by Peter Hedges
Amy’s face is looking over me in my bed. I roll over on my stomach to hide my erection, the same one I went to sleep with last night.
“You’ve got to explain to her about guys, Gilbert—make her wise to men’s true nature. Now that her teeth are straight, I fear the worst.”
“Okay, okay, I’ll talk to her.”
Amy continues and I drown her sound by sandwiching my head between a pillow and my mattress. I squeeze it tight until she’s gone.
***
First I throw on some shorts and a red-and-yellow Iowa State University T-shirt (Janice’s alma mater). While peeing, I hold my breath—the bathroom is filled with Ellen’s beer/vomit stench. I walk down the hall and knock on her door.
“It’s open.”
“Hey, Ellen.”
My sister is lying on her pink bed, her face and hair still hung over. She is reading a National Geographic. In my nicest voice, I say, “Since when did you start reading that?”
“Since now.”
“Reading stuff like that people will begin to think you’re smart.”
“Just don’t tell anyone, then.”
“People change. Your reading that proves my theory that people change.”
“I’m not reading really. I’m just looking at the pictures.” She’s been flipping the pages very fast.
“I’m relieved you aren’t reading.”
She flips her hair back. We both know why I’m in her room and it’s a waiting game to see who will speak first.
“Oh God!” Ellen says this, most likely, to avoid what I’m about to say.
“What is it?”
“Look at that.”
Ellen shows me two pictures on a lost tribe from Africa or somewhere, some primitive tribe. The first picture I look at is a closeup of a man with a huge yellow hoop through his nose.
“Ouch,” I say.
“Look at the other one.”
It is five women and many babies. The women have no shirts or tops on, they are on the edge of the water doing laundry by hand, their breasts are hanging out.
“Can you believe that?”
I shrug.
“This magazine is in libraries all over. These women aren’t even ashamed, or embarrassed. I’d be so embarrassed.”
“Speaking of embarrassment…”
Ellen stops, she looks at me, squinting her eyes as if to burn a hole in my head. “I really can’t be bothered, Gilbert.”
“You’re sixteen. You’re underage and you aren’t…”
“Yes, Father!”
I look away and speak softly. “I’m not your father. I don’t want to be.”
“You’re trying to be him, though. Don’t you scold me! I have one father and if he didn’t want to stick around to see me be born, then that’s fine! But you can’t take his place!” Ellen’s face is all red, veins stick out of her throat. “Last night Momma almost died! I found comfort with my Christian friends! We drank a little, so what! I hate you. I hate my stupid brother who thinks he’s my father! I hate my family!”
I whisper, “Don’t for a second think you’re alone in that.”
“What? What did you say, Daddy!”
“I said, Don’t think you’re the only one who gets to hate around here!”
This confuses Ellen long enough for me to stand and leave the room.
“Shut my door, please.”
I leave it wide open. I pass Arnie, the dirt boy, who waits in the hallway. “Go to it, sport,” I say.
Arnie runs into Ellen’s room and jumps on her.
“Arnie, stop it! You’re getting my bed dirty! Arnie!”
***
Downstairs, Momma bangs her fists on the table and shouts, “Where are my Cheerios? Where are my Cheerios?!” Amy, in the bathroom, calls back. “In a minute, Momma, in a minute.” In the kitchen, I locate the big flowered salad bowl, pour in half a box of her cereal, carry it along with a gallon of milk to the dining room and set it out like a high-class waiter.
“Aw, Gilbert, since when did you start loving your mother?”
“Is that what this is?”
Momma changes the channel, Amy flushes, and Arnie continues terrorizing Ellen upstairs.
***
I start my truck and see that I need gas. I drive the extra distance to Dave Allen’s station because if I had to listen to that bell sound today, I think I’d crack up.
“Hey, Gilbert,” he says, a toothpick jutting out of his mouth. Certain people look wise with a toothpick. Dave is one of those people.
“Hey, Dave. Why you so happy?”
“The regional manager was in town yesterday. Checking the books, you know. Assessing the whole operation.”
