Scarecrow’s Dream (5 page)

I felt a blush start from my neck and warm my face. I focused on Joey, now flying back to perch on what was obviously “his” railing. Watching him gave me time to recover and ask, “So, where are you right now in the mix of producers and roles?”

“Spending my days sniffing out good films. Musing about grabbing a giant pimp hat with a feather sticking out of it from some thrift store and sayin’ ‘to hell with it, I need the paycheck.’” He took my hand in his. “And this is not for public consumption, but I’ve been offered a controversial play with what has been described by the writer as a challenging role. New York theatre generally isn’t quite as stodgy and backward as film when it comes to tackling tricky issues.” He winced. “Then again, if I do it, I have visions of being tarred and feathered. Or drawn and quartered. Or all of the above.”

“I’m intrigued, Mr. Halloran. And of course, you are sometimes referred to as one of Hollywood’s bad boys. Why not add to the mystique and dive into real trouble?”

“Tell me you didn’t read the awful review years ago of
Sheridan Falls
? The one calling me the black Steve McQueen?” He laughed. “I like Steve, though. We’ve done some off road bike racing together and shared more than a few pints at a pub or two. We’ve also talked about doing a sequel to
Bullitt
with me playing a San Francisco lawyer. And off topic, Miss Malone, but cut the Mr. Halloran crap and make it Shane. Please. It’s 1972. No one’s formal anymore, hadn’t ya heard? And, not that you’ve asked, but I’ll tell you nonetheless, I’m thirty-one. I’m not near old enough to be ‘Mister’ to you.”

“Well, I’m seldom formal either,” I countered. “But then I’m one of those crazy ‘embrace humanity’ hippie types. On the other hand, I never met a movie star before so I wasn’t sure whether I needed to bow and kiss your feet or just get real.”

Shane burst out laughing. “Love it! And I say get real, woman, get real.”

“Well, movie star, you’ve now got me curious. What’s this new play about?”

“Vietnam. Prisoners of war. Lots of angst and drama. I’m intrigued, although I wish the playwright had sent out more than a very brief synopsis and one scene. Truthfully, it was more like a thin trailer or blurb than anything else.”

“But still. It doesn’t sound like light entertainment.”

He nodded. “You’re right. Rob somebody, the playwright, said it dealt with a traitor and it’s definitely anti-war. Could ruffle a few feathers and make some folks nervous.” A wicked grin spread across his handsome face and he dropped all traces of the brogue. “I can’t wait.”

“Me too. I like it already. What’s it called?”

“
Trapped in the Basement
.”

April 2016

Joey the bald eagle took flight. My messenger through time. I watched him soar across the Henry Hudson Bridge, as my mind played back what I knew wasn’t some hallucination. It was a real memory.

I’d met Shane Halloran. Kissed Shane Halloran. Back when I was alive. From the moment I’d seen him, I’d been in love with him.

And still was more than forty years later.

Chapter Four

Addie was home, sitting on the couch watching
Sheridan Falls
—which I’d left in the DVD player—while she spooned chocolate fudge brownie ice cream straight from the carton. No bowl or thinking required.

I knocked on the door so she’d know I was in the room before announcing, “It was Shane Halloran.”

She didn’t bother to ask what I was talking about. Smart woman. “I am somehow not a bit surprised. But then, I live with a ghost, so not much surprises me. How’d you figure it out?”

I told her about my flashback to 1972 and the day I met Shane in the park. “Sadly the experience didn’t last very long. I wasn’t able to force any other memories, and I stayed in the park for three hours. Do you suppose I needed the eagle to run interference for me? He took off right after I returned from memory land.”

“Oh ye of little faith, I have something just as good as an emissary eagle. Even better. The Internet. It’s search time. Prepare to be impressed.”

“Far out! I keep forgetting about all the gadgets of the twenty-first century. Um, no offense, but since I’m impatient to know more about Mr. Halloran, and may I emphasize
now
,
let’s hit the computer.”

“I live to serve. Let’s check out Mr. Halloran. I’m as curious as you are.”

Addie placed the ice cream carton back on the coffee table. I picked it up and began devouring what remained. She got her laptop computer humming, then took us to a website called IMDB which apparently provided access to all things cinematic. She typed in
Shane Halloran
and within seconds brought up his profile.

Adelaide read aloud. “‘Shane Halloran. Six-foot-two. African-American and Irish heritage. Curly black hair. Blue eyes.’”

I corrected her. “Excuse me, change to piercing, inky-midnight-blue, as in melt-your-bones-into liquid-should-be-illegal-midnight-blue eyes.”

“Oh my. The girl doth indeed got it bad.”

“She doth. And she did. But go on.”

She continued, “Born Shane Matthew Halloran in Ballybrack, Ireland in 1941. Father a schoolteacher who died right after World War Two. Mother, Renee Martine, originally from New Orleans, was a retired actress who performed at the famed Abbey Theatre in Dublin.” She scanned down to the next paragraph. “Mom must have pushed Shane into the business when he was a toddler or something, because he started acting in school productions before performing in professional theatres all over Great Britain from age ten on.”

