I pulled my focus back to the computer screen. Shane had picketed for the right to play roles focusing on character rather than race. He wouldn’t suck up to movie producers and he’d thrown a punch or two at photographers when they’d tried getting a few candid shots of him in those pubs or racing his bike. He’d been at the forefront of more than one protest against racial inequality and marched against the Vietnam War, even collaborating with some major talents on an album called Songs for Peace.
He never married—which, Addie noted with delight, was cause for numerous hopeful biographers from the 1980s onward to question his sexual proclivities. There were rumors of a love affair that had ended in tragedy, although the article didn’t specify whether tragic meant the woman had died, married someone else, or run off to Ireland to study with Druid monks.
“Is there anything about a play in the seventies? Would have been in ’73 or ’74 if it was delayed, and performed in the city. Possibly Off-Broadway?”
Adelaide zipped to the end of the IMDB page where plays, not movies, were listed. “I don’t see anything. What was it called?”
“Trapped in the Basement. Of course, we’re presuming Shane took the part, the play got written, the title wasn’t changed, and the play was produced.”
Adelaide typed the words “trapped in the basement” in what she called a browser window. “Nothing pops up. There’s a group called Black Lips who recorded a song called ‘Trapped in a Basement’ but with an ‘a’ rather than a ‘the’. There was something about a basement in a Dan Fogelberg song, ‘Scarecrow’s Dream’, if I recall the title correctly. Late seventies ballad. Good song. Gorgeous, eerie lyrics about inhabiting two worlds. Let me scroll down. There’s also a very fine mix from rapper M Dogg. But nothing about a play on, off, or anywhere near Broadway.”
The profile ended with the story of Halloran’s spectacular death in 1973 at the age of thirty-two. In the early morning hours of April 9, his motorcycle had sailed off an ice-covered bridge in Upper Manhattan during a blinding snowstorm. His body was never recovered.
“Oh my God!”
Addie nodded. “Yep. I’d say it’s one pretty bizarre coincidence. Same day. Same month. Same year. Same general location.”
“But no mention of a girl dying with him.” I swallowed and then quietly said, “Addie, he’s gone… And I only now… I feel dizzy.”
“Didn’t realize ghosts got sick,” Addie teased. “Kind of negates the benefits of being dead, doesn’t it?”
“Well, I seem to be defying conventional wisdom regarding spooks. Plus, I’m currently in shock. This is ‘the revelations keep coming but don’t tell me anything’ kind of shock.” I rose from the couch then sank down into the rocking chair and began to rock at a frantic tempo. Boo-Boo ran around the chair barking, enjoying the new game.
Addie’s focus remained with the computer. “Boo-Boo! Chill. Holly, do you want me to see what else I can find? There are other sources out there.”
“Please.”
I waited while Addie worked her magic. It seemed to take forever but in reality was only about twenty seconds. “Okay. Lots of the same info as the movie site. A bit more about how he was snubbed for an Academy Award in some flick called Ebony Dreams. Late sixties. Huh. I never saw it. I guess it didn’t make it to Paris.”
“I did,” I told her. “Not Paris. I mean the film deserving an award. Or at least my memory included me talking about seeing it and how great it was. Go on.”
“Um. Some stuff about how he was pissed movies were getting trashy and mind-numbing in the sixties.” She chuckled. “As compared to soap opera plots and horror flicks of the fifties? Seriously? But I guess he was talking about what we now call blacksploitation films. The one good thing those films did was give black actors some employment. But apart from that, we’re talkin’ pure schlock.”
“Shane said something about those films. In the park. Assuming my memory is real.” I mused, “It sure seemed real. As if I was there, living in that very moment. So, have you found anything more on the personal side?”
“A little. He loved football. American football, although being Irish I’d imagine he was fond of rugby and soccer as well. Favorite team was the Dallas Cowboys.” Adelaide continued her enthusiastic review. “They were awesome back in the sixties. Don Meredith. Craig Morton. Roger Staubach. Now those guys were quarterbacks. So damned good. And of course you had the runners like Bob Hayes. And tackles like Rayfield Wright, who was also a major hunk and…”
“Terrific. Will you get on with it? I’m not sure how much longer I’ll be floating on the earth and I’d like some answers.”
