Effie Starr Zook Has One More Question

by Martha Freeman

  For reporters who, like Effie, ask questions in pursuit of the truth.

  CHAPTER

  1

  Effie Starr Zook looked out the bedroom window, and what she saw made her heart go thud. There in the pen with Alfred the Goat stood a little boy.

  Alfred the Goat was big and black with a devilish beard, a devilish temperament, and devilish big horns, too. So far, busy at his hayrack, he hadn’t noticed he had company. When he did, there would be trouble.

  This happened on a Thursday afternoon in June. Effie was spending the summer with her aunt and uncle. She had been there only since Sunday, but already she knew all about Alfred the Goat. One time he had knocked Uncle Ted flat in a dispute over hay. Another time Aunt Clare had been cleaning his hooves when he twisted free, turned around, and butted her. Aunt Clare said the bruise lasted for weeks. She wouldn’t say where the bruise was.

  Effie’s bedroom window was in the back of her aunt and uncle’s pretty yellow farmhouse. The window overlooked the goat pen, the brick-red barn, a grassy field, and the woods beyond. I bet that little boy will be fine, she thought. I bet I can just go back to reading my book. Anyway, it’s not my fault if little kids go climbing into pens with goats. Little kids are not my responsibility.

  This last sentence was barely formed when Alfred the Goat swung his head around, noticed the intruder, and raised his horns.

  Effie thought, This is not good.

  Then she closed her book and ran downstairs.

  Effie Starr Zook had lived her whole life in New York City. She knew in what year the French gave Lady Liberty to America. She knew a smoothie from a lassi, a cemita from a torta, and a latte from a cappuccino. She knew where to catch the jitney for the Hamptons.

  She did not know much about goats.

  As she fiddled with the latch on the gate to Alfred’s pen, she reassured herself: Things usually turn out fine. Soon I’ll be back to my book.

  But when the latch gave way, her knees turned watery. At the same time, a voice rang out in the distance: “Scaredy-cat! Scaredy-cat! Scaredy-scaredy-scaredy-cat!”

  Effie looked and saw a second boy across the field, a boy about her own age. He was looking at the little one, who now stood in the opposite corner of the pen. He didn’t seem to see Effie at all. Maybe that’s the big brother, Effie thought, and the big brother has dared the little one to climb in with Alfred the Goat and do something. But what?

  This question was soon answered. The little boy took three giant steps, reached forward, tugged the goat’s pointy black beard, then turned and ran like crazy.

  Alfred was surprised but hesitated only a second before putting his head down to charge. He moved fast, but Effie moved faster. She leaped and landed squarely between the advancing goat and the retreating boy.

  Elsewhere at that same moment other things were happening.

  In the nearby town of Penn Creek, the owner of the bookstore took a sip of coffee and started a new chapter of Anna Karenina. In the state capital eighty miles away, a newspaper reporter tapped her pencil, waiting for her editor to say she could have extra time to work on a big story. Across two oceans, Effie Starr Zook’s pioneering aviator parents haggled with a taxi driver over the fare to a remote desert airfield.

  And the Earth spun and the universe expanded, and Effie Zook braced herself. She had never been butted by a goat before. She had no idea what it would be like.

  CHAPTER

  2

  Alfred was a goat of few talents, but one of them was knocking things over. He had been doing it his whole life. He was good at it. But the sudden appearance of this girl messed with both his aim and his momentum. He didn’t knock her over, only bumped her hard in the leg.

  “Ouch!” she said at the same time the boy climbed over the fence.

  Rubbing her thigh, Effie backed away from Alfred. “Ni-i-i-ice goat,” she lied. “What do you say I bring you oats and you leave me alone? Isn’t that a good idea?”

  Alfred the Goat thought this over, but only for a moment. He was annoyed. He wanted to do some damage. Once again, he lowered his head and readied himself to charge.

  Maybe things will not be okay, thought Effie, backing up, but at the same time something shot over the fence and—thwack—struck the big goat in the flank. Alfred bleated and spun around. Effie grabbed her chance and, a moment later, backed through the gate to safety.

