25. Sally’s Last Dance.

Oct 25, 2020

To read the story so far, visit the Table of Contents.

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The Tabor Hall

It was well past midnight when they got out the power drill and started to take the plywood boards off the metal side door.

The boarded-up door had been tagged so much over the years that it blended into the building itself under a slick coat of spray paint. Ten minutes and a few dozen screws later, they were in.

The ten of them, all dressed in dark colors, rolled their rusty carts of equipment over the door’s threshold and filed in. The tall, bearded one, Danny, reinstalled the boards behind them, and the interior was pitched into darkness.

A dank, wet smell permeated the room. The crew flipped on their headlamps. Streaks of white light fanned through the hall, creating long tunnels of hovering dust. They pushed the carts along the musky carpet, past the bank of elevators, then past the splintered crates. Scattered around were torn boxes and other loose materials that’d been left behind when the old hotel had been left abandoned, management having failed to convert the building into apartments.

At the main intersection of the ground floor, the group split up. Half of them walked down the gently declining hallway that led into the lobby, a spacious room with soggy furniture and a grandfather clock coated in dust. Its pendulum hung motionless, wrapped in a sheath of cobwebs.

Samantha entered the old employee break room behind the front desk and found a locker stuffed with random items. A silver bracelet with “Lila” etched into it, a magician’s wand that revealed pink plastic flowers when you pulled its end, a Gideon Bible with various letters circled inside. She closed the locker, moved on.

The other half of the group had walked up the steps into the old dining hall, a glass enclosure with missing panes that caused the wind circling through the courtyard to whistle as it passed through. In the kitchen they found a loose can of beans, a moldy fridge, some forks buried in dust on the tiles. They returned to the main crossroads.

“So, where are we setting up?” said Freckles, a short redhead. His hair was shaved at the sides, and a wispy mustache was just starting to sprout from his pale face.

A loud creak down the hall. The helmet lights spun to its source.

Sasha was opening a set of double doors and peering inside. She brought her cornrowed head back out with a bright smile on her face.

“Think I found it,” she called.

They all sped towards the old ballroom, all trying to get there first. It was an open space over two stories high. Their footsteps squeaked out annoying cacophony on the scratched wooden surface as their headlamps scanned the room. They searched the second story balcony that hung above, their lights reflecting against the silver gilding that traced the ornate ceiling decoration.

“Looks perfect,” boomed Harv’s voice from somewhere in the darkness. Everyone mumbled their agreement.

They returned to the hallway and rolled in the carts. Spencer came in with a few tables he’d found stacked in a closet. They unloaded their supplies and set them against the wall, the starched, yellowed wallpaper crinkling and creasing behind.

Mini-bags of Doritos, Lay’s, and Cheetos. Cans of Pringles stacked like palace columns next to a fortified bunker of granola bar boxes. Single-serving cartons of cereal they got after Eileen had bargained from an overnight janitor at the airport. Plastic bottles of brand name orange juice they’d talked someone into considering a tax write-off. Styrofoam cups and bowls and paper plates. Napkins and utensil packets from friends working at McDonald’s and Burger King.

Rabe set the LEDs in the corner and angled them upward so they cast into the furthest reaches. Once the space was lit, everyone claimed their spots on the floor with sleeping bags and pillowcases stuffed with laundry. They’d figure out actual rooms tomorrow in the daylight.

“What do we think?” Pedro said.

His voice carried without force, and when he sat down, his position became the head of the circle, just like always. They began to talk some more about the logistics of their occupation.

For the past few years, the Palmer had been vacant of guests. Rats still nested and ghosts still lingered, occasionally spotted by curious kids looking to get scared, or by vagrants just looking for a place to crash. But it wasn’t until two weeks ago, when Pedro heard about the hauntings from Xavier, who’d spent a few cold fall nights inside, that the real plan took shape.

Another winter approached. All these rooms waited unused as the train tunnels and alleyways began to fill more quickly than usual. Systems beyond their grasp were accelerating, power being funneled upward, more houseless neighbors every day. This was supposed to help.

Pedro had looked into it: Latham, the building’s owner, had yet to put it up for sale, let alone close any deal. The thought was they’d be safe until well after the season’s cold had come and gone. A few months inside were better than nothing.

In the floor meeting, they split up duties. Who’d clean up, who’d spread word around, who’d check folks in and get them situated, who’d list what items were still needed. With the tasks sorted, the tone shifted. As the conversation grew more casual, people began drifting away from the circle for earplugs and sleep, or for flashlights and exploration.

Sally and Simon made eye contact and wordlessly took the stairs up to the ballroom’s balcony.

They were an odd pair. Sally was an old guard leftist, 70 years young, who’d been involved with it all since the 60s. She had the white scar lines in her leathered skin to prove her bonafides.