Addie shushed me. “You’re so touchy for a spirit, young lady. Be patient. I have a growing suspicion you’ll be here for more than a day or two. It’s a process. You have to figure out why you’re here and what you’re supposed to do about fixing the problem. Then I guess you get to go into the light.”
“One can only hope. Meantime, please go on.”
“Well, your buddy loved motorcycles and drinking and brawling. But he never let anything interfere with his professionalism. The majority of his work in the sixties was for TV rather than film. Duh. See above for crappy roles for black men. Ooh. Neat. He sang.”
I nodded, forgetting Addie couldn’t see me. “He did. According to my flashback I saw him do Porgy and Bess up in New Haven.”
“Aha. Here it is. Played Sportin’ Life in Porgy and Bess. He also played the role of Hud in Hair in some summer stock theatre in upstate New York. Oh, wow! This is cool. He was involved in the first interracial cast of Carousel. Again in a summer stock theatre.” She read aloud. “‘Halloran busted traditional casting wide open with his magnificent portrayal of Billy Bigelow in Carousel.’ Ooh! Wait and hold the proverbial phone. I have an idea.”
“What?”
“Videos. Somebody might have plopped an old film they took during a performance and put it on the Songfest site. Give me just a sec.” She typed “Shane Halloran” and Carousel into some little bar space on the computer. “Hot damn! I’m brilliant. There it is. Or I should say, there he is.”
Shane appeared on the small screen, striding across the stage in a striped carnival barker’s shirt and black pants, singing the soliloquy from Carousel.
“Damn, Holly, he was good. Gorgeous and a voice to match the looks.”
“Addie!” I gasped. “I can’t believe this.”
“What?”
“I saw him in Carousel. I remember it. I swear I do. He was amazing. And I was there with him.”
Addie said, “Slow down, kiddo. You said you also remembered going to see him in Porgy and Bess. This may not mean anything. You may have taken the bus upstate and seen the show on your own.”
“No. I was with him. Backstage. Not in the audience. I did take a bus, but I went up specifically to see Shane.”
June 1972
Shane was still inside his dressing room arguing with his agent, Wynn Davenport III, who lived up to being a Third. It took more than one generation to breed the kind of snootiness Davenport oozed from every pore. I was outside and the door was closed but neither man had a soft voice so I heard every word. I was more than a little interested because the argument was about me.
“She can’t stay here, Shane.”
“Why the hell not?” Shane growled. “It’s not like I’ve booked her into my suite at that god-awful sleazy hotel you put me up in, you twit. She’s staying with the chorus girls in their dorm. No one seems to object but you.”
“And I’m objecting because some snoopy reporter is going to find out big bad black Shane Halloran is keeping company with a goddamn white teenage hippie activist and Shane Halloran’s already less-than-stellar career is going to blow to the point where I can’t book him in a summer stock theatre in Boise, much less Broadway. I’m still not pleased you decided to go activist on me and do this show. But
since you did, and it’s getting good reviews, you can’t blow it just because your damned hormones are going haywire.”
“You are so full of shit, Wynn. Who’s going to know she’s with me? And who’s going to care? I’m askin’ true, here, man. She’s not running out blowing up buildings or anything else on weekends. Just because her views don’t happen to coincide with Hollywood’s fascist war-machine—or yours—doesn’t make her a bloody radical maniac. Neither do my views, but I don’t see you walking away from your fifteen percent.”
“She’s white, Shane. This is different.”
“You’re white, you sot. Crap, I’m half white. Who the hell cares?”
“Everybody. It’s not about me. No one cares about an agent. But Holly? Good Lord, Shane. Get real. Black women are jealous she’s taking what they perceive to be one of their own. White men are pissed because she’s dating out of her race. Apart from someone like Sammy Davis Jr. and May Britt in the sixties—and I still can’t figure out how they managed to get away with being married—the rest of the world isn’t ready for a mixed-race couple. Unless you’re famous enough you can afford to brush off the threats or the criticism. Which, no offense, you’re not. So, you asked, who cares? I repeat. Everybody.”
