by Peter Hedges
“Yes. A guy walks into a Burger Barn and he knows what to expect. He knows what he can count on. And that’s the problem with this world. A guy just doesn’t know what to expect anymore.” We walk to where I surmise the back of the restaurant will be. “We know, for example, that this is where the french fries will be cooked. Here will be the burger rack. And the milk-shake machine will be placed approximately here.” Tucker talks on and on about various details and how the Barn will be the new Endora hot spot and how he intends to be at the center of said heat.
I interrupt with the news that they’re burning down the school Saturday.
Tucker stops. He says, “I know this, Gilbert. They’re making a whole deal out of it. Fire trucks from Motley even.”
I look at him. I’m getting all emotional about this for no explainable reason. I say with a shaky voice, “They’re making it into a celebration. Can you believe it?”
“I can’t be expending energy for old, tired buildings. My focus is on the future. The Burger Barn future. Are you trying to upset me? Are you trying to ruin my day? ’Cause it won’t work.”
And I consider this man my best friend.
***
I cross the empty highway to my truck and sit on the hot hood. Tucker takes his time inspecting the grounds. He walks among the construction like he’s Neil I’m-the-coolest-astronaut Armstrong bouncing on the moon for the first time. A few semis whoosh past, a car without a muffler. He heads to his truck, smiling, but still not trusting me.
“See ya, Gilbert.”
“Hey, uhm…”
He stops. He knows I want something.
“This,” I continue, “is really something.” I point to the construction site. “It really is exciting for you, isn’t it? You’ve been waiting a long time for the right thing and, Tucker, any idiot can see that this is the right thing. I mean, wow. In a matter of weeks, there will be customers and you’ll be serving them… and it’s… for me, it’s great… to… see you… you know…”
Tucker says nothing as I run out of bullshit. I feel rotten for being so fake.
Finally he speaks. “She’s not what you think.”
“Huh, what?”
“I know it for a fact. I asked her out, okay? And she said ‘No.’ Which is okay, okay? But. Then she said, ‘A bird doesn’t mate with a fish.’”
Ouch, I say to myself.
“Who, Gilbert—who do you think is the fish in this situation? Who is the fish?”
I shrug. “Tucker, the girl is clearly stupid and you deserve better.”
“Don’t you think I know that now?”
“You deserve better. You do.”
He looks at me long and hard. He knows I’m homing in on her. “Gilbert?”
“Yeah, buddy?”
“She stays at the old Lally place.” Tucker’s voice cracks. His eyes fill with water.
“Huh?”
“The old Lally place!”
“Uhm.”
“Do I need to say it again, Gilbert? Am I not being clear enough?!”
“You’re being clear, yes.”
“And you’re welcome.”
My “thank you” follows, but already he’s started up his truck. He leans over, rolls down his window, and shouts, “You’re making a big mistake!”
***
The old Lally place is on the north end of town, eight or so houses from the water tower, five streets from the town square. The house is small, one story, covered with that metal siding people seem to be buying and loving these days.
I drive past and don’t see Becky’s bike out front. I drive past three times. No one seems to be home and the yard looks in bad shape. On my fourth and final pass, an old woman is standing on the porch waving for me to stop. I do.
She says, “So you’re Gilbert Grape!”
I hesitate, amazed that such a strong, booming voice can come from such a scrawny, bony woman.
“I’m the grandmother!”
I remember her from the water-tower incident. She was standing next to Becky. “Oh, hello.”
“Breakfast is at eight tomorrow!”
“Excuse me?”
“Breakfast. Eight o’clock. May we expect you?”
I nod without thought.
“Tomorrow morning, then, Gilbert Grape. Looking forward to it!”
27
I’ve been up since five-thirty, shaved twice, even though my face is still mainly fuzz. I combed my hair several times, trying my standard part on the side, a more daring part in the middle, and a low part, identical to the one I had as a kid. I settle for the hair that I’m used to. I washed my body in the shower extra long, and the skin of my legs and my arms itches from the dryness. In an effort to smell nice, I left a layer of soap on my skin that makes me feel like I’m covered in plastic. I brushed, flossed, and with my fingers scraped away at some of the yellow at the base of my bigger teeth.
