Bath Haus

by P. J. Vernon

  I smile at Nathan through a bit bottom lip.

  “Don’t be nervous,” he instructs. “You’re a victim.”

  I want to scream that I’ve heard that before. In this fucking room—

  The door opens, Detective Henning walks in, and the blood drops to my feet. Same jeans. Same light button-down. My knuckles whiten around Nathan’s.

  “Hello.” She shakes Nathan’s hand, then mine. “Detective Rachel Henning.”

  I leap into the conversation before she can even sit down. “I’m Oliver Park. This is my partner, Nathan Klein.”

  Nathan shifts in his seat. Is he taken aback by my sudden gregariousness or merely getting comfortable?

  “Nice to meet you both,” Detective Henning says, and my stomach flutters. Is she…is she still an ally? Is she going to play along with my stupid game?

  Her same sharp eyes meet mine and linger there.

  “I’ve brought paperwork to file a criminal complaint,” she begins, before leaning back in her chair, fists clasped atop her lap. “But first, I’d like you to simply tell me what’s going on.”

  It takes every fiber of my being, every muscle, every strand of sinew holding me together, to remain still in my chair. Detective Henning plans to let me get away with this charade.

  * * *

  • •

  Nathan and I exit the police station. Assault and robbery, reported. Filed away. Or, rather, paper clipped to the folder already bearing my name. My fingers and thumbs are ink stained from giving prints. Detective Henning hadn’t asked for prints yesterday, but she did this afternoon.

  “That wasn’t so bad, was it?” Nathan says as he opens the car door for me. “It’s like the detective said: the probability of catching your attacker is unknowable. Unless you don’t report. Then it’s zero.”

  His lecturing might’ve been bothersome in the past, but it rolls off my back now. Surprise elation leaves no room for resentment. The more distance Nathan puts between us and the police, the further I process my discussion with Detective Henning. The second, lie-riddled one.

  She’d dutifully listened to my cover story. I dutifully filled out a fresh set of forms. She said she’d be in touch. This time, I expect a call from her sooner rather than later. To demand the explanation she didn’t ask for in front of Nathan. To parse the differences between my reports.

  She also asked to see a timestamped receipt verifying Nathan had been out of town until noon today. Domestic incidents must account for a significant volume of her caseload. Nathan had plenty of receipts on his phone, but he seemed put off by the request.

  We turn onto our street, though we still have many blocks to go. Something else Detective Henning said sticks out. Something I hadn’t considered. She’d been referring to the fake mugging.

  “These things are rarely a one-off,” she said, taking a question from Nathan. “They typically fit within a larger pattern, which is why it’s critical to report, no matter the chances of recovering whatever’s been stolen. Every reported incident is another opportunity to discern a pattern.”

  Nathan had nudged me beneath the table, no doubt vindicated. She might’ve been speaking of muggings or robberies, but she could just as easily have meant my attack. The same logic applies to my lies and my truth.

  A larger pattern. There wasn’t anything special about me specifically. Pure happenstance, chance, that my path crossed Kristian’s within Haus’s darkness. Half-naked on a barstool in a stew of sex, I was an opportunity for a lurking predator. Someone who’d been stalking the tall grass all along. Patient and hungry.

  It could’ve been someone else, which means it could’ve happened before. Maybe even since. The knot in my throat goes down like a sandbag as that horrifying realization sinks in. And if I hadn’t escaped? If I hadn’t slashed his face with a key?

  No other wounds or scars or bruises marked his exposed body. The small room was dark, but my lust-driven eyes searched him from head to toe—taking in every detail. Down to his neatly trimmed pubic hair and uncut dick. One of two things is true: either I’d been his first or there are others. Guys whose fingers hadn’t found a weapon with which to fight back. Where are they? Or, rather, where are their bodies?

  An invisible centipede scales my spine. What would they look like by now?

  As the car brakes, I come up for air. Breathing in the relative safety of my home—my and Nathan’s home—but still wondering why the hell Detective Henning covered for me.

