Bath Haus

by P. J. Vernon

  That doesn’t happen either. His fist stays on my neck.

  I’m vulnerable still, and something isn’t right. The knot of excitement shoots from my groin to my chest. It constricts my ribs in tandem with Kristian’s hands. I only now appreciate the length of this man’s fingers as they find their way around my neck.

  Another line is crossed. I jolt, start to spin.

  “No you don’t!” Like a spring trap, he catches my arms and twists them behind my spine. My body stiffens. This is wrong. Everything is wrong. Adrenaline pumps like jet fuel, and my insides swell with heat.

  One hand firm on my neck, he threads the other through my back and elbows. Pinning me with his forearm and chest, his fists clamp my throat like a vise. And like a vise, they squeeze.

  My arms contort. I struggle, and he pulls tighter.

  Spasming, I gasp for air that isn’t there.

  Eye spots bloom and grow and float, and my consciousness snaps into a single thought. It takes longer to resolve because my brain’s suddenly oxygen starved.

  This man with the ocean-deep eyes. He’s killing me.

  2

  NATHAN

  When do you call time of death on a marriage?

  I suppose sometimes spouses do something wrong—something cardinal—and it’s as obvious as calling clinical TOD.

  My marriage was over the moment my husband’s fist connected with my jaw. Or the instant my card was declined, because why invest in mutual funds when slots hold higher payoffs?

  Oliver and I, however, were less a violent plunge and more like subtle slippage. An exsanguination so slow, ignoring it comes far too easy. Determined to numb one more bad hour, we didn’t realize we’d numbed our way through one more bad day. One more bad year, numbed. How many do we have left?

  “You’ve reached Oliver Park.” The second call he’s sent to voicemail. My marriage was over the moment my husband fucked a man who wasn’t me. “Leave your name and number and I’ll get back—” I hang up just as Mother returns her own phone to her clutch. She sits opposite me, face sharp like a peregrine falcon in the flickering of the table’s tea light. Her layered bob, perennially blond and meticulously effortless.

  “But you’re not actually married,” she says as I spin white gold round and round my ring finger. Turns out meeting her at my hotel for a nightcap and confessing my marital stagnation were both regrettable choices. “No certificate, no children, no mortgage. You’ve literally nothing to lose.”

  “That’s not helpful, Mother.” I shouldn’t have to see her every time I’m in the city. It’s a habit begging to be broken and never more loudly than in this exact moment.

  “It’s the truth,” she says, shrugging as my second bourbon finds white linen. “You know what really isn’t helpful, Nathan?”

  Her eyes flit to my drink—double, neat. I turn the tumbler. “It’s been a long—”

  “That’s two, and it’s your last. You’re starting to slur.” With practiced elegance, she sips the dry martini she’s been nursing. Before I can argue, she’s carrying on: “I don’t like what he’s doing to you. And I’ve tried, Nathan. Father and I both. We’ve tried to build trust.”

  Trust. Interesting word choice. More so because Mother always selects hers with surgical precision.

  “What has Oliver ever done to warrant suspicion?” Hypocrisy sours the words as they leave my lips. “And don’t say money.”

  “You can’t deny the considerable disparity between—”

  “We’ve been over this,” I scoff. “Cars, cards, accounts. He asked me not to put his name on anything. It felt unearned. Life insurance was a fight. That sound like someone looking for a payday?”

  She hesitates, prosecutes her tired case from a fresh angle: “Oliver requires too much coddling. You’re neglecting your own health, and I don’t appreciate—”

  “Coddling?”

  A waiter loops by, and she waves him off before I can send for another drink. “You know what I mean.”

  I don’t, but between this liquor and the cabernet courtesy of conference catering, my brain’s unspooling. Revealing uncomfortable truths I’d rather not explore with Dr. Kathy Klein—retired shrink turned community pillar of the Upper East Side. I switch subjects: “Had a fucked-up nightmare the other day.”

  She flinches at the language, but the battle-ax in Alexander McQueen chooses her, well, battles carefully. “What did you dream?”

