Scarecrow’s Dream (10 page)

I nodded. “Of course I will if I can. But why don’t you want anyone else to know? What exactly is going on? You sound—well—panic-stricken.”

Rob inhaled. “I’m in danger. Really. And I’m scared that if anyone other than Shane is aware of your involvement, you could be too. I mean
anyone
. There’s a support group but…Holly, if something worse than a mugging happens to me and I can’t finish, I’m counting on you to fix this.”

Chapter Ten

April 2016

Shane was looking at me. Well, to be accurate he was looking
through
me. He coughed before calling out in a voice riddled with confusion, “Holly?”

I stayed silent, trying to sort out where I was and more importantly—when. I’d really been lost in that last memory.

Shane dropped the Australian accent I’d heard him use with the kids back at Bryant Park and took on the faint Irish brogue I’d always loved. “Holly? I can feel you. I swear I can feel you.”

He closed his eyes for a moment, and then opened them and stated in a monotone, “But you’re dead.” He looked up into the sky. “Are you watchin’ me, then, girl? Are you in a heaven somewhere waiting to contact me?” He shook his head and smiled. “I should trek up to Inwood Park and ask Joey if he’d act as a messenger between two worlds. Ah, damn, Holly, I miss you. I miss you so much it’s like a physical pain. It’s been over forty years and yet I feel your presence everywhere these days. Hoping you hear me, I guess. It’s why I’m standing in the bloody freezing rain talking to myself.”

I took a few steps forward and touched his arm. He backed away and shivered but I couldn’t tell if he was feeling the cold or me.

Shane stood for another moment in front of the old Elysium Theatre, then began walking toward the subway station. I followed. But about a block from the entrance he turned away and headed left. I stayed right behind him.

Six blocks later he stopped in front of a French restaurant. La Ronde. Shane either wasn’t hungry or was debating the merits of hitting a classy place without a reservation. But, as I stared at his expression, I realized it was neither. He was remembering. And then, so was I.

February 1973

“It’s not like I haven’t been in a jail cell before, Shane.”

“This is different, Holly. It’s not jail I’m worried about. It’s cops cracking heads. Or the National Guard goin’ all Kent State. This isn’t your fun, lovely ‘let’s go free the pups’ kind of gig. This is breaking into the offices of the Selective Service and destroying the records of anyone who was drafted and didn’t show.”

“Which you agree should be done,” I argued.

“I do. But I’ve heard some rumors about this particular group, and what I’ve heard is frightening. Not to mention, this whole operation is now bloody useless. The draft is already in the process of being abolished.”

“What about
this
group, though? What exactly have you heard? Tell me.”

Shane took a breath. “These are not peace-loving protestors, Holly. They’re militant. More than willing to use violence.”

I stared at the ground. “If you’re right, then they’re liars as well because that’s not how they’re representing themselves.”

“They’ve gotten more and more radical in the last couple of years. I spoke with a guy who used to be with them, told me how their rhetoric changes by degrees the deeper you go. You don’t want to be anywhere near them.”

My eyes misted. How in hell had I become involved in a group that stood for the betrayal of all my non-violent principles? For a born and bred Manhattan girl I was still pretty damned naïve.

“I do understand. And I’m sorry, Holly.” Shane leaned down and lightly kissed my lips.

A voice sounded behind us.

“Hey, you!
Boy
! Are you bothering this girl?”

Shane froze. I turned around. Two cops stood staring at him. And me.

The taller of the two addressed me. “We heard raised voices, then saw him lunge at you. Are you all right, miss? Is this…boy threatening you?”

Shane and I stiffened. I was pretty sure what word had been meant to fill the pause.
Boy
was bad enough. I shook my head.

“It’s fine, Officer. We’re friends. Just having a spirited discussion. And he didn’t lunge. Really.” I knew better than to state our real relationship. Black man with white woman outside a classy midtown French restaurant. Could become problematic. Shit. Could be deadly.

“Are you together?”

Shane’s eyes blazed. I had to diffuse the situation before it escalated into a far uglier event.

