The Ghost Sequences

by A. C. Wise

  3. Complete Script—The Secret of Flight (1955)—Good Condition (signed, Owen Covington)

  4. Press Clipping—Herald Star—June 17, 1925

  “Victory Theater Under New Ownership”

  A staged publicity photo shows Richard Covington shaking hands with former theater owner Terrance Dent. Richard’s brother, Arthur Covington, stands to the side. The article details plans for the theater’s renovation and scheduled reopening. The article provides brief background on the brothers’ recent immigration to America from England. A second photograph shows the family posed and preparing to board a ship to America. Arthur Covington stands toward the left of the frame. Richard stands next to his wife, Elizabeth, his arm at her waist. Elizabeth rests both hands on the shoulders of their three-year-old son, Owen, keeping him close. None of the family members are smiling. To the right of the frame, standing with the luggage, is an unidentified young woman with dark hair thought to be Owen Covington’s nanny. A shadow near the woman’s right shoulder vaguely suggests the shape of a bird.

  5. Press Clipping—Herald Star—August 7, 1976

  “Fire Destroys Historic Victory Theater”

  A half-page image shows the burned and partially collapsed walls of the Victory Theater. Dark smudges above the ruins show a sky still heavy with smoke. Certain patches might be mistaken for a densely-packed flock of birds. The article offers scant detail beyond that the fire started early in the morning of August 6, cause unknown. The blaze took several hours to bring under control. No casualties reported.

  6. Press Clipping—Herald Star—December 1, 2012

  “A New Life for the Victory Theater”

  The image at the top of the page shows the exterior of the New Victory Theater. A brushed stainless steel sign bears the theater’s name, and below it, an LED marquee screen shows the word Welcome. The article discusses the successful fundraising campaign leading to the construction of the New Victory Theater at the site of the original building. Brief mention is made of the architects’ intent to incorporate elements salvaged from the old theater into the new design, however all the historic pieces are held by an anonymous collector who was unwilling to donate or sell them. The majority of the page is given over to pictures of the gala opening. The article notes that Raymond Barrow was invited to serve as honorary chair of the event, but he declined.

  *

  Incomplete Draft of Murmuration by Arthur Covington—typed manuscript with handwritten notes

  (CLAIRE glances over her shoulder before hurrying to EDWARD’s desk, rifling through the drawers.)

  CLAIRE (to herself): Where is it? Where is he keeping it?

  (As her search grows more frantic, she fails to notice EDWARD entering the room. EDWARD grabs CLAIRE by the arm.)

  EDWARD: Are you trying to steal from me?

  CLAIRE: You stole from me first. Where is it?

  EDWARD: Stole from you? You live in my house. You eat my food. Everything you own is mine.

  (CLAIRE tries to strike him. EDWARD catches her hand. He leans close, his jaw clenched in anger.)

  EDWARD: Show me how it works, and I might forget about your attempted thievery.

  (CLAIRE doesn’t answer. EDWARD grips her harder, shaking her.)

  EDWARD: There’s some trick to it. Look at this.

  (EDWARD rolls up his sleeve and shows CLAIRE a long gash on his arm.)

  EDWARD: I shouldn’t be able to bleed anymore. I shouldn’t be able to die.

  CLAIRE (her voice hard): It was never going to work for you, Edward. You can’t steal a feather from a bird and expect to fly, or steal a scale from a fish and breathe under water. You can’t change the nature of a thing just by dressing it up as something else.

  EDWARD: Then tell me. Tell me how it works, and I’ll let you go.

  (ANDREW enters STAGE RIGHT, freezing when he see CLAIRE and EDWARD. Unnoticed, ANDREW hangs back, watching. EDWARD strikes CLAIRE. CLAIRE doesn’t react. He knocks her down, pinning her, and puts his hands around her throat.)

