Scarecrow’s Dream by Flo Fitzpatrick Page A

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 .”
    “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