When Julie saw it, it was one of those double-take moments—like seeing an old friend scooting by on a red trolley, like passing a sandwich shop from her Ohio youth, or hearing a song, maybe something by Alice Cooper, that triggered a surge of memories she’d long forgotten were hers. This was the feeling Julie got as she passed Links Hall on Sheffield and Clark.
It started as a pleasing, absentminded kind of search. Just driving, embracing the journey, with her true goal shrouded on the horizon. She liked that the search was hazy, similar to that fuzz she used to feel from the pills. Except, of course, the fuzz out here was real—it came from the wind and the buildings and the lake, not the prescription. And it wasn’t like giving up the pills had been easy. For every two good days, she had one bad, suddenly cowed by the facts of her life. In these cases, it was a simple declaration of those facts that bowled her over: no husband (scratch that, husband on the lam), oldest child hurting, she herself stuck in the suburbs, devoid of career. But there was a difference—some internal compass had been triggered, and that helpless sense of inertia had passed, giving way to solid ground.
And here she was, in her Honda, taking the Eisenhower east into Chicago, that great maw of city opening infinitely wide. It wasn’t like being swallowed, she realized, it was like leaving the mouth of the fish that had already taken her in. And so the skyline got ever closer, the Trump and Willis and Hancock gleaming, and she was out, out in whatever new adventure this would be.
Sometimes it seemed as if the freeing thing and the damning thing were one and the same. Start with the good, she thought, keeping her hands loose on the steering wheel, allowing an overpolished red Corvette to swing through her lane and then blast off into the far left. The good thing was being unconstrained. If she wanted to glide off at any of these exits, she could do it. Go to Kenwood and Hyde Park, try to swing by Obama’s house, see if Secret Service agents stopped her? Done. She could do it. Museum of Science and Industry, the last surviving building from the 1893 Chicago World Fair? Absolutely. She was in. Stop for lunch at Blackbird or Ria or Trattoria No. 10 and watch thousand-dollar suits slam power lunches and broker deals with foreign businessmen? Beyond easy; she’d done it before. Or she could sneak away to some of her old favorites: 90 Miles, the little Cuban shack on Armitage, where she could chomp down on a pork and plantain sandwich and watch the traffic pass; or Yoshi’s Café, that old Lakeview classic on Halsted and Aldine, where she could order the tofu-stuffed kabocha pumpkin, swirl her chardonnay, and feel at one with the metropolis that made all worries disappear. All of these she could do, and more, which, of course, led to the bad thing.
The Eisenhower merged into Congress Parkway, and Julie kept on driving straight east, through the tunnel under the Chicago Stock Exchange, up toward the Congress Hotel, whose employees picketed in a small, sagging circle. Past them she went, straight into the green sprawl that led to Grant Park, before swinging left on Columbus, then right on Jackson, running parallel to the symphonic sprays of Buckingham Fountain. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been down here alone. In 2010, maybe, when she’d come down to deliver a care package of comics and cupcakes to Barkley’s new apartment.
When she passed North Avenue Beach and Castaways, the submerged-in-sand, shipwrecked boat bar Charlie used to talk about, Julie found herself contemplating the bad thing again: she had no income but that which Henry allotted her. She could move past him, get over him, have new adventures beyond him, but the shadow of his financial support might as well have been a tattoo. It was cast over her surroundings and each new place she went, a depressing monolith of forced and accepted dependence. It was this thought, truly this thought, that made her at times want to spiral back to the way she had been, to retreat to her room in Downers Grove, to slam those cotton ball pills down her throat and feel light and fuzzy and allow the knowledge of it all to fade away. The ability to forget unwanted truths was what the pills promised, and many times, that was more than enough.
Some nights she still spent crying, pulling out the old albums that just the day before she’d stuffed into a closet, determined to never unearth them again. Just last night, she’d made herself one vodka tonic—one!—and by the time she finished, all the old emotions had dug into her like shrapnel. The need to feel the cotton balls? Check. The gaping hole of Henry’s absence? Check. That draining, helpless sensation that she had no control—would never have control? Big check.
