Bath Haus

by P. J. Vernon

  “I’m going to do my travel expenses.” He abandons me in the kitchen, but I remain still. Frozen by relief and terror in equal measure. A false alarm, sure, but how much luck do I have left? How much more can I afford to squander?

  Kristian knows my address if he knows my name. His behavior might be part of a larger pattern. A pattern of spinning sticky webs in the dank corners of bathhouses. Long needle-like legs walking silk tightropes, creeping toward paralyzed prey. Wrapping spindly fingers around their necks. Mouth parts moving and chewing like spinning blades.

  That’s the thing with spiderwebs. Spiderwebs and patterns. They grow. They expand to fill whatever space they occupy.

  Kristian messaged me. He reached out through sex and steam and walls painted in porn. Through the anonymity of Haus and out into sobering daylight. He followed me. And he’s expanded.

  Hi Oliver.

  12

  Down the hall, Nathan spits mouthwash into a guest-bathroom sink. I sit on the edge of the bed, listening to the sounds of his nightly ritual. Buzzing electric toothbrush. Flushing toilet. Lathering soap.

  This is the routine I chose. This is all I wanted. Normalcy. An escape from the dangerous direction my life had veered. Nathan’s promise. How Nathan saved me.

  The lights turn off, and he pads into our room. Cheeks bright pink from liquor.

  “Pepper spray,” he says, keychain mace dangling from his finger. “Keep it on you when you run, okay?”

  “Sure.” He tucks it in my nightstand. It’s not in any sealed packaging. When did he have time to buy me pepper spray? “Thanks.”

  “I kept it in my work bag.” He winks, seeming to read my mind. “For late shifts, but I’d rather you have it.”

  He slips from silk pajama bottoms and casts them on the leather Eames lounger in the corner—a name I know only because Nathan’s taught me what good chairs are. His shirt comes off next, tossed just the same. He stands in tight-fitting underwear and glasses.

  Thin wire frames I found charming, effortlessly sexy, when I first saw them. Not so much because I have a fetish for guys in glasses, but what it meant when he wore them with me. It meant intimacy. No contacts. No meticulously coifed hair. Just glasses and zero styling gel. Nathan, natural, without the mask. He kisses me and climbs into bed.

  “Christ. What a day,” he says. We’re both on our backs beneath cool sheets. Our eyes fixed to the slow-turning blades of the ceiling fan. “I nearly fucked up my talk.”

  “I doubt it was as bad as you—”

  “The assault, it threw me for a loop. I couldn’t concentrate and I closed out my notes midway through. Stumbled. Stuttered. The whole thing almost came apart.”

  “You’re not a politician, Nat. You’re not Tom. No one expects a crisp—”

  “I expect it.” He draws in a deep breath. “One mugging and you’ve got bruises, we’re down a bathroom, and I nearly lost respect from colleagues. Whatever fucker did this doesn’t appreciate or care how much damage he caused. And for what? Eighty bucks?”

  “I’m sorry.” What else can I say? He’s right about everything. Except the mugger.

  His hand finds mine beneath the blankets. He hooks my pinky with his, and soft lips travel my neck. “Don’t be sorry. This isn’t your fault.”

  Only it is, and for a moment, I consider reciprocating. Then he kisses my ear.

  Fragrant with mint and bourbon, his breath whistles past the tiny hairs inside. A breeze that diverts blood flow to my chest and sours my stomach. A fight-or-flight response. I turn to mask my revulsion. “I’m sorry, I’m really tired, and I’m still—”

  “It’s fine,” he whispers, his breath mercifully drifting into the space between us instead of my ear, like Kristian’s. “It’s just I’ve been away for nearly a week, so…is this okay?”

  I know what he’s asking, and I nod. He begins to masturbate under the sheets with his left hand. His right wanders beneath the elastic hem of my briefs. He fondles me as he jerks himself off.

  He hopes I’ll stir and stiffen, but it won’t happen. I’ve got nothing for him but guilt.

  I’m amused by what this might look like to an outsider, someone expecting a relationship between two men to be saturated in sex. Straight men saying gays have it good because it’s all sex all the time. Whenever they want it. However they want it. Just males and their wanton biology.

