The Crepes of Wrath (7 page)

“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 his
son. 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 don’t mean to be rude or anything, but it’s getting really late, and I
have
to be going. I don’t suppose you could persuade one of the boys to lend me the key.”

That nearly brought on a second near heart attack.

“That’s okay,” I said, “I’ll think of something else. Perhaps you could drive me in your buggy. Just as far as the nearest phone.”

Benjamin nodded. “Yah, Joseph Mast has a phone.”

“He does have a phone,” I agreed, “but he’s as stable as a skyscraper made of cottage cheese.”

“What means this?”

“Never mind, dear. Perhaps you’d be willing to drive me a little further. After all—”

“Benjamin!” Catherine called from the back porch. “Benjamin!” The stress in her voice was almost palpable.

“Uh-oh,” I said, “sounds like there’s a crisis brewing inside.”

“Yah.” Benjamin looked at his wife, back to me, and then at his wife. The poor guileless man was torn between familial duty and the commandment to be hospitable to strangers. It was a painful struggle to watch.

“That’s all right, dear,” I assured him. “You go on in where you’re needed the most. I can hoof it all the way home if I have to.”

“Thank you, Miss Yoder.” He needed no further urging, and bolted for the house as if his life depended on it.

I started down the long dirty driveway, praying that the Good Lord would send a car my way to give me a lift. Any car, just as long as it didn’t belong to Joseph Mast or Lodema Schrock. Then, for some inexplicable reason I burst into a rousing rendition of the old spiritual “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot.”

Ask, and you shall receive, the Bible says. It also says something about God working in mysterious ways. Well, let me tell you, these words are all true. I had just set foot on hard pavement, still singing, when the Good Lord sent a sweet chariot to carry me home.

Strictly speaking it wasn’t a chariot, but an Amish buggy. But it was awfully sweet of the driver to stop, although the fact that I was standing in the middle of the road, arms and legs spread, may have been a determining factor.

“Good evening, Miss Yoder. Is something wrong?”

I recognized the handsome face of Jacob Troyer, the young man who had asked to borrow my phone earlier that day. Sitting beside him on the front seat was his mousy little wife, Gertrude.

For some reason I have always disliked the woman. Perhaps it is because—and experts will back me up on this—we instinctively have a visceral antipathy toward approximately twenty percent of the people we lay eyes on for the first time. At any rate, there is something about Gertrude’s scrunched-up face, her tiny eyes, and pinched lips—oh and that ridiculous button nose—that just sets my teeth on edge. It is nothing personal, I assure you, since I had never, until then, actually met the woman, but only seen her around at places like Miller’s Feed Store, Yoder’s Corner Market, and the county fair. And just so you put it out of your mind, my negative feelings had absolutely
nothing
to do with the fact that
such a plain Jane had somehow managed to snare the most gorgeous man in the county, Gabe the Babe included.

I smiled pleasantly at the handsome man and his homely wife. “There’s more wrong than you could shake a buggy whip at, but the bottom line is, I need a ride.”

“How far?”

I glanced at my watch. Alas, it was already twenty-five after six. Gabe would be well on his way to Stucky Ridge. So what was there to be gained by stopping at the nearest house with a phone? Hernia had no professional mechanics and the garages in Bedford were already closed. Why prevail upon a guest, or an untrustworthy sister, to pick me up, when a leisurely ride through the countryside might actually soothe my soul?

“To the PennDutch,” I said decisively.

Jacob nodded, and had a mumbled, and somewhat belabored conversation with his wife. A paranoid Magdalena might well have suspected that said spouse was not thrilled to pick up a hitchhiker. This one in particular.

Finally Jacob turned back to me. “We would be happy to take you home.”

The buggy was a partially enclosed two-seater, and logic would dictate that I take the backseat. That, however, simply would not do. After all, I am an older woman, and getting in and out of a buggy is an acquired skill which requires some athleticism. Then, too, it is hotter and stuffier in the covered section, and I had had a long hard day and might doze off, thereby missing my stop—okay, so my real motive for getting the front seat was the opportunity to sit next to Jacob Troyer. But I ask you, is it wrong to indulge in a harmless, and lustless, fantasy? Who would it hurt if I pretended, for mere minutes, to be married to the Amish equivalent of Leonardo DiCaprio?

