But then there was something else to consider. If she left black publishing, she would lose stature, not in the larger world of professionals, but in the smaller world defined by race, where her status was inflated because so many talented black people lacked the access needed to gain the qualifications and experience she had. She was like a third-world student with an American engineering degree who can choose between an entry-level job at Bell Atlantic, where she can grow in value and experience, and going home to become Junior Undersecretary for Telecommunications with a villa and a chauffeur and direct responsibility for maintaining the four rotary-dial telephones in a far-flung province.

Which to choose? Satisfaction or status? She was thinking about this when the meeting came to a close.

She called Claire when she got in that evening, suspecting that Fire was there, hoping that he would answer, unsure of what she would say. She paced her room as she dialed, changing from her cream-colored pantsuit to a light brown shift.

She would apologize immediately, she said to herself as the phone rang. Yes, she would do that first … then … she didn’t know … she would just—

Claire clicked over from the other line. “Hallo.”

“Oh, hi Claire, how are y—”

“Fine, but I can’t talk now. I have to rush a friend to the airport. Can I call you back?”

“Oh, which friend is this?” she asked, taking pains to sound disinterested.

“Fire … I’m sure you remember Fire. You were flirting with him shamelessly on your doorstep.”

“Oh him? Oh, stop, we were just joking around. Tell him I said hi.”

She wished for the courage to ask to speak with him. But so many things were rushing through her head. He might accidentally say something to give Claire the idea that they were having, or had had—she wasn’t sure—an affair. What would she do then? Their world was so small. Claire knew Ian, Margaret, and Lewis. Margaret and Ian had recently broken up, and according to Fire, she and Phil were together now. That tramp. And of course Margaret and Lewis used to be involved.

“Do you want to tell him yourself?” Claire asked.

“No. It’s all right,” she replied. “Just tell him Sylvia says hi. Who knows? He’s probably forgotten who I am.”

She heard him in the background, urging Claire to get off the phone, and began to wonder if he knew with whom Claire was speaking.

“Listen, Sylvia, I’ll talk to you later,” Claire said. “We have to go, okay?”

He must know for sure now, she thought. In fact he must have raised his voice to make me hear it—to torture me. I opened up to him in ways I’ve never opened up to Lewis. He knows more than Lewis about my past, my insecurities, my passions, my sexuality. Jesus, how can he not know that I’m sorry?

“Listen … Claire … could you ask him …”

“I really can’t talk,” Claire said. “We have to go. He’s already missed one flight. Bye-bye.”