  Nathan and I did have good sex a handful of times. Never what I would call great, but I try not to compare. It isn’t fair, and it isn’t helpful. But Hector and me—that was great sex. You can’t miss something you’ve never had, and the inverse is also true. You can’t lie to yourself when you know you’ve had better.

  Nathan pulls his hand from my underwear and rolls out of bed to wash up. When he returns, he opens his drawer and sleeping pills rattle.

  “Did you take some of these?”

  “Huh?”

  “My Ambien?”

  How does he know? He can’t count in the dark, and no way he senses the vacuum left from three missing pills. But it doesn’t matter how. Only that he does.

  “I couldn’t sleep after.”

  “Be careful.” The bottle shakes as he pops one. “It’s a slippery slope. You know that from your meetings.”

  “I know.” I shorten my tone, hoping to punctuate the topic. I fail.

  “Might be a good idea to head back to NA. Maybe just a meeting or two until this blows over and we get back to normal?”

  Get back to normal. Now, there’s an idea. I want that more than anything. Normal is what saved me, got me out of the need for Narcotics Anonymous in the first place.

  Nathan doesn’t wait for an answer. “A place to talk things out.”

  “I’m okay, Nat. I promise.”

  “The cigarette too—”

  “It’s not the same thing. You know that.” My cheeks fever. “Don’t pretend otherwise.”

  “All right.” He sighs and turns his back to mine. “Good night, babe.”

  “Night.” I shut my eyes, but sleep is an impossibility.

  * * *

  • •

  In the morning, the Metro escalator descends with a certain inevitability. Down a vaulted, coffered tunnel to the station below. My commute is a lengthy trip on the Red Line from the District to Kimberly’s office in Silver Spring, Maryland.

  “Don’t forget to leave a key for Darryl in the mailbox,” Nathan had said before departing in pale-green scrubs. I’d caught a glimpse of myself in the foyer mirror. The bruises ringing my throat seem to have grown worse, but it was hard to tell. And even if they did fade, does it matter? They’re either there or they aren’t. How much or to what extent is irrelevant.

  I skipped running this morning for Nathan’s benefit. If I was mugged, I should have a traumatic response, right? The truth is, I’ve never needed to run more. Runner’s high combats the itch for other, less healthy ones—and now my legitimate traumatic anxiety has no outlet. It simply builds like a pressure cooker.

  I crouch close to the side of the escalator, but people still push past me. Bumping my left arm. Brushing my shoulder with theirs. My eyes are dry. I don’t need a mirror to know they’re bloodshot and bagged.

  I’m in no hurry. If I’m late, my ordeal over the weekend is an ideal excuse. Still, I can’t shake that niggling sensation. Eyes on me, frosting the back of my neck. I feel I’m being watched in the eerie way people do. My pulse thumps in my ears. A guilty conscience. Has to be.

  A train hisses up, sending feral pages of The Washington Post snapping through the air. The doors open. I find a niche and take hold of the steel bar. Departing the station, we all lurch backward then forward in synchrony.

  I start to play an episode of This American Life but find a missed call instead.

  “Hi, Oliver. Detective Henning.” Her voicemail ramps up my heartbeat.
It keeps pace with the hurtling train. “Call me back as soon as possible. I have a few questions for you. This is my cell. Talk soon.”

  I hang up and scour passenger after passenger, every face in the crowded car. I’d managed to compartmentalize, to push thoughts of Kristian out of my mind for most of the morning. A return to routine made pretending easier.

  Detective Henning’s message put a stop to that.

  I spin and crane my neck left and right. None of these faces are Kristian’s. There’d be no mistaking it. Even if I forgot the details, even if I could lose sight of those ocean-deep eyes, or his sharp brows, or swept blond hair, there’d be the wound. The laceration on his cheek from the key that saved my life. He cupped his cheek with both hands. Blood between long fingers like wet black paint.

  No, Kristian’s not here. I can stop thinking otherwise. Sure, he knows my name, he might know where I live, but I haven’t heard from him since I replied on MeetLockr. Since I threatened him with a police report, and then took the extra, monumental step of making good on it. And now—bouncing up and down with the train—I search for him where he isn’t. Where he can’t be.