I told a partial truth, though inwardly I raged because it was none of their damned business. “We’re rehearsing for a show together.” I tried to be gracious and steered toward funny. “It’s way,
way
Off-Broadway… um, at the Elysium Theatre on West Sixteenth. Have you heard of it?”

I was ignored.

“What’s your name,
boy
?”

Shane twitched but didn’t move. One wrong answer and this could go downhill fast. Politeness had to cover the rage seething inside.

Shane responded with as much calm as he could muster. “My driver’s license is in my wallet in my front left pocket. May I show it to you?”

I wanted to scream this was unlawful and they had no right to ask for an ID but visions of beatings started dancing in my head. This pair didn’t care about the law. This wasn’t about law. They wanted to humiliate and to harass. Assert dominance. I had no doubts whatsoever that if Shane made the slightest move to resist, or if I made one comment about legalities or injustice, these goons would have the guns out, and we’d both be spending the night in jail. Or worse.

“I’ll find it,” was the response from Tall and Sneering. He grabbed Shane’s arms and forced him to put them on his head as though Shane were about to endure a “perp” walk to a police vehicle. He handed Shane’s license to his partner.

“Shane Halloran?”

Shane nodded.

The second cop swallowed. “Uh, Tom, let him go.”

Tall and Sneering let go of Shane. “Why?”

“He really is an actor. Remember that old gladiator epic from about ten years back?
Circus
something? This guy was the star.”

Tom nodded. Both cops stared at Shane. I quickly interjected, “
Circus Maximus
. Or you might recall
Golden Pirate
or
Sheridan Falls
? Very soap opera-ey. I mean,
Sheridan Falls
.
Pirate
was just really swashbuckling. Kind of like Errol Flynn, you know? Great fun!” My nerves were coming out in babbling comments of inanity.

The nameless cop who’d recognized Shane said, “Well, looks like you’re him. The actor. Um. Okay.” He tapped his partner’s arm. “We’ll be off then. By the way, the pair of you should consider doing your rehearsing
inside
a theatre instead of out on the street.” He handed Shane back his wallet and ID.

I nodded. “We will.”

Shane and I waited in silence until the cops had turned the corner. I exhaled. I felt as though I’d been holding my breath for an hour.

“Well, the good news is you’ve convinced me I don’t need to get into any further trouble with the law by joining any crusades to take on the military.” I tried to make conversation, but sounded ridiculous even to myself. “Actually, you convinced me the second you mentioned they were militant. I don’t get it. Violent protestors? How can anyone hope to achieve peace if one uses bombs and guns? Isn’t that a paradox? Or an oxymoron? A conundrum? Hey! Howzabout a paraoxyundrum?”

Shane ignored my attempt at humor. We stood in silence a full minute until he asked, “Are you okay with skipping exotic French cuisine tonight?”

“My appetite pretty much hit the pavement the moment when New York’s less than finest showed up. I’d just be ordering a salad and potatoes. Your little vegetarian here.” I tried to add a little more levity. “I’d want
mousse au chocolat
of course.”

Shane barely acknowledged my chatter. We began to walk west in the direction of the highway and the Hudson, not exactly the greatest part of town. Abandoned buildings were the highlight of the neighborhood. We started to pass them in silence. Then the teakettle masquerading as Shane Halloran blew its whistle.

“Dammit to hell! This is
Manhattan
, for God’s sake. It’s not the Deep South and it’s not 1963. They didn’t come over here because they heard us arguing. We weren’t all that loud. They were hassling me because I was brazen enough to kiss you.”

He reached down and began chucking pieces of brick and shingles and rocks and anything else lying at the edge of the lot at the building. I let him. He needed to vent and his target was a building abandoned so long ago the last occupants could have been British colonials. But after a minute or two I was afraid his actions were going to escalate, or attract attention. I yelled at him to stop.

Shane had just pitched a half a brick with deadly accuracy at a broken basement window when two different cops in uniform came on the scene. I couldn’t believe it. Why was half the police force out in this neighborhood instead of congregating on the Upper West Side where a series of robberies had taken place only last week?

