What's eating Gilbert Grape?

by Hedges, Peter

  "Of course," I say. "Whatever you want me to do."

  I'm holding the cake pan. Amy takes a knife and loosens the sides, when the screen door swings open.

  "You back already? Ellen?" Amy calls out.

  There is no answer. The door closes.

  "Must be the wind," 1 say.

  Setting each layer out on the counter. Amy is about to stack them, when a shorter, stockier, balder, blander version of me walks into the kitchen. Amy grabs my elbow and we watch as he finds the peanut butter, the jelly, the bread and begins to make a sandwich. We stand there waiting for him to say, "Hello. " Say

  What's Eating Gilbert Grape

  something, anything. He cuts the bread at a diagonal Into two triangles. He looks up at us and without blinking, without acknowledging that he's been away a year with no phone call, only his monthly checks, he says, "Oh, hey—^you want one, too?"

  Amy can barely tcilk. "You know how I hate peanut butter. You know that."

  As he crosses out to the porch, he mumbles, "They say that taste buds change every twenty-one days. It's like we get a whole new set of taste buds."

  The screen door crinks shut and Amy doesn't know where to move or what to think. She says, "The nerve."

  "Yes," 1 say.

  Momma kicks into a snore from the living room and Amy starts pinching the top cake layer. She wasn't prepared for our other brother.

  "Don't you want to frost it first?" I say.

  Amy stops. "Yes, of course." At this point. Momma's snore surges to a new decibel.

  The screen door opens and he shouts, "Momma! Momma!" The snoring stops. "Momma, you're snoring."

  "Am I? Was I?"

  "You were, yes."

  "I'm sorry."

  The screen door slams as he goes back to the porch and his peanut butter and jelly. Momma says, "It's not that I'm making a choice to snore. The snoring just happens. It's not that I like that I do this. Gilbert."

  From the porch, in a loving, dulcet tone, he says, "I'm not Gilbert. I'm Larry."

  "No, you're not. You can't fool me. The son of mine who you refer to only comes back on my little boy's day."

  "I know. That's why I'm back today."

  Momma says, "But Sunday is his birthday and. Amy. what is today?"

  "Friday, Momma."

  "Yes, so you see, Gilbert? You can't fool your Momma."

  There is a silence that seems like forever, but it's probably only

  PETER HEDGES

  been three or four seconds. The screen door opens yet again, Larry's boots smack the floor and move toward Amy cind me.

  Flustered, his bald spot casting blotches of light on the kitchen ceiling, he asks, 'Today isn't his birthday?"

  Amy shakes her head no.

  Larry looks at me for confirmation. "This is some joke, isn't it?"

  You're the joke, I want to say.

  "You're early by two days," Amy says.

  He smiles but not because he's happy.

  "It's real good to see you. Larry," she says. "You look good."

  I say nothing to him, proud that I don't say what I don't mean. But when he looks over at me, I smile, even though later my lips will feel guilty.

  Larry looks at his feet, laughs like the joke was on us and strolls out of the house. Chasing after him. Amy says "But we could use some help around the house ..." but before she can say ". . . painting the picnic table ..." the screen door slams. Larry climbs into his new car and drives off.

  The screen door at our house is a kind of living punctuation mark.

  Amy whoops up her arms and says, "Same old Larry."

  "I'll paint the picnic table."

  She utters a firm "no" and tells me not to worry about it. "Put all your energies to getting Arnie clean. Where is he, anyway?"

  I shrug.

  She pats my shoulder in that everything-will-be-all-right way and says. "You think you might look around for him later?"

  I say. "Yes. later. I'll track him down later."

  She slowly turns the cake, pushing down any of it that she pulled up. "Makes me feel like I can sit down and rest. What with being ahead of schedule and all."

  "Quite a cake."

  "Yes, Gilbert. This cake is divine."

  We go on as if our brother Larry didn't exist.

  Minutes later, the phone rings. Amy answers. "Yes . . . uh-huh ... I know ... we know . . . we're working on the situation, Larry. ..."

  What's Eating Gilbert Grape

  Larry on the other end? Larry dialed our number?

