by Peter Hedges
“The phone is ringing,” I say. But there is no stopping Mrs. Betty Carver. She holds me in her hand. She puts me in her mouth.
***
“Carver’s Insurance, good afternoon.”
“Melanie, yes uhm… this is Gilbert Grape… two sharp, I know… I’m going to be late… I’ve been held up….”
Mrs. Betty Carver is moving her mouth slow and soft.
“Gilbert, I should have known.” Melanie is mad at me, I can hear it. “Well, when might Mr. Carver expect you?”
“Soon, very soon.”
“How soon? We run a tight ship here. I need a specific time. I’m very disappointed in you.”
“You’re not the only one.”
Mrs. Betty Carver is bobbing up and down now, her hair all in her face.
Melanie says, “This a repeat of Wednesday? This your pattern? Mr. Carver has family obligations later today, you know? So?”
I make an “Oh God” sound—Mrs. Betty Carver just hit the spot.
“No, not God, Gilbert—you. You have to make up your mind. I’m waiting.”
“It might take longer than I think.”
“Gilbert, come on!”
“Okay, okay. Eighteen minutes!”
“Good boy, Gilbert. We’ll expect you at two twenty-four sharp then.”
Mrs. Betty Carver is working harder than ever, making slurpy noises. Her lipstick is smeared all over me, I bet. I put my free hand on top of her head and wish that the mouth on me was not hers but rather the mouth of that Michigan girl, that Becky from Ann Arbor, the people eater. Melanie is droning on about my responsibilities and I’m about to hang up when Mrs. Betty Carver’s teeth get a piece of me.
“Ow!” I say.
Melanie asks, “Is something the matter?”
“No. Nothing is wrong.”
“Is it a family matter?”
“Is what?”
“Is what’s keeping you a family matter? Everything okay at home?”
Mrs. Betty Carver takes me out of her mouth and checks to see if I’m cut. She whispers, “You’re okay—no blood,” and she puts me in her again.
“Melanie, I’m okay. I’ve got to go.”
“But if I can give Mr. Carver a reason, he would be most pleased. He always appreciates a reason.”
“Tell him it’s all my fault.”
I hang up.
Mrs. Betty Carver looks up and with apologetic eyes says, “I’ll be gentler.” She starts in again.
“Please stop.”
“Sometimes it takes longer, that’s all.”
“Stop.”
“Is it me? Tell me what I’m doing wrong. Tell me.”
“It’s not you.”
“Give me a little more time, you’ll see.” She wets her hand by spitting in it and she is about to start up when I firmly say “Stop!” Her hands move to her side and she stays on her knees. I kneel down and wipe the hair out of her face. Her lipstick is gone.
“It’s not you,” I say.
The timer says eight minutes. She slumps over on the floor. This will be all for today, I guess. I lean over and kiss her forehead. She wants a hug, but it’s hard for me to when all my thoughts are of the new girl.
She whispers, “Do I make you happy?”
I shrug like “Yes, you do, kind of.”
***
We hold an awkward hug for the remaining eight minutes, and when the buzzer goes off she bursts into tears.
“I gotta go.”
“I know.”
“Please stop crying.”
“I will.”
“Your husband will be home soon.”
“I’ll stop.”
As I’m leaving, she whispers, “I hope I make you happy. I want to make somebody happy. Just once. Somebody happy just once.”
The screen door shuts. Mrs. Betty Carver fights to wave as I drive off.
I wonder if I’ll remember her fondly when I’m eighty. I think so. I’ll probably consider her one of the best things that ever happened to me. I’ll probably want these days back.
13
“Gilbert, good to see you. Good to see your face.” Mr. Carver looks mad as he waves me into his office. He signals me to have a seat in one of the two brown leather chairs that face his desk. He does this in a manner that makes me wonder if at one time he directed traffic.
I say, “Your hand gestures are really something, Mr. Carver.”
“You think?”
“I know, sir.”