“Be a dear,” I said to Gertrude, “and slip into the back, will you?”

“Ach!” The woman’s tiny eyes widened to their limited capacity.

“Yah,” Jacob said, “the guest should sit up front.”

So I did. And I will confess that was a thrill, trotting down the road at ten miles per hour, haunch to haunch with a hunk. And I will not deny that it gave me pleasure to see the astonished looks on the faces of motorists, or the more shocked and somewhat dismayed looks of the Amish we passed.

Jacob enjoyed it too, I’m sure. The entire way he kept up an animated stream of chatter.

“Are you friends of the Keim family, Miss Yoder? A relative perhaps?”

“Some sort of relative almost certainly, but friends, no. I just dropped by to ask them a few questions.”

“Yah? What sort of questions?”

“You may as well know, dear. The police chief, Melvin Stoltzfus, has asked me to help him with the investigation into Lizzie Mast’s death.”

“Ach!” I heard from the backseat.

Jacob chuckled. “You are becoming a famous detective, Miss Yoder, yah?”

“Yah,” I said proudly, and then remembering that pride cometh before the fall, grasped the side of my seat more tightly.

“So, what have you learned already? Did Joseph Mast kill his wife?”

I caught my breath. “My, aren’t we jumping to conclusions! Who said anything about Lizzie Mast being murdered?”

Jacob shrugged his broad shoulders. “But everyone knows things. About Joseph Mast, I mean.”

“What sort of things?”

“He has a bug in his bean.”

I smiled at the quaint Amish way of saying someone was crazy. “The Vietnam War,” I explained. “Joseph Mast
saw things—experienced things—that you can’t imagine.”

“Yah,” I heard from the backseat, “but did he have to go?”

“He felt he was serving his country,” I said irritably. The last thing I wanted to do was defend a war—any war—or its participants, willing or otherwise.

“Mennonites are pacifists, yah?” Jacob said.

“Yes. But there are exceptions to everything, aren’t there?”

“Our people do not go to war,” the voice from the peanut gallery said.

“I know that, dear. You rely on others to safeguard your freedom of religion.”

“Ach!”

“What do Mennonites believe?” Jacob asked.

Before I could answer, an approaching car swerved into our lane, steered sharply toward the shoulder, and then sped off like a bat from you-know-where. During the split second I saw the driver’s face, I recognized Lodema Schrock, my pastor’s wife. The look of pure envy on her normally smug mug was worth three new tires. It was almost worth a missed date with Gabriel Rosen.

“Now what were you saying, dear?”

“We want to know if you—ach, how do you say—practice infant baptism?” Gertrude had a voice as tiny as her mouth.

“What was that, dear?”

“I asked if you baptize babies?”

“Of course we don’t,” I said calmly. “We’re Anabaptists just like you.”

“Do you believe in the Trinity?”

“Absolutely.”

“Do you worship Mary?” Much to my surprise, that question came from Jacob.

“Of course not. I don’t know that anyone does.”

“Do you take baths in beer?” Gertrude asked.

“That’s the Presbyterians,” I wailed.

“Yah?”
they asked in unison.

It was time to trot out the truth before they did something wild like trade their buggy for a bathtub of brew. Besides, I had a sneaking suspicion that the beer rumor, if traced to its origin, might land at my feet. “I don’t know that they actually bathe in it,” I said, “but they are very liberal compared to us.”

Jacob shook his head. “I saw a magazine in the back at Yoder’s Corner Market. The woman on the cover was”—he looked away—“naked. Was she Presbyterian?”

I had a feeling that if I said yes, he’d become a baby-baptizer in a heartbeat. Clearly lust, not money, is what makes the world go ’round.

“I don’t know! She might have been a Lutheran—or a Buddhist even. Besides I’ve seen magazines like that, and I’m sure she wasn’t naked. She was probably wearing a bathing suit called a bikini.”

“I’ve seen pictures of such bathing suits, also. Smaller than a man’s handkerchief,” our backseat judge said wistfully. “Surely a sin.”

“Then don’t wear one, dear.”

“Ach, but the picture I saw, she was not even wearing a bathing suit.”

I shook my head in disbelief. Sam would never stock any magazines like that.