One of them grabbed Shane and flung him against the fence. “What the hell are you doing,
boy!”

His partner turned to him. “I say we haul his ass in for vandalism.”

Shane was on the tipping point. I grabbed his forearm and stared at him, willing him in silent communication to say nothing. I had to be the one to speak. I didn’t have his temper. I stepped away from Shane.

“Wait! Officers. Please. It’s my fault. I…got lost and found myself down here alone and there were all these horrible rats coming out of the old building. This man heard me scream and he started pitching whatever he could find at them. I was just so scared.”

Both cops stared at me as if I was nuts. I gave them my best damsel in distress expression, not that I was much of an actress. Since I was dressed more formally tonight than my usual attire and didn’t look like a hippie protestor out for a stroll with her black boyfriend, they bought it. Well, enough of it, anyway.

“Fine. We’ll let it go.” A sharp glance at Shane, then they ignored him. “Miss, we’ll escort you back. This is a bad neighborhood. Where were you headed?”

I popped out the name of a Greek restaurant so obscure the cops wouldn’t question how I’d gotten “lost” but still nice enough to warrant wearing a real dress. “Um. Athena’s Arena. Do you know it? It’s Greek. I’m supposed to meet some friends there in about twenty minutes. I’m always getting lost so I tend to leave way ahead of time,” I responded in my best nice girl voice.

I snuck a quick look at Shane. He caught it. The cops were not going to let us walk off into the sunset together, but he’d meet me at Athena’s and we’d try to salvage what was left of this awful night.

The cops politely gave me directions I didn’t need and then decided to escort me to the diner, making sure Shane was nowhere near. Two doors down from the restaurant I thanked them and watched them walk away, hoping they hadn’t noticed Shane hiding in a telephone booth a block down the street.

It was absurd and ridiculous. It was infuriating. It was not fair. But it worked. Shane and I were ushered to a booth at Athena’s five minutes later.

Neither of us was very hungry, but we ordered drinks and salads to keep our waiter happy, then sat in silence for about ten minutes.

“Holly, I keep asking myself if this is all a mistake. I’m honestly not sure I can handle it.”

I didn’t pretend to misunderstand. “Yes you can. We both can.”

“Can we? Apart from the humiliation of being stopped twice in the same night, I was almost arrested or worse, because I made the unpardonable mistake of kissing my white girlfriend before we went into a nice restaurant. Sweet heaven! This is Manhattan. Isn’t this supposed to be the big liberal melting pot? Hell! Pressure cooker is more like it.”

“Shane, you can’t give in. You have to keep fighting. We all do. There are plenty of great, loving people in this city who don’t share some sick nineteenth-century mindset.”

He took a large swig of his bourbon. “Honey, you could have been the appetizer skewered like shish kabob the way the first two boys in blue were acting. What happens the next time if it’s a cop who doesn’t recognize me from an old movie? I have to be honest. I’m afraid for you. For me. For both of us. I’m terrified some bastard is going to decide Shane Halloran is
too
black to be with white Holly Malone and shoot us both dead, or drown us in the Hudson for sheer sport. I hate to say it but maybe we need to just call it quits.”

Chapter Eleven

April 2016

I came out of this last flashback with a physical jolt. Shane had teased me about having second sight when I’d talked about experiencing déjà vu. Except the person who’d mentioned getting shot during our conversation at the Greek diner hadn’t been me. It had been Shane, and the big difference between his prediction and reality was his survival. I was the one who ended up in the Hudson. A helluva way to call it quits.

“This is ridiculous,” Shane said to his own reflection in the window of La Ronde. “I’m behaving like a total romantic goon, touring about Manhattan dredging up memories of Holly Malone. My very own private, useless ghost tour.”

My repertoire of “things ghosts can feel” was expanding. It seemed dead people were also capable of going into shock. I had a very intense desire for salts and a shot of brandy. Several shots of brandy.

