Sylvia slams the receiver down, flinging her hand away as if shocked. The phone immediately rings. It rings and rings. And she can’t help herself. The spooks in her childhood closet? The pathos of “The Little Match Girl”? The delicious terror that she might trip and fall onto the tracks of the Boston subway? She never could resist the temptation to run her tongue over those tender fears. She picks the receiver up.

This is the overseas operator, says the bored Marylebone voice on the line. She pauses to exhale, the end of her cigarette brightening as she takes another puff. I have a call coming through from America.

I don’t want the call—Sylvia says briskly, pulling the receiver away from her ear.

It’s Mummy, Sylvia, says a spidery, faraway voice.

Sylvia holds the phone inches from her head, wrestling with indecision.

Sivvy, it’s Mummy. It’s very expensive to call at this hour—, she says, turning the age-old blade of guilt.

Finally Sylvia abuts the receiver to her ear.

Sylvia, I’m so worried, Aurelia says.

You’re worried? You’re worried? Sylvia thinks. You’re not even having this dream.

I’ve got the house all ready, Aurelia says assuredly, as if she might vanquish resistance by sheer breathless trajectory. The children can have your brother’s room. And you can share your old room with me, just as before—we can be roommates, just as when Grammy and Grampy came to live with us.

Why can’t I have the guest room now that Grammy’s dead and Grammy is in the nursing home? Sylvia asks, nibbling but suspicious, like an old fish.

Why—Aurelia stalls—why, I thought you’d want it just the way it was before. We can pretend it’s all just the same. You know, pillow talk, just the two of us.

NO—Sylvia says, suddenly struggling free. No—I’m not coming back there. I’m never coming back.

But Sivvy, Aurelia pleads, you could get a high-paying teaching job anywhere in Boston and still live at home. You could save so much money for the children. You could even go back to Smith if you wanted. I’ve called—

You what? Sylvia bellows into the phone. Who did you call?

I just called Mrs. Prouty, Sylvia, Aurelia says, scrambling. Just Mrs. Prouty.

I’m not coming back! Sylvia shrieks at her mother.

Sylvia, Aurelia says, her voice hardening. Don’t speak to me in that tone. Don’t you forget that Mrs. Prouty’s generosity put you through Smith—

You would have made an exceptional teacher, Sylvia! Mrs. Prouty’s stentorious voice breaks in. A rara avis, Sylvia. With your education, all to waste.…, she adds pityingly.

We put our faith in you, Sylvia, her mother remonstrates, the hurt in her voice ratcheting strategically.