What's eating Gilbert Grape?

by Hedges, Peter

  "Takin' care of business every day Takin' care of business And workin' overtime"

  Back at the Ramp Cafe, the McBurney Funeral Home hearse is driving off with Tuckers truck set to follow. I pull in behind him, blocking his exit.

  Tucker is out fast, shouting, "I hate you, Gilbert. I hate you! I'm telling a story, a funny, funny story and you just leave like that! You don't even pay your bill! I mean, some friend you are. Embarrassing me like that. I have pride, you know that? Huh? Did you know that!"

  1 let him go on for some time about how I don't deserve his friendship. He sounds like a bad boy scout. Finally I say, "Hey, dummy."

  "I'm not the dummy! You are the dummy, Gilbert."

  "It wasn't Lance Dodge who peed his pants."

  "Yes, it was. 1 was there."

  "No, dummy. It was me."

  I roll up my window.

  Tucker says, "You? No way. No way! . . . uhm ... oh boy."

  I shift to reverse and begin to back out.

  "Oh yeah." Tucker remembers now. He's frantically trying to apologize as I drive away.

  If it were possible, I wouldn't talk to Tucker for a week. I deserve better friends.

  The Ramp Cafe is in the distance now and I'm alone with my thoughts. My only regret is that 1 didn't pee on Mrs. Brainer while she was alive.

  What's Eating Gilbert Grape

  17

  I. case could be made that Gilbert Grape became the thinker, the dreamer that he is while stocking the many cans and bags and food items for the people of this town.

  Over the years my technique has become so automatic, so natural, that 1 don't need to think about what I'm doing. No, my thoughts wander off wherever they want. I'm usually not in the same place mentally that I appear to be physically. Either I'm in Des Moines at Merle Hay Mall or driving across the desert or standing on an Omaha rooftop waiting for a tornado to come ripping. Know this—I am rarely in this store or in this town in my thoughts.

  I'm pricing the breakfast cereals when Mr. Lamson comes up behind me. "Wonderful surprises are in store for us all, Gilbert."

  Startled, I almost drop the Wheaties I'm holding. I manage a "Huh? What?"

  "Surprised you, did I?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "So you see my point."

  I nod.

  "I knew you would."

  For years Mr. Lamson has taken great joy in surprising me. He's hidden under the counter, behind the dog food, and once he almost froze to death in the freezer waiting for me to open it so he could yell "Surprise." When I finally did, his eyebrows had begun to frost and his lips had turned blue.

  I whisper under my breath, "Wonderful surprises—I'm waiting."

  Mr. Lamson sees my mouth move. "What was that?"

  "Nothing, sir."

  Mrs. Lamson, who is in the little office cubicle waiting for money

  PETER HEDGES

  to count, calls out. "Dad, do they got some special going on at Food Land?"

  "Not that 1 know of. Gilbert, anything going on at Food Land?"

  "Oh, I'm not the one to ask. Never shopped there. Never will. Would rather die."

  "You do not mean that."

  "Sir," I say, "I'm afraid that 1 do. I go to a store for food. Not for . . ."

  "They must have something going," Mrs. Lamson chimes in, walking all over my words and not seeming to mind. "Because nobody is here."

  I can't bring myself to tell them what Tucker told me the other day. It seems that Food Land installed an aquariumlike tank where they keep crabs or octopus or lobsters with their arms or claws or whatever taped shut. People crowd around; kids make faces at the creatures—glad, I guess, that they're not the ones trapped inside.

  I look up at the Wonder Bread clock. The forty-seven minutes I've worked today feel like forty-seven days.

  "Gilbert, you sure you don't know something we don't know?"

  "Honey," Mr. Lamson says, "I'm sure Gilbert would fill us in if he knew something was up over there. Wouldn't you?" Mr. Lamson smiles his yellow-toothed grin and glides down Aisle Two.

  Mrs. Lamson starts singing the "Iowa Corn Song."

  "loway, loway

  State of all the land Joy on ev'ry hand

  We're from loway, loway That's where the tall corn grows."

  I feel a tap on my back. It's Mr. Lamson—he's circled around and his eyes look misty. "If only there was another woman like her. If there were two of her, you could have one," he says.