I could remember the events at La Ronde and at the vacant building. The nastiness, the hatred expressed, and the subsequent horror when Shane decided to end our relationship lingered in the air around me. I was left with too many questions. How long had our breakup lasted? We must have gotten back together before taking that ride across the Henry Hudson Bridge. I wanted to know how and why that ride had started. I was well aware of how it ended.

“Enough for tonight.”

We’d said it together but I was the only one who heard two voices.

Shane undid his muffler, flapped a few drops of moisture off into the breeze, then retied it around his neck. He began to walk north and east until he ended up at the 23rd Street subway station. He waited on the platform then boarded the train, which was far more crowded than the first one we’d shared. He was in his own world now. I hung close to the car’s front entrance and tried to avoid anybody’s hands or elbows. As before, they seemed to instinctively keep their distance.

The conductor called out, “Two Hundredth Street/Dyckman.”

Shane edged toward the door along with three other passengers. I wove between them without creating any ruckus or panic.

Once out, Shane took the stairs up to Dyckman and headed back toward the Hudson River, until he stopped at a building midway down the block on Thayer. I waited before following him inside the lobby and ended up getting stuck in the small entrance when two large dogs towing a small gentleman began barking at me. I was forced to step aside before the noise caused everyone in the building to come out to see what was going on.

After the dogs finally seemed to decide a walk was more important than a ghost and gone their merry way, I began checking nameplates tacked up near the wooden and glass plated door. No Shane Halloran was listed, but it was clear he had a key to this place.

I gave the nameplates another look. I could have slapped myself for not noticing the first time around. Apartment 3C. Jordan Matthews. The girl in the park had called him Jordy.

Wow. He’d taken my middle name and his middle name and come up with something even people who’d known both of us wouldn’t guess at. The first question was—why? The second, which could help explain the first, was—for how long? How many years now had Shane Halloran been Jordan Matthews?

He survived the motorcycle crash. Had he crawled off the bridge or landed in the water and somehow reached land before hypothermia set in? Where had he gone? Had he figured out who shot at us? Had he been hiding for the last forty-three years? Had he watched in horror as I tumbled from the motorcycle to the icy waters of the Spuyten Duyvil Creek?

I wanted answers and I wanted to understand why the heck I’d come back in 2016 and not 1973. And I must admit, I was getting more and more angry. Angry at the person who’d cut my life short and stolen the rest of Shane’s. Angry at the universe or the Almighty or whichever Fate who was allowing this to play out. Angry I couldn’t come up with any solutions. Neither of us was about to find any peace.

Or could I? If I could figure out who shot at us…or why?

I tried not to force my recollections. I couldn’t stop them from happening but I couldn’t coax them out of hiding either. All I could do was attempt to determine who shot at the motorcycle and whether there was still any danger if Jordan Matthews reintroduced himself to the world as Shane Halloran. If nothing else, I’d find some justice for him and a good feeling knowing he could spend the rest of his life as himself. He was in his seventies but talent like his doesn’t simply disappear.

I turned around and trotted back down to the street. I knew where Shane lived now. A plus. Standing outside his door like a fan waiting for an autograph was pointless and almost embarrassing. I needed to get back to Addie’s and tell her about the evening’s events. I was coming home with strong, specific memories from forty-plus years ago. Painful, but better than not knowing.

I made it to Addie’s in just over ten minutes. Shane’s apartment was in the same general neighborhood, although my aunt and I were closer to the park.

My peace-loving aunt was sitting on the couch, feet on the table, bowl of popcorn on her lap, watching a Sylvester Stallone DVD called
Demolition Man
. I took off my wet jacket and hung it on the coat holder in the hall. It instantly became visible again, which intrigued me as to how this “now you see it/now you don’t” ghost thing worked. I coughed so I wouldn’t scare Addie and headed toward the living room.

Addie glanced away from the TV. “Holly?”

“Yeah.” I stared at the screen. “
Demolition Man
? Are you kidding me?” I couldn’t help laughing. “Didn’t you say this is the one where Stallone blows up half of Los Angeles?”

