Tuesday
I parked at the Linden CTA station in Wilmette, hopped on the Purple Line down to Howard, then transferred to the Red Line for the ride down to the Loop. As we passed Rogers Park, Ravenswood, and Lakeview, bullet-fast glimpses of humanity flashed by. A bungalow with snow on its roof, a sagging porch, a tire swing hanging limp from a bare branch, a kid’s tricycle.
I remembered my Lakeview apartment. I was a few years out of college, about the same age as Rachel now. Barry and I had just met, and the spark between us was explosive. We spent as much time as we could getting to know each other’s bodies. Winter Sundays were my favorite. A long day and even longer night, our fishermen sweaters, jeans, and boots strewn along the hardwood floor, marking a telltale path to the bedroom.
The train went underground at North and Clybourne, and I caught my reflection in the window. I was smiling. A few minutes later, I got off at Jackson. Mayor Rahm was refurbishing the el stations—funny how he could always find a few million dollars when he wanted to—and the Jackson station had been one of the first upgrades. I started across the pedway. The homeless, who used to designate this spot, along with Lower Wacker, as their overnight accommodations, had vanished. So had the cracked walls and hollow echoes. The once seedy area was well lit, decorated with murals of commuters coming and going, and bursting with trendy shops, including, of course, Starbucks.
I hung around outside. People stopped in, and I watched the swishes and belches of all the machines until I figured I could always have an alternate career as a barista. I checked my watch. Parks was fifteen minutes late. I knew what he’d be wearing, so I decided to walk toward the Blue Line.
It was after lunch, but it wasn’t crowded. The bustle of rush hour wouldn’t begin for another hour. I followed the signs, walked up a flight of stairs, and wandered toward the Blue Line tracks. It was your average station, two tracks, each going in a different direction, separated by a concrete platform. I saw another set of stairs similar to the one I’d just climbed at the far end of the platform. The lights were dimmer here, or maybe it was just the fluorescent lighting. There was graffiti on the walls, and the slight rancid odor of urine. Remodeling had clearly stopped with the pedway.
I stayed at the foot of the stairs, figuring I would spot him getting off the next train. The train came about five minutes later, but there were so many cars attached—they must have been gearing up for the afternoon rush—that I couldn’t see the end of the train. The doors swooshed open, and about two dozen people got off and headed up the stairs. I looked toward the far end of the platform and spotted a few people emerging from the train. I hurried over. Maybe Parks didn’t know Starbucks was behind us. I could probably catch him before he finished climbing those stairs. I started to jog.
As I did, I heard a train approaching behind me from the opposite direction. The whoosh of an artificial breeze blew across the platform, and its noise grew from a growl to a roar, finally crashing like thunder as it slowed. It, too, seemed to have a lot of cars attached, which meant it would take longer to come to a full stop. Like the other train, which was just leaving, this train’s cars extended beyond my sight line.
All at once, a blur of movement flew across the platform at the far end. A woman screamed. Then a man shouted. The train lurched to a stop, its brakes screeching long and loud, like a wounded animal. A few seconds later, two men raced toward me. Someone else ran up the flight of steps at the far end of the platform.
“Call the police. Get the cops! Right away!” one of the men passing me shouted.
“Oh my God! Oh my God!” the second man cried.
“What happened?” I said.
“Someone threw themselves in front of the train!”