  “Who are you?” the big kid asked. He had run across the field by this time. He was only a few feet away.

  Effie turned to face him. He was skinny and dressed in worn denim overalls and a too-big Steelers ball cap that came down over his black eyebrows. “Did you throw a rock?” she wanted to know. She was thinking the kid must have a good arm.

  “God never made a rock that could hurt that goat,” the boy said. “So who are you?”

  “This is my family’s property,” said Effie. “Who are you?”

  The little boy, also wearing overalls, had gone to stand close to his brother. Now he took his thumb out of his mouth and said, “It isn’t your property. It’s Zooks’.”

  “I am a Zook,” said Effie.

  The little boy shook his head. “No, you’re not. Zooks is grown-ups.”

  “Not all of ’em. I’m Effie Starr Zook. What was he doing in the goat pen anyway?” she asked the big boy. “Did you send him in there?”

  Instead of answering the question, the big boy said, “Look, to tell you the truth, we shouldn’t even be talking to you.”

  Effie made a face. “Well, that’s preposterous. We’re neighbors. Besides which, I’m a kid. I’m not dangerous.”

  “Maybe not,” said the boy, “and maybe so.”

  Effie thought, It’s too bad this boy is peculiar because he’s the only kid I know in the whole state of Pennsylvania.

  Effie said, “Yeah, okay, whatever. Anyway, keep your brother out of our goat pen from now on, please. Alfred’s mean, in case you didn’t know.”

  The little boy removed his thumb from his mouth again and stuck out his chin like a tough guy. “Who made you the boss of us?” he snarled.

  This was so silly and unexpected that it made Effie laugh, and the big brother, too. As for the little guy, he was so embarrassed, he started to cry.

  Effie felt bad. “Oh gosh. I’m sorry. Do you want a tissue? Do you want some water?”

  The big boy did not feel bad. “Cut it out, E.J.,” he said. “We’re going home.”

  The little boy sniffed that he wanted a tissue, and Effie ran to the house, grabbed a handful, and came back. The little boy took one, wiped his whole face, and asked for a glass of water.

  The big brother was exasperated. “Come on, E.J.,” he said. “We’ll get a drink at home.”

  Effie ignored this and gestured toward the house. “There’s juice if you want,” she said.

  “Berry juice?” said the little boy. “That’s my favorite.”

  CHAPTER

  3

  Effie told the big boy that he could come in too.

  The big boy shook his head. “My pa would skin me,” he said.

  “That’s gross,” Effie said, and closed the door.

  While Effie fixed juice for the boy, she made conversation. “So, your name’s, uh . . . E.J.? I mean, you don’t have to tell me, not if you’ll get in trouble.”

  “I can do what I want.” The little boy took the glass of juice and guzzled half. “My name is Ezekiel Joseph. Ezekiel was a Hebrew prophet, and Joseph was married to Mary. Do you know who Mary was?”

  “Jesus’s mom,” said Effie. “What’s your brother’s name?”

  “I got two,” E.J. said. “One’s Adam, one’s Luke. They’re old. Do yo
u want to hear their middle names?”

  “I’d probably forget,” Effie said.

  “Will you forget me?” E.J. asked.

  “I probably won’t,” said Effie.

  “Promise you won’t,” said the boy, and Effie promised. . . . At the same moment someone knocked on the back door. When Effie opened it, there was the kid in the Steelers cap. It was his turn to look embarrassed.

  “May I have E.J. back, please?” he said, and then the words poured out. “Look, I’m sorry. I know I shouldn’t’ve dared him to pull that old goat’s beard, but he drives me crazy sometimes—the way he’s so stuck-up and sure of himself. All the boys in my family are that way. Then he won’t do what I want when I’m minding him. He told me nothing scared him, and I said what about the Zooks’ goat . . . and it kind of went from there.”

  “He might’ve really been hurt,” Effie said.

  “May I have him back?” the kid said.

  “Come on, E.J.,” Effie called. “Your brother’s here. Time to go home.”

  E.J. appeared in the doorway between the kitchen and the mudroom. “That’s not my brother,” he said.