“Well, I love the human hand. There’s nothing I admire more.” He holds his hands out and moves his fingers in all directions. This goes on until Mr. Carver is chuckling and chortling at the sight of this. “When Betty and I lived in Boone, before the boys were born—you, of all people, will find this interesting—there was a boy, a prodigy. This kid was eight or nine years old. He was Chinese or Japanese or whatever it is that you are when you can play the piano really well. This boy was a genius and he had white parents. He had been adopted. And these parents insured this boy’s hands for half a million dollars. Can you imagine?”
He looks at me for a response, and all I want to do is apologize.
“Isn’t that a splendid example of the possibility of the human hand? And is it not remarkable what some people will insure? Proof that it’s important to protect that which is special! Jesus, I feel necessary. Would you like to feel necessary, Gilbert? Have you ever thought about a career in insurance? I could get you started. You could kiss those grocery bags good-bye.”
“Uh,” is all I can say.
“It’s good work. I have a house and two kids. We have two kids. Two boys, even. We are buying a trampoline. You’ll have to come over and try it out. We ordered it for the Fourth of July. My boys wanted a swimming pool and even though I can’t provide that, I can come through with a trampoline. I mean, I’m not a doctor, for Christ’s sake—Dr. Harvey could provide a pool. At my house, a trampoline will have to do.”
As Mr. Carver drones on about how this new trampoline is much easier to insure than a swimming pool and any other topics that leap into his great, cavernous mind, I just stare at him. Might he be what I’m becoming?
Behind his desk, hanging in a brown wooden frame, is a recent Carver family picture. Each Christmas season the Endora Savings and Loan offers its customers a family portrait. We haven’t had one taken in years, due in large part to Momma’s inflation and, I guess, because we think that families are what other people have.
In the picture, Mr. Carver sits with his teeth exposed, a boy on each side. The boys curl their lips, forcing out smiles. Mrs. Betty Carver stands behind them, her face expressionless, her eyes sad.
I want to take him by his shirt collar and say, “Do you ever look into your wife’s eyes, you asshole?” but I don’t. He talks on and on. The phone rings and he stops mid-sentence. He says, “One second, Gilbert,” leans back in his chair, and closes his eyes. He waits as Melanie answers it out front. The phone ringing must be such a rare occurrence that he has no choice but to savor it.
Melanie’s fake fingernails drum lightly on the office door. “Mr. Carver?”
“I’m talking with Gilbert. You know that.”
“I know, sir.”
“It better be important.”
“It’s your wife.”
“Tell her I’m in a conference….”
“It sounds important.”
“Okay. Okay. Gilbert, one moment, is that all right?”
I shrug like “no problem,” but inside I think “oh shit.”
He picks up. “Yes, Betty. What is it?”
I look around like I’m not listening.
“Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Calm down. Calm down!” He swivels his chair so as to face away from me. “No. Yes, I’m in a conference. With Gilbert Grape, yes.” Mr. Carver pauses and, without turning back to look at me, says, “Gilbert, my wife wants to know how you are?”
“I’m uhm fine.”
“He’s fine. Uh-huh. What has Gilbert got to
do with this?” There is another silence. “Honey, don’t start crying again. Please. Talk to me.”
Mr. Carver’s voice is barely audible now. The back of his neck is turning red.
“Of course I’m disappointed. Of course I’m sad.”
He is drenched in sweat. A strong man, surely he could pull off my arms with relative ease.
“Well, my concern is the boys. What are we going to tell the boys? They are the reason for all of this. The boys are who I’m thinking about. That just won’t be the same. Calm down, Betty, or I’m coming home. That’s it. I’m coming home. Right now. We can’t do this over the phone.” He hangs up and sits there motionless. Oh God. With his feet he kicks his chair around. Mr. Ken Carver stares at me with a smile like the one in the picture. “Something has come up. You will excuse me.”
He moves out of the office fast—I stand and follow in a daze. Melanie is saying something about rescheduling, but I don’t hear her. I open the door to leave and the bell rings or dongs. The heat outside slaps me confirming that this is no nightmare.
