Bath Haus

by P. J. Vernon

  “You’ve done very well providing us this photo,” Detective Henning says. “Bathhouses are required by law to keep registers of patrons. I’ll let you know what turns up.”

  I exhale. “Thank you.”

  She opens the folder to a pile of waiting forms. Humiliating and invasive queries thirsty for wet ink. “I want to emphasize something else. Your well-being. You’re a victim, Oliver. I can put you in touch with services. People you can talk to. Counselors. Would you like contacts?”

  “Yes.” Though I won’t be speaking with anyone on any list. Victim services are completely outside the scope of my mission here.

  As I put pen to paper, she pushes her card across the table. “You can call me. Anytime. If you recall details, want updates, anything.” The smile she wore when she first walked in reappears, suggesting our time is over. “And I may contact you. If we locate your attacker.”

  “Sure.” I wince as crime TV flickers through my mind. Perps in lineups. Victim IDs. “Of course, whatever needs to happen.”

  “Thanks, Oliver.”

  If she calls, when she calls, I’ll figure it out. Nathan works in twelve- to fifteen-hour stretches. There’ll be plenty of ways to cross that bridge when it comes.

  She abandons me to complete my paperwork. The forms. The details. The timeline. A description of Kristian—I’m careful to note the accent and its perceived origin. My own medical history, with a heavy focus on all things tawdry.

  When I’ve finished, another officer returns me to Detective Henning.

  “Perfect.” She tucks the folder under her arm and we walk up front together. On the way, I order an Uber and grow guiltily confident. Detective Rachel Henning seems to maybe get it. The entirety of my situation, that is. There’s nothing special about it. Just another person caught in the wrong place at the wrong time. I put myself there, which I take responsibility for, but knowledge of that fact must stay out of my relationship.

  Just before reception, she stops and turns my way.

  “Please have your throat looked at,” she says. “If not by your partner, then somebody.”

  * * *

  • •

  The Uber peels off into darkness, and I find an unwelcome guest waiting at the house. Tom. Fucking Tom Vogt.

  I search vehicles on both sides of the dimly lit street, making sure my eyes aren’t lying. His Audi convertible sits across from our place—top down. Goddammit. I told Nathan no. I told him I didn’t want company. Why didn’t he listen? Even if he didn’t believe me, why couldn’t he just respect my wishes?

  Nathan is such a fucking parent. I pause, noting how quickly I’ve returned to square one. From covering up to longing to resentment over the course of a single day. The guilt makes me even angrier.

  “Oliver!” Tom strides my way. He waves both hands wildly like a Gucci’d-up circus chimpanzee. A smarmy, lanky, smug kind of corporate gay.

  “Tom.” I half-ass a smile. “How are you?”

  He embraces me too tight and our chests press. When he pulls back, worry lengthens his face. “Oh my god, Oliver. Nathan called me. He told me everything. I can’t believe it.” Tom wears his usual handmade blazer atop his usual pressed button-down and tailored slacks. He must’ve driven straight from work, tapered crocodile shoes clacking on city sidewalk.

  I hope he didn’t see what car I got out of—

  “You just Uber home?”

  “Yeah.” Heat crawls up my back. “Had to run a quick—”

  “Were you at the ER?”

  “—errand.” What’s with the rapid-fire questions? Is this a wellness check or has Tom been tasked with something else? “The ER is overkill for this.”

  “You’re not a doctor, Oliver.”

  “It’s not a big deal.” Masking my irritation isn’t so easy. Even if Nathan called him, Tom has my number. Tom didn’t have to be a surprise. Something unsettling says he wanted to be just that.

  “Oliver, my god. Not a big deal? You were mugged. And…” He leans in. I shut my eyes tight. “Your throat. Jesus. Does it hurt?”

  “I’m fine. I mean, it’s okay. It did hurt, but it doesn’t now.” He follows me up the front steps. This won’t be effortless; he won’t conclude his presence is unnecessary at best. I fumble with my house key. Tom hangs back a few feet, waiting to be invited in like a vampire.

  “Want, like, a drink or something?”

