What's eating Gilbert Grape?

by Hedges, Peter

  "I tried to tell you last time you were here. The regional manager . . ."

  I spin my tires fast, squeal out, covering my ears as the truck shoots over the cord.

  The giant letters are glowing their fluorescent bright red. Each letter must be three times the size of me. As my dirty shoes hit the floor mat, the electric doors swing open and I enter. For the first time I feel the power a foot can command at Food Land. I'm inside, and the brightness of the lights and the glare from the shiny floor overwhelm. My eyes move around like a kid's on Christmas Day. For a moment, 1 forget about my family, my mammoth mother, my life, and I see not two, not six, but twelve cash registers. The workers wear red-white-and-blue uniforms. They flash toothy smiles. Music pours out from a sound system. The people in the store, the countless people, blur into a dream as I walk down Aisle One. I see more than fifteen types of bread, loaves of date-nut and walnut. Aisle Two is the canned items, and everything imaginable is there, in abundance, stocked in sequence, each can clearly marked. 1 see workers everywhere. People grabbing food, sacking fresh vegetables, weighing peaches on shiny scales.

  I remember why I'm here and I go off to find the Bakery section.

  "Yeah, I'm here to pick up a cake for Grape," I say, looking around for Jean, the cake lady.

  A guy with curly brown hair turns, his face all sweaty, his fingers covered in flour. His name tag reads "Jean." He says, "The Grape cake?"

  "Yeah. Grape. Arnie Grape. He's turning eighteen."

  Jean the cake baker breathes deep. His eyes veer as he tries to remember.

  PETER HEDGES

  "Surely there aren't that many cakes. ..."

  Jean's eyes dart to mine, his head starts to quiver. "Excuse me?" This Jean speaks with a lisp. He has a girl's name. Go figure. "Don't think for a moment you're the only cake in this county!"

  He opens the big silver refrigerator in such a way that it is difficult for me to see inside. But 1 stretch to my left and see, in a flash, that there is only one box inside and that the rest of the fridge is empty, spit-shine clean.

  But Jean takes an eternity checking all the shelves, looking here, looking there. He doesn't know that 1 know what 1 know. Finally he brings out the cake, saying, "Oh, here it is," He lifts the box lid for me to inspect.

  "Fine, " 1 say, approving the white cake, with white frosting, green lettering, "but you forgot the candles."

  "Oh my," Jean says, covering his mouth.

  "Eighteen candles, Jean, okay? Like my sister ordered."

  "Yes, sir. Right away. Will take just a second. "

  Rather than watch this sorry baker arrange the candles, I wander up and down Food Land. Aisle Seven has children's toys. Aisle Eight has baby diapers and Tupperware galore. Aisle Nine is juices and Hi-C and frozen TV dinners. Rounding Aisle Ten, I see two eyes, surprised eyes.

  "Gilbert. '

  "Hi."

  Mr. Lamson is standing in front of me.

  We say nothing. There is nothing to say. We just stand there for a time, not looking at each other but not knowing where to look.

  "Sir, I uhm . . . Arnie's cake uhm . . . you see ..."

  Mr. Lamson holds up his hand for me to be silent. So I stop my talking. He bites his lower lip, then rolls it out like an ocean wave into a beaming smile. "Have you seen the lobsters?"

  "No, sir."

  "Be sure to see the lobsters. My God, what a sight. And the cereal selection. It's . . . well, I've never seen one quite like it . . . and frozen orange juice for less than a dollar ... all of their prices ... all of their prices, Gilbert . . . many good bargains here . . . and ..."

  What's Eating Gilbert Grape

  I try once again to explain about the cake. Mr. Lamson looks around and says, "No need to explain, son. We've been whooped."

  He pushes his empty cart down Aisle Ten. 1 watch him look from side to side, floating along slowly, studying product after product. His simple flannel shirt, his noble brown shoes move away from me, reducing Mr. Lamson in size but not in stature.

  "Wonderful surprises" echoes in my head.

  I count the green and white candles. Jean turns the cake so I can see it from every angle, but it makes me lose track. "Fine," I say. "Just fine."

  "Is that all you can say? Is that all you can muster up?" Jean is starting to huff now; his top lip is beginning to drip sweat. One drop hits the cake box, causing the white paper to pufiF out.

