Free Scarecrow’s Dream by Flo Fitzpatrick Page B

photographer from the Post snapped his picture. Around us, kids were singing and swaying to Phil Ochs’ tune, “Too Many Martyrs”, which was about to make me start crying again. A couple of girls in army jackets, jeans, and no make-up were handing out black armbands.
    Shane glanced down at me, then back at Rob. “I have indeed. Holly read it too. It’s cool to finally meet you. We loved the scene you sent and the whole idea. Wanted to see a lot more. It’s going to horrify some folks, including my agent and half the audiences in Manhattan. The whole cast will end up on the front page of every conservative rag in the country if we do this. But it’s so damned good. You can write a hell of a scene, Rob. If the rest of the play is like it, it’ll be something audiences will talk about for months after. Not the kind of story they can dismiss over a drink. I tell ya here and now, if there’s any chance I can play the role of Daniel, I’ll do it.”
    April 2016
    Folks were singing “Too Many Martyrs” by Phil Ochs. I remembered singing this at the protest in October of ’72. It had the same effect on me forty-four years later. I started to cry.
    I finally got it together enough to join in the singing and then watched as the majority of the demonstrators found spots for huddling and cuddling for the sit-in and candlelight vigil. It was turning colder and the snow was making visibility more difficult.
    As someone who hadn’t felt warm in since being submerged under a bridge, I found the cold brutally painful, since my wrap consisted of the old army jacket. I didn’t understand the whole “how can I feel things as a ghost?” thing but cold was part of the package.
    It wasn’t my only pain. My last memory about Shane was causing my heart to constrict, as if all blood flow had stopped. Had Rob been able to produce the play? Had Shane taken the role? If so, why had nothing turned up in Addie’s Internet search?
    I was struck by a sad and frightening theory—had I somehow predicted this moment would happen? Had I instinctively known I would die and return to a world that hadn’t progressed as much as I’d hoped? Would this world accept Shane Halloran and Holly Malone any more than it did in the ’70s? I didn’t have specific memories of people being angry at seeing us together back then, but I was damned sure bad things had indeed happened and I was afraid those memories would be smacking me in my face and in my heart quite soon.
    I sang and wished I could light a candle without freaking anyone out. I wanted to be a part of this.
    I was proud of my fellow protestors. The snow was coming down like a January blizzard instead of an April dusting, yet folks of all ages remained huddled in Bryant Park, determined their voices would be heard. The candles had been exchanged for flashlights, which would hold up better in what had become a fierce wind. I found a stray flashlight on the ground and held it high in the air in the very back of the crowd. I figured no one would notice if it swayed along with the other lights.
    The crowd began singing songs I’d never heard—songs I assumed had been written years after my death. My attention started to wander, and then, so did I. I found myself drawn to a gentleman who was part of the spirit of the protest, yet stood as far as I could from everyone else, leaning against a tree on the opposite side of the street from the park. The snow made it close to impossible to see his features but I was curious as to why he wasn’t huddled with a group for warmth or camaraderie.
    I put the flashlight back on the ground and headed across the street. I stopped. The man was older than the majority of the demonstrators. He had to be close to my aunt’s age but I knew him as though I’d seen him only yesterday—which wasn’t far from the truth. Shane Halloran.
    A dead man walked the streets of Manhattan—except this dead man appeared to be a far more viable presence than one Holly Malone.