She says simply, almost with pride, "Nobody's gonna see me."
I escape into the kitchen where 1 find the new-and-improved Amy looking disappointed at the Food Land cake.
"Arnie got into it," I say, looking guilty.
"Wouldn't you know it?"
I want to tell Amy about what I did to him. 1 lost control, 1 beat up Arnie—what will I do next? I'm about to confess, when she says, "Do you like this new look on me?"
She doesn't look like the Amy 1 know. Her hair is feathered and frosted. Her upper eyelids are painted blue. She holds up a white bag. "Charlie sold us all these makeups and eyeliners and crud. Janice says they're all things we miist have, so of course we bought them."
Amy keeps on talking. I'm looking at the cake, only thinking about Arnie. "Gilbert, come back. You've drifted off."
"Oh, sorry."
"Something wrong?"
"No."
"Thanks for picking up the cake. Hey, you get Arnie clean?" she calls out.
I say nothing as I start up the stairs.
Ellen and Janice are on the porch, giggling. Momma sits in her chair, pulling at her hair.
"Shhh," 1 say to the girls, "he's asleep."
"Who is?"
"Arnie," 1 say.
Janice calls back, one of her brown cigarettes in her mouth, "Since when did you care so much about Arnie's well-being?" Ellen takes a drag from Janice's cigarette and coughs.
PETER HEDGES
Normally, I'd say something smart in return, I'd fight back. But tonight—and for the first time in a long time—I think Janice might be right.
"I was only joking," she calls out. And then to Ellen, 1 hear her ask, "What's up his ass tonight?"
1 sit in my room and wait for them all to go to sleep.
It's the middle of the night and my stomach is wrenched. I can't take it anymore. I had planned to prepare a breakfast treat and have it waiting for him in the morning. But there won't be any sleep until I apologize, until I beg his forgiveness. So I approach his room. I look at the sign on the door, "Arnie's place." I crack open the door. I step around his toys, his room is dark, my hand reaches for his mattress when I see his window open, wide open. He isn't in the top bunk or the bottom. He's not hiding in his closet. I look out the window. He's climbed out and down or else he fell.
Jesus. Arnie is gone.
I move to my room fast and get my shoes. Downstairs, Momma sits with the TV on. She is mumbling about something, talking in her sleep.
I move around our yard, whispering, "Arnie? Arnie?" I check the trampoline, the swing hanging oflf the willow tree.
I drive up and down the streets, checking the water tower. No Arnie. The Civil War cannon on the square. Back to the water tower. 1 call his name, but there is no answer except for a soft wind. My hands are trembling and I drive cilong the highway to see if he's trying to hitch a ride to the cemetery. One time we found him there—he was jumping up and down on our father's grave. He told us it was to "wake him up." There is no trace of him. I drive to the railroad tracks and the abandoned bridge.
I'm at a loss as to where to check. I picture all the things that could have happened. Hit by a car or maybe he fell oflf the water tower or maybe he's lost in a corn field.
At the south stoplight, I hear water sloshing. I get out of my
What's Eating Gilbert Grape
truck and run across the road, leaving the engine running and my headlights on. I'm fifty yards from the Endora town pool when I hear splashing and Arnie going, "No. No!"
There's a blue light that shines on the water. From the fence, I can make out Becky swimming in her undies and her bra. Arnie sits in the lifeguard chair. He's still in his Superman pajamas, but without his cape. Becky is splashing and treading water, her hair in a ponytail. They don't see me. I put my fingers in the chain-link fence and watch as Becky stretches out her arms. She says, "You can do it, Arnie. You can."
"No. Noooo."
"Remember what I told you?"
He nods.
"And we don't want that? Right?"
Arnie slowly stands, lets out a yelp. He tries to jump, but it's more like a fall. He makes a big splash when he hits.
He flails about and Becky applauds.
And as the remaining dirt on Arnie starts washing away, it begins. My eyes burn at first from the sensation. It feels like chunks of ice moving down my face. They roll and roll. I need windshield wipers, I say to myself.
I walk back to my truck, turn off the lights and the engine, and sit with the window down. I bite my lip and feel them streaming down, without effort, these tears. I listen to the splashing laughter and Arnie screaming, "I'm a fish. I'm a fish."
I stay in my truck and watch as Becky and Arnie climb back over the fence. She puts a towel on his head. He looks like a boxer after a fight. I drive my truck up, my eyes must look red and puffy, and say, "Need a lift?"
Becky looks surprised. It's maybe the first time I've caught her off guard. Arnie, his face and body cleaner than ever before, covers his mouth to hide his smile.
I open the passenger door, he leaps toward me, wrapping his arms around my back and kisses my neck.
"Gilbert. Gilbert."
PETER HEDGES
We hold each other—there's a battle to see who can squeeze the hardest. Either Arnie forgot or he forgives too easily.
He rides in the bed of the truck and Becky rides in the front with me.
"How'd you . . . how'd you . . . ?"
"He was running down Main Street. 1 was out walking."
"But . . . ?"
"But what?"
"How'd you get him ..."
"That was easy. 1 told him you'd leave Endora if he didn't ..."
"Oh."
"He loves you, Gilbert."
"Yep." I know this. Doesn't she know that 1 know this?
"And you love him."
1 press my foot on the brake and come to a stop. Arnie taps on the rear window. "Yep," I say. She rests her hand on mine.
"Thirsty!" Arnie shouts from the truck bed.
I stop off at ENDora OF THE LINE and get Arnie a root beer. He drinks it on the porch and falls asleep without finishing it.
"I'll be back," I say. I carry him upstairs to his bed, the way my father used to carry me.
Becky and 1 sit on the porch and she says that she's not sleepy. I say, "The sun will be coming up soon." She has one cigarette left in her pack. I go inside and borrow Momma's matches and we smoke it. We sit on my porch, everyone inside asleep, and it suddenly occurs to me. "It's Arnie's birthday."
"Yes." Becky says. "It's his birthday."
Part
Six
We talk for a while, Becky and me. I drive her home, and as the sun is rising, I sit on our porch.
I must have nodded off for a bit because I'm woken up by a rapid successions of pokes landing on my forehead. "Okay, I'm awake!"
I open my eyes and see him half smiling, smelling of aftershave, his hair still wet from a shower he must have taken at a nearby motel. He goes inside the house, calling out, "What's for breakfast?"
"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, puflFs 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 wit
h a brown tie, a belt, brown. He cracks a smile looking at all the gifts. He must be picturing the look Amies face will make.
"The kid will squeal," I say.
299
PETER HEDGES
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. 1 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.
"1 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
What's Eating Gilbert Grape
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.
1 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 rccil 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 1 prayed to God who 1 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 Ccill out, "Thank you, Mr. Lamson. My mother sends her
PETER HEDGES
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 snaps, "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, 1 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, 1 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
What's Eating Gilbert Grape
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. 1 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 thi
s great?"
I look over our backyard, the people watching, cake plates and
PETER HEDGES
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
Lvs Jour-Jifteen 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.
What's Eating Gilbert Grape
"Gilbert, Amy would like to see you in the kitchen." Ellen delivers this message, her camera clutched in her hands.
Take my picture, I admost say. Instead, 1 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."
What's eating Gilbert Grape? Page 28