  1 gesture for him to close up the box. Jean doesn't. "This cake, if you'll excuse my saying so, deserves much more than a fine. This cake is good. "

  I pull out the twenty dollars Amy gave me. The cake was quoted at $14.50, and in an effort to exit quick, I say, "Keep the change."

  Jean closes the box, tapes it, inserts it into two sacks for safekeeping, and smiles smiles smiles.

  I walk away slowly.

  "Have a nice day!"

  As 1 approach the electric doors, the sound system plays a dentistlike version of "Let It Be." And I try. But the image of Mr. Lamson flashes in me. The image of him and me being here at the same time—staring at each other—knowing that we've both bowed down and stuck our tongues up the asshole of America.

  I disappear from Food Land.

  A note at home leaves dinner instructions for Arnie and me. 1 put the cake in the space Amy made in the refrigerator. I don't unwrap it. Arnie keeps saying over and over, "What is it? What is it?" and I say, "It's a surprise." I make the grilled-cheese sandwiches and pour the kid his chocolate milk.

  As he eats, a ring of yellow-orange cheese forms around his mouth. This is in addition to the oil stains, jellies, chunky peanut

  PETER HEDGES

  butter, bits of potato chips and cheese puffs, various flavors of Kool-Aid, ketchup, and mustard. He has become his own abstract painting.

  Arnie and I are watching TV. The ladies loaded Momma into the Nova at about 5:30 p.m. No one saw, because they pulled Amy's car into the garage. They got to Endoras Gorgeous by six. It's about eight-thirty now and they still aren't home. The house is different with Momma out of it. The house seems relieved.

  The phone rings. I make my way to the kitchen and answer.

  "Gilbert, you get the cake? Did you?"

  "Yes, Amy."

  "How does it look? Not as good as mine, but it looks . . . ?"

  "Great. It looks mighty nice."

  "Arnie. How is Arnie?"

  "Watching TV, Amy. Arnie is superb. Arnie is doing great."

  "You won't believe it, what Charlie is doing here. First of all she is giving Momma the works. The whole works. A mud facial, a new hairstyle, easy-to-apply makeup. Janice and Ellen are watching rccd close. It's like a real lesson in beauty happening here. ..."

  I'm looking around the kitchen at the failed attempt at order. The greasy counters, the yellowing floor. Beauty? Arnie is changing the channels fast in the living room. I could tell Amy about Mr. Lamson at Food Land and Dave Allen, too. I've got to tell her these things. I want her to know about the day I'm having, how hard it is for me to keep hanging in there. But Amy's voice has a rhythm, a spunk to it, and I haven't the heart to interrupt.

  Before hanging up, she sings, "If you get Arnie clean, I'll love you forever."

  "Jesus, Amy. Don't sing."

  "Get him clean."

  "Okay. Just don't sing."

  I hang up.

  "Gilbert, what's the fridge thing? What's that thing?"

  "A surprise for Arnie is what it is."

  "Oh."

  What's Eating Gilbert Grape

  Arnie is sitting in Momma's chair. He has put a cigarette in his mouth backward and he pretends to smoke.

  "That's not good for you."

  '"What?"

  "Smoking. Smoking is not good for you."

  "You do it."

  "Yeah, and look where it's got me, huh?"

  "Yeah."

  I turn off the TV. There is nothing on worth watching. Since Lance's triumph, the TV and I have not been the same.

  "Gilbert."<
br />
  "What, Arnie?"

  "You're shrinking, right?"

  "That's right."

  Arnie wiggles his toes and says, "Gilbert's shrinking," five times fast.

  52

  Ljater, there's a knock on the door.

  "Hello?" 1 say from behind the screen. "Helloooo?" I turn on the porch light. A soft breeze blows a certain perfumy smell. "You can come out."

  She steps out from behind the evergreen bush.

  "Yeah," I say. "What is it?" The skeptic, the I'm-over-you quality to my voice is ignored by the Michigan girl. She gestures for me to come outside.

  "No way."

  "Come here. I've got something for you."

  "Bull."

  "Come see."

  Becky is getting hit with this light from inside our house, which casts shadows that make her look angelic. She waves her soft

  PETER HEDGES

  hand again and I drift out and stand on my porch. "I've got a present for you," she says.

