Scarecrow’s Dream (7 page)

Chapter Six

October 1972

I choked back tears as I asked, “How can this be happening? They
killed
him. Just like they killed Martin Luther King and Medgar Evers.”

Shane hugged me, then gripped my hand in his. I tried to keep my voice from shaking, but wasn’t successful. “I wish there was more we could do. Protests and fliers and demonstrations. Are we accomplishing anything at all?”

He shook his head. “It raises awareness? Hell, Holly. I’m thirty-one and I feel like I’m closer to seventy-five. I’m tired.” He stared at me. “And I’m scared. I’m at a protest meant to show the citizens of New York black men are not disposable and I’m afraid to put my arm around you, because some joker who sees me touchin’ a white girl suddenly decides I need to be shot. Or we both do.”

He lit two cigarettes and handed me one.

“I don’t smoke. Remember?”

“Oh yeah. Sorry, darlin’.” He tossed the second one to the ground and stomped it out. “Damn. I’m way more upset than I want to let on.” He hugged me. “So, how do you ever fit in with all your hippie brethren who are inhaling joints right and left?”

“Well, I did try a loaded brownie once before I realized it was more than chocolate. That was my limit on drugs. I hate feeling unfocused.” I shot him a look. “What about you, Mr. Hollywood Bad Boy? Do you partake in the wicked weed?”

He winked. “Legal liquids and smokes. That’s it. I’d rather get drunk on a few quarts of good Irish whiskey any day of the week. But I do like the nicotine. I know, I know—I’m readin’ the same nasty reports as you about how bad it is. Damned shame. Vices are a marvelous thing. I don’t want to give up any of ’em. And there are times, like today, when the only thing that keeps me calm is a pack or two.”

I shook my head. “I wish I could find a substance to keep me calm, but still in control. I’m so angry and depressed, and I feel so defeated. How the hell can a black kid be shot by a cop because he was in the—and I quote certain police officials—‘wrong neighborhood’? In Queens? How crazy is that? And then there’s the flip side. How can a black cop in Atlanta be shot by some white wife-abuser because he dared to show up at his house to stop a beating? How can this keep happening? It’s 1972, for God’s sake. Aren’t we beyond this yet?”

I felt faint. I swayed and Shane caught me before I ended up on the ground.

“Holly? Are you okay?”

“I’m not sure.”

“What? How? What do you mean?”

“A little dizzy. I just had this strange sort of déjà vu thing.”

“Now, Ms. Malone, you’re going to have to explain what you’re talking about. Unless someone slipped you another loaded brownie.” He lifted an eyebrow.

“Sorry to disappoint. Nothing drug-induced. But something…out of the ordinary. Like a hallucination? Never mind. I’m probably just hearing too many sounds around here. There’s a lot of loud chanting going, so it could be I’m getting echoes.”

Shane smiled at me. “Or you’ve developed second sight?”

Before we had a chance to delve into the possible “how or whys” of what I’d heard, two guys I knew from NYU waved and ran over to join us.

“Marshall? Hey, man, I’d heard you were in Canada. And, Rob, you look great. I’ve missed you.”

The taller of the two leaned down and gave me a hug. “Hey, Holly. Good to see you. And, no, I didn’t go to Canada. I was all prepped but ended up with appendicitis. Had to have an emergency operation and the draft board said ‘we don’t want you now.’ At least for another year. Hopefully by then this stinking war will be over. If not? I may yet wind up in Toronto. Rob, of course, already did his tour so he’s not getting sent back.”

“I’d rather jump off a bridge,” Rob stated emphatically. “Shit, I’m still going to veterans’ support groups. So, Holly? What are you up to? Still taking classes?”

“Oh yeah. I’m in the middle of the fall semester—teaching one freshman survey course, but also I’ve been working with my dad. I don’t know if I told you we live up in Inwood? Anyway, I’ve been helping paint apartments in our building and doing some minor repairs. We had about ten apartments turn vacant over the last six months. It’s two buildings connected, though, so it’s not really the mass exodus it sounds like.”

Marshall asked, “Don’t the unions bar you from ever working again?”

I laughed. “I’m not sure Painters DC Nine is aware there are buildings past Harlem—and we’re
way
past Harlem.”

