Scarecrow’s Dream

by Flo Fitzpatrick

  I winced. “I wonder how much of it Rob based on his own experiences. I mean, I know he was in Vietnam and he did spend some time in a hospital. But I never knew he was a POW. I’m amazed he could write anything about what he lived through. Emotionally, that is. This has got to be painful for him.”

  Shane added, “Or cathartic.”

  Derek nodded. “Rob did say he felt better since he’s been writing it. He believes it’s important for people to hear what he claims are ‘very explosive truths.’”

  Derek’s assistant, a young girl I’d met that morning, ran into the theatre house. “Derek? You and Shane are needed in the lobby. Urgent. Oh. Uh, you’re Holly, right? Well, you too.”

  We looked at one another in confusion, and then did as asked.

  Rob Stutzgraft was waiting in the lobby, almost hiding behind the pay telephone near the restrooms. “I’m so sorry, Derek. I’m never late and believe me I never intended to be the last to show for the first reading.”

  Shane cocked an eyebrow. “Thanks for the apology, but can we get to that reading now?”

  “No, we can’t. I need to tell you why and what just happened, because it’s going to have an effect on the rehearsals.”

  For a moment there was nothing but silence. Shane broke it with an impatient, “What’s going on?”

  Rob’s voice shook. “I spent the last hour down at the police station. I got mugged on my way here.”

  Shane, Derek, and I chorused with “Oh my God!” “What happened?” and “Are you okay?”

  “Some maniac in a mask knocked me down about five blocks from here. Stole my keys. Stole my wallet. And…”

  “Oh no,” I mumbled.

  “Oh yes. Whoever mugged me also got the outline and the rough draft of Trapped in the Basement.”

  Another chorus of phrases came from Shane and Derek. Most of them were not repeatable, even for a hippie-activist like me who’d been inside more than one jail cell in Manhattan.

  “Why?” asked Shane. “It’s not like the script could fetch a great price at a pawn shop.”

  Rob shook his head. “All I know right now is either the whole ‘terrified’ emotion has caught up with me, or it’s my five cups of coffee, because I need the facilities. Back in a minute.”

  Derek and Shane and I stood and stared at each other after Rob left. Shane was about to say something but was interrupted by a man and woman coming through the front door of the theatre. Derek turned and welcomed them with, “Hey, hon! Glad you could make it. But there’s good news and bad news.”

  They kissed and Derek presented a beautiful brunette and a man who bore a striking resemblance to the woman. “This is my wife Angela and my brother-in-law Larry. And yeah, they’re twins.”

  Shane and me greeted them with “Hello’s” which were followed by the obligatory “Nice to meet you’s” from the twins. Angela hugged Derek and stayed by his side. “Good news/bad news? What’s going on?”

  Derek replied, “The good news is we can make dinner with your folks out in the Hamptons after all. The bad news is why.”

  “Okay. Why?”

  Derek said, “Let’s all go back inside. I need to tell the cast and there’s no reason to repeat all this.”

  We marched back into the theatre house. Derek immediately launched into what needed to be said.

  “Cast. We have a problem. Rob was just attacked by someone who stole the script, along with his wallet and keys. Rehearsal is canceled.”

  “This city is nuts,” was Larry the brother-in-law’s contribution. “Total insanity. Plus this kind of incident ruins the whole ‘only naïve tourists looking up in the sky get mugged in New York’ bullshit.”

  Rick (or Nick) asked what had to be on everyone’s mind. “I feel horrible for him and I hate to sound selfish, but has Rob made copies of the script yet?”

  Derek shook his head. “Not unless he did on his own. I was going to give the pages to our stage manager and let him or her do the grunt work, only I haven’t hired one yet.”

  Chandra growled, “So what you’re saying is we’re now script-less, plus we have to wait for inspiration to strike Rob for the rest of this thing? Still not finished, right?”

  All eyes focused on Derek. “Yes.”

