Our salads arrived on a rink-sized tray, and as the waitress dispensed the cut crystal bowls, Irene left her chair to get a couple of shots of the family at dinner. As she focused the camera, I glanced into her open notebook, prising apart the knots of her script to see what she could possibly have found to write about Saucy the cat. lost, I read. intense and piercing sadness. Further down the page, I saw fantasy of drowning.

“Smile everyone,” Irene said, and I did, I looked into her despairing eyes and I smiled.