Marshall grinned. Rob nodded, then squinted at Shane, as if trying to place him. “Excuse me for staring, but you
are
Shane Halloran, right?”

Shane had been following the short conversation with a frown. Now he appeared nervous. “I am. Why?”

“This is strange,” Rob mumbled.

I started to ask why, but was interrupted by Shane. “Why is this strange?”

I responded before Rob had a chance. “Oh. Sorry, guys. My manners are bad today. Shane, this is Rob Stutzgraft. We’re at NYU together. He was in my scriptwriting class and sat behind me. He’s got a gift for poetic dialogue.” I fluttered my lashes at Rob and Shane. “Should be since he’s nearly as old as you, Shane. I’m so honored. So much experience from you ancient guys to share with the babies.” Shane and Rob, wisely, ignored my less than flattering comment. “And the super tall fellow on my left here is Marshall Di’Angelo. We’ve been to numerous marches on campus and…”

“And?” Shane shot me a look that combined jealousy and worry.

“Well, Marshall and I have gone sneaking around campus on more than one occasion to print off a few sheets of what has been referred to as an underground newspaper.”

Shane appeared relieved. He asked in his mild brogue, “And who lets ya use their press, then?”

I matched him with my own fake Irish accent. “The foin and good priests at the Newman Center.” I returned to my normal dialect. “And we do
not
want the word spread around since it could get them in trouble at the college, and the Vatican as well.”

Shane chortled. “Well, bless their little rebel hearts. And fear not. I shall take your secret to my grave.” He stared at Rob. “So you’re a playwright, are you?”

Rob nodded. “I am. Barely. I’ve only had one play performed and that was back in college before I got drafted. Way the hell Off-Broadway. But the reason I said it’s strange meeting you is because it’s like kismet or karma or something. I’ve been trying to get my new play produced,
Trapped in the Basement
. At this point we’re looking at a space over at the Elysium Theatre.”

His tone grew more enthusiastic. “I’ve been talking to a friend who’s produced two Off-Broadway shows. He’s the one who helped produce the show I wrote before I went to ’Nam so he knows my work. He really believes
Basement
has a chance to make it to Broadway and he’s been busy contacting backers. Anyway, Derek told me he talked to your agent about you doing the lead, although your agent seems pretty hesitant. Have you had a chance to read the proposal? It’s slim but hopefully intriguing. I sent it to your agent last spring.”

Shane took a long drag from his cigarette. A photographer from the
Post
snapped his picture. Around us, kids were singing and swaying to Phil Ochs’ tune, “Too Many Martyrs”, which was about to make me start crying again. A couple of girls in army jackets, jeans, and no make-up were handing out black armbands.

Shane glanced down at me, then back at Rob. “I have indeed. Holly read it too. It’s cool to finally meet you. We loved the scene you sent and the whole idea. Wanted to see a lot more. It’s going to horrify some folks, including my agent and half the audiences in Manhattan. The whole cast will end up on the front page of every conservative rag in the country if we do this. But it’s so damned good. You can write a hell of a scene, Rob. If the rest of the play is like it, it’ll be something audiences will talk about for months after. Not the kind of story they can dismiss over a drink. I tell ya here and now, if there’s any chance I can play the role of Daniel, I’ll do it.”

April 2016

Folks were singing “Too Many Martyrs” by Phil Ochs. I remembered singing this at the protest in October of ’72. It had the same effect on me forty-four years later. I started to cry.

I finally got it together enough to join in the singing and then watched as the majority of the demonstrators found spots for huddling and cuddling for the sit-in and candlelight vigil. It was turning colder and the snow was making visibility more difficult.

As someone who hadn’t felt warm in since being submerged under a bridge, I found the cold brutally painful, since my wrap consisted of the old army jacket. I didn’t understand the whole “how can I feel things as a ghost?” thing but cold was part of the package.

It wasn’t my only pain. My last memory about Shane was causing my heart to constrict, as if all blood flow had stopped. Had Rob been able to produce the play? Had Shane taken the role? If so, why had nothing turned up in Addie’s Internet search?

