As guest of honour in her brother’s home, Grace was given the red chair.
His wife, Jeanie, served fresh brewed coffee, as Solly began to ’soften’ her up for a loan.
Solly was her baby brother, now in his forties, still unable to manage his affairs.

As Solly droned, Grace recalled their mother.
He wouldn’t.
He wasn’t a year old when the Spanish flu took Anna away. Grace had been fourteen, the little mother, with Benny and Jackie and little Solly to look after. Jackie was about three then, the same age as Solly’s daughter, Sara. There was a resemblance, she thought, as she swam through memories as browned as photographs.

Sara was sitting on the floor playing with a toy, singing a children’s song, but in French.
No.
It couldn’t be.

“What are you singing?” Grace demanded.

Sara stopped, fingers in mouth as if she’d let a secret escape. For a moment, her eyes were wise, then babyhood returned and she scurried away.

“She speaks French?” barked Grace at Solly.

“Oh course not. What are you thinking of?” he asked angrily, his constructed pleas for cash unheard by his rapidly aging sister, who seemed to be hurtling into senility.

Grace looked where Sara had been, then back to Solly. Years piled on. She him as he had been, now as he was. She wanted very much to go home, to return to her one room apartment where she was surrounded by her things, not in this pseudo modern knock off world of the ‘fabulist fifties’, as she named it.

When home, having written Solly a check, thus getting rid of him, she sat on the rocker and looked at nothing, remembering her life, which was far more interesting than Solly’s would ever be.

That night she dreamed of her past, of being a little girl in France before World War I…she was with her best friend, Hanna and they were singing… She was woken by a neighbor’s radio, playing the same song. The song she had heard Sara sing. But as sleep retreated, she realised her mistake. It was a popular tune, the melody only slightly resembling that which dissipated, leaving only the hint, not the words nor the tune.

* * *

Ten years later, Grace was at the table in Solly’s house. Sara was fourteen and the memory of the song was brought alive by the pattern on a plate. Solly droned, softening her up for another loan, and very quietly, in French, she asked Sara to pass the salt.
Sara did, and Grace remarked;

“How did you know what I said?”

Sara looked blank; “You asked me to pass the salt.”

“Yes, but I didn’t ask you in English.”

“Of course you did.” Sara replied.

Grace spoke to her in French and Sara looked around nervously. Whether she was playing or honest, Grace couldn’t tell. Solly was annoyed as his begging had been interrupted, so slapped Sara when she said;
“You asked in English!”.

Sara ran from the table, Grace rebuked Solly, then asked to be taken home, punishing him by not writing a cheque.

That was the penultimate time Grace saw Sara, and the last they spoke.

Sara labelled her the crazy aunt and avoided her. The matter would naturally end there, but Grace’s new neighbor had read Bridey Murphy and was sure reincarnation existed.

One day, while they sat in front of the building on folding chairs, Grace mentioned Sara’s singing in French and understanding the language.

Zelda wanted to meet Sara, but by this time, Grace and Solly weren’t speaking. There was no opportunity for reapproachment.

Grace died a few months later. Zelda went to the funeral to find Sara. After basic introductions, Sara, as any sullen teenager, dragged to a funeral for a trivial character in her life, was not at all interested nor interesting.

As Grace had often told Zelda of ‘Solly the beggar’, she realised if she could make him believe she would loan him money a connection could be formed. Lying in desperation, Zelda claimed to have money for him and a piece of jewelry for Sara.

As Solly was never one to pass up a chance at a loan, he couldn’t wait to toss his sister in the ground and get to Zelda’s apartment where he might be able to lay hands on treasures.

As they drove away from the cemetery, Zelda considered how she would hold their focus.
She thought of Grace.

As women who had neither husband nor child to take attention from themselves, Grace and Zelda had made a casual pact. Exchanging keys, they had vowed to race in and grab treasures at the other’s death. Zelda had found Grace’s body when the knocks weren’t answered. Before calling the police, Zelda cleaned out a drawer and the cabinet and moved Grace’s ‘magic’ table into her apartment.

When the police arrived, Zelda told them Grace’s door was unlocked. In those days it was not strange for doors to be unlocked to avoid locking one’s self out.

After Grace’s body was removed, Zelda had called Ben, Grace’s most stable brother. If she had thought, she’d of called Solly. Now, as Solly drove to her flat, Zelda scratched her brain trying to think of some way she could connect with Sara, and find the new Bridey Murphy. Zelda decided to loan Solly a hundred dollars with the provision of having Sara visit her once a week to repay in ten dollar installments.

Sara’s face was a portrait of disgust, as if she were asked to sleep beside Grace’s corpse. Solly was ready to sell his soul for that kind of bargain.

So against her will, every Sunday for the next ten weeks, Sara would be dropped off by her father, spend two hours with Zelda, then be picked up. If Sara had hated her father before, this new loathing moved it into the Guinness Book of Records.

Zelda looked forward to the first visit. She would do everything she could to please Sara. Somehow she must get the girl to like her, trust her, then, maybe, there would be a break
through. Somehow, Sara would prove that death, at least for some, was not the end.