  Of course Detective Henning wants to talk. She’s parsing two reports. I am either a victim desperate to keep the lid on an indiscretion, or a manipulative narcissist drawing cops into his drama. For her, the truth must lie somewhere between the two. But what about for me?

  The train brakes. Metal screeches. The doors retract.

  Another thought springs from a place of optimism. Maybe Detective Henning’s already put a stop to it. Perhaps she’s checked the records Haus keeps. Matched a photo ID to Kristian’s face. She needs me to view a lineup. That I can do.

  I breathe deeply. Fear is making him a bigger monster than he is. Somehow, he found me on MeetLockr. His avatar was faceless, and mine was too for obvious reasons. But I messaged a lot of guys. Sent them face pics once I’d seen theirs. Had I engaged with Kristian before? Every second of distance between now and then corrodes my memory. One already working overtime to forget.

  Sometimes swapping photos escalated in explicitness, sometimes not. The point is, there were many of them. I wouldn’t necessarily have remembered Kristian’s face. He was intoxicating within the damp exoticism of a bathhouse, but those eyes might not come through the same in pixels. Still, he might’ve recalled me. There must be significant overlap between MeetLockr and Haus’s clientele.

  I’ve almost convinced myself I’m safe. The detective’s job is likely already finished, and I’m simply needed to tie up loose ends.

  Almost.

  Because I can’t stop scanning the crowd. Each station bringing fresh faces to scour. None are familiar, none are threats, but it doesn’t seem to matter.

  Because I can’t shake that feeling. That goddamn feeling. The one that tells me I’m not safe. No, doesn’t tell, screams. Bulging veins and blue-faced hollering. I’m not safe because I’m being watched. In my pocket, I loop the keychain of Nathan’s pepper spray around my pinky.

  And I know who’s watching me.

  13

  I’m relieved Kimberly’s not in yet. I have time to get situated at reception, to breathe. To prepare for the onslaught of questions about my fake mugging. To call Detective Henning.

  Still half an hour until the patient door opens. first choice internal medicine. dr. kimberly martin, md stenciled on frosted glass.

  We’re on the fifth floor of a mid-rise comprised entirely of doctors’ offices. And we’re the only interior suite, meaning zero windows. I’m unsure if Kimberly likes it this way, a distraction-free space for delivering care. Or if she simply made the mistake of having ovaries on a floor with no fewer than twelve sets of hetero testicles. Swinging to and fro in shriveled scrotums beneath Saint Laurent slacks. Hoarding all the windows for their own private practices.

  Okay, Oliver. You can do this.

  I sit down at my reception desk, grab the phone, and dial out. On my iPhone, I scroll through my call log for the detective’s cell. She answers on the first ring.

  “Detective Henning? It’s Oliver Park.”

  “Oliver, hello.” She sounds winded. “Give me a sec. I’ve got a tray of coffees in my hand.”

  “Sure.” A rustling on her end.

  “Okay,” she starts. “We need to talk.”

  I coil the phone cord around my index finger and brace. I expected this. She may have gone along with my game at the station with Nathan beside me, but now she can be real. And in my experience, real’s never nice.

  “I need to be candid with you,” she says. “There are consequences for what you’ve done.”

  “I’m sorry,” I tell her, and I mean it. “I didn’t have a choice; Nathan made the decision to report what I told him.”

  “Again,” she corrects. “To report again.”

  “Look, I can go through my statement, my real statement—”

  “Real statement? You see how problematic this is, right?”

  The tips of my ears burn. She must know which one is which. The report given when I sat before her as a desperate puddle of a person. Not the one I recited while Nathan’s shoulder touched mine, our hands held.

  “I—”

  “You need to understand what a false report means. I’ve now got to disclose that you came forward twice. With two versions. Vastly different accounts.”

  “Disclose?”

  “In the event we find your attacker, the district attorney’s office will require everything I have, and you’ve given way too much.”