  God, this is shit. The whole thing is shit. It isn’t enough. It doesn’t change what happened. It doesn’t make up for the fact that Andrew just stood there and did nothing. I stood in the hall and listened to them yell, and then when I finally got up the courage to go into the room, I froze instead of helping Clara. Not that she seemed to need my help. Speaking of which, what about the birds? How the hell do I stage the birds? No one would believe it. I don’t believe it, and I was there. The room filling up with beaks and feathers and wings. Hundreds of birds coming out of nowhere while Clara lay there, and Richard throttled her, and I did nothing.

  What the hell am I doing, writing this thing? Shit.

  *

  SUICIDE ATTEMPT THWARTED AT THE VICTORY THEATER!

  Herald Star—April 19, 1955

  Betsy Trimingham, Arts & Culture

  There is a hero in our midst, dear readers. One, it seems, who has been hiding in plain sight at the Victory Theater. For months now, the theater scene has been buzzing with speculation over the Victory’s latest production, all of which is being kept strictly under wraps.

  Last night, however, one cat escaped the bag. Owen Covington, son of late theater owner Richard Covington, prevented an unknown woman from leaping to her death from the theater’s roof. As it so happens, not only is young Mr. Covington a hero, he is the author of Raymond Barrow’s mysterious new play.

  Although he declined to comment upon his heroic actions, I was able to unearth one piece of information at least. Owen Covington’s play, scheduled to open at the Victory later this year, is titled The Secret of Flight.

  As for the young woman whose life Mr. Covington saved, could she be a member of the cast? Has Raymond Barrow unearthed the next darling of the theater scene? Or is she merely some poor seamstress working behind the scenes? More scandalously, could she be Raymond Barrow’s lover? The only clue Mr. Covington provided during my repeated requests for comment was an unwitting one. He said, and I quote: Clara is none of your business.

  Who is Clara? Rest assured, dear readers, I intend to find out!

  *

  Personal Correspondence

  Raymond Barrow

  December 20, 2012

  Dear Will,

  Here I am, at it again. The old fool with his pen and paper. Did you know they reopened the Victory Theater earlier this month? Not the Victory Theater, of course, a new one with the same name where the old one burned. They wanted me to be on their godforsaken Board of Trustees or some bullshit. I almost wish I’d taken the meeting in person just to see the look on their bootlicking, obsequious little faces when I said no.

  God, I’m an ass, Will. I was an ass back in the day, and I’m an ass now, just a donkey of a different color, as they say.

  Maybe it’s the new theater that has me dredging up all these memories. It’s like poking an old wound, though there were some good times mixed in with the bad. There was Clara. And of course, there was you. If you could have seen.... Well, it doesn’t matter. I cocked it all up in the end.

  I was so excited when Owen Covington brought me the script of his new play. He was a virtual unknown, this snot-nosed kid who couldn’t hold his liquor, but God help me, I thought he would save my career. Old money and all that. I didn’t know his family had fallen into ruin. His father murdered, his uncle a suicide. All their lovely money pissed away. I should have done my research, but live and learn.

  The whole thing was a disaster from beginning to end. Even before Clara, before…. The press was at my throat from the get-go, desperate to see me fail. Then goddamn Owen Covington goes and tries to kill himself. Like nephew like uncle, I suppose.

  Clara saved his life. She stopped him from jumping off the Victory’s roof, though the newspapers reported it the other way around. Made Covington out to be a hero. What was that horrid woman’s name? Betty? Betsy Trimblesomething? She was the one who gave you that absolutely scathing review as my leading man in Onward to Victory! God I hated her.

&
nbsp; But there I go, rambling. I was telling you about Owen and Clara. After she saved him, Clara told me how much she wanted to let Owen jump. She showed me her palms. They were all cut up where she dug her nails in trying to stop herself from grabbing him. But she couldn’t. She told me she couldn’t help saving Owen, no matter how much she hated his family.

  That was the closest she ever came to telling me anything about herself. Of course, I knew bits and pieces from Owen, not that I believed half of it. But then here was Clara, someone I trusted, saying the same thing. She said she’d known Owen as a child, that she’d been his nanny, and he was the only good thing to come out of the Covington family.

  I asked her what the hell she was talking about, she and Owen looked exactly the same age. I thought maybe she’d finally open up all the way, maybe I’d finally get the truth out of her. Hell, I’d have settled for knowing her real name because I’m sure as shit it wasn’t Clara Hill.

