Page 62 of The Ghostwriter

June 3, 1975

Ten more days of school. It’s all anyone can talk about. That and the end-of-year carnival at the high school. What rides there will be. Which cute carnies will be returning. What the kids are going toreallydo while their parents think they’re at the carnival. I take a bite of roast beef—my mother overcooked it again—and chew, trying to ignore the simmering anger radiating off Vince. The show of indifference from Danny. Trying to shake off the memory of the sound of their bodies hitting the wall. The way Vince seemed to want to kill Danny. And then literally admitting that to me later.

My mother keeps trying to make small talk. Little attempts to draw one of us out. “I heard that the federal government has done away with separate PE classes for boys and girls. Next year, you’ll all be in PE together,” she says, looking at each of us in turn, hoping we’ll chime in with an opinion.

“Gerald Ford is a stooge,” my father says to no one. “He’s a placeholder, nothing more. Totally useless.”

I can’t resist. “It’s his wife who should be president,” I say. “She’s the one with the real vision, talking about breast cancer and abortion.”

“Poppy,” my mother warns.

“Come on, Mom. You can say the words. ‘Breast cancer. Abortion.’”

“You’re being ridiculous,” my father says to me. “A woman will never be president.”

“Why not?” I challenge.

“Enough,” my mother says, and we all look at her, trembling in her seat, trying to hold a happy expression on her face but failing miserably. “Not at the table.”

My father ignores her, holding his knife up to make his point. “At least Ford got one thing right—pardoning Nixon. That would have been a real mess.”

“You know what’s a real mess,” Vince says. All eyes draw to him, mostly because he’s barely said two words to anyone other than me since his fight with Danny. “Poppy’s closet.”

I hesitate, my fork frozen in midair.

“Go on,” Vince says, goading me. Not letting me sit there and pretend I didn’t hear the clue.

I push my chair back and walk toward my room. Behind me, I hear my mother say, “Do you have to play that game at dinnertime?”

I kick through the scattered clothes and books on my floor and go straight to my closet, sliding the doors open. I push my dresses aside, my gaze traveling across the back for anything he might have hidden there. Then I sift through the jumble of shoes on the floor, scattering them all over the place.

“Come back to the table, Poppy,” my mother calls.

I pick up each shoe, feeling around inside it for a piece of paper. I won’t let Vince know that my heart isn’t in this hunt. That he’s starting toscare me. I stand and slip my hand under my sweaters on the shelf, but there’s nothing.

“Is it too much to ask that we have a nice meal without people tearing my house apart?” my mother says.

I pull everything out and pile it in the middle of my room. Still nothing.

“Poppy,” my father calls, his voice a warning. I have about thirty seconds left before there’s real trouble.

I grab my flashlight from under my pillow and shine it around the now empty closet. Into every corner, every crevice. That’s when I see it.

Written on the interior wall in marker, my brother has given me the key word that will unlock the puzzle.

Someday soon, you’ll be dead.

All thought seems to drain out of me, replaced by fear. His words from the other night—I wish he was dead—and now this.

“Poppy!” My father calls. Louder. No longer willing to wait.

I leave the mess and return to the table. Vince stares at me but says nothing, spearing a piece of asparagus on the end of his fork. I take another bite of mashed potatoes and try to swallow them.

“Well?” Vince says.

I set my fork down.

“It goes with the clue you found in the garage,” he tells me when I don’t say anything. “You have to put them together.”

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