Seth was in his 20s and new to the scene. It was foreclosure then a bad fight that had sent him couch-surfing. Then living in his car, then ticketed and booted. He’d finally made his way into a tent on the sidewalk.

Last night, in their encampment on 8th, Sally had set up a chair, draped a torn plastic trash bag over his chest, and buzzed his hair and neck.

Simon held Sally’s hand as she gripped the rail to aid her balky knees. Her hand felt cold and paperthin. They slowly walked to the front row of seats, and Simon’s headlamp caught rats scuffling around the floor. Sally had gotten used to them all those years, so she simply set a hand on the seat arm to lower herself gently down.

“Give me a second to rest, hun,” Sally said to Simon, who took his own seat next to her. “I never told you that I’d been here before, have I?”

Simon shook his head as a big smile ran across his face.

Sally described a night from 1960. She’d just turned 17, and her school was having their prom right here. She’d wore a blue dress that her grandma had tailored, and her date was a kid named Frankey Pienkowski. She laughed thinking about him.

“Frankey had this awful cowlick,” she said. “Looked like a mouse had gotten squatter’s rights on the side of his head.”

“What else?” Simon said. “Tell me more.”

“We went to prom, but that was just a formality,” she said. “We didn’t spend more than five minutes together. We both just needed a date.”

She pointed to a far corner, near the stage.

“All night I was over there,” she said, “dreaming with my gals.”

They’d gossiped about boys and stink-eyed the clique of girls near the punch bowl. But it was later that night, Sally told Simon, that she figured out the rest of her life.

“I’d gone to the bathroom, and found this flight of stairs, and walked up,” Sally said.

She turned to her right. As she raised her arm to point, she felt a slight twinge of discomfort, so she nodded instead.

“Just over there,” she said. “Out of the light. I sat there for the last half of the dance, just watching them all. And that’s when I knew I had to get out of here.”

Sally turned to Simon and saw that his eyes had drifted down to the ballroom floor. He’d caught sight of the raven-haired Monica. She was at the table, sorting the variety boxes of oatmeal into flavors.

Too long of a story anyway, Sally thought, so she gave him the short version.

She tore up her acceptance letter to University of Wisconsin, moved in with a cousin who was living in Mexico City, and met Carlos. Simon nodded as if he knew the rest of the story, like she’d mentioned it before. But she couldn’t have—she’d always kept this to herself.

“Fascinating,” Simon said, his attention gone for good. “Ready to go back, or?”

Sally smiled deeply and set her wrinkled hand on his arm. She gave it a squeeze.

“Think I’ll sit here a while longer,” she said. He pecked her on the cheek.

“You call me if you need help getting down,” he said. She heard his footsteps echo down the stairs.

Sally felt another twinge in her arm, but cast the pain aside, and leaned forward to watch the burgeoning pair.

Without a word, Simon began to help Monica sort out the oatmeals. He made a soft joke; Monica smiled. Sally had seen that before. She knew that would be that, and silently wished them godspeed.

Her fingers traced the wooden seat’s arm, and her thumb found a ripple, a slight indentation. She tilted her head to look, and her headlamp illuminated a small carved spiral.

“Can I have this dance?” a voice next to her spoke.

She turned with a perfect calm and serene expectation. There was Carlos. Twenty-seven years old, like before. He grinned and offered his hand.

His head was shaved, and he still had that fierceness behind his eyes that made him seem angry. But she knew it was only an aesthetic to disguise the teddy bear hidden within. He could get on an angry rant, but it was always for the righteous path.

She’d missed him all these years, and she told him so.

“I’ve missed you too,” Carlos said.

She took his hand and felt its warmth. Not like the last time she’d held it, as it grew cold when he bled out in Tlatelolco.

She stood with no pain, a new tightness to her skin, a gracefulness in her joints. She leaned and kissed him on the cheek as if it was the most natural thing in the world to do.

Carlos leaned back to take in a better look and let out a wolf whistle. She looked down and saw that now she was wearing her old blue prom dress, so she performed a little curtsy. Suddenly, the band onstage played a new song, up-tempo with a fancy beat.

“C’mon,” Carlos said, grabbing her hand.

Rather than running down the stairwell, they simply stepped over the balcony and floated down softly into the middle of the dance floor. The rest of the dancers spiraled around, paying no mind to their late entry, or even the scattered sleeping bags that began to fade and blur on the ground.

Sally and Carlos synched into a two-step. She felt sweat rising on her back, making her dress cling. His smile was deep and wide, every tooth pearly white. She giggled at his awkwardness whenever he lost his rhythm.

The band’s next song was slow, so they danced close in each other’s arms.

Sally looked past Carlos through the shadows of the flowing, faceless dancers. She saw Monica and Simon, still huddled in the ballroom corner. They spoke to each other closely and quietly next to a lantern light.

Then she lay her head on Carlos’s shoulder and told him all about these new friends of hers.

Artwork by Tiffany Silver Braun.