  “Oh!” said Effie. “I’m sorry. I just assumed he—”

  But before Effie could say what she assumed, the big kid laughed—more of a giggle—and tugged at the Steelers cap, which fell to the ground, revealing a whole lot of wavy dark hair.

  “I’m his sister,” the kid said, “and my name is Moriah Yoder. And, like you guessed, we live on the other side of the woods. But please don’t tell my pa I said so.”

  “I don’t know your pa,” said Effie, “and I’m sorry I thought you were a boy.”

  Moriah shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. According to Mama, I don’t have a lady shape yet, which is lucky for me, says Mama. E.J., we have weeding to do. They’ll be looking for us.”

  “You’re welcome to come over anytime,” said Effie. “I don’t know other kids around here.”

  “Thanks,” said Moriah, “but I don’t think your relatives will be mailing us invitations. We wouldn’t be here now, only I saw the truck was gone. I never counted on you.”

  Effie was baffled. “I don’t understand.”

  “Me neither,” said Moriah. “All I know is something happened a long time ago, and it’s grown-up stuff.”

  Moriah put her hand on E.J.’s shoulder and steered him toward home. Wriggling out of her grasp, he said, “Thank you for the juice, Effie Starr Zook!”

  “You’re welcome,” said Effie, and she watched them walk across the field. Halfway home, Moriah waved a final time and called, “Good-bye!”

  “Good-bye, Moriah!” Effie raised her hand back. She was hoping Moriah might look around, but she didn’t.

  CHAPTER

  4

  W hen Moriah and E.J. disappeared into the trees, Effie felt a pang as if she’d lost a friend.

  She told herself she was being preposterous. You don’t even know that girl! Also, she was peculiar. Why wouldn’t she come in the house? Why wasn’t she even supposed to talk to me?

  Effie thought it was possible that Moriah might be Amish. E.J. had said his name was from the Bible, and Effie knew the Amish were very religious. Effie had seen Amish people selling vegetables and baked goods at outdoor markets by the road. She had seen their black carriages lit by lanterns at night and pulled by trotting horses.

  She tried to think of what else she knew about the Amish. They mostly kept to themselves. They didn’t use electricity. They didn’t drive cars. They had their own language and their own schools.

  But Amish girls had to wear dresses all the time, didn’t they? Not overalls and Steelers caps.

  Still puzzling, Effie went to make sure Alfred the Goat was okay. Back at his hayrack, he lifted his head when Effie looked over the fence at him.

  Until she’d gotten to her aunt and uncle’s farm, Effie had always thought goats were cute. Then she’d taken a good look at Alfred’s eyes. A goat’s pupils are horizontal oblongs on the iris—very weird. Uncle Ted had explained that the shape and placement helped goats see threats to the far left or far right.

  “It’s nature’s way of helping a poor defenseless goat spot a predator,” he’d said.

  Defenseless? Effie could feel the spot where Alfred’s horns had bumped her. If you ask me, those eyes are signs of a deep-down character flaw, she thought. You just can’t trust a goat.

  Out loud, Effie said, “You know it wasn’t me that threw the rock, right?” She worried Alfred might want revenge.

  The goat’s answer was to raise his tail and release a pile of pellets.

  “Gross,” said Effie, but she was also relieved. Apparently the rock hadn’t damaged the parts in charge of digestion.

  Effie was still standing by Alfred’s pen when she heard her aunt and uncle’s truck coming up the driveway. Boris, the old, furry, filthy farm dog, had been napping on the porch. Now he roused himself and barked once by way of greeting.

  If you were any kind of watchdog, you would’ve defended Alfred from invaders, Effie thought. But she wasn’t surprised that Boris had slept through the whole episode. Her aunt and uncle said he heard only things he didn’t expect would cause him any trouble.

  The driveway from the road to the house was long, and several minutes passed before the red pickup pulled up beside Effie, and Uncle Ted jumped out.

  “Greetings, sprite!” he said. “Did you miss us? Do you want to help us unload?”

  “You don’t have to,” said Aunt Clare. “It’s hot, dusty work. You might not like it.”