  She can’t shake the compulsion to kick over logs in her own son’s skull. I exploit this when it suits me. Another swallow of triple malt, and the tenseness in my shoulders starts to melt, the knots that riddle my back, unwinding.

  “I pulled a scorpion out of my mouth.”

  “Jesus, Nathan.” Mother’s voice catches, and I won’t tell her how the black thing, slick like gunmetal, had clung for dear life as I extracted it from my throat. That its writhing pincers had buried into my tissue like a tumor. “That’s—”

  “Fucked up. Like I said.”

  “How did it happen?”

  “I was in a hospital bed, surrounded by you and Father and—”

  “Oliver?”

  “Yeah, he was there.” Mother stiffens her spine because sharing even a nightmare with Oliver irks her. “I told you all something was wrong. Something was inside me that wasn’t supposed to be there.”

  “We didn’t believe you?”

  “No. The internist said I was fine. Delusional, of course.”

  “The internist?” she ribs. “You didn’t pull rank as a surgeon?”

  “I don’t know if I was one in the dream. Besides, when Oliver and you and Father weren’t looking, she’d break into this wicked smile. She knew I was telling the truth.” Another burning gulp down the hatch. “And finally, when the writhing was too much, I screamed. I reached in and screamed through my own hand in my own mouth.”

  “Any idea what this might mean?”

  “I worry about myself. My emotional well-being. I’m jaundiced.”

  “And what of the scorpion?”

  “Isn’t that more your wheelhouse?”

  “Humor me.”

  I puff my cheeks. “Something toxic inside me? Maybe malignant? It’s called cancer because tumors latch like a crab. A scorpion’s not so different.”

  “Anxiety causes dreams like that,” she says with earned-ish confidence. “Night terrors. No cancer. Your nerves cultivate harmful narratives in your subconscious. Dreams of untrustworthy people—”

  “Liars. That doctor. She was a malicious liar.”

  “At the very least, talk to him.” She returns to Oliver as if to say speaking of liars. “Tell him what you’re feeling.”

  “I’m not ready yet. I’m not in a headspace for confrontation.”

  What makes you think there’ll be one? I imagine her asking. Instead: “You can’t rely on his intuiting of your emotions.”

  “Why not? I intuit his. I speak his body language. What he’s feeling and when he’s feeling it, and there’s just this inevitability. This tension—”

  “He’s ungrateful, and it creates tension.”

  “He’s not ungrateful. He just”—her stare strengthens to a low-burn glower—“he needs direction.”

  She arches a finely sculpted brow. “And you’re the right person to provide it?”

  “I don’t know.” The words coil uncomfortably in the pit of my stomach. I don’t like confessing to not knowing. I’d rather go down with a sinking ship—drowning passengers and all—than admit I’d steered into the maw of an iceberg. But that’s not what bothers me about my answer. It’s the honesty.

  Mother obliges: “You’re not. Furthest thing from it. Just because you’re older doesn’t mean you owe him some sort of tutelage. And you’ll get hurt if you keep trying.”

  Older stings when it lands, b
ut perhaps she’s correct about that last bit. After all, how many relationships subsist in these gray areas? The ambivalence-soaked air of relationship purgatory is stifling, bordering on painful—

  “Your father and I brought on a new CFO for the Klein Family Foundation.” A conversational departure, but I can instantly tell I won’t like it. “Dartmouth. Good Connecticut breeding. Man named Stuart. A contemporary of yours and if he wasn’t gay, your father might have to keep an eye on me.”

  My neck flushes. “Seriously?”

  Faux surprise falls over her like a stage curtain. “What?”

  “You’re pitching new boyfriends while I’m asking for advice on saving my marriage?”

  “Relationship.” She overenunciates. “You’re not—”

  “We’re in a bad spot, but aren’t those what define love? The downs, how you manage and endure them because who the hell has trouble with the ups? This, right now”—I splay my fingers on the table—“is the shit nobody talks about because it’s hard.”

  “Nathan—”

  “But we’re stubborn. Both of us. I’ll do the work. We will both do the work.”

  “You’ve always been loyal; you’ve always kept your word like we’ve taught you. Loyal and tenacious.” Pinching her glass by the stem, she gives a little ground. The only question is why? “Tell me, though. What makes you so confident he’ll keep his?”