I borrowed Amy’s watch. It reads forty seconds until eight when my truck and I pull up in front of the old Lally place.
I sneeze twice when Becky’s grandma opens the door.
“Good morning, Mr. Grape.” She lets me into her house, which is full of little trinkets and rocks and tiny antiques. She says, “Have a seat,” as she moves into the kitchen.
I sit on an old blue-and-white sofa with the softest cushions. I study the tiny living room. There is an upright piano with lace thingies on the back and little figurines of deer and sheep and dogs. On a bookcase, there are pictures. Becky as a baby. Becky in second grade. Becky in fifth. Becky in a pink dance outfit with a baton. Becky with her parents, who are plain and ordinary. In every picture, her eyes are piercing and she seems otherworldly.
The house has that bacon-for-breakfast smell. I lean over the sofa and peek into the kitchen. The table is set. A pitcher of fresh orange juice sits on the table next to a napkin holder that looks like a rooster. The silence of no TV in the house is a shock to my ears.
***
Minutes pass and I’m called to breakfast. I sit where she tells me. She pours me juice.
“Coffee?”
“Yes, ma’am.” She pours it and I look at the brown spots on her hands.
She smiles. “Scrambled eggs all right?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She cracks the eggs and drops the shells in the sink. Then she disappears down the hall for a moment. Back at the stove, she stirs the eggs with a fork. They are ready fast. I’m also served bacon and wheat toast, which I cover lightly with strawberry jelly.
I’m about to take my first bite when Becky emerges in shorts and a T-shirt, those little kernels of sleep still stuck in her eyes, her hair all puffy and wild, and when she looks at me, squinting from the light, I realize she just woke up. She sees my combed hair and my striped shirt, and she laughs silently and sighs, “Oh, Gilbert.” Moving past me, she goes into the bathroom, more minutes pass, and finally there’s a flush. She emerges, her hair still uncombed, her eyes still sleepy.
“Doesn’t Gilbert look nice, Becky?”
“No.”
“Becky!”
“Yes, of course he looks nice. But I prefer him, Grandma, when he’s sloppy and caught off guard.”
She pours herself a cup of coffee. Her grandma must have scrambled a dozen eggs—all of which are for me—and, with the pound of bacon on my plate and the many slices of toast, I find it hard to take any bites at all.
“Becky doesn’t eat breakfast, Gilbert. And, of course, it’s my favorite meal of the day. So I’m grateful that you came because… well, just because…”
“I’m usually not a breakfast person myself,” I say.
“Really? Are you not hungry?”
“Oh, I’m hungry. It’s that my family has this thing with food.”
“Your mother, I hear…”
“Yes,” I say, cutting the grandmother off. I chew on the eggs.
“Grandma, you know what I think?”
The grandmother stops and looks at Becky.
“I think Gilber
t’s trying to make a good impression.”
I want to scream “OF COURSE I AM!” Instead, I wipe my face with my napkin and shrug like “Well, maybe.”
“Becky, dear, it’s natural to want to make a good impression. It’s flattering that a young man would think so highly of us that he’d want to impress.”
Becky chugs her coffee, scoots out her chair, goes down the hall to what must be her room, grabs her cigarettes, and goes out onto their porch. I can’t see her but I smell her smoke.
I clean my plate. The first time in years.
The grandmother tells me how she lived here thirty-five years ago and how she wanted to come back here and live out her days. “Endora, like all things, has changed.” She remembers my father and mother. They were newly married then, but she didn’t know them well. She tells me that her daughter and son-in-law thought a summer here would do Becky some good. She wonders if I think it will rain soon. I say that it better because the farmers are about to lose their crops. I tell her about my family and how my little brother’s birthday is coming up and how we’re planning a big reunion/party. “How sweet,” she says, and I think to myself that it will be anything but sweet. We talk about her history, and I find out that Becky’s parents are getting a divorce, an idea that Becky suggested, and then the grandmother says, “You know, Gilbert, Becky just turned fifteen.”
