom is, as one would expect, exquisite. I rush past the chaise lounge and baby grand and go straight to the bed, pulling the rows of pillows off frantically. Nothing. No guns. Damn it. Bedside tables! I wrench open the drawer from the left bedside table and find only a couple of paperback novels and a pair of reading glasses. Really? Kristofer’s the kind of guy who reads in bed? I run to the other side of the bed and yank out the drawer of the other table. This one contains a hardcover book. With a cry of frustration, I pick up the book, intending to fling it across the room—let Kristofer come back to a destroyed room, then—but something flutters out from between the pages.

It’s a letter, written in shaky handwriting, as though whoever wrote it was a millennial who’s always on their phone and has forgotten how to handwrite. Or maybe they were in pain.

My dear Kris,

Thank you for being a wonderful husband and father. You have done your duty, I have no complaints as your wife for the past thirty-six years, aside from your snoring. I know you have learned to love me over the years, though never quite as passionately as I loved you, but you did your best, and you took care to never let the children see. But I know, and you know, that your heart was never mine. I used to hate her for it, but now I am thankful to her. Because the love you had and still have for her has made you the best husband I could have wished for. Go to her, my love. Well, not right away—what will people think? Wait a year, then go to her. With flowers. Don’t be a fool.

Love,

Marjie

I gaze down at the letter in my hands for what feels like an eternity. Marjie. Those photos I saw in Kristofer’s study. The wedding picture where he was looking into the camera and his bride was gazing with open adoration up at him. “Though never quite as passionately as I loved you.” A thin sob catches in my throat. This is a letter from his wife. His dead wife. Telling him that she knew for over thirty years that he had always been in love with someone else. God, this is awful. My heart aches for this woman I have never, and will never, meet. Something tells me that if she were still around, we wouldn’t be in this situation right now.

“Marjie,” I whisper, “what the hell do I do?”

As though she were in the room with me, I feel a sense of calm wash over me, even if only for a moment. I close my eyes, calming my mind, calling it to stay still and not thrash about. I need to save my family, yes, but me panicking isn’t going to achieve that. Don’t be a fool, Marjie told Kristofer, and yeah, I hear you on that, Marjie. My breath releases in a long sigh. In spite of everything, I feel sorry for Kristofer. The letter has shown me a new side of him. Poor Marjie, loving someone for over thirty years, knowing that she was never his first choice. And poor Kristofer, in love with another woman this whole time. That’s a long time to pine for someone. He must’ve been in his teens when he fell in love with her.

Teens.

Julia Child’s words flash across my mind like lightning.We were teens, the three of us, and living together at our guardian’s house. Kristofer was a strapping lad. You should’ve seen him. But, of course, he turned out to be a petty child.

The years of rivalry with Abi. Kristofer going out of his way to actively sabotage Abi’s business. It’s not a normal way to behave, not even toward a business rival. There has to be something more personal behind it, and this is it. A love triangle.

Of course. When they were teens, Kristofer must have been in love with Julia Child, but then she dated Abi—

No. He wouldn’t have dated her, because Abi had always been in love with someone else. Second Aunt.

So Kristofer was in love with Julia Child, but he thought that she and Abi were an item, when in reality, Abi was mooning after Second Aunt. Kristofer must have had a fight with Julia Child after that, and they’d gone their separate ways, andsince then, the three of them have been in this toxic rivalry that has bled into their businesses.

Could this be true? Could all of this mess really have been born out of this strange love—not love triangle but love square? It seems too ridiculous to be true.

Who am I kidding? Literal wars have been fought, countless lives ended, over sillier reasons. Love is perhaps the only thing worth fighting over. And it isn’t just love, is it? For years, they’ve lived in a tenuous peace, Julia Child avoiding Abi and Kristofer while the two men kept their battles strictly to business. Years and years of passive-aggressive acts, and it only came to a head because of me and my family. If we hadn’t come here, if Fourth Aunt hadn’t called Abi to join our Chinese New Year celebration, if we hadn’t let Rochelle take the special red packet, if we hadn’t body slammed her for it... Every step of the way, our involvement was what pushed this conflict into erupting. In a way, this mess we’re in is very much our own fault. And it’s time I clean itup.

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