  Finally, for the first time in weeks, I'm able to say something and mean it. "You don't know how much I would like that, Mr. Lamson."

  What's Eating Gilbert Grape

  "Oh, I know, son. Believe me, 1 know."

  The singing stops. "What are you boys talking about?" she calls back. "You're not poking fun at my music?"

  "Never!" Mr. Lamson says.

  "No, ma'am."

  "Then how come no applause?"

  So me and the boss clap. He yells out a bravo and I toss a dime.

  Outside, the Carver family station wagon drives by with the boys in back. Mrs. Betty Carver half waves. I turn away hoping she didn't see me see her.

  I uncrate a box of assorted Campbell's soups. I stamp on the purple prices and sort them into flavors or types or whatever. And as I stack the cans, the image of that station wagon of hers stalled on Highway 13 flashes. I pulled over and helped her. I was cilmost seventeen and it was an easy fix, her car, and she seemed surprised that 1 could fix things, and I was surprised that a woman who'd seemed so uninteresting to me before could suddenly become so interesting. She complimented me on my skill and 1 replied—innocently, I might add—that I had always been pretty good with my hands. She said I was "adept," and 1 said 1 didn't know what that meant, and she said 1 should look it up in the dictionary, and 1 said I'm not interested in looking up things, that if you have to look it up then what is the point, and she said that she would be happy to teach me.

  "Gilbert?"

  Mr. Lamson is standing next to me. I listen without looking. My sights are on the soup cans.

  "Between you and me . . . ?"

  "Yes, sir?"

  "Man to man?"

  Sensing his concern, I stop with the cans and turn his way. I look him in the eye and cilmost succeed in ignoring the Band-Aid that holds his broken glasses together.

  "It's those goddamned lobster tanks, isn't it?"

  "I think so, sir. " How did he know that I knew?

  "Crap."

  "Sir, it's just a fad. How long can lobsters in a tank be inter-

  PETER HEDGES

  esting? Flash and pizzazz and neon are but passing fancies. There will be a resurgence of simple dignity."

  "You think?"

  "Yes, sir. You and your way. It— we will prevail."

  "You sound any more hopeful, Gilbert, I'll begin to think I'm talking to the ghost of your father. '

  I want to say, "I've never missed having a father, because of you," but I stay quiet.

  He whispers back to me, "Let's keep those lobster tanks between us. It would break Mother's heart."

  "I won't say a thing."

  It's later now and I've moved on to the coffee cans. As I zip along, I review the sequence of Mrs. Betty Carver in my life.

  It was the summer after I graduated high school. The Carver family was in the checkout line and the boys were just babies. Mr. Carver was saying something to his wife about not buying candy. "Candy is bad for your teeth and why would you want to damage your wonderful teeth?" I was doing something, listening rather than working, and Mr. Lamson was ringing up their purchases. I was back by the metal stockroom door that swings, and Mrs. Carver walked right up to me, holding her newborn baby in one arm and a pound of bacon in the other. She said, "Gilbert?" I said, "May I help you, ma'am?" She spoke softly because there were other shoppers. "Forget it," she said. "No, what?" I said. Her baby was dribbling on her nice breasts. I remember her words exactly. "Gilbert, will you come ..." She swallowed. Her voice was shaky. "Ken work
s most days and I can drop the boys off at a sitter. Will you come see me some time?" Mr. Carver called from the cash register. "You coming, honey?" She said, "Just a second," and continued whispering to me. "Come by Tuesday. 1 know that's your day off. Can I expect you?" 1 remember wondering how she knew when my day off was and why she was looking at me in this new way, this eager way. All of a sudden I said, "Yes," without thinking. She looked deep into my eyes, deeper than anyone ever had, to see if I was telling the truth. "I hope you'll be there," she

  What's Eating Gilbert Grape

  said. Mr. Carver called again, "Honey, what are you doing?" While holding the drooling child, she exchanged one package of bacon for another and said loudly, "Tm looking for some better bacon!" The cash register was still ringing when Mr. Carver, who always speaks louder than he needs, said, "What's wrong with what we've already got?"

  I've finished pricing the coffee. I move on to the pickles. "Aren't pickle prices higher than this?"

  "Maybe at Food Land, Gilbert. Not here. We've always had a reasonable deal on pickles."

