Scarecrow’s Dream (9 page)

I considered a flat statement such as, “I rescue small animals from big cosmetic corporations.” Chandra’s blue eye shadow was no doubt the result of some poor bunny being given dollops of chemicals every day and twice on Sunday.

I chucked all three options and instead went with, “I’m a writer. Journalism major, theatre minor.”
Crap.
There went the ‘avoid college’ alternative.

Her tone went up a superior notch. “Any articles anyone has actually read?”

I swallowed. “Uh. I have no idea what you read, so I can’t really say. But I’ve written a lot of stuff for the college paper and did have a piece in the
Village Voice
a few months ago. I’m hoping they’ll print more.”

She produced another saccharine smile. “Of course. How sweet.” She placed her hand lightly on Shane’s arm. “So, did I tell you I’m terribly method in my acting? Don’t be surprised to feel your toes curl during those romantic scenes in the hospital. We must tell Rob to keep them in, although to be honest I haven’t seen them yet. And, Shane, darlin’, if you want a little rehearsal time outside of the studio, I’d be happy to indulge. Want to get this right—and enjoy it at the same time.”

My blood pressure began to soar listening to Chandra proposition Shane with absolute brazen abandon. And what did my loving, faithful Shane do? He laughed.

“Well, there ya go. I’m sure it would be an enjoyable rehearsal,” was his far too polite response. “But to tell you the truth, Chandra, I’m not exactly method in my own acting, so I’ll keep the kissing confined to the stage.”

Chandra wasn’t a bit discouraged. She reached up and kissed Shane on the lips again, then said, “Honey, if you change your mind, I can book a hotel in five minutes. Derek? Let’s split. I’m sure your wife is dying to see you and I have to be back at Wynn’s office in the next thirty minutes.” She linked her arm through Derek’s and then the pair sauntered off as I prayed for someone to spill hot coffee all over her tasteful blue dress.

I stared down at the table.

Shane quietly said, “Holly, calm down. Chandra’s a tease and everyone in Manhattan knows it. I’m not about to get entangled with her—so you can quit pouting. You’re the one who accuses me of jealousy, but you seemed ready to toss the contents of your glass into her face.”

“I’m not pouting. I’m bloody damned furious! You didn’t stand up for me when she started spouting all the bullshit about my age and what I did for a living and made me out to be some stupid groupie. I can’t believe she had the nerve to blatantly attempt a seduction in front of me. And she kissed you.
Twice
.”

“I love you, but, girl, you have to stand up for yourself more. You defend all of God’s creatures with the force of a hurricane but you sink down to a wisp of smoke when someone goes after you.”

I choked back the start of tears. “So I need to become as rude as that…bitch? Would that make you happy?”

He removed his arm from around my shoulders and grabbed my hand, looking into my eyes. “I’m so sorry. Lord, Holly, I
truly
am sorry. I can be such an idiot. I love you. I do. So very much. If you never believe another word I say, believe that. I don’t want you to drift away in fear of others and end up leaving me. I couldn’t bear not being with you. I’d rather die.”

It was trite. It was melodramatic. And normally I’d be jelly by now and flinging myself into his arms. But not this day. I was still too angry to listen. I slapped some coins on the table and stood. “I’m going back to the demonstration and join the
adult
protestors who understand what commitment is and standing up for others. Feel free to join me once the concept sinks in.”

As I marched to the front exit I suddenly had that same odd déjà vu feeling I’d had before Marshall and Rob had joined us, as well as when I’d been rambling about the Biltmore Theatre. It was more than odd. It was crazy and impossible. I kept flashing on an image of Shane Halloran as an elderly man. I could see him standing just outside this diner, neck wrapped with a muffler.

It was October, yet I felt a chill completely removed from the snow I imagined swirling around him.

Chapter Nine

April 2016

Shane had lied to Tina and Greg. Or perhaps he’d changed his mind about heading home—wherever home was. He’d said “uptown” but I was now following him toward the downtown trains. I was also attempting to gather my wits about memories that kept intruding on the present and were far too real and painful.

