by Peter Hedges
Mrs. Carver turns to us and shrugs like it’s no big deal. She looks at me and says with her eyes, “Free me.”
***
A voice on a bullhorn calls for all the contestants to line up. Janice and Ellen escort Arnie to his spot. In public, they love Arnie in the most visible of ways. You’d think he was the most important thing in their lives by the way they carry on and fuss over him. They are great girls when they have an audience.
***
The parade begins.
Mayor Jerry Gaps rides by in a convertible. His wife is Barbara of Barb’s Beauty Shop. They smile and wave. Barbara Gaps is her own bad advertisement.
Chip Miles and his brothers drive by in minitractors doing figure 8’s. Chip keeps his lips pressed together. That silver tooth stays hidden.
“Good for you, Chip!” I shout.
The costumes come into view.
“All of the Uncle Sams cancel each other out,” I say.
“Good thing we didn’t make Arnie an Uncle Sam.”
Three chubby girls have tried to capture that image of the one with the pipe, one with the flag, those injured war soldiers. They do not succeed in creating much.
“We forgot the camera!” Janice screams from the other side of the street.
“Crap,” Amy says under her breath. “Momma wanted pictures. We always forget the camera.”
“Oh well,” I say, imagining Momma at home, eating in her sleep.
A sea of Uncle Sams march past. The Carver boys are getting tired and we all watch as Abe wobbles along. “There are five more blocks. There’s no way those boys are going to make it,” I tell Amy.
Arnie is in sight now—easy to spot, too, because he’s twice the size of the other kids. He’s dressed as Washington Crossing the Delaware. Amy sewed the costume. She worked on it for weeks and designed the cardboard boat that I built in an afternoon. The boat hangs from Arnie’s shoulders by elastic straps that give the illusion that he’s actually floating. Janice spent yesterday afternoon coaching Arnie, rehearsing his movements. He walks with his right hand above his forehead, and all modesty aside, he looks great. The people are cheering politely for the other kids, but when they see Washington Crossing the Delaware, they start yelling, “Go, Arnie!” “All right, Arnie!” I scream, “That’s my brother!” and he turns to where Amy and me are standing. But in turning, Arnie decks one of the little Uncle Sams without knowing it. When he hears the little girl scream, he turns to help her up. When he does this, though, the back of his boat smacks into George and Martha Washington. They fall over and George starts crying. Arnie decks a couple more kids before the parents push through the crowd to rescue their fallen children.
Amy shouts, “You can’t turn, Arnie. DO NOT TURN!” He looks confused. He stops and starts to hold his breath. The others in the costume parade, the wounded, have moved on. Arnie looks to us for help.
“Walk. Keep walking!” I shout.
He stands frozen. The Lions Club tractor, the other parade vehicles, and the fire truck carrying Lance Dodge are brought to a stop.
“KEEP MOVING THAT WAY.” I point where he should walk. “YOU CAN DO IT!”
A bright light hits Arnie. It’s the news camera that has been filming Lance’s homecoming. In seconds I’m out on the street with him, blocking the camera.
“I didn’t mean to knock ’em down. I didn’t mean to.”
“I know.” I gesture for the cameraman to look elsewhere for his news.
“Gilbert…”
“Let’s keep walking.”
“But I didn’t mean…”
“Let’s talk as we walk.”
We’re moving now. He’s holding on to my hand. People in the crowd shout “Go, Arnie” and “Looking good, Arnie.” Bobby McBurney, off to one side and dressed in his funeral black, says, “Arnie for president!” Tucker, standing next to him, says, “Gilbert for first lady!” I’m about to flip Tucker off when I remember this is a family parade.
Once we catch up with the others, I send Arnie on alone. As I make my way to the side, I hear him say to the other kids, “Sorry! Sooorrrrry!”
I see Abe Lincoln’s legs walking next to his chest and head, his arms dragging on the cement. Mr. Carver walks alongside the boys, shouting with disappointment. “Abe didn’t give up until he was dead! You don’t give up till you’re dead, boys. Boys!”
