What's Eating Gilbert Grape

by Peter Hedges

  “What are you saying, Gilbert?” Mr. Lamson has poked his head out the office door.

  “Nothing, sir.”

  “I heard you, though. You were saying something. Gilbert, you know you can talk to me.”

  “I was just talking about how you’re right, Mr. Lamson. Life.”

  He looks puzzled.

  “Life is full of surprises. Just the darndest, most nifty surprises. That’s all I was saying.”

  “That a boy, son. That’s the way to look at it.”

  36

  I’ve filled the mop bucket with hot water and detergent. Staring down at the warm suds, I think of Arnie, convinced that the key is to get him in the bathtub pronto. As I push the gray bucket to Aisle Four, I check the floor for dust balls. I dunk the mop, press out the excess, and slap it on the linoleum tiles.

  “Gilbert Grape!” a booming voice says.

  I don’t look up because I’m afraid to gaze at the source of such a sound.

  “It’s good to see Gilbert Grape!”

  “Yes,” Mr. Lamson agrees. “Look who’s stopped by for a visit.”

  I can’t look up.

  “Gilbert, you can stop your mopping. Look who’s here.”

  The mop goes in the bucket, I dry my hands on my apron and glance up to see if it’s true.

  The sun glares through the store window. Showered in a golden-yellow light, wearing a sport coat and a blue tie, nice pressed slacks with clean white tennis shoes, a red carnation pinned to his lapel, hair immaculate, and with a smile that rivals those found in beauty pageants is that one-of-a-kind freak of nature, Mr. Lance Dodge.

  “Hi,” I say, trying not to seem surprised.

  “And a dandy hello to you, too,” Lance replies with one of those hearty male chuckles used to dispel tension. “He’s not happy to see me, Mr. Lamson.”

  “Sure he is.”

  “No sirree. Gilbert always was his own kind of guy.”

  “Still, he’s happy you came by. Aren’t you, Gilbert?”

  I nod because Mr. Lamson wants me to.

  A pack of Endora’s children run across the parking lot in search of the town hero. There are at least fifteen of them and they’re laughing and screaming and screeching as if Lance were one of the Beatles.

  Realizing the kids are coming his way, Lance has a sudden change from confidence to panic. “Oh Christ,” he cries. This leaves me with a smile. “Is there somewhere I can hide?” he asks, clawing Mr. Lamson’s shoulder.

  “Here—back here,” I volunteer, guiding Lance toward the stockroom, where he hides.

  The kids enter the store, all of them shouting at the same volume, “Where is he? Where is he? Mr. Lamson? Is he here? We want to meet him! We’ve GOT to meet him!”

  The kids pull and tug at his apron, they jump up and down like popcorn. Mr. Lamson wants to protect Lance’s privacy, but he’s also incapable of deception—I’ve never known him to lie. Taking in a deep breath, he says, “Lance Dodge is an old friend of Lamson grocery. I can remember when…”

  “Where is he? We know that he’s here! His mother told us!” The kids start searching the aisles. I stand by the stockroom door, appearing to be reorganizing the dog food but serving more of a guard/protector function. This situation will soon be unmanageable.

  “All right, kids, kids!”

  They stop for a moment.

  “A person of Lance’s status has a lot of pressures. A lot of demands are made of him.”

  “Where is he? Where is he!”

  “LANCE MUST BE RESPECTED!”

  “He’s in the back, I bet,” a scrawny boy suggests.

  “Okay, yes, but you must respect…”

  The kids surge toward where I’m standing. They see me and stop for a time. Drooling and eager, they are the wolves—Lance is the deer. I sense the inevitability of it, and as I step out of their way, they rush past. Mr. Lamson throws his arms in the air.

  “What could I do?” I ask.

  “I know.”

  I’m thinking Lance should be an easy catch when I hear a pounding on the front door. It’s the hero with his hair everywhere. Out of breath, he throws open the door and shouts, “Get me outta here!”

