Page 68 of The Ghostwriter

“Was it about my mother’s abortion?” I ask. The mask of friendliness slips from his face, just for a second. “My father remembers a fight he had with Danny, where Danny was antagonizing him,” I continue. “Telling him about the abortion and that the person who takes a woman to get one is usually the father. Do you know who took her?”

“I did,” he says, defiant. “And I have no regrets. She needed a trusted adult, and I was glad to be that for her. But the baby was definitely not mine.”

I look at him, trying to gauge his truthfulness and he holds my gaze. “Did you know whose it was?” I ask.

His eyes narrow, as if wondering what I’m suggesting. “I assumed it was Vince’s, but I didn’t ask and she didn’t volunteer.”

I think again of the words Poppy was too afraid to write in her diary. The way my father attacked his brother, an idea forming. “Do you think it could have been Danny’s?”

But Mr. Stewart shakes his head. “I doubt it,” he says. “Your mother didn’t care for him very much.”

“That’s not what I heard.”

“Trust me. Danny was horrible to your father. He tormented him constantly, and it bothered Lydia. I tried to tell her that was just how brothers were.”

“Perhaps it wasn’t consensual,” I suggest.

“Honestly, I don’t see it. She didn’t behave in a way that would ever have led me to believe she’d been assaulted.”

I have to bite my tongue to keep myself from asking how, exactly, a woman who’d been assaulted should behave. What clues she was supposed to give that would allow others to pick up on her trauma.

He pinches the bridge of his nose. “I’m sorry, but this is still a very painful topic for me.”

“Is there anything else you can tell me about that day?”

He shakes his head. “I wish I had more answers for you. I’ve gone over it again and again over the years. None of it makes any sense.”

“I appreciate you taking the time to talk with me,” I say, standing.

He walks me to the front door and opens it. “I used to always tell my studentsInformation is power.It’s never wrong to seek the answers you need.”

“It must be hard for you to still live here and remember that day.”

“It’s never far from the surface, but time has a way of healing,” he says.

I can’t help but think that’s not the case for everyone. It hasn’t healed Mark Randall. It hasn’t healed Margot, or my father.

“I’ve got one last question for you. Obviously, my father wasn’t the killer since he was with you and my mother in the oak grove. So who do you think did it?”

Mr. Stewart gives a small shake of his head and says, “I’ve been asking myself that for almost fifty years. I can’t imagine anyone in Ojai wanting to hurt Poppy. Or Danny, for that matter. I think it was the man who picked Poppy up hitchhiking. The timing of it, the fact that he knew about the carnival. It seems likely that he might have returned to find her.”

Poppy

June 7, 1975

I walk down the highway, the early morning sun already warming the back of my neck. The highway is deserted at this time of day on a Saturday, and I’ve stashed my bike in the bushes, like Vince and Lydia did when they went to see Pink Floyd. I asked my mother if she would drive me into Ventura so I could go to the ERA rally happening at the city college, but she said it would be a waste of time.

“Don’t you want to have the same rights as Dad?”

“What does that even mean, Poppy?” She’d been rolling up the cord to the iron, tucking it into the hall closet. “Do I want to worry about paying bills? Getting drafted into the next war?” She shook her head. “I don’t think you want that either.”

“What about financial independence?” I’d pressed, following her into the kitchen. “What if something happens to Dad? At the very least, you should have your own credit card. You can now, you know.”

“I’m perfectly happy with the credit card I have,” my mother had said. “The one with your father’s name works just fine.”

I pushed forward. “What if Dad leaves you for a younger woman? What will you do then?”

My mother laughed. “That’s why I have three children,” she said, pulling a roast out of the refrigerator and setting it on the counter. “One of you will take care of me.” Then she turned to look at me. “Poppy, most women don’t have the time or the energy to worry about equal rights. We’re too busy.”

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