The Crepes of Wrath by Tamar Myers Page A

hear an Amish boy talk back to his father.”
    “Yah,” Benjamin said, “this talk back is not our way. You will apologize now to me and to Miss Yoder.”
    Elam closed his eyes, the ultimate act of defiance. “Englisher,” he said coldly.
    “Ach!” Benjamin was beyond despair. “What is a good father to do?”
    I used my waggle finger as a poker. Elam’s chest was surprisingly bony under his homemade shirt.
    “Look, buster, I would leave right now, if I could. Unfortunately I have three flat tires and only one spare. As I understand it, I have these flats thanks to a feud between you and your neighbor. If I had two extra spares, I’d make you change them, since you undoubtedly have a lot of experience in that department.”
    “Elam, is this true?”
    Elam’s jaw clenched. His eyes remained closed, as did his lips.
    “Go ahead and tell your father.” I couldn’t help but sneer. “If you don’t, I will.”
    Nothing.
    “Suit yourself, you impudent little”—I caught myself just in time. I have never used the B word, but it is one my sister Susannah uses with some frequency, thanks to her brief marriage to a Presbyterian. I was, however, not through. “But the least you can do is loan me your car.”
    Dark eyes opened just a crack. “What car?”
    “The one you have hidden under a haystack.”
    “Ach!” I thought Benjamin was going to have a heart attack. He was literally clutching his chest.
    You might think it strange that an Amish father did not know his sons had a car, but allow me to assure you, the ability of a parent to deceive his or her self is mind-boggling. It far surpasses the child’s ability to deceive the parent. I speak from experience—not as the deceived nor the deceiver, mind you—but from close-hand observation.
    My sister Susannah had our parents hornswoggled from the moment she hit the P in puberty. As a teenager, she slipped in and out of the house at all hours of the night, smoked cigarettes, drank beer (in preparation for marrying a Presbyterian?), told horrendous lies, even shoplifted, and almost never got caught. And don’t think for a moment that I didn’t do my duty as an older sister and tell on her. I ratted like a gross of combs at a hairdressers’ convention, but to no avail. It was easier for my parents not to believe Susannah, and to pay the price of confronting her, than to believe me. Me, the faithful daughter. The one who followed the rules because they were there. Because the Bible told me to.
    Granted, the Keim boys were of rumschpringe age, and expected to misbehave, but no doubt their parents had visions of them riding around the countryside at full gallop in the family buggy. Or maybe they thought the boys rebelled by going into Bedford, the nearest real city, and ogling the girls who work at Tastee Freeze. At worst—given one’s penchant for self-deception—they imagined their offspring requesting permission to visit a Mennonite church on Sunday. After all, our benches have decadent backrests, and our services are a good two hours shorter than those of the Amish.
    “Now see what you’ve done!” Elam’s eyes were wide open now.
    “Me?”
    Benjamin let go of his chest. “Ach, Elam, it is you!”
    “But Papa—”
    “Enough!” Benjamin raised a hand as if to strike hisson. Mercifully he did not, but that scene has haunted me ever since.
    It certainly made an impact on Elam. He burst into tears and fled into the house, slamming the screen door behind him. The rebellious young man was back to being a boy again.
    For some time I stood quietly and allowed Benjamin to compose himself. He was crying as well, and while I am not a sexist in these matters, tears did not suit the man. With the faucets open, a complexion that pale looks like two pounds of high-fat hamburger meat.
    “Tissue?” I asked kindly when it was time to get on with things.
    He shook his head, and then wiped his face across a sleeve. “Ach, a car!”
    “I’m afraid so. Look, I