Docile

by K. M. Szpara

  “I’m still here. Tell me where you are; I’m coming to get you.” I don’t even brush my teeth, just tip back a capful of mouthwash.

  “It’s called the Valley Inn. It’s up on that big hill, next to 83.”

  I know where he is: Hunt Valley, a little commerce center for people who can’t afford the city. Lots of ex-Dociles getting their lives back together, recent university graduates trying not to default on loans, some farmers from neighboring towns peddling their wares. Those fucking Empower Maryland people have a center there. If they knew Elisha was there …

  “Stay right where you are. I’ll be there in half an hour.”

  “Okay.”

  “End call. Dial front desk.”

  Tom answers. “Dr. Bishop, how can I help you?”

  “I need a car waiting out front in two minutes.”

  * * *

  “Keep it running,” I tell the driver, before hopping out.

  “Yes, sir.”

  The hotel isn’t a wreck. Generic cement blocks, well-tread carpet with a tacky red and yellow pattern, bland ivory furniture in the lobby.

  “Welcome to the Valley Inn, sir. How can I help you?” The skinny bald white man at the front desk stares at my clothes, rather than meeting my eyes. Highly unprofessional. People like Tom are immune to higher-end styles. These people clearly are not. No one from Baltimore City would spend the night in Hunt Valley. I’m probably the first person of class this concierge has ever interacted with.

  “I’m looking for someone.” I hold out my hand to illustrate Elisha’s height. “About this tall, white, brown hair, freckled.” I choose my next words carefully. “Wearing a bracelet on his left arm.”

  “You must be Dr. Bishop.” He wants me to know that he knows who I am. How much I’m worth.

  “In the flesh.”

  “He’s waiting in the breakfast nook, down the hall to your right. We gave him a cup of coffee.” The man smiles like he wants a pat on the back for showing basic hospitality.

  “Thank you.”

  As soon as I walk off, another employee mutters something. Magazine pages flip—actual paper pages.

  Elisha sits on the edge of a vinyl upholstered chair, clutching a paper coffee cup. At the sound of my feet, he looks up. “Alex.”

  “Come on, let’s go.” I motion him over.

  The janitorial staff watch us while slowly restocking powdered creamer and sweetener packets. They wouldn’t have hurt him—I don’t think. His left shoe is probably worth a month of one of their salaries.

  Elisha leaves the cup on the table and takes my offered hand. I kiss his forehead and squeeze him tight—only for a moment. We shouldn’t linger.

  I lead him back to the entrance and point to the black sedan. “Go wait in the car. I’ll be out in a minute.”

  “Okay. Um, the front desk. They have my bag. I said they didn’t need to, but they insisted, so…”

  So, he didn’t refuse, because he never refuses anyone unless I tell him to. For a split second, I worry that perhaps I’ve trained the fight out of Elisha. That he couldn’t handle himself if something happened. I placate my nerves by vowing to hire him a self-defense instructor.

  “I’ll take care of it,” I tell Elisha. “Go.” As soon as he’s safely inside the car, I walk up to the front desk.

  The concierge closes his tabloid. His female coworker pushes it aside as he says, “How can I help you, Dr. Bishop?”

  “I wanted to thank you for holding my Docile’s bag and pay for the cup of coffee.”

  “Of course, sir.” Both he and his coworker stare at the computer while he types. He nudges her. “The bag.”

  “Right.” She runs off, failing to make his intended good impression.

  “The coffee is on the house.” He smiles at me. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like a room? We’d gladly comp one for you and your Docile for the rest of the night.”

  “No, thank you. But I’d like to tip you for generously storing his luggage.” Which couldn’t have lasted more than an hour, nor could the coffee have cost more than five dollars, but the last thing I need is for Baltimore City to read about Alexander Bishop racing out to Middle of Nowhere, Maryland, to pick up his Docile at 3:00 a.m.

  “Your staff do accept tips, right?”

  The concierge looks at his coworker, who holds the hand-stitched leather suitcase as if it’s a rucksack. Her nod is barely perceptible. He tilts his head. She narrows her eyes.

