Free Scarecrow’s Dream by Flo Fitzpatrick

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?”

Chapter Six
    October 1972
    I choked back tears as I asked, “How can this be happening? They killed him. Just like they killed Martin Luther King and Medgar Evers.”
    Shane hugged me, then gripped my hand in his. I tried to keep my voice from shaking, but wasn’t successful. “I wish there was more we could do. Protests and fliers and demonstrations. Are we accomplishing anything at all?”
    He shook his head. “It raises awareness? Hell, Holly. I’m thirty-one and I feel like I’m closer to seventy-five. I’m tired.” He stared at me. “And I’m scared. I’m at a protest meant to show the citizens of New York black men are not disposable and I’m afraid to put my arm around you, because some joker who sees me touchin’ a white girl suddenly decides I need to be shot. Or we both do.”
    He lit two cigarettes and handed me one.
    “I don’t smoke. Remember?”
    “Oh yeah. Sorry, darlin’.” He tossed the second one to the ground and stomped it out. “Damn. I’m way more upset than I want to let on.” He hugged me. “So, how do you ever fit in with all your hippie brethren who are inhaling joints right and left?”
    “Well, I did try a loaded brownie once before I realized it was more than chocolate. That was my limit on drugs. I hate feeling unfocused.” I shot him a look. “What about you, Mr. Hollywood Bad Boy? Do you partake in the wicked weed?”
    He winked. “Legal liquids and smokes. That’s it. I’d rather get drunk on a few quarts of good Irish whiskey any day of the week. But I do like the nicotine. I know, I know—I’m readin’ the same nasty reports as you about how bad it is. Damned shame. Vices are a marvelous thing. I don’t want to give up any of ’em. And there are times, like today, when the only thing that keeps me calm is a pack or two.”
    I shook my head. “I wish I could find a substance to keep me calm, but still in control. I’m so angry and depressed, and I feel so defeated. How the hell can a black kid be shot by a cop because he was in the—and I quote certain police officials—‘wrong neighborhood’? In Queens? How crazy is that? And then there’s the flip side. How can a black cop in Atlanta be shot by some white wife-abuser because he dared to show up at his house to stop a beating? How can this keep happening? It’s 1972, for God’s sake. Aren’t we beyond this yet?”
    I felt faint. I swayed and Shane caught me before I ended up on the ground.
    “Holly? Are you okay?”
    “I’m not sure.”
    “What? How? What do you mean?”
    “A little dizzy. I just had this strange sort of déjà vu thing.”
    “Now, Ms. Malone, you’re going to have to explain what you’re talking about. Unless someone slipped you another loaded brownie.” He lifted an eyebrow.
    “Sorry to disappoint. Nothing drug-induced. But something…out of the ordinary. Like a hallucination? Never mind. I’m probably just hearing too many sounds around here. There’s a lot of loud chanting going, so it could be I’m getting echoes.”
    Shane smiled at me. “Or you’ve developed second sight?”
    Before we had a chance to delve into the possible “how or whys” of what I’d heard, two guys I knew from NYU waved and ran over to join us.
    “Marshall? Hey, man, I’d heard you were in Canada. And, Rob, you look great. I’ve missed