by Peter Hedges
“I don’t know, Larry.”
“Where is everybody?”
“Still asleep,” I say, following him.
“Smells the same.”
I can’t tell if Larry means that to be a good thing or not. Surely the smell of our house, even though it might evoke some perverted nostalgia, is not a pleasant one.
It’s early morning. Larry cases the downstairs, studies Momma, puffs his cheeks full of air to indicate how big she’s gotten. Then he says, “Help me unload the car.” So we go out to his car and it is packed full of presents, different-shaped boxes, all nicely wrapped, expensively wrapped.
There must be sixteen, eighteen boxes now sitting in the family room.
I say, “You outdid yourself this year. Arnie is gonna die.”
“Not funny.”
“It’s a figure of speech.”
Larry squats. He wears brown polyester pants and brown shoes, a yellow shirt with a brown tie, a belt, brown. He cracks a smile looking at all the gifts. He must be picturing the look Arnie’s face will make.
“The kid will squeal,” I say.
Larry keeps looking around, as if I don’t exist, as if he’s alone in the house. I’m about to say “Yoo-hoo,” when he stands, brushes down his pants, and heads out the house to his car. He drives away without so much as a good-bye or “Be back in a few.”
I go out back and sit on the swing. Larry’s swing. The one he built. I remember how he used to push me.
***
It’s an hour later, at least, when Amy taps on the kitchen window. She waves me in.
“I checked on Arnie. He looks so clean. I barely recognized him. Thank you, thank you, thank you!”
I take Amy into the family room and show her the stacks of presents. “Larry was here.”
“Christ. Go wake Arnie up.”
“Let him sleep.”
“Wake him up. This is his day.”
“Let him sleep.”
I am firm and Amy gestures a surrender. “You win.”
***
Later, Ellen and Janice are on the porch. Momma is up. No TV today—she is supervising Arnie’s restacking of the presents, Larry’s presents, with which he will try to make up for a year’s absence.
I’m decorating out back, when Larry’s car returns. He stands in front of his car, his arms extended, expectant, and calls out, “Arnie, Arnie! It’s your brother. Your favorite brother.”
Arnie bounds out the porch and leaps into his arms. Arnie has been bought.
I hear Janice and Ellen oooing and ahhhing over Arnie and how clean and nice he looks. Momma, too. Momma is shrieking she’s so happy.
I keep decorating, tying balloons to the edge of the trampoline. I pop a balloon and look around to see if anyone heard, if anyone noticed. No dice.
***
For the party, activities have been planned from one to three. At three, there will be cake and ice cream. At three-thirty, there was to have been a dance to early Elvis songs, Amy’s idea, but I suggested that a bunch of retards dancing in public would be quite a scene. One retard is fine. But a party load of them could cause quite the uproar.
Tucker calls to say he had hoped to stop over. “But with this being the Grand Opening week and my extra duties as assistant manager, I’m going to have to RSVP.”
***
Momma went into the bathroom at about noon and she’s still not emerged.
I knock on the bathroom door. “All the retards are here. The parents, the neighbors. There are fifty people in our backyard, Momma. Amy says you want to watch from the house. Well, okay, whatever. The party has been a success, a real gem of an Endora event. Maggie Wilson took some pictures for the Endora Express. But the cake is beginning to droop in the sun. You’ve got to come out, Momma. Momma?”
She slides open the door, her eyes all red. I say, “Hey, you okay?”
“Gilbert, every day I prayed to God who I hate. I prayed for one thing. Keep my Arnie alive long enough for me to see this day…”
“I know.”
“Let me finish. I prayed to that bitter bastard of a God, I said ‘Let me see my boy turn eighteen and I’ll forgive you.’ Now, I’ve done my forgiving. And now, I’m ready for some cake.” She pushes through the door and I move out of her way so as not to get squashed. She is breathing heavily, the back of her tentlike dress dripping in sweat, her feet in a pair of Larry’s slippers. She shuffles to the back door and looks out at the party, which is in full swing. Momma won’t go out in public but the people sense her watching. They know she’s here. Even though they can’t see her, they know Bonnie Grape approves.