  10

  NATHAN

  Legs cramped from economy plus, I park in front of our house. Cut the engine, cut the lights. A three-story townhome, four-sided brick. A Georgian dollhouse with black, functional shutters—I’d been so particular about the shutters actually closing over the windows. When I took possession from my family’s foundation, it was the first thing to change. I didn’t want anything ornamental adorning our forever house.

  Because that’s what it was.

  Roots with Oliver made sense. The very same roots Mother would have me sever. She doesn’t appreciate how deep they run, how inextricably they bind me to him and him to me. A thick knot of pulsating emotional vasculature. Cutting them risks killing both of us.

  I collect my roller from the trunk and follow Oliver through the front door. The heavy aperture behind which the manifestation of my life plan unfolds with deliberate predictability. A routine I suspect Oliver finds stifling at best. And at worst?

  Tepid. Boring. Banal. Everything he resents is everything keeping him safe. On the straight and narrow.

  “Want a drink?” he asks from the drawing room as I drop my things off in the kitchen. “Glass of wine or something?”

  “Please.” I hesitate, dehydrated from the flight, and last night’s liquor’s still jackhammering my temples from within. “You know what? Don’t bother. I don’t need the calories. Maybe tea?”

  But he’s already appeared in the doorway with an unopened merlot. Beneath a five-o’clock shadow that’s much closer to midnight, Oliver dimples his cheeks. “Sure?”

  He doesn’t typically push booze on me, but maybe I can afford a few alcoholic carbs after all. “One glass.”

  “You got it.” The sound of the cork slipping from a fresh bottle is more satisfying than I’d care to admit. Though being honest with myself—if not everyone else—has never been a challenge. He tips the bottle and slides a glass of oaky red my way.

  I take a swallow. “What did you get up to while I was gone?”

  “I got mugged.” He smiles as if it’s a joke, though his tone’s the furthest thing from comical. The fingerprint bruises on his neck look more menacing each time I see them.

  “Anything else?”

  “Not much.” He plucks a second wineglass from the cabinet. He’s never been a drinker, thank god, but he’s given himself quite a pour. Probably—and justifiably—nerves. “Just, uh, the usual stuff. Trashy books, trashy TV, shit like that.”

  “Oh?” He has too much time on his hands home alone, and now look what’s happened. “Nothing else?”

  “Tom came over. But you knew that already.”

  “And running.”

  “Huh?”

  “You were out for a night jog.” I spin my glass on the counter by the stem. “When the…when it happened.”

  “Yeah. I was.”

  “Go for more than one while I was away?”

  He turns his back to me, plugs the bottle with a decorative stopper. “No. Just that once.”

  It’s not so unusual that he’d say he’d gone only once. It’s how he waited until he was no longer facing me before answering. I wasn’t lying to Mother; I speak his body language.

  A sudden question occurs. “Isn’t it heavy?”

  “What?”

  “Running with your wallet?”

  He spins my way, slaps the dish towel ov
er his shoulder, and drains a final bloodred gulp of a glass he’s finished in what, two swallows?

  “I hold on to it in my hand.”

  “Uh-huh,” I say. A marked pause as we lock eyes. Uncomfortably, so I pivot: “What shows did you watch?”

  “Nothing memorable.” He shrugs. He could be avoiding specifics because he’s hiding something. Or perhaps he avoids them because he’s apathetic. Fleshing out details takes energy. More than I’m worth. Deep roots can still be mildewed by apathy.

  He widens his eyes as if struck by a sudden thought. “I left a duck recipe on the printer upstairs. I should start food prep.”

  As he vanishes down the hall, I call out, “I’m gonna change. Clothes smell like airplane.”

  A muted reply: “Sure, Nat.”

  I start to leave my wine on the counter but opt to bring it with me. Taking the curved staircase one slow step at a time, I run through our experience at the police station with Detective Henning. Something about the conversation didn’t sit right. Asking for verification of my travels, taking my fingerprints as if I were the one who put hands on my husband.

  Boyfriend, Mother’s disembodied voice whispers. You’re not actually married. And he’s not actually your husband.

