What's Eating Gilbert Grape

by Peter Hedges

  Tucker rounds the corner holding a cake shaped like a cow. Many Burger Barn employees and a crowd of customers follow. They stand and sing an off-key but sincere version of “Happy Birthday.” Arnie has cupped his hands over his mouth to cover his smile.

  Amy’s face is dripping and the others, Janice and Ellen, sing along. Larry watches, detached.

  I must say that this catches me off guard. There must be fifty people singing and Arnie is squealing now and he sticks his fingers in the cake and nobody minds and Momma would be loving this if she were here.

  The singing echoes while Arnie takes three tries to blow out the candles.

  The second cake of the day is cut up by Amy and eaten by everyone. She offers me a piece. I take it and eat two bites.

  But I have to excuse myself. I move to where people place their orders and flag Tucker down. “Thanks,” I say.

  “Don’t thank me,” he says. “Thank Burger Barn. I am merely a conduit for their vision. It’s the Burger Barn way.”

  Tucker would keep talking but he sees that my eyes are full. He says, “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  He pulls me through an employee door and I stand where they make the french fries. The other employees walk carefully around me as my back shakes and my face remains covered by my hands.

  Tucker has no words. He lets me stand there, out of the public eye.

  “This started last night and I uhm I can’t seem to stop. I feel so stupid,” I say. “So stupid.”

  Later, I thank him.

  He says, “It’s my job.”

  I ask for Kleenex. He hands me a stack of Burger Barn napkins. I use them to dry around my eyes.

  56

  After the Burger Barn, we drive home. Larry, Janice, and Ellen in the lead, then Amy’s Nova, with Arnie in back, follows.

  At the top of our street, Amy puts her left arm out the window and sticks a thumb up in the air.

  At home, the women go inside to give Momma her food. Arnie gets an old croquet mallet out of our garage. He runs around slamming it down on whatever anthills he can find in the dirt or in the cement cracks.

  Larry and I are out back of the house, considering the trampoline. I sit on it. He goes to the swing. He pulls on the rope to check its strength. “Hmmmm,” he says.

  “How’s the swing?” I ask.

  Larry looks at it for a time longer than the swing probably deserves. He looks at me, scratches his head, laughs to himself, and looks the forty, fifty feet up to where the rope is tied to the branch.

  “Larry?”

  “Hmmmm.”

  “How. Is. The swing?”

  He takes in a deep breath and says, “Still sturdy.” He sits on it and looks up.

  “I remember the day you climbed up there—I was a fourth-grader and you were a big-time senior. Momma said for you not to and Amy was sure you’d get hurt, but you did it anyway. You remember how no one said it could be done? But you did it. Do you remember that?”

  “No.”

  “Come on—and how at night, you’d stay up with a flashlight, guarding it so the neighbors’ kids wouldn’t sneak over and take a free swing….”

  “No.”

  “You don’t remember?”

  Larry shakes his head and gestures for me to get off the trampoline. He steps out of his brown shoes and crawls out to the center.

  “Don’t you want to change out of your clothes? A person does not jump on a trampoline in a dress shirt and a tie. Larry, I’ve got some cutoffs, some gym shorts.”

  Again Larry has no answer for me. Standing now, he rises up on his toes and back down. He does this many times, never leaving the ground. “Stupid.”

  “Huh?” I say.

  “Trampolines are stupid.”

  “You’ve got to jump, though. You’ve got to get up in the air.”

  “I am.”

  “No, you’re not.”

  Larry continues this timid move of toes up, toes down.

  “JUMP!” I scream.

  Larry does, out of fear; he almost falls over; his arms shoot out to regain balance. Larry is pissed. I laugh and this might be the first laughing at my brother that I’ve done in a long, long time.

  “I can still kick your ass, Gilbert.”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  “So shut up.”

  “JUMP!”

  This time Larry stops moving and Arnie comes squealing around the house from the front, hopping kangaroo style. He comes jumping our way, ketchup smeared on his chin and a chunk of pickle still stuck in his teeth.

  “Jesus, get that kid a napkin,” Larry says.

  “Hey, Arnie, do you know the words ‘dental floss’?”