Yet, something was different now. Every urge to lie down was followed not by that wavering, jelly-legged sensation of giving up, but by a seething burn deep inside her chest. And so dance, and the studio, remained her bridge. It was something she knew she could do, knew could be hers. Meager income, however much—hers. Would it pay enough to get her on her own? Likely not. Not at first, at least. And she understood what Melanie would say. She would harp on Julie to get out there and work two jobs, three jobs, anything to get out from under Henry’s shadow. Work at the Gap, at Famous Footwear, anything. You might think it demeaning, Melanie would say, but being on your own is bliss in comparison. And in the meantime—pull the trigger, hire a lawyer, and find a way to divorce the man.
Maybe. Maybe she would do that. But she would also keep her eye on the target at hand.
She took the Belmont exit and found herself coasting down the streets of East Lakeview. On the passenger seat was the list that she and Melanie had made at a recent lunch, places where studio space could be rented, with one choice in particular circled twice. But Julie had just wanted to drive today, this third Wednesday of September—just drive. After seeing the baseball diamond, the scene of the crime, she had returned to Downers Grove ready to make changes, emotions be damned. She’d spent the rest of August and half of September getting back in shape: watching old videos from the Netherlands Dance Theater, taking a Pilates class on Tuesdays and Thursdays, grunting out that P90X tape at home. What a workout! Sweat running down her arms and neck, endorphins buzzing in her chest. She felt giddy over the newfound planning, even picked out favorite outfits to wear on each day of specialized exercise. And now, finding herself on Clark, Julie realized her target was nearby, and as she passed Sheffield, off to the right, there it was—the double take, the instant laughter, the knowledge that this was her new direction. Links Hall. She parked, fed the meter, and ran to take a look.
The building was nothing spectacular. “Links Hall” was engraved in the stone crest at the top, and below it she saw a gray-blue exterior with unwashed screens and hazy windows. No movement inside. On the second level were posted advertisements for all sorts of activities, and Julie immediately saw the ones of women in leotards and tights, legs swung up high in the air, creative release blossoming on their faces. She felt her heart thump and resisted an urge to burst inside, hugging and kissing whomever she could find. On the street, a gaggle of drunken Cubs fans stumbled toward Houndstooth Saloon, and a CTA 22 bus smoked and lurched down the street, pallid faces gazing past her through the windows. Julie shook herself and walked toward the black door with a sign that read ENTER HERE FOR PERFORMANCE.
The door lurched open like the entrance to a freighter ship. Inside, marble stairs led up to a rickety-looking second floor. She took the steps two at a time, almost stumbling twice, stifling her laughter. A reverent quiet seemed to seep from the crevices of the building. No people anywhere. At the top of the landing, old wood made up a narrow hallway. There were pamphlet-riddled bulletin boards between unmarked oak doors with frosted glass. She glanced at some of the advertisements. Jon Walz DJ Raffle. Dance Crash presents KTF. Flamenco by Rudy Rabby. Free Bollywood Dance Workshop. There was a black-and-white framed placard announcing, “The 1993 Ruth Page Award is presented to Bob Eisen in recognition of his contribution as choreographer of the year.” Halfway down the corridor she saw a sign marked WEST HALL, with a rusted horseshoe hanging below the letters. Below that, two double doors, no windows, shut tight. She tried the knob—locked.
All the rooms were in the two hundreds, with some of the numbers chipped or missing. Farther down she saw a ladies’ bathroom, the door propped open, ceramic tiles and an arched skylight illuminating chipped stucco walls. Still no movement anywhere; the entire place frozen in time. She rounded the bend, looking at the office doors. No labels, only numbers, all closed. At the end of the hallway, the final door was actually marked—“207 Links Hall.” She turned the knob and went inside.
It was a small office, with a plywood desk topped with a boxy old computer. Sitting at the desk, with his back to her, was a man with graying brown hair, eyeglasses, and a somewhat athletic build. She cleared her throat.
“Hello? Am I in the right place? Sir?”
When he swiveled, Julie saw the man was sporting a mustache that she instantly liked: not too thick, not pencil thin, it was the comfortable mustache of a man who knew exactly who he was. He had blue eyes and a nose that looked to have been broken at least once. He smiled up at her.
“Hi,” he said, pushing up his glasses. “Welcome to Links Hall. Glad you found your way in. It’s a little tricky, I know. But we’ve got classes, workshops, creative space for rent. What can I do you for?”