  My eyes look around to Arnie's bush, to the sycamore tree, to the evergreens in front. "I don't see anything."

  "Wait," she says, disappearing behind the house.

  So I stand on the porch, waiting. I'm Gilbert Grape. I'm twenty-four years old. My life is not moving in a respectable direction. This proves it.

  "Close your eyes," she calls out.

  "No way. No fucking way."

  "It'll only take a second. Please, Gilbert."

  I shut my eyes for no real reason. "They're closed," I say.

  I hear the sound of feet moving, a stick breaks, as if something is moving close to me and I get a chill.

  "I'm gonna look," I say.

  "Not yet."

  I feel this warm rush of energy, this heat around my body. She must be close to me. I whisper, "What are you doing?"

  I feel her hand on my forehead. She touches my temples and lightly moves down my arms. I feel this warmth whoosh through me, this warm heat, pulsing.

  "What are you doing to me?"

  I'm waiting for an answer when Becky says, "Open your eyes now."

  At first it's blurry. Then I see a face inches from me. The little whiskers, the early wrinkles. The face looks scared. I half smile nervously, the face half smiles. Looking to the periphery I see that Becky is holding a big, round mirror, and the face I'm looking at is my face.

  "See. See what I mean. See the hate."

  I'm about to say "No, I don't" when Arnie shouts, "Gilbert, Gilbert!"

  I move my head to see him in the mirror. He's standing in the doorway behind me. There's frosting all over his chin, up around his nose.

  I punch at the mirror with the palm of my hand. I hit hard.

  What's Eating Gilbert Grape

  Becky steps back and it drops to the ground. I jump on it but there's no break. Not even a crack. Arnie is giggling and Becky is saying my name over and over. Instead of saying "Shut up" or slapping her silly, I find one of Arnie's big rocks on the side of the house. 1 struggle to get it above my head—1 let it drop, and still the mirror won't break.

  "You don't fix things by destroying them."

  I look at that girl and murder her with my eyes.

  "There's a better way. Find the better way."

  Arnie says, "Gilbert's getting weaker, getting weaker and weaker. ..." 1 turn to him and point firmly. "Shut up! Go inside!"

  Arnie shakes his head no, then licks the palm of his hand where he's been hiding a helping of frosting. "That does it," I say, opening the screen door, then slamming it, locking the metal latch.

  Becky says, before I close the front door, "Gilbert. Love Gilbert."

  I shut and lock the wood door, grab Arnie by the wrist, and inspect his hand. Traces of frosting remain. 1 drag him toward the kitchen.

  "Owww. Owww."

  In the fridge, the cake, which Arnie tried to rewrap but failed, sits with the memory of a retarded boy's fat fingers. He has dug out major portions of the icing. Arnie squirms and squirms, but I won't let him go. "You know what that cake cost, Arnie? You know the cost? You don't understand," I say softly. "You know why you don't understand?"

  Arnie is trying hard to get away.

  "Hey! You know why you don't understand?"

  He bites into my wrist big time and my left hand cracks him on the side of his head. Arnie's teeth let go as he fcdls to the floor. His head hits the metal trash can.

  "Owwwww. "

  He holds the back of his dirty head. When he starts to sit up, I give him a swift, pointed kick to the chest. He goes flying back, his head smacks hard on the floor. He doesn't make a noise. He's in shock. Then he begins to whimper.

  "Go to the tub, you little fuck, get up to the tub."

  PETER HEDGES

  Arnie doesn't move, though. I step over him and drag him by his arms down the hall, his legs kicking, his shoes scuffing the walls.

  At the bottom of the stairs, I am firm. "Upstairs. Upstairs."

  Arnie wont move.

  I pull his hair and he stands fast.

  "Upstairs."

  I push him, but he won't budge. I start punching his back. Each punch harder until he takes a step. He stops. I punch him harder. He takes another step. And another.

  "Ow, ow," he says.

  "Move it, Arnie."

  1 slide open the shower door and force him in the tub. He stands there, his bottom lip pushed out.

  "Strip," I say.

  "No."

  "You will strip."

  "Nooooo!"

  I turn on the water anyway, pull up the shower knob and the water sprays on him. Arnie shakes himself, going "Ooooooo!" And I say, "Can it, Arnie!"

  "Nooooooo. "

  "Take off your clothes. Take 'em oflF!"