Shane and I hit the subway station about the same time after we left the diner. I watched as he slid his MetroCard into the turnstile slot for the downtown trains and then waited until he was almost out of sight before jumping the turnstile so commuters wouldn’t freak seeing it turn. I’d used the last fare with my trip downtown but promised myself I’d buy a card later and swipe twice so I wasn’t cheating the subway system.

Shane had taken a spot so close to the edge of the platform I worried he intended to join me in the hereafter by flinging himself across the tracks. He stepped back when he saw the train coming, which reassured me. I wanted to be able to talk to the man again—but not if he was in such a state of despair he decided suicide was his only option for joining Holly in the afterlife.

Once we were both inside a nearly unoccupied car, Shane took a seat by a poster hyping some hot bodies gym. I sat across from him. Several times during the trip Shane glanced over at what—to him—was empty space. He appeared uncomfortable and confused.

The engineer announced, “West Fourteenth Street,” and Shane rose. I followed him off the train and up to the street. Amazing. In the short time we’d been traveling the snow had stopped. A light mist had replaced the ice pellets. The air was clean and cold without the misery of ice. I stayed a few feet back from Shane, who kept glancing behind him with a very puzzled expression on his aged but handsome face.

We walked for about five blocks, back up to 16th Street and then headed west toward the Hudson River. Shane stopped in front of a store window for Krazy Komputers. He stared at the line of computers and what Addie had called peripherals and accessories. The store was closed, so no one came rushing out to ask Shane why he was gazing into the window while tears ran down his cheeks.

Addie had also claimed a few days ago—with a large amount of sarcasm—that computers often made her cry, but the frustration was due to email attachments not working or scanners going kablooey or fonts changing in the middle of writing a blog. None of those annoyances could explain why Shane Halloran would be sobbing over a sign stating all-in-one printers were thirty percent off all weekend.

Then I spotted the empty marquee half a block down the street in front of a vacant theatre. The name, barely legible, read Elysium Theatre. The name struck a chord but nothing tangible hit no matter how hard I tried to force a memory.

Shane closed his eyes, straightened his muffler, and headed down to the theatre. I followed, checking out the shops of every genre and size on both sides of West 16th Street. A small café called Mykonos stood next to the computer store on the left and a Manhattan souvenir shop was on Krazy Komputer’s right. They weren’t familiar to me either.

I squinted at a sign, partially obscured by a clump of snow, hanging two doors down from the Mykonos café. O’Ban…something. I suddenly remembered one of those good solid Irish pubs. It had remained a good solid Irish pub for at least eighty years or more under the name O’Bannion’s.

I could see myself sitting with Shane as he hoisted a brew, but the intangible feeling seeing the marquee finally morphed into something very real. I was sure my primary purpose for being on West 16th had been to accompany Shane Halloran to the Off-Off-Broadway space called the Elysium Theatre,
down
at the very end of the block.

February 1973

“Not quite the Majestic or the Imperial, is it?” Shane growled.

Derek shot him a
get over yourself, Movie Star
look. “Dammit, Shane, we’re doing an Equity showcase. I was on my knees offering up my yet-to-be-first-born just to get backers to go with this tiny space. With luck and, critics willing, great reviews, some high-flying ‘look how liberal I am’ angels will adore it and we’ll all go sailing to a Broadway house. But meantime, this is the venue and you can either deal with it or shut up.”

Shane already wasn’t in the best mood because he and I, along with Derek, Chandra, and the two other actors I’d heard addressed as Rick and Nick who’d been tapped for other minor roles had all been sitting in the back of the very small Elysium Theatre for almost an hour, waiting for Rob Stutzgraft, playwright, to show up with the scripts so a first read-through finally could be held.

I should
not
have been invited to this reading since technically I wasn’t part of the cast or crew but I was taking a dramatic criticism class this semester and had asked my professor if I could follow the progress of this play for some extra credit. He loved the idea. Rob loved the idea. Shane loved the idea. Etcetera.

So now I sat with a group of very antsy, very annoyed performers who appeared ready to tell Mr. Stutzgraft to stuff it since eyeing a bare stage in a ninety-seat theatre the last sixty minutes was nothing more than a waste of their time.