  Mr. Lamson waves for me to help Lance. Taking my keys out and leaving my apron on, I sprint the thirty feet to my truck. Lance hides in the bed of it as the kids come around from the back of the store. He stays hidden as I slowly drive away.

  When I’ve gone a few blocks and no kids are in sight, I roll down my window and shout, “We’re in the clear!” Lance climbs up front and we cruise the streets.

  “Thank you. My God, thank you.”

  “No problem,” I say.

  He’s breathing like he’s about to die. “It is so hot. Damn heat.”

  “I know.”

  “Whew.”

  He has these beads of sweat on his top lip. The same kind of sweat he would get during recess in grade school.

  “Where can I take you?”

  He stops for a second. He suddenly looks depressed. “Uhm. Dammit.”

  “Can I drop you off at your house?”

  “No. NO!”

  “OK.”

  “My mother has invited all the women in town over for a luncheon in my honor. I couldn’t take it. I had to get out. I swear to God, she invited the entire female population of Endora.”

  None of the Grape women were invited, I want to say. But it is commonplace at the important social functions to leave any and all Grapes off the guest list.

  “You got a minute, Gilbert?”

  “Uhm. I’m supposed to be working….”

  “Let me buy you a burger. How’s that sound?”

  Lance Dodge, the most famous citizen in this county, wants to buy me, Gilbert Grape, a hamburger. If I were any less a man, I would probably pinch myself, convinced this was a dream.

  ***

  Beverly with the birthmark is our waitress, and I ask for the corner booth in an attempt to give Lance some privacy.

  “Can we sit here?” Lance asks, referring to the center, most visible table.

  “Everyone will see you here,” I start to say, taking my apron off and holding it on my lap.

  “Oh well. That comes with being, you know…”

  “A celebrity?”

  “A newsman.”

  Lance sits facing the window, more aware of those who might pass by outside than he’s aware of me. A part of him wants to flee the hungry crowds, but a larger part must love the attention and still worry that one day it will all be gone. Lance asks for a menu and two glasses of water for himself, three ice cubes in each glass. As Beverly listens, without thinking she covers her cherry-red birthmark with her left hand. She must feel that Lance shouldn’t have to see such a thing.

  From the back, Ed Ramp, wearing a chef’s hat, peeks out of the kitchen and nods in disbelief.

  We order. I go for a simple cheeseburger, fries, and a Coke. Lance orders a strawberry milk shake, thick, with no whipped cream, the cherry on the side.

  The milk shake is there in minutes. My burger, fries, and Coke take an eternity. Lance downs his shake in two long sips and when my food arrives, he takes the biggest french fry, dips it in the ketchup I just pounded out, and says, “Just one.” He takes a bite. “Do you mind?”

  “No.”

  I should thank Lance for giving Arnie the next-president award. But I make a point to not say thanks. Maybe he’ll respect me more if I don’t appreciate him. So I eat. And as I do, the most famous person I know sits across from me, eyeing my food.

  “You like Endora, huh?”

  I shrug.

  “Obviously, you’re still here. Every day that I’ve been in Des Moines doing my thing—you, Gilbert, you’ve been back here. In the seven years since high school, I’ve seen and done much. All you’ve done is Endora. Funny—how two lives can be so different.”

  “Funny,” I say.

  Lance stops, takes a fry, dips it in ketchup, holds it like a cigarette for a moment
, and then eats it. “But that’s what makes horse races. And America great. Where else could two guys from the same town become such different people? What a world.”

  “Yes.”

  Lance stops talking at this point. He eats french fry after french fry and he tries my burger, too. I push my plate closer to him. I guess this is what famous is. Eating other people’s food.

  I feel strange sitting with him, like I’m being watched. I hear the sounds of people and I turn to see that a small group of townies has gathered outside the cafe. They are talking among themselves, but with their periodic glances our way, it’s clear that they’re monitoring Lance and his every bite.

  I go to shut the curtain.

  “What are you doing, Gilbert?”

  “Isn’t the sun in your eyes?” I ask.

  “No!” he says, his mouth full of my food.

  “I thought I’d close…”

  “Christ, no. God, no!”