Julie inhaled, and smiled. “It actually smells like a dance studio,” she said. “It’s unmistakable. Can you tell?”
“You bet I can tell. My wife used to run this place. When she retired, I couldn’t get used to how different she smelled. So I started working here, just to reset the equilibrium.”
“I forgot how much I missed that part of it.”
“It’s a great place. Been going strong since the 1970s. Have you seen the West Hall studio?”
“It was locked.”
“You’ll love it, I promise. Great condition. You looking to rent space?”
Julie examined him more carefully. “Yes, in a way. But if I might ask, if you’re not originally involved in dance, what did you do before working here, mister, um…?”
“Schoenwetter. Jack Schoenwetter. Chicago Fire Department for twenty-eight years. Me and my brother both. We’re retired, but I still help run that boxing tournament between the CPD and CFD.”
Julie did the acronym math in her head. “Wait. The police have a boxing tournament against the firefighters? Real boxing?”
Jack leaned back. “Oh, absolutely. It’ll have you in hysterics. Lotta hoopla between the two forces. My brother, he’s the fighter. I fought for a bit, but work better as a trainer. So when I’m not here, I’m down at Hamlin Park, training young kids to fight. It’s strange, you know? I married a dancer, so I appreciate both the grace and the grease stains.”
“That’s a nice way to put it. I was a dancer, too, once.”
“Oh right, of course. Where at?”
“Out in the suburbs, then at Northwestern. At least for part of my time there.” She wondered if she was pushing the boundaries of casual banter, if it would be better to switch gears. “But about that space for rent—what are we looking at, price-wise?”
Schoenwetter leaned back. “Well, if you’re doing private activities, like an audition, the rates are hourly, and they go up as it gets later. Five bucks an hour from five to nine in the morning, twelve bucks an hour from nine until six. And that figure increases to … let’s see, fifteen an hour up until midnight, then thirty bucks if you’re wanting to come in the wee hours—just because we have to have a member of staff present.”
“No, no, I’m definitely not looking for an audition, although I’d probably want to rent the space for myself a couple times. To practice. But I’m looking to teach a dance class, Mr. Schoenwetter.”
“Call me Jack. And that’s fantastic! What in?”
Julie leaned against the wall and stretched her quadriceps, which were still sore from her morning routine. “Well,” she said, “I’m still getting down the particulars, but I would like it to be a contemporary dance class for women, and here’s the kicker, Jack—only women over forty allowed.”
“Like an exclusive tree house.”
“Exactly like an exclusive tree house. But really, I’m thinking it’ll be more of a return-to-roots type of program. Hopefully most of these ladies will have danced before, or maybe they’re just starting, but the main thing is they’re looking for a way to regain contact with themselves, to express themselves through movement, synergy, music, silence. Body-mind awareness for women who have fallen out of touch, or for those who want to increase it. And, of course, it’s fantastic exercise, too.”
“That sounds like a solid foundation for a tree house to me,” Jack said, flashing a grin. “Will you be carding these ladies at the door? Checking for fake IDs? You need to make sure young hooligans aren’t sneaking in.”
“I was hoping you could be the bouncer.”
“Yeah, call my brother for that one. But really, this sounds like a great idea for a dance class. It could work very well.”
“You should invite your wife.”
“Right, right. Well, that’s a bit of a long shot.”
“Oh,” Julie said. “She’s flat-out retired, huh? Done with all of it?”
“A little more than that.”
Julie leaned forward. “She hates it now?”
“Ha, no. She’s out of the picture. Passed away, as they say.”
Julie put her hand over her mouth. “Oh my God. I am so, so sorry. I had no idea—”
He chuckled and waved his hand. “I put the ball on the tee. Led you right into it, the way I was talking. And I don’t mind, it’s been almost six years now.”
“Well, I am sorry.”
“You know, that’s quite all right.” Jack brought his hand up to his mustache and tapped his foot. “But actually, changing the subject—seeing as how neither of us is wearing jewelry—I don’t suppose you’d like to grab lunch sometime around here? Not today, mind you, but another time? There’s a ton of places. Yoshi’s—you heard of Yoshi’s? About four blocks from here, Chicago staple. Or am I babbling? I’m being forward. That’s the fire department in me. So blunt, it actually takes away a man’s understanding of tact. And here I am, looking at your face, and it’s clear that, yep, this was a bad idea. Totally unprofessional.”
