No answer. I sat down on the bench and stared at the water, at Joey, and at the bridge.
And the first big memory came crashing through.
January 1972
“Some Indian tribes claim bald eagles have healin’ powers and a bit of influence with human fertility as well. They’re like a doorway to the gods, Some of ’em can live up to forty years, assumin’ some crazed loon with a rifle doesn’t go after him for sport. Plus, they bring good luck and I’m believin’ the truth of it, since seeing you is a fortune-filled moment in my day and my heart is indeed healed of the pain of the lovelorn.”
The voice behind me had a resonant, lush, baritone quality. More than a hint of an Irish brogue.
I turned. He was tall, an inch or two over six feet. Curly black hair. Mocha-colored skin reflecting a mix of European and African heritage. Piercing, inky, midnight blue eyes…as in melt-your-bones-should-be-illegal-inky-midnight-blue eyes. I swallowed and tried to come up with a quip both clever and charming.
“Don’t you be wasting your fine words and charming manner on me, sir,” I managed to say. “I’ve lived with both for twenty years and it’s made me immune.”
He grinned. I did my damndest not to faint.
“And who’s as fine and charmin’ as I, then, lass?”
I took a breath and managed to say, “Me da. He’s also got the gift of Irish gab and a keen sense of what’s real and what isn’t and he passed it on to me. So, does the charm and brogue work with most of the ladies?”
“It does. But I’m aft to be swearin’ you’re a lass many notches above all the others on this fair earth and I’d best up my game.”
I’d never experienced love at first sight before. Although, to be accurate, it wasn’t “first”. I’d fallen in love with this man six years ago watching the late night movies on Channel 9, when they’d shown a New Testament epic called Miracle in the Catacombs. Produced in ’62, complete with camels, gladiators, lepers, catacombs, miracles, and a gorgeous young black actor with Irish blue eyes playing a very earnest Simon the Cyrene. I was only fourteen at the time. I’d next seen him in Circus Maximus, also on Channel 9, with much the same plot as Miracle but less religious overtones.
“Not sure I’m buying the whole notches bit, but thanks anyway.” I hesitated before speaking again, determined to keep my voice from squeaking after all my brave talk of ignoring his charm. “You are Shane Halloran, yes?”
He bowed and dropped the brogue. “I am. Movies, TV, or stage?”
“What?”
“How did you know who I was—I mean, what have you seen me in? I haven’t done many movies in the last few years and you look too young to remember those I did before my career nosedived.”
I scowled. “I’m not that young. I’m over twenty.” I didn’t see any need to add it was only by a week. “To answer your question, I’ve seen a couple of your movies on TV and one or two on the big screen. And I will admit I saved my pennies and took the train to New Haven for the preview of the revival for Porgy and Bess last month.” I lifted my chin a bit. “I believe it’s one of the finest pieces of American opera and I was determined to see it. It’s my favorite. You simply happened to be in it.”
I prayed lightning wouldn’t strike me dead for having just come out with a whopping big lie, before sympathetically adding, “I am very sorry it didn’t make it to Broadway.”
He chuckled. “Your da did train you well, didn’t he? How to deflate an ego with a few well-chosen sentences. Glad you saw Porgy and Bess, though. So, lass, you’ve got my name. What’s yours?”
“Holly Jordan Malone.” I said, “And back to the subject. I’m really serious. It should have been on Broadway. You were so fantastic as Sportin’ Life. When you sang ‘There’s a Boat That’s Leavin’ Soon for New York’, I nearly stood up and yelled, ‘Take that boat, Bess! Who cares if he’s a scummy drug dealer when he can sing like an angel?’”
He took my hand in his and then leaned down and kissed my palm. “Thank you. I’ve been very down about the show not going forward and you’ve just lifted my spirits to where our eagle friend is now flying. Are you a total theatre and music lover, then, Miss Malone, or just fond of—Mr. Gershwin?”
My brain was screaming, Gershwin/Swershin, who cares? Theatre lover? Substitute Shane Halloran for “theatre” and you’ve got it.