I watch as she sees the kids bouncing on the trampoline, the parents chatting among themselves, and neighbor kids straddling their bikes. “Mr. Lamson just dropped by a gift. He’s waving at you, Momma.” She steps back farther into the house. I open the door and call out, “Thank you, Mr. Lamson. My mother sends her regards!” He nods and smiles and gives Arnie a pat on the back. Mr. Lamson walks to his wife and their Dodge Dart.
I shout, “Cake! Cake!” and the kids come running. Hardly kids, I say to myself, seeing that some of them are older than me. One of them, Sonny, is thirty-five, and he’s lost most of his teeth. He walks with a limp, and he has a facial twitch. His mother must be seventy—she yells at him to get over to the cake. “You love cake, Sonny,” she says. “Cake is your favorite.”
Sonny’s mother is the only person other than family allowed into the house to see Momma. They are old friends from way back.
The kids gather and Amy brings out the cake with the candles flaming. It takes Arnie five tries to blow them all out, but he does, and the kids jump up and down. I look at the back door and see Momma in the shadows, smiling, watching quietly. She has nothing to say, and it isn’t until Ellen tries to take Momma’s picture through the window that she speaks. She waves at Ellen and yells, “NO PICTURES! NO!”
Ellen laughs, thinking Momma is joking. “Come on, everybody loves to have their picture taken.”
Janice says, “Say cheese, Momma.”
Momma signals for me to stop Ellen. So when Ellen opens the door to take a picture, I lunge for the camera and end up tackling her. I’m able to wrestle it from her. The retards all stop their screaming and bouncing about and look at me as I pin my little sister.
Ellen whispers, “This the only way you can get it, huh, Gilbert?”
Larry watches all of this, like it’s a movie, as if nothing he could say or do might affect the outcome. He looks like he’s enjoying the show. I’ve a good mind to sell him popcorn. This isn’t a movie, I want to shout.
Momma taps the kitchen window, her signal for cake, and Amy cuts off a huge piece and takes it to her.
Arnie eats only the frosting. Then he tries to steal Rica’s cake. Rica is a nine-year-old retard with a giant, bumpy head. Her mom tries to keep Arnie away. This happens right in front of Larry’s eyes, next to the trampoline. He does nothing to intercede, so I push through the noisy kids to where Arnie and Rica are at war. I pull him away and say, “No, Arnie. No.”
“The frosting. The frosting!”
“No,” I say. “That’s for Rica.”
Arnie runs to Larry, who offers a sympathetic hug. I look at my older brother, the “man” in my family, and think, “Some man.”
Amy brings out a sack of party gifts and Arnie thinks they’re all presents for him. She tells him that he already opened his presents and these are for his guests of honor.
We wrapped candy bars and lollipops and plastic toys for the other kids several nights ago. Amy says this is what polite people do, courteous people. This way the other kids don’t feel left out.
Arnie protests more, and Amy recounts all of his gifts and he begins to remember. This seems to calm him for the time being.
Arnie opened his presents from the family earlier this morning. Of course, he opened Larry’s gift first. It totaled seventeen boxes. It was a giant train and each box had a different piece of track or
a car or whatever. They assembled it in the basement and Arnie was bored with it by the time the guests arrived for the party. Janice gave him a certificate for a plane flight anywhere in North America with a friend. Ellen has already begun campaigning to be the chosen one. Amy made him a new set of pajamas and I gave him a piggy bank and eighteen silver dollars. Momma gave him his life, or so she says, and told Amy if that wasn’t enough, she didn’t know what was. She also gave him a hug and a kiss.
The kids have unwrapped their party favors, eaten the chocolate, and they’re getting restless. “I’m all out of ideas,” I say to Amy. Suddenly Janice raises her hands and jumps up and down. “Who wants to go on a plane flight?”
The guests go “Yes” and “Yeah” and “Me me me!”
Amy and I are asked to set out the benches and chairs. Ellen and Janice line people up in rows. Arnie is to be the pilot. The others sit in their seats, waving to their families, as Janice goes over flight instructions and Ellen demonstrates.