  "... I know it's disgusting . . . but Arnie is almost an adult"— Amy's face is turning red—"well, if you gave a good goddamn maybe you'd be around here more often, maybe you'd be around here to help!" She slams the phone down.

  "You okay?" I say.

  "He's driving out of town, right? And he sees Arnie digging for worms. Arnie runs over to him to give him the worms, and he said he couldn't even recognize him under all that dirt. The nerve—the nerve of that man." Amy goes out in our backyard. She pounds the picnic table with her fists and screams, "Fuck you! Fuck you!"

  I've never been so happy to hear anyone swear.

  49

  ^o he was two days early?"

  "Yep."

  "Well, he's probably been under the gun at work. Pressure, you know."

  "Where does he work?"

  "How do I know? I'm just Janice."

  "You seem to know more about him than anybody."

  "Larry keeps those things to himself. 1 know more about him because I'm trained to understand people."

  I don't respond to that. I move the phone to my other ear.

  "So why aren't you at work, Gilbert? Huh? Why aren't you at work?"

  "This week I'm only putting in half days."

  "That's great, Gilbert."

  My sister Janice is talking fake. She could care less when I work. She's been calling every day lately. She's already asked me a bunch

  PETER HEDGES

  of inane questions and heard none of my answers. "So how's the weather there?"

  "It rained."

  "I loathe rain. Rain is so inconvenient."

  How can rain be inconvenient when the crops and trees and fields have needed it so?

  "It better not rain on Arnie's birthday. We deserve nice weather that day. Don't you think?"

  "Sure, whatever."

  Janice launches into a verbal essay on the clothes she plans to wear. 1 set the phone down, walk to the fridge, pour some ice water, drink it, pour some more, return to the phone. "... So what do you think about that?"

  "Uhm. Yes."

  " 'Yes'? Yes is all you can say?!"

  "Well . . . yeah . . . yes is the best word."

  "Get me Amy! You're deliberately hurting me!"

  "No. I meant 'no.' Really."

  She listens. "1 can't believe you said 'Yes.' You're so insensitive, little brother, /'m so looking forward to seeing you/' Then she's silent. 1 hear her inhale on a cigarette. "Did you just hear the sarcasm in my voice?"

  "Yes."

  "Because, Gilbert, you could drive to South Dakota and I'd never know you were gone."

  1 drop the phone on the floor. 1 hear her faint voice, yelling, "I WAS ONLY KIDDING." The phone hangs by its cord. The receiver spins itself out.

  At four o'clock in the afternoon, I hook up our sprinkler. Wearing Hawaiian shorts, 1 stand under it and pretend to play in it. Arnie watches from behind the sycamore tree. "Having lots of fun," 1 say.

  Arnie doesn't budge.

  "You really must try this, ol' boy."

  He shakes his head.

  My demonstration of water games reminds me of my time at

  What's Eating Gilbert Grape

  the Carvers' with the trampoline. Mrs. Carver has only been gone two days. Every time the phone rings, I'm hopeful it's her calling to announce a change of plans, her offer to let me live in St. Louis. But who am I fooling with this fantasy? She won't be calling.

  Ellen is dropped
off by her friends, who laugh and scoff at the dripping me. She gets out of Cindy Mansfield's mom's blue station wagon. The girls shout "Praise God" to Ellen, who throws her hair back in agreement. They drive off, honking and waving. Ellen looks past me and says, "Arnie, wait till you see what I got you." She marches into the house. The retard follows.

  You forget that my paycheck bought those clothes, I almost say, as the sprinkler sends rain down on me.

  "Gilbert? I've missed you this week," Mr. Lamson says this as he loads me up with the groceries.

  "Yes, sir."

  "My days aren't as happy when you're not around."

  "1 have mutual feelings."

  This is the truth. Lamson Grocery, and 1 didn't know this until this week, is my one escape, my desert oasis.

  "Mr. Lamson?"

  "Yes, son."

  "Working here is like walking on the moon."

  He looks at me. He stops, then breathes, then mashes his lips as his eyes mist. "Oh, Gilbert, what a nice thing to say." He lifts up a huge tub of peanut butter. He hands the tub to me. "For Arnie."

  "Oh, boss, you shouldn't have."