I was struck by a sad and frightening theory—had I somehow predicted this moment would happen? Had I instinctively known I would die and return to a world that hadn’t progressed as much as I’d hoped? Would this world accept Shane Halloran and Holly Malone any more than it did in the ’70s? I didn’t have specific memories of people being angry at seeing us together back then, but I was damned sure bad things had indeed happened and I was afraid those memories would be smacking me in my face and in my heart quite soon.

I sang and wished I could light a candle without freaking anyone out. I wanted to be a part of this.

I was proud of my fellow protestors. The snow was coming down like a January blizzard instead of an April dusting, yet folks of all ages remained huddled in Bryant Park, determined their voices would be heard. The candles had been exchanged for flashlights, which would hold up better in what had become a fierce wind. I found a stray flashlight on the ground and held it high in the air in the very back of the crowd. I figured no one would notice if it swayed along with the other lights.

The crowd began singing songs I’d never heard—songs I assumed had been written years after my death. My attention started to wander, and then, so did I. I found myself drawn to a gentleman who was part of the spirit of the protest, yet stood as far as I could from everyone else, leaning against a tree on the opposite side of the street from the park. The snow made it close to impossible to see his features but I was curious as to why he wasn’t huddled with a group for warmth or camaraderie.

I put the flashlight back on the ground and headed across the street. I stopped. The man was older than the majority of the demonstrators. He had to be close to my aunt’s age but I knew him as though I’d seen him only yesterday—which wasn’t far from the truth. Shane Halloran.

A dead man walked the streets of Manhattan—except this dead man appeared to be a far more viable presence than one Holly Malone. Two young protestors were now talking to him and offering him a cup of something hot.

I ran toward him, but came to a stop within a few feet.

The man continued to chat with the kids. I waited. He glanced over in my direction but made no move to greet me. Perhaps he didn’t deem it wise to begin chatting with a fellow ghost? Apparently he’d achieved what I hadn’t—visibility.

After a few more minutes, the two student-types patted him on his shoulder, said goodbye and then headed into the thick of the demonstrators. I took a step closer without touching him.

Shane looked right at me. At first there was no response. Then silent tears welled up in his eyes. He ignored the flakes of snow dotting his cheeks. “Holly?”

I started to respond but he turned away. “Holly. Lord, lass, but I miss you. You’d’ve loved this today. The speakers weren’t as good as those in ’72 but the feelings haven’t changed. God help me, but I can still see you singing and waving those horribly-made signs of yours and eggin’ me on to say or do something to prove I was as brave as you.”

His voice was different. The brogue was gone and an accent that sounded vaguely Australian had replaced it. But the rich baritone was still all Shane.

He started to walk away. Then he stopped and squinted into the falling snow. “Holly? Are you there? Am I goin’ crazy?”

I was about to call out “Yes! It’s me. Yes!” Again I held back, frustrated and confused as to why he couldn’t see me.

He held his breath for a moment then shook his head. “Great, just great. I’m getting senile. Time to go home before I catch the stinkin’ plague as well.”

I stayed where I was, uncertain of what to do. Had Shane finally caught a hint of my presence? A mere wisp, perhaps, but I believed he’d felt me for a second.

Which brought me to the definite realization that he was no ghost. He’d managed to survive the night forty-three years ago when someone shot out his motorcycle and I’d taken the tumble into the Hudson River.

Shane Halloran, now seventy-five, was very much alive.

Chapter Seven

Shane tightened his muffler around his neck, and then slapped a hat firmly on his head against the wind. He sipped from the mug the two kids had given him and stared at the podium where another speaker was bucking the cold, but Shane’s eyes were focused on a different spot. I knew he was seeing us together in much the same way as the kids today who were involved with their personal relationships and the protests at the same time.

I’d only lived through—or I guess I should say experienced—the loss of Shane and Holly as the couple we’d been for the last couple of days. I had no idea what had happened in his life but he’d been living with the memory of my death for over forty years. Even if he’d gone on and gotten married and had a dozen kids, the words he’d spoken moments before told me there was still a lot of pain.

I wasn’t sure whether to try and reach out to him, not while others were around, since he seemed to be sensing my presence, but I had to find out where he lived. Discover why the Internet reported he’d died on the bridge. Learn how—well, make that why—I’d died. And how he had survived.