  Instead of answering, Clara pointed out a flock of starlings. We were up on the roof of the theater, smoking, the way you and I used to do after rehearsals. That was the first place you kissed me. Do you remember? I was certain my mouth would taste like ash and whatever rotgut we were drinking and you’d be disgusted, but you weren’t.

  Are you angry that I spent time with Clara up there? There wasn’t anything between us. We were friends. Actually, we became friends because of the roof. We’d both been going up there separately to smoke, and then we banged into each other one day and started taking our cigarette breaks together. It’s a lucky thing we never burned the goddamn theater down.

  I suppose that’s how she found Owen, snuck up for a quick drag on her own and ended up saving his life.

  Anyway, the birds. The sun was just starting to rise, and the birds were winging back and forth across the sky like one giant creature instead of hundreds of little ones. Clara watched them for a while; then she said, “Can you imagine what it’s like, Raymond? Being part of something larger than yourself, knowing exactly where you fit in the world, then having it all ripped away from you, and finding yourself utterly and completely alone?”

  God, Will, it’s been years, and I can still hear her asking it. Even when she asked it, it had been two years since you’d been gone. When you died, Will…. Well, I knew exactly what Clara was talking about. You were everything, and I couldn’t even be with you at the end. I couldn’t tell anyone how my heart had been ripped out, or cry at your grave.

  Things are different now, but there’s no one I want to cry for the way I wanted to for you.

  Maybe that’s why Clara and I got along so well. We were alike in our loneliness. We both had things we couldn’t tell anyone about ourselves. Not all ghosts are about guilt. That’s something else Clara told me once, and I understand her now. Some ghosts are about sorrow, and loss. But God, Will, of all the ghosts to have haunt me, why did it have to be hers, and not yours?

  Ray

  *

  Incomplete Draft of Murmuration by Arthur Covington—typed manuscript with handwritten notes

  (EDWARD and CLAIRE face each other in EDWARD’s office, the same setting as their earlier confrontation. Light flickers through a screen painted to look like a window, suggesting a storm. CLAIRE holds a gun pointed at EDWARD.)

  EDWARD: Give me the gun, Claire. We both know you won’t shoot me.

  CLAIRE: You don’t know the first thing about me. You have no idea what I’ll do.

  EDWARD: Elizabeth is upstairs. She’ll hear the shot and call the police. There’s nowhere for you to go. You’ll be caught, and you’ll hang.

  CLAIRE (laughing bitterly): It doesn’t matter. They can’t kill me. It doesn’t matter what you took from me, I still can’t die. But you can.

  (CLAIRE steadies the gun. EDWARD finally shows a hint of fear.)

  EDWARD: Claire, be reasonable. I can—

  CLAIRE: No, you can’t. You can’t do anything. You tried to steal from me, but my life can’t be stolen, not that way. When you couldn’t steal it, you broke it, and now I can’t fly away either. I can’t leave this place, not while you’re alive.

  (EDWARD reaches for CLAIRE. OWEN enters STAGE RIGHT, dressed for bed. He looks between CLAIRE and EDWARD, confused, and takes a step toward CLAIRE.)

  OWEN: Will you tell my bedtime story?

  (CLAIRE fires. EDWARD falls, and OWEN puts his hands over his ears and screams. CLAIRE stands still for a moment, then drops to her knees. Running footsteps can be heard from offstage.)

  CLAIRE (barely audible): It didn’t work. I’m still here. Oh, God, it didn’t work.

  This is still shit. That’s how it happened, but no one will believe it. The truth is too strange.

  Clara shot Richard while Owen watched, and she didn’t run away. She let them arrest her. She confessed, but there was never a trial. She vanished out of the cell where they were holding her. The police were mystified.

  Shit. I could write my play closer to the truth. No one would know the difference except Elizabeth. Then she’d start asking questions. What’s the point? I can never produce this goddamn play, for her sake and for Owen’s.