  I leave work, weighed down by the peanut butter, only to find Becky sitting on the hood of my truck. She smiles, her head tilts like a puppy dog's. 1 set the grocery sacks in back and say, "Off my truck."

  "No."

  "Get off. Off."

  "No."

  "This is my truck. I paid for it. It's mine. Get off the hood."

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  "No."

  "Goddammit—get off my hood—get off my back—get off my hood!"

  Becky shakes her head. She slides off and starts home.

  "And stay off," I say. "Stay off my hood."

  She turns my way but keeps walking. "It's not that I don't want to kiss you. I do. But ..."

  "But what?"

  "If you could see yourself, see the hate in your eyes. If you could see the ..."

  I cover my ears. She is gone. I go, "Aaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhh!"

  I drive to the car wash and spray down the hood. Normally I'd wash the whole vehicle, but my family's food is packed in back.

  When I get home. Amy and Ellen are in back. Arnie is nowhere to be seen. I unload the groceries with no help from the others. In the house, I find Momma awake, talking to herself, "I just want to see my boy turn eighteen. ..."

  "We know. Momma."

  "Was I talking to you?"

  "I gathered you were. As I'm the only one here."

  "Gilbert?"

  "Yes?" I stand in front of her, studying her as if she were an animal in a zoo—her hair in clumps, her skin bleached out. The absence of blood.

  "You think when I'm talking that I'm always talking to you? Is that what you think?"

  "No. It's just that I'm the only ..."

  "Your father."

  "Huh?"

  "I was talking to your father. I do that sometimes. I'm still so mad at him. So mad that I want to kill the man. But, as you know ..."

  "Yes, I know."

  "He did that for himself." She leans forward, putting her stone elbows on the shaky table. "And you know what your dad says to me when I talk to him? Do you know what . . . ?"

  What's Eating Gilbert Grape

  "Sorry," I interrupt. "I'm sorry that ..."

  "Yes. He says he's sorry."

  Momma sits for a moment. Her swollen hands cover her face and I say, "Oh, Momma," and she utters all these words that I can't make out because of her crying.

  Finally, she gets enough composure to spit out her thoughts, a word at a time. "Sorry. Doesn't. Bring. Albert. Back. It doesn't. Erase. What we've become."

  Those words sit in the air for quite a long time before 1 find the courage to ask, "What do you mean?"

  "I mean that my kids all want to kill each other, I mean that my house is caving in. Have you noticed this floor? I'm shoving this house down the drain."

  "No, you aren't."

  "Look at the floor. Look at the curve."

  "Momma, you aren't ..."

  "Don't say what I want to hear. Look at me, Gilbert. Tell me the truth. Tell me."

  I want to forget all words, I wish I were a two-year-old.

  "Say this—'Bonnie Watts Grape'—repeat after me, Gilbert."

  I don't.

  "You will repeat after me, young man!"

  "Okay, Okay."

  " 'Bonnie Watts Grape . . .' "

  I say dutifully, " 'Bonnie Watts Grape . , .' "

  " 'Is my mother . . .' "

  " 'Is my mother . . .' "

  " 'And I hate her.' "

  I stop the repetition.

  "Repeat after me—I hate my mother."

  I start out of the house.

  "Gilbert? Gilbert!"

  "Okay," I say. I look at her, glaring her way. "1 hate you. Deeply. Completely. 1. Hate. You."

  Momma's eyes seem to swell. She looks at me hard and long. She thought she was going to enjoy my hate. But it has broken her. I can't watch, so I barrel out of the house.

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  It takes three hours of driving on county roads, two cans of beer and a pack of cigarettes for me to try and forget that conversation. I fail.

  50

  Lt's the next morning, the day before the big day, and Momma is ignoring me. I won't apologize for last night, though. 1 gave her what she wanted. She'll have to deal with it on her own for a while.

  Yes, Arnie's still a dirt ball.

  Amy is touching up the frosting on his cake. It is white with white frosting. The retard likes lots of icing, so she's used up two cans of it. Momma has a game show on and she wants to win, so she calls Amy into the living room.

  I study the cake as each guess they make turns out wrong. "Happy 18th birthday, Arnie!" is written in green block capitals. Only the candles wait to be put in their place.

  Amy returns to the kitchen, shaking her head. "Some day Momma and me are gonna win something."