  “Yes, sir, we do,” the concierge finally says. “Did you want to put that on a card?”

  They don’t have the technology here for direct transfer, nor is this the type of establishment where I would keep my information on file. “Yes, thank you.” I hand him the matte black plastic card.

  He flips it over, searching for a magnetic strip, chip, account number, anything. He won’t find any of that; it’s embedded.

  “You can swipe it anywhere.” I smile to encourage him.

  He laughs nervously and swipes my card. “There we go.” He’s trembling with nerves when he hands it back.

  “Thank you.”

  He slides me a tablet that’s attached to his computer by a cable. Even the ODR has this place beat. I pull a stylus from my pocket to save him the heart attack of scrambling for one.

  I calculate his probable salary, his coworker’s, and—who else has seen me, tonight? Perhaps a little extra for the two at the front desk. I settle on three numbers.

  “Please divide the top amount between everyone on the hotel staff, for keeping such clean and comfortable accommodations. The two amounts on the bottom are for yourself and your bellhop, respectively, for your good deed and discretion.”

  The concierge grips the tablet hard to still his hand. Despite his precautions, it clatters to the counter when he reads the numbers. “Oh my, Dr. Bishop, we can’t possibly—”

  “Please, I insist. Is my bag ready?”

  I know it is. The bellhop’s been holding it, watching, for the past five minutes. She needs someone to shock her out of her stupor.

  “Yes, Dr. Bishop—sir.” But she doesn’t move.

  I reach out, taking the bag gently from her hold. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “Have a good night.” I nod to the concierge and carry Elisha’s bag out to the car.

  Elisha huddles against the far side of the back seat. His shoes are scuffed and dirty. Sweat stains his shirt. He pulls on the diamond chain of his cuff.

  I slide into the seat beside him and pull him against me. “We’ll talk in the morning. Rest, now.”

  He relaxes in my arms as the car glides forward.

  * * *

  I call the lab Monday morning to tell them I’m going to be late, then cancel the tutor and shut off Elisha’s alarm. He passed out as soon as we got home, but I’ve barely slept. Instead, I watch his chest rise and fall beside me. In my bed. Again.

  I couldn’t put him on the trundle, last night. He would have thought I was pushing him away, blaming him for waking me up. I want him to know I’ll take care of him, especially in emergencies. It’s not like anyone else lives here, and Elisha would never tell anyone.

  My phone rings. Elisha’s eyes fly open. I reject the call.

  Elisha sits up; worry wrinkles his forehead. He shields his eyes from the light. “Alex?”

  “Shhh, relax.”

  “I overslept my ballet lesson.”

  I knew I forgot something. Oh, well. The teacher still gets paid. “It’s okay,” I reassure him. “I turned off your alarm. I wanted you to sleep.”

  Elisha presses a hand to the bare skin of his chest. “Thank you.” He doesn’t ask what time it is. “My tutor?”

  “Canceled.”

  “Oh. You’re not at work.”

  “Don’t worry about me.”

  “Sorry.”

  I don’t want him to apologize. I want to know what happened, why he called me in the middle of the night. “First and foremost, understand that I am n
ot upset with you. You should always let me know if you feel unsafe. You’re my responsibility.”

  “Thank you.” He bites his lip.

  “I do want to know what happened.”

  Elisha looks down at the mattress and traces his finger in circles around the sheets. “My dad yelled at me. Told me to leave.”

  I assume that’s the condensed version, but don’t want to pry too deep and worsen his dejection. “Why?”

  “He said I’m a bad influence on my younger sister.”

  I nudge his chin up. “I can’t imagine you’re a bad influence on anyone.” He blends in seamlessly; I can’t imagine him influencing anyone, at all. Except maybe other off-meds.

  “Thank you.” But he doesn’t sound convinced.

  “Hey, look at me.”

  I’ve never seen sadder eyes in my life. I kiss his wilted lips and he livens under my touch, arching his body against mine.

  “Don’t let it get to you. Your father doesn’t understand.”