“Jordy? Are you all right? It’s getting nasty out here. Do you want one of us to see you home? Find a cab for you?”

The girl who’d given Shane the hot beverage had returned. She touched his arm, waiting for an answer.

Wait.
Jordy
? Was I wrong? Was this some man who coincidentally bore an amazing resemblance to what Shane Halloran would have looked like at seventy-five? For a brief moment I had doubts and then, in a flash, they disappeared. I’d heard Shane’s voice and felt Shane’s anguish over Holly Malone.

And I’d glimpsed those eyes. Those unforgettable, piercing, dark-inky-midnight-blue-melt-your-bones-into-liquid-eyes. They hadn’t changed, except for one thing. In the year we’d been together before my dive off the bridge, I’d seen those eyes filled with love. I’d seen glee and frustration and wisdom and humor. I’d seen anger. But I’d never before seen such intense sadness.

I had to assume Shane had decided—for his own safety if Addie was right and someone had tried to murder us—to change his name and gone into hiding.

He smiled and shook his head before responding to the girl. “I’m fine, Tina. Much tougher than I look. But I appreciate you asking. I’ll stay for one more speech—if it’s short—then head on home. Don’t worry about me. I’ll take the train uptown in a bit. It’s way too far to walk and this weather is getting worse. I have no desire to catch my death with a cold.”

Tina nodded then motioned to her companion. “I’m so sorry. I haven’t introduced you two. Jordy, this is Greg Parisi. We’re in classes together at Columbia. Greg, Jordy moved into our building about a week ago and we met doing laundry. He’s not your typical new Manhattanite.”

I moved closer. Not typical? What did she mean? New Manhattanite?

Tina was telling her friend Greg, “He’s from Australia. Some little place in the outback. Been doing all kinds of cool odd jobs like bartending and working as a stagehand for music groups and a roadie for carnivals and stuff. Don’t you love it?”

Bartending? Roadie? From deep in the recesses of my mind I remembered Shane had been quite a handyman. He’d helped build sets for every summer show he did and it seemed to me he’d offered to lend a hand with the lighting and the set for
Trapped in the Basement
if it ever got to Broadway—or Off-Broadway— but was turned down due to union rules.

From the sound of it Shane hadn’t been out front greeting people as a barker at carnivals or taken the stage with any of those music groups. Stagehands and roadies have always been the unnoticed workhorses in show biz.

Shane hadn’t wanted to be noticed. Shane had been sharp enough to realize his life was in danger and found a way to hide out. So the world had lost an incredible talent on screen and stage, and Shane had lost the chance to keep doing what he loved most. I felt a mix of anger and angst and confusion. In many ways we both had died forty-three years ago.

A young woman took over what passed for a podium at the front of the crowd. She was a persuasive speaker, yet I couldn’t concentrate on what she was saying. My focus stayed on Shane.

Shane nodded a time or two in agreement with her words and then he closed his eyes, inhaled, and turned away. He stumbled over something on the ground and fell.

Tina stopped chatting with a man who’d been taking photos of the protestors and ran to help him up. “Jordy, please, go home. You don’t need to be out in this. It’s getting colder. Greg and I can walk you to the subway if you want.”

Shane shook his head and chuckled. “I’m bruised but not beaten. Just damned clumsy. I’m going to head over to the diner across the street. Get a little something to warm me before I head uptown. I’m okay, kids. Really. Thanks for being concerned.”

They nodded, Tina hugged Shane, and then she and Greg took off. Shane turned and began walking toward the west entrance of the park. I played spy and tailed him for about two blocks until he stood outside the Deluxe Diner on 41st Street and 6th Avenue, as though trying to decide whether or not to enter. I was right behind him when he pushed the door open and went inside.

I shivered. The late spring snow had been falling like a January blizzard but the icy spikes piercing my body had nothing to do with the freakish weather. I fought to hang on to a flash of memory but it kept drifting away.

It had something to do with Marshall, and Shane getting into an argument during the protest in October 1972. About me. I felt certain I’d been disgusted with them both and headed for this very diner.

Then the recall became very clear.