by Peter Hedges
“You’re wondering if it was an accident, aren’t you? The people in this town are all wondering, aren’t they?” She grows desperate. “Tell me what people are saying!”
“I don’t know what people say. I’m not the telephone operator.”
“You hear things, though.”
“It is suspicious. Drowning in a wading pool. That’s not an easy thing to do.”
“Mr. Carver didn’t know how to swim. Did you know that?”
“No. That subject never came up.”
“Well, he couldn’t swim. I hope you’ll let people know….”
“I’ll tell all my friends.”
“Don’t get smart with me, young man.” Her skin is beginning to change color. She explains that Ken drove to Motley and bought a wading pool. “He was filling it with a hose, had a heart attack, and fell in the water. The boys thought their daddy was playing a joke on them and by the time they came and got me and we pulled him out, he was gone.” She has opened her pack, awkwardly. That same kind of awkwardness I felt the first time she undid my pants. This time, though, with the smoking, she’s the virgin. I take a book of matches from the cash register and light her cigarette. She coughs slightly and says, “You don’t believe my story? You think I killed him, don’t you?”
I’m silent. I’m more enamored with the way she holds her cigarette. Her fingers are afraid. This is more interesting than whether she’s a murderess. To me, the man deserved death but perhaps a more violent, gruesome end would have been more appropriate.
Phyllis Staples, the town’s piano teacher and mother of Buck, who works for the Standard station, enters the store. Mrs. Staples goes back to the dog-food section. She has a collie named Lassie. That’s the kind of original thinking that just makes this town such an exciting place.
Mrs. Betty Carver continues in a whisper. “Gilbert, the last time Mr. Carver and I made love was the night I got pregnant with Doug. No kidding. To Ken, sex was for making boys. The second boy was a kind of human insurance. Fortunately, for me, there was another little boy. You.”
I say, “Oh.” This all might be too deep for me. My erection is gone and I look for something to act as an ashtray. I find an empty Coke can and hold it out and she flicks her ashes in the opening. She’s standing with the cigarette, not smoking it, and I think an onlooker, peeking through the store window, not hearing the conversation, would probably chuckle. The sight of this woman, dressed in her funeral black, holding a cigarette, talking to Gilbert Grape, while Mrs. Staples struggles up to the counter with a ten-pound bag of Gravy Train—the sight is too much. Mrs. Staples pays for the dog food; I offer to carry it out. She says that she can manage, that she’s always been able to manage. She doesn’t offer any condolences to Mrs. Carver, which seems rude. But then again, there are many who don’t ever acknowledge death.
As she leaves with the dog food, I almost let out a bark.
“Phyllis is angry at me. She plays all the funerals, you know, but I don’t want music at Ken’s. She thinks I’ve got something against her. But my problem is not with her at all. It’s with my late husband. Doesn’t that sound odd? Late husband?”
I say, “Maybe you can tell her after this is all over.”
“No, I’ll be gone after this is over. I’m thinking about taking my boys to St. Louis. How does St. Louis sound?”
I shrug.
“Ken hated St. Louis. I think it has a nice ring to it.”
Mrs. Betty Carver’s hair has been unraveling since she walked in the door, giving her that crazed look that makes her killing him conceivable. Part of me wonders what took her so long. “You’re thinking I killed him. I can see you thinking it in your eyes. I’ve always been able to tell everything from your eyes.”
I say, “I guess I’ve been thinking that it’s possible. Your killing Mr. Carver, that is.”
“Gilbert,” she says—and she says this like she’s asking for another loaf of bread or checking the price of Rice-A-Roni—“how can you kill a man who’d already been dead for years?”
“Good point,” I say. And she knows it. She completes winning this round by putting out the cigarette in the can which I still so dutifully hold. Doug comes back in the store. He’s got chocolate on his lips.
“Mommy,” he says.
“Mommy’s coming, honey.”
Smoke starts to billow out of the can.
“Good-bye, Gilbert.”
She leaves the store. Bobby McBurney holds open the limousine door for her and before getting in, she pulls down her widow’s veil.