“Uhm. Oh.”
“Gilbert, she’s still a young girl in many respects.”
“Age isn’t an issue.”
“But fifteen is fifteen.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I want to say how I know a certain wife of a certain insurance man who, in her late thirties, is more of a young girl than Becky.
“I trust that you will treat her with respect and not pressure her to do what she is not ready to do.”
I must be shaking my head, agreeing with her, because she is smiling. My thoughts race inside. Fifteen. Jesus, Gilbert, you’re a joke.
Suddenly I need to use the bathroom. Instead of standing and peeing, I sit on the toilet seat. I do this because I know Becky was sitting naked and peeing minutes earlier. This might be as close to her as I’ll ever get.
After breakfast, I thank the grandmother. She says that she’s glad we’ve reached an understanding.
“Yes, ma’am,” I say. I leave the house. Becky doesn’t even wave good-bye. I’m about to get in my truck, when she says, “You want to go for a walk?”
“Uhm. Whatever.”
Becky steps into her tennis shoes, and we start walking. We’ve gone about six houses when she says, “Gilbert.”
I go, “Yep?”
“Age is a funny thing. It’s deceptive.”
“Yeah?”
“You’re older than me in terms of time. But in terms of other things…”
“Careful.”
“In terms of other things, you’re not so old.”
***
We walk down other streets and I hear more of the same. Eventually I ask if we can change the subject and Becky does.
“A friend of yours… black hair, a funny nose… a short guy…”
“Tucker?”
“He asked me out.”
“I know. He told me.”
“Is he upset with me?”
I shrug and say, “Disappointed is probably the best word for it.” Actually, destroyed is the only word to describe how Tucker is feeling.
“Your friend is so far away from himself.”
“You think?”
“Yes, I do.”
We walk on. Becky rubs the sleep from her eyes. It falls to the ground and a part of me wants to collect it and save it, like the watermelon seeds from the other night.
Yesterday morning, a strange smell had pervaded my room and I traced the smell to the slice of watermelon I had put in a Baggie and slid under my bed. The slice had begun to spoil and turn green. Covering my nose, I extracted the seeds, which now sit in a paper cup by my headboard, and dumped the moldy leftovers in the garbage disposal.
***
Becky stretches to the sky. Her arms reach so far up that her stomach, pale and smooth, is revealed. She breathes out, her arms drop to her sides and her shirt returns to normal.
“My grandmother likes you.”
“I’m glad.” I smile a bit; we walk on.
“But she likes everybody.”
28
As we walk down South Main to the square, cars slow and people peek out their windows. I look at the swirly candy-cane device in front of Lloyd’s Barbershop. It spins upward. Lloyd is looking out the window, cutting Buddy Miles’s hair. A man in his early fifties with waxy hair and a hook nose, Lloyd is one of the many entranced with Becky. So many people are staring that I feel like a Kennedy or like Elvis or, to a lesser degree, like how Lance Dodge must feel in those Des Moines shopping malls.
Becky’s shirt is soft, fuzzy, and her nipples can be seen when a breeze passes.
As we walk slowly, my left hand brushes then bumps her right hand with the hope that she’ll take it. “Sorry,” I say, as if it were an accident.
“Are you?”
“I am. I hate it when people bump me.”
“Please don’t lie.”
“But I’m not…”
She puts her soft, smooth hand on my mouth, my words stop, and she looks into my eyes. I bring my lids down in an attempt to hide. She walks on. My eyes remain closed. Hopefully she’ll tell me to come along, but she says nothing. I feel her getting farther and farther away so I open my eyes and follow.
When I catch up with her, she says, “Your mother was so courageous the other day.”
I can’t help but laugh.
“You think I’m joking, Gilbert?”
“I don’t know what I think. Courageous isn’t the first word that comes to mind.”
“What comes to mind?”
