The goats’ names are Rodgers and Hammerstein. They belong to my friend Mr. Ziedrich, but I take care of them for him now. They moved into a shed in our backyard when Mr. Z. moved into Maple Falls last year. After his wife died, he decided he was ready to get some help with the things his fingers didn’t want to do anymore, and to spend more time with people his own age, but he felt bad that Rodgers and Hammerstein couldn’t come with him.
So my parents decided I was old enough and responsible enough to come home after school to take care of the goats and walk them over to see Mr. Z. and check in with him, instead of going to Dad and Uncle Gregor’s auto body shop like Asad. And in return, Mr. Z. is helping me build some cool stuff, like my computer.
Taking care of goats is a lot of work. I have to make sure they have food and water and salt, and clean out their shed, and make sure nothing poisonous is growing where they can eat it, and that they don’t need their hooves trimmed again. But I would miss those silly guys if they went to live somewhere else.
Besides, Mr. Z. has been helping me figure out how to make things for years, and I like helping him out for a change. And even though the auto body shop is fine, I’m glad I’m old enough to do my own thing now. Especially since Asad still has to go hang out with Dad. Sometimes I need a break from my little brother.
As soon as I let myself into the backyard, Rodgers started chewing on the hay-loader rope, which he knows he’s not supposed to do. And then Hammerstein pooped right in the salt lick.
Gross.
But it’s hard to be mad at goats for long. Hammerstein jumped up on the roof of their playhouse and grinned at me, and Rodgers jumped all around the goat-proof treat box, to give me a hint about what I should do next, and I had to laugh. And then Hammerstein jumped down and came to say hi, so I had to pet him at least a little.
I took the goat-proof treat box away from Rodgers, gave him a scratch on the chin instead of a treat, and dumped out the poopy salt. Then I refilled the salt, and double-checked that there was still hay in the manger.
I knew the goats were ready for a walk because they let me put their collars on instead of playing chase.
It took me a while to learn to walk goats. They’d never gone for a walk when they lived with Mr. and Mrs. Z., so they freaked out about collars and leashes and almost broke my arm trying to charge the ice cream truck once. But it got easier after they decided I was part of their herd. They let me lead the way as long as they got to stop and eat whatever looked interesting.
So off we went, in our usual routine of jogging, zigzagging, and waiting around while they ate leaves. It’s a good thing Maple Falls is only a few blocks away.
I was glad to see Mr. Z. sitting in his chair on the patio. The first time I brought Rodgers and Hammerstein to Maple Falls, a lady who worked there thought I was some kind of vandal and started yelling at me, just for being there. Maybe because I’m a Black kid, or maybe not. I don’t really know. Then Mr. Z. came back from the bathroom, and I’ve never seen anything like it. I could have explained all day long and that lady wouldn’t have listened to a word I said, but Mr. Z. opened his mouth and rolled right over her issues. Before you knew it, she’d agreed that I could come whenever I wanted, and I didn’t even have to clean up the goat poop. He told me if I ever had an experience like that again there, to let him know right away, because he did not want his friends treated like that. If Mr. Z.’s secret ability is convincing people like he did then, it’s a good thing he’s on our side.
I waved at Mr. Z., and brought the goats over to say hi. I could tell they missed him.
Mr. Z. patted Hammerstein’s head and scratched Rodgers’s chin. “Hallo, HD. Wie geht’s dir?”
That means “Hello, HD. How are you?” Mr. Z. has been teaching me German since he found out I didn’t know any, even though I’m half–German American. Grandmom and Grandpop Davis and Aunt Nia take me and Asad to learn about Black culture at museums and festivals and stuff every time we visit. There aren’t that many other Black people where we live, but we know our roots on Mom’s side. Grandma and Grandpa Schenk didn’t teach Dad and Uncle Gregor about their roots, though. So Mom and Dad and I decided Mr. Z. could help me out with that part, since he’s from Germany.
“Es geht mir gut,” I said. “Ich habe etwas Neues gelernt.” (That means “I’m pretty good. I have learned something new.” That’s a phrase I use a lot, since I’m always learning new things, and Mr. Z. is always interested in them.)
“Ah!” Mr. Z.’s bushy white eyebrows rose way up. “And what have you learned this time?”
I hesitated. Mr. Z. doesn’t read comics. Maybe he wouldn’t understand.
