Scarecrow’s Dream (6 page)

“Enough! Put your own damned prejudice back in the closet and listen. First off, everyone has been great to her and to me. For Christ’s-sake, Wynn, we’re
theatre
people. We’re supposed to understand and accept the concept of seeing things from another’s perspective.”

A sigh audible enough for me to hear even with a door between us came from Wynn Davenport.

“Okay. Great. But, Shane, I don’t care if this entire cast is made up of love-chanting hippies; what about the reporters and reviewers who are in the audience? Good grief. Did you see what she’s wearing?”

I could easily imagine Shane’s delighted grin. “I did indeed. Gorgeous.”

I glanced down at the ensemble I’d donned for opening night. Seemed fine to me. A multi-tiered gypsy skirt in green and sage and blue, trimmed with lace. Cream-colored peasant blouse, with a wide, beaded belt accentuating my twenty-three-inch waist. Granny boots peeking underneath the ankle-length hem. I’d tossed an army jacket across my shoulders to ward off any chill from an overly air-conditioned bus.

Perhaps Wynn was objecting to the various slogan-filled buttons adorning it. “Make Love, Not War”; “Give Peace a Chance”; “Stop the War; Feed the Poor”; “Black Pride is for All”; “Puppies are not Test Subjects”; “Women are not Toys”; “Vote for McGovern!” All terrific ideas and my exact sentiments.

Or perhaps Wynn didn’t approve of the way I’d styled my hair? I hadn’t bothered with a headband so my hair hung down way past my shoulders. I’d tried to straighten it but the humidity had released the waves within minutes. Or did Wynn just not like any ’do free of chemical hair spray?

Shane had picked me up at the bus station in the afternoon and told me I looked gorgeous. But Wynn Davenport III did not share Shane’s good taste.

The heated discussion continued. “She’s going to ruin you, Shane. As it is I can’t get you a decent movie and you’re going to wreck any chance of snagging a Broadway gig if the press ever gets wind of the story about your very young, very white girlfriend spending a weekend in jail six months ago. And I emphasize very young because she’s barely able to
vote
.”

Shane yelled, “I’ll bet most of these theatregoers would be
glad
I’m seeing a lady who spent a mite of time in a cell in order to rescue a group of puppies from a cosmetics company. And she’s twenty, damn it—not fifteen. She’s not a little girl. I’ve had it with all your ‘she’s white’ bullshit. If my own parents managed to deal with that thirty-one years ago, why can’t we? Aren’t we beyond that yet?”

I agreed with everything he was saying, especially the comments about my days spent in the slammer. I’d gone to jail after breaking into the Blush Me cosmetics research lab in Brooklyn with four other animal-lovers. We’d been very responsible about it, finding homes for them all before the deed, so it wasn’t as if we’d rushed in, opened the cages, and let the doggies and rabbits run wild in the streets.

It turned out our judge felt the same. Shoot—who wouldn’t? Well, apart from the cosmetics industry. I mean, what’s the reasoning behind slapping mascara and lipstick on a Dalmatian or a sweet little symbol of Easter? My dad had actually agreed with me on the merits of this particular protest and he didn’t exactly have the title of the Most Progressive Super in Inwood.

After my two nights in jail (not what I’d called a pleasant experience, but I’d made friends with three hookers who told me great stories and gave me leads on what goes on in the meaner streets of New York) our group had to pay a fine and we were sent on our merry way.

I missed whatever else Shane said to Wynn because it sounded like Shane tossed a vase at the man. I heard the sound of broken glass. Wynn threw open the dressing room door, glared at me, muttered something along the lines of “Hippie bitch” under his breath, then strode off toward the front of the theatre house.

Shane popped his head around the open doorframe and smiled at me. “Has my damned racist agent gone, then?”

“He has.” I stared down at the floor for a moment before finally looking him in the eyes. “Shane, I’m so sorry. I don’t want to come between you and someone who’s working for you. I don’t want to hurt your career.”