  Clara shot Richard with Owen standing right there watching. He doesn’t remember, at least not consciously. His young mind couldn’t cope, so he shuttered the information away, but something like that doesn’t go away completely. It changes a person. It leaves a stain.

  I took Owen to see a hypnotist. Elizabeth doesn’t know. Dr. Samson put Owen into a trance, and Owen recounted word for word the whole exchange between Clara and Richard. In real life, Owen didn’t walk into the room the way I wrote it in the play. He was hiding under Richard’s desk, playing a game. He wanted to jump out and scare Clara. He saw the whole thing.

  That’s not the worst of it though. After describing his father’s murder, Owen started laughing. Dr. Samson thought it might be some sort of defense mechanism, his mind, even hypnotized, trying to protect him. He asked Owen about it, and Owen said he was laughing because the bird-lady was making pictures in the sky. She was telling the starlings which way to fly, like she used to on the boat from England.

  God help me, he was talking about Clara. I’m more sure now than ever—she isn’t human.

  *

  TRAGEDY STRIKES THE VICTORY THEATER!

  Herald Star—October 10, 1955

  Betsy Trimingham, Arts & Culture

  Owen Covington’s life was cut tragically short yesterday when he was struck by a subway train. As regular readers of this column know, Mr. Covington was both a playwright, and a hero. I spoke with a police officer who was “unable to comment on an ongoing investigation.” He declined to say whether foul play was suspected, but I do wonder how a young man in the prime of his life could simply slip from the subway platform in front of an oncoming train.

  Keep your eyes on this column, dear readers. The truth will out eventually, and I will report on it.

  *

  Personal Correspondence

  Raymond Barrow

  December 22, 2012

  Dearest Will,

  Here I am again with my pen and paper. I’ve been thinking a lot about paper lately, the pages Owen had from his uncle when he first pitched me the idea of his play. He wouldn’t let me read them for myself, he just sort of waved them around in front of me and said he was going to use them as the basis for his script. He only had fragments, Arthur Covington killed himself without ever finishing the play.

  Of course I read those fragments eventually. It wasn’t snooping, just protecting my investment. Besides, it was Owen’s fault for passing out drunk on my couch with the damn pages still in his jacket pocket.

  It was all there—Owen’s father Richard, his uncle Arthur, and Clara. Of course in the play they were Edward, Andrew, and Claire, but it’s obvious who they were supposed to be. Except it was fiction. Fantasy. Or maybe I was too stubborn to see what was right in front of my face.

  This is what I think now: Owen’s father did something terrible to Clara a long time ago
. Clara murdered him, and Owen witnessed the whole thing. Of course, Owen didn’t remember it happening, not consciously. Trauma and all that. But on some primal level he did remember. He was in love with Clara, or he thought he was. It was all tangled up in guilt and her killing his father, like some goddamned soap opera, but real.

  Clara loved Owen too, in her own way. Not the way he wanted her to, but like a mother bird that hatches an egg and realizes a cuckoo has snuck its own egg into her nest. Her baby is gone and she’s accidentally raised the cuckoo’s child, but she defends it and she cares for it because that’s her nature, and it’s not the baby’s fault after all.

  It’s why Owen tried to kill himself. He thought it would set her free. And it’s why Clara couldn’t let him.

  At first I didn’t believe it, any of it, but the more time I spent around them, the more time I spent with Clara…. God, Will. You were gone, and I didn’t have anyone else. I thought I could help Clara, do one good thing in my life and save her. I started thinking maybe Owen was right. Maybe if no one in his family was left alive, she could finally leave. I didn’t...I just bumped him, really. He lost his balance. He was so utterly piss drunk, he probably didn’t even feel it when the train hit him.

  I never told Clara, but I think she knew. She was the one who insisted the play go on, in Owen’s memory. I tried to convince her to leave. I’d just killed a man. I couldn’t think straight. I was raving, shouting at her. I think I almost hit her. But Clara just looked at me with this incredible pity in her eyes. She put her hand on my arm, and said, “Grief can change the nature of a person, Ray, when nothing else can. Enough loss, and it weighs you down, you forget how to fly.”