I didn’t pretend to misunderstand. “Yes you can. We both can.”
“Can we? Apart from the humiliation of being stopped twice in the same night, I was almost arrested or worse, because I made the unpardonable mistake of kissing my white girlfriend before we went into a nice restaurant. Sweet heaven! This is Manhattan. Isn’t this supposed to be the big liberal melting pot? Hell! Pressure cooker is more like it.”
“Shane, you can’t give in. You have to keep fighting. We all do. There are plenty of great, loving people in this city who don’t share some sick nineteenth-century mindset.”
He took a large swig of his bourbon. “Honey, you could have been the appetizer skewered like shish kabob the way the first two boys in blue were acting. What happens the next time if it’s a cop who doesn’t recognize me from an old movie? I have to be honest. I’m afraid for you. For me. For both of us. I’m terrified some bastard is going to decide Shane Halloran is too black to be with white Holly Malone and shoot us both dead, or drown us in the Hudson for sheer sport. I hate to say it but maybe we need to just call it quits.”
Chapter Eleven
April 2016
I came out of this last flashback with a physical jolt. Shane had teased me about having second sight when I’d talked about experiencing déjà vu. Except the person who’d mentioned getting shot during our conversation at the Greek diner hadn’t been me. It had been Shane, and the big difference between his prediction and reality was his survival. I was the one who ended up in the Hudson. A helluva way to call it quits.
“This is ridiculous,” Shane said to his own reflection in the window of La Ronde. “I’m behaving like a total romantic goon, touring about Manhattan dredging up memories of Holly Malone. My very own private, useless ghost tour.”
My repertoire of “things ghosts can feel” was expanding. It seemed dead people were also capable of going into shock. I had a very intense desire for salts and a shot of brandy. Several shots of brandy.
I could remember the events at La Ronde and at the vacant building. The nastiness, the hatred expressed, and the subsequent horror when Shane decided to end our relationship lingered in the air around me. I was left with too many questions. How long had our breakup lasted? We must have gotten back together before taking that ride across the Henry Hudson Bridge. I wanted to know how and why that ride had started. I was well aware of how it ended.
“Enough for tonight.”
We’d said it together but I was the only one who heard two voices.
Shane undid his muffler, flapped a few drops of moisture off into the breeze, then retied it around his neck. He began to walk north and east until he ended up at the 23rd Street subway station. He waited on the platform then boarded the train, which was far more crowded than the first one we’d shared. He was in his own world now. I hung close to the car’s front entrance and tried to avoid anybody’s hands or elbows. As before, they seemed to instinctively keep their distance.
The conductor called out, “Two Hundredth Street/Dyckman.”
Shane edged toward the door along with three other passengers. I wove between them without creating any ruckus or panic.
Once out, Shane took the stairs up to Dyckman and headed back toward the Hudson River, until he stopped at a building midway down the block on Thayer. I waited before following him inside the lobby and ended up getting stuck in the small entrance when two large dogs towing a small gentleman began barking at me. I was forced to step aside before the noise caused everyone in the building to come out to see what was going on.
After the dogs finally seemed to decide a walk was more important than a ghost and gone their merry way, I began checking nameplates tacked up near the wooden and glass plated door. No Shane Halloran was listed, but it was clear he had a key to this place.
I gave the nameplates another look. I could have slapped myself for not noticing the first time around. Apartment 3C. Jordan Matthews. The girl in the park had called him Jordy.
Wow. He’d taken my middle name and his middle name and come up with something even people who’d known both of us wouldn’t guess at. The first question was—why? The second, which could help explain the first, was—for how long? How many years now had Shane Halloran been Jordan Matthews?
He survived the motorcycle crash. Had he crawled off the bridge or landed in the water and somehow reached land before hypothermia set in? Where had he gone? Had he figured out who shot at us? Had he been hiding for the last forty-three years? Had he watched in horror as I tumbled from the motorcycle to the icy waters of the Spuyten Duyvil Creek?