  “Please, and I hope you’ll have one too.” He plucks his phone from an unseen jacket pocket. “You’ve sure as hell earned one.”

  Earned one? I’m being rewarded for surviving with both his company and a cocktail?

  I unlock the front door. Tom’s eyes are on his screen, ballerina thumbs pirouetting over slick glass. Part of me is grateful his attention is elsewhere. Another slice resents him even more for it. Some friend of Nathan’s. I’ve been assaulted, and he can’t be bothered to keep his phone out of sight while he dutifully checks in.

  But Tom’s important. A Senate staffer. Duty never stops calling, I guess.

  I’m in the foyer when he taps my shoulder. “You missed this.”

  “What?” I spin, and he pinches an envelope between two fingers like a cigarette. Pastel stationery that might accompany any corner-store card.

  He shrugs. “Must’ve fallen from the slot.”

  Right, I haven’t checked the mailbox since Nathan flew out Wednesday.

  “Thanks.” I take the envelope along with the rest of the mail—bills and a Williams Sonoma catalog for the Williams Sonoma dream house it was delivered to—and set the whole stack on the entryway table. Square envelope on top.

  “What can I get you?” I gesture to the drawing room’s bar cart.

  “Scotch if you’ve got it. Just a finger or two,” he says.

  As I pour two drinks, I track Tom in the corner of my eye. Salt-and-pepper hair artfully disheveled. Fingers racing across his phone at light speed. He loosens a top button and meanders into the library, stopping beneath the decades-old portrait of Nathan’s parents. Kathy’s grimace cranks a burner in my lizard brain. Hot as the Fourth of July we flew to New York for me to meet her.

  The sweltering stroll down East Sixty-second Street to the Kleins’ co-op had brought my greatest nightmare to breathing, beating life: they were that rich. By the time we passed Park Avenue, the heat and the panic had me gasping. Even the doorman gave a pity nod when we walked into icy air and carpeting so plush I nearly sank to my ankles. Kathy didn’t open her own front door but stood waiting in the foyer, crossbow cocked and ready.

  “This must be Olivier,” she greeted.

  “Great to meet you, Kathy.” I reached for a handshake that never happened. “It’s actually Oliver.”

  “He’s very handsome, Nathan.” The dual precedents of mispronouncing my name and speaking of me in the third person were set. We followed her wake of rosewater perfume deeper into a gilded WASP nest, and she turned to say, “If he’d like to smoke, he can use the terrace off the dining room.”

  Nathan shot me a look. “Oliver doesn’t smoke.”

  “Curious.” Kathy’s jaw tensed and for the first and last time, we made eye contact. “Thought I smelled cigarettes. In any case, if he changes his mind, he knows just where to go.”

  I’d bit hard into my lip and finished her thought: hell.

  “At least it’s not hanging over your bed,” Tom says, catching me staring at the painting. He wanders back into the drawing room, still banging away at his phone.

  “Is that work?” I ask, offering a tumbler.

  “No.” He pushes his tongue against the inside of his cheek. “MeetLockr. There’s a Republican conference at the Kennedy Center. I’m up to my balls in midwestern closet cases. Literally.”

  “Here.” I thrust his drink at him harder than intended and nearly spill it. Something about the way he sa
ys midwestern. He doesn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he doesn’t mind—he’s nearly finished the pour when I take a seat in an opposite high-back.

  “Speaking of work,” Tom says, “you called off, right? Tomorrow? You shouldn’t be going in after everything. Take a breather. Nathan’ll be home. Enjoy the day.” He draws out his last few words. Second-guessing his flippant attitude?

  Work. Shit. With everything that’s happened, I forgot about it. In this singular and very narrow case, Tom is right. I shouldn’t go in tomorrow.

  He’s also inadvertently created an opening, and I seize it. “I can’t call off. It’s actually a big day, and I should be asleep already.” This is a lie, and Tom’s dark eyes narrow suspiciously. He might not believe me, but it doesn’t matter. Social protocol takes over. Even vampires must take their leave.

