Shane nearly leapt on the table. “What? Really? I have to call him. Is there a phone here?”
“Don’t bother.”
We glanced up as Chandra returned, along with the man she’d met after cutting short our conversation.
Chandra leaned down and gave Shane a kiss right on the mouth, which did not make me happy, but didn’t send me into a jealous tirade. Yet.
“Shane! Gorgeous man. Fate seems to have brought you here so Derek and I can give you the scoop before you heard it from anyone else.” She threw a sharp look at me before cooing, “I’m so thrilled!”
The man I assumed was Derek said, “Fate had nothing to do with it. I saw Shane hot-foot it into the diner two minutes after I found you and dragged you outside.”
Shane stood and shook hands with Derek, then motioned to me. “Holly, I want to formally introduce you to Chandra Petrie and Derek Fergus. You met Chandra earlier this summer but if Trapped in the Basement is a go, she’ll be taking the role of the nurse who seduces me in the veterans’ hospital. Derek Fergus is our producer. He’s trying to talk Rob into letting him play a soldier who takes pot shots at me for messing with his wife. Something seedy, anyway. I’m sure someone gets murdered in the hospital at one point.”
“It changes daily, according to Rob. And I may end up as an orderly getting rid of bedpans before we’re through. Rob tells me I’m not right for the killer.” Derek chuckled. “I’m not sure whether to be offended or not. Anyway, he’s got someone named Nick or Rick in mind and I may let him have his way with casting.”
Shane asked Derek, “Are you still talking to Crimson Cloverly about coming on board as the cheating wife?”
Derek nodded. “Definitely. She’s a far better actress than she’s allowed to be on her soap. I’d love for New York audiences to get the chance to see her in a great part for a change. And playing a less-than-faithful wife is one of her specialties.”
“Well, considering I’m the man who did gladiator movies back in the day and one of the soapiest soaps to hit the screen since Peyton Place, I’m not casting stones.”
Derek grinned. “Crimson poisoned her husband last year in Temptation Terrace. She’ll have this role down to perfection if Rob keeps the murder in. He’s waffling between poison and suffocation with a pillow. I told him we should flip a coin and get on with it.”
I winked at Chandra and Derek. “So you’d describe this play as light, family friendly entertainment, correct?”
Derek laughed. Chandra did not.
Derek nudged Shane. “You told me she was beautiful, Halloran. You didn’t say she was witty as well.”
I could feel my face get warm and knew my cheek color now matched my hair. Shane assumed his “Don’t mess with my woman” expression, but apparently decided Derek was merely being polite and not hitting on me. He sat back down, hugged me, and kept his arm possessively around my shoulders. “She is all of the above, Mr. Fergus. And all mine, which you’d best be rememberin’.”
Derek didn’t take offense. “Shane seems to have forgotten I have my own beautiful woman who would not be pleased if I went after someone else.” He glanced over at me. “Angela is the one who, albeit indirectly, led me to Rob’s play. She works with a literary agent and Rob had sent a proposal there, thinking of the story as a possible book. She told me the agent had something he wanted me to read. When I found out it was Rob, I jumped at the idea of a play. He and I did one of his original shows back when we were in college. Down at some theatre in the Village that was falling apart.”
Shane relaxed. “You and Angela are married? How long?”
Derek nodded. “Three months. Long enough to state I adore my wife—but can’t stand any of my in-laws—who can’t stand me, either. Bunch of rich, conservative harpies, the lot of ’em. Anyway, I feel like I’m still honeymooning, although I miss being on the actual trip.”
“Where’d you go?” I asked.
“Cozumel. We’re both beach nuts and history buffs so we did some snorkeling and climbed the pyramid at Chitzen Itsa.”
“Cool. I’ve always wanted to go there. Did you go inside as well?”
Derek’s response was interrupted by Chandra nudging him with a sharp elbow. “Skip the tour, Derek, and give us the scoop on the play.”
“What do you want to know?”
“First off, when do we start? Are we being paid real money or is this strictly Equity showcase with the hope of Broadway down the road? Who else is in it? When do we get the scripts?”
Derek and Shane both laughed.
“Jeez. Hang on, woman,” Derek exclaimed. “All will be revealed. We start in about three months. January, I hope. And before you start renting billboards on Times Square, remember it’s really only at the workshop stage right now. No pay and yes, we’re looking at Broadway eventually. Or at least Off since Off-Off doesn’t pay squat. No other casting to date because we need to audition the remaining roles. Uh, let’s see. What else? Oh yeah. We get the scripts when Rob finishes draft number nine hundred ninety-nine or whatever. The man is the most secretive perfectionist on the planet. If he weren’t so damned talented, I’d say, ‘fuggedaboudit’ and produce a revival of Camelot or something.”
Chandra shrugged. “Well, at least it’s going forward, although pay would be nice.” Then she turned to me and completely changed the subject. “So, Holly Malone. I’m curious. What do you do with your life apart from hanging around Shane like a teen groupie?” She asked with just a slight touch of snide. “Are you even legal yet?”
I was a bit stunned at such an unprovoked attack from a woman I hardly knew.
I couldn’t say, “I’m in college,” which would only serve to heighten the age thing Chandra wanted Shane to note—as if he was somehow unaware of how old I was.
I couldn’t say, “I paint apartments with my father in Upper Manhattan.” Chandra would come up with a major tacky comment although I wasn’t sure why she’d object unless my real job sounded too plebian for her apparently exquisite tastes.
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.”
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