She swallowed hard and then took a deep breath. “Holly, I keep coming back to you and Shane. Did someone try to shoot him off his motorcycle because there was a young white girl—you—with him? Did they miss him and get you instead? Or were you the target? Were both of you targets?” She shivered. “You go in my place. You may be dead but you’ve got so much good energy I’m sure it’ll translate to positive things at that rally. And yes, I’m not making sense but I don’t care. Who knows? It’s possible you’ll find some answers about your own situation.”
“I will be proud to go in your stead. I only wish I could do something to effect a change.” I asked, “Since you’re staying here, may I borrow your army jacket? Yeah, I know it’ll disappear the instant I put it on, but I still want something—uh—protesty to wear. Not just this peace symbol hanging around my neck. Oh, totally off topic, which we need right now to relieve some of this horror about Jerry Rollins, but I could use some other clothes. Rewashing this outfit and wearing old shirts and pants of Dad’s you didn’t give away isn’t quite working for me. I’m vain enough to want to look good even if Boo-Boo is the only being who can see me. So, whacha say, Auntie? Army jacket?”
Addie’s eyes widened. “Wait. I’m not thinking straight. You don’t need my jacket, which wouldn’t fit anyway. Your old one is still here.”
“What? Are you kidding?”
“Nope. For real. Paul kept a lot of your stuff over the years, most of it in storage. I remember him putting your jacket into the hall closet, though, and telling me it would stay there until you came back. It made him feel like you’d be walking through the door at any moment.”
What passed for a heart within me started lurching. “He kept it?”
“Holly, he never really believed you were dead. Your body was never found. He kept saying you’d just had an accident and gone stumbling off into the night with amnesia or something.”
Addie closed her eyes. I assumed she was remembering the past.
“Paul was a huge fan of the soaps—remember he set up a small TV down in the basement? He’d have some sleazy daytime drama on while repairing washing machines. And we all used to laugh because every tried and true amnesia story ended up as the subplot in every single daytime drama ever made.”
“Wow. It’s also close to true. I mean the amnesia. The good news is, my childhood memories are solid. If only the last two years were coming in as clear.” I blinked back tears. “Addie, I wish there was a way to tell Dad I did come back, although it’s not real. I mean, I’m not real. You understand what I’m trying to say. I’d like to be able to look at him and tell him how much I always loved him, no matter how often I was rebelling against war and injustice and every other cause on the planet.”
We both fell silent. Finally Addie said, “Holly. He knew. And for a middle-aged guy who’d fought in the last days of World War Two, he was surprisingly sympathetic with your views—our views. He’d had some time to absorb some of this watching his baby sister start marching for stuff from the cradle on. He didn’t voice his own views because he was also torn about following what the government says is right. I realize you two fought a lot, but when he found out you’d been writing for an underground newspaper, he started collecting them. He showed me the stash after you disappeared and then put them into his old steamer trunk. I’ll bet they’re still there.”
I was stunned. “What? Where’s the trunk?”
“Storage. Not far from the garage where I keep my car, under the name A. Kennedy. He moved everything out of the apartment after a break-in here. Hmmm…”
“What?”
“This is strange. The break-in was about a month after you disappeared. Now I’m thinking…did your death have something to do with that? Could it have been someone making sure you were gone and not in hiding? I guess there’s no way of knowing. Scary. Too many questions and not enough answers.”
We lapsed into silence. Finally Addie said, “We’ll go there when the weather starts acting more like May than February. I’m not sure what else he stored. Memorabilia. Photos, I’d imagine. I wouldn’t be surprised if there are a few of you and Shane. I am sure there are clothes.”
“Okay.”
She heard something in my voice I hadn’t meant for her to catch. “Listen, you’re not okay and I’m not okay and it isn’t okay, but we’re going to make it okay, which is atrociously repetitious but I don’t care. So, ghost girl, are you floating onto the subway?”
“Nope. Since, I haven’t been able to penetrate solid objects I could simply execute a nice leap across the turnstile. Or I’ll just give the New York subway system its due and swipe your MetroCard. I doubt anyone will notice a turnstile moving on its own.”
I went to the closet and began moving coats and bags and junk out of the way.
“Far out!”
“What?”
“It’s there! My army jacket. Way in the back behind some hideous dress I hope no one ever wore in public, even for Halloween.”
Addie perked up. “What color?”
“Hot pink.”
“Swirly twirly?”
“Yep.”
“That’s mine. I wore it to discos back in the day.”
I emerged from the closet with both the dress and the jacket. Addie could see both items since neither was on my person yet. It was another confusing part of the ghost world I inhabited. “Discos?”
“You haven’t watched Saturday Night Fever yet?”
“Haven’t had the time. And if this hot pink number was the fashion for the movie, I may skip it.”
Addie’s voice oozed pure pleasure. “Disco. You would have enjoyed that era, Holly. You love to dance. This was dance twenty-four seven.”
“I’m not sure I would have enjoyed looking like a strawberry ice cream cone while shimmying and shaking.”
“Well, not everyone was quite as—flamboyant—as your wild auntie here. You’d’ve loved the music, anyway. Huge changes from the mid seventies onward. I’ll drag out the CD soundtrack tomorrow. Teach you the Latin Hustle.” She waved at my general direction and began humming a tune I assumed had been featured in the movie. “Go.”
“Don’t wait up, Miss Adelaide. I have a feeling this is going to be a long demonstration. And as long as I’m in the neighborhood, I’d like to check out the area around Bryant Park, see what’s changed.”
I did swipe the card and take the subway like a normal living person. It was just past work rush hour so the A train had enough space for me to be able to sit by myself without freaking out another human being—which felt as odd as it sounds.
I took the 42nd Street exit and then headed over to Bryant Park. I could see the crowd seconds after I was above ground. The “Immigrants and Refugees R All of Us”, the “Feed Our Children”, the “When did we Become Haters and Cowards?” the “Get Out of the Middle East”, the “Climate Change—Believe it Before the Earth Dies”, and the “Ban All Guns” protestors had joined together, with the primary focus now on the shooting in Atlanta.
I overheard a teenager, dressed in a hooded sweatshirt and jeans, telling another teen that two cops had been shot while attempting to arrest a man for beating up his spouse.
What had started as rage against racism had turned into a memorial for victims of senseless shootings, black or white, cop or civilian. There was common ground for causes that stemmed from not treating others with respect, or simple basic humanity, and I felt a stirring of hope.
I spotted about five people dressed in business attire holding signs that read, “Jerry Rollins died for Love” and “End the Hate”. Joining them were seven college age kids holding signs stating, “Race isn’t the Issue—Hate Is”.
Hundreds of people of all ages and races were already in place, waiting for this candlelight vigil, which would start in Bryant Park and finish up at Gracie Mansion where the mayor of New York lived.
The crowd was big but quiet, mainly sitting and doing what Adelaide had called “texting” into their small hand-held telephones.
A black man in his late twenties, also wearing an army jacket bedecked with buttons, was setting up a microphone at a table. He was very attractive. Tall, with black curly hair. He reminded me a lot of Shane except his eyes were deep brown. He was talking to a young white girl whose eyes were swollen and red.
The peace symbol around her neck was almost identical to the one I was wearing. I pulled mine away from my jacket and somehow felt more connected to this time and these kids.
I heard her moan, “How can this keep happening? They killed him! It’s 2016 for God’s sake! Aren’t we beyond this yet?”
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 to
ld 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?
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