I wanted answers and I wanted to understand why the heck I’d come back in 2016 and not 1973. And I must admit, I was getting more and more angry. Angry at the person who’d cut my life short and stolen the rest of Shane’s. Angry at the universe or the Almighty or whichever Fate who was allowing this to play out. Angry I couldn’t come up with any solutions. Neither of us was about to find any peace.
Or could I? If I could figure out who shot at us…or why?
I tried not to force my recollections. I couldn’t stop them from happening but I couldn’t coax them out of hiding either. All I could do was attempt to determine who shot at the motorcycle and whether there was still any danger if Jordan Matthews reintroduced himself to the world as Shane Halloran. If nothing else, I’d find some justice for him and a good feeling knowing he could spend the rest of his life as himself. He was in his seventies but talent like his doesn’t simply disappear.
I turned around and trotted back down to the street. I knew where Shane lived now. A plus. Standing outside his door like a fan waiting for an autograph was pointless and almost embarrassing. I needed to get back to Addie’s and tell her about the evening’s events. I was coming home with strong, specific memories from forty-plus years ago. Painful, but better than not knowing.
I made it to Addie’s in just over ten minutes. Shane’s apartment was in the same general neighborhood, although my aunt and I were closer to the park.
My peace-loving aunt was sitting on the couch, feet on the table, bowl of popcorn on her lap, watching a Sylvester Stallone DVD called Demolition Man. I took off my wet jacket and hung it on the coat holder in the hall. It instantly became visible again, which intrigued me as to how this “now you see it/now you don’t” ghost thing worked. I coughed so I wouldn’t scare Addie and headed toward the living room.
Addie glanced away from the TV. “Holly?”
“Yeah.” I stared at the screen. “Demolition Man? Are you kidding me?” I couldn’t help laughing. “Didn’t you say this is the one where Stallone blows up half of Los Angeles?”
She didn’t appear the least bit embarrassed. “Yep. Stuff like this keeps me from going out and engaging in violent activities for real. Buildings going boom. My man Sly mowing down bad guys without a care. I swear it washes my psyche clean of ever wanting to do harm to another. And besides, I love Stallone.”
“Say no more. It is not up to me to divine the evil inner workings of my favorite aunt’s brain.”
She clicked the stop button. “Not like I haven’t memorized every frame of every scene. So? How was the rally?”
“Surprising.” I told her about the shift from an angry protest to a poignant, oddly hopeful, memorial.
“Now, I’m sorry I didn’t go. Anything else?”
“Oh yeah. A very interesting else.”
“Come again?”
“The demonstration was lovely. They gave speeches. We sang songs. I cried.” I paused for dramatic effect. “I went into shock when I saw Shane Halloran.”
“What? You mean his ghost?”
“Nope. Shane in the flesh. Alive and well. Addie, I swear for a second he saw me.”
I gave her the play-by-play of our activities. “It was tough. Wherever we went, I kept reliving those memories with Shane, and then I’d pop back into the present. It would ta
ke me a few minutes to figure out where I was—or rather when—and then I’d realize I’d be dead within months of that last memory.” I couldn’t help asking although I knew neither of us could really answer with any certainty, “Do you still believe I got sent back to figure out who did this?”
“It seems to be the best theory. Although how it helps anyone in this day and time I can’t imagine, unless it’s a matter of cosmic justice or brings Shane Halloran some peace…albeit forty years late.” Addie shook her head. “Then again, it’s better than letting him wallow in misery the rest of his life. He’s what, about seventy-five now.”
“He is. Is that too old for him to act again? I mean, assuming I can figure out who shot us. Obviously Shane doesn’t know since he’s been hiding for decades.”
Addie grinned. “Holly, my love, as one who’s right there with him I can tell you I’m not planning to decline in my declining years. And if Shane is the Shane you remember, neither is he. Jeez. Bartender, stagehand, and roadie? Great fun when one is twenty but not the career an actor of his talent should have had.”