“And what was the assessment?”
“He was pleased.”
“Good, Dave, I’m happy for you. I know that regional managers are very important people. Powerful people.”
“In their own way, yeah, I guess they are.”
My tank is full and I pay the $15.62 in exact change. I start up my truck, he comes up to the window and says, “Gilbert, you haven’t let me say what I’ve got to tell you.”
“I’m all ears.”
He’s about to speak when a car horn honks. It’s Melanie’s Volkswagen bug. She waves frantically for me to follow.
“Later, Dave,” I say, interrupting him.
I set out after Melanie. I follow her out of town, east on Highway 13 and when she turns off at the cemetery, I pull up behind her. I watch from my truck as she puts flowers on Mr. Carver’s fresh grave. Melanie’s wig seems to have wilted a bit and as her body walks toward my truck, she uses every ounce of energy to keep herself erect. I roll down my window and when she smiles, I see she’s been a little sloppy with this morning’s lipstick.
“Gilbert. Uhm. I’m not dealing. Well. With this.”
I focus on her mirrored sunglasses and try to forget about the streaks of red on her teeth.
“I miss him,” she says. Melanie lifts the sunglasses up for a second to wipe the tears. Her eyes are spider-webbed with red and the bags beneath them are swollen and purple. “There is something else you should know. Ken and I were. Lovers.”
“No!” I feign surprise.
“Yes, Gilbert. He understood me. He held me. Surely you understand. You must be experiencing your own personal pain. Am I right?”
“I’m doing fine.”
“But surely you ache at night, too.”
I look puzzled, scrunch my face in that I-don’t-know-what-you’re-talking-about way.
“I always knew about you and Betty. It somehow made my affair okay. So, now I’m alone. You’re alone. Maybe we can be there for each other. You know, during this difficult time. What do you think? Gilbert?”
“What are you saying?”
“Ken is gone. Betty is gone. And I need… and you… maybe…?”
Is she saying what I think she’s saying?
I explain to Melanie that she deserves better. “In no way can I be the kind of man Ken Carver was—there is just no way.”
“Not true, Gilbert. You’re very similar in lots of ways.”
Melanie reaches for my hand which I retract from the window. I explain that I’m not ready for a relationship right now. “I need some time.”
Melanie nods like she understands, laughs as if she’s been there, and then shakes her head like she’s remembering 1969. “Of course you need time.”
44
Back in Endora, I turn in to the Dream without thinking why. Two dirty trucks are parked out front and inside are three real big, greasy construction-worker types. Ellen’s working alone. As I saunter up to the take-out window, she turns my way and I can see she’s been blushing. Her smile fades as she slides open the window. “How may I help you?”
The men inside talk in whispers to themselves. I recognize them. They are the men who’ve been working on the Burger Barn. They each hold one of those extra-long beer cans that they sip in unison. These are the kinds of guys who love t
o have paint and cement and dust on their clothes and in their hair—guys who savor their sandpaper hands. And Ellen is at that age where she’s dazzled by anyone who can speak a complete sentence without his voice cracking.
“Sir, how may I help you?” Ellen repeats. She is talking to me like we’ve never met. “Would you like a chocolate swirl, perhaps? We’ve got nuts, swirls, sprinkles, banana chips…”
I whisper, “I know what you’ve got.”
“Go away,” she whispers back.
“No way. You can’t trust these guys.”
“Do you know them? Don’t think so, Gilbert.”
“No, nor do I have any desire to.”
“Where do you get off?”
The three giants have stopped muttering to each other and look in our direction. Sensing this, Ellen turns and with the sweetest smile ever, she says, “Guys, it’ll be just a minute.”
They mumble, “Okay, baby,” and, “Shit, baby,” and, “No hurry, baby, we got all day.”
I gulp my throat.
The ugliest of the three, which is an accomplishment, says, “Hey, buddy, you got a hiccup?”
“No, I’m fine, thanks.” Then to Ellen, I whisper, “I’m concerned for your safety.”
“I got a cure for your customer’s hiccup. You send him out back, I’ll cure that hiccup right fast.”