  “Okay.” So I sit and he eats more. Beverly brings him an extra order of fries, covering her neck with one hand and setting the plate down with the other. “On the house,” she says.

  Lance has the ketchup in his hand, ready to eat, when I say, “My mother thinks you’re terrific.”

  Lance looks up, stares at the awe-struck adults outside, and says, “I’m very popular with mothers.”

  “I know.”

  “What about the young people?” he asks. “What do they think?”

  “Well, my sisters and my brother think you’re tops.”

  “Really.”

  “My little brother—you know—the retard. He worships…”

  Lance goes, “You mean the next president of the United States?”

  I stare at him, feigning puzzlement, as if I’ve no idea what he’s talking about.

  Lance is looking everywhere but at me. “But most importantly, what does Gilbert Grape think of me? Huh?”

  I stare at him and try to lie. After a considered silence, I say, “I think…”

  “Yes?”

  “I think you’re…”

  Lance looks up at the window and his eyes suddenly bulge a bit. The door swings open and I see that he’s enamored. “Oh Christ,” he whispers. “Oh my God.”

  I’m about to say “What?” when I smell that smell. It’s her. I hear her walk our way. She snaps her fingers, practically shouting, “You’re uhm… uh… you’re uhm…”

  Lance smiles, unfazed that she can’t remember his name.

  “You are that guy that uhm… oh boy… oh boy oh boy oh boy…”

  Lance is gesturing for me to get up so that she can sit in my seat. I stand and back away. She is really snapping her fingers now, struggling to get his name, slapping the palm of her hand on her forehead, blushing and excited. This is not the Becky I know.

  “Yes, it’s me,” Lance finally says.

  She breathes in deeply. “I thought so.”

  Lance points to my old chair, giving her permission to sit.

  “Would you excuse me one moment?” she asks.

  Lance goes, “Why of course.”

  “Stay right here,” Becky says, backing up to the door.

  Lance smiles. “I’ll be waiting.” He looks my way, gives a look like this happens all the time. He sits back down slowly, adjusts his underwear, puts his elbows on the table, and chuckles.

  Opening the cafe door, Becky whistles loud. “Hey, kids! He’s over here!”

  Lance freezes. His thoughts are “Did she just do what I think she did?” He looks to me. I shrug. Hearing the approaching mob, he is up like a shot. He ducks out the back through the kitchen as the mass of kids hits the door running. Ed Ramp blocks their way with a broom. The kids—who now must number close to fifty—turn and tear out, splitting into two groups instinctively—half going to the left, the other half to the right. Lance is on his own now.

  Trailing behind the group is Arnie, running to keep up. He can’t decide which group to go with, and I’m out of the cafe and grabbing him before he sees me. “Arnie,” I go.

  He looks at me, surprised that someone knows him. He studies me for a moment. It’s as if he doesn’t remember who I am. Then he smiles. Then he looks scared and shouts, “No water, Gilbert. No water!”

  “Shhhhh,” I say. A loud squeal is heard, Lance has been sighted and the kids are in hot pursuit. Hearing their yells, Arnie starts to go, but I get behind him and give him a bear hug. He struggles and he is strong. “No, Arnie. Amy wants you home.”

  Suddenly he stops his struggling. I’m thinking, This was easy, when I see Becky standing fifteen yards away, straddling her bike, looking our way.

  I had forgotten about Becky.

  Arnie walks slowly to her. He shakes his head slightly. He puts his hand up to touch her.

  “Don’t,” I say.

  Becky takes his hand and puts it on her forehead. She lets him touch her face, her mouth. He does what I’ve only dreamed of doing. He is quiet and reverent because even a retard knows that this girl is special.

  I say, “Let’s go, buddy.”

  She says, “When he’s finished.”

  As he continues his exploration, I look back at the cafe. I catch Beverly watching us—she pulls the curtain closed.

  I encourage Arnie to finish up so we can get on our way. I move to my truck, sit in it. Arnie’s hands are moving all over now, touching her waist, her neck, one hand rests for a time on her breast. I honk my horn. His hand stays there. I guess she allows it because it’s not sexual, Arnie’s touch, it’s curious. Still, though, I’ve no choice but to honk my horn long and loud.