“Enough! Put your own damned prejudice back in the closet and listen. First off, everyone has been great to her and to me. For Christ’s-sake, Wynn, we’re theatre people. We’re supposed to understand and accept the concept of seeing things from another’s perspective.”
A sigh audible enough for me to hear even with a door between us came from Wynn Davenport.
“Okay. Great. But, Shane, I don’t care if this entire cast is made up of love-chanting hippies; what about the reporters and reviewers who are in the audience? Good grief. Did you see what she’s wearing?”
I could easily imagine Shane’s delighted grin. “I did indeed. Gorgeous.”
I glanced down at the ensemble I’d donned for opening night. Seemed fine to me. A multi-tiered gypsy skirt in green and sage and blue, trimmed with lace. Cream-colored peasant blouse, with a wide, beaded belt accentuating my twenty-three-inch waist. Granny boots peeking underneath the ankle-length hem. I’d tossed an army jacket across my shoulders to ward off any chill from an overly air-conditioned bus.
Perhaps Wynn was objecting to the various slogan-filled buttons adorning it. “Make Love, Not War”; “Give Peace a Chance”; “Stop the War; Feed the Poor”; “Black Pride is for All”; “Puppies are not Test Subjects”; “Women are not Toys”; “Vote for McGovern!” All terrific ideas and my exact sentiments.
Or perhaps Wynn didn’t approve of the way I’d styled my hair? I hadn’t bothered with a headband so my hair hung down way past my shoulders. I’d tried to straighten it but the humidity had released the waves within minutes. Or did Wynn just not like any ’do free of chemical hair spray?
Shane had picked me up at the bus station in the afternoon and told me I looked gorgeous. But Wynn Davenport III did not share Shane’s good taste.
The heated discussion continued. “She’s going to ruin you, Shane. As it is I can’t get you a decent movie and you’re going to wreck any chance of snagging a Broadway gig if the press ever gets wind of the story about your very young, very white girlfriend spending a weekend in jail six months ago. And I emphasize very young because she’s barely able to vote.”
Shane yelled, “I’ll bet most of these theatregoers would be glad I’m seeing a lady who spent a mite of time in a cell in order to rescue a group of puppies from a cosmetics company. And she’s twenty, damn it—not fifteen. She’s not a little girl. I’ve had it with all your ‘she’s white’ bullshit. If my own parents managed to deal with that thirty-one years ago, why can’t we? Aren’t we beyond that yet?”
I agreed with everything he was saying, especially the comments about my days spent in the slammer. I’d gone to jail after breaking into the Blush Me cosmetics research lab in Brooklyn with four other animal-lovers. We’d been very responsible about it, finding homes for them all before the deed, so it wasn’t as if we’d rushed in, opened the cages, and let the doggies and rabbits run wild in the streets.
It turned out our judge felt the same. Shoot—who wouldn’t? Well, apart from the cosmetics industry. I mean, what’s the reasoning behind slapping mascara and lipstick on a Dalmatian or a sweet little symbol of Easter? My dad had actually agreed with me on the merits of this particular protest and he didn’t exactly have the title of the Most Progressive Super in Inwood.
After my two nights in jail (not what I’d called a pleasant experience, but I’d made friends with three hookers who told me great stories and gave me leads on what goes on in the meaner streets of New York) our group had to pay a fine and we were sent on our merry way.
I missed whatever else Shane said to Wynn because it sounded like Shane tossed a vase at the man. I heard the sound of broken glass. Wynn threw open the dressing room door, glared at me, muttered something along the lines of “Hippie bitch” under his breath, then strode off toward the front of the theatre house.
Shane popped his head around the open doorframe and smiled at me. “Has my damned racist agent gone, then?”
“He has.” I stared down at the floor for a moment before finally looking him in the eyes. “Shane, I’m so sorry. I don’t want to come between you and someone who’s working for you. I don’t want to hurt your career.”
