Scarecrow’s Dream (4 page)

She lifted it up so I could see.
Sheridan Falls
.

“Released in 1963. Ten years before you died.” She winced. “Oops.”

“Don’t worry about it. I’m getting used to not being among the living. Hmm.
Sheridan Falls
. Sounds familiar, but if I did see it, I don’t remember.”

Addie shook her head. “I doubt you saw it. You would have been a little kid and I’m not sure this ever made it to the Channel Eleven afternoon movie. It was kind of a cult favorite but never quite hit mainstream. I’m kind of amazed it was ever made into a video, much less a DVD, but I’m digressing.”

She read from the back cover. “‘A tour de force for director Steve Galileo with a story rivaling
Peyton Place
.’ Let’s see who’s in it. Tamara Clark. Deena Robinson. Lily Bloom. Are they kidding? Sorry. Uh…Rex Randolph. Shane Halloran. David Santini. Awesome. Never heard of Lily but the rest of these were pretty neat actors back in the day. Rex was about forty when this was made and I had the biggest crush on the planet on him. Beside the point. The film was a major shock to audiences because it had a mixed-race lead couple. They—
gasp!
—exchanged a kiss. Anyway, this was considered pretty liberal for 1963 and doubtless why it never hit the big time since it was years before
Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner
. It freaked people out more than anyone would admit. Ridiculous. People are such bigoted asses. And not to digress but I will, every single one of these guys was beyond sexy.”

“I’m all for sexy.”

My aunt had an odd expression on her face.

“Addie? What?”

“They’re all also now dead. I don’t know where I read that, probably IMDB, but it stuck in my head because it was so sad and kind of spooky. Like a curse on the film?”

Addie inserted the DVD, grabbed her bag again, and left me ready and excited to watch total trash, but intensely romantic trash, on my aunt’s fifty-four-inch flat-screen TV. The music started. The credits rolled.

And the ghost fell in love with a dead man.

Chapter Three

Shane Halloran. Looked tall, but perhaps everyone around him was short. Didn’t matter. Curly black hair. Mocha-colored skin reflecting a mix of Irish and African heritage. Piercing, inky, midnight blue eyes…as in melt-your-bones-into-liquid-should-be-illegal-inky-midnight-blue eyes.

I clicked the off button but continued staring at the empty screen, seeing his face. Boo-Boo began to whine as though she knew something and wanted to share. I wished I could take her out for a walk around the park but as I’d told Addie, a dog walking with a leash waving in the air sans person would be—well—creepy. I squatted and gave her a hug, but felt antsy, and decided to go out without the pooch.

Inwood Hill Park was a ten-minute walk from our building on Park Terrace but it took longer for me since I was careful to dodge any individuals who were strolling down the sidewalk and street, unaware that an extra-dimensional presence walked among them. Addie’s description for getting close to me had simply been “an odd sensation”. Not cold. Not scary, more like an awareness of another presence.

But while my aunt loved this whole spook business, the rest of humanity seemed to feel an instinctive need to move away without knowing why. It was for the best. There was no need to start a ghost scare in Upper Manhattan by making contact with any of my neighbors.

Once I hit the edge of the park I wandered down the winding path to the Nature Center and the baseball fields. It was cold today, so there weren’t a lot of folks lounging on benches, which was perfect for me. I found one facing the Henry Hudson Bridge, sat down, and prepared to soak in my surroundings. I had to find a way to coax my memory into giving up whatever tidbits it could. What nefarious deeds had happened here forty-three years ago? I stared up at the bridge. That was where it had started. Or ended. For both of us.

I blinked. “Both of us?”

The phrase had drifted in like the soft flakes of April snow starting to fall around me, but seemed more substantial. There had been two of us. I was certain. Up on the bridge before I’d gone flying through the air. Had we both ended up under the water? Had the other person made it out, or would I meet my spectral counterpart soon? Would I bump into someone who also wandered through the park looking for answers? Would I be able to tell if he was like me, between two worlds?

I kept staring at the bridge, willing my mind to accept whatever truth could be gleaned from it. Nothing.

Frustration was making me crazy and restless. I got up and began to walk down one of the paths closer to the Nature Center. I stopped when I saw a bald eagle perched on top of a fence.

He stared straight at me, as though he was reading my mind. From some odd pocket in my brain I recalled reading that bald eagles are considered sacred by Native American tribes. Some believed the birds acted as messengers between gods and humans. Healers. Perhaps they also served as go-betweens for ghosts and humans? I needed one. Adelaide was pretty darned great as my link to the rest of the world but it would be nice to have a magical eagle on my side.

Bald eagles are also considered lucky. Two days back on earth and I was five feet away from a lucky symbol of American freedom who had a doorway to the gods. I waved and for no good reason named this particular eagle Joey. I was about to ask him if he could take a memo and deliver it to the angel in charge of paranormal activity for the man or woman upstairs, when he winked at me.