  Finally he finishes and runs to my truck, his head down and the sweetest smile on his face. He climbs up. We both look at Becky. He waves. I shift to reverse.

  I guess I should thank her. I roll down my window before pulling out of the parking lot. I stick my head out to speak. But before I can, she says, “Don’t mention it.”

  “No. Thank…” I stop. Something is wrong with this picture. I hit the gas pedal and drive Arnie home.

  37

  It’s the next morning, July 6. It’s only been twenty-four hours since Arnie spent the night in the tub and already his refusal to bathe is visually obvious. His face is colored with numerous stains and smudges. An anonymous call came minutes ago wondering if we could do with some soap. Amy got angry and I laughed. I say let him turn to dirt if it’s what he wants.

  But I have the day off, and I’m behind the bushes in our front yard, down on my knees, trying to get the hose on the outside faucet, thinking if I can get Arnie to run through the sprinkler, some of the dirt and gunk will wash from his body. I can’t get the faucet hooked, though, and the evergreen needles from the bushes are pricking at my bare legs. I hear a car horn and, fearing that it will be Tucker or Bobby McBurney, I slowly rise from behind the bush. The boys have been calling incessantly, begging for me to meet with them, hoping that I’ll give them girl pointers and woman tips.

  My head is visible now—and to my surprise, I find Mr. Carver in his wife’s station wagon, rolling down his window in a panic, shouting, “Gilbert! Gilbert Grape!”

  The moment has finally come. Mrs. Carver has told him everything and he has come to remove my genitalia with a hacksaw.

  “What? Hello?” I say.

  “Oh, Gilbert, I’m glad you’re here. Oh boy—thank God.” Mr. Carver looks all over heated, his cheeks all red like winter time.

  “Can I get you some lemonade or something, Mr. Carver?”

  “No. Get in the car. You got a minute?”

  “Uhm. Not really.”

  “Fifteen minutes, twenty at the most. I’ll drive you back right away. Please. Just this once.” The man is desperate and even though a ride in his car might mean my life, I get in.

  Before we drive off I tell Amy that something has come up and that I’ll be back soon and for her not to worry about Arnie. “I’ll get him clean.”

  “You have ten days,” she says as I get in Mr. Carver’s car.


  ***

  We’re heading across town, our seat belts fastened, my knees jammed up to my chin because Mr. Carver drives with the front seat pushed all the way up. “Unbelievable.”

  “What is, sir?”

  “You call me ‘sir.’ I am grateful for that. I appreciate that. I wish you were my son, Gilbert. You know how to make a man proud.” He pauses. His hands tremble on the steering wheel. “I sure appreciate your doing this for me, Gilbert. You’re swell.”

  “Gee, thanks.” I sneak looks around the car, searching for a rifle or a handgun that he might use to off me. But Mr. Carver and I are guilty of the same crime. I saw him and Melanie together. Surely we can talk things out before he does something drastic.

  “A man tries in this world. A man tries to do some good. Bring a certain dignity to this planet which it is clearly lacking. You try—through example—to touch those you can. And when you’ve done all that you’re capable of and you still come up short—oh so short—it is a time of great sadness.”

  “Sure,” I say. “Or at least I’d think.”

  “So they wanted a swimming pool. This was evident when we had our Memorial Day family chat. I heard them out—then I explained carefully. I took a pad of paper and broke down the costs and demonstrated in a methodical, somewhat impressive fashion how a swimming pool was not practical at this time. You’d think that that would be the end of that.”

  “You’d think.”

  “No. Not with my boys.”

  At this point, he pulls his car over into the ENDora OF THE LINE parking lot. “I need a minute to cool off. Is this all right?”

  Well, what am I going to say? So I nod “it’s fine” and I look at him like I care.

  “It is so nice of you to care, Gilbert.”

  To which I reply—and where these words came from I’ll never know—“Mr. Carver, you and your insurance have always been there for me.”