But ever since we became friends, I’d always told Mr. Z. what I was working on, and sometimes, when I got stuck, he had ideas that helped.
I took a deep breath. “I learned that there’s a ghost in Uncle Gregor’s basement.”
Mr. Z.’s eyebrows shot up even further. For a minute he looked startled, and maybe sad?
Then his eyebrows settled down. “Indeed….What brings you to this conclusion?”
The goats’ leads felt slippery. I moved them to my other hand. I didn’t need to worry about chasing any goats right now. “Well, when Eli and I went down there, someone asked me who I was. But I couldn’t see anyone there, and Eli didn’t hear it.”
Mr. Z. nodded slowly. “Sometimes we hear things we do not expect. But often there is an explanation for it.”
“What else would sound like my Grandma Schenk?” I asked.
Mr. Z. shrugged. “There are many unexpected sounds in old basements—something tapping on a furnace duct, or brushing against a window in the wind. You were looking at her things, perhaps missing her—the brain is very powerful, and it can play tricks on us. Even scientists like you and me.”
I didn’t think so. But it was too hard to explain that I didn’t really know Grandma Schenk well enough to miss her, or about the ghost not being her after all, but actually my great-great-grandma, who I’d never met.
Mr. Z. studied my face, then smiled. “You always do your research, HD. I know you will look into this new topic, and learn something valuable.” He nudged Rodgers’s front feet off of his chair before Rodgers could climb all the way up on it. “In fact, there’s someone you should meet—someone who might help you with this research.”
As I watched him unfold his creaky bones from his chair, I stopped being mad at him. (He doesn’t like me to offer to pull him up, even though it’s what any friend would do.) Maybe Mr. Z. didn’t believe what I heard. But he would still try to help me.
“Really?” I asked as the goats and I followed him down the path that leads around Maple Falls. “Who?”
“Someone who is visiting a friend of mine today,” he answered, leading me toward a small patio with two chairs under one of those big outside umbrellas.
An older white lady with curly white hair was asleep in one of them. The other white lady was awake. She had reddish hair, and she nodded at us, and examined the goats.
“Good afternoon, Ms. Stevermer,” Mr. Z. said. “This is my friend HD, and my goats, Rodgers and Hammerstein. HD is researching a new project in your area of expertise. I wondered if you might be able to answer any questions he has.”
Ms. Stevermer made a note in the small notebook in her lap. She tipped her head, and examined me through her glasses. “Certainly, I would be happy to.”
Mr. Z.’s watch alarm beeped. He hesitated.
“Movie matinee?” I asked him. Mr. Z. has a very busy schedule.
“No, today I play pool with Mr. Slater,” he said. “You are welcome to join us, of course.”
I shook my head. Mr. Slater doesn’t like any noises while he’s playing pool, and it’s hard to keep the goats quiet, even if we wait on the lawn outside. “You go ahead,” I told him. “I’m fine.”
Mr. Z. nodded. “Bis bald,” he said, giving Rodgers and Hammerstein a final pat. (That means “See you soon.”)
“Tschüss,” I said. (That means “bye.”)
Mr. Z. walked slowly back along the path toward the pool hall.
“It’s not very often that my expertise is called upon. How can I help?” Ms. Stevermer asked.
“What’s your area of expertise?” I didn’t want to talk about different kinds of furnace noises all afternoon.
“I’m a writer,” Ms. Stevermer told me. “I write and collect ghost stories.”
I blinked. “Really?”
“Yes, really. Let’s see, now—since my mother is asleep in that chair, would you like me to call the staff for another one?”
“Thanks, but I’m good,” I said. “It’s better if I keep the goats away from chairs, and anything else they can climb on.”
“Very sensible,” she said. “Now, was there something you wanted to ask me about?”
I am a matter-of-fact person, but this wasn’t easy stuff to talk about. But Grandpop Davis always says to go ahead and tell people what’s on your mind, if you have the energy, because even if they can’t hear it or believe you right then, maybe they’ll remember it later.
I cleared my throat. “So, I’m sorting out my grandma’s stuff for my dad and my uncle, because she died, and no one’s gone through it yet.” I snuck a glance at the writer, and she was nodding. So far so good. “I took this big brown jar out of a box in the basement—”
“Glass?” Ms. Stevermer asked.
“What?” I asked.