“No,” Julie said, feeling a hot rain coursing inside her cheeks. Yet, despite the embarrassment, she felt a certain levitation of her stomach, as if from the drop on a roller coaster. Being asked on a date. Julie understood, as if from far away, that this was happening now, and for the first time since 1973 she had the option of saying yes. Truly, the first time since she stood in a summer skirt outside a baseball diamond near Evanston, Illinois.
“No, as in denied,” Jack said, sighing. “Well, I’m out of practice.”
Julie looked at him a little closer. He was down-to-earth and at ease with himself, but a little more dog-eared than she was used to. Henry would never have worn a rumpled plaid shirt like that, much less anything that didn’t come personally fitted. And Jack was wearing tennis shoes, which immediately made her think of what Henry would say—Henry, who thought his Bally chestnut derbies were casual simply because they weren’t Oxfords. And yet, along with Jack’s lack of tailored aesthetic there was also an almost palpable aura of zero bullshit. Julie smiled.
“No, as in, it’s not a bad idea, Jack. Not a bad idea at all. I’m glad you asked. And this is going to sound strange, but before we talk about that, can you just tell me a little more about the studio?”
“Sure, sure, absolutely. The studio. Wow, get it together, Jack.” He cleared his throat. “Okay, well, if you want to teach a class, that’s twenty bucks an hour for the rented space. Plus, upon request, we can get you an extra half hour free, either before or after, to cover the get-in, get-out. This also provides for use of the dressing room, the watercooler, or whatever else you might think you need.”
Julie nodded. “That’s perfect. Perfect. Can I see the studio?”
“Absolutely—there’s a second entrance to West Hall right outside this door. Should be unlocked. Go ahead, nobody’s using it. Take as long as you like.”
Julie turned and went past him, and tried to hold back a smile.
Outside Jack’s office was a blue door propped open about an inch. She swung it open, smelled wood and dust and pure open space. The door closed behind her and she stood there, taking it in slowly. There were no mirrors on the walls, which she liked—mirrors were a distraction. The ceilings were high, covered with exposed white bulbs and rows of black tech lights. Two sets of windows peeked out at the city, revealing a willow tree, curving El tracks, and a rusted fire escape that folded against the building like a resting bird. Off to the right were rows of black seats. But what grabbed her, here and now and always, was that wide-open space, and that beautiful floor. It was made of sprung, smoothed-out, glistening maple wood, so polished that it could have been clear water. She bent down and ran her fingers across it. She thought of all the dancers moving in this space, changing places within the group, fast and flowing, music and no music, lunging and floating, finally fluttering to the floor like those one-winged samara seeds, those maple keys that took to the air so often in her youth. It was as if, from the last day she danced as a junior at Northwestern in 1974, her true self had been stuffed in a cooler, and thirty-seven years had passed while her spirit was kept on ice. Now, finally, walking across this silent open space, across this still water smoothed into wood, she was home.
“I’ll take it,” she said, back in Jack’s office. “I want to do it.”
“The date?”
“The studio space. Can you give me a couple months to prepare and advertise? How does that work? Can I use the bulletin boards?”
“Sure, sure. You can absolutely use the bulletin boards. Make some advertisements for the class and we’ll put them up. You can also have something on our Web site. Anything beyond that is up to you.”
Julie wanted to lean forward, grab Jack by the collar, and shout, my life is changing right now, can’t you tell? She was so excited she wanted to throttle him, to make sure he knew. But she held back, letting the feeling bunch up inside her—more fuel for the months to come.
“Thank you for the help,” Julie said. “It was great to see the studio space. I’ll be in touch about dates and availabilities. And also those advertisements.”
“Okay, glad to help. Thanks for coming in.” He was looking at the floor balefully, like a puppy who had misbehaved. He sighed and pushed his glasses up to his nose. “Sorry about the mishap,” he said.
“Jack,” Julie said. “That’s a yes on that date.”
On the walk to her car, every surface she moved across—each marble step on the staircase out of Links Hall, each sidewalk square on Sheffield, each chunk of asphalt on Clark—it all felt the same. Her feet seemed to glide, and everything she touched was like maple wood, polished and sprung.