Addie coughed. I handed her what was left of her soda and she took a sip before returning to the bio. “Shane caught the eye of a major film director when he played Romeo opposite a white Juliet in a—and I quote—‘daring mixed-race production of
Romeo and Juliet
in London’s West End in 1956’—holy shit, he was fifteen—and was subsequently given a co-starring role in his first film in 1958 called
Harlem Nocturne
, based on the life of singer and comedian Bert Williams.” She glanced in my general direction and remarked, “interesting. Also says he almost didn’t get the part because he was too handsome and Bert, while an incredible talent, wasn’t touted as a looker.”

Note to self: find that movie. Another note to self: find
all
of Shane Halloran’s movies.

I scooched down the couch so I could peer over Addie’s shoulder at the website. I stared at the three photos of Shane and could almost feel that kiss again. The site listed fourteen movies, including
Sheridan Falls
and
Miracle of the Catacombs,
some baseball flick called
Strike Three
, and his two most famous,
Circus Maximus
in 1962, and a swashbuckling romp called
Golden Pirate
in 1968.

After
Golden Pirate
, Shane returned to the stage, moving to New York City and performing roles in
Raisin in the Sun
and Shakespearean plays like
Othello
and
Twelfth Night.
He appeared on a couple of TV shows in the ’60s and did a few more costume pieces and the fabulous
Ebony Dreams
in 1969, but his movie career more or less stalled after
Circus Maximus
when he was royally—and unfairly—snubbed by the academy in Hollywood when he should have been nominated for an Oscar.

Bad enough Shane Halloran was mixed race, but I’d been right with my memory—he was also considered a “bad boy”—at least in the eyes of the Hollywood elite. He raced motorcycles and enjoyed his ale and cigarettes at pubs from Dublin to Aruba where he’d filmed
Golden Pirate
.

I’d met him. He’d kissed me. I could still feel those lips on mine. See those remarkable eyes staring at me.

I pulled my focus back to the computer screen. Shane had picketed for the right to play roles focusing on character rather than race. He wouldn’t suck up to movie producers and he’d thrown a punch or two at photographers when they’d tried getting a few candid shots of him in those pubs or racing his bike. He’d been at the forefront of more than one protest against racial inequality and marched against the Vietnam War, even collaborating with some major talents on an album called
Songs for Peace
.

He never married—which, Addie noted with delight, was cause for numerous hopeful biographers from the 1980s onward to question his sexual proclivities. There were rumors of a love affair that had ended in tragedy, although the article didn’t specify whether tragic meant the woman had died, married someone else, or run off to Ireland to study with Druid monks.

“Is there anything about a play in the seventies? Would have been in ’73 or ’74 if it was delayed, and performed in the city. Possibly Off-Broadway?”

Adelaide zipped to the end of the IMDB page where plays, not movies, were listed. “I don’t see anything. What was it called?”

“
Trapped in the Basement
. Of course, we’re presuming Shane took the part, the play got written, the title wasn’t changed, and the play was produced.”

Adelaide typed the words “trapped in the basement” in what she called a browser window. “Nothing pops up. There’s a group called Black Lips who recorded a song called ‘Trapped in a Basement’ but with an ‘a’ rather than a ‘the’. There was something about a basement in a Dan Fogelberg song, ‘Scarecrow’s Dream’, if I recall the title correctly. Late seventies ballad. Good song. Gorgeous, eerie lyrics about inhabiting two worlds. Let me scroll down. There’s also a very fine mix from rapper M Dogg. But nothing about a play on, off, or anywhere near Broadway.”

The profile ended with the story of Halloran’s spectacular death in 1973 at the age of thirty-two. In the early morning hours of April 9, his motorcycle had sailed off an ice-covered bridge in Upper Manhattan during a blinding snowstorm. His body was never recovered.

“Oh my God!”

Addie nodded. “Yep. I’d say it’s one pretty bizarre coincidence. Same day. Same month. Same year. Same general location.”

“But no mention of a girl dying with him.” I swallowed and then quietly said, “Addie, he’s gone… And I only now… I feel dizzy.”

“Didn’t realize ghosts got sick,” Addie teased. “Kind of negates the benefits of being dead, doesn’t it?”

“Well, I seem to be defying conventional wisdom regarding spooks. Plus, I’m currently in shock. This is ‘the revelations keep coming but don’t tell me anything’ kind of shock.” I rose from the couch then sank down into the rocking chair and began to rock at a frantic tempo. Boo-Boo ran around the chair barking, enjoying the new game.

Addie’s focus remained with the computer. “Boo-Boo! Chill. Holly, do you want me to see what else I can find? There are other sources out there.”

“Please.”

I waited while Addie worked her magic. It seemed to take forever but in reality was only about twenty seconds. “Okay. Lots of the same info as the movie site. A bit more about how he was snubbed for an Academy Award in some flick called
Ebony Dreams
. Late sixties. Huh. I never saw it. I guess it didn’t make it to Paris.”

“I did,” I told her. “Not Paris. I mean the film deserving an award. Or at least my memory included me talking about seeing it and how great it was. Go on.”