I back up into the crowd as the fire truck gets close. Lance Dodge is waving his bleached hand. He has got the best smile, the straightest teeth. And his mother, in the fire basket with him, is glowing as if this is the best day of her life.
I’m standing among a noisy group who reach their arms out frantically, begging for his attention. Cameras flash, old ladies orgasm as the truck passes. Lance gives a general I-love-you-all-deeply wave. I’m kind of nonchalant in my response, giving the cool, I-could-care-less wave. Having been his classmate, I expect him to at least acknowledge my presence. But he looks right at me, I swear it, and waves to me as if I were one of the masses.
Amy catches up to me and says, “Doesn’t he look good?”
“Who?”
“Lance.”
“He certainly thinks so.”
***
The parade is over and Amy has gone off to keep Arnie from further destruction.
“The kid is a definite winner,” Bobby McBurney says, pushing through the crowd.
“And Bobby knows about such things,” Tucker adds, popping up, his face all sweaty.
“Yeah, I’m pretty good at costume contests.”
“Pretty good—you only won like five Halloween prizes.”
“Six. But when your old man’s a mortician, you’ve got a certain kind of inside track on Halloween.”
***
In a simple ceremony, Lance is given the key to the city. It looks more like a big fork to me. He holds it up over his head, like a race-car driver. His mother supplies him with Kleenex so he can wipe his eyes. “Thank you. Thank you, people of Endora. I never ever would have dreamed this.”
Neither would I.
***
It’s time for the costume parade, and the contestants line up to file by the judges. Lance sits in the middle of the table with a judge on either side. One of them is a prime mover in the Endora social scene and a devout Christian. Her name is unimportant and her face a visual sin. The other judge is Melanie, red-haired Melanie, Melanie with the big mole, Mr. Carver’s Melanie.
An aging stereo system blares “The Battle Hymn of the Republic” as the contestants march past. As Arnie floats by the judges, the others keep their distance; one mother holds back her son.
The judges have reached their decision. Before they announce the “results,” the mayor tells us that all of the costumes were great, that “all the kids are winners.”
If that is the case, then please tell me why we even bother having prizes and ribbons. If everyone is a winner, then what is the point? I will tell you what the point is—and I will tell you because I think you might be able to understand. The point is that the man making the announcement, the mayor of this town, Jerry Gaps, is lying. Not all of the costumes were good. Most, in fact, look like putridity, if that’s a word. We should be embarrassed by our attempt at patriotism. My brother’s costume is the exception. He looks like an American. In fact, he behaves like one. When he tried to pick up the first kid he knocked down, he smashed into several others, it snowballed, chaos ensued. My brother very much resembled America today in pretty much all things.
Amy puts her hand in mine and squeezes. “It would mean a lot to Arnie to win.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“He didn’t mean to knock down those kids. I hope they know that.”
“They know.”
Lance gets up to the microphone. The people cheer and cheer. “Thank you.” There is piercing feedback from the sound system. Even machines can tell a phony. People cover their ears, babies cry. “Test. Test.” Lance taps the microphone. He waits till he gets the signal to go ahead
. He is so nonchalant about it. I have to admire his confidence. “The awards are as follows. Third prize is a free meal for one at the Burger Barn.” At this point, Lance launches into an advertisement for our new fast-food restaurant. I should have known that we’d get a commercial of some sort.
The grand opening will be Friday, July 14, and it’s the talk of the town. “Second prize is this plaque and a free meal for two at the…” Lance pauses for effect and the kids, and Tucker, say, “Burger Barn.” Lance smiles, proud of the crowd for joining in like that. “And first prize is this trophy and a party for twelve at…?” The entire crowd, except for me, shouts, “THE BURGER BARN!” Adults clap, the kids jump up and down.
“A trophy would mean a lot to Arnie.”
“I know.” I want to tell Amy that she, too, deserves a trophy for all she gives.
Third place goes to George and Martha Washington. Second place goes to Betsy Ross. They get their certificates, Betsy Ross gets a plaque.
“Gilbert, we’re in the clear.”