  Amid the grumblings it became clear that with the prospect of the first read-through lost there was nothing left to do but go home. Or go drink. On our way out, Shane headed to the restroom, leaving me alone in the lobby. I gazed at the posters dotting the walls until I heard a voice behind me.

  “Holly?” Rob whispered.

  “Rob? I thought you’d gone. What’s up?”

  “I waited to speak with you alone. Keep this confidential. Well, you can tell Shane but don’t tell anyone else. Not yet. I need your help.”

  “What is it?”

  “I need you to read my full outline and what I currently have for Trapped in the Basement. I’ll be honest with you and only you. I left a copy safely at home, but I don’t want anyone to see it yet. And, Holly, I want you to help me finish writing it.”

  “What?” I kept my volume low through my shock. “Why?”

  “Because this play is set to go up in April and I can’t get it done by then. I’m terrified something is going to happen before the final script is ready. I have to make some major changes, which could be the only way to keep me safe.”

  Safe? This mugging must have really affected him.

  “Rob, calm down. It’s going to be fine.”

  “No. No. It’s not. Look, Holly, you’re a good writer. You’re much better than you think you are, and you’re fast. I remember the script you wrote for class last year. You knocked it out in less than a month, and it was brilliant. Will you do it? Will you help me? But keep it secret. Do you understand?”

  Rob’s tone and his expression was one of desperation. He sounded almost deranged and pretty damned paranoid as well. About an unwritten script. This play meant more to him than getting his name into the New York theatre scene. It was personal.

  I nodded. “Of course I will if I can. But why don’t you want anyone else to know? What exactly is going on? You sound—well—panic-stricken.”

  Rob inhaled. “I’m in danger. Really. And I’m scared that if anyone other than Shane is aware of your involvement, you could be too. I mean anyone. There’s a support group but…Holly, if something worse than a mugging happens to me and I can’t finish, I’m counting on you to fix this.”

  Chapter Ten

  April 2016

  Shane was looking at me. Well, to be accurate he was looking through me. He coughed before calling out in a voice riddled with confusion, “Holly?”

  I stayed silent, trying to sort out where I was and more importantly—when. I’d really been lost in that last memory.

  Shane dropped the Australian accent I’d heard him use with the kids back at Bryant Park and took on the faint Irish brogue I’d always loved. “Holly? I can feel you. I swear I can feel you.”

  He closed his eyes for a moment, and then opened them and stated in a monotone, “But you’re dead.” He looked up into the sky. “Are you watchin’ me, then, girl? Are you in a heaven somewhere waiting to contact me?” He shook his head and smiled. “I should trek up to Inwood Park and ask Joey if he’d act as a messenger between two worlds. Ah, damn, Holly, I miss you. I miss you so much it’s like a physical pain. It’s been over forty years and yet I feel your presence everywhere these days. Hoping you hear me, I guess. It’s why I’m standing in the bloody freezing rain talking to myself.”

  I took a few steps forward and touched his arm. He backed away and shivered but I couldn’t tell if he was feeling the cold or me.

  Shane stood for another moment in front of the old Elysium Theatre, then began walking toward the subway station. I followed. But about a block from the entrance he turned away and headed left. I stay
ed right behind him.

  Six blocks later he stopped in front of a French restaurant. La Ronde. Shane either wasn’t hungry or was debating the merits of hitting a classy place without a reservation. But, as I stared at his expression, I realized it was neither. He was remembering. And then, so was I.

  February 1973

  “It’s not like I haven’t been in a jail cell before, Shane.”

  “This is different, Holly. It’s not jail I’m worried about. It’s cops cracking heads. Or the National Guard goin’ all Kent State. This isn’t your fun, lovely ‘let’s go free the pups’ kind of gig. This is breaking into the offices of the Selective Service and destroying the records of anyone who was drafted and didn’t show.”

  “Which you agree should be done,” I argued.

