“Knock it off, Carol,” I said. “Now.”

“That’s okay,” Polly said. “The baby’s mine. There is no father.”

Carol raised her eyebrows. “Immaculate conception? We were brought up just Catholic enough to believe it.”

Polly shrugged. “Something like that.”

Silence hung in the room like a wet beach towel. The truth, which my older sister would never, ever drag out of me no matter how hard she tried, was that Polly’s ex-husband was the father of her baby.

Said ex had left Polly for another woman, after talking Polly into not having kids because he didn’t think it was fair to the kids he’d already had with his first wife.

Eventually Polly had decided that she did want kids after all. She lured her ex into post-breakup sex. He had three kids with his first wife and another one with his third wife. So Polly figured the least he could do for his second wife was to save her a trip to the sperm bank. He’s an asshole, I remembered Polly telling me, but he’s got good genes.

I’d asked her if he knew she was pregnant.

He doesn’t know, she’d said. He’ll never know, he wouldn’t be the least bit interested even if he did know, and his name will not be on the birth certificate. End of story.

Back in the cat room, nobody was saying anything. Not only that, but those of us who weren’t pregnant were running out of wine.

“I like your shirt,” I said to Johnny, just for a conversation starter.

Johnny looked down at his shirt, or Celtic dashiki, or whatever it was. “It blew my mind when I saw it. This tree of life represents the idea of something rooted to the ground and striving to the heavens at the same time. And like wow, man, the endless cycle of regeneration. We live, we croak, we’re reborn. I get blissed out just by the awe overload.”

He closed his eyes, maybe demonstrating his blissed-out state, then opened them again. “The Celtic knots that surround the tree of life have no beginning or end, which symbolizes the timeless nature of our spirit. Those Celtic knots are totally bitchin’.”

“What is your problem?” Carol said. “I mean, the last person who said bitchin’ was a freakin’ Valley Girl.”

“Don’t blow your cool, sis.” Johnny balanced the kitten on his knee. He dug his fork into the Boston cream pie, scooped a big bite into his mouth. “Life’s way too short.”