What's eating Gilbert Grape?

by Hedges, Peter

  Ellen, having recently completed her lip-gloss touch-up and eyeshadow check, says, "Would someone be so kind as to inform me of what is going on here, what has happened to our Arnie?" Sometimes I wonder who taught Ellen how to talk. Where she gets off sounding like some big-city girl is beyond me. She is from Endora, I want to remind her. She's not royalty, for Christ's sake. She's a Grape.

  I condense the sequence of events and recount them for the little princess. Amy adds comments and Momma just sighs and moans during the bad parts.

  Motley, Iowa, is the county seat. It is a town of over five thousand and is loaded with fast-food establishments, a discotheque/

  What's Eating Gilbert Grape

  bowling alley, and two movie theaters. The police office/county jail is smack downtown and the only parking spot I can find is across the street. I'm hoping Momma will wait in the car, but when she throws open her door, all hope dies. As she struggles to her feet, the passing shoppers and the kids on bikes all stop and stare. A dog barks. Momma stands her ground though, her black coat and my winter boots there to support. The girls and I walk toward the station. Traffic slows. Motley is silenced. It takes five minutes for Momma to make it across the street.

  County Sheriff Jerry Farrell had, or so the story goes, proposed to Momma the same summer my father did. And after Daddy killed himself. Officer Farrell would patrol by our house and wave to us kids. At one of Larry's Little League games, you might look over and see him in uniform, sitting on the hood of his police car by left field, cheering my brother on. The one time Larry got a hit. Officer Farrell flashed the police lights. You can bet that Arnie squealed. Officer Farrell was so in love with my mother.

  They haven't seen each other in years.

  When I open the police-station door for Momma, a bell rings or dings and she squeezes through. I watch as Sheriff Farrell looks up from his desk and the expression on his face turns to one of sudden death. His eyes are stuck open; it's like they've filled with milk.

  Momma says, "I've come for my son."

  The radio dispatcher stops in mid-sentence, two secretaries look up, mouths drop open, and a young officer stares at Sheriff Farrell with a look that says "What do I do?"

  While looking at his black shoes, the sheriff says, "You'll need to fill these papers out."

  "No. I don't fill out papers."

  "Police procedure requires ..."

  "No, Jerry. Give me my boy."

  "But, Bonnie ..."

  "My boy. I want my boy."

  Sheriff Farrell looks at the young officer who disappears down the hall fast. In a matter of seconds Arnie rounds the corner. The young officer says he's free to go.

  PETER HEDGES

  As we're leaving and the bell is tingling or dingling, I look back and see Sheriff Farrell slumped in his chair, not able, I guess, to digest the sight of Momma. I shut the glass door hard, making the bell chime out in hopes that it might snap the sheriff out of it. He doesn't even twitch.

  We're driving back home. Arnie sits in the middle, sandwiched between Momma and me. Amy and Ellen are in back. I have the gas to the floor but the car can't break 40 mph. There is no radio. Momma is holding on to Arnie so tight that his face is turning blue. Imagine a harmonica and that is the noise Momma's making. I've always thought she sounded like a harmonica when she cries.

  In my rearview I see Amy fighting a smile. She looks around at all of us, happy, for once, that we appear to be a family. "We're hardly a family," I want to say. Cars and trucks are having trouble passing so I turn on the hazard lights and drive close to the shoulder.

  The Endora water tower is in the distance.

  Momma's holding on to Arnie so hard you can see her finger imprints forming on his left arm. She's dropping so many tears into his hair that a person might think Arnie had gone swimming.

  We drop Ellen off at the Dairy Dream and then drive home. Amy fries up some pork chops for dinner. I set the table as Arnie clings to Momma's feet.

  24

  JViiy mother has become Endora's own Loch Ness Monster. It seems those who saw my mother told those who didn't and each day since everybody hopes for a glimpse. The sudden run on camera film at ENDora OF THE LINE is due solely to a desire of many to be the first to document the new and improved Bonnie Grape.

  What's Eating Gilbert Grape

  Within hours after she freed Arnie from the countyjail, the Town Council went behind closed doors to try and decide what to do. Yesterday morning a basket of diet books, wrapped like baby Moses, appeared on our doorstep, signed, "The City of Endora — With Love." I told Amy to show Momma the books, but she said she didn't dare. Instead, she hid them in her room, behind her Elvis records. Elvis certainly could have benefited by anything dietary—a shame about Elvis.