  “You’re right. Maybe it’s best to go in. Keep from dwelling.” Tom stands, his empty glass on the coffee table. No coaster. I notice only because Nathan would have had a seizure.

  “You’ve checked in.” I laugh. “You can report back that I’m okay. Tell Nathan I love him, and I’ll see him soon.” Tom smiles nervously as though my joke makes him uncomfortable. This gives me a spoonful of pleasure. The first I’ve had today, in fact. We hug once more—too close again, and his hand brushes my hip bone. Only for a flash, but long enough to register. Tom’s a master of ambiguous body contact, and locking the dead bolt behind him is beyond satisfying.

  He’s not even to his car, and I’ve opened my laptop. I need to email my boss, Dr. Kimberly Martin. A med school colleague of Nathan’s. I’m the receptionist at her private practice. Answer phones. Schedule appointments. Take the occasional patient blood pressure when the technician’s hands are full.

  I don’t mind the job. Kimberly’s cynical humor is a reprieve from Nathan’s moral absolutism, and she’s the closest thing to a real friend I have in this city. Even if she is Nathan’s first. It’s that I simply don’t have a choice but to work there. Nathan got me the job. It’s difficult to land employment of any kind because of that tiny checkbox on every application. A housekeeping detail that torpedoes my chances like the fucking Lusitania. Every. Single. Time.

  Have you ever been convicted of a crime other than a minor traffic violation?

  Gmail takes its sweet time to load, and I write an email to Kimberly, explaining the situation—the robbery—and that I won’t be in tomorrow. I’ll keep her posted. When I shut my laptop, my thoughts catch on my most pressing concern: Nathan’s home tomorrow.

  I scroll my phone for the screengrab until Kristian’s ice eyes stare back. My hackles rise, and I tap the screen.

  Are you sure you want to delete this photo from your device?

  Yes. But it could still be useful, and I’m being paranoid, given to emotional spirals.

  If I’m not careful, I’ll avalanche.

  9

  I circle arrivals at Reagan National for the fourth time.

  Inching along with my hazards flashing, but security keeps waving me off. loading and unloading only, the sign they point to. Waiting in the cell phone lot was an option, but I can’t stomach sitting in a silent car. Claustrophobic and coffin-like.

  No, I must keep moving, keep doing. I’m already a wreck. Another of Nathan’s sleeping pills couldn’t stop me from waking at three thirty in the morning. Intestines twisting. Liquid shits. I fixated on the ceiling as if in some kind of vegetative state. Like the victim of a highly venomous snakebite. Conscious paralysis on a ventilator while the body clears the toxins. I couldn’t do or concentrate on anything else. I only stared—unmoving, for hours.

  When I turn beneath the arrivals overhang again, Nathan’s curbside. Roller suitcase, fashionable jeans, and an NYU sweatshirt. A slice of color from the lemon oxford underneath. It’s overwhelmingly hot. A damp and stifling June day in Washington, but Nathan’s bad circulation keeps him cold on planes.

  He waves, collects his bag. I swallow, unlock the doors, and pop the trunk.

  It shuts, and he startles me by my window.

  “I’ll drive,” he says after opening the door.

  When we switch places, he hugs me, tight but hesitantly. The sort of cautious embrace one gives the fragile. Someone you fear you might break. We kiss briefly. Remnants of cologne and jet fuel and starched linen cling to his neck.

  “I didn’t want you picking me up in the first place.”

  “There’s no point in a cab when I’m home from work—”

  “I’m on expenses,” he interrupts. “Your well-being is all that matters right now. Priority number one.”

  The same security guard chases us off. Nathan shifts gears, and we pull away from the pickup zone. Silence unspools while he buckles up and finds his way into a far lane.

  I’m awash in opposing feelings. Happy and relieved to see him, to smell him, to hear his voice. I’m also wrapped in suffocating guilt, as if Kristian’s hands were still around my neck. The bruises Nathan has yet to comment on.

  I stifle my unease as best I can. I can’t smother it entirely—if I could, then I’d have done so—but I can lock it away. At some point, I’ll have to deal. After I’ve dealt with Nathan. The house, the bathroom, everything else first. “Nice flight?”