  Arnie stops his hopping and goes, “Jeez, you guys. Jeez.”

  Larry sits down on the trampoline. The idea of jumping is too much for him. He’s as scared as I am, as scared as everybody, even though he’ll never admit it.

  The sun is back behind trees now, the sky is growing dark and this day, the big day, is almost over.

  Ellen stands on the porch, waving us her way.

  “What?” I yell.

  She waves more frantically.

  “Something’s up,” Larry says, putting on his shoes and heading toward the house. Arnie tags along. I lean on the trampoline until they hit the porch steps, then I follow reluctantly.

  In the house, I hear through the screen door “Oh, Momma, you can do it. Yes, Momma.”

  Momma is on her third stair step. She’s looking down, careful that each move she makes is on target. Janice is above her, walking backward, coaxing her on. “Yes, yes.” Larry and Amy have moved behind her and have their arms stretched out to catch her, as if such a catch were possible. Surely they would be killed if she fell. I don’t do a thing to help, really. I say a few “Hooray for Momma”s and a few “You can do it”s, but my mouth, for the most part, hangs open; my head shakes itself.

  This is supposed to be a natural thing, climbing the stairs. Not in the Grape family—here, the simple becomes the extraordinary.

  “Gilbert should be helping,” Momma huffs out.

  The others call for me to get involved. I put my arms up but study an escape route in case Momma tips over. I’m behind Larry and Amy, and my chance of survival seems best. Arnie disappears into the living room and drums on top of the TV.

  ***

  Momma is halfway when she says, “I can’t go on.”

  “You’re halfway,” Larry says.

  “Who said that?” Momma is in shock.

  “Larry did,” Janice says.

  “No,” Momma says. “Larry? Larry spoke?”

  “Yes,” Amy says.

  “Larry, my son, Lawrence Albert Grape spoke to his mother?”

  “What’s the big deal about that?” Larry asks.

  Momma makes a sound that would be a laugh were she not out of breath.

  “I have…” Momma can barely speak she is so out of breath. “I have renewed…” She breathes in deep, determined to speak. “I have renewed strength.”

  Larry, Amy, and I push Momma while Janice and Ellen pull from above. She completes the final steps. She makes it to the top and into her room which she hasn’t seen in months, if not years. Momma lies down on the bed and before we can get her cigarette lit, she falls asleep.

  We turn on the two window fans and leave her to rest. Amy gets the hand bell from her room. This is the bell she uses during the school year to signal the end of recess. She sets the bell on Momma’s night table. If Momma wants any of us for anything, she’ll ring it and Amy or me or whoever will come running.

  57

  Larry is in the kitchen listening to Amy, and he’s got his checkbook out. A good sign. Upstairs, I press my ear to Ellen’s door and make out vaguely that Janice is recounting her sexual adventures. The girls giggle in that girl way. I check on Momma and find her sleeping soundly, a soft snore, her beauty parlor curls crunched on a feather pillow.

  Back downstairs, I see that Amy’s looking sad. I say
, “Why so down, huh?”

  She says, “Look at my hair. One night of sleep and it looks awful—it will only look good when Charlie styles it. It will never…”

  She continues on. Larry is signing a check and smiling.

  I look out the back window and see Arnie sticking old sheets up through the trampoline springs. I go out back and call to him. “Arnie, what you doing? Building a fort?” He pokes his head through one of the sheets and shakes his head. I say, “What then, what you doing then?”

  “Jeez, Gilbert, jeez. You’re dumb.”

  I walk over toward him, saying, “Yes, I know. I’m very slow at these things. What are you making?”

  “A rocket ship.”

  “Oh. So uhm where you going to?”

  “Not telling.”

  “Okay.”

  “To find…”

  “To find what?”

  “Find Albert.”

  This stops me. I crawl under the sheets and watch Arnie as he builds his rocket ship. I say to Arnie that Dad really missed out, not being here today. “He would have been proud of you. He would’ve liked all your friends and all the people from town. He really missed something.”

  “Yeah,” Arnie says.

  “And he really missed getting to know Arnie Grape.”

  “Yeah, he really missed out, yeah.”

