Scarecrow’s Dream

by Flo Fitzpatrick

  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.

  Chapter Eight

  October 1972

  I walked away from the park, trying to shake off the anger that had been building up for the last five minutes. Hunger. Just hunger, I told myself.

  A diner was open at the corner of 6th Avenue and 41st Street so I ducked in and found a booth in the back near the kitchen. I gave my order of iced tea and a grilled-cheese sandwich to a tired-looking waitress, and then sank back against the vinyl to take a survey of my life and try to figure out what the heck had just happened at the rally.

  In actuality what I was pondering was more the “why”. I knew the “what” of the events. After talking about Trapped in the Basement for a while, Shane and Marshall had gotten into a stupid argument, the subject of which was me. And I do mean stupid. Marshall had accused Shane of being a hypocrite and coming to the demonstration and only wanting to do Rob’s play because he was “hound-dogging Holly”.

  Shane had delivered a neat punch to Marshall’s jaw while calling him an asshole who was too much of a jerk to realize Holly Malone wasn’t interested in him—Marshall—and then shouted something about Marshall’s inherent racism seeping through every word he uttered.

  I’d yelled, “This is a demonstration against racism, you clowns!” Then I’d run across the street and ducked inside this tiny restaurant, with the neon sign above the door proudly, if incongruously, proclaiming it was the Deluxe Diner). Shane had stayed in the park, busy defending a relationship that didn’t need defending. He and Marshall both needed to grow up.

  “Ridiculous.” The whole scene had been ridiculous. “You’re repeating yourself, Holly,” I mumbled. True. I was. But since I was talking to myself I didn’t see any reason to hold back on the repetition.

  “Holly Malone? Talking to yourself? You’re not rich—I guess this means you’re crazy.” Soft laughter followed. Clearly, the speaker hadn’t realized her comment was clichéd rather than witty or original.

  I glanced up. A beautiful black woman stood by my table. Her eyes were cats’ eyes, exotic, deep hazel, and gold. She’d chosen to keep her hair very short and natural, which suited her amazing bone structure. She had an enviably tiny figure and was smart enough to ignore the glaring neon orange and green color fads in favor of a delicate blue dress topped by a black spring weight swing coat.

  I felt like a slug in my jeans and army jacket bedecked with dozens of buttons. She looked familiar but I was too upset with Shane to figure out how or from where. She clearly knew me.

  The waitress plopped my order on the table and I began adding sugar to my tea, which gave me a few seconds to gather my wits.

  I strained my memory for any recollection, failed, and managed a polite, “Hey, uh, hi. How are you? Boy I’m starving. This looks great, doesn’t it?” I saw no reason to tell her I was semi-clueless as to her identity.

  She stared at me. “Wow. Well, aren’t you the Little Miss Casual for someone who’s about to be involved in a controversial new play, even if peripherally.”

  “Say what?”

  “Trapped in the Basement.”

  “Last I heard it was one scene and a dream.”

  “Didn’t Shane tell you?”

  “Tell me what?”

  She appeared exasperated. “Jeez, Holly, you are so out of it. You must have inhaled a bit too much ganja at the rally outside. Derek has been trying to call Shane all day.”

  “Wait. Are you saying Rob got the backing? We were just with him at the park. Why didn’t he tell us?”

  “Because Mr. Stutzgraft hasn’t heard either. Derek has also been trying to call him.”

  “I’m so sorry. I’m still confused.”

  She tried to hide the obvious frustration she was feeling. “I swear, all these guys need walkie-talkies or bells around their necks or something to track them down. Here’s the deal. Derek Fergus called Wynn Davenport, Shane’s agent. I happen to work with Wynn at his office.”

  “Okay.” All good so far. “And?”

  “And Derek told Wynn he got the backing to do the play and wanted Shane as the lead. Derek probably figured if he cast someone who at least had a decent following in films, folks wouldn’t immediately burn down the theatre, regardless of the subject matter.”

  “I can’t imagine anyone going ballistic and burning down the theatre for any reason,” I said. “I read one scene and the proposal and if it’s controversial it’s because of the whole Vietnam POW thing but hell…Hair was super anti-war and a huge hit and the Biltmore is still standing.”

  I swallowed. I’d just experienced another odd déjà vu moment. A voice in my head telling me the Biltmore had indeed been burned to the ground. But it hadn’t, had it? I shuddered.

  The girl didn’t seem to notice I’d zoned into a different time and place. She glared at me. “Yeah, well, you can get away with a lot when naked bodies are writhing while singing. At any rate, Wynn told Derek he doesn’t want Shane to do it since it could blow up what’s left of his career. I have to admit I’m apprehensive about the whole enterprise but there’s supposed to be a tiny part for me in there. Tiny—but Rob claims it’s good. And the chance to work with Shane again is too good to pass up.”

  Again? She’d said “again”. Ha! A clue as to her identity. I now was almost certain I’d seen her at one of Shane’s shows.

  “Point being, Derek has been trying to call both Shane and Rob. He’s heading over to the rally since he figured Rob would be there.”

  A voice came from the front of the diner. “Chandra, sorry I’m late. Been on the phone half the day, with very little success in tracking folks down.”

  Chandra waved back, turned, and started toward the speaker without a farewell to me.

  Hearing her name jogged my memory. We’d met backstage during Carousel. She’d been in the chorus. And thanks to the newcomer I was able to say with confidence, “Bye, Chandra. Thanks for telling me about the play.”

  So Rob and this Derek person had managed to come up with the money to produce the play that could make careers—or destroy them. Which was interesting, but what nearly sent me into shock was the knowledge that Wynn Davenport, Mr. I’m-More-Conservative-Than-Barry-Goldwater-Ever-Dreamed-of-Being, hadn’t kidnapped Shane and sent him off to Fiji or somepl
ace to keep him from appearing in this production once Vietnam was mentioned. On the contrary, Wynn had allowed Derek to contact Shane. He’d been savvy enough to realize if the show was a hit, his fifteen percent would ease his war-mongering conscience.

  I took my time with my sandwich, chips, and tea. Shane knew where I was. If he chose to act like an adult he could come find me. Which he did.

  “Darlin’, I’m so sorry. I did not mean to get into a shouting match with Marshall, although I’m damned sure he’s after your luscious body.”

  I scowled at him. “Shane. Hear me now and hear this well. Marshall is an underground newspaper writer who has no idea how to behave among polite society and believe me, you are anything but polite society. So he makes stupid comments he doesn’t mean. You need to suck it up and behave like the grown-up in the room. Or the park. Don’t you have enough self-esteem by now to avoid accusing everyone and his brother of consorting with your girlfriend? Plus, give me a little credit for being faithful. Jealousy does not make me love you more. Got it?”

  He laughed. “Got it. ’Tis the Irish hot-tempered side of the family. Gets me into trouble all the time. The New Orleans side is all peace and harmony and love. I’m truly sorry, luv.”

  “You are so full of it. Quit the blarney BS, which is actually redundant, and order something to eat. Your brain needs protein and I need some space because I’m still mad at you and Marshall for engaging in that lunatic behavior at a protest already hitting way too close to home for you and me.” I nibbled on a potato chip, swallowed, and said, “Okay. Apology accepted. So, did a Derek somebody find you and Rob?”

  “What?”

  “Oh boy. Let me back it up. You remember Chandra, I’m sure. From the chorus of Carousel you did last June?”

  Shane nodded. “Of course. She works for Wynn.”

  “Well, she just stopped by brimming with congratulations for you and Rob. Turns out this Derek guy got the backing to do the play.”