Amy says to me, “Isn’t this great?”
I look over our backyard, the people watching, cake plates and wrapping paper everywhere, rows of retards pretending they’re flying, my mother watching from inside, her face pressed against the window and I’ve no words.
“Isn’t this great?” Amy repeats.
“Uhm. It’s great.”
55
It’s four-fifteen and only three of the retards are left. Amy is in the kitchen. Larry and Janice are on the front porch. Ellen is still running around documenting the party. All day long she’s shot pictures of people to the left of me and then to the right of me. But never me. I say nothing and pretend not to care.
I’m in the downstairs bathroom digging around for a Band-Aid. I find the box and pick the appropriate size. Sonny, the oldest retard, scraped a knuckle on the sidewalk and I’m performing first aid.
I’ve finished putting the Band-Aid on Sonny when Amy says, “Boy, those kids sure scuttled out of here fast.”
“Yeah,” I say.
“The party wasn’t that bad, was it?”
So I launch into a lengthy tirade or whatever about how the party was a tremendous success, the kids had a good time, a grand time. And the fact that they’ve left an hour before the party was scheduled to end is not due to their lack of enjoyment. “Amy,” I say, “these kids were having too much fun. They were about to burst. No, they had to hurry home to their mediocre lives. Too much pleasure and it begins to hurt.” Not that I would know about too much pleasure.
The remaining kids scream, “Gilbert, Gilbert,” so I go out back. I have developed a brilliant system where each of them gets their turn. Each turn is fifteen jumps, then they rotate. I’ve earned their respect as I’m the only one who can count.
“Gilbert, Amy would like to see you in the kitchen.” Ellen delivers this message, her camera clutched in her hands.
Take my picture, I almost say. Instead, I tell the kids to take a break from the jumping.
I sprint to the back door and into the kitchen because the retards have started a chorus of “Hurry up, hurry up.”
“The tramp is quite a success,” I say to Amy, my body out of breath, my nose and neck beginning to burn from the sun.
“I’m glad.” Amy has been bagging up the plastic plates and party dishes. She always seems to be cleaning up somebody’s mess. “Gilbert. Brace yourself.”
“Sure, okay.” I jokingly grab the orange counter top with the backs of my hands.
“I’m serious. I’ve got some news.”
“Yeah?”
“Okay.” Amy looks stern.
“Did somebody die?”
“No. Gilbert?” This eerie silence from Amy is beginning to worry me. I squeeze the counter, my fingers turn white.
“It’s what Arnie wants and it’s his day and if that’s what he wants, we’ll give him that, and so, for dinner, we’re going… all of us… and your presence is expected, requested, and so thanks, favorite brother.”
She moves to kiss my cheek.
“No,” I say. “Never.”
Momma calls from the living room where she’s been talking with Sonny’s mom about whatever the mothers of retards talk about. She says, “Listen to Sonny’s mom.”
Sonny’s mom pops her head into the kitchen, her dentures a little loose, she struggles to say the simplest things. “Sonny and me went to the Barn for the first time. Yesterday. For brunch.”
Brunch? Surely she’s kidding.
Sonny’s mom licks her lips; her brittle hands fluff her blue hair.
“Let me say this, Gilbert.” She says my name with relish. “Best burger I ever had. Ever.”
“Hear that?” Momma screams out. “Best burger ever.”
“And,” Sonny’s mom continues, “don’t assume because of my petite size that I don’t know a good burger when I taste one. These burgers—I give you my word—are the best.”
Amy looks at me as if I have no choice.
The retards’ chant of “Hurry, hurry” has built to a scream. Ellen takes a surprise picture of Amy standing there and the back of my head. The flash blinds Amy, and I push Ellen out of my way and go outside.
When the retards see me, they let out a cheer and start begging for who gets to go next.
Pulling Ricky and Rica with the bumpy head out of the way, I say, “It’s my turn.”
I start my jump.
I go up so high that the kids all stop their complaining. They admire the height Gilbert Grape can achieve. Their jaws drop in awe.