“Well, enough talk of religion,” I said cheerfully. “How long have you two been married?”

“Three years,” Gertrude said almost fiercely.

“And you have yet to hear the pitter-patter of little feet? I mean, besides your own?”

“The Lord will bless my womb when the time is right.”

“Of course, dear. But in the meantime you get to play with your sister’s babies.”

“Ach!”

“My Gertrude and her sister do not get along so well,” Jacob said.

“Really?”
What an exciting day this was turning out to be. First, I got to butt heads with a goat, then I got to watch an Amish father butt heads with a rebellious teenager, and now, the
pièce de résistance
: the discovery that Amish siblings don’t necessarily get along. And twins at that!

“Tell me, dear, does your sister ever drive you nuts—I mean
really
nuts—like you just want to reach out and strangle her? Maybe even reach your hand down her throat and pull out her tonsils?”

“Jacob,” the mousy thing whimpered, “I think I forgot to feed the chickens. Can you drive faster?”

Jacob gave the reins a hard slap. “Geeyaw!”

The horse plunged into its traces. Unfortunately we had just entered a stretch of road known locally as Dead Man’s Curve, and were headed downhill. Now an Amish buggy can go remarkably fast, and they aren’t the stablest of vehicles. I know of several instances where buggies have tipped over, harming the occupants and, of course, injuring the horse. To say that we careened might be putting it strongly, but it was definitely yet another exciting moment. An adrenaline rush, as sister Susannah might have said.

Given the fact I had no seat belt, and little to hold on to, can I be blamed for reaching out and grabbing the nearest solid thing I could find? And can I help it if that thing just happened to be Jacob’s knee?

“Ach!” Gertrude squeaked. “Don’t touch my Jacob.”

I quickly withdrew my hand. “Sorry, dear, I guess I got carried away in all the excitement.”

“Yah? Like when you married another woman’s husband?”

My cheeks stung. “That isn’t fair! I had no idea Aaron was married.”

“You, the big English detective,” she muttered.

“And anyway, how did you know about my bogus nuptials with a bigamist?” I wailed.

“Ach!”

Even Jacob gasped.

“My mistake of a marriage,” I translated. “Does
everyone
in Hernia know?”

“Like Rahab the harlot, some say.”

“Who says?” I demanded.

Gertrude twittered. “Like Mary Magdalene, I say. She is your namesake, yah?”

“Now that’s hitting below the belt! I certainly can’t help my name, and besides, half the Amish women in Bedford County have Magdalena somewhere in their names.”

We clattered across the narrow bridge that spans Slave Creek and made a sharp turn to the right on to Hertzler Road. This time, although I nearly toppled from my perch, I kept my hands to myself.

The fact that I risked life and limb did not satisfy Gertrude. She had found my Achilles’ heel and would not let go.

“Did you have to confess your sin to the elders?” she trilled.

“That does it! Stop the buggy, Jacob!”

“Ach, but Miss Yoder—”

“That’s
Magdalena
Yoder. Stop the buggy this minute!”

Jacob reined the horse to a snorting stop and I clambered down. No doubt I was snorting as well.

“Thanks for the ride.” I forced the words out. And then I hoofed it home. Unlike Lot’s wife, I managed not to look back.

I can only guess Jacob managed to back up, or else made a dangerous and illegal U-turn, because no one passed me on the way home.

I limped into the PennDutch at half past seven, thanks to the rock I had stepped on. My plan was to sneak through the back kitchen door, fix myself a sandwich to eat while soaking my foot, and then creep off to bed undetected. I know, I own the inn lock, stock, and
barrel, and by rights can sail through the front door at any hour I please, but when the going gets tough, and the tough get going—I’m usually at the tail end of the pack—I find the back door more suitable. It was the door I used as a child. Mama reserved the front door for company, and since her personality, plus a little rock salt, could make a fine ice cream, the front door was hardly ever opened.

Given the hour, I expected the guests to be in their rooms, or perhaps in the parlor reading, or maybe even engaging in polite conversation. I certainly did not expect to find one in the kitchen, chowing down like there was no tomorrow.

“Good gracious,” I said, “that is an extraordinarily large hoagie.” The sandwich in question could have fed a small third world nation, or maybe even a family of five from Ohio.