Ellen says, “I don’t think the man has a hiccup.” She hands me a Styrofoam cup of water. “Are you ready to order, sir?”
“Hey, Donny,” one of them says, “do you get the feeling that these two know each other?”
“Yep, I get that feeling.”
“You two know each other?”
Ellen turns and with the sincerest tone says, “No, I’ve never met this man before.”
I’ve just experienced my first verbal death. The men laugh and wave bye-bye as I walk in a daze to my truck. The heat is great. Endora is a sauna. If I stay in this town, I know I’ll melt away.
At home, Amy reiterates, “Friday. Please, Gilbert. Get him clean by Friday.”
I’m about to say “Yes” when the phone rings.
“Grape residence, Amy speaking.” Amy listens. “Oh my. Oh yes. Of course!” It sounds like Amy has won some telephone jackpot.
When she hangs up, I’m all over her with questions. “What is it? What was that about? What’s going on?”
“Lance is anchoring the ten o’clock news tonight.”
“No.”
“Yes, Gilbert, he is.”
***
So it’s dinner and we’ve received six phone calls since Mrs. Dodge called with the news about her son. I am not eating. I merely sit motionless and massage my stomachache.
As Amy serves the fruit salad, she says, “Phyllis Staples called to say the Church of Christ rented a big-screen TV to watch the news on. I’ve only seen that kind of TV on game shows. It would be like a movie, watching the news on such a big screen.”
Ellen says, “Lance and his mother went to the Church of Christ every Sunday. They’re superreligious. They know God and God knows them.”
Amy asks, “Arnie, would you enjoy the big picture of a big-screen TV?”
He looks up from his plate, the dirt caked and streaked everywhere. He goes, “Jeez, Amy. Jeez.”
Amy nods like what he gave was an answer.
Momma, eating in her spot in the living room, chimes in with this thought: “Up until now, Lance has only done ‘on the scene’ interviews, special reports, and that real interesting feature on the Polk County Crafts Fair. Anchoring, though, is it. It’s the Academy Awards of Iowa.”
Amy and Ellen stare at each other. Arnie scratches his head with both hands.
***
Later, as we finish up, Amy reiterates, “It’s not every day that we get this opportunity to see a big screen. Anyone interested in joining me?”
Only Arnie looks like he’s seriously weighing the options. Certainly Momma won’t be going anywhere tonight. And with my aversion to any of the Lord’s houses and to Lance, I plan to stay inside. I turn to Ellen and say, “What are your plans, Ellen, dear?”
She sighs and all of a sudden goes, “Life! Nothing is simple, nothing is clear-cut. I’ve got invitations to Cindy’s house, the Hoys’, to five different churches, Bobby McBurney’s mortuary, and now you’re adding the big-screen possibility. I don’t know if I can take this anymore. I wish life weren’t so complicated, you know. This depresses me to such a point that I can’t eat.”
“Me, too.”
“Shut up, Gilbert.”
“No, like you, I’ve lost my appetite.”
“What now—wait—what is going on here, Gilbert? Are you saying that I’m the reason you aren’t eating?”
“Yes, something like that.”
“Well, I have heard plenty of crap in my day but this—oh my God—this is top-of-the-line crap coming from you. Don’t blame me because you hate your life. Don’t blame me because you don’t have any excitement, all right?”
Ellen continues in this vein until, I guess, she realizes no one is listening. She stops, stabs her fork into her cole slaw, and says something to the effect that no one in our family understands her. I suspect she’s right.
I move close to her and laugh in her face.
She goes, “See! See what I mean!”
Amy says, “Enough, you two!”
Momma, who is eating in the living room, calls out the following in garbled tones as her mouth is full of food: “YES! ENOUGH OF THAT! LET’S BE ONE BIG HAPPY FAMILY! IS THAT TOO MUCH TO ASK?” She sputters and spits as she says this.
Ellen looks at Amy and whispers, “Did anyone get what she said? Did anyone get what she just said?”
“Something about being a happy family,” I say.
“Oh, sure.”