“Both. I love theatre and I love music. And I write. I waffle between wanting to be a reporter or writing stories or better yet, plays. But I’m smart enough to know I’d never be in DuBose Heyward’s class even if I could find a modern-day Gershwin who’d like to set my play to music.”
“So. Writer. Nice. Are ya more interested in gossipy scandals or politics?”
“Everything. Well, not gossipy scandals as much. Those are great for fiction but I’m not one to dig into a person’s private life as long as it doesn’t affect society. People have skeletons and they should stay buried or told to their favorite shrink, priest, or rabbi. Anyway, I’d love to travel and be a foreign correspondent calling in the big stories by the time I’m twenty-five.” I smiled. “On the other hand, I’m also determined to write a play and see it produced on Broadway.”
“Ah.” He casually inquired, “Are you any good—or just breathtakingly beautiful?”
“I…beg your pardon?”
“Your writing. And your investigative skills. Are you any good?”
I sank onto the bench and contemplated the bald eagle now circling the bridge. I’d decided (for no good reason) to name him Joey. I shivered before I answered. I could have sworn I’d played this very scene before. I shook off the odd feeling. “Good? I hope so. It’s hard to critique one’s own work, after all. I mean, how do you rate yourself as an actor?”
He winked then laughed. “Damn bloody great!” He pulled me up next to him and kissed me. Damn bloody great didn’t begin to cover it. My toes curled, my hair curled, and what was left of my bones disintegrated.
Just as suddenly, but easily, he released me. We stared at each other. I sank back down onto my bench. He sank with me.
“Well, Mr. Halloran, you lied. You have no self-esteem issues, do you?”
“Truth, Miss Malone?”
“Truth, Mr. Halloran. And make it Holly. We’re not doing a play set in the twenties.”
His voice lost its humor. “No we’re not. If we were, I wouldn’t have managed to steal a marvelous kiss without a lynch mob burstin’ from round the corner with a rope or guns blazing.” He stopped, then lightened his tone and with a voice oozing hot honey murmured, “Or without a good slap from you across my cheeks a second after our lips met.”
I smiled and ignored his first comment, which had produced an odd but very strong trace of fear within me I couldn’t quite nail down. “I’m quite capable of adding that particular action to the scene right now if you’d prefer.”
He assumed the soft brogue again. “I’m aft to bein’ quite satisfied with havin’ no pain and keepin’ the kiss pure and special in me mind, lass.”
I tried not to giggle.
He continued with, “Kissing and kidding aside, the truth is, I’m riddled with self-esteem issues. It’s maddening. I did one of the best pieces of musical theatre written in this century, yet the show didn’t make it out of New Haven for what should have been a Broadway revival. No one is offering movie scripts—well, not good movie scripts. You wouldn’t believe the schlock my agent has been sending me. Drug dealers who don’t have a quarter of the personality of a Sportin’ Life. Or super-cops in flashy cars with loud music. Awful. And my last picture was…”
I interrupted, “I loved it! You’re talking about Ebony Dreams with Reggie Lamar, right? I saw it at the St. Marks down in the Village.”
“You did? Well, I can now count four people who saw it. My agent Wynn Davenport, Reggie, you, and me. No, wait—wrong. Reggie’s wife was at the premiere as we
ll. So, we have a total of five. The film was a flop.”
“Which makes no sense. It was one of the best films I’ve seen in years. It made a statement and your character was multi-dimensional. A real person. Not a pimp or a sleazy drug dealer or witty side-kick to the white guy.”
Shane nodded. “For years I’ve been grumbling to my agent because the few good roles I’m ever offered are Othello, Emperor Jones, or Walter Younger in Raisin in the Sun. Don’t get me wrong; they’re all fabulous characters in wonderful plays. But solely in theatre. I love theatre but I pay the bills with films. Forget Hollywood right now for anything decent and forget anyone for considering character instead of color.”
“This is all so wrong. Ebony Dreams was well written, well acted, and well edited, and it should have netted Academy Awards for both you and Mr. Lamar. I couldn’t believe it was snubbed.”