  "I can't with the water ..."

  I push the shower knob down. The water comes out the faucet. "Strip!"

  The water below is already a dark brown.

  "Do it now!" 1 scream.

  "Gilbert . . ."He lifts up his filthy T-shirt. It gets stuck around his head but he gets it off. He pulls down his pants but stops when he realizes his shoes are still on. I reach down to undo his laces when he lets fly with a wad of spit. It hits my neck. I get one shoe off when he spits again. I pull up the shower knob, water pours down. He's about to spit again when I slap him hard. Once. Blood comes from his nose and I can't stop. My right hand, my left, my right, my left. Arnie falls to the base of the tub, the water showers down. He tries to block my hands but I'm too fast and

  What's Eating Gilbert Grape

  strong. His head is getting smacked back and forth, his struggle stops and he's saying something and it isn't until my slaps slow and I turn off the water that I hear what he's been saying.

  "My eye. My eye. My eye."

  Arnie covers his good eye with both hands. The blood continues to flow. He is past crying, past pain. He lies there, in his wet underwear, his pants still at his knees, his muddy fingers clinging to his head. I run for ice and towels.

  The ice cubes won't come out so I slam the tray hard on the counter, several cubes scatter. 1 grab four and some towels and am up the stairs fast.

  "Here, Arnie."

  He pulls back, shouts, "No!"

  The blood from his nose has mixed with the dirt on his face.

  "Shit. Shit," 1 say. "Take the ice, at least. Uncover your eye, Arnie, and take the ice. You can see, right? You can see out of your eye, right?"

  He removes his hands, looks at me, and blinks.

  "You can see, right?"

  He nods.

  It takes twenty minutes to get him calmed down, the ice pressing to his face. Arnie goes quietly to bed, half clean. I'm standing quietly outside his door, listening as he whimpers softly.

  All my life it's been: "You don't hit Arnie. Nobody hurts Arnie." And in one night, all of that is burned away, and it was easy and quick.

  I am beyond hate for myself.

  He's asleep now. I clean up the mess in the bathroom first. I wash the towels and dry up t
he spilled water. Downstairs I clean the kitchen. I take the cake out of the refrigerator. 1 find what's left of an old can of frosting, remove the cellophane, and begin to patch and repair the cake.

  PETER HEDGES

  53

  Jit's after midnight when the headlights of two cars move through our darkened house. The women are giggling and I hold the front door as Momma waddles in. They all smell of different perfumes. Amy and Momma both have new hair, Momma's is in curls and Amy's is feathered and bushier.

  "Look at your momma." Momma says. "Only for that boy and this day. Remember that. Only for that boy and this day. ..." She sees me and she turns silent. "You probably hate my new hair, don't you, Gilbert?"

  "No," I try to say.

  Janice and Ellen come in from outside. They're talking at the same time about how wonderful "the girls" look. Janice suggests a haircut for me. "I've got the proper kind of scissors." She cuts all her boyfriends' hair, she says. Ellen talks about how maybe one day she'd like to open a beauty parlor. Janice looks concerned and Ellen assures her that she'd prefer to be a stewardess, but she does add, "Imagine the satisfaction."

  "Of what?" asks Janice.

  "Of making the ugly beautiful."

  Everything stops for a second, awkward. Momma says, "And what do you mean by that?"

  Ellen looks around. Even she realizes what she just implied.

  Amy intercedes with, "She didn't mean anything by that. Momma. Nothing at all, right?"

  Ellen says, "I didn't mean a thing."

  Momma goes, "Hey, you think I don't know? This new hair is the biggest collective waste of time. I look like a ball of yarn!"

  The girls protest, "No, Momma, you don't. "

  Momma screams, "I LOOK WORSE AND WHO WOULD HAVE THOUGHT THAT WAS POSSIBLE?"

  What's Eating Gilbert Grape

  I watch them, hear every word, but all my thoughts are of Arnie.

  Momma gets situated in her blue chair. Janice suggests that she sleep upstairs and Momma mumbles something about this being her house and she sleeps where she wants and that even ugly people should get to pick where they sleep.

  Janice goes, "You're not ugly."

  "Yes, I am. I am most ugly. And nobody's gonna see me. Nobody."

  Ellen and Janice say, "Oh, Momma," at the same time.