“Yes, we are,” I say. I focus in on Arnie, who stands in the middle of the other kids. I can’t wait to see his face.
“Wish we had a camera,” Amy says, about to burst.
Lance clears his throat and reads from his paper.
“First prize, for best costume based on an American theme, goes to… DOUG AND TODD CARVER for…”
“Bullshit!” Amy screams.
The other kids applaud politely as the parents whisper among themselves. Amy covers her face. Arnie doesn’t seem to mind. As far as he’s concerned, he’s always been a winner.
I look around and see Mrs. Carver. She has put on a pair of dark sunglasses. Surely she knows her kids don’t deserve that trophy.
“One of the judges is Mr. Carver’s secretary!” I shout out.
A parent of one of the Uncle Sams says, “That’s unfair.”
Another parent yells, “Those boys should have been disqualified!”
Amy mutters, “We were robbed. We were robbed.”
The people begin to separate and go their own way when Lance says, “Excuse me. Excuse me. One more thing.”
Someone shut that fake up, I think to myself.
“As grand marshal of this parade, I have one more thing to say.”
I wish I had a gun.
“It is rare in this world that a person gets the kind of opportunity and privilege to do as I have done.”
Yawn. Cough. Yawn. Yawn.
“Rarely do I see such courage, such quality, such dignity as I have seen today. There is an award I’d like to give. The Lance Dodge ‘You’ll be the next president of the United States’ award and I am proud to give this award to the one, the only—Arnie Grape!”
Arnie looks around. Was that his name that he just heard?
“Arnie, come up here, buddy! Come on up!”
The other kids push Arnie to the stage. He and his boat ascend the platform. Lance shakes his hand. A couple of cameras flash. I don’t believe this. Amy, in shock, says to me, “I wish Momma could see this.”
The people clap politely. Lance raises Arnie’s arm in the air, and I see Arnie mouth the word, “Ouch.”
33
Janice and Ellen took the next president to the Dairy Dream for a victory malt. Amy and I are walking home and she is looking down.
“Amy, what’s wrong?”
She stops, she considers her words carefully. “How is his birthday going to top this?”
I try to explain that Arnie’s birthday will be different, not better or worse. “Different.”
She sighs. “There’s this pressure building, Gilbert. It’s one thing to have Janice back and for Arnie to win some parade contest. But on his birthday, we’ll have Larry, too. And Momma. And she has these giant expectations. I don’t know what to do about her. She’s eating in five days what she used to eat in seven. The supports under the floor won’t last forever. I feel this pressure in my head, this pain in my head, and it’s constant. It doesn’t go away. Feel my shoulders.”
I put my hands on her and feel dozens of bumps and tension spots. They feel like sharp rocks. “Wow.”
“I can’t last much longer. This movie on TV, the ground opened up and swallowed people. I keep waiting for the ground to open up and swallow me.”
I massage her back. “Sure, of course.”
Amy looks down. Cars pass and honk, little kids run around throwing a plastic beach ball that has a map of the world on it. We just stand there as Amy’s oily tears collect on the sidewalk. She uses my shirt to wipe her face, sniffs up the runniness in her nose, and says, happily, “You deserve someone, Gilbert. Someone special.”
We walk on. “No,” I say.
“Yes—oh yes. Because, Gilbert, you’ve made sacrifices. And I’m grateful to you. You’ve always been there and you deserve someone.” She talks on about what a good brother and fine person I am. I notice her mouth is about as gentle as they come, and her face, while beginning to puff out, has the kindest quality. My sister is not an ugly woman. I don’t know if there’s a better person around.
***
Amy had a boyfriend for a summer about three years back. He was a trucker and they met in the Ramp Cafe by chance one June day. He had lips like Elvis and wore long Elvis sideburns, even though his hair was strawberry blond. He didn’t go by his real name, which only Amy knew. He went by Muffy. Every weekend for about three months he would drive up to our house and sound his horn. He treated all of us well. He became best buddies with Arnie and me and he always brought a special gift to Momma. It would either be a pretty rock that he’d find on the side of the road or 3-D postcards of cactus or whatever. Momma loved to look up from whatever food she was eating, her mouth still full, and say, “Muffy, you’re the kind of man for me.” He’d blush and go, “Aw, Mrs. Grape.”