Not a blink and not “I’m shutting my eyes for a second to keep out the weird spring snow” but a deliberate, almost flirtatious wink. Well, far out! Puppies
and
bald eagles knew I was on this earth. I called to the bird. “Hey, Joey? Would you mind asking the person with the power why I’m back from the dead?”

No answer. I sat down on the bench and stared at the water, at Joey, and at the bridge.

And the first big memory came crashing through.

January 1972

“Some Indian tribes claim bald eagles have healin’ powers and a bit of influence with human fertility as well. They’re like a doorway to the gods, Some of ’em can live up to forty years, assumin’ some crazed loon with a rifle doesn’t go after him for sport. Plus, they bring good luck and I’m believin’ the truth of it, since seeing you is a fortune-filled moment in my day and my heart is indeed healed of the pain of the lovelorn.”

The voice behind me had a resonant, lush, baritone quality. More than a hint of an Irish brogue.

I turned. He was tall, an inch or two over six feet. Curly black hair. Mocha-colored skin reflecting a mix of European and African heritage. Piercing, inky, midnight blue eyes…as in melt-your-bones-should-be-illegal-inky-midnight-blue eyes. I swallowed and tried to come up with a quip both clever and charming.

“Don’t you be wasting your fine words and charming manner on me, sir,” I managed to say. “I’ve lived with both for twenty years and it’s made me immune.”

He grinned. I did my damndest not to faint.

“And who’s as fine and charmin’ as I, then, lass?”

I took a breath and managed to say, “Me da. He’s also got the gift of Irish gab and a keen sense of what’s real and what isn’t and he passed it on to me. So, does the charm and brogue work with most of the ladies?”

“It does. But I’m aft to be swearin’ you’re a lass many notches above all the others on this fair earth and I’d best up my game.”

I’d never experienced love at first sight before. Although, to be accurate, it wasn’t “first”. I’d fallen in love with this man six years ago watching the late night movies on Channel 9, when they’d shown a New Testament epic called
Miracle in the Catacombs
.
Produced in ’62, complete with camels, gladiators, lepers, catacombs, miracles, and a gorgeous young black actor with Irish blue eyes playing a very earnest Simon the Cyrene. I was only fourteen at the time. I’d next seen him in
Circus Maximus
, also on Channel 9, with much the same plot as
Miracle
but less religious overtones.

“Not sure I’m buying the whole notches bit, but thanks anyway.” I hesitated before speaking again, determined to keep my voice from squeaking after all my brave talk of ignoring his charm. “You
are
Shane Halloran, yes?”

He bowed and dropped the brogue. “I am. Movies, TV, or stage?”

“What?”

“How did you know who I was—I mean, what have you seen me in? I haven’t done many movies in the last few years and you look too young to remember those I did before my career nosedived.”

I scowled. “I’m not that young. I’m over twenty.” I didn’t see any need to add it was only by a week. “To answer your question, I’ve seen a couple of your movies on TV and one or two on the big screen. And I will admit I saved my pennies and took the train to New Haven for the preview of the revival for
Porgy and Bess
last month.” I lifted my chin a bit. “I believe it’s one of the finest pieces of American opera and I was determined to see it. It’s my favorite. You simply happened to be in it.”

I prayed lightning wouldn’t strike me dead for having just come out with a whopping big lie, before sympathetically adding, “I am very sorry it didn’t make it to Broadway.”

He chuckled. “Your da did train you well, didn’t he? How to deflate an ego with a few well-chosen sentences. Glad you saw
Porgy and Bess
, though. So, lass, you’ve got my name. What’s yours?”

“Holly Jordan Malone.” I said, “And back to the subject. I’m really serious. It should have been on Broadway. You were so fantastic as Sportin’ Life. When you sang ‘There’s a Boat That’s Leavin’ Soon for New York’, I nearly stood up and yelled, ‘Take that boat, Bess! Who cares if he’s a scummy drug dealer when he can sing like an angel?’”

He took my hand in his and then leaned down and kissed my palm. “Thank you. I’ve been very down about the show not going forward and you’ve just lifted my spirits to where our eagle friend is now flying. Are you a total theatre and music lover, then, Miss Malone, or just fond of—Mr. Gershwin?”

My brain was screaming,
Gershwin/Swershin, who cares? Theatre lover? Substitute Shane Halloran for “theatre” and you’ve got it
.

“Both. I love theatre and I love music. And I write. I waffle between wanting to be a reporter or writing stories or better yet, plays. But I’m smart enough to know I’d never be in DuBose Heyward’s class even if I could find a modern-day Gershwin who’d like to set my play to music.”

“So. Writer. Nice. Are ya more interested in gossipy scandals or politics?”

