The Crepes of Wrath by Tamar Myers

Benjamin exchanged glances with his two tallest sons. “The nails.”
    “Yes, nails,” I said. “There are at least two nails in each tire. It’s a wonder the fourth tire wasn’t punctured.”
    He bent and inspected each tire. Finally he stood, but avoided direct eye contact.
    “For this I am very sorry, Miss Yoder. I do not know how these nails got on this road.”
    “Well, I do!”
    Benjamin blinked. “Yah?”
    “Why don’t you ask your sons?”
    “My sons?”
    “Yes, your sons. From what I hear, you might want to start with the two oldest.”
    “Papa!” the oldest boy said with surprising sharpness. “It is time to go into supper. Mutter will be waiting.”
    Benjamin ignored the interruption. “Elam, who speaks now, is the oldest. And this”—he gestured at a lad who could have been his clone—“is his brother Seth.” The latter instantly turned the color of a good beet-pickled egg. Bright pink, but not so dark that the yolk turns color.
    I nodded at the introductions. “Now ask them about the nails.”
    Benjamin turned to his sons. “Tell me about these nails.”
    The two boys stared at their father, as silent as salt and pepper shakers.
    I sighed. “Well, then I guess I’ll have to tell you. You see, I really did talk to your wife about recipes, but that was after I spoke with your neighbor, Joseph Mast. Boy, did I get an earful over there.”
    “Ach—”
    “I listened to him, Mr. Keim. I didn’t yell at him.”
    Benjamin took an anxious step closer. “What did Joseph say?”
    “Don’t believe her, Papa!” It was Elam again, the dark one. He may have had his mother’s looks, but he had the hormone-ridden blood of an eighteen-year-old roaring through his veins.
    Benjamin’s watery eyes congealed into cold focus. He turned and addressed his other sons.
    “Go into the house,” he said in Pennsylvania Dutch.
    “Mach schnell!”
    All the boys obeyed, including Seth. Benjamin then turned to Elam. “Let Miss Yoder speak.”
    “But what she says is not true.”
    “Silence.”
    “But Joseph Mast is a liar,” Elam said vehemently. “And he tried to kill us, remember?”
    “I said ‘ silence ’!” Benjamin’s hands remained at his sides, but a thousand snakes couldn’t have hissed more threatening than that.
    Elam’s face darkened as it twisted with rage. “Why, Papa? Why do you always listen to the English, and not to us? Well, I will tell you, Papa. It is because you are a fool.”
    My mouth opened wide enough to swallow a Philadelphia hoagie. I’ve lived around Amish my entire life but, until then, had never seen an Amish youth talk back to his or her parents. And even Mennonite children—my sister Susannah excepted—wouldn’t dream of calling either of their parents a fool. It says quite clearly in the book of Matthew, chapter five, verse twenty-two, “But anyone who says, ‘You fool!’ will be in danger of the fire of hell.”
    Even Benjamin had a hard time believing his ears. He gasped like a guppy in a stagnant bowl, barely able to breathe. Speech was not an option just then. Of course, I felt sorry for the poor man.
    “Shame on you!” I said to Elam. “You’re supposed to honor your father and your mother.”
    Elam gave me a look that only a teenager—and my sister Susannah—is capable of giving. I, who have a hard time swatting a fly, wanted to slap that expression off his face.
    Benjamin finally found his tongue. “Go to the house!” he ordered in dialect.
    “Nein.”
    “Now!”
    Elam didn’t budge. “It is the Englisher who should go before she tells more lies.”
    That did it. That hiked my hackles. My left hand found its hip in the most English of poses, but I waggled my right index finger presidential style.
    “I am not an Englisher. I am an old-style Mennonite, and you and I just happen to share the same limited gene pool. And while it is true I am more worldly than you, I would never have spoken to my parents that way. Frankly, I am shocked to