“Oh… I guess… how… my mother… has… grown.” I am on my knees now, this laughter won’t stop. Becky watches me and waits. Eventually I compose myself, I stand and put on a serious face. I point toward the Dairy Dream.
Arriving there, I tap on the take-out window. Ellen looks up from the magazine she’s reading and seeing me, looks back at the magazine. I tap louder, but she won’t open the window to take my order. I try to get Cindy Mansfield’s attention, but she’s in back on the phone—most certainly talking to her mother, Carmen, who is half owner of the Dream. Cindy doesn’t see me.
The door opens and the bell tings and tangs. Ellen looks up, thinking it’s me, only to find Becky standing there. She quickly shuts her magazine, stands, fixes any stray hairs and somehow knocks over a box of sugar cones. Becky orders for the both of us. Ellen’s hands shake and she giggles almost nonstop as she spoons the sprinkles on a vanilla cone.
As Cindy talks on the phone, she studies Becky with condemning, judgmental eyes. Finished with the cone, Ellen fills up a large cup with Orange Crush. Becky waits patiently, treating Ellen as an equal. Cindy hangs up and slides open the window.
“You’re invited, too, Gilbert.”
“To what?”
“We’re having this wonderful teen retreat/Bible study/picnic on the Fourth. Ellen is coming. I told her she could bring you.”
“No, thanks.”
“A great time will be had by…”
“I’m sure.”
The bell sounds as Becky comes outside to me. She hands me my drink. I take a sip. My face is sweaty; it is very hot outside. I press my face close to Cindy, not because I want to be close to her, but so the air-conditioned air from inside can bathe my face. Ellen has returned to her magazine. She struggles to look unaffected by Becky’s appearance. Cindy says a bunch of things about the “retreat” which I don’t hear because I’m busy speculating on the number of coats of makeup that she has applied. The more Christian you are in this town, the more makeup you wear. I’ve always thought that it’s because if you were to die suddenly, you’d look better for God.
“Cindy, I’d like you to meet my friend.
This is…”
“Oh, hello.”
“Hey, Ellen!” I call back to her. “I’d like you to meet…”
“I’m in the middle of an article…”
“I want you to meet someone.”
“In a minute.”
Becky pulls at my shirt for us to go. I look at her, she stands with her feet crossed and the cone pressed to her mouth.
“Bye, Cindy,” I say.
“So you coming to our Bible study? Huh?”
Walking backward, I shrug like “We’ll see, but doubtful.”
We walk away. I ask if the cone is her breakfast. She says nothing. When she finishes, she takes a sip of my drink and says, “That wasn’t nice.”
“What?”
“You know.”
I look at Becky like “What on earth are you talking about?”
“Gilbert, please. All the girls in this town think of me as some threat, some rival, which I’m not. Your sister needs to feel beautiful and special. I’m happy for her to feel that way.” She walks on. “I know you’ve been hurt. But I don’t want to be part of your cruelty.”
We walk on in silence.
It takes fifteen minutes for me to admit my mistake. “Sorry,” I say.
***
We’re on North Main by the time I finish my drink. I say, “One second,” to Becky and jog over to Carver’s Insurance to throw away my cup. Mr. Carver’s Ford Fairmont is out front, but a sign on the door says “Closed.” How odd. I hear a noise inside and press my face to the office window. The shade isn’t all the way down and I look through a crack. I hear a woman’s moan, a man’s groan. I press closer to see better. Melanie’s desk light is on. Melanie is lying on her back, on top of her desk, her skirt hiked up. Mr. Carver is standing, his pants dropped, his back to me. He’s ramming hard and her body jiggles with each thrust.
Becky says, “What are you looking at?”
I lift my arm like “Shhhh.”
She starts to walk my way to see for herself.
At that moment, Melanie throws her head back, and lets out a deep moan. Her hair falls from her head, and it dangles by a bobby pin or two. It’s a wig. Christ. Melanie wears a wig.
Mr. Carver is plunging deeper and deeper and the slap of that gets louder.