  ***

  Later Amy and I clean the downstairs, while Janice carefully takes down the streamers and the birthday signs. “We can use them again next year.”

  Already we’re talking about next year. I want to say, “Can’t we just take this year, take this day?” But that wouldn’t sound like me at all. It sounds like something Becky would say, so I just go, “Good idea, Janice,” and leave it at that.

  “What did you just say?”

  “I said ‘Good idea.’” Janice is holding a stack of party hats, looking confused. “Good idea about the saving the decorations, Janice. That’s all.”

  “Amy?”

  “Yes?”

  “Gilbert, our brother, you know, Gilbert?”

  “Yes, I know him.”

  “He just gave me a compliment. Can you believe it?”

  “Well, I’ll be.”

  “GILBERT GAVE ME A COMPLIMENT. I CAN DIE NOW! I CAN DIE!”

  “Shhhhh,” I say. “People are sleeping.”

  Janice starts for the porch. She stops off at her purse and takes out her pack of brown cigarettes and a lighter.

  “There’s some cake left,” Amy calls out.

  “No, thanks.”

  “Oh, come on, you guys. Help me eat this. Let’s get it all eaten before Momma wakes up.” Amy hands me two plates full and says, “The smaller piece is for Janice.” Amy cuts a piece for Arnie and Larry, and goes out to make cake deliveries.

  Janice takes a bite and then a drag from her cigarette, then another bite and so on. She has a smoking and eating system.

  Suddenly it’s feeling like those lazy hours after a Thanksgiving meal or late on Christmas afternoon. Amy comes down the stairs still carrying three plates of cake. I’ve only been poking at mine. She goes, “You should see upstairs. Arnie’s fallen asleep in Momma’s room, curled up at her feet. And Larry is out back resting on the trampoline, face down even. Ellen wants to nap but she’s got her Bible meeting.”

  “How nice,” Janice says.

  Amy sets down the extra plates of cake. “So eat up, you two, let’s finish it off.”

  “I’m full,” I say.

  “Gilbert, help us eat this.”

  “You’re skin and bones,” Janice says. “Yes, Amy, we’ll be glad to eat the cake.”

  ***

  It takes about twenty minutes of chewing for the three of us to eat what’s left.

  Amy leans back and says, “The day was a success. I’d say. Even your older brother had a nice time. Even Momma. All the people. And the Burger Barn was a good idea, don’t you think? Thanks for all your help, you two. It means so much….”

  Amy is about to get mushy, so I stand, put out my after-cake cigarette on the cement step, and am about to go inside when Larry comes around the side of the house.

  Janice says, “It’s getting close to dark, Lar’, you heading on?”

  Larry looks at her like “Whatever are you talking about?”

  Janice says, “The day is gonna end. You’ll be heading on, right?”

  “Yeah, soon. Yeah.”

  Amy goes, “Well, all in all… it’s been unbelievable… this day.”

  It’s true. Today’s headlines seem unbelievable. Larry Grape speaks. Arnie Grape makes eighteen. Bonnie Grape sleeps in her very own bed. Gilbert lets Janice and Ellen live.

  Still, though, things could be better. In an effort to improve the quality of my little life, I go into the deserted kitchen and put the cake plates in the trash. The other Grapes are outside or upstairs and I’m alone. So I lift the phone up off the receiver and dial seven digits, quickly planning what I want to say.

  “Gilbert,” Amy calls from the porch.

  I hang up before the phone is answered. I walk to the door and say, “What is it?” when I see a bike come coasting up.

  It’s Becky.

  Her hair is pulled back in a ponytail and she wears tan shorts and sandals. No makeup. Nothing but the truth.

  “Hi!” I say, pushing through the door, suddenly the happiest man. Janice’s mouth is stuck open. She’s never seen this kind of art. Ellen, who just came down from her room, falls back against the house. Larry’s staring, unable to move. Only Amy stands and walks down to her. She extends her hand. “You must be Becky.”

  “Yes.”

  “This is Amy,” I say. I bounce down the porch steps toward the beautiful girl. I was just calling you, I almost say.