“Very true. So what do I do now? Any ideas?”
She stared in my direction for a few moments. She was making me nervous. “Yes?”
“Do you suppose Shane would put your precious auntie in a nuthouse if I knocked on his door and told him the spirit of Holly Malone walks the earth and would like his help in solving her death?”
“Be my Whoopi Goldberg a la Ghost? Now there’s a novel idea. I doubt Shane would be so rude as to call you crazy, but there are a few issues. Would he really believe you? Or would he pass out in horror and fear, or get all logical on you and call the white coats at Bellevue and have you committed? I’d have a helluva time trying to bail you out or get you sprung. Could we do it together? Hearing my voice should convince him what you claimed was true, unless he decided you were a crazed ventriloquist.”
“We can try. Just not tonight. I’m off to bed. You’re able to stay awake past eleven but I’m pooped. Which is pitiful. Hell, all I did was watch DVDs. Let’s figure out the best way to approach your Shane Halloran/Jordan Matthews in the morning. Plus, in case you haven’t noticed, the freak storm has returned with a twist. Snow becoming major rain. The weatherman has been calling for about four inches tonight with what I have to say was far too much glee. Then again, he’s been known to be wrong—like this entire spring.” She headed off toward her bedroom.
I stayed up for another hour but was too restless to sleep. I glanced out the window. The rain had stopped, at least for a few minutes, so I decided to head for the park. I wanted to sit at “our” bench and take in the quiet and surroundings and dream about Shane Halloran and what should have been.
The eagle I’d dubbed Joey was at his post on the railing. I wasn’t exactly up on eagles and life longevity but I was pretty sure he couldn’t be the same one I’d named back in the seventies. He and I stared at each other. Two silent creatures lost in a world of darkness.
February 1973
My dad found me staring out across the creek, breathing in the silence of the park and communing with Joey.
“Holly! Get back inside. I’ve been listening to the radio and they’re predicting a good four inches tonight. It’s going to be chaos.”
“Dad, I can live through a little rain. We’re in the highest part of Manhattan so we’re not going to get flooded. Look, there’s a bald eagle sitting on the rail and I’m sure he’s got a better grasp on the weather than we do.”
My dad glared at me. “I’m not takin’ my forecast from a stinkin’ bird. And we may be in the highest part, but your buddy Rob lives in Greenwich Village and the whole damn place will be underwater before you can take the train down there. Rewritin’ a stupid play isn’t as important as staying alive.”
I glared right back. “First off, we’re not meeting at his place. We’re meeting at a coffee shop off of Columbus Circle—still high ground. Second, it is important. There are people counting on Rob to get this done. Actors. Crew. And backers who are going to lose money if Trapped in the Basement doesn’t go up in April. Plus we’ve got the theatre booked.”
“You can’t wait a day?”
I shook my head. “Rob is off to visit relatives tomorrow. And Shane is off to…”
“Shane? Shane’s going to be at this meeting? That’s why you’re waitin’ here in the park? For him so you can go together? Well, now I get the urgency. Dammit, Holly. You need to stop this. I don’t want to put you into some misguided Romeo and Juliet frame of mind, but your whole relationship with Shane is bound to end in disaster.”
“Why?” I cried out. “Because he’s older? Because he’s an actor? Or—can’t you just say it? Because he’s black. Well, you don’t have to worry, Dad. We broke up last week. This meeting is between Rob and me. Shane couldn’t meet either of us tonight because he’s flying to California tomorrow for some movie audition. So the big black actor isn’t around your precious daughter and you can quit worrying.”
Paul Malone’s jaw set. I’d seen the exact expression as a kid after I’d been caught arranging tricks on neighbors’ doors at Halloween, generally involving marshmallow whip and silly strings. This particular expression—at least when I’d been eight or nine—had always been followed by a spanking. I figured I was too big for a wallop across my butt but I felt pretty sure my dad could come up with some other means of punishment.