I asked, “Don’t hit me, but why don’t any of you have scripts yet? And aren’t you missing at least one more cast member?”

Shane replied, “Crimson apparently called Derek and asked him to tell everyone she couldn’t make it today. Not sure why and I don’t care. They’re probably putting her into a coma or something on her soap.”

“Amnesia,” came from Rick (or Nick).

“Anyway, the reason we don’t have scripts,” Shane continued, “is because the bloody great idjit Rob said he still had some work to do before giving us the final product. Would be ‘finished by the time we open…’”

“So he claimed,” Nick interrupted.

“The man’s in his own world,” came from Rick (or was that the other way around? One of these guys needed a name change).

Shane chimed back in. “I’ve done a couple of original plays where the last words weren’t written until an hour before curtain—but usually at least one draft of the play is provided before the eleventh hour. Otherwise all you’ve got is one big improvisation. Rob’s been secretive about this whole process. Not a one of us has seen more than one or two scenes to date.”

Rick (or Nick) nodded. “I still don’t have a clue about my character’s name, although I have been informed he’s evil on speed. Which is fab. I love playing bad guys. But it would be nice to phone my folks in Iowa and say something other than ‘Hi, Mom. Hi, Dad. I’m playing the villain.’ Makes me sound like I’m about to do a melodrama, complete with thrown popcorn, hisses, and boos.”

We all laughed. His friend (Rick?) took up the complaint. “I’m the other villain but who the hell’s ever heard of a melodrama featuring a second-generation Korean playing basic Snidely Whiplash? At least I’ve got a name in
Basement
. General Thuy. He’s the big honcho of the ‘Hacienda’ prison camp, even though this guy doesn’t even have the rank of captain, much less anything higher.” He snickered. “‘General Thuy.’ Makes me feel like I should be served with brown rice and a spicy peanut sauce.”

The laughter grew louder and the tension lifted for a few moments.

“What exactly happens in this play?” I asked. “Does anyone other than Rob know the whole plot? I’ve heard it’s very anti-war and there’s a murder in a hospital and that’s about it. Really, though, Rob’s proposal was way too thin. His scene in the prison camp was pretty cool, though.”

Heads shook. Derek said, “I’m going on so much blind faith about this project I should be leading a congregation at a revival. In my defense as producer I need to tell those who don’t already know that I did a play with Rob before he was sent off to ’Nam and his writing
is
brilliant. Rave reviews for a guy who was barely twenty and all of them well deserved. At any rate, the only thing Rob will let slip about
Basement
is it’s based on truth and takes place in a veterans’ hospital—present day. The protagonist, Daniel, played by our impatient Mr. Halloran, has these horrific flashbacks to a prison camp in Vietnam. It’s supposed to feature traitors and bad guys and bad girls and is very, very dramatic. Again, all according to Rob. I’ve yet to see a full script and frankly I’m getting nervous.”

I winced. “I wonder how much of it Rob based on his own experiences. I mean, I know he was in Vietnam and he did spend some time in a hospital. But I never knew he was a POW. I’m amazed he could write anything about what he lived through. Emotionally, that is. This has got to be painful for him.”

Shane added, “Or cathartic.”

Derek nodded. “Rob did say he felt better since he’s been writing it. He believes it’s important for people to hear what he claims are ‘very explosive truths.’”

Derek’s assistant, a young girl I’d met that morning, ran into the theatre house. “Derek? You and Shane are needed in the lobby. Urgent. Oh. Uh, you’re Holly, right? Well, you too.”

We looked at one another in confusion, and then did as asked.

Rob Stutzgraft was waiting in the lobby, almost hiding behind the pay telephone near the restrooms. “I’m so sorry, Derek. I’m never late and believe me I never intended to be the last to show for the first reading.”

Shane cocked an eyebrow. “Thanks for the apology, but can we get to that reading now?”

“No, we can’t. I need to tell you why and what just happened, because it’s going to have an effect on the rehearsals.”

For a moment there was nothing but silence. Shane broke it with an impatient, “What’s going on?”