40
Amy and I go straight home after the funeral.
Momma asks, “How was it?”
Amy says, “Good. Not the crowd we had at Daddy’s but a lot of people just the same. There wasn’t any music, so the service was short.”
“Like life,” Momma says.
I’m heading for the stairs, hiding the Coke can behind my back.
“What are you doing with that can?” Momma calls out.
I shrug and laugh because no reasonable answer comes to me and I continue up the stairs. In my room, I dust off a corner on my lowest shelf. I look in the can and see that the cigarette butt has her lipstick on it. I remember the feel of her lips. I’ve never won a prize or a blue ribbon or a plaque, but as I set the can in its new home, next to the Styrofoam cup filled with Becky’s watermelon seeds, I think that maybe, finally, I’ve won something.
***
In the bathroom, I look at myself in the mirror. Not bad. I undo the belt to my polyester brown pants, I unclip my tie, I am twenty-four years old and my only tie is a clip-on. I refuse to learn how to tie a real one. The reason is that my father set a precedent for tying knots around the neck and it’s an example I choose not to follow. This line of thinking has gotten me out of wearing ties except at the most festive of occasions—funerals. And I’ve only been to three. The first was my father’s, when I was seven. The second was my Grandfather Watts’s, when I was ten. He lived across the state in Martinsburg and he died when a tractor fell over on him.
I turn on the shower and step under the water.
It occurs to me as the water pours on me, my funeral clothes scattered all over the bathroom floor—it occurs to me that my brothers, sisters, mom, and me are the last of the Grapes.
Momma was an only child and her mother died when she was a little girl. My other grandpa, Lawrence Grape, drank himself to death; this happened before I was born. Apparently he was mean and bitter. He had two boys—my dad, Albert Lawrence, and Gilbert Palmer Grape. Gilbert Palmer died in World War II. He was shot down in a plane and he’s buried with the other Grapes, about four graves from my dad. It seems my other grandmother, Dottie Grape, blasted my mom and dad for not naming Larry after Gilbert Palmer. So when I came along, the family was in ecstasy, because they could appease my Grandma Dottie, who lived alone in Alden, Iowa. Grandma Dottie has lived, if that’s what you’d call it, in a nursing home for the last eight or nine years. She’s forgotten everything and everyone. My mother despises her and the only memory any of us has of her is how when she’d blow smoke in our faces, we’d cough, and she’d just blow some more. For all practical purposes, Grandma Dottie is dead. We have no aunts, uncles or cousins.
I turn my shower into a bath by lifting the stopper above the faucet. I pour in Arnie’s bubble bath. The pink bottle is still almost full from lack of use. It’s been almost a week since his last cleaning.
I sit down slowly in the hot water, the bubbles cover me, only my head sticks out. The ends of my hair get wet. The heat from the late-afternoon sun and the hot water makes my face sweat; breathing in the air burns my throat. It’s at times like these when I can perfectly understand why so many need Jesus or drugs or Burger Barns, anything to make the day bearable. I touch myself until I’ve an erection. I let the water out of the tub and stay there as it drains. When the water gets to the side of me, then below me, I relieve myself. I make a moan sound that hopefully no one heard.
***
After dinner I put on clean clothes, comb my hair, and slap on some of Larry’s aftershave that he left behind. I go down and out to my truck. Ellen is on the porch marking verses from a brand-new white Bible that she now carries with her everywhere. “Where you off to?” she asks. “I can smell you miles away.”
I laugh off the smell comment. She’s one to talk about smells.
“I’m highlighting the good parts,” she says. “The pertinent parts and I hope when you’ve a minute you’ll thumb through this because I think it will give you some compassion for your sinful self….” She continues talking, chalking up points for heaven, she must think, as I get in my truck and drive away.
***
At the Carver house, I knock on the door. There are relatives still inside, boxes for packing, too, and Neil Diamond plays on a stereo. An older woman who looks like Mr. Carver in drag opens the door. She must have been his mother.