  “Because I know him.” I run my tongue across the top of my teeth and worry they’ve turned serrated. “I know what he’s capable of when he tries.”

  “So do I.” She beckons a waiter with a black AmEx, but her eyes bore with unsettling urgency. “And that’s what scares me.”

  3

  OLIVER

  Kristian’s grip leaves no room for error.

  Nathan’s home in two days. Tilly can make it two days with no food, no water. I pray a toilet seat’s been left up but can’t recall.

  The fire in my chest erupts as something buckles in my throat. My face fevers, and my cheekbones might pop out and fall to the floor.

  Hands and arms, legs and torso, I shake. Tremble with fear and muscles tensing unnaturally. A dollop of saliva gathers on my bottom lip and drops to my sneaker. Kristian’s feet are behind mine. His toes whiten as he leverages his weight against the floor tiles. Onto me.

  There’s no one to turn to. No one can help. Even if there were, I can’t reach out. I’m in a hidden nook within a hidden world where anonymity’s the whole point. Anonymity breeds apathy. When you’re anonymous, no one cares to save you.

  It won’t be long now. A minute at most. His lips are on my ear, warm breath breezing inside my head. It’s invasive, mocking. His hard dick presses the dimpled small of my back.

  In Haus, I was vulnerable before his fist ever found my throat. Why didn’t I appreciate this?

  Behind my spine, my finger brushes the brass key hung from my wrist. The coldness of its jagged teeth is a finger snap for focus. Fight or flight. Survival.

  I stretch my hand. My vision tunnels as I will my fingers to lengthen and Kristian kisses the inside of my ear.

  We sweat profusely. From our pits and groins and backs. Drops run down our arms, our legs. Strike the dank floor in enormous, slow-motion splashes. Moist chemistry collects and mixes between us. We were slippery from the start, but now we’re lubricated and I have a shot. A lifetime of experiences, and I’m reduced to one possession: this single shot.

  I gather my dwindling strength, whatever pulsing life remains. I drop one shoulder and twist down like a threaded screw. Wet skin dissolves friction. I tear the key from my wrist, plunge it into his cheek, and drag through flesh.

  His ocean-deep eyes widen. Maybe he screams. Blood, inky black in the low light. Kristian holds his blood-dripping face with both hands. And I’m sprinting down the hall.

  * * *

  • •

  Clutching my throat, I finally gasp air. Other men know something’s wrong. Someone taps my shoulder, and I jerk away. Whatever he says is muted. I’m still underwater.

  I bolt past the porn projections, run through crowds and down snaking hallways. A million years of evolution scream that Kristian’s closing in.

  Haus becomes a sprawling labyrinth, sinister in purpose. The red light of the darkroom just before the lockers—it glows ahead. Almost there, Oliver!

  I’m naked, and shame grips me like Adam and his original sin. I snatch a towel from a hamper pile and cover myself. It’s stiff in places, a foul and repulsive cloth like cardboard. Chest heaving, I burst through the door to the entry space.

  “You okay, man?” The Cheshire Cat knots his brow. His concern urgent.

  “The locker.” My hoarse voice quakes. “Nine oh three. Open it.”

  What does he think? That I’ve been injured? I’m still clutching my throat. No, not injured. Fucking assaulted!

  He springs from his seat, and I follow close into the locker room. He’s saying something as he fumbles with a master key. He might want to know if I need a doctor. I’m sure he’s asking what happened, but it’s all muffled. His mouth, filled with marbles. My ears start to ring. My eyes dart from man to man. None of them are Kristian, but it’s only a matter of time until one is.

  My shorts are on. Then my shirt. My wallet and phone, in my pocket.

  I lose more time, and I’m dashing through the parking lot.

  Scrambling into Nathan’s SUV, I slam the lock. I punch the ignition button with a shaky fist as my eyes go teary and burn.

  Through the leafy thicket, a parade of highway headlights strobe. A reminder that the world I’ve come from still exists. That had I grown cold, a lifeless mass on the floor of Kristian’s rented room, this world would persist without me.

