What's Eating Gilbert Grape

by Peter Hedges

  He looks at me, his red hair windblown. He presses his lips together, squeezes the steering wheel like a race car driver and calls out, “We’re never too old to feel alive!”

  The light clicks to green, and Bobby and the hearse peel out.

  I make a slow right turn onto Elm. I’ve lost track of her but no way am I joining some search party. I drive past the Dairy Dream and remember that fateful night when I met the viper there. At the Church of Christ parking lot, I drive in a slow circle and see no sign. There’s no trace of her in the field where the carnival was. A couple of Pastor Swanson’s kids are picking up what’s left of the popcorn boxes and candy wrappers and ticket stubs. I head down Third Street to the Endora town pool. Four kids splash each other while Carla Ramp, sister of waitress Beverly and daughter of Earl and Candy, watches from the lifeguard chair. I’ve always said that I would rather drown than be revived mouth-to-mouth by Carla Ramp. She makes her sister Beverly seem beautiful. She has swimmer’s hair, yellow and starchy, and her nose is covered with that annoying white stuff to protect against sunburn. My burn, incidentally, is fading fast; my arms are beginning to peel. I pass Mrs. Brainer’s house, which already has a FOR SALE sign posted out front. Her porch swing hangs triumphant.

  The girl has vanished and part of me couldn’t be happier.

  I’m considering my options regarding the watermelon when thirst becomes a factor. I head to ENDora OF THE LINE for an Orange Crush. I lock the doors to my truck for reasons that disappoint me. I’m worried that someone might kidnap the melon. How sad that I would even care.

  Donna is at the cash register. She was in the same class with my older brother, who I should never have mentioned.

  Anyway, I’m about four steps from Donna and the door, when that girl and her bike coast across the parking lot. She rides with no hands. I stand there motionless as she disappears down the block. I feel like I’m thirteen again.

  The McBurney Funeral Home hearse followed by Tucker’s truck pulls into the parking lot. The boys leap out of their respective vehicles and say, “Gilbert, Gilbert, Gilbert!”

  “I know my name. Christ, you guys.”

  So they start in about this girl, and I am losing interest by the second. The more they talk, the more convinced I become that there’s something wrong with her.

  “Have you seen her teeth?” I interrupt.

  “No.”

  “Uhm. Not really. But surely…”

  “You don’t know,” I say. “She could have those black, blotched teeth. Or maybe she’s got one of those hairy faces or maybe…”

  “You’ve got a point.”

  “Yes, he does.”

  “Of course I do. And furthermore, don’t we, as citizens of this town, have more useful and important things to be doing with our time? I think we do.”

  I drive away as they stand there pondering my words. My gas gauge is on “E” so me and the melon are forced to drive to the closest station, which is Standard Oil. Dave Allen’s is on the other side of town, so no luck in terms of the cord or hose or whatever it’s called. I sing real loud as I go over the black tube thing but the bing-bing or dong-dong still makes it to my ears. Buck Staples is working today. He’s a year younger than me but he was held back twice, once in fourth grade, once in sixth. One could argue that he wasn’t held back enough.

  Buck says, “Hey, Gilbert.”

  “Hey, Buck.”

  I’m putting gas in. He kicks some gravel and says, “Wow.”

  “Wow what?”

  “Uhm. I don’t know. Just wow.”

  “Oh, wait,” I say. I finish with the gas, open the passenger side of my truck, lift up the watermelon, and say, “You any use for this?”

  Buck shakes his head.

  “Damn.”

  “But uh I swallowed a couple of watermelon seeds once. Ugh.”

  I say, “Oh.”

  ***

  I’m checking my oil when I hear that clicky-ticky sound of a bike come coasting up.

  “Gilbert?”

  “What?” I unhook the bar that keeps my hood raised and let the whole thing drop. It makes a “WHAM” sound. I turn toward you-know-who.

  “Your name is Gilbert. I didn’t forget. But then again, who could?” She puts some stray hairs back behind her ears.

  “Who could what?” I say. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want this girl in a reproductive way.

  “Forget a name like Gilbert.” She chews on a knuckle.