He shrugged then reached out and put his arms around me. “Darlin’, he’ll be over it the instant he sees the standing ovation I’ll get tonight. His dad worked with me from the time I was sixteen on and he was just as obnoxious. Mr. Davenport wants a paycheck. I’ll deliver. Forget him. Now, gorgeous girl, give me a kiss for luck then go grab your seat out front. You told me you liked hearin’ me sing as Sportin’ Life? Shoot, lass, you’re in for the treat of your life. If you don’t cry during ‘If I Loved You’ I’ll come down off the stage in shock.”
April 2016
I relayed the memory to Addie, who appeared pensive rather than delighted.
“What? You’re scowling at me. At least you’re trying to. Your ghost spotting is off by about a foot to the right. So? You don’t believe this was real?”
She shook her head. “I’m sure it was very real. Too real. I’m chewing on the fact that a little less than a year before you died you had made an enemy with this Mr. Davenport the Third. Not to mention jealous actresses or racist actors or crazed people who got wind Shane was dating a white girl. I have to wonder how badly any one of those folks wanted you out of Shane Halloran’s life.”
Chapter Five
April 2016
“I’m going with you tonight,” I announced.
“Where?”
“The demonstration. I’m curious to see how they’re conducted in the new century.” I squinted at Addie. “Hang on there. You’re not dressed.”
“I’m not going.”
“Why?”
“It’s cold.”
I tried to maintain my composure, but couldn’t last more than about two seconds. I began cackling like a demented witch. “Cold? For you? The woman who led more protest marches than Dr. Martin Luther King? You’re not going to a protest because of a little snow?”
“Yep. Unlike certain folks without corporeal bodies, I’m not in the mood to move the arthritic knees down subway stairs when it’s thirty-two degrees out, and those pretty flakes from yesterday are turning into big chunks of ice today. So I’m staying home and doing some online research about the Samuel Friedman Theatre for my column. Interesting place. It was still the Biltmore Theatre in 1973 but it burned to the ground in ’87 and didn’t become a good permanent theatre until Manhattan Theatre Club bought it in 2001. Now, pondering the issue, I’ll bet it was burned by a smart arsonist trying to keep warm on a night like this.”
“I’m sorry, but there’s no way I’m buying this cold bit. Need I point ou
t the snow didn’t keep you from heading to the bakery this morning to pick up a dozen cinnamon rolls and a carrot cake?”
Addie didn’t spout off something cute or sarcastic. Something was off.
“You’re not staying home because it’s cold, are you.” It was not a question.
She shook her head. “There was a shooting this morning, in a suburb of Atlanta, Georgia.”
I sank down on the couch. “I hadn’t heard any news today. This morning, you said?”
“Yeah. And you’ve been busy. I popped in to tell you a few hours ago but you were typing like a maniac on your script for the online soap.” She paused for a long moment. “A young black man—only about twenty-two—was leaving his girlfriend’s house. An off-duty cop asked him why he was in the neighborhood. The young man—his name was Jerry Rollins—pulled out his wallet, and the cop claims he thought it was a gun. Jerry was shot and killed.”
“There’s more, isn’t there.” Also not a question.
“His girlfriend was white, so was the cop who shot him. The semi-good thing is there were witnesses who filmed at least part of the incident. God bless cell phones, right? But as of this evening, though it’s rumored there’s an investigation started by his Internal Affairs department, the cop still is walking around with his badge—and his gun. Insanity. And of course all the haters are blaming the kid for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Everyone is mad at everyone else.”
I couldn’t speak for a few moments. Finally I said, “It’s awful and wrong. But why is this keeping you from the demonstration? Why aren’t you super charged and hepped up about racing to the podium and shouting for justice?”
Her eyes were moist and her voice was hoarse, as though she was trying to squeeze her words out without a breath behind them.
“I can’t. I’ve been through this too many times. Gone to too many protests or rallies and…I’m…tired. As in beaten-down-ready-to-give-up tired. I keep trying to convince myself times have changed but…I need to sit this one out at home.”
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