  I shut the door to our bedroom. Footfalls on the vaulted ceiling suggest Oliver’s in the third-floor study like he said. I’m not naïve or stupid or willfully ignorant when it comes to the consequences of apathy. It’s happened to Mother too many times to count. Her pain is a big part of why I fixate on fidelity. Whatever understanding or unspoken agreement she may have had—or still has—with Father didn’t ease decades of emotional estrangement. For everything Kathy Klein isn’t, the woman’s ability to endure heartbreak is, well, heartbreaking.

  Unzipping my bag on the duvet, I reason through an imaginary affair of Oliver’s.

  None of the typical symptoms are present. No incessant phone calls, only to turn into hang-ups when answered. No sudden preoccupation with appearances on his part; he runs for other reasons entirely.

  He’s attractive. No denying that. Strung out, fresh from outpatient detox, and he still stole my breath. Brown hair that bleaches in summer. Jaw square as any all-American boy-next-door’s. Skinny, sure, but I’ve got a type. He’s got an ass any bottom would kill for and a smile that sinks teeth into you. No one would call him sophisticated, but he’s nothing if not intelligent. Extraordinarily so, and surely some man would see what I’d seen years ago. Fall hard, same as me. Decide to say fuck it if he’s taken and go for it.

  I drain the wine, pull on a cotton tee, and rummage through my bags for moisturizer. Plane air is brutal on the skin, and mine isn’t youthful like Oliver’s. Speaking of.

  Deep breath, and I slip his phone from my back pocket.

  He left it on the kitchen counter. It’s low on battery and his charger’s in the bedroom. Maybe I’ve done him a favor by bringing it up here. I run my fingers over polished glass—chipped because Oliver doesn’t take care of his things—and tap the screen.

  Anyone whose mind had traveled where mine had would peek at a lover’s abandoned phone. Make themselves feel better—or worse. I unlock it with the same pin for everything else. Scroll his calendar, where literally zero events are scheduled. His texts, but they’re all from me with an occasional back-and-forth with Kimberly—my friend, his boss. The phone call with me. The FaceTime with me. The call with Darryl about the flooded bathroom I’ve yet to appraise.

  Back on his home screen, I swipe for a very particular app. A calculator, and when it opens to reveal nothing, the back of my skull tingles.

  This is a surprise.

  Oliver deleted MeetLockr.

  11

  OLIVER

  “Tilly has no water,” Nathan calls from downstairs. Not even home an hour and I’ve already disappointed him.

  “Sorry, babe,” I shout. Our third-floor office is a nook. A tiny space where the sharp roofline angles the ceiling down in awkward places and directions. Six-foot-one Nathan has to stoop, so he’s rarely up here. I come here to hide.

  We have a desktop computer, an older model, on a heavy desk. I cleared the browser history on my laptop, deleted MeetLockr from my phone, but I’m unsure if my tracks have been covered up here or not.

  It’s possible I used Nathan’s aversion to the third story as an excuse to leave it for later. But now there is no later. Everything must be removed.

  “Oliver?” he calls as I press delete permanently after ticking every available box. Cookies. Autofill forms and passwords. Search engine terms.

  “Coming!”

  Back in the kitchen, Tilly’s water bowl is already full. Refilled by Nathan. But I could’ve sworn I’d done just that. In fact, I have the distinct memory of doing so this morning. I plunge a finger into the water. It’s not cold, not fresh.

  Why would Nathan say something like that? Why would he accuse me of being irresponsible just for the sake of doing so?

  Is he punishing me?

  Of course he doesn’t know. He can’t know. Dragging me to the police station is testament to that. Police. My heartbeat leaps with my thoughts; I made a false report. I doubled down. So why did Detective Henning play along? Why didn’t she call me out?

  I’m being paranoid again. Over Tilly’s water dish for fuck’s sake. Besides, my memory might be mistaken. I can hardly blame it, given all the lying, all the narratives I’ve bought into enough to deliver earnestly to Nathan. To Detective Henning. To myself.

  What else might I have misremembered?

