by Peter Hedges
“Amy, please. God, if there’s a God, please. I took the kid to wait for the rides. We got out there at four-thirty something. I need sleep. I work at ten. Please, Amy. Please! Don’t stare at me like that!”
“You might think about Momma.”
I want to say that I think about our mother all the time, that every move I make is made with her in mind, but before I can say anything, Amy grabs my wrist and jerks me up. “Ouch. I’m coming already.”
Amy pulls me toward the dining room.
“This house stinks,” I say. “The smell, God!”
Amy stops. We’re standing in the kitchen, buried in several days’ worth of dirty dishes and numerous sacks of trash. She whispers, “What do you expect? No one helps around the house. Ellen is good for nothing, you’re working all the time or never home. I can’t do it all.”
She takes a deep breath and then turns around in a circle like those fashion models do.
“Look at me. Look.”
“Yeah?” I say.
“Don’t you see?”
“New outfit? Uhm. I don’t know. What do you want me to see?”
“I’m starting to get like Momma.”
I lie and say, “You’re not.”
“My skin is rolling over my clothes. I can’t fit into chairs so well.”
“Momma’s on a whole other level. You’re nowhere near…”
“These are the early stages, Gilbert. What you see here is the early phase.” Amy wipes her eyes with the backs of her hands and smiles.
Oh boy.
Okay.
It’s time for you to know the rarely spoken truths about my mother, Bonnie Grape.
There is no nice way to break it to you. My mother is a porker. She started eating in excess the day our dad was found dead seventeen years ago. Since that day, she’s been going at it nonstop, adding pound upon pound, year after year, until now we have a situation where no one knows her actual weight. No household scale goes high enough.
Momma has the first room at the top of the stairs, but she doesn’t like climbing, or even walking for that matter. She sleeps all day in this blue padded chair and only wakes up for meals and many occasional cigarettes. She doesn’t sleep at night but stays in the chair, chain-smoking and watching the TV. We splurged and bought her the kind of television with a remote control. When Momma walks, she holds on to things, she clings to counters and shelves. It will take her fifteen minutes to make it to the bathroom and get situated. She hates baths, and quite honestly, she’s barely able to fit in the tub. Not a particularly happy lady, she does laugh when Arnie dances for her and is all smiles when one of us, usually me, brings her a carton of cigarettes. She smokes Kool.
It’s been over three years since she stepped out of the house, and other than her children and a former friend here and there, no one in town has seen her. They talk about her, sure, but mostly in whispers. Only the water-meter man during his monthly checks has gotten a good peek at Momma. Dr. Harvey came by once when we thought she was having a heart attack. It was a false alarm, though. Apparently she swallowed wrong, or there was some kind of intestinal gas in her veins, something like that.
If you were to gripe to my mother about her weight, or express in any way any fear you have about her steady growth, she would say “Hey! I’m here! Alive! I didn’t cop out like other people we know!”
I’ve tried to tell Momma that her eating is a suicide of sorts. But those words are never easy.
So.
Amy drags me through the kitchen. We stop short of the dining room where Momma sits snoring with her mouth wide open. Amy points to Momma’s feet. They are swollen, very red and purple and dry, crackly. Her feet don’t fit into shoes anymore.
“I’ve seen her feet before,” I whisper.
She points again, mouthing these words: “The floor.”
I’m unable to believe what I see. The floor below Momma curves down like a contact lens. “Oh my God,” I say.
“This is no longer a joking matter, Gilbert.”
Once, after several beers, I suggested to a sloshed Amy that maybe Momma would fall through the floor and we’d be done with it. We laughed hard about it then.
“Something’s gotta be done about this,” Amy says, not laughing now.
Please realize that I’m no carpenter. I have no skill in home repair or craftsmanship. And with that in mind, notice how Amy’s still got me in mind to fix the floor.
“Gotta do it without her knowing it,” she adds in a hissed whisper.
Amy’s right. If Momma knew she was slowly drilling a hole in her house, she would cry for days.