Amy stands by the picnic table, drying her hands on her jeans. She shakes her head and mouths some words. My jumping slows, I fall to my knees, dribble a few times and then call out a “What?” to Amy.
She mouths two words. Burger. Barn. Then she points a finger at me. She nods—certain that she’s won.
***
Amy drives her Nova. Arnie stretches out in back, bouncing on his seat the whole way. Larry drives his car. Ellen rides in the middle. Janice is to the right. She holds her brown cigarette out the window. Momma gave her order to Amy. She’ll be waiting at home, and we’re to bring her the food she requested.
I follow in my truck slowly.
They hit all three green lights on the way. I slow down enough to be stopped by the light in front of Dave Allen’s. Dave is checking the oil on a Plymouth. He sees me, half waves. I look out the other side and wait for the light to turn green.
***
At the Burger Barn, it takes a minute to find a parking space. They are already inside. The place is packed, and my hope is that maybe there isn’t enough room for us Grapes and that we’ll have to go elsewhere, preferably home.
I open the door, which is designed to look like the wooden kind on “Gunsmoke” and other westerns, the kind you push through and they slap back on their own. But there is no push-through or slap-back, so I don’t know who those Burger Barn people think they are fooling.
Looking through all the clusters of families and kids, I don’t see my people. Far across the restaurant, though, in his polyester blue pants, in his orange and blue shirt, stands Tucker Van Dyke. I notice his name tag, with the words Assistant Manager spelled out in capital letters. He gives me the thumbs up and points with his head to his right. I move toward him. The noise of the people ordering and eating is intense and the closer I get, the bigger his grin grows.
“Tucker, enough” is what I almost say, but instead I say nothing and smile back. Even he can obligate my lips.
“Look,” he says, pointing to the corner of the room. A sign hanging proclaims, “Reserved for Arnie Grape and friends.”
I walk to where my family sits. They all look up. Larry and Janice and Ellen are seated on one side. Amy and Arnie sit on the other side. I’m to squeeze in between.
Tucker approaches and speaks to all of us. “Normally, you’d stand in line to place your orders. But, seeing as this day is Arnie’s day, the management has provided you the exclusive use of one of Burger Barn’s finest. Th
is is Maggie,” he announces. Maggie, a fourteen-year-old sixth-grader, who Ellen claims has been held back twice, appears with her pad ready to take everybody’s order.
Amy starts reading Momma’s order. Maggie writes quickly and when Amy is done talking, Maggie turns and walks toward the kitchen.
“Maggie,” I have to call.
She stops.
“You got to get everybody else’s order. That was for our mother. We’ll need that to go when we’re ready to leave.”
Maggie looks confused momentarily, but then she puts it together. Whew. She takes everybody else’s order. When she gets to me, I shake my head.
Ellen snaps, “Gilbert, order.”
Larry says, “It’s on me.”
Amy says, “You’ve got to try the Silo fries. Or have a milk shake.”
I order “water” and everybody is beyond mad. Ellen whispers into Janice’s ear, Janice looks at my shirt, then my face and giggles. Larry lights Janice’s cigarette and she blows her smoke in my direction. “I won’t be eating a thing,” I say.
***
The food comes and everybody is eating and they all seem to be oooing and ahhhing over each bite. “Yum-yum” is what I keep hearing, and it’s all designed to make me regret my decision not to eat, I know it.
I remember how Becky said regret is the ugliest word.
Followed by family. Family is a terrible word.
“I have no regrets,” I say, wishing I hadn’t.
Janice spits up some of her vanilla milk shake, Ellen chokes on a fry. Larry looks at me like the word “regret” is a word he’s never heard before. Arnie is under the table because he dropped a slice of pickle. Amy is on her third burger. She’s the only one smiling. She’s determined to believe this is the most beautiful day ever.
***
Over the microphone sound system, a voice can be heard. “Farmers and friends, the Burger Barn is proud to announce that in our birthday room—at this very moment, Endora’s own Grape family is celebrating the eighteenth birthday of Arnie Grape. So all you Burger Barn animals, join us in singing ‘Happy Birthday.’”
