What's Eating Gilbert Grape

by Peter Hedges

  Later I lie on my bed and look at the cracks in the ceiling. Ellen is picked up by some friends. Amy and Arnie get in the Nova and drive off to the Church of Christ.

  It’s five minutes and something seconds until the news will be on. I’m in my room going through papers, proud that I’m the only one in Endora not watching TV.

  Momma calls from downstairs, repeating my name—and, like a dripping faucet, she will persist until I appear.

  ***

  Now I’m at the TV, adjusting the rabbit ears, twisting the hue and the color, not knowing which button does what, trying to make sure Lance looks green.

  Momma goes, “That looks good. That’ll be all.”

  I’ve been excused. I thank this unknown god of ours by getting myself an Orange Crush from below the kitchen sink and some Highland potato chips. They make Highland potato chips in Des Moines, so I trust them.

  From the kitchen, I hear the news start with the announcer saying, “The Ten O’clock Evening News with Lance Dodge!” He lists the others, but I don’t hear their names. The news theme music is full of trumpets and typewriter sounds. I sneak a look from the dining room. The camera shows the news desk, which is shaped like a giant 3. Lance sits in the center wearing a blue suit and a red tie with white dots.

  The camera cuts up close. His face fills the screen and his hair has that just-got-cut look. He’s never looked so confident, so certain of himself before. He spits out the words like he invented them. His eye movements are barely noticeable. You can’t even tell he’s reading.

  I try to imagine the churches filled with people, all the bars and houses, the entire town cheering him on. I feel around my eyes the welling of water, but I cut that concept short. No tears, thank you very much, not even because of Lance Dodge.

  At commercial, I get a fresh pack for Momma, unwrap it, offer her a cigarette, and after it settles between her lips, I light it. “I’ve got a gentleman for a son,” Momma says.

  Back comes the news and Lance is the entire TV picture.

  “Gilbert?” Momma says.

  I don’t say anything. I sit there, shaking my head probably.

  “This isn’t such a good time for TV,” she says, pushing her channel changer, turning it off. Sometimes Momma can be merciful. “Do you want to talk?”

  “Good night, Momma.”

  “The boy has talent, Gilbert.”

  “No doubt,” I say, climbing the stairs.

  “Well, if you ever want to talk…”

  I go upstairs to my room. I block my door with my red chair and lie on my bed, my clothes still on. The ceiling in my room has these shadows that look like rain clouds.

  It takes hours, but finally I fall asleep.

  ***

  In my sleep I hear this shouting. “Go! Go away!”

  Turning on the light to Arnie’s room, I find him sitting up, his white sheet wrapped up around his brown, muddy head. His neck and arms are caked with dirt and his face scrunches from the sudden light.

  “What, Arnie?”

  “Nothin’.”

  “What is it?”

  “Nothin’.”

  “You having a bad dream?”

  “No.”

  I readjust his pillow, grab a stuffed dinosaur and two bears, and set them near where his head is supposed to be resting. “Sometimes when people sleep little movies happen in their heads.”

  “Dreams,” Arnie says.

  “Yes.”

  “This was a dream. Bad and scary.”

  “Yep. And you know what, Arnie?” He looks at me, his eye having adjusted to the light. “Don’t worry—I won’t let anybody hurt you. You know that, right?”

  “Yes.”

  I hug him goodnight.

  “Stay. Stay!”

  “But…”

  “Don’t leave, Gilbert. Don’t leave.”

  I turn off his light and climb onto the lower bunk, lying on top of the covers. “Arnie?”

  “What?”

  “Sometimes a person… uhm… a person has got to break loose… get away from…”

  “But you stay. Promise? You stay here now. Promise?”

  “Okay, Arnie. I’ll stay tonight.”

  “Yep.” He giggles.

  “Hey, Arnie. What’d you think of Lance Dodge?”

  He gets quiet. “Oh boy. What a gee-nus.”

  “Genius. The word is genius.”

  “Yep. I know, Gilbert. Jeez, I know.”