“I’ll talk to Tucker.”
Tucker is my best friend. He loves to build things—birdhouses, wooden ducks, and shelving for his beer-can collection.
“When will you talk to him?”
“Soon. Real soon, I promise.”
“Today.”
“I work today.”
“This is urgent.”
“I’m aware of this, Amy.” I walk away, because her face is starting to contort into that weird shape again.
“Later today then. Okay, Gilbert? Gilbert, okay?”
I shout “OKAY!” and Momma wakes up with a snort.
“Morning, Momma,” Amy says. “You want some breakfast?”
The next sequence of events defines predictability. Momma will say, “Wouldn’t you think?” Amy will ask, “What will it be today?” and Momma will order a stack of pancakes or a couple of waffles or French toast, half a pound of bacon, some eggs maybe, fried or scrambled, and lots of pepper. Pepper on everything. And Amy will make whatever Momma wants, and it will taste great, and Momma will clean her plate like a big girl.
Having lost what little appetite I had, I head for fresh air. As I swing open the screen door, Arnie dives into the evergreen bush next to the mailbox. He loves to hide, but only if you take the time to find him. And while I suspect that’s true for most people, only a retard or a kid would admit it.
“I wonder where Arnie is,” I say too loud. “Where could he be?”
Amy is at the front door and speaks through the screen. “Thanks for talking to Tucker.”
I make a face, like it’s no problem, point to the bush, and say, “Have you seen Arnie? I can’t find him anywhere.”
Amy is a pro at this game. “Gilbert, I thought Arnie was with you.”
“Nope, not with me.”
“Shoot, ’cause I was hoping he’d help me with breakfast.”
“I’ve looked all over for him.”
The evergreen bush is giggling.
“Momma’s up and she’s hungry. Guess I’ll have to make those pancakes by myself!”
The garage door rises, and Ellen emerges wearing her candy-cane bikini. Her red toes and fingers match. She unfolds our only lawn chair and lies back to receive the morning sun. In an effort to include her in this, a family activity of the rarest kind, I say, “Ellen, have you seen your brother?”
She ignores me. I look to Amy. The bush is getting restless.
“Little sister, did you hear me? We can’t find Arnie.”
Ellen flips through Cosmopolitan magazine. She’s still mad from this morning.
Amy says, “We’re looking hard. Have you seen him?”
She pretends to read.
Amy hates not being answered. “Ellen, did you hear me?”
“He’s in the bush!”
I will kill her.
“No, he isn’t,” Amy says. “Gilbert checked the bush.”
“Yeah,” I say.
“Gilbert is blind and a liar and quite, quite stupid!”
Arnie rises, oblivious, and shouts his traditional “Boo!” I make a big noise and fall to the ground. “You scared me, Arnie. Oh God, you scared me.”
With a new batch of pine needles in his hair and a thick streak of dirt across his mouth, he laughs in a way that reminds us he’s retarded.
Amy says, “Breakfast,” and he runs into the house to watch her
cook.
I walk to my pickup, climb in, and it starts up right away. My truck is a 1978 Ford: it’s blue, and even though the bottom is rusting out, I know you’d want to go for a ride in it.
Before backing out of the drive, I study my little sister. Most people who sunbathe do so in their backyards; at least this is how most people sunbathe in Iowa. But Ellen will be the first to tell you that she is not most people. She knows that she is the prettiest girl in these parts. And that by strategically placing herself on our oil-stained driveway, she also knows that all day long cars and trucks and bicycles from all over the county will drive past and watch as she toasts her skin. Ellen likes an audience.
I’ve this dream of building Arnie a lemonade stand and setting him up in business. The kid would make a killing.
I honk my horn, even though it’s a sound I can’t stand. Ellen looks up, and in an attempt to make peace, I wave and shout, “Have a nice day!”
She says nothing, pushes out a fist with the back of her hand facing me, and her middle finger stretches toward the sun. It stands there like a candle.