  “You get germs that way.”

  “What way?”

  “Chewing on your hand. Licking your fingers.”

  “Oh well,” she says, continuing to chew.

  I’d also be lying if I said that this girl appealed to me as a person. Quite honestly, she’s the weirdest thing in these parts.

  I pay Buck the $13.52 in exact change. He asks how my truck is running, and I say, “Like a kitten,” and he kiddingly goes, “Meow.” Let me say that this was the first interesting thing I’ve ever seen Buck do.

  Outside Becky stands between my truck and me with the bike between her legs. She rolls the front tire over the black cord thing and bing-bing and ding-dong and binga-dinga ring out and I want to scream. Turning to Buck, I try to say with my eyes that what is happening here is not my fault. But Buck is standing up, staring at her, gnawing on his tongue. He likes the noise.

  Becky moves the bike slightly from side to side up underneath her. I shake my head and climb into my truck. I turn on the radio, kick into gear, but as I pull out, she pedals out in front of me. I hit the horn long, and she holds up a finger like she’s saying “One minute,” so I shift into park. She coasts to my window and says, “Just one more thing.”

  “Yeah?”

  “It’s the insides of a watermelon that are best. Maybe if you expressed an interest in getting to know my insides.” She giggles like those girls on “The Dating Game,” her head cocks back, and she laughs with her mouth wide open. I move close to her and look quick in her mouth. Her teeth are shiny and straight, pure white. Perfect. Damn. So I reach across my truck, open the passenger door, and roll the watermelon off the seat. It kind of bounces over to the gas pump. I drive off. I look in the rearview mirror and see her standing there. No more giggle, no more laugh. The watermelon at her feet.

  Perfect.

  19

  “Thanks for doing that, Gilbert.”

  “Sure thing, boss.”

  “It’s that extra-special care we take of our customers…”

  “My feeling exactly,” I say. The less said about the melon, the better. I put on my apron, clip on my name tag.

  “Your sister was by,” Mr. Lamson says.

  “Amy, I hope.”

  “Yes. And she brought you this.” He gives me a white envelope and I notice the confidence of his hands, his gold wedding band secure. I want to say, “Mr. Lamson, you and your wife are the only known proof that marriage is a reasonable life option,” but instead I just say, “Thanks.”

  “You know, Arnie stayed in the car while your sister came inside. I told Amy that he could pick out any gum or candy bar he liked for free. She went out and told him but he ducked below the dashboard.”

  “Arnie’s not your normal guy,” I say.

  “It used to be he’d come here and follow you around at work. He’d cry when it was closing time. Remember that honorary name tag we made for him?”

  I nod. Mr. Lamson has always gone out of his way for Arnie. Free candy, store tours, pennies for the gum-ball machine.

  “Did I do something?” Mr. Lamson asks. “Did I hurt his feelings in some way?”

  “No, sir. Not you.”

  “He won’t even come into our store, for Christ’s sake.”

  “I know. But, boss, it’s not you,” I whisper. “It’s those electric doors at the… uhm… other establishment. The conveyor belts, too.”

  “Nooo.” Part of Mr. Lamson just died.

  “But fortunately he’s been banned from their store.”


  “What!”

  “Well, not banned actually. They want him to be supervised from now on. Last Saturday he pocketed about three dollars’ worth of candy. Amy tried to explain that he’s used to getting it for free.”

  “Arnie always gets free candy….”

  “I know, sir.”

  “He’s always welcome here! Hell, I’ll put his picture right up there, right next to Lance!”

  A color 8 by 10 photo of Lance Dodge, autographed, hangs framed next to the Wonder Bread clock. Lance is enshrined in many of the stores and shops in Endora. He smiles with teeth that aren’t as nice as Becky’s.

  “Your brother has free rein! He can dig the prizes out of whatever cereal! You tell him!”

  “He knows. It’s just his particular interest in those electric doors, the conveyor belts. And now—with the lobster tank.”

  “Fine. It’s fine. Whatever the boy wants.” Mr. Lamson moves out of view. He’s gone into the stockroom for some time alone. My boss can deal with the declining business, the almost total absence of customers, and the rejection of the masses. But it’s Arnie’s refusal of free candy that has wounded him. When my boss is in pain, he goes to the stockroom. When he aches, he does so quietly.