  Elisha’s head falls back onto the pillow. “He told me I didn’t belong there, anymore. But I didn’t do anything bad. When I tried to play piano for them, they laughed at me. And they made fun of my morning run. It’s not like it hurt anyone.” He looks to me for the answers.

  I sigh. These people are doing a number on his training. At this rate, his regular home visits will do more harm than good.

  “Don’t let him make you feel guilty about your hobbies.”

  “I told Dad I was a new version of myself.”

  Oh god, he didn’t.

  “And he said he liked the old version better. Not to visit until I changed back.”

  “I’m sure he didn’t mean that. He was probably just surprised. He’ll get used to you.”

  “I hope so.”

  “Hey.” I put on a smile and sit up straight, hoping it will catch. “Let’s ditch our schedules and get out of here. How does that sound?”

  Elisha warms up to the idea. His eyes wander while he considers, lips tense for a smile, fingers gripping the sheets, ready to push off. “That sounds nice.” By the time the words leave him, he’s a new person, roused by my suggestion.

  I pull him from the bed and toward the shower. Only a glance prompts him to undress beside me.

  “How about I take you to a real hotel. One with a view and a nice restaurant—room service that will send up dessert at midnight, if we want it. Discreet staff, strong coffee, California king beds.”

  “I don’t know what a California bed is, but it sounds wonderful,” Elisha says.

  “Oh,” I say, pulling his body against mine as I turn on the hot water. “You’ll love it. Believe me.”

  We clean and dress in casual clothes. The two of us have dressed up enough lately to last a lifetime. I’m packing my electronics when it occurs to me that Elisha still doesn’t have a phone. We cannot repeat last night.

  “Wait for me beside the elevator,” I say.

  “Okay.” Elisha does as he’s told, taking his overnight bag downstairs with him.

  I duck quickly into my office, pull the bottom drawer open, and open the small black box from Javier. Tossing the card onto the desk, I delicately remove the strip of plastic to which the sticker-like phone adheres.

  Elisha looks up at the sound of my feet on the stairs. I peel the device from its plastic backing and balance it on my middle finger.

  “Open your mouth.”

  He does as he’s told. I press my finger against the roof of his mouth, waiting while the device adheres. Elisha stretches his jaw when I back away. I pull out my phone and, as promised, the devices link.

  “That is a phone. Sort of. All you have to say is, ‘Call Alex.’ Try it.”

  “Call Alex?”

  He jumps a little and smiles when my phone rings. Even after six months, I’m still charmed by his awe of technology.

  “Perfect,” I say. “Exactly like you.”

  * * *

  The bellhop takes our bags—to Elisha’s surprise—when we arrive at The Douglass Hotel.

  “Good afternoon, sirs,” he says with such attention, I can barely tell he’s on Dociline. This should be the norm. I wonder what instructions they give the hotel Dociles.

  “Can I help you to your room?” he asks on autopilot, interrupting my thoughts.

  “We haven’t checked in yet,” I say.

  “Do you have a reservation, sirs?”

  I smile and rest an arm around Elisha’s shoulders. “Nope.”

  “Allow me to show you to the front desk, where an associate will assist you, sirs.”

  Together, we follow the bellhop Docile to the front desk, where he alerts a woman with a tight brown bun in a crisp gray suit.

  “Dr. Bishop, a privilege. Would you like me to arrange a suite for you and your companion?”

  “That would be lovely, thank you,” I say, taking pleasure in her use of the word “companion.” See, Dad? A Docile can be a companion. “This is Elisha, by the way.”

  “Nice to meet you, Elisha.”

  “Likewise,” he replies, not straying from my side.

  “Please, remind me of your name,” I say, unsure whether I’ve met her before. Probably, since she appears to be the manager.

  “Nguyen, sir. Prudence Nguyen.” She shakes my hand.

  “Thank you for taking care of us, Prudence. And, please, call me Alex.”

  “As you wish.” She checks her computer again. “We can put you and Elisha in the Penthouse Suite, tonight.”

  “Perfect. You should have my account information on file.”