She loves me—she just doesn’t know it yet.
I wait for her finger to go away, and when it doesn’t, I shift into drive and take my foot off the brake. My truck and I roll slowly toward her. She looks up confident that she’ll win. The closer I get, the louder her laugh becomes. At three feet, I press on the horn, and she is up and off the lawn chair. Before she can pull it out of the way, I accelerate fast and drive over it, crush.
The chair is dead.
Ellen stands to the side, her face matching the red in her bikini, the red on her toes. She wants to cry, but it would mess up her makeup.
I was fine till the finger, I say to myself, as I shift to reverse. You don’t flip off Gilbert Grape. Let that be known.
As Ellen struggles to bend the chair back into shape, I back out of the driveway. I see Arnie looking out the living-room window. He starts banging his forehead on the glass. He does this seven, eight times before Amy pulls him away.
3
In Endora, there are two grocery stores. Smack on the town square is Lamson Grocery, where I work, and on the edge of town, there is Food Land, where everyone else shops.
Food Land was built last October. Apparently, it’s loaded full of every cereal imaginable and Italian sausage that hangs down. They say a smile can be found in every one of their fourteen aisles. They installed these electric doors that open when your foot hits the black rubber mat. Many would say that this is the greatest thing ever to happen in Endora. Also, they installed a stereo system that plays this dentistlike, elevator-like music, whatever you call it. The Endora Express reported at the time that this music was intended to calm the customer, to soothe. Please, spare us. Food Land is equipped with special cash registers that have conveyor belts, the kind of belt you see in Des Moines, the kind you never thought would make it to Endora.
Food Land had a kind of grand-opening celebration this past March. Amy made me drive Arnie and her. Having made up my mind never to set foot inside, I sat in my truck while Amy took the retard in for a look around. She said that when Arnie saw the beans and Pop-Tarts and peanut butter move along the belt for the first time, he started whooping and hollering.
I regret having to describe Food Land to you. I tried to avoid even mentioning that garbage dump, but there is no way around it—not if you are to fully understand Mr. Lamson and Lamson Grocery and why I, Gilbert Grape, can still be found there in his employ.
You won’t find electric doors and conveyor belts and computerized cash registers at Lamson Grocery. The store is composed of only four aisles—each only twenty-one feet long. Lamson Grocery contains everything that a reasonable person requires. But if you need the trappings of technology to think you’re getting a good bargain, then I guess you better mosey your brainless body down to Food Land.
We at Lamson Grocery price every product by hand. We talk to our customers, we greet them without faking a smile, we say your name. “Hello, Dan.” “Hello, Carol.” “Hi there, Marty, you need some help?” If a person wants to write us a check, we don’t take down all kinds of information or make you prove that you’re you. There’s none of that crap. We say without saying it that your word is good. Then we sack up your groceries and carry them out to your car.
Perhaps it is this excess of integrity that keeps the crowds away from Lamson Grocery. Perhaps Mr. Lamson is like a constant reminder of our shortcomings. A man who works all day, every day and loves each apple he uncrates, who cherishes each can of soup—a man like that surely puts us all to shame.
I started working for Mr. Lamson on a part-time basis when I was fourteen, and since graduating from high school seven years ago, I’ve worked full-time.
It is a white building with gray steps, red trim, and a sincere sign that reads, “Lamson Grocery—Serving you since 1932.”
***
I push open the door that says ENTER and see Mr. Lamson at the cash register. His wife of a thousand years is in the little closetlike cubicle that we use as our office, stacking pennies. The store is empty of customers. As I get my apron from off the hook, he says, “Good morning, Gilbert.”
“Hi, boss.” I poke my head in the cubicle and say, “Good morning, Mrs. Lamson.” She looks up and smiles the nicest smile. I get the push broom from the back and start sweeping Aisle One.
Mr. Lamson moves toward me, his hands in his pockets. “Son, are you all right?”
“Uhm, yeah. Why?”
“You look like you aged ten years. Honey, look at Gilbert.”