  Arnie comes around the house. He runs to her, his arms extended and touches her face.

  I say, “Let’s go for a walk.”

  She says, “When Arnie’s finished.”

  As he continues his exploration, I look up at the porch. Janice is smoking her cigarette double time and Ellen is leaning back on the door, her painted fingers kneading her shirt sleeve.

  “These are my other sisters. Janice.”

  Janice exhales smoke, raises her eyebrows and nods.

  “And Ellen, whom I believe you’ve met.”

  “Yes, we’ve met.”

  Ellen says a faint, “Hi.”

  “And Larry.”

  Larry wavers slightly and brushes back his remaining hair, failing to cover his bald spot.

  Amy encourages Arnie to finish up and we go on our way. “See you two later,” Amy says with what I swear was a wink.

  There will be another hour of sun. I guide Becky’s bike and we walk down the middle of the trafficless street. We’re not alone—the jealous eyes of the other Grapes are with us.

  When we get out of range, I try to speak. But my breathing has stopped. “I uhm wanted to uhm…” I try to continue.

  “Yes?” she says.

  “What is it with you? You an angel or something? Is that it? Is that what you are?”

  “No.”

  “You are. I know it. All you’ve done for me—and all of the mind reading. You’re an angel!” I feel proud, finally coming up with some sort of logical explanation for this girl, if there ever could be such a thing.

  “No.”

  “Come on!”

  “No…”

  “But…”

  “No ‘buts,’ Gilbert. You just make sense to me. It’s nothing more special than that.”

  “I uhm owe you…”

  “No, you don’t.”

  “Oh yes I do. I owe you and I thank you.”

  “You’re talking like it’s the last day of school.”

  “Well, it’s what it feels like. The party is over and it was a success and Momma’s in her room and Arnie is clean and Larry is talking and it’s all better here, all better.”

  “Gilbert, fine. Whatever.”

  “It’s over, all the tra
uma, all the emotions. Tell me it’s over.”

  She’s silent.

  “It’s slowing down here, it is. A new beginning. I’m not looking for quick and cheap here, just some confirmation. Becky? You listening?”

  “Sure, we can kiss.”

  “So here’s the… what?”

  “We can kiss. It will be nice to kiss.”

  I laugh out of embarrassment, she says, “Go back to your family. Tomorrow we can kiss.”

  ***

  I walk her home, no kiss, not even a hug. But tomorrow. The words were enough, though, and I sprint home, repeating “tomorrow,” skipping part of the way, certain that I look about six.

  ***

  Back at home, Ellen is going off with Cindy Mansfield to her Bible meeting. The porch has cleared out. Only Larry remains, sitting with his eyes closed.

  I say, “Larry, what’s up?”

  He goes, “Listening to Iowa.”

  Oh. Okay. Whatever.

  Inside the house, the phone rings. I’m closest.

  “Gilbert Grape here.”

  “Sunrise tomorrow. Want to watch?”

  “Yes!” Don’t sound so excited, Gilbert, be cool. “Uhm. Okay, I guess.”

  “Meet me in the square. Bring your truck and a blanket.”

  “Bye, Becky.”

  Click.

  I’m left holding the receiver. Inordinate amounts of activity happen in my stomach and groin regions. Oh my. I hang up the phone, and Amy comes around the corner, smiling.

  “What’s that look for?”

  Amy says, “What look?”

  “You’re such a snoop.”

  “Gilbert’s got a girlfriend, Gilbert’s got a girlfriend.”

  “Jesus, Amy, you sound like you’re five.”

  She laughs and washes her hands in the sink. I’m thinking about spraying her with water or doing something mean when Janice comes into the kitchen carrying her cake plate. “Larry’s taking me to get us all some beer. Anybody need anything?”

  “Not me,” I say.

  “Momma’s almost out of cigarettes.”

  Janice says, “Okay. Anything else?”

  I shake my head. Amy says, “That’s it,” and off go Janice and Larry. I open the freezer part of the fridge and break out some ice. Amy is drying off her hands, when I slip three or four cubes down the back of her shirt. She shrieks and tries to put me in a headlock. I take some of Janice’s leftover frosting and smear it on her face.