He shrugged then reached out and put his arms around me. “Darlin’, he’ll be over it the instant he sees the standing ovation I’ll get tonight. His dad worked with me from the time I was sixteen on and he was just as obnoxious. Mr. Davenport wants a paycheck. I’ll deliver. Forget him. Now, gorgeous girl, give me a kiss for luck then go grab your seat out front. You told me you liked hearin’ me sing as Sportin’ Life? Shoot, lass, you’re in for the treat of your life. If you don’t cry during ‘If I Loved You’ I’ll come down off the stage in shock.”

April 2016

I relayed the memory to Addie, who appeared pensive rather than delighted.

“What? You’re scowling at me. At least you’re trying to. Your ghost spotting is off by about a foot to the right. So? You don’t believe this was real?”

She shook her head. “I’m sure it was very real.
Too
real. I’m chewing on the fact that a little less than a year before you died you had made an enemy with this Mr. Davenport the Third. Not to mention jealous actresses or racist actors or crazed people who got wind Shane was dating a white girl. I have to wonder how badly any one of those folks wanted you out of Shane Halloran’s life.”

Chapter Five

April 2016

“I’m going with you tonight,” I announced.

“Where?”

“The demonstration. I’m curious to see how they’re conducted in the new century.” I squinted at Addie. “Hang on there. You’re not dressed.”

“I’m not going.”

“Why?”

“It’s cold.”

I tried to maintain my composure, but couldn’t last more than about two seconds. I began cackling like a demented witch. “Cold? For you? The woman who led more protest marches than Dr. Martin Luther King? You’re not going to a protest because of a little snow?”

“Yep. Unlike certain folks without corporeal bodies, I’m not in the mood to move the arthritic knees down subway stairs when it’s thirty-two degrees out, and those pretty flakes from yesterday are turning into big chunks of ice today. So I’m staying home and doing some online research about the Samuel Friedman Theatre for my column. Interesting place. It was still the Biltmore Theatre in 1973 but it burned to the ground in ’87 and didn’t become a good permanent theatre until Manhattan Theatre Club bought it in 2001. Now, pondering the issue, I’ll bet it was burned by a smart arsonist trying to keep warm on a night like this.”

“I’m sorry, but there’s no way I’m buying this cold bit. Need I point out the snow didn’t keep you from heading to the bakery this morning to pick up a dozen cinnamon rolls and a carrot cake?”

Addie didn’t spout off something cute or sarcastic. Something was off.

“You’re not staying home because it’s cold, are you.” It was not a question.

She shook her head. “There was a shooting this morning, in a suburb of Atlanta, Georgia.”

I sank down on the couch. “I hadn’t heard any news today. This morning, you said?”

“Yeah. And you’ve been busy. I popped in to tell you a few hours ago but you were typing like a maniac on your script for the online soap.” She paused for a long moment. “A young black man—only about twenty-two—was leaving his girlfriend’s house. An off-duty cop asked him why he was in the neighborhood. The young man—his name was Jerry Rollins—pulled out his wallet, and the cop claims he thought it was a gun. Jerry was shot and killed.”

“There’s more, isn’t there.” Also not a question.

“His girlfriend was white, so was the cop who shot him. The semi-good thing is there were witnesses who filmed at least part of the incident. God bless cell phones, right? But as of this evening, though it’s rumored there’s an investigation started by his Internal Affairs department, the cop still is walking around with his badge—and his gun. Insanity. And of course all the haters are blaming the kid for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Everyone is mad at everyone else.”

I couldn’t speak for a few moments. Finally I said, “It’s awful and wrong. But why is this keeping you from the demonstration? Why aren’t you super charged and hepped up about racing to the podium and shouting for justice?”

Her eyes were moist and her voice was hoarse, as though she was trying to squeeze her words out without a breath behind them.

“I can’t. I’ve been through this too many times. Gone to too many protests or rallies and…I’m…tired. As in beaten-down-ready-to-give-up tired. I keep trying to convince myself times have changed but…I need to sit this one out at home.”