  “But one’s—”

  “You lied. Both statements cannot be true. If we charge your attacker, we have a duty to hand over all evidence to the defense, including your false report.” A brief pause. “In the meantime, my job is to follow up on your allegations.”

  Allegations? With each passing second, Detective Henning pivots more adversarial. She wasn’t letting me get away with anything. Permitting me to lie to both Nathan and herself? An investigative no-brainer, and why didn’t I see it?

  She goes on: “If I verify what’s happened, then my next job is to collect evidence and construct a case.” I didn’t see it because I don’t see anything, ever. “Cases are built on credibility. Mine and yours, understand?”

  “I do.” But am I credible? Even to myself?

  “Which brings me to my other point.”

  I hold my breath. Anticipating her next words. Willing them to be something along the lines of we’ve found him!

  “I have a second significant problem,” Detective Henning says.

  The words slice like a knife, hope spilling onto bad office carpet. “What’s happened?”

  “We’ve approached the bathhouse with your story. There’s no match to your attacker’s first name or the screengrab you provided.”

  I open my mouth to speak, to counter her, but pause. There’s no point. She’s telling me the facts, and nothing will change them. I let myself into Haus. I let myself into Kristian’s room. Then I let Detective Henning into my life. Now that she’s here, what’s stopping her from destroying everything? Tearing down lie after lie. Veneer after veneer, each tissue-paper thin.

  Instead, I ask for details.

  She obliges: “It’s possible this man used a fake ID. There are hundreds of reasons to, as you can imagine. I’m working on a subpoena for Haus’s records. So far, they’re being cooperative. They want to keep their name out of the media, but they won’t hand over something like that without a court order.”

  “Makes sense.” The damage such a list might do? Wandering and winding down dark, wet hallways, the bodies of men against one another. Getting off. How many have wives? Name recognition in this city, of all places? Outing diplomatic staffers from some nations sends them flying home to floggings and nooses.

  “But I need to be certain of something else.” She reads m
y silence for bated breath. “When I visited Haus, the receptionist wouldn’t share the list per the owners. But he did welcome inquiries. I asked about Kristian. Showed your photo. Came up empty.” She hesitates. “I also asked about you.”

  We’ve gone from knowing what’s true to allegations to asking about you jarringly fast.

  “They couldn’t find any record of you.”

  “But I was there.” My voice trips. “I know I’ve given two reports, but I can’t be any clearer. My first one is correct. The second one’s a stupid cover I gave Nathan. I never intended for anyone but him to hear it. It’s only because he’s so goddamned insistent and stubborn that—”

  “Oliver.” She sharpens her tone. No-nonsense. A box cutter. “There’s zero record of your visit to Haus.”

  Her words—what she’s trying to tell me—finally sink in. No record, but I was there. The surreal darkness, a cocktail of danger and possibility that was so damn exhilarating. That smell. That biting scent of lavender cleaning solution soaking everything. The Cheshire Cat’s lips curving into a wide grin. The blue flash as he made a copy of my license.

  “Is either of your reports true?” Detective Henning asks.

  “Of course they’re true.”

  “They’re? As in both?”

  “No. I misspoke. The first is true. I was at Haus!”

  The blackness the flare left behind was the canvas against which Nathan’s face painted itself. The fear when I saw his eyes in that instant had reverberated in my bones. As hard as I tried to convince myself otherwise, it was all too real. I was inside Haus.

  “There has to be a record.” Panic squeezes my voice into a whisper. “The front desk, he made a copy. I saw him scan my ID.”

  Detective Henning exhales. “You sure you’ve given me the correct establishment? Are you certain it was Haus and not some other place? There are several in the city and—”

  “No,” I interrupt. “It’s Haus. There could be a thousand bathhouses in the same neighborhood, and it’d still be Haus. That’s where it happened. That’s where Kristian tried to kill me. I googled it earlier that day. Haus was the one I chose. The address I plugged into my phone. I can even show you…” I stop speaking. Everything besides the screenshot—which she’s already seen—is gone. My browser history. My MeetLockr app. My recent searches in Google Maps. I can’t show Detective Henning. I can’t show her it was Haus and nowhere else.