She didn’t appear the least bit embarrassed. “Yep. Stuff like this keeps me from going out and engaging in violent activities for real. Buildings going boom. My man Sly mowing down bad guys without a care. I swear it washes my psyche clean of ever wanting to do harm to another. And besides, I love Stallone.”

“Say no more. It is not up to me to divine the evil inner workings of my favorite aunt’s brain.”

She clicked the stop button. “Not like I haven’t memorized every frame of every scene. So? How was the rally?”

“Surprising.” I told her about the shift from an angry protest to a poignant, oddly hopeful, memorial.

“Now, I’m sorry I didn’t go. Anything else?”

“Oh yeah. A very interesting else.”

“Come again?”

“The demonstration was lovely. They gave speeches. We sang songs. I cried.” I paused for dramatic effect. “I went into shock when I saw Shane Halloran.”

“What? You mean his ghost?”

“Nope. Shane in the flesh. Alive and well. Addie, I swear for a second he saw me.”

I gave her the play-by-play of our activities. “It was tough. Wherever we went, I kept reliving those memories with Shane, and then I’d pop back into the present. It would take me a few minutes to figure out where I was—or rather when—and then I’d realize I’d be dead within months of that last memory.” I couldn’t help asking although I knew neither of us could really answer with any certainty, “Do you still believe I got sent back to figure out who did this?”

“It seems to be the best theory. Although how it helps anyone in this day and time I can’t imagine, unless it’s a matter of cosmic justice or brings Shane Halloran some peace…albeit forty years late.” Addie shook her head. “Then again, it’s better than letting him wallow in misery the rest of his life. He’s what, about seventy-five now.”

“He is. Is that too old for him to act again? I mean, assuming I can figure out who shot us. Obviously Shane doesn’t know since he’s been hiding for decades.”

Addie grinned. “Holly, my love, as one who’s right there with him I can tell you I’m not planning to decline in my declining years. And if Shane is the Shane you remember, neither is he. Jeez. Bartender, stagehand, and roadie? Great fun when one is twenty but not the career an actor of his talent should have had.”

“Very true. So what do I do now? Any ideas?”

She stared in my direction for a few moments. She was making me nervous. “Yes?”

“Do you suppose Shane would put your precious auntie in a nuthouse if I knocked on his door and told him the spirit of Holly Malone walks the earth and would like his help in solving her death?”

“Be my Whoopi Goldberg a la
Ghost
? Now there’s a novel idea. I doubt Shane would be so rude as to call you crazy, but there are a few issues. Would he really believe you? Or would he pass out in horror and fear, or get all logical on you and call the white coats at Bellevue and have you committed? I’d have a helluva time trying to bail you out or get you sprung. Could we do it together? Hearing my voice should convince him what you claimed was true, unless he decided you were a crazed ventriloquist.”

“We can try. Just not tonight. I’m off to bed. You’re able to stay awake past eleven but I’m pooped. Which is pitiful. Hell, all I did was watch DVDs. Let’s figure out the best way to approach your Shane Halloran/Jordan Matthews in the morning. Plus, in case you haven’t noticed, the freak storm has returned with a twist. Snow becoming major rain. The weatherman has been calling for about four inches tonight with what I have to say was far too much glee. Then again, he’s been known to be wrong—like this entire spring.” She headed off toward her bedroom.

I stayed up for another hour but was too restless to sleep. I glanced out the window. The rain had stopped, at least for a few minutes, so I decided to head for the park. I wanted to sit at “our” bench and take in the quiet and surroundings and dream about Shane Halloran and what should have been.

The eagle I’d dubbed Joey was at his post on the railing. I wasn’t exactly up on eagles and life longevity but I was pretty sure he couldn’t be the same one I’d named back in the seventies. He and I stared at each other. Two silent creatures lost in a world of darkness.

February 1973

My dad found me staring out across the creek, breathing in the silence of the park and communing with Joey.

“Holly! Get back inside. I’ve been listening to the radio and they’re predicting a good four inches tonight. It’s going to be chaos.”

