Lullaby
Today, she is Elizabeth. Not Dr. Rodgers or Liz, and certainly not his Lizzy Day.
Her dress has a high neck and it would appear to be one of those itchy wool ones that you get stuck wearing to church. But Elizabeth doesn’t go to church - she’s not even sure if she believes in God - and in fact, her dress is rather comfortable, even if she is not.
Black high heels sink into the wet ground and she knows she should have worn her flats. Hell, she should have worn jeans and a sweatshirt. He wouldn’t have cared.
But today is his day. Even if no one else remembers, she wants to be here for him, she wants to look her best.
She pushes away the guilt she feels. Three years later, she still thinks about him every day. And yet, particularly in recent weeks and months, she finds herself moving away, moving…on.
Moving forward, urging her legs one in front of the other, clumps of mud and grass sticking to her heels, Elizabeth stands close to the headstone, places a hand on it, gently.
The time she spends with Danny is something she enjoys. But she’s not ready to let go of the man in front of her, the “fine detective, loving father, caring friend”. Actually, his headstone only states his name and his dates of birth and death. Had it said anything cheesy, anything remotely trite, she had no doubt he would have refused to have been buried beneath it.
For a good long while, she doesn’t speak, just stands there, hand to the headstone, marble cold to the touch.
When she finally does open her mouth, it’s not words that come out but a familiar tune, one he would sing to her. He’d swing her around by the hips, as if she were young, as if he were a movie star from the Golden Age. He never needed an expensive suit. That is not what made the man. It was his voice, the swagger in his step. He’d look down at her, lean forward, baritone voice in her ear…
She sings aloud, softly, for him.
“Come on along and listen to
The lullaby of Broadway.”
She sniffles slightly, remembering the mischievous smile he’d always wear, loosening his tie as he started a song.
Continuing, she imagines him with her, hamming it up.
“The hip hooray and bally hoo,
The lullaby of Broadway.
The rumble of the subway train,
The rattle of the taxis.
The daffy-dills who entertain
At Angelo's and Maxie's.”
She doesn’t notice the tears until they’re sliding down her cheeks.
Swallowing, Elizabeth goes on,
”When a Broadway baby says "Good night,"
It's early in the morning.
Manhattan babies don't sleep tight until the dawn..
Good night, baby…”
She is a widow, twice over, even though she has only been married once. Her voice cracks and she closes her eyes, taking a blind step back.
“Good night, milkman's on his way.
Sleep tight, baby…”
She trails off and then whispers it again, quietly, “Good night, baby.”
Her dress has a high neck and it would appear to be one of those itchy wool ones that you get stuck wearing to church. But Elizabeth doesn’t go to church - she’s not even sure if she believes in God - and in fact, her dress is rather comfortable, even if she is not.
Black high heels sink into the wet ground and she knows she should have worn her flats. Hell, she should have worn jeans and a sweatshirt. He wouldn’t have cared.
But today is his day. Even if no one else remembers, she wants to be here for him, she wants to look her best.
She pushes away the guilt she feels. Three years later, she still thinks about him every day. And yet, particularly in recent weeks and months, she finds herself moving away, moving…on.
Moving forward, urging her legs one in front of the other, clumps of mud and grass sticking to her heels, Elizabeth stands close to the headstone, places a hand on it, gently.
The time she spends with Danny is something she enjoys. But she’s not ready to let go of the man in front of her, the “fine detective, loving father, caring friend”. Actually, his headstone only states his name and his dates of birth and death. Had it said anything cheesy, anything remotely trite, she had no doubt he would have refused to have been buried beneath it.
For a good long while, she doesn’t speak, just stands there, hand to the headstone, marble cold to the touch.
When she finally does open her mouth, it’s not words that come out but a familiar tune, one he would sing to her. He’d swing her around by the hips, as if she were young, as if he were a movie star from the Golden Age. He never needed an expensive suit. That is not what made the man. It was his voice, the swagger in his step. He’d look down at her, lean forward, baritone voice in her ear…
She sings aloud, softly, for him.
“Come on along and listen to
The lullaby of Broadway.”
She sniffles slightly, remembering the mischievous smile he’d always wear, loosening his tie as he started a song.
Continuing, she imagines him with her, hamming it up.
“The hip hooray and bally hoo,
The lullaby of Broadway.
The rumble of the subway train,
The rattle of the taxis.
The daffy-dills who entertain
At Angelo's and Maxie's.”
She doesn’t notice the tears until they’re sliding down her cheeks.
Swallowing, Elizabeth goes on,
”When a Broadway baby says "Good night,"
It's early in the morning.
Manhattan babies don't sleep tight until the dawn..
Good night, baby…”
She is a widow, twice over, even though she has only been married once. Her voice cracks and she closes her eyes, taking a blind step back.
“Good night, milkman's on his way.
Sleep tight, baby…”
She trails off and then whispers it again, quietly, “Good night, baby.”