“Um. Some stuff about how he was pissed movies were getting trashy and mind-numbing in the sixties.” She chuckled. “As compared to soap opera plots and horror flicks of the fifties? Seriously? But I guess he was talking about what we now call blacksploitation films. The one good thing those films did was give black actors some employment. But apart from that, we’re talkin’ pure schlock.”

“Shane said something about those films. In the park. Assuming my memory is real.” I mused, “It sure seemed real. As if I was there, living in that very moment. So, have you found anything more on the personal side?”

“A little. He loved football. American football, although being Irish I’d imagine he was fond of rugby and soccer as well. Favorite team was the Dallas Cowboys.” Adelaide continued her enthusiastic review. “They were awesome back in the sixties. Don Meredith. Craig Morton. Roger Staubach. Now
those
guys were quarterbacks. So damned good. And of course you had the runners like Bob Hayes. And tackles like Rayfield Wright, who was also a
major
hunk and…”

“Terrific. Will you get on with it? I’m not sure how much longer I’ll be floating on the earth and I’d like some answers.”

Addie shushed me. “You’re so touchy for a spirit, young lady. Be patient. I have a growing suspicion you’ll be here for more than a day or two. It’s a process. You have to figure out why you’re here and what you’re supposed to do about fixing the problem. Then I guess you get to go into the light.”

“One can only hope. Meantime, please go on.”

“Well, your buddy loved motorcycles and drinking and brawling. But he never let anything interfere with his professionalism. The majority of his work in the sixties was for TV rather than film.
Duh
. See above for crappy roles for black men. Ooh. Neat. He sang.”

I nodded, forgetting Addie couldn’t see me. “He did. According to my flashback I saw him do
Porgy and Bess
up in New Haven.”

“Aha. Here it is. Played Sportin’ Life in
Porgy and Bess
. He also played the role of Hud in
Hair
in some summer stock theatre in upstate New York. Oh, wow! This is cool. He was involved in the first interracial cast of
Carousel
. Again in a summer stock theatre.” She read aloud. “‘Halloran busted traditional casting wide open with his magnificent portrayal of Billy Bigelow in
Carousel
.’ Ooh! Wait and hold the proverbial phone. I have an idea.”

“What?”

“Videos. Somebody might have plopped an old film they took during a performance and put it on the Songfest site. Give me just a sec.” She typed “Shane Halloran” and
Carousel
into some little bar space on the computer. “Hot damn! I’m brilliant. There it is. Or I should say, there
he
is.”

Shane appeared on the small screen, striding across the stage in a striped carnival barker’s shirt and black pants, singing the soliloquy from
Carousel
.

“Damn, Holly, he was
good
. Gorgeous and a voice to match the looks.”

“Addie!” I gasped. “I can’t believe this.”

“What?”

“I saw him in
Carousel
. I remember it. I swear I do. He was amazing. And I was there with him.”

Addie said, “Slow down, kiddo. You said you also remembered going to see him in
Porgy and Bess
. This may not mean anything. You may have taken the bus upstate and seen the show on your own.”

“No. I was with him. Backstage. Not in the audience. I did take a bus, but I went up specifically to see Shane.”

June 1972

Shane was still inside his dressing room arguing with his agent, Wynn Davenport III, who lived up to being a Third. It took more than one generation to breed the kind of snootiness Davenport oozed from every pore. I was outside and the door was closed but neither man had a soft voice so I heard every word. I was more than a little interested because the argument was about me.

“She can’t stay here, Shane.”

“Why the hell not?” Shane growled. “It’s not like I’ve booked her into my suite at that god-awful sleazy hotel you put me up in, you twit. She’s staying with the chorus girls in their dorm. No one seems to object but you.”

“And I’m objecting because some snoopy reporter is going to find out big bad black Shane Halloran is keeping company with a goddamn white teenage hippie activist and Shane Halloran’s already less-than-stellar career is going to blow to the point where I can’t book him in a summer stock theatre in Boise, much less Broadway. I’m still not pleased you decided to go activist on me and do this show. But since you did, and it’s getting good reviews, you can’t blow it just because your damned hormones are going haywire.”

“You are so full of shit, Wynn. Who’s going to know she’s with me? And who’s going to care? I’m askin’ true, here, man. She’s not running out blowing up buildings or anything else on weekends. Just because her views don’t happen to coincide with Hollywood’s fascist war-machine—or yours—doesn’t make her a bloody radical maniac. Neither do my views, but I don’t see you walking away from your fifteen percent.”

“She’s
white
, Shane. This is different.”

“You’re white, you sot. Crap, I’m half white. Who the hell cares?”

“Everybody. It’s not about me. No one cares about an agent. But Holly? Good Lord, Shane. Get real. Black women are jealous she’s taking what they perceive to be one of their own. White men are pissed because she’s dating out of her race. Apart from someone like Sammy Davis Jr. and May Britt in the sixties—and I still can’t figure out how they managed to get away with being married—the rest of the world isn’t ready for a mixed-race couple. Unless you’re famous enough you can afford to brush off the threats or the criticism. Which, no offense, you’re not. So, you asked, who cares? I repeat.
Everybody
.”