Five

In one hand, Greta held the phone. She continued the story, pretending she was telling about someone else. That was the best way to lie.

"No. Haven't met the neighbors," Greta answered.

In the other hand, there was the picture of her grandmother in front of L'Royale.

Another question. Greta answered. "Lot's of places -- dinner, grocery store."

There was an old cashier at the grocery. She wondered if he'd been here long enough, had ever gone to L'Royale to see a show, a petite woman on stage called Miss Emerson.

The man at the theater had just called her Emerson. His voice failed when he said the word. He blamed smoking, not the word.

Greta listened to her mother's voice again. "I forgot the camera. Sorry, mom."

She looked like the woman in the phone, not the one in the snapshot, Greta thought. Not the one she'd always wanted to be. She lacked the stage presence, the charisma. This was why she'd always cast her grandmother as the lead.

The man never asked if she was dead, how she'd died, where she'd gone when she left his life, who the father of her kids was, why Greta had come.

Words babbled in the telephone. Greta thought of the man's gravelly voice. "Emerson," he'd said, "had a voice for telling stories. I recognized your voice before the name. Before the picture. Just like she were calling me. You put words together like she did. I wish I could keep those somehow."

"I wish you would write," her mother said.

She'd started, Greta thought, but her words had failed her. Maybe if they weren't her words, she could do it. Maybe if they were her grandmother's.