She swallowed hard and then took a deep breath. “Holly, I keep coming back to you and Shane. Did someone try to shoot him off his motorcycle because there was a young white girl—you—with him? Did they miss him and get you instead? Or were you the target? Were both of you targets?” She shivered. “You go in my place. You may be dead but you’ve got so much good energy I’m sure it’ll translate to positive things at that rally. And yes, I’m not making sense but I don’t care. Who knows? It’s possible you’ll find some answers about your own situation.”

“I will be proud to go in your stead. I only wish I could do something to effect a change.” I asked, “Since you’re staying here, may I borrow your army jacket? Yeah, I know it’ll disappear the instant I put it on, but I still want something—uh—
protesty
to wear. Not just this peace symbol hanging around my neck. Oh, totally off topic, which we need right now to relieve some of this horror about Jerry Rollins, but I could use some other clothes. Rewashing this outfit and wearing old shirts and pants of Dad’s you didn’t give away isn’t quite working for me. I’m vain enough to want to look good even if Boo-Boo is the only being who can see me. So, whacha say, Auntie? Army jacket?”

Addie’s eyes widened. “Wait. I’m not thinking straight. You don’t need my jacket, which wouldn’t fit anyway. Your old one is still here.”

“What? Are you kidding?”

“Nope. For real. Paul kept a lot of your stuff over the years, most of it in storage. I remember him putting your jacket into the hall closet, though, and telling me it would stay there until you came back. It made him feel like you’d be walking through the door at any moment.”

What passed for a heart within me started lurching. “He kept it?”

“Holly, he never really believed you were dead. Your body was never found. He kept saying you’d just had an accident and gone stumbling off into the night with amnesia or something.”

Addie closed her eyes. I assumed she was remembering the past.

“Paul was a huge fan of the soaps—remember he set up a small TV down in the basement? He’d have some sleazy daytime drama on while repairing washing machines. And we all used to laugh because every tried and true amnesia story ended up as the subplot in every single daytime drama ever made.”

“Wow. It’s also close to true. I mean the amnesia. The good news is, my childhood memories are solid. If only the last two years were coming in as clear.” I blinked back tears. “Addie, I wish there was a way to tell Dad I did come back, although it’s not real. I mean, I’m not real. You understand what I’m trying to say. I’d like to be able to look at him and tell him how much I always loved him, no matter how often I was rebelling against war and injustice and every other cause on the planet.”

We both fell silent. Finally Addie said, “Holly. He knew. And for a middle-aged guy who’d fought in the last days of World War Two, he was surprisingly sympathetic with your views—our views. He’d had some time to absorb some of this watching his baby sister start marching for stuff from the cradle on. He didn’t voice his own views because he was also torn about following what the government says is right. I realize you two fought a lot, but when he found out you’d been writing for an underground newspaper, he started collecting them. He showed me the stash after you disappeared and then put them into his old steamer trunk. I’ll bet they’re still there.”

I was stunned. “What? Where’s the trunk?”

“Storage. Not far from the garage where I keep my car, under the name A. Kennedy. He moved everything out of the apartment after a break-in here. Hmmm…”

“What?”

“This is strange. The break-in was about a month after you disappeared. Now I’m thinking…did your death have something to do with that? Could it have been someone making sure you were gone and not in hiding? I guess there’s no way of knowing. Scary. Too many questions and not enough answers.”

We lapsed into silence. Finally Addie said, “We’ll go there when the weather starts acting more like May than February. I’m not sure what else he stored. Memorabilia. Photos, I’d imagine. I wouldn’t be surprised if there are a few of you and Shane. I
am
sure there are clothes.”

“Okay.”

She heard something in my voice I hadn’t meant for her to catch. “Listen, you’re not okay and I’m not okay and it isn’t okay, but we’re going to make it okay, which is atrociously repetitious but I don’t care. So, ghost girl, are you floating onto the subway?”