He appeared calm, but his tone was one I remembered before receiving those spankings at age eight or nine. “Holly Jordan Malone, I should wash your mouth out with soap. You know damn well I’m no racist and never have been. But as you’ve already experienced going out with Shane, there are way too many folks in the world who are. Shane himself is now getting smart enough to stay away from you unless you’re in a theatre or crowd setting. I’m bloody well afraid things could get far worse if you two make up, and knowing you and Halloran I’d say it’s a given. I hope he gets his movie in California and stays there, but it has nothing to do with the color of his skin. I only want to keep you safe from crazy people.”
“Dad, listen. Yes, there are crazies out there, but nothing’s going to change unless my generation changes it. As I tried to explain to the other hotheaded Irishman in my life a few nights ago. And I’ll be damned if I allow a bunch of shitty anachronistic assholes tell me who I can or cannot love.”
“Watch your mouth,” he growled.
“Sorry. Okay. Crummy anachronistic donkeys. How’s that?”
He smiled but his eyes still reflected his concern. His Irish brogue took over. “Why did I have to be raisin’ a revolutionary?” He looked at Joey, as though hoping the eagle would provide an answer. “Can you be explainin’ that, then, lad?”
I hugged him and answered for Joey, who remained silent and looked wise. “Because, you, Paul Malone, my big brave da, made the mistake of telling me how you marched in the thirties when you were a young hot-headed radical, along with the unemployed workers and the new unions and the miners and the farmers. It’s genetic. You only softened your revolutionary stance when Addie took over the protesting.” I contritely said, “And I’m sorry I accused you of not liking Shane. I know better.”
“It’s okay. You’ve got some of the Malone temper in ya. But, Holly, I don’t remember those times I marched being quite as violent as it is now. I’m scared for you, darlin’. I have to admit I’d be pleased if you and Shane stayed apart because I don’t want to wake up one mornin’ and find I’ve lost you. Now forget about conflict and strife and let’s get back inside before the rain hits. If you’re bound and determined to head midtown, then at least wear better clothes and take my good umbrella.”
“I’ll be okay. Really. I mean as far as my safety. I don’t care about getting drenched.” I tried to be upbeat. “Hey, people are going to get so riled up about this play they’ll forget about the love life of Shane and Holly.”
“
Great. So we can jump from one reason for a lynching to another?”
I smiled. “Dad, I really can’t see anyone getting shot over a play. Well, except for the other actors, writers, and directors who’ll lose to Basement come Tony Awards time.”
Chapter Twelve
April 2016
While I’d been trying to recall whether Shane and I had stayed apart (and if so, how did we end up on his motorcycle racing across the bridge?) the rain had returned with a vengeance. My friend Joey had fled his perch for a drier shelter. I cut short my visit to the park, raced home, and made a hot toddy, then spent the rest of the night pacing around the apartment, arguing with myself about my options.
The first idea I considered was Addie’s suggestion. Have her knock on Shane’s door and try to convince him his late girlfriend was back on earth—just not quite in the way one would expect.
Although Option One seemed interesting and almost logical, I could foresee a problem or two, such as Shane getting Addie locked up for being a nutcase. But, upon further consideration, I decided the “aunt as loony” wasn’t an issue. Unless Shane’s entire personality and values had changed, he’d love hearing that Addie was in touch with me and while he might not totally believe her, he’d never be so crass as to label her a lunatic.
Besides, if I got in on the act and started chattering away at him, he’d definitely know Addie was telling the truth. Which left the other problem with Option One. What good would it do? Hearing I was floating around without a body would only bring back painful memories. It wouldn’t solve the mystery of who’d shot at us, or provide further clues as to why this maniac had shot at us or help to figure out how to bring us together in whatever plane of existence was possible (or allowed) before I went zapping off forever into some kind of welcoming light.
On the other hand, finding out I was able to talk and listen might help Shane remember the events of the past, but if Shane himself was clueless, I didn’t want him to be thrust into the land of self-doubt and regret, forever asking himself, “What could I have done?”
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