  I can’t hold back, and sob.

  A fist thuds against the window. Inches from my head, and I scream.

  Kristian’s hand slides, painting a streak of cherry syrup down glass. For a white-hot instant, our eyes meet, and I floor the gas. Backing up, headlights wash out his face, but it’s him.

  Kristian vanishes into blackness as my tires squeal onto the street.

  * * *

  • •

  The front motion lights flame alive. Back in cloistered Georgetown, and I’m doused in shameful yellow light before our townhome. The towering brick facade, Georgian-style, tall shutters; the whole place regards me with judgment.

  Kicking off my sneakers, I stumble into the foyer. My keys and phone thrown atop the round entryway table. They strike the bone china vase, and Nathan’s fresh bouquet of pink tulips shudders.

  The curving staircase to the second and third stories whirls by. I pass Nathan’s library with its floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and ivory fireplace. Its French doors are always shut, but they’re paned with elegant glass. His parents, Victor and Kathy, scowl from their portrait on the mantel there. Painted eyes that pull bile up my throat.

  4

  Parlor doors swing in their pockets as I stagger into the drawing room. All Nathan’s things—our things—sit as I’d left them. Warm, earthy tones. Midcentury modern. Scandi. Accent antiques.

  As I flip on a table lamp, Tilly’s nails click against mahogany floors. Nathan’s blond cocker spaniel has roused from her crate upstairs in the master and comes down the steps. I make for the bar cart and slam back a gulp of tepid gin. Sour acid climbs my throat like a rain-swollen gutter. I choke back a second shot and drop the bottle on the coffee table so hard its glass top might break.

  My legs buckle and I collapse into the sofa, bury my face in my hands. I rock back and forth, crying. Tilly rounds the corner, barking like a home invasion is unfolding in Nathan’s absence. Her sharp yaps send me to my feet. A force, invisible and powerful, compels me to move. I pace the drawing room, circle the dining room table and its tall spray of orchids three, four times. I punch the kitchen counter and race u
pstairs.

  Twisting the faucet of the en suite claw-foot, I step in as piping-hot water reaches the showerhead. Clothes cling to my skin because I haven’t undressed.

  I claw at my shirt and shorts, nails digging deep. I tear and peel and strip as though skinning myself. My clothes are a sopping heap on the tub floor when I grab Nathan’s Head & Shoulders by mistake. I pour it over my scalp and knead.

  Deeper and harder because I want Kristian’s breath out of my skull. The damp breath he exhaled into my ear. His long fingers on my wrists. His palm crawling my shoulder blades on its way to my throat.

  Tiny droplets gather and bloom into swirling clouds of steam. Worms writhe beneath my skin, and I tear the top off Nathan’s shampoo. The plastic cap snaps in two. I turn it over my shoulders and chest.

  Scrub. Knead. Repeat.

  Heat splotches my skin, and when the hot water’s gone, I step out. The hanging towel is a jarring reminder of where I’ve just fled. A bathhouse. I dry off with a robe instead.

  I stand in my bedroom, our bedroom. This is my life. The room I woke up in this morning. And the morning before. And the morning before that. Nothing’s changed.

  Nothing has changed, I repeat to myself. And I’m starting to believe it. This place and the place I escaped can’t coexist. They’re too different, our home and Haus. It’s like wrapping my head around the sarin-soaked rubble of Syria and a tennis court in Connecticut.

  Did I dream it? Am I still dreaming? Yes, I’m imagining a memory from only moments earlier that never really happened. There’s no evidence of it transpiring. None of Kristian. None of what he did. What he attempted to do. My rational self knows this is a lie. That brutal, truthful part taunts, knowing I need only look at my reflection and see my throbbing throat displayed as deep bruises. Kristian’s grip tattooed on my skin, glove-shaped and horrifying. I silence this part of me.

  Nathan has trouble sleeping, and he keeps a bottle of Ambien tucked in his nightstand. Ambien is different. The TV ads make that point loud and clear: Ambien, the non-narcotic nighttime sleep-aid. I swallow two with spit and collapse, still in the robe I toweled off with.