“Nope. Since, I haven’t been able to penetrate solid objects I could simply execute a nice leap across the turnstile. Or I’ll just give the New York subway system its due and swipe your MetroCard. I doubt anyone will notice a turnstile moving on its own.”

I went to the closet and began moving coats and bags and junk out of the way.

“Far out!”

“What?”

“It’s there! My army jacket. Way in the back behind some hideous dress I hope no one ever wore in public, even for Halloween.”

Addie perked up. “What color?”

“Hot pink.”

“Swirly twirly?”

“Yep.”

“That’s mine. I wore it to discos back in the day.”

I emerged from the closet with both the dress and the jacket. Addie could see both items since neither was on my person yet. It was another confusing part of the ghost world I inhabited. “Discos?”

“You haven’t watched
Saturday Night Fever
yet?”

“Haven’t had the time. And if this hot pink number was the fashion for the movie, I may skip it.”

Addie’s voice oozed pure pleasure. “Disco. You would have enjoyed that era, Holly. You love to dance. This was dance twenty-four seven.”

“I’m not sure I would have enjoyed looking like a strawberry ice cream cone while shimmying and shaking.”

“Well, not everyone was quite as—flamboyant—as your wild auntie here. You’d’ve loved the music, anyway. Huge changes from the mid seventies onward. I’ll drag out the CD soundtrack tomorrow. Teach you the Latin Hustle.” She waved at my general direction and began humming a tune I assumed had been featured in the movie. “Go.”

“Don’t wait up, Miss Adelaide. I have a feeling this is going to be a long demonstration. And as long as I’m in the neighborhood, I’d like to check out the area around Bryant Park, see what’s changed.”

I did swipe the card and take the subway like a normal living person. It was just past work rush hour so the A train had enough space for me to be able to sit by myself without freaking out another human being—which felt as odd as it sounds.

I took the 42nd Street exit and then headed over to Bryant Park. I could see the crowd seconds after I was above ground. The “Immigrants and Refugees R All of Us”, the “Feed Our Children”, the “When did we Become Haters and Cowards?” the “Get Out of the Middle East”, the “Climate Change—Believe it Before the Earth Dies”, and the “Ban All Guns” protestors had joined together, with the primary focus now on the shooting in Atlanta.

I overheard a teenager, dressed in a hooded sweatshirt and jeans, telling another teen that two cops had been shot while attempting to arrest a man for beating up his spouse.

What had started as rage against racism had turned into a memorial for victims of senseless shootings, black or white, cop or civilian. There was common ground for causes that stemmed from not treating others with respect, or simple basic humanity, and I felt a stirring of hope.

I spotted about five people dressed in business attire holding signs that read, “Jerry Rollins died for Love” and “End the Hate”. Joining them were seven college age kids holding signs stating, “Race isn’t the Issue—Hate Is”.

Hundreds of people of all ages and races were already in place, waiting for this candlelight vigil, which would start in Bryant Park and finish up at Gracie Mansion where the mayor of New York lived.

I found it mildly interesting that at a 2016 demonstration people appeared to wear nicer clothes than the protests I’d attended in the seventies. Most wore black armbands. And while a few held cigarettes, I didn’t notice the distinctive odor of Columbian gold, red, white, or blue.

The crowd was big but quiet, mainly sitting and doing what Adelaide had called “texting” into their small hand-held telephones.

A black man in his late twenties, also wearing an army jacket bedecked with buttons, was setting up a microphone at a table. He was very attractive. Tall, with black curly hair. He reminded me a lot of Shane except his eyes were deep brown. He was talking to a young white girl whose eyes were swollen and red.

The peace symbol around her neck was almost identical to the one I was wearing. I pulled mine away from my jacket and somehow felt more connected to this time and these kids.

I heard her moan, “How can this keep happening? They killed him! It’s 2016 for God’s sake! Aren’t we beyond this yet?”