“Dad, I can live through a little rain. We’re in the highest part of Manhattan so we’re not going to get flooded. Look, there’s a bald eagle sitting on the rail and I’m sure he’s got a better grasp on the weather than we do.”

My dad glared at me. “I’m not takin’ my forecast from a stinkin’ bird. And we may be in the highest part, but your buddy Rob lives in Greenwich Village and the whole damn place will be underwater before you can take the train down there. Rewritin’ a stupid play isn’t as important as staying alive.”

I glared right back. “First off, we’re not meeting at his place. We’re meeting at a coffee shop off of Columbus Circle—still high ground. Second, it
is
important. There are people counting on Rob to get this done. Actors. Crew. And backers who are going to lose money if
Trapped in the Basement
doesn’t go up in April. Plus we’ve got the theatre booked.”

“You can’t wait a day?”

I shook my head. “Rob is off to visit relatives tomorrow. And Shane is off to…”

“Shane? Shane’s going to be at this meeting? That’s why you’re waitin’ here in the park? For him so you can go together? Well,
now
I get the urgency. Dammit, Holly. You need to stop this. I don’t want to put you into some misguided Romeo and Juliet frame of mind, but your whole relationship with Shane is bound to end in disaster.”

“Why?” I cried out. “Because he’s older? Because he’s an actor? Or—can’t you just say it? Because he’s black. Well, you don’t have to worry, Dad. We broke up last week. This meeting is between Rob and me. Shane couldn’t meet either of us tonight because he’s flying to California tomorrow for some movie audition. So the big black actor isn’t around your precious daughter and you can quit worrying.”

Paul Malone’s jaw set. I’d seen the exact expression as a kid after I’d been caught arranging tricks on neighbors’ doors at Halloween, generally involving marshmallow whip and silly strings. This particular expression—at least when I’d been eight or nine—had always been followed by a spanking. I figured I was too big for a wallop across my butt but I felt pretty sure my dad could come up with some other means of punishment.

He appeared calm, but his tone was one I remembered before receiving those spankings at age eight or nine. “Holly Jordan Malone, I should wash your mouth out with soap. You know damn well I’m no racist and never have been. But as you’ve already experienced going out with Shane, there are way too many folks in the world who are. Shane himself is now getting smart enough to stay away from you unless you’re in a theatre or crowd setting. I’m bloody well afraid things could get far worse if you two make up, and knowing you and Halloran I’d say it’s a given. I hope he gets his movie in California and stays there, but it has nothing to do with the color of his skin. I only want to keep you safe from crazy people.”

“Dad, listen. Yes, there are crazies out there, but nothing’s going to change unless my generation changes it. As I tried to explain to the
other
hotheaded Irishman in my life a few nights ago. And I’ll be damned if I allow a bunch of shitty anachronistic assholes tell me who I can or cannot love.”

“Watch your mouth,” he growled.

“Sorry. Okay. Crummy anachronistic donkeys. How’s that?”

He smiled but his eyes still reflected his concern. His Irish brogue took over. “Why did I have to be raisin’ a revolutionary?” He looked at Joey, as though hoping the eagle would provide an answer. “Can you be explainin’ that, then, lad?”

I hugged him and answered for Joey, who remained silent and looked wise. “Because, you, Paul Malone, my big brave da, made the mistake of telling me how you marched in the thirties when you were a young hot-headed radical, along with the unemployed workers and the new unions and the miners and the farmers. It’s genetic. You only softened your revolutionary stance when Addie took over the protesting.” I contritely said, “And I’m sorry I accused you of not liking Shane. I know better.”

“It’s okay. You’ve got some of the Malone temper in ya. But, Holly, I don’t remember those times I marched being quite as violent as it is now. I’m scared for you, darlin’. I have to admit I’d be pleased if you and Shane stayed apart because I don’t want to wake up one mornin’ and find I’ve lost you. Now forget about conflict and strife and let’s get back inside before the rain hits. If you’re bound and determined to head midtown, then at least wear better clothes and take my good umbrella.”