  ***

  I wait the twenty minutes or so it takes for Arnie to start banging his head and I slip out of the room. Downstairs, Momma is talking.

  “You’ve got some nerve. That’s what I think. What? Arnie is just fine, thank you. Dirty, yes. But he’s fine and you got no right… you got no right…”

  When I reach the bottom of the stairs, I see that the TV is on casting its blue light, a commercial plays softly, and whoever Momma’s talking to must be in the kitchen. I sneak down the hall.

  “No… we’ve done right by Arnie… no agency, no home would have been better… we’ve hung on… sometimes that’s enough… what? I know you’re sorry… you should be sorry….”

  I look into the kitchen and see Momma at her table, sitting straight, gesturing with her lit cigarette, a bag of chips and a bowl of fruit at her side.

  “Momma?” I whisper.

  Her head snaps in my direction. Fire is in her eyes.

  “You all right?” I say.

  She stares into the darkness where I stand.

  “Who you talking to?” I ask.

  She puts her cigarette in her mouth, closes her eyes in that I’m-about-to-inhale way and says, “Since when do I gotta be talking to someone?”

  She’s got me there.

  “Maybe I was sorting out thoughts, maybe I was thinking out loud.”

  I move closer, past the mounds of dirty dishes, past the stinking trash under the sink. I hear a fly buzz by in the dark and try to swat it with my hand. “It sounded like you were having a conversation,” I say, in hopes that this will explain my prying.

  “Go to bed.”

  “But are you all right?”

  “Good night.”

  She hits the volume up high on the TV. I’m at the foot of the stairs when she erupts with, “That Lance Dodge was something else!”

  I turn and see her smiling so proud, so in awe of Lance.

  “His mother must be so proud! Don’t you think, Gilbert? Don’t you think?”

  I look at her, all fleshy and large. I try to speak, but there are no words.

  “Amy said he might be made permanent anchor. There’s a good chance! He’d be on every night! What do you think about that? Huh?”

  I climb the steps slowly. My mother keeps on talking, and I know that I will go. I will leave here. After Arnie’s party. I will get in my truck and drive away.

  ***

  I wake up early and look around my room. I curl up in my bed, curl up in a ball. It just hit me. I’m leaving Endora with nowhere to go.

  46

  At breakfast, everyone is bubbling “Lance this” or “Lance that.” Arnie tries to use a finger as a butter knife because, in his words, “All the silverware is dirty.” This from a boy whose hands look like charcoal. I stand on the porch studying the sky. The dark clouds, the smell of rain.

  Amy comes outside and I say, “Look at those clouds.”

  “You shoulda seen Lance.”

  “Maybe,” I interrupt, “we can lock Arnie out of the house and he’ll get washed clean.”

  “Maybe,” she says as I climb in my truck.

  “You woulda loved the big screen.” Amy stops. She sees the slouch of my body, the blankness in my face. She is about to talk when I turn the key, rev my truck, and shift to reverse. She looks at me as I back away—I see her figure it out.

  I drive off.

  I drive to ENDora OF THE LINE for a morning six-pack, but when Donna inquires first thing if I saw him and if it wasn’t wonderful, I pivot around and walk out wi
thout saying a word.

  At the store, Mr. Lamson seems in fine spirits and business is brisk, as it looks like rain. The dark clouds have come racing in, but the talk is still all about Lance.

  At around noon a big orange-and-blue moving van drives past the store. I stop working and watch as the Carvers’ things drive away. Trailing behind is the Carver station wagon, loaded full with sloppily packed boxes. I almost run out to the street and chase her car down.

  Mr. Lamson is all smiles, helping the customers the way he always does, as if they were the most important people in the world. He waves to me. “We’ve got the dairy coming any minute. Straighten the milk up, will you?”

  I walk to the blue crates. I start to push the skim milk next to the other skim and separate the whole milk from the low-fat. Something about milk always makes me think of my mother and while that might seem obvious, the thought of my mouth around her nipple, the thought of her feeding me, filling me with her milk is not a comforting thought.