“Gilbert,” Mr. Carver says, standing next to his Ford Fairmont. “Would you drive me home?”
I stop and stand there, hesitating to answer. My heart starts racing. I feel sweat forming.
“I’m in no state to drive,” he says, smiling like I have no choice.
“But…”
“If it wasn’t an emergency…”
We climb into my truck and he looks for the seat belt. “I took them out,” I explain. “They always got in the way.”
He takes a moment to lecture me about the safety risk. “If you don’t have them put back in, we’ll have to raise your rates.”
“Okay,” I say, “I’ll put them back in.”
***
We’re on the highway with the windows rolled down. Mr. Carver starts speaking, or shouting, rather. She told him about us. He knows. I know that he knows.
“Women, Gilbert. I’m married to a woman.” He pauses here for effect. What effect exactly I do not know. “And God knows I love her—God knows it. And we have two boys, but you knew that. And Todd and Doug—they are at church camp and they miss their parents, their house, and I thought when we picked them up, you know, today—this afternoon—I thought we’d bring them a reminder. Something that states our love without saying it. So my wife—God love her—this afternoon something happened to my wife—do you know what…?”
“Uhm.”
“You’ll never guess.”
I almost say “Don’t be so sure,” but this isn’t the time for cleverness. “What happened to your wife?” I ask.
“Well, my wife sets out to make a batch of cookies for my boys. It seems to me these cookies were the perfect gift. How many mothers make cookies for their kids? Not many these days. There was a time when all mothers did was make cookies. I am married to an exceptional woman. But sometimes, Gilbert, sometimes I wish I was somebody else’s husband because sometimes…” He takes a breath, pressing his lips together, making them disappear. Then he continues, “My wife…”
Oh God. Here we go.
“My wife. Burns. A batch of cookies. It is no big deal. A disappointment for the boys, sure. But it is no big deal! Now she is crying like her life is destroyed, crying over a bad batch of cookies. Sometimes, I tell you, honestly, sometimes I want to put her head in the oven and turn on the gas.”
Mr. Carver suddenly pushes at his forehead with the palm of his left hand. “Oh God. I can’t believe I just said that. Can you? I did not mean that about the oven. I can’t believe I just said that.”
I pull into their driveway. Through a window, I can see Mrs. Betty Carver sitting with her head down on the kitchen table.
“I think what you mean, Mr. Carver, is that sometimes she gets on your nerves.”
“Yes. That’s what I mean.”
Whew. Breathe, Gilbert, breathe easy.
There’s a silence while he licks the sweat off his top lip. “Oh, Gilbert?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Remember—the trampoline. On the Fourth. We’d love to have you come try out our trampoline.” He climbs out of my truck. His baggy, sweaty body walks to the house. He goes inside without turning back to me. I’m glad he didn’t thank me for the ride.
***
I’m halfway home when I pull off onto the shoulder of Highway 13. I put my truck in park and leave the engine running. I let go of the steering wheel. I hold my hands in front of me. I’ll sit here as long as it takes for them to stop shaking.
14
It’s Monday. It’s the morning, and Arnie’s flailing both arms as the merry-go-round horses are being driven out of town. The other rides pass by us, too, and my brother, all smiles, waves as each driver gives a toot or a honk or a beep. As the one carrying the Silver Scrambler drives off, I say, “Arnie, that’s it. That’s all she wrote.” He stands watching, leaning forward and squinting. He always waits until whatever he has been watching is completely gone.
“This year’s carnival was one of the best, don’t you think, buddy? Huh? Don’t you think?”
“Some parts were.”
“What parts weren’t?”
“Uhm. You know what was bad, Gilbert—you know what was bad?”
“No.”
“The horses…”
“The merry-go-round?”
“Yeah, the horses were mean this year. They spit on me.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“Where? I don’t see any spit.”
“It dried up.”
“Those were fiberglass horses, Arnie.”
“Still. Ouch, they were meanies. They were biting me, ouch.”