  “I do. But I’ve heard some rumors about this particular group, and what I’ve heard is frightening. Not to mention, this whole operation is now bloody useless. The draft is already in the process of being abolished.”

  “What about this group, though? What exactly have you heard? Tell me.”

  Shane took a breath. “These are not peace-loving protestors, Holly. They’re militant. More than willing to use violence.”

  I stared at the ground. “If you’re right, then they’re liars as well because that’s not how they’re representing themselves.”

  “They’ve gotten more and more radical in the last couple of years. I spoke with a guy who used to be with them, told me how their rhetoric changes by degrees the deeper you go. You don’t want to be anywhere near them.”

  My eyes misted. How in hell had I become involved in a group that stood for the betrayal of all my non-violent principles? For a born and bred Manhattan girl I was still pretty damned naïve.

  “I do understand. And I’m sorry, Holly.” Shane leaned down and lightly kissed my lips.

  A voice sounded behind us.

  “Hey, you! Boy! Are you bothering this girl?”

  Shane froze. I turned around. Two cops stood staring at him. And me.

  The taller of the two addressed me. “We heard raised voices, then saw him lunge at you. Are you all right, miss? Is this…boy threatening you?”

  Shane and I stiffened. I was pretty sure what word had been meant to fill the pause. Boy was bad enough. I shook my head.

  “It’s fine, Officer. We’re friends. Just having a spirited discussion. And he didn’t lunge. Really.” I knew better than to state our real relationship. Black man with white woman outside a classy midtown French restaurant. Could become problematic. Shit. Could be deadly.

  “Are you together?”

  Shane’s eyes blazed. I had to diffuse the situation before it escalated into a far uglier event.

  I told a partial truth, though inwardly I raged because it was none of their damned business. “We’re rehearsing for a show together.” I tried to be gracious and steered toward funny. “It’s way, way Off-Broadway… um, at the Elysium Theatre on West Sixteenth. Have you heard of it?”

  I was ignored.

  “What’s your name, boy?”

  Shane twitched but didn’t move. One wrong answer and this could go downhill fast. Politeness had to cover the rage seething inside.

  Shane responded with as much calm as he could muster. “My driver’s license is in my wallet in my front left pocket. May I show it to you?”

  I wanted to scream this was unlawful and they had no right to ask for an ID but visions of beatings started dancing in my head. This pair didn’t care about the law. This wasn’t about law. They wanted to humiliate and to harass. Assert dominance. I had no doubts whatsoever that if Shane made the slightest move to resist, or if I made one comment about legalities or injustice, these goons would have the guns out, and we’d both be spending the night in jail. Or worse.

  “I’ll find it,” was the response from Tall and Sneering. He grabbed Shane’s arms and forced him to put them on his head as though Shane were about to endure a “perp” walk to a police vehicle. He handed Shane’s license to his partner.

  “Shane Halloran?”

  Shane nodded.

  The second cop swallowed. “Uh, Tom, let him go.”

  Tall and Sneering let go of Shane. “Why?”

  “He really is an actor. Remember that old gladiator epic from about ten years back? Circus something? This guy was the star.”

  Tom nodded. Both cops stared at Shane. I quickly interjected, “Circus Maximus. Or you might recall Golden Pirate or Sheridan Falls? Very soap opera-ey. I mean, Sheridan Falls. Pirate was just really swashbuckling. Kind of like Errol Flynn, you know? Great fun!” My nerves were coming out in babbling comments of inanity.

  The nameless cop who’d recognized Shane said, “Well, looks like you’re him. The actor. Um. Okay.” He tapped his partner’s arm. “We’ll be off then. By the way, the pair of you should consider doing your rehearsing inside a theatre instead of out on the street.” He handed Shane back his wallet and ID.

  I nodded. “We will.”

  Shane and I waited in silence until the cops had turned the corner. I exhaled. I felt as though I’d been holding my breath for an hour.