  That is an understatement.

  I'm fast at pricing foods. I do the work that three or four of those high school puberty types do at the Food Land. This is not bragging. This is fact.

  I stamp the first of several pickle jars and remember that Tuesday in June. It was seven years ago. I showered twice. We hid my truck in their garage and I sat in Mr. Carver's chair. She brought out lemonade and cookies. She said nothing the entire time I sat there. I said "Thank you" when I left. She smiled as if to say "You're welcome" but there were no words. This went on for six or seven Tuesdays. It was August before I walked in and took her head in my hands and kissed her. Her mouth tasted like coffee. September came and my classmates went to college. I stayed and studied Mrs. Carver.

  "The pickles are done, what's next?" The kneeling has made my legs stiff, so I stand and shake them out. The purple ink from the stamper is all over my hands. "Mr. Lamson, did you hear me? Boss?"

  He's ringing up a purchase at the cash register, so no answer comes from him. "What's next? " I call out. "I'm on a roll." Walking briskly down Aisle Three, I get a whiff of a certain perfume. My walking slows. 1 peek through the potato-chip rack. I see the hands of a small girl getting change. The hands lift a large watermelon. Don't let those hands be hers. I quietly move two bags

  PETER HEDGES

  of chips to get a better look. I see hair, black and full, shiny and clean. I see skin, such beautiful skin. A nose with a slope, yes. My heart is racing. I make a quick check for some flaw or mole or harelip. I haven't had a good look at her teeth yet. Surely there has to be some imperfection.

  Mr. Lamson says something about this particular watermelon being about a fifteen- to twenty-pound piece of fruit. He asks how she intends to get it home.

  "Bicycle. "

  Mr. Lamson calls out my name.

  I usually beam with pride when my name is shouted across a room—but today, at this moment, I wish my name were Roy or Dale. Maybe Chadwick.

  "Gilbert! Gilbert!"

  "He's behind the chips."

  I step out quick and stand there certain that my fly is open or my hair is all matted and gross. How did she know where I was?

  "Delivery, Gilbert. Would you be so kind?"

  "Huh? What?"

  "Delivery, son."

  "Yes," I say, as if I have a choice.

  The Becky girl turns. She seems totally unimpressed. She's wearing one of those flower-patterned summer dresses, green and white. The kind of summer dress that any grandma would like her granddaughter to be wearing; the kind of dress Gilbert would like to help her hike up.

  "Son, get moving."

  "Huh?" I stand there numb.

  "Help the young lady already."

  "Yes. Yessir. Help."

  What's Eating Gilbert Grape

  18

  whe holds the door for me. I wish she wouldn't. I place the watermelon on the passenger seat. Without looking at her I say, "You can ride in back."

  "1 have a bike."

  "The bike will fit in back, too," 1 say without turning around.

  "1 prefer to pedal," she says. She hops on her ten-speed and starts down Main Street. She cuts across the empty lot next to Carvers Insurance. I follow, going slow, careful not to let the melon sitting next to me fall to the floor.

  She pedals up the path to the water tower. My truck can't go there so 1 wait for her to make a move. She's a good distance from me; she faces my way and waits. So I wait. She'll stay there all day, undoubtedly, so 1 get out of my truck and begin to walk toward her, cradling the melon. I'm about halfway there when she starts toward me. 1 expect her to stop but she zips past, almost knocking me over, and cuts back across the empty lot. She shoots across Main Street.

  Me and the melon are back in the truck driving to find her, when 1 see the McBurney Funeral Home hearse make a U-turn. I pull up next to Bobby at the stoplight, one of three in Endora. He rolls down his passenger window.

  "Did you see her? Did you see her!" he shouts.

  "Afraid so," 1 say.

  The light stays red for an eternity.

  "Bobby, how old are you!"

  "Twenty-nine!"

  "Aren't we a little too old for this kind of thing?"

  He looks at me, his red hair windblown. He presses his lips together, squeezes the steering wheel like a race car driver and calls out, "We're never too old to feel aliveT

  PETER HEDGES

  The light clicks to green, and Bobby and the hearse peel out.