“Could I speak with Bett… Mrs. Carver?”
She turns on the porch light. She looks me up and down: obviously something about me truly disgusts her.
“I can’t look any better than this, lady,” I want to say. But I smile the I’m-sorry-Mr.-Carver-died smile and this seems to make things better, for the moment.
The woman shuts the door. The wait must be five minutes. When Mrs. Betty Carver opens the door, I expect to see her still dressed for the funeral. She wears jeans, though, and one of Mr. Carver’s T-shirts that is baggy. It looks sexy on her.
“Gilbert,” she says.
“Hi.” I stand there as she waits for me to talk. “I wanted you to know… uhm… St. Louis sounds like a good… opportunity….”
Smiling like a proud parent, she nods.
“Well… it could be a great opportunity… I’ve always found St. Louis… uhm… uh… and after Arnie’s party… I’m… uhm avai—”
“Gilbert,” she says, “oh, Gilbert.”
“I think you know what I’m trying to say.”
“We’ve already said our good-bye.”
“Yes, but…”
“If we keep on saying it, it won’t mean anything, will it?”
The door opens and little Todd says, “Mom. Mom! Uncle Dan is doing magic. Come see, Mom! Come on!” He pulls on her T-shirt.
She says, “In a minute, Mommy’s finishing up with Gilbert Grape.”
Todd goes inside and the door closes. The porch light goes off, leaving Mrs. Betty Carver and me in the dark.
“Todd must have…”
“It’s okay….”
“He must have bumped the switch. I can turn it back…”
“No.”
There is nothing to say, nothing left to do. She sees through me; she sees me wanting to use her for my escape. We stand for a bit, then she swings open the screen door, goes inside, letting the door slowly close.
Uncle Dan must be doing his magic because the music has been turned down and I hear the “ooo’s” and “ah’s” of the relatives, the laughter of the kids. I stand there listening.
I make sure my headlights are facing the Carver house when I snap them on. I position my truck so they shine bright on the living room window. This way she’ll notice as Gilbert Grape drives away.
***
Tucker’s light is on. The TV is on inside. I can hear pro wrestling. I have to knock real loud.
Bobby McBurney opens the door. He has replaced me as Tucker’s best friend. “Gilbert.”
“Hi, guys.”
I’m let into Tucker’s garage/apartment in such a way that I feel like an unwelcome visitor to a top secret club.
“I didn’t see your hearse, Bobby.”
“Yeah, well, my dad doesn’t like me to drive it for a few days after a funeral. Seems a bit tasteless to remind people of death at such a tender time. Give it two or three days and I’ll be back at the wheel. Of course, if somebody else kicks off, then I’ll be stranded a few more days.”
On TV, a big, fat guy with a bunch of tattoos beats on a little, more muscular guy who wears a snow mask. Tucker leans forward, intent on the wrestling. I sit and ask myself, “Why, of all places, did I come here?” Finally, after the tattooed guy practically chokes the masked guy on one of the ropes, the masked guy pins the tattooed guy to the screaming delight of the fans. It breaks to a commercial. Tucker lowers the volume and turns to me. “We looked to you for advice. We uh…”
“Entrusted,” Bobby says.
“Yes—with the truth of our girl situation. You have offered no advice. No counsel.” Tucker goes on to say, “You’re lucky we even let you in tonight. I seriously considered leaving you outside, standing alone, so you could uhm…”
“Contemplate.”
“Yeah, contemplate your lack of action, your inability to care for your two buddies, Bobby and Tucker.”
Am I hearing this?
“You didn’t seem to appreciate our ideas but you gave us no other idea, no other alternative.”
I think fast. I need these guys right now. I need the comfort of stupid people.
“Friends help friends, Gilbert. Friends call. Friends talk. Friends are… uhm… uhm… friendly.”
Bobby nods in agreement.
I go, “You guys think of me as some mastermind with girls.”
“No, we don’t.”
“You’re just luckier.”
“If that’s the case, then why did you turn to me?”
“Because you have experience.” Tucker sounds like a commercial for the Army Reserve.