  Effie said she didn’t mind, and her uncle passed her a white plastic sack of feed from the bed of the truck. It was almost as big as she was.

  Effie wanted to ask her aunt and uncle about Moriah and E.J., but the two of them were talking to each other. Effie heard words like deed and title and parcel.

  What could possibly be more boring?

  Finally there was a break in the conversation, and Effie jumped in. “You know the kids that live on the other side of the woods?” she said.

  Aunt Clare and Uncle Ted stopped what they were doing and looked first at her and then at each other.

  “What?” said Effie.

  “Oh dear,” said Aunt Clare.

  Uncle Ted’s smile looked forced. “I have an idea, sprite. We’ll talk about it later. Are you free for hors d’oeuvres? There will be cheese, crackers, dips, and ginger ale—with a cherry if you want one. Meanwhile, isn’t that bag too heavy for you?”

  “It’s fine,” said Effie, but her uncle already had jumped down from the truck bed and taken it out of her arms.

  “Your mother would never forgive me if you strained anything,” said her aunt. “Don’t you have a book to read or something to watch on that tablet thing of yours?”

  Effie said, “I guess,” and turned back toward the house. Going up the steps to the porch, she happened to glance down. There among the seedlings in the flower bed lay a black-and-gold Steelers ball cap.

  CHAPTER

  5

  Effie’s Aunt Clare was beautiful. Effie’s mother was beautiful. Effie’s father and uncle were, to put it plainly, hunks.

  Any of them could’ve been a model or a movie star, according to Jasmine, Effie’s best friend at home in New York City. Effie had learned not to mind when she heard that kind of comment, even though it implied astonishment that someone as ordinary-looking as Effie could be the near relation of gorgeous.

  And Effie was ordinary-looking. Among the other eleven-year-old girls at her school, she was a little shorter than average and a little more square. Her hair was brown and opinionated. Her best feature, her eyes, were warm and brown besides being unusually large like her mother’s and aunt’s.

  It was obvious to everyone in the family, including Effie, where her looks came from. Except for the wide eyes, she was the spitting image of her great-grandmother, whose name had also been Effie. The first Effie had died before the second one was born, but there was a black-and-whi
te photograph of her in a silver frame that hung on the wall by Effie’s mother’s desk. There were photos of Effie’s great-grandfather all over the place—with celebrities, with generals, with politicians—but there was only the one photo of his wife.

  Effie was looking at this photo one day while her mother worked at the computer. “Why does she look so sad?” Effie asked.

  “She doesn’t look sad,” said Effie’s mother, whose name was Molly.

  Effie took a step closer. The photograph showed only Effie the First’s head and shoulders. She had round cheeks and a short nose. Her glossy black hair was parted in the middle and pulled back. She was wearing a light-colored blouse that tied in front. She was a grown-up but not yet old, maybe the age of Effie’s mom now.

  “She does too look sad,” Effie insisted. “Why?”

  This happened on a Saturday afternoon two months before Effie went to stay with her aunt and uncle. Truthfully, Effie’s mom wasn’t paying much attention to the conversation. Her mind was on the picture of an airplane wing on the computer screen in front of her. The wing belonged to Sunspot I, which she and Effie’s dad were going to fly around the world.

  “What?” said her mom. “I don’t know. She was very kind. That’s why we named you after her. She loved your aunt and me. Maybe that was because she didn’t have daughters of her own, only a son.”

  “Her son was Grandpa Bob,” Effie said. “Now he’s dead too. He moved to Florida and got too much sun and too many seafood platters.”

  Effie’s mom didn’t look up. “Uh-huh,” she said.

  “And the first Effie was married to Great-Grandpa Gus. He’s the reason we’re rich. He’s the one that invented the barf bag.”

  Molly corrected her daughter automatically. “We are not rich,” she said. “We are well fixed. And it’s not a barf bag. It’s an emesis bag. And Gus Zook invented many, many other things too. He was a great man.”

  This was how it went in Effie’s family. You never said “rich.” You never said “barf bag.” You never mentioned Gus Zook without adding, “He was a great man.”