  Lance’s picture—the one that hangs next to the Wonder Bread clock—stares down at me. I decide that I will steal the picture and leave it, gift-wrapped, in the trash. I’ve never seen my mother so proud or impressed with anyone as she is with Lance.

  The dairy truck arrives. I do my duty and head on out of work back home. The clouds have made the afternoon feel like nightfall; they are black and bruised, soggy.

  I’m driving home from work wondering what to do now. My plans don’t feel like plans anymore. A quick check of my rear mirror and I find Becky waving her arms, pedaling fast, trying to catch up with me. I won’t pull over. I put my foot on the gas and speed up. But she is still gaining on me. I realize that she will catch me eventually—she will call when I least expect it—she will materialize at any moment, anywhere. So I pull over. She coasts up to my side of the truck. Rolling down the window, I expect to hear her gasping for air, but she isn’t even panting. “You should be…”

  “I’m in great shape.”

  “Oh. It’s gonna rain,” I say.

  “I know. Isn’t it great?”

  “It’s not a good idea to ride your bike in the rain.”

  “Okay. Whatever you say, Gilbert.” She looks at me like she knows something about me that I don’t know. She studies my face and says, “You look down.”

  “Me? No. Never.”

  “It’s Lance. Last night was tough for you, huh?”

  “No big deal,” I say.

  She looks at me. My eyes avoid contact. She giggles. She seems to have enjoyed Lance’s spectacle and its effect on me. “You aren’t Lance, Gilbert. And thank God you aren’t.”

  I look at my odometer to see how many miles I’ve driven.

  Becky keeps talking. “Anyway, bigger things are in store for you. Things right here. Important and special things right here. Right under your nose.”

  I’m getting very tired awfully fast of her smugness, of her confident all-knowingness, which I now happen to think is fake.

  “Gilbert?”

  “Yeah, what?”

  “Oooo. Hostile.”

  “What? What? Please finish, so I can go.”

  “You can go now.”

  “Finish.”

  She moves closer and says softly, “Don’t worry—one day you’ll leave Endora.”

  “Who said anything about leaving?”

  “Well, it’s the natural thing. It’s what people do nowadays.”

  “I’m not people!”

  She looks at me, shakes her head, and snaps back, “You are definitely not people. Trust me. You’ll leave when the time is right. But there’s something you should know.”

  I start up my truck. This girl has a new name and it’s ass pain.

  “Gilbert… stop…!”

  “What?” I shift to drive but put my foot on the brake. This way I can get away fast. I turn and look at her, my eyes cold. Becky sticks her face through the window, her lips find mine and they are soft and they stay there long.

  Kiss.

  She sits back on her bike. I squeeze my eyes shut and open. She starts to ride off. I shout “Hey, wait!” She doesn’t. I drive after her, honking my horn. Becky is getting away, so I go faster. I get so close that if she were to fall, my truck would run her over. So I slow up a bit. When she rides over the railroad tracks, a drop hits my windshield. Another drop. Many drops. I put on my brakes and watch as she rides away. I touch my lips. She looks back over her shoulder. I sit in my truck, engine running, and let the rain blur my windshield. The drops hit my roof and hood so hard they sound like bullets.

  All over the county farmers are dancing and praising God. And somewhere, Lance Dodge is somewhere, and the other Grapes are preparing for their return. Meanwhile, a crazy girl rides away, free, and here on this street, my truck waits on top of the railroad tracks, in the pouring rain, and I sit, the back of my hand pressed against my lips. Oh my.

  So I turn on my wipers, they squeak the water away, and I drive home slow, oh so slow, in the rain.

  47

  The rain pelts me as I make my way from my truck to our front door. I swing it open and find Amy standing there holding a photo. “Hey, Amy.”

  She extends it and says, “For you.”

  “What’s the occasion?”

  She whispers, “It’s your going-away present.”

  I don’t know what to say. I look at the picture. It’s a man in his early twenties, messy hair, an easy smile. The man wears a red and black flannel shirt and holds a Christmas tree that he’s obviously just cut down. The picture is me if I were alive in the fifties. The picture is of my father. “Wow.”