  "Well," I say, "this cake is a winner."

  She looks at it with a critical squint. "You think?"

  "It's your best. It is the most complete cake you've ever—what's the word?—sculpted. "

  "Gilbert ..."

  "It's almost a crime to eat it, you know. Almost a crime to cut it into slices."

  "But ..."

  "Yes, we must, though. We must serve the cake to whoever wants it. Arnie's retard friends, Janice, even Ellen."

  I pat Amy on her sweaty back.

  Minutes pass.

  The cake is close to perfection. Arnie runs into the house with ajar full of baby grasshoppers. Wanting to keep the cake a secret.

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  she gives me that "get rid of Arnie" look. I quickly block the hall and say, "Hey, buddy ..."

  "What?" he says. "What, what, what?"

  "Hide 'n' seek, what do you say?"

  "No."

  "Come on . . ."

  Sensing the impossibility of the kitchen, Arnie tries to crawl under my legs. I catch his head in between my knees and squeeze, trapping him.

  "Gilbert, Gilbert ..."

  Momma hears the struggle and certain that I'm in the wrong, she starts shouting, "Gilbert, Gilbert," and before I know it. Amy is behind me, her body quivering. She, too, speaks my family's favorite word. "Gilbert."

  Arnie is still squirming between my legs when I turn to Amy. He bites into my thigh. I lift him by his ankles. The grasshopper jar falls and rolls toward the front door. I set Arnie loose. He dives for the jar and looks up at me. I point and say, "Outside. Arnie. Outside!" Momma is screaming now, "I JUST WANT TO SEE MY BOY TURN EIGHTEEN! IS THAT TOO MUCH TO ASK?" He runs outside with his grasshoppers, and Momma stops her noise making long enough to light a cigarette. Amy waves me back to the kitchen. I hold up a finger as if to say "one minute" and look out our front door. Arnie stands in the middle of the yard, ramming his head into the trunk of our sycamore tree. Turning, I head to Amy when Momma asks, "How is my boy?"

  "I'm fine," 1 sa
y.

  "Arnie. How is ARNIE?"

  "He's fine."

  "What's he doing?"

  "Adjusting, Momma." I check on him once more and see that he's moved to the mailbox. He puts a grasshopper in its place and brings down the metal flag fast, snipping off the head. Arnie's adjusting.

  In the kitchen I find Amy on her knees. In front of her. like the baby Jesus, is the cake, splat on the floor. The frosting has squished out on till sides.

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  "I barely bumped it. It just slid off and fell. In slow motion, it fell. And I couldn't get to it... and ... and . .. what am I gonna do?"

  I say things meant to help: "It'll work out." "Everything will be okay." etc. But it makes matters worse. I'm about to suggest making another cake, when Amy says, "I can't do better than this."

  She's right. She can't do better.

  I ask, "So what do you want to do?"

  Let me say this—my big sister dug deep inside herself, gained the needed composure, and dialed Food Land. She spoke steady and clear. I cringed as she ordered. When she hung up, she said, "Be sure to see Jean in the bakery section. It'll be ready for pickup at seven o'clock."

  "Me?"

  "I'd do it, but we'll be with Momma at the beauty parlor."

  "But ..."

  "Thank you, Gilbert."

  I've been standing here—in the kitchen—motionless—for the last five minutes. I've watched as Amy took a washcloth and wiped up the last of the frosting on the kitchen floor.

  This is not the time to protest, I decide, swallowing the gallon of spit that has filled my mouth.

  Amy says, "I know how you feel about Food Land."

  I don't think she does.

  "It's sweet of you to do this." She kisses me on the cheek, just as Judas did to Jesus. "Really sweet."

  51

  X'm on my way to Hell.

  Driving across town, I see Dave Allen's station in the distance. I could use some gas. As I approach, Dave is shouting something, trying to flag me down. I reach down to turn ofiF the radio when I

  What's Eating Gilbert Grape

  hear "bing-bing" or "ding-ding" or "ringa-dinga." I slam on my brakes. Dave has his arms almost up in the air, as if to surrender, 1 back the truck up slowly because this can't be. Bing-bing. Ding-ding.

  "Dave! What the hell . . . ?"