  “A little turbulent,” Nathan answers. He’s older than me, more attractive, lean and distinguished. At least, I’ve always thought so. He’s one of those rare men who age well. Sandy-brown hair and an aquiline nose. An early streak of silver above each ear.

  He’s very fit too. More substantive than me, but he’s got the natural frame for it. I’ve got the frame of a scarecrow. A scarecrow from Tyre, Indiana.

  His hand finds my thigh. The touch of his fingers makes me flinch, and I hope he doesn’t notice. Or that he chalks it up to rough road.

  “I’ve got groceries in the back seat,” I say happily. “Stopped by the store on the way. Dinner tonight, remember?” You’re okay, I tell myself. I’m unwinding. The content of my conversation is returning to baseline. Domesticity. Dinner. Nothing beyond an impending glass of wine.

  The turn signal chimes as Nathan merges onto the highway. Eyes fixed on the road ahead, he asks, “Think they’ll be okay back there for a bit longer? The groceries, I mean?”

  “Duck needs to defrost. Why?”

  “We need to make a stop on the way home.”

  “Sure.” My agreement is a natural response. Like breathing or the beating of my heart. Nathan’s always needing to make a stop on the way home. To cross one more errand off his list. Tie up some hanging chore. His type A personality works in list form.

  I don’t think much of it until the cross streets start ticking by like a time bomb. A countdown to the street I’d given an Uber driver last night. I’ve only just begun to wrap my thoughts around the possibility when we pull into the parking lot.

  What am I going to do? What the fuck am I going to do!?

  Screws in my chest tighten, clamping my lungs within a squeezing set of ribs. Like a pair of balloons in the careless hands of a child, and they might burst any moment.

  Nathan looks my way and opens the driver-side door. We’re at the police station. The same one I’d left just last night. Nathan’s going to make me report being assaulted.

  For the second time.

  * * *

  • •

  That same burnt coffee reek.

  An aroma gone so stale, it’s a stench. Nathan and I sit at the exact same table in the exact room from before.

  What had been friendly territory has gone full-blown hostile and my guts churn. If Detective Rachel Henning walks through that door, she’ll turn from ally to enemy in Nathan’s presence.

  Will it even be her? Detective work is shift work, at least according to TV. Same as Nathan’s trauma calls. Detective Henning and Nathan both catch cases randomly—whatever a dangerous world sends hurtl
ing their way.

  I count back the hours since she asked whether Nathan’s conference trip was verifiable. How long is a shift? When did Detective Henning’s start? There’s no way for me to answer these questions. Of course, she’ll figure it out when she sees the paperwork. The victim’s name, a duplicate. The crime, a different thing entirely.

  As long as she’s not here now, I can explain it away later by phone.

  Nathan holds my hand under the table. His touch is both tight and ice-cold. My instinct is to snatch myself away. We’re in public. I’ve never been comfortable with PDA no matter the kind. We’re different that way. Nathan’s from New York. As in, the City. He’s never experienced life as a gay man in rural Indiana. Affection driven underground. Taboo. An invitation for contempt and violence.

  Hector and I would leave an empty seat between us in the movie theater. Order takeout for dinner; eat in our apartment, where affection was liberated.

  Tension pent up. Transgressive. No doubt the misplaced undercurrent of wrongdoing made sex explosive and primal. Great sex and violent arguments. Hector’s hands around my throat in both instances.

  No doubt it also played a role in what we got mixed up in. First him. Then me. The constant hunt for an outlet. For sexual energy, then for other things.

  Nathan is nothing like him, and I couldn’t be more grateful. Hector and I weren’t sustainable. We were a cigarette. A smoldering stimulant. A filthy habit.

  Perhaps Nathan and I aren’t sustainable either. But he’s well adjusted, confident, and secure. This self-assuredness has rubbed off, as was the intention when I agreed to move here. If we’re unsustainable, we’re less like a cigarette and more like the sun. A seemingly endless supply of energy to draw from. An expiration date that’s more of a technicality than a reality.