  I make a slow right turn onto Elm. I've lost track of her but no way am I joining some search party. 1 drive past the Dairy Dream and remember that fateful night when I met the viper there. At the Church of Christ parking lot. 1 drive in a slow circle and see no sign. There's no trace of her in the field where the carnival was. A couple of Pastor Swanson's kids are picking up what's left of the popcorn boxes and candy wrappers and ticket stubs. I head down Third Street to the Endora town pool. Four kids splash each other while Carla Ramp, sister of waitress Beverly and daughter of Earl and Candy, watches from the lifeguard chair. I've always said that I would rather drown than be revived mouth-to-mouth by Carla Ramp. She makes her sister Beverly seem beautiful. She has swimmer's hair, yellow and starchy, and her nose is covered with that annoying white stuff to protect against sunburn. My burn, incidentally, is fading fast; my arms are beginning to peel. I pass Mrs. Brainer's house, which already has a for sale sign posted out front. Her porch swing hangs triumphant.

  The girl has vanished and part of me couldn't be happier.

  I'm considering my options regarding the watermelon when thirst becomes a factor. I head to ENDora OF THE LINE for an Orange Crush. I lock the doors to my truck for reasons that disappoint me. I'm worried that someone might kidnap the melon. How sad that I would even care.

  Donna is at the cash register. She was in the same class with my older brother, who I should never have mentioned.

  Anyway, I'm about four steps from Donna and the door, when that girl and her bike coast across the parking lot. She rides with no hands. I stand there motionless as she disappears down the block. I feel like I'm thirteen again.

  The McBurney Funeral Home hearse followed by Tucker's truck pulls into the parking lot. The boys leap out of their respective vehicles and say, "Gilbert, Gilbert, Gilbert!"

  "I know my name. Christ, you guys."

  So they start in about this girl, and I am losing interest by the second. The more they talk, the more convinced I become that there's something wrong with her.

  What's Eating Gilbert Grape

  "Have you seen her teeth?" I interrupt.

  "No."

  "Uhm. Not really. But surely ..."

  "You don't know," I say. "She could have those black, blotched teeth. Or maybe she's got one of those hairy faces or maybe ..."

  "You've got a point."

  "Yes, he does."

  "Of course I do. And furthermore, don't we, as citize
ns of this town, have more useful and important things to be doing with our time? I think we do."

  I drive away as they stand there pondering my words. My gas gauge is on "E" so me and the melon are forced to drive to the closest station, which is Standard Oil. Dave Allen's is on the other side of town, so no luck in terms of the cord or hose or whatever it's called. I sing real loud as 1 go over the black tube thing but the bing-bing or dong-dong still makes it to my ears. Buck Staples is working today. He's a year younger than me but he was held back twice, once in fourth grade, once in sixth. One could argue that he wasn't held back enough.

  Buck says, "Hey, Gilbert."

  "Hey, Buck."

  I'm putting gas in. He kicks some gravel and says, "Wow."

  "Wow what?"

  "Uhm, I don't know. Just wow."

  "Oh, wait," I say. I finish with the gas, open the passenger side of my truck, lift up the watermelon, and say, "You any use for this?"

  Buck shakes his head.

  "Damn."

  "But uh I swallowed a couple of watermelon seeds once. Ugh."

  I say, "Oh."

  I'm checking my oil when I hear that clicky-ticky sound of a bike come coasting up. "Gilbert?" "What?" I unhook the bar that keeps my hood raised and let

  PETER HEDGES

  the whole thing drop. It makes a "WHAM" sound. I turn toward you-know-who.

  "Your name is Gilbert. I didn't forget. But then again, who could?" She puts some stray hairs back behind her ears.

  "Who could what?" I say. I'd be lying if 1 said I didn't want this girl in a reproductive way.

  "Forget a name like Gilbert." She chews on a knuckle.

  "You get germs that way."

  "What way?"

  "Chewing on your hand. Licking your fingers."

  "Oh well," she says, continuing to chew.

  I'd also be lying if I said that this girl appealed to me as a person. Quite honestly, she's the weirdest thing in these parts.

  I pay Buck the $7.52 in exact change. He asks how my truck is running, and I say, "Like a kitten," and he kiddingly goes, "Meow." Let me say that that was the first interesting thing I've ever seen Buck do.