  ***

  Inside Amy’s envelope is the grocery list for the next few days. It is two and a half pages long. She writes:

  I’ve reduced the list to the necessary items. The coffee can had only thirty-six dollars and something cents. Here’s thirty. Do you think he’ll credit the rest till we have more money? Be charming. If anyone can do it, you can. I love you and will make you fried chicken soon for dinner. Oh, get an extra jar of peanut butter. That’s all Arnie’s interested in eating these days. Thanks, little brother. Love, Amy. P.S. Blue Hawaii is on TV tonight. It’s one of his best movies. You want to watch?

  I look over the shopping list. You’d think we had an army or a football team living at our house. Five loaves of bread, countless bags of potato chips, cases of diet ginger ale, mayonnaise, tubs and tubs of butter—the list is endless. She didn’t have the strength to ask me to my face. I’ve worked for years for this stellar husband-and-wife team and I’ve never had to beg for charity for me or my family. But since our combined incomes cannot keep up with our increased appetites, I have no real choice in the matter.

  It takes until six-fifteen for me to muster up enough courage. Mr. Lamson is sweeping under the cash register and the store is empty.

  “Boss?” I say, walking up to him.

  “Yes.” He stops sweeping and says, “What is it, son?”

  “Uhm.”

  “Is everything all right?”

  “Amy dropped by a grocery list.”

  “Well, we’re stocked to the brim. We’re only out of canned peaches and pears. So—go to it.” He smiles, happy that his food will soon be ours.

  I can only look at my feet. “It seems that with uhm Ellen getting her braces off and uhm some emergency construction work that we have to do on the house and uhm… she only gave me thirty dollars….”

  “I’m ashamed you’d even ask. You can credit whatever you like. And, Gilbert, you’ll pay us when you can. I know that.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Is that all, son?”

  I nod.

  “Get shopping, then.” Mr. Lamson walks away whistling.

  ***

  I get a cart and systematically start checking off each item and it’s an hour and three cartfuls later when I finish. Mr. Lamson rings it all up and it comes to twenty-three grocery sacks worth $314.32 total.

  I start to say, “I’m sorry,” when he says, “No need to be.”

  ***

  It takes an eternity for me to secure all the bags in back of my truck. As I’m squeezing a sack of eggs and milk into place, the Carver family station wagon pulls into the parking lot. Mrs. Carver rolls down her window, turns her headlights off, but keeps the engine running. This will be one of those talk-fast meetings.

  “Hi,” she says.

  “Hi,” I say.

  I go about my work.

  “Guess what Thursday is?” she says fast.

  I shrug and place another sack.

  “A certain anniversary. Seven years. It will have been seven years since your first… visit.”

  “You don’t say,” I say slowly.

  “Ken has many appointments Thursday. I can drop the boys off at the pool. How about an anniversary picnic?”

  “Uhm,” I say. I stop and look at her. I’m sweating from all the groceries.

  “I’ll make all your favorites,” she says, talking even faster now.

  “It’s a little hard for me to think about food right now. I haven’t got much of an appetite.” I point to all the sacks but she doesn’t seem to get the correlation.

  She only seems to notice me. Suddenly her lips scrunch together. “What’s the matter, honey?”

  My back hunches up when she says “honey.” For seven years I’ve been her honey, her secret, her little toy. I’ve never even gone on a date. It’s only been Mrs. Betty Carver. These secret meetings—enough.

  “What is it?”

  I turn and look at her. She sees the coldness in my eyes.

  “Oh, just like that,” she says. “Is it that easy for you?”

  “It’s not easy—no.”

  The last bag is in place. I turn the lights out at Lamson Grocery and lock the door. I walk toward her and it starts pouring out. “Why’d you choose me? Huh? You could have had anybody. You could have had Lance Dodge! But you chose me. Even now there are any number of young guys in this town who would love to uhm learn from you. Good-looking guys. Muscular guys. Farm-boy types. Why the hell you chose me I’ll never know!”