  “Well, the good news is you’ve convinced me I don’t need to get into any further trouble with the law by joining any crusades to take on the military.” I tried to make conversation, but sounded ridiculous even to myself. “Actually, you convinced me the second you mentioned they were militant. I don’t get it. Violent protestors? How can anyone hope to achieve peace if one uses bombs and guns? Isn’t that a paradox? Or an oxymoron? A conundrum? Hey! Howzabout a paraoxyundrum?”

  Shane ignored my attempt at humor. We stood in silence a full minute until he asked, “Are you okay with skipping exotic French cuisine tonight?”

  “My appetite pretty much hit the pavement the moment when New York’s less than finest showed up. I’d just be ordering a salad and potatoes. Your little vegetarian here.” I tried to add a little more levity. “I’d want mousse au chocolat of course.”

  Shane barely acknowledged my chatter. We began to walk west in the direction of the highway and the Hudson, not exactly the greatest part of town. Abandoned buildings were the highlight of the neighborhood. We started to pass them in silence. Then the teakettle masquerading as Shane Halloran blew its whistle.

  “Dammit to hell! This is Manhattan, for God’s sake. It’s not the Deep South and it’s not 1963. They didn’t come over here because they heard us arguing. We weren’t all that loud. They were hassling me because I was brazen enough to kiss you.”

  He reached down and began chucking pieces of brick and shingles and rocks and anything else lying at the edge of the lot at the building. I let him. He needed to vent and his target was a building abandoned so long ago the last occupants could have been British colonials. But after a minute or two I was afraid his actions were going to escalate, or attract attention. I yelled at him to stop.

  Shane had just pitched a half a brick with deadly accuracy at a broken basement window when two different cops in uniform came on the scene. I couldn’t believe it. Why was half the police force out in this neighborhood instead of congregating on the Upper West Side where a series of robberies had taken place only last week?

  One of them grabbed Shane and flung him against the fence. “What the hell are you doing, boy!”

  His partner turned to him. “I say we haul his ass in for vandalism.”

  Shane was on the tipping point. I grabbed his forearm and stared at him, willing him in silent communication to say nothing. I had to be the one to speak. I didn’t have his temper. I stepped away from Shane.

  “Wait! Officers. Please. It’s my fault. I…got lost and found myself down here alone and there were all these horrible rats coming out of the old building. This man heard me scream and he started pitching whatever he could find at them. I was just so scared.”

  Both c
ops stared at me as if I was nuts. I gave them my best damsel in distress expression, not that I was much of an actress. Since I was dressed more formally tonight than my usual attire and didn’t look like a hippie protestor out for a stroll with her black boyfriend, they bought it. Well, enough of it, anyway.

  “Fine. We’ll let it go.” A sharp glance at Shane, then they ignored him. “Miss, we’ll escort you back. This is a bad neighborhood. Where were you headed?”

  I popped out the name of a Greek restaurant so obscure the cops wouldn’t question how I’d gotten “lost” but still nice enough to warrant wearing a real dress. “Um. Athena’s Arena. Do you know it? It’s Greek. I’m supposed to meet some friends there in about twenty minutes. I’m always getting lost so I tend to leave way ahead of time,” I responded in my best nice girl voice.

  I snuck a quick look at Shane. He caught it. The cops were not going to let us walk off into the sunset together, but he’d meet me at Athena’s and we’d try to salvage what was left of this awful night.

  The cops politely gave me directions I didn’t need and then decided to escort me to the diner, making sure Shane was nowhere near. Two doors down from the restaurant I thanked them and watched them walk away, hoping they hadn’t noticed Shane hiding in a telephone booth a block down the street.

  It was absurd and ridiculous. It was infuriating. It was not fair. But it worked. Shane and I were ushered to a booth at Athena’s five minutes later.

  Neither of us was very hungry, but we ordered drinks and salads to keep our waiter happy, then sat in silence for about ten minutes.

  “Holly, I keep asking myself if this is all a mistake. I’m honestly not sure I can handle it.”