  “Amazing resemblance. Unbelievable, huh?”

  “Yes.”

  “Gilbert, you’re like him in so many ways. Loyal to a fault. Maybe if he had left…”

  “Amy…”

  “Maybe if he had got out, he wouldn’t have… you know. I don’t want you to end up like Daddy did.”

  “But I would never…”

  “You don’t know that. You never know.”

  There’s a silence where I look back at the picture, I study my dad. Finally, I say, “My smile isn’t as nice.”

  “Wanna make a bet?” Then Amy continues, “Hey, Arnie’s hiding in the basement. If you could get him out in the rain it would clean him up. Do that for your sister, will you?”

  ***

  “Arnie?” I call out. “Arnie?” I say his name softly, as if I’m his best friend. “Buddy, I got a surprise for you. Hey, come on out. I’m not gonna make you go outside, okay? Arnie?”

  No sign, no sound.

  I look in the laundry room, through the mounds of dirty clothes.

  “Promise, Gilbert. You promise?”

  Turning around, I see Arnie standing among the support boards and beams. His hair is now completely greasy, his face a cloudy gray with dried dirt. This afternoon he’s added a kind of brown oil streak across his face that runs below his nostrils and above his top lip. Some jelly clings to his face from yesterday. All this and Arnie still seems happier than ever.

  “Where were you hiding?”

  He won’t tell. “Promise about not going outside?”

  “Sure.”

  He sits down on one of the lower support boards and I say, “I want to show you something.”

  “Uhm.”

  I extend the picture. He sees the photo, his mouth opens and he squeals.

  “You know who that is, Arnie? Do you know?”

  He shakes his head fast.

  “Who?”

  He points at me. “It’s you, Gilbert, jeez.”

  “No, it’s not.”

  “Yep, sir.”

  “No. It’s your dad.”

  “Nope.”

  “It’s your dad and he… uhm… if he were here he’d make you get clean. He’d spank you if you didn’t get…”

  Arnie says, looking at the photo, “You shrunked, you shrunked.” I try to take back the picture but Arnie hugs it to his filthy chest and runs
out and up the stairs.

  ***

  In the family room, Amy is setting out the party decorations, party hats, paper plates, and plastic forks and spoons even though the party is three days away.

  “Amy,” I say. “I tried.”

  “You’ve got to get him clean. By Sunday!”

  “Okay, okay.”

  “You have to do it.”

  “I hope I can. But I don’t know if…”

  “Tie him down if you have to. You have to get him clean.”

  “Amy?”

  “Yes, what, Gilbert? What, what, what?”

  I want to tell her about how I hate being told I’m like my father and how it’s not my fault I look like him and that I don’t know what will happen but, if I stay here, stay in Endora, I don’t know what I might do, even though I’ve no real idea of where to go and then this afternoon, to top it all off, the Michigan girl kissed me—kissed me—and quite simply I DON’T KNOW WHAT TO DO and while I’m searching for the best way to express this, she asks, “What is it?”

  “Forget it.”

  “No, what?”

  “Uhm. Uh. I love you.”

  Amy drops the bag of forks and says, “You don’t know how much I needed to hear that.” She hugs me, her flabby arms soft against my back, her eyes closed while mine look around, look around at the stacks of party supplies. Amy holds me like a lover while I pat her shoulder with one hand. The rain pounds down, the drops bounce off the ground. Maybe later there will be lightning.

  ***

  All afternoon we prepared for the party and now we’re sitting around the living room eating frozen pizza. When the six o’clock news comes on, I stand and go outside to my truck.

  I drive in the rain to ENDora OF THE LINE.

  “Donna, don’t ask questions, okay?”

  “Sure, Gilbert,” she says, putting out a Marlboro.

  “Condoms. I need them. And don’t judge me. Don’t look at me all funny.”

  Donna giggles and rings up a small box of three. The box is blue. I pay in exact change.

  “I want to ask ‘Who’s the lucky girl?’”

  “You can ask but…”

  “But you won’t tell me?”