  “We do, sir—Alex.” She smiles and bows her head, the slip well calculated. “However, your stay is on the house. We are honored by your patronage.”

  “Oh, you don’t have to do that.” I feel so at peace that my fake surprise is almost genuine. “Quite kind of you.”

  The manager completes our non-transaction and instructs the bellhop to take our bags. The latter disappears into a service elevator while Elisha and I ride up one that requires a fingerprint. Prudence directs us to place our fingers on the pad each in turn as we ride up.

  The doors open to a short hallway, the private elevator opening opposite the service one. The bellhop Docile waiting with our bags in hand falls into line behind us. Again, at the door, we upload our fingerprints for access, and the door opens with the smooth twist of a brass knob.

  The Penthouse Suite reminds me of my childhood home. Rich wooden floors; carpets, drapes, and couches in forest green, navy blue, and plum; pillows and linens embroidered with anchors and ships with raised sails.

  Classic. Elegant. Simple.

  Prudence dims the lights so that an apricot glow emanates from the translucent glass flowers that adorn the brass chandeliers hanging throughout the suite of rooms.

  “Please let me know if there is any way we can further accommodate you,” she says. “We have available a personal chef, classically trained pianist—”

  I raise my eyebrows at Elisha, an inside joke. He’s my own classically trained pianist, but it might be nice if we were both able to relax and enjoy the music.

  “—personal shopper, tickets to the Baltimore Symphony Orchestra or any number of theater—”

  I raise a hand and she stops. “Thank you, Prudence, we will let you know.”

  “Enjoy yourselves.” She slips out, the bellhop close behind.

  The door clicks shut. The light crackle from the fireplace colors our silence.

  Elisha breaks the pause. “There are so many rooms.”

  “There’s another floor.” I bump my shoulder against Elisha’s and speak softly into his ear. “Want to check it out?”

  “Do—d-do I want to?” he stutters, flattered that I would ask his opinion.

  “Yeah.”

  “Of course, I want whatever you—”

  I don’t give him a chance to finish, but take his hand and pull him along behind me until we’re running up the circular staircase to the roof. Elisha’s breathless la
ughter infects me and soon the two of us surface onto a canopied wooden deck with lounge chairs, tables, and a wet bar. The city surrounds us like a forest of painted marble and mirrored glass. Its inhabitants walk among the buildings like insects, boats sailing in and out before the sun can set on them.

  “It’s warm,” Elisha says.

  “It is.” When I find the pool, it’s even better than imagined. Clear water shows glittering tiles along its walls, large cobblestones on the bottom. The entrance slopes downward, mimicking a shoreline, and a stone platform in the center rises inches above the surface, for lounging. “Why don’t we cool off?”

  “I didn’t bring a suit.”

  “You don’t need one.”

  Elisha bites his lip, then unbuttons his shirt. He lays it neatly on a lounge chair. Watching him undress, I test my own patience; with one hand, I rub my neck and back, thread fingers in the ends of my hair while my other hand rubs over the crotch of my corduroys.

  He continues stripping, setting aside boat shoes and belt and shorts, until all he’s wearing is a pair of maroon boxer briefs. Unsure what to do next, he fidgets with them, eyeing the pool.

  I realize I’m holding my breath when I say, “Go on.” My lips barely move.

  Elisha turns and carefully navigates the stone pathway between groomed gardens of grass and flowers. When he reaches the descending slope of the pool, he glances at me over his shoulder, then hitches his fingers into the sides of his briefs.

  I watch them slide over the curve of his ass, down his thighs, and come to rest on the ground. Elisha picks them up, folds them in half, and tosses them onto a nearby chair. With one foot, he tests the water. Then, the other.

  I cannot restrain myself any longer.

  24

  ALEX

  I fumble with the buttons on my shirt, missing one that skitters across the patio when I tug my clothes off, not bothering to fold them like Elisha did. Luckily, he doesn’t notice my haste. He wades deeper, stopping only at the sound of my feet splashing into the warm June water. I slow, trying my damnedest to appear cool and controlled. A man who knows himself and his place in the world. A Bishop.