Rob’s voice shook. “I spent the last hour down at the police station. I got mugged on my way here.”

Shane, Derek, and I chorused with “Oh my God!” “What happened?” and “Are you okay?”

“Some maniac in a mask knocked me down about five blocks from here. Stole my keys. Stole my wallet. And…”

“Oh no,” I mumbled.

“Oh yes. Whoever mugged me also got the outline and the rough draft of
Trapped in the Basement
.”

Another chorus of phrases came from Shane and Derek. Most of them were not repeatable, even for a hippie-activist like me who’d been inside more than one jail cell in Manhattan.

“Why?” asked Shane. “It’s not like the script could fetch a great price at a pawn shop.”

Rob shook his head. “All I know right now is either the whole ‘terrified’ emotion has caught up with me, or it’s my five cups of coffee, because I need the facilities. Back in a minute.”

Derek and Shane and I stood and stared at each other after Rob left. Shane was about to say something but was interrupted by a man and woman coming through the front door of the theatre. Derek turned and welcomed them with, “Hey, hon! Glad you could make it. But there’s good news and bad news.”

They kissed and Derek presented a beautiful brunette and a man who bore a striking resemblance to the woman. “This is my wife Angela and my brother-in-law Larry. And yeah, they’re twins.”

Shane and me greeted them with “Hello’s” which were followed by the obligatory “Nice to meet you’s” from the twins. Angela hugged Derek and stayed by his side. “Good news/bad news? What’s going on?”

Derek replied, “The good news is we can make dinner with your folks out in the Hamptons after all. The bad news is why.”

“Okay. Why?”

Derek said, “Let’s all go back inside. I need to tell the cast and there’s no reason to repeat all this.”

We marched back into the theatre house. Derek immediately launched into what needed to be said.

“Cast. We have a problem. Rob was just attacked by someone who stole the script, along with his wallet and keys. Rehearsal is canceled.”

“This city is nuts,” was Larry the brother-in-law’s contribution. “Total insanity. Plus this kind of incident ruins the whole ‘only naïve tourists looking up in the sky get mugged in New York’ bullshit.”

Rick (or Nick) asked what had to be on everyone’s mind. “I feel horrible for him and I hate to sound selfish, but has Rob made copies of the script yet?”

Derek shook his head. “Not unless he did on his own. I was going to give the pages to our stage manager and let him or her do the grunt work, only I haven’t hired one yet.”

Chandra growled, “So what you’re saying is we’re now script-less, plus we have to wait for inspiration to strike Rob for the rest of this thing? Still not finished, right?”

All eyes focused on Derek. “Yes.”

Amid the grumblings it became clear that with the prospect of the first read-through lost there was nothing left to do but go home. Or go drink. On our way out, Shane headed to the restroom, leaving me alone in the lobby. I gazed at the posters dotting the walls until I heard a voice behind me.

“Holly?” Rob whispered.

“Rob? I thought you’d gone. What’s up?”

“I waited to speak with you alone. Keep this confidential. Well, you can tell Shane but don’t tell anyone else. Not yet. I need your help.”

“What is it?”

“I need you to read my full outline and what I currently have for
Trapped in the Basement
. I’ll be honest with you and only you. I left a copy safely at home, but I don’t want anyone to see it yet. And, Holly, I want you to help me finish writing it.”

“What?” I kept my volume low through my shock. “Why?”

“Because this play is set to go up in April and I can’t get it done by then. I’m terrified something is going to happen before the final script is ready. I have to make some major changes, which could be the only way to keep me safe.”

Safe? This mugging must have really affected him.

“Rob, calm down. It’s going to be fine.”

“No. No. It’s not. Look, Holly, you’re a good writer. You’re much better than you think you are, and you’re fast. I remember the script you wrote for class last year. You knocked it out in less than a month, and it was brilliant. Will you do it? Will you help me? But keep it secret. Do you understand?”

Rob’s tone and his expression was one of desperation. He sounded almost deranged and pretty damned paranoid as well. About an unwritten script. This play meant more to him than getting his name into the New York theatre scene. It was personal.