I stop, because I’m not going to engage in this kind of conversation at this particular moment in my life.
A ’73 Dodge Coronet passes us with a bunch of kids in back. Arnie waves and I look for a trace of that black-haired girl from Michigan. Ever since she sank her teeth in me at the Dairy Dream, I’ve watched for her to see what she’ll look like in daylight. She must have freckles or speckles or a gap in her teeth, surely something that will make forgetting her possible. Other than her brief appearance at the carnival Friday night, this Becky creature has been invisible.
I start walking home. Arnie trails after.
“Gilbert, I’m not lying.”
“Huh?”
“’Bout the horsies. I’m no liar on this. It was…”
“What was?”
“The horses was…”
“Were.”
“Was a phen. Phenah. Phenah-ha. Uhm.”
“The word is phenomena.”
“I know, Gilbert. Jeez.”
Arnie tries to stick one of his short, stubby fingers through one of my belt loops. He pokes me repeatedly. I normally don’t mind this, but today it’s like a reminder of all that I loathe about my life, and I snap, “Stop it!”
He pulls his finger out and steps away fast. He looks at his shoes. A pickup truck speeds by carrying people we don’t know. This time he doesn’t wave.
“Truck is just like mine, buddy. Look.”
Arnie stays staring at his feet. One little snap from me somehow ruins his life. It’s as if the last four days of constant carnival rides, of buying him whatever candy and popcorn he wanted, of standing there watching him go around on the merry-go-round fifty-four times in a row—it’s as if none of it ever happened. You just wish he’d remember some of the good times.
Having pushed out his bottom lip, he’s holding his breath, which is making his face turn beet red. In a minute his brain will probably hemorrhage, he’ll die, and since I don’t want the guilt of that, I say his name as nice as I know how.
The kid doesn’t answer. He just scrunches his face tighter, his skin is more purplish now, and he’s clenching his fingers into white-knuckled fists. A red truck whizzes past heading for town, but he still won’t wave.
“That was your favorite color,” I say.
His entire body is starting to
convulse; veins are jumping out on his neck; a road map pops up around his eyes.
“Arnie, guess what you are? Guess.” I wait a second. “You’re a phen. A phenah. Uhm. I can’t say it. You’re a phenomha. What is the word? Maybe I can’t say it, Arnie. But it’s what you are. Phenon. A phenom?”
Suddenly eager to know what he is, Arnie stops his seizure.
“Help me out, buddy.”
“Sure, Gilbert.”
I’m saying “Phenom” over and over and he’s making fffff sounds, and this goes on for some time. “Maybe I can’t say the word, but I know it’s what you are.”
“I know it’s what I am too, Gilbert.”
I conveniently suggest that we head home and ask Amy.
“She works at a school, Gilbert.”
“That’s right. If she doesn’t know, then no one does.”
“Right, Gilbert.” He takes my hand and we begin to walk home. He likes to say my name when he talks to me. I’ve always thought it was his way of proving to himself that he knows something.
Walking down Vine Street, we go past the Methodist church that sponsored the carnival. Arnie slows down. Sensing that he’s about to run over and stand where the rides used to be, I say, “I got it. I got it, Arnie.”
“What what what what!” he says, fast and loud.
“You, buddy, are a phenomenon.”
“Yes!” he sings.
“Race you home.” And before Arnie has a chance to go to the church grounds, I’m off and running. He chases after me.
My usual procedure when racing him is to get out in front by a house or two, let him catch up with me, and then, at the last possible moment, let him win by mere inches. But today I want to remind him who’s boss.
So I run fast for me. When I get to our driveway, I jump up and down like some sporting champion. I look back to cheer him on only to find that he’s quit the race, turned around and is heading toward the church grounds.
With Arnie, even when you win, you lose.
***
I’ve not even reached our screen door when Amy calls out from the kitchen, “Where’s Arnie?”
Notice how it’s never “How are you, Gilbert? You’re looking good, Gilbert. Combed your hair, did you, Gilbert?” But it’s always been this way; it’s been this way for years.