Her Thirties Part 71

Marilyn convinced herself she was the reincarnation of a dead female singer from the 1930’s and now she was about to sing with the orchestra and make a fool of herself.

I cringed. There was a helluva difference between singing to a recording and professionally singing with an orchestra.

I actually covered my eyes with one hand.

The clarinets and trumpets blared, and then Marilyn’s velvet voice cut in, dominating the band.

Every morning, every evening, ain’t we got fun.
Not much money, Oh, but honey ain’t we got fun?
The rent’s unpaid Dear, we haven’t a bus,
But smiles were made Dear, for people like us.

Guests around us were grinning from ear to ear and already a dozen couples were up on the dance floor.

“Holy Shit!” Abe hissed, “the girl is good.”

I glanced over at Ella and her head was bent and she was softly crying. Harry had an arm around her consoling her.

I slid into Marilyn’s chair, so I’d be facing her and reached across the table and placed my hand over hers.

She looked up at me, her blue eyes filled with tears. “It’s her—It’s Marilyn. I don’t know how, but she’s back.”

My eyes grew wide with shock.

“But how can that be Ella? —She’s been dead over seventy-five years.”

“I don’t know—but the inflections, the timing, the gestures—they’re all trademark Marilyn—nobody sang like her, or could.”

“You’re sure you didn’t tell her?”

“Tell her? How could I? I forgot about those nuances till she demonstrated them again here.”

There was a lump in my throat. I watched Marilyn with her sassy voice and gestures work the crowd—this was the artistry of a seasoned performer, not an amateur vocalist.

When she built to her crescendo, the crowd was on its feet applauding before she even finished. Everyone responded as if a new star was born.

I watched Ray Leonard leave his spot to walk over and whisper congratulations—I saw it on his face—everybody in the room knew. Whatever it took to be a star—Marilyn had it.

They huddled together a moment, and I saw her glance over at me as if harboring a secret. Then, Leonard returned to his place, nodded at Marilyn, and lifted his arm. I knew this song would be for me.

The way you wear your hat
The way you sip your tea
The memory of all that
No, no they can't take that away from me

The way your smile just beams
The way you sing off key
The way you haunt my dreams
No, no they can't take that away from me
We may never, never meet again
On the bumpy road to love
Still I'll always, always keep the memory of…
The way you hold your knife
The way we danced till three
The way you changed my life
No, no they can't take that away from me
No, they can't take that away from me.

She sang it as if she wrote it for me—and in a way I felt she did—only it was she who haunted my dreams and was unforgettable.

I sat and stared—tears streaming down my face. She knew and I knew—our love was an elemental.

When it was over, the guests were on their feet, giving her a standing ovation. I joined in—finally having my opportunity to applaud her.

The next number was an instrumental version of Begin the Beguine. She returned to the table amidst applause and congratulations along the way.

I stood for her and wore my crazy crooked grin. This time, I wasn’t trying to be charming—it was honestly how I felt—completely chagrined and very bedeviled.

She melted into my arms as if returning to her rightful place. I wept again. I tried to hold it in, but my body was shaking. She held me until it subsided.

Then, she placed her hands flat against my chest and gently pushed me back.

I waited for the cutesy remark that never came. No reference to Joe—just a dark luminosity in her eyes and a moistening of her lips.

Abe’s eyes crinkled. “If you two insist on standing, why don’t you dance?”

She looked at me, invitingly.

I led her to the dance floor as the orchestra began to play Our Love Is Here To Stay.

The evening was enchanted. The rain tapered off and stopped as the weatherman predicted.

Even after Delia took to the stage in a bright red variation of her former gown, the crowd seemed restless and wanted more of Marilyn.

Between sets, Ray Leonard dropped by the table, and implored Marilyn to sing one more number.

She agreed to sing the bluesy torch song, Stormy Weather—it seemed appropriate and when she began the first few mournful notes, a hush fell over the ballroom and remained until the last few notes faded away.

I think if Ray Leonard had his way, he would have sent Delia and her plus-sized gowns packing and hired Marilyn on the spot.

Abe lifted his glass to me and hoarsely whispered, “You’re a lucky guy, Pal—Marilyn’s a keeper.”

I nodded—as if, there was ever a doubt in my mind.

© 2018, John J Geddes. All rights reserved

Photo

Part 1 - 62
Part 63
Part 65
Part 66
Part 67
Part 68
Part 69
Part 70