Polly’s cheeks were seriously red now. “I think I’m just going to go up to my room now.” She was almost out of the kitchen before she added, “Have a nice night, everybody.”

Our father watched Polly disappear. Johnny glared at our father. John hadn’t returned from the cat room. I smelled tragedy. And heartbreak. I just wasn’t sure whose.

“So . . .” I said.

My sister Carol grabbed me by the sleeve, pulled me out of the kitchen.

“Ouch,” I said as she pushed me into the hallway. “That pinches.”

She dragged me about halfway up the stairs until we reached the step that, after years of childhood trial and error, we’d all discovered was low enough to spy on the floor below but high enough to keep the conversation private.

Dozens of family photographs hung in the hallway, gallery-like, flanking the staircase. A sepia wedding photo of my parents, Dad’s arm draped across Mom’s shoulders like a mantle, optimistic smiles on their faces. A color portrait of all six children taken on this very staircase: the three girls seated together on one step in identical pleated skirts and round-collared white blouses, the three boys a couple of steps higher in matching jackets and ties, their knees digging into our backs.

Six high school senior pictures in a long, staggered row. Snapshots of Christmas. Easter. Birthday parties. Summer vacations. Wedding photos. I’d taken down Kevin’s and my wedding picture the day our divorce had become final in a ceremony that involved my father’s biggest hammer and the sound of breaking glass while my family cheered me on. Just after John and I bought the house, I’d finally gotten around to printing out a selfie I’d taken of John and me and taping it up in the empty space.

Carol followed my glance. “Jeez Louise, get a real picture, will you? Like maybe taken by a professional photographer when you two actually get around to marrying each other.”

“Not your beeswax,” I said. “I hope you didn’t drag me all the way up here for a photo consult.”

“Sarah, Sarah, Sarah,” Carol said.

“That’s my name, don’t wear it out,” I said.

Carol leaned forward and looked around, then twisted her head to look up the stairs.

“Get her out of here,” she hissed. “Immediately. If not sooner.”

“Poppy? I mean, Polly?” I whispered. I looked around to make sure no one was sneaking up on us.

“Of course, Polly.” Carol let out a puff of air. “Dad and Johnny are both crazy about her. If we don’t get her out of here, eventually they’re going to go all Shakespeare and challenge each other to a duel or something. And if Dad wins, don’t kid yourself that we won’t be the ones changing those nappies. I mean, diapers.”

Chapter Twenty