***
We’re polite and civil to each other for the next several minutes. We pass food when asked, say “thank you” and “please” and what keeps me sane is knowing there’s only five more days of this.
“Oh,” Ellen says, and in an attempt to make up with me, she volunteers to do the dishes.
“What about your rash?” I interject.
“My hands will endure,” she says as she starts running the water.
I want to tell her that she’s going to have to do dishes for years to make up for all of the cruel pain she’s inflicted, but I don’t say anything. I smile the it’s-okay smile, the kind of smile my family has perfected.
“Sorry about this afternoon, not recognizing you. But, Gilbert, brothers can get in the way with other guys. Having a brother humanizes me. And I didn’t want those men to think of me as human.”
I almost say “You succeeded.” But instead I watch her as her hands get covered with dishwashing suds. She drones on and on, barely scraping the plates, and I pray for the return of her rash. Arnie runs past and he’s so embarrassingly dirty now that I almost pick him up and dunk him in the sink. I look around the kitchen and consider my future here. The mess and stench are unbearable. Once upon a time my family had a certain fuzzy charm. Not anymore. Now we’re like a boil on the butt of Iowa.
And tonight everyone in town will be rushing to their TV to watch some phoney fool us all—Burger Barn is almost built, the school is burned down—Arnie is soon-to-be eighteen—and I have Lance Dodge to thank for my sudden clarity. My next move is obvious, I will leave this place. I will leave Endora.
“Gilbert, you’re smiling all of a sudden,” Amy says as she wipes Momma’s face with a wet rag.
“Yeah?”
“I haven’t seen that smile in soooo long.”
“Well…”
Amy wants to know what is going on inside me that would bring forth such a rare expression of joy. She wants to know my thoughts.
I shrug.
“What is it, Gilbert?”
This family is nowhere to be found in my smile, nor the girl from Michigan. My decision to leave, to escape—my new life—is the reason for my toothy grin.
&nbs
p; 45
I pull out the junk from under my bed. Dirty socks aplenty, old clothes I haven’t seen in years, a couple of dusty magazines that specialize in naked women, and my dress shoes, which are brown and need polish. The left shoe somehow got crushed under something down there and it’s all bent up, smooshed up. I won’t be taking much to wherever I’m going, but it’s time to begin to pack.
I hear Amy’s tap, and before I say “Come in” I shove the magazines under the bed.
She cracks open my door. “Arnie decided on the big screen.”
“But he’s so dirty…”
“Still. He wants the big screen.”
With the door wide open now, she sees the mess I’m sorting through. She sees the waiting suitcase.
I say, “What about Ellen?”
“I don’t know her plans, but I’m pretty certain she’ll be somewhere other than home tonight.”
“That’s good,” I say, “because Ellen is…”
“I know, Gilbert. I know how you feel.”
“Thanks,” I say. She shrugs like it’s nothing and heads out the room.
“Amy?”
She stops.
“There’s something you should know.”
She turns. “Gilbert, I’m not dumb. I may be a lot of things but I’m not dumb.” Before walking away, she looks at the half-filled suitcase and stays fixed on it. “Gilbert,” she says. “You’ll wait till after the party, won’t you? You’ll be here for the party.”
I look at her. “Yes.”
She walks away leaving my door open.
“Amy?”
“Yeah, what?” she calls back.
“Try sprinkling some of Larry’s old cologne on Arnie. It’ll cover up his smell.”
“Yeah, okay.”
I resume my sorting and folding. Every time I decide on a shirt or match a pair of socks, the look on Amy’s face flashes at me. Part of her died when she saw my suitcase. I want to explain everything to her but I don’t know how. I decide to stop packing for the night. I sit for a long while doing nothing. Then I get out my tenth-grade yearbook, which is more like a magazine, and open it to where a torn piece of paper sticks out like a bookmark. I look at my picture. Not bad. Three pictures up is Lance Dodge, before the gym workouts, before the perfect teeth, before the facial hair. I spend a moment amazed that a guy like me could manage to end up on the same page as a man like Lance.