“Is it a glass jar?” she asked.
“No, it’s a pottery one, I think.”
“Tall and skinny, or short and stout?”
I thought back. “About a foot and a half tall, and about a foot wide, maybe, with handles on the sides.”
She was nodding again, making notes in her notebook. “A pickling crock, then.”
Huh. Maybe she could help me after all. “I think it’s haunted by my great-great-grandmother. I can’t exactly see her, but she came out to talk to me.”
She nodded, still making notes. “All pickling crocks are haunted.”
“All of them?” I asked. “Why are they haunted?”
“Well, all the old ones that are left, anyway. I haven’t made a study of the new ones yet. Butter churns never are.” Ms. Stevermer didn’t look the slightest bit startled. “As for why, I intend to find out. What did your great-great-grandmother have to say about it?”
Yeah, this writer was tough. No way was she going to freak out over a ghost like my great-great-grandmother. “She didn’t say all that much, really. Just that my granddad was her grandson. She seemed sad when I told her he died a long time ago.”
She nodded. “Time doesn’t seem to pass the same way for ghosts as it does for the rest of us. They aren’t always very good at sticking to relevant topics either.”
“Have you met a lot of ghosts?” I asked.
“No, none yet,” she said calmly. “I’ve read lots of reports, though.”
“Then maybe you could—I mean—would you mind just, you know, checking her out, to make sure she’s safe or whatever?”
She looked up from her notes and smiled at me. “I’d love to meet your great-great-grandmother, but ghosts don’t appear to everyone. I’ve tried many times, but I haven’t had your luck.”
I sighed. “Is there anything I should do about her?”
“Oh, no, I don’t think so. Don’t let her take over your body or make you try to hurt anyone, obviously. That’s pretty rare, though. As long as you don’t break her crock or try to exorcise her, you should do fine.”
I guess she saw from my face that I wasn’t so sure of that.
“Ghosts aren’t here to bother anyone who’s never done anything to them,” she told me. “Usually they have a job they need to do—their Grand Purpose, they call it in the literature—and when it’s done, they continue on. Perhaps you can help your great-great-grandmother with hers.”
Hammerstein put his hoof up on the arm of the writer’s chair, so I lured him away with a dandelion, and thought about that. Aside from startling me, my ghost didn’t seem so bad. And I was already helping Uncle Gregor out with a job. Maybe I could help the ghost out with hers too.
“Anything else?” the writer asked me.
I hesitated. Rodgers and Hammerstein were getting antsy and starting to head-butt each other. But I needed to know. “Do you think I’m crazy?”
She examined me, then shook her head. “I’m sure you already know that not every ghostly appearance turns out to be supernatural, just like not every bright light in the sky is an alien spaceship. But you seem like an observant young man, so I have no doubt that you heard something, and that you’ll continue your observations until you’ve learned everything you can. If you do thorough research, and question everything, that will see you through.”
Research. I knew plenty about that. “Thanks,” I told her.
She smiled at me. “Of course. I do hope you tell me what you learn.”
“I’ll do that,” I said.
I was going to tell Mom and Dad what happened at dinner that night. But somehow, when it was my turn, instead of telling them I met a ghost, I said, “Eli probably doesn’t want to come stay with us while his mom is on her trip anymore. We had a fight today.” I looked down at my plate. We’d been making a list of every fun thing we were going to do ever since we found out camp was canceled and Eli was coming here for almost a month instead. Now I might as well rip that list up.
“Oh, sweetie,” Mom said, and she got up to give me a hug. “What happened? Something you want me to talk to his mom about?”
“Nah, it’s not a Black thing,” I told her. “He thought I was trying to fool him about—something,” I said. My throat felt tight, and I didn’t have the energy to force all those words out. “I told him I wasn’t, but he didn’t believe me. He just left.”
She gave me another squeeze. “You know, even good friends can go through rough times. But I bet you can still work things out.”
Dad nodded. “Sometimes guys need a little time to cool down and realize they’re wrong. Eli’s a pretty smart guy. I bet he’ll figure it out soon. And you’re a pretty smart guy too. Maybe you can explain your side to him in a different way.”
Maybe. I nodded, and my stomach finally got hungry enough for Dad’s sloppy joes. But when I thought about telling them about the ghost, my stomach started to hurt again. So I didn’t.
Not yet.