Now that I’m in a busier part of town, there’s plenty of traffic, and as I drive toward the outskirts of the city, I’m conscious of the cars behind me. I make the turn into Saratoga Park and notice that one sedan is still behind me. It’s not a black BMW, but I don’t like the way it practically hugs my bumper. When I reach the building, I shoot right past it. I do a loop through the park and then maneuver onto the main road again, driving until I see the car turn off in another direction. Only then do I circle back to the baths.
The building looks a little like an old temple, constructed of yellow marble with four double-story columns standing proudly along the front. In the thirties, thousands of people apparently visited Saratoga bathhouses each week to soak in the local mineral waters, believing that they provided all sorts of medicinal benefits. Visiting one of the few still open had been on my to-do list for the summer. I can’t help but scoff at the memory of that list.
As I pull around to the back, I see the parking lot is empty except for a black Lexus that must belong to Sandra. She’d indicated that we’d have the place to ourselves today. I assume it’s closed on Mondays.
I sling my messenger bag over my head and slide out of the car. There’s no one in sight, though through the trees to my right I hear shouts and a burst of laugher from what sounds like a group of young boys.
I approach the back door as Sandra advised and tug. It’s ancient-looking, and the black paint is peeled and chipped. I step inside and find myself in a square, dim room. The only light comes from a rusted fixture in the ceiling, with a bulb that can’t be more than sixty watts. There’s one piece of furniture—a rusted metal table.
“Hello?” I call out. My voice echoes eerily down the long narrow passage in front of me, at the very end of which there’s a faint glow of light. When no one responds, I start walking in that direction, passing a number of closed doorways. Though the hall is also poorly illuminated, there’s enough light emanating from the end for me to see that the floor tiles are chipped and worn. I reach for my phone to call Sandra, but before I can dial, I hear her voice call out.
“Bryn, is that you?”
“Yes. Where are you?”
“Down here. Just keep walking.”
A moment later I emerge into a huge, double-storied hall. Sandra is standing beside a card table—the only furniture in the room—strewn with several binders, a water bottle, some tools, and a half dozen or so of what I assume are swag bags. She dressed in dark jeans today, a short-sleeved black turtleneck, and ballet flats, and her cell phone is in hand, as if she finished a call only moments ago or is about to make one.
“Welcome to the historical Washington Baths,” she says, smiling.
I glance around, taking in the space with my eyes. It’s not unlike the Museum of Dance, with a large reception hall and two wings shooting off from the left and right sides. Running along the upper level is a row of windows that are so grimy, it would make it difficult for the light to pour in even on a morning that wasn’t overcast. It finally hits me: the spa is permanently closed for business.
“When you said we’d have the place to ourselves, I assumed it was just closed on Mondays. It’s not a day spa then, like the Roosevelt Baths?”
“No, unfortunately, they were forced to shut down a couple of years ago. Thankfully, they preserved the building. It’s been a great place to hold events.”
That’s a little hard to fathom. There’s such a weird institutional feel to the space, and a faint medicinal smell seeps from the walls.
“I know, at first glance it leaves a lot to be desired,” she says, as if reading my thoughts. “But the event company we’ve hired works miracles.”
“They’ve got their work cut out for them.”
“Would you like a swag bag?” she asks, nodding toward a table. “I have a few extras.”
“Sure, thanks,” I say, plucking one up from the table. I want to keep the mood light so I don’t spook her with my request.
“So tell me, how can I help?”
As I open my mouth to answer, her phone rings. She glances at the screen. “Sorry, I’m going to have to take this.”
“No problem.” All I want right now is to spit out my request, but I have no choice but to cool my heels.
“I’m already on site,” she says into the phone. “I was just telling someone that they’re miracle workers, and trust me, this one is in the loves and fish category. . . . Yes, I can wait.”
She lowers the phone from her ear and glances in my direction. “I should only be a minute,” she says quietly. “Why don’t you take a look around? Down to the right are some of the old baths.”
I feel too antsy to wander, but suspecting Sandra requires privacy for the call, I head down the wing she’s indicated. It’s a mirror image of the one I came down earlier on the opposite side of the building. There are dozens of doors along here, too, some open, some closed.