“I’m in the middle of counting.”
“Is something wrong at home?”
There is always something wrong at home. “No, sir,” I say.
Mrs. Lamson pokes her head out of the office. “Oh, he just looks tired. You just look tired, that’s all.”
“Is that what it is?”
“You’re looking at me like I’m dying, please, I’m not dying. It was an early morning. I took Arnie out to see the carnival rides come in. I didn’t get a whole lot of sleep.”
“How do they look?”
“The rides? Okay, I guess. You know, same old rides.”
Mr. Lamson nods as if he knows what I mean. He goes to the cash register, rings it open, and brings me a crisp five. “This will help.”
“Huh?” I say.
“Arnie and the merry-go-round. This will get him a couple of rides, right?”
“Yes, sir,” I say. “It will buy a bunch of tickets.”
“Good.” Mr. Lamson walks away.
There is nothing he wouldn’t do for Arnie. I put the five in my back pocket and continue my sweep.
***
I’m whipping down Aisle Four, my rhythm really rolling, when I see two feet in ladies’ shoes. A cloud of dust floats over these shoes, and I look up to find Mrs. Betty Carver standing before me dressed like a Sunday-school teacher. She sneezes.
“Gilbert.”
“Hi,” I say.
“Bless me.”
“Huh?”
“You bless a person when they sneeze.”
“Oh. Bless you.”
“I can’t reach the Quaker Oats. Could you for me?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She smiles when I say “ma’am.” I notice my fingernails are dirty. I try to hide my hands.
The Quaker Oats are on the top shelf in Aisle Three, and I’m tall enough to reach. I hand her a box. Mr. Lamson comes around the corner and says, “Oh, Gilbert got that for you. Good.”
Mrs. Betty Carver suddenly blurts out, “Is Gilbert a good employee?”
“Yes. The best I’ve ever had.”
“He’s reliable, I assume. Conscientious?”
“Yes. Very.”
She follows him to the cash register. “I’m perplexed, then. Why is it, do you think, that he’s not prompt with his insurance payments? For his truck. Why do you think that is?”
Mrs. Betty Carver is the wife of Ken Ca
rver, the only insurance man left in Endora.
“I’m afraid you’ll have to ask Gilbert that.”
She turns to look at me.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I’ll take care of it right away.”
“Of course you will,” Mr. Lamson says. “In fact, Gilbert, why don’t you run on over there and set the matter straight right now?”
“No!” Mrs. Carver practically shouts. Then looking at me, and in this churchlike voice she says, “I believe an afternoon appointment would be better.”
I look at my feet and say nothing.
Mrs. Betty Carver and the Quaker Oats are gone.
“That woman could have been a movie star,” Mrs. Lamson says. “Don’t you think, dear?”
“Prob’ly so,” Mr. Lamson says, all the while looking at me. “You think she could have been a movie star, Gilbert, huh?”
I find the broom and go back to sweeping.
***
It’s forty minutes later and there have been no customers since Mrs. Betty Carver. I’m in the back of the store. Mr. and Mrs. Lamson are up front. Opening a carton of eggs, I drop two of them on the floor. I break the shells of three more. I make a noise like I just fell. From the floor I start yelling, “Darn it. Man! I can’t believe this!”
Mr. Lamson hurries down Aisle Three. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
He sees the eggs. I sit there, my hands covering my face. “I can’t believe this day. I’m sorry. I’m really sorry, boss….”
“It’s all right, son. You’re having one heck of a day.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Listen. Clean up the mess, okay? Then take the rest of the day off.”
“No, I can’t do that.”
“I insist.”
“But…”
“Gilbert, I know when you need a day off.”
I pick up the shell bits with my fingers and then mop up the rest—half impressed at my theatrics, half ashamed that I’ve deceived him. Never has a man been so good, so honest.
As I’m hanging up my apron, Mr. Lamson approaches. “Just a friendly reminder. I know that it isn’t any of my business….”
“The insurance?” I ask.