  “I’m choosing to ignore this outburst. You’ve had a long day.”

  I kick a tire.

  “Picnic. Our spot. Thursday is our anniversary. You’re there or you’re not.”

  I don’t answer.

  “Yes. I could have had others. But I chose you.”

  “Why? Why did you do that? Huh?”

  “Because.”

  “Go on. Say it.”

  “Because I knew you’d never leave your family. I knew you’d never leave Endora.”

  I stare at my truck. The back window is dirty.

  “Picnic, Gilbert. Our spot. Thursday. I do hope you’ll be there.” She stops her speed talking and in an almost different voice says, “Or is this how you say good-bye?”

  I look at my tennis shoes. I need a new pair.

  She says, “I can say good-bye, too. I can.”

  “Listen,” I say. “The milk is getting warm. I got ice cream that’s melting.”

  “Huh?”

  “The groceries.” I don’t look in her eyes.

  She shifts into reverse and whispers, “Good-bye.”

  “That must make you really happy to say that!” I shout.

  “No. I’m so far from being happy!”

  “You’re smiling, though!”

  “That’s how it is sometimes, huh? Funny.”

  She backs out of the parking lot and starts to drive away. I wave for her to stop. She rolls down her window. “What is it?”

  “Your headlights.”

  Her face stays fixed on me as her left hand reaches to the knob and her lights flick on. I stand there until her car is out of view.

  I guess I’m supposed to feel sad. Or at least feel.

  I look at all the groceries and an image of starving children comes to me. Their bony bodies, puffy stomachs, and the dry breasts of their mothers. Something is not right about all this food going to my house. Something is wrong inside me, I start to think, but I change the subject. I drive home and sing along with the radio.

  Her words “I knew you’d never leave Endora” keep echoing in my head. I’ll show them, I think to myself, I’ll show them all. Endora’s middle stoplight turns from green to yellow to red. I pull to a stop. And I wait. I’ve enough gas to make it to Illinois or Kentucky, an
d I’ve enough food in my truck for a lifetime. I could start fresh.

  The stoplight turns green. This is my chance. But I turn at the top of my street and flash my brights. The retard is standing on the curb, waiting for my signal. He runs to the house, convinced it’s me. Before I’m even in our driveway, Amy and Ellen are out the front door.

  “Thank you,” Amy says as she grabs two sacks.

  “Yeah, thanks,” Ellen says.

  I load Arnie up with the breakfast cereals. “Go to it, kid.”

  Amy is back for her second load. She’s moving fast and puffing. “Ellen just broke a nail.”

  “Oh,” I said. Am I to grieve over this? I want to ask.

  “Momma is getting punchy. She wants to eat. Did you get the potato chips?”

  “Yes.”

  “Six bags, I hope.”

  “Whatever’s on the list. I got what’s on the list.”

  “See, though, I wrote five—then I wrote six over…”

  “I don’t know. Amy—just take the groceries.”

  Arnie runs back out and says “Peanut butter” ten times fast.

  “Yes, Arnie, I got you peanut butter.”

  “Chunky, chunky, chunky, chunky, chunky?”

  “Yes, chunky.”

  He falls down next to the mailbox. He’s about to orgasm. Ellen emerges with a fresh Band-Aid where her nail used to be. “You get me my yogurt?”

  “Yes.”

  “You have a use, after all,” she says, lifting up the smallest, lightest bag she can find.

  All the sacks are inside, and while Amy and Ellen are in the kitchen putting everything away, Arnie marches up and down the front hall stomping on little black ants. Momma is asking for tonight’s dinner menu and Amy says something about chicken pot pie. Momma goes, “Hoooowwwwww nice!”

  Amy approaches me, a jar of mayonnaise in each hand, and whispers, “We’ve got to meet for a bit later, okay?” I’m about to say “I’m busy” when she squeezes my arm and says, “It concerns Arnie’s party.” She smiles as if she expects me to say “Yippee.”

  “Okay. I’ll be at the meeting.”

  She says, “Good.”

  “But,” I continue, “my appetite was lost somewhere along the way, so no dinner for me, okay?”