Everyone understands but you. The space between Ibu and Bapak is a cindered bridge that remains standing. This house is never still. The land where it stands is tilled with crimson. Though Ibu’s salted fish has gotten rid of the smell, you still see it. Staining the dirt floor like ruby batik as the gas lamp sways. The walls are built from Ibu’s sacrum, but it’s Bapak they wait for in the evenings. How they disguise him. While Ibu and Mbok tear banana leaves, you’re told to steep tea for him and his guest, whose kebaya is green as papaya skin. It is a gift you’ve earned with age–how to beguile ambrosia from dead leaves and pour it for Bapak to drink. You don’t look at him—or the woman beside him—as you shuffle into the sitting room. You know she’s beautiful. As are all the other bees stuck to his honeyed face. Even when he does nothing, it’s the doing of nothing that makes his presence an act of ownership. He asks her if she thinks you’re ready to marry. Dheweke bakal éndah kaya jeng Singah. Ibu’s name falls out of her throat like a felled palm. You’re not sure if beauty is what you want. Bapak has punished Ibu for hers–turning the village over to find anyone who can stand to rival it. The village men, the soldiers, all want to prune her radiance like wild sundung. You find it strange that the same malediction doesn’t befall Bapak. His beauty makes him a master without consequence. A week from now, you will pour a different woman the same liquid amber. But tonight this one will take Ibu’s side of the tikar. Bapak will slide the bamboo partition closed after Ibu touches her forehead to the back of his hand. She will hold you in another room when the walls begin to whine. You will want to ask her why. Swallowed by sleep, the question will deaden on your tongue.