“Flapjacks?” Sarah had never heard the word.

“Yeah, flapjacks. That what some people call them. Or used to.” I made a show of flipping a cake. “There’s even something called johnnycakes.”

“What are they made of?” Sarah asked.

“Johnny, I suppose.”

The girl laughed.

“What about a game of chess this afternoon?”

“Okay.”

It was clear that neither Meg nor I were going to broach the subject of Sarah’s illness this morning. It was tacit but clear, transpicuous. It felt good not to talk about it. The failure to address the topic also made me feel weak. That was fine, I thought, thinking that evidently, in this regard, I was weak.

I drove Sarah to school. We didn’t say much, but it was all very like any other morning. She fiddled with the radio, complained about the music of her generation, ridiculed the music of mine, and settled on the classical station.

“I hate Vivaldi,” she said.

“Everyone hates Vivaldi, but no one will admit it.”

“Queen pawn to d4,” she said. “That’s my opening move. I want you thinking about that.”

“You love messing with me.”

“It’s so easy.” She looked out her window. “Most underrated rock band.”

“The Monkees,” I said. “Most overrated rock band.”

“The Beatles,” she said.

“Most overrated painter.”

“Georgia O’Keeffe,” she said.

“Really?”

“Flat.”

“Most overrated novel?” I asked.

Together we said, “Infinite Jest.”

“Still, I’m sorry he’s dead,” Sarah said.

We didn’t say anything else during the short balance of the drive. I let her out, watched her merge into the stream and disappear through the door, all the while feeling like the liar that I actually was.

c4 e6

Finley Huckster was my age, but, though I had no doubt he was in better shape than I was, he looked considerably older. Still, we were fairly evenly matched on the squash court. The play was good for me up to a point, and then depression overtook me again. Huckster noticed.

“You want to talk about it?” he asked.

“My daughter is dying,” I said, flatly.

“I didn’t expect that,” he said and fell silent.

That was the first time I had said it out loud to anyone. I cannot say that it felt bad or good, but I felt somehow stronger.

“How is she?” Huckster asked. “You know what I mean.”

“She’s not suffering.” I could tell that he didn’t know whether it was appropriate to ask what was killing her. “It’s a neurological disease. Batten disease. I’d never heard of it either. I wish it was good old-fashioned epilepsy.”

“What’s to be done for it?”

“Apparently nothing. We’ll get the customary second and third opinions, but I trust this doctor. Sadly.”

“So, what now?”