He and Amy held hands and I know they kissed a little. But it didn’t go much further than that. He always slept on the sofa in the family room and would often wear these old pajamas of my dad’s. Ellen and I placed bets on when they would marry. But one night, the last weekend that August, Amy was making a big end-of-summer barbecue. She went around the corner of the house and happened on Muffy who was locked in a kiss with Janice. Needless to say, Muffy was gone within minutes. He didn’t even say good-bye to Momma, and you can imagine how upset she got. No one told Momma the real reason he disappeared. Amy said nothing, went straight to her room and played “Don’t Be Cruel” over and over.
***
Amy and I are halfway down Elm Street when Mr. and Mrs. Lamson pull up in their 1970 Dodge Dart. Mrs. Lamson rolls down her window and says, with her red lips and light blue hair, “What a day, huh?”
Amy, her eyes all bloodshot, says, “Wasn’t that the most wonderful thing?”
Mr. Lamson says, “You don’t have days like that too often.”
“True, boss,” I say.
“You tell your brother how proud we are. You tell him.”
“Yes, sir.”
He calls out, “Wonderful surprises, Gilbert,” as they drive away.
***
Later, the three girls and I try to recount the parade for Momma. We’re all talking at once, each of us vying for our mother’s ears and eyes.
“You’re pulling my leg,” Momma says.
We all cry “We’re not,” “It happened,” “Seriously, Momma!”
She says, “Pictures. Let me see the pictures!”
Amy says that we forgot the camera. Momma throws a tantrum. Arnie crawls under her table. She shakes the table and scrunches her fleshy face. “I WANTED PICTURES!”
***
Momma ate double the number of hot dogs at dinner. I only had a few potato chips, as my appetite was lost due to her rantings about the lack of family photojournalism.
After dinner, we had our final planning session with Janice—this meeting was a review of sorts. Then Ellen got a call from Cindy Mansfield reminding her of the Fourth of July “I’m Born in the USA and I’m Born
Again” get together. Cindy was there to pick her up within minutes. Then Amy drove Janice to the airport, with Arnie sitting in the back. After that, Tucker and Bobby McBurney stopped by wondering if I wanted to do something later. “I’m babysitting my mother,” I told them, and they sighed, “Too bad,” and drove off.
Momma licked her plate so clean I almost forgot to stack it in the sink. She fell asleep immediately after eating. I stared at her—unable to accept that at one time I was growing inside her. I was once just a couple of cells. My father and my mother were naked and something had to be satisfactory about it, because he came inside her and she got pregnant. She, like me, was once a baby in her mother’s stomach and so on and so forth and so it goes. So it goes.
The TV was blaring, Momma was deeply asleep, making this sonorous kind of booming snore, her nostrils expanding and shrinking, her mouth open like an oven.
I devised a test.
I turned off the TV and instantly the snoring stopped. She began to move. When I felt her eyes about to open, I turned the TV back on and back to sleep she went. Then I’d turn it off and on—sometimes for a millisecond—and she never failed me. Each time it was off, she’d move and mutter—each time it was on, she’d sleep.
By the time the headlights from Amy’s Nova turned into our driveway, my suspicion had been confirmed. My mother has a more intimate, connected relationship with this television than she has ever had with me.
***
First in the house is Amy, and she carries bags and paper cups that scream of fast food. She calls out the screen door, “Arnie, come on in, okay?”
“Hey,” I say. “Did Janice’s plane crash?”
“No, why?”
I snap my fingers and go, “Damn.”
“Gilbert, you don’t mean that.” Holding the screen door open, Amy turns on the porch light and calls to the retard one more time, “Get in here now.” He comes barreling up the steps, his face splattered with mustard, ketchup, and dirt. On top of his warped head is a cardboard fold-up Burger Barn hat.
“Amy, you didn’t.”