“I did come up with an idea. I’ve been mulling it over.” (Yeah, for about twenty seconds.) “But it sounds like you guys aren’t interested in my ideas anymore….”
Tucker says that they are interested, very interested but that they don’t want to get their hopes up.
Bobby is cooler about it all but he, too, is dying to know my thoughts.
“You guys know Cindy Mansfield?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, Cindy has a group of girls that meet Sunday nights at the Church of Christ. They have a Bible study, they hold hands when they pray. They hug a lot. My little sister is the newest to belong to the group but there must be ten, twelve girls of varying ages.”
“What are you saying?” Tucker asks.
“I think I’m being clear.”
Bobby nods, he’s gotten my drift.
Tucker asks several minor questions that do not deserve repeating. I explain that much killing and lovemaking have been done in the name of Christ. Christians “forgive” so easily, they are more apt to sway from “the path” because they can always forgive themselves. They can forgive you.
Tucker goes, “Ohhhh, I get it.”
I pop open one of his obscure beers and chug it. I grab another for the road, and as I’m about to leave, my short little friend says, “Gilbert?”
“What, Tucker?”
I look down at him, a smile forms below his watery eyes. “Praise God.”
“Keep practicing,” I say.
“I love Jesus. Jesus saves.”
“Really practice, Tucker. You sound stilted.”
Bobby paces the room, rehearsing his lines. His script goes something like this: “I was asleep when it occurred to me. The emptiness of my life. I had a dream. And this group of people, you girls, were in the dream. A voice said go to them. Go to those girls and ask for entry into their midst.”
“Midst is good,” I shout. “Midst is biblical!”
Tucker starts singing “Jesus loves me,” but he has to stop because he doesn’t know the words.
Suddenly, I’m the greatest guy and I leave, secure in their esteem. I drive the streets of my town. I’m looking for action.
I pass the old Lally place. I find Becky standing in her front yard, looking up at the night sky. I roll down my passenger window. I’m about to say, “What’s up?” when she points up and whispers.
“What?” I say.
She points again but I don’t look at where she’s pointing. I look
at her. “What did you say?”
“The moon, Gilbert. What a thing—the moon.”
Oh Christ. Get me out of here.
I hit the gas and drive off.
I head to the cemetery. I walk around the graves and look all over—at the tombstones, the trees, even at the dent in my truck’s fender. I look everywhere—everywhere but at the moon.
41
It’s late afternoon of the next day—Monday, July 11—five days till the festivities. All morning and afternoon we’ve been cleaning the downstairs in preparation. Janice called during lunch and will “check in” daily until she arrives on Saturday. Larry sent an extra check to cover “necessary expenses.” And Mr. Lamson has given me more time off to help ready the house.
Moments ago the retard hopped like a kangaroo through the kitchen tracking his filthy, muddy feet across the clean floor. Amy looked up and rationalized the situation. “Since Arnie will be eighteen in a matter of days, we’ve left it up to him to decide when to bathe. He’s almost an adult. What with him itching all the time and the dirt getting so thick—surely he’ll break down and clean up any moment now.” She waits for my response but I have none. “Isn’t it a great idea letting him make an adult’s decision?” Amy Grape has found it yet again. The bright side.
But she knows damn well that I’ve tried everything to get the kid in water. And she knows that it’s no use.
Momma keeps reviewing the schedule for the big day. We did the planning, but she has to approve everything—the menu, the party colors, the guest list. The retarded kids from a three-county area—of which there are maybe ten, all of whom are assorted shapes and sizes, all of whom speak in those garbly, retarded voices—will be over for a few hours on that afternoon. There will be party games and the opening of presents. Each activity has been carefully planned, food is beginning to be stockpiled and it’s all designed to run like clockwork.
So.
I’ve almost finished remopping the floor when Amy comes into the kitchen and says, “A big truck pulled up out front. See who it is.” She sends me outside for understandable reasons. Ever since Muffy, she has had a particular aversion to big trucks and their drivers.