“Everything. Well, not gossipy scandals as much. Those are great for fiction but I’m not one to dig into a person’s private life as long as it doesn’t affect society. People have skeletons and they should stay buried or told to their favorite shrink, priest, or rabbi. Anyway, I’d love to travel and be a foreign correspondent calling in the big stories by the time I’m twenty-five.” I smiled. “On the other hand, I’m also determined to write a play and see it produced on Broadway.”

“Ah.” He casually inquired, “Are you any good—or just breathtakingly beautiful?”

“I…beg your pardon?”

“Your writing. And your investigative skills. Are you any good?”

I sank onto the bench and contemplated the bald eagle now circling the bridge. I’d decided (for no good reason) to name him Joey. I shivered before I answered. I could have sworn I’d played this very scene before. I shook off the odd feeling. “Good? I hope so. It’s hard to critique one’s own work, after all. I mean, how do you rate yourself as an actor?”

He winked then laughed. “Damn bloody great!” He pulled me up next to him and kissed me. Damn bloody great didn’t begin to cover it. My toes curled, my hair curled, and what was left of my bones disintegrated.

Just as suddenly, but easily, he released me. We stared at each other. I sank back down onto my bench. He sank with me.

“Well, Mr. Halloran, you lied. You have
no
self-esteem issues, do you?”

“Truth, Miss Malone?”

“Truth, Mr. Halloran. And make it Holly. We’re not doing a play set in the twenties.”

His voice lost its humor. “No we’re not. If we were, I wouldn’t have managed to steal a marvelous kiss without a lynch mob burstin’ from round the corner with a rope or guns blazing.” He stopped, then lightened his tone and with a voice oozing hot honey murmured, “Or without a good slap from you across my cheeks a second after our lips met.”

I smiled and ignored his first comment, which had produced an odd but very strong trace of fear within me I couldn’t quite nail down. “I’m quite capable of adding that particular action to the scene right now if you’d prefer.”

He assumed the soft brogue again. “I’m aft to bein’ quite satisfied with havin’ no pain and keepin’ the kiss pure and special in me mind, lass.”

I tried not to giggle.

He continued with, “Kissing and kidding aside, the truth is, I’m riddled with self-esteem issues. It’s maddening. I did one of the best pieces of musical theatre written in this century, yet the show didn’t make it out of New Haven for what should have been a Broadway revival. No one is offering movie scripts—well, not
good
movie scripts. You wouldn’t believe the schlock my agent has been sending me. Drug dealers who don’t have a quarter of the personality of a Sportin’ Life. Or super-cops in flashy cars with loud music. Awful. And my last picture was…”

I interrupted, “I loved it! You’re talking about
Ebony Dreams
with Reggie Lamar, right? I saw it at the St. Marks down in the Village.”

“You did? Well, I can now count four people who saw it. My agent Wynn Davenport, Reggie, you, and me. No, wait—wrong. Reggie’s wife was at the premiere as well. So, we have a total of five. The film was a flop.”

“Which makes no sense. It was one of the best films I’ve seen in years. It made a statement and your character was multi-dimensional. A real person. Not a pimp or a sleazy drug dealer or witty side-kick to the white guy.”

Shane nodded. “For years I’ve been grumbling to my agent because the few good roles I’m ever offered are Othello, Emperor Jones, or Walter Younger in
Raisin in the Sun
. Don’t get me wrong; they’re all fabulous characters in wonderful plays. But solely in theatre. I love theatre but I pay the bills with films. Forget Hollywood right now for anything decent and forget anyone for considering character instead of color.”

“This is all so wrong.
Ebony Dreams
was well written, well acted, and well edited, and it should have netted Academy Awards for both you and Mr. Lamar. I couldn’t believe it was snubbed.”

“Ah, but it was controversial, darlin’. A non-stereotypical, realistic, intelligent black male falls in love with a white man’s sister and brother approves to the point of saying ‘I’ll be your best man.’ But it’s my bad luck the Hollywood elite is back on a conservative kick, or haven’t you noticed? Nothing to rock any yachts. It’s the reason we have all these throwbacks to the fifties and those fake integrated films filled with pimps, drug-dealers, and super-cops.”

I nodded. “Those are almost worse than the sad shuffling train porter garbage from the forties.” I stared at Shane. “So, what are you going to do about it?”

“Doing? Doing? I have no power. It’s ironic. I’ve protested for voting rights in the South and marched for the right of a black kid to drink out of the same water fountain in the park as the white kid he’d been playing ball with. Unfortunately it’s still damned hard for a black man to find a good role in a major film. And, Holly luv, when it comes to movies it all hinges on who holds the purse strings. I’m friends with a couple of actors who have the star power and the courage to make changes, and they’re trying but most of the rest are too scared to lose power or their paychecks—or worse.”

I straightened my shoulders in determination. “It’s wrong on too many levels. But you’ve now made me raring to add actors to my list of folks who need some good old-fashioned demonstrations to help wake them up.”

He laughed. “A crusader! Very nice, Holly Malone. You look like you could organize a whale of a protest. Lots of fire in those pretty green eyes.”