“Ah, but it was controversial, darlin’. A non-stereotypical, realistic, intelligent black male falls in love with a white man’s sister and brother approves to the point of saying ‘I’ll be your best man.’ But it’s my bad luck the Hollywood elite is back on a conservative kick, or haven’t you noticed? Nothing to rock any yachts. It’s the reason we have all these throwbacks to the fifties and those fake integrated films filled with pimps, drug-dealers, and super-cops.”
I nodded. “Those are almost worse than the sad shuffling train porter garbage from the forties.” I stared at Shane. “So, what are you going to do about it?”
“Doing? Doing? I have no power. It’s ironic. I’ve protested for voting rights in the South and marched for the right of a black kid to drink out of the same water fountain in the park as the white kid he’d been playing ball with. Unfortunately it’s still damned hard for a black man to find a good role in a major film. And, Holly luv, when it comes to movies it all hinges on who holds the purse strings. I’m friends with a couple of actors who have the star power and the courage to make changes, and they’re trying but most of the rest are too scared to lose power or their paychecks—or worse.”
I straightened my shoulders in determination. “It’s wrong on too many levels. But you’ve now made me raring to add actors to my list of folks who need some good old-fashioned demonstrations to help wake them up.”
He laughed. “A crusader! Very nice, Holly Malone. You look like you could organize a whale of a protest. Lots of fire in those pretty green eyes.”
I felt a blush start from my neck and warm my face. I focused on Joey, now flying back to perch on what was obviously “his” railing. Watching him gave me time to recover and ask, “So, where are you right now in the mix of producers and roles?”
“Spending my days sniffing out good films. Musing about grabbing a giant pimp hat with a feather sticking out of it from some thrift store and sayin’ ‘to hell with it, I need the paycheck.’” He took my hand in his. “And this is not for public consumption, but I’ve been offered a controversial play with what has been described by the writer as a challenging role. New York theatre generally isn’t quite as stodgy and backward as film when it comes to tackling tricky issues.” He winced. “Then again, if I do it, I have visions of being tarred and feathered. Or drawn and quartered. Or all of the above.”
“I’m intrigued, Mr. Halloran. And of course, you are sometimes referred to as one of Hollywood’s bad boys. Why not add to the mystique and dive into real trouble?”
“Tell me you didn’t read the awful review years ago of Sheridan Falls? The one calling me the black Steve McQueen?” He laughed. “I like Steve, though. We’ve done some off road bike racing together and shared more than a few pints at a pub or two. We’ve also talked about doing a sequel to Bullitt with me playing a San Francisco lawyer. And off topic, Miss Malone, but cut the Mr. Halloran crap and make it Shane. Please. It’s 1972. No one’s formal anymore, hadn’t ya heard? And, not that you’ve asked, but I’ll tell you nonetheless, I’m thirty-one. I’m not near old enough to be ‘Mister’ to you.”
“Well, I’m seldom formal either,” I countered. “But then I’m one of those crazy ‘embrace humanity’ hippie types. On the other hand, I never met a movie star before so I wasn’t sure whether I needed to bow and kiss your feet or just get real.”
Shane burst out laughing. “Love it! And I say get real, woman, get real.”
“Well, movie star, you’ve now got me curious. What’s this new play about?”
“Vietnam. Prisoners of war. Lots of angst and drama. I’m intrigued, although I wish the playwright had sent out more than a very brief synopsis and one scene. Truthfully, it was more like a thin trailer or blurb than anything else.”
“But still. It doesn’t sound like light entertainment.”
He nodded. “You’re right. Rob somebody, the playwright, said it dealt with a traitor and it’s definitely anti-war. Could ruffle a few feathers and make some folks nervous.” A wicked grin spread across his handsome face and he dropped all traces of the brogue. “I can’t wait.”
“Me too. I like it already. What’s it called?”
“Trapped in the Basement.”
April 2016
Joey the bald eagle took flight. My messenger through time. I watched him soar across the Henry Hudson Bridge, as my mind played back what I knew wasn’t some hallucination. It was a real memory.
I’d met Shane Halloran. Kissed Shane Halloran. Back when I was alive. From the moment I’d seen him, I’d been in love with him.
And still was more than forty years later.