  Nonsense. I palm my face. Tap water comes out ice-cold, but Nathan might’ve run it hot by mistake before turning it back. The result, a lukewarm bowl.

  Get a hold of yourself. Deep breath in. Deep breath out. You’re being ridiculous. Paranoid and ridiculous.

  On the topic of paranoia: my phone sits by the KitchenAid mixer. Carelessly left behind when I remembered the upstairs computer. But that’s the nice thing about excising secrets. You can leave devices for eager eyes because there’s no longer anything to find.

  Nathan reenters the kitchen. “Bathroom’s something else,” he says, tossing our mail stack onto the counter. “We’re not showering in there for a while. Did Darryl mention an estimate?”

  “Three thousand,” I say, but my voice catches, and it comes out garbled.

  Nathan knots his brow.

  I clear my throat. “Thirty-five hundred dollars.”

  “Jesus,” he says. Avoiding Nathan’s eyes, I carry the grocery bags to the sink. I fill one side with water to defrost the duck and change the subject. “What do you think about currant-and-cinnamon glaze? For the bird tonight?”

  “A bit Christmas, no?” Nathan sorts through our mail, dividing it into stacks to recycle and stacks to open. “Is there something more summer you can do?”

  “But this is the recipe I printed—”

  “Evening’s supposed to be cool. Maybe we can have it on the patio? Like orange duck or something?”

  “Sure.” The still half-frozen bird strikes stainless with a bubbly thud. “I’ll find one for orange duck.”

  “Wonder what this is?” Nathan asks. I turn to find him holding a yellow envelope. The one Tom collected from our front steps as he followed me into the house last night. I’d forgotten all about it.

  A thought strikes like a bolt of electricity. Crackling static panic.

  The envelope has no addresses. No sender. No receiver. Which means the mailman didn’t bring it. Someone would’ve had to drop it off personally. A personal message.

  I clench my hands into tight fists. Kristian knows my name and he knows my address. If he looked at my license, he saw it.

  Nathan tucks his index finger beneath the sealed paper lip and tears.

  My heart drums like a turbine engine. This is it. This is game over. I’m a fool.
Foolish for thinking I could keep it from Nathan. Foolish for not predicting what Kristian might do next. What he might do with details gleaned from my ID.

  I bite my tongue, taste the warm tin of blood.

  Nathan unfolds a slip of stationery. Light from the window over his shoulder shines through cream paper, revealing pen ink. It’s handwritten.

  My knees start to buckle, so I lock them. I steady myself on the kitchen counter.

  “Oliver,” Nathan starts, words wrapped in anguish. “Oliver, why?”

  His eyes meet mine. I say nothing. My thoughts grind to a halt, incapable of producing speech even if I did have words.

  Nathan squints in disbelief. “Smoking?”

  What? He tosses the note on the counter, and I snatch it up. I scan line by line, struggling to consume the message quicker than my brain can unpack it. Key words jump out. Summer. Cigarettes. Considerate.

  It’s not from Kristian. I exhale. Sweat from my thumb smudges the salutation, but it reads, Dear Neighbor. A note from next door. It’s summer, and they leave their windows open to cool off. They ask that we be considerate before lighting up in the back. Secondhand smoke drifts inside their home.

  Returning the note to the counter, I catch heat from Nathan’s glare.

  “Why were you smoking?” He almost glowers. “You quit. You promised me. You agreed that it’s filthy and disgusting.”

  “I’m sorry.” I try to bottle explosive relief. “I’m really sorry. I have quit. I bought a pack yesterday. Between the mugging and the bathtub, I needed something. I felt stupid after, and I’ve already tossed them.”

  Nathan tapers his eyes, but he’s buying it. Unhappily. “You promised—”

  “They’re gone. Taken out with the garbage.”

  He opens his mouth but stops short of a rebuttal. This isn’t a battle he’ll win. My excuse, though untrue, is a good one.

  “One cigarette.” I try to laugh, to joke. “It could’ve been worse.” Nathan will know that’s the truth. He’ll know to be grateful that after such a harrowing experience, I’ve only given in to a cigarette.