Chapter Four
Addie was home, sitting on the couch watching Sheridan Falls—which I’d left in the DVD player—while she spooned chocolate fudge brownie ice cream straight from the carton. No bowl or thinking required.
I knocked on the door so she’d know I was in the room before announcing, “It was Shane Halloran.”
She didn’t bother to ask what I was talking about. Smart woman. “I am somehow not a bit surprised. But then, I live with a ghost, so not much surprises me. How’d you figure it out?”
I told her about my flashback to 1972 and the day I met Shane in the park. “Sadly the experience didn’t last very long. I wasn’t able to force any other memories, and I stayed in the park for three hours. Do you suppose I needed the eagle to run interference for me? He took off right after I returned from memory land.”
“Oh ye of little faith, I have something just as good as an emissary eagle. Even better. The Internet. It’s search time. Prepare to be impressed.”
“Far out! I keep forgetting about all the gadgets of the twenty-first century. Um, no offense, but since I’m impatient to know more about Mr. Halloran, and may I emphasize now, let’s hit the computer.”
“I live to serve. Let’s check out Mr. Halloran. I’m as curious as you are.”
Addie placed the ice cream carton back on the coffee table. I picked it up and began devouring what remained. She got her laptop computer humming, then took us to a website called IMDB which apparently provided access to all things cinematic. She typed in Shane Halloran and within seconds brought up his profile.
Adelaide read aloud. “‘Shane Halloran. Six-foot-two. African-American and Irish heritage. Curly black hair. Blue eyes.’”
I corrected her. “Excuse me, change to piercing, inky-midnight-blue, as in melt-your-bones-into liquid-should-be-illegal-midnight-blue eyes.”
“Oh my. The girl doth indeed got it bad.”
“She doth. And she did. But go on.”
She continued, “Born Shane Matthew Halloran in Ballybrack, Ireland in 1941. Father a schoolteacher who died right after World War Two. Mother, Renee Martine, originally from New Orleans, was a retired actress who performed at the famed Abbey Theatre in Dublin.” She scanned down to the next paragraph. “Mom must have pushed Shane into the business when he was a toddler or something, because he started acting in school productions before performing in professional theatres al
l over Great Britain from age ten on.”
Addie coughed. I handed her what was left of her soda and she took a sip before returning to the bio. “Shane caught the eye of a major film director when he played Romeo opposite a white Juliet in a—and I quote—‘daring mixed-race production of Romeo and Juliet in London’s West End in 1956’—holy shit, he was fifteen—and was subsequently given a co-starring role in his first film in 1958 called Harlem Nocturne, based on the life of singer and comedian Bert Williams.” She glanced in my general direction and remarked, “interesting. Also says he almost didn’t get the part because he was too handsome and Bert, while an incredible talent, wasn’t touted as a looker.”
Note to self: find that movie. Another note to self: find all of Shane Halloran’s movies.
I scooched down the couch so I could peer over Addie’s shoulder at the website. I stared at the three photos of Shane and could almost feel that kiss again. The site listed fourteen movies, including Sheridan Falls and Miracle of the Catacombs, some baseball flick called Strike Three, and his two most famous, Circus Maximus in 1962, and a swashbuckling romp called Golden Pirate in 1968.
After Golden Pirate, Shane returned to the stage, moving to New York City and performing roles in Raisin in the Sun and Shakespearean plays like Othello and Twelfth Night. He appeared on a couple of TV shows in the ’60s and did a few more costume pieces and the fabulous Ebony Dreams in 1969, but his movie career more or less stalled after Circus Maximus when he was royally—and unfairly—snubbed by the academy in Hollywood when he should have been nominated for an Oscar.
Bad enough Shane Halloran was mixed race, but I’d been right with my memory—he was also considered a “bad boy”—at least in the eyes of the Hollywood elite. He raced motorcycles and enjoyed his ale and cigarettes at pubs from Dublin to Aruba where he’d filmed Golden Pirate.
I’d met him. He’d kissed me. I could still feel those lips on mine. See those remarkable eyes staring at me.
Scarecrow’s Dream Page 4