  The Elks Lodge, made up of aging men with hairy noses and fleshy ears, passed a hat at their weekly meeting. A whopping seventy-two dollars and something cents was contributed. This is an astronomical figure, considering most of the Elks are farmers, and for them, with the absence of rain, these look to be tough economic times. Many of the men—Harley Barrows, Milo Stevens, Johnny Titman, Jerry Gaps—had a love thing for my mother when they were younger. They often ask about her. Each will tell, if asked, his particular version of how my mother broke his heart. Milo Stevens said, "Your mother, Gilbert, broke us open the way a hailstorm will shatter glass." Filby Baxter told me, "Bonnie Watts was the eighth wonder of the world." He whispered that in the store to me once while his wife was buying paper plates. The seventy-two dollars and something cents appeared mysteriously in a white envelope with bonnie spelled out in block printing. Inside along with the cash was the name and number of a dietitian in Motley. Amy returned the cash to them with a note which read, "Thanks but no thanks."

  I do not mind the Elks Lodge doing as they have done. It's purely a natural desire on their part to recapture their lost whatever it is they've lost that propels them to help in the reduction of my mother. Maybe if she gets thin, they'll get young.

  And 1 have no anger at the countless women who, since the sighting of my mother, have gathered in clusters at Barbs Beauty Shop and Endora's Gorgeous, the town's two riVcd beauty parlors, and gloated and sung about how Bonnie Grape is no longer the beauty she once was.

  Amy and her watery eyes spoke to me yesterday afternoon as I was washing my truck. "The women in this town are laughing at

  PETER HEDGES

  our mother." Amy said it in such a way that she expected me to be upset. I said, "It doesn't bother me." She threw her hands in the air and stormed back inside.

  My mother spent several years deciding who she would marry. All of the men in town hoped for her hand and she kept her preference a secret for so long that when she finally chose Albert Lawrence Grape, the other men scrambled for their second, third, and sometimes fifth or sixth choices. Nobody likes to feel like a consolation prize.

  Momma has, by tripling in size, given the other ladies in town the sense that justice has been served.

  1 spent one fun hour yesterday outlining the best idea I've ever had. I decided to commission Tucker to paint a giant sign that said "BONNIE THE BIGGEST!" I'd rent billboard space for several miles on Highway 13 & 1-35 heradding the most amazing family in these parts. I'd post signs like "DISCOVERTHE GRAPES, ""WATCH ARNIE DANCE, " "ELLEN GRAPE, TASTY AND GOOD. " Amy would run a concession stand serving popcorn and lemonade; Ellen would convert her pink-and-blue bedroom into a kissing booth; Arnie would sit in a chair and look at people and they could guess which eye was glass; Janice would lead a carefully scripted tour of the house while revealing pertinent historical tidbits. She'd wear a uniform and smile her stewardess smile, gesturing in that stewardess way. In the basement, 1 could hang the stuffed version of my father. Larry would stand there, frozen like, staring up at my dad, exactly the way he did the day it happened. The tour would culminate with a viewing of my mother. The people would all write down their prediction of her weight. I'd wake her up and she'd struggle to stand, the
customers would applaud, she'd step onto a scale, her weight would appear on a digital readout. Whoever was the closest would win a prize of some kind.

  In that brief hour, I saw a family business that would rivad any other. I pictured this struggling town experiencing a financial rebirth; people from all over driving to see us. Here was an idea that would allow us to work together, celebrate our past, and share it with the world. I explained it all to Arnie and he loved the idea.

  What's Eating Gilbert Grape

  At dinner last night, when Arnie was gargling his Kool-Aid and Momma was screaming, "I WOULD RATHER EAT CIGARETTES THAN THIS STEW," 1 burst out laughing. Amy looked cross at me; Ellen almost stuck a fork into my hand. How could I tell them what I had spent the afternoon picturing?

  Okay, anyway, I've survived and there's a certain dignity in surviving. Currently I keep on going by indulging in frequent fantasies of the girl from Michigan. Her black hair, her skin, her smell all haunt me. But it's her eyes that look through me, that seem to know my every secret. The last time 1 saw her was at the water tower as they were taking Arnie off to jail. She's waiting for me to make the next move, but I can't top her watermelon-in-the-sandbox routine. So I'll wait. I'm older than she is and this means that I'm to act more mature, be more patient. I'll starve her out.

  It's almost lunchtime—Thursday, June 29—seventeen days till Arnie's party. I'm at work. Mr. Lamson is in a particularly sporty mood today. He's been moving and spinning up Aisle Two with the mop. I finally ask, "Why so happy?"

  He says, "Sometimes it occurs to a person all the blessings of this life." His optimism is so overflowing that on this particular morning I begin to enjoy rearranging the dry dog-food section.

  Minutes go by. The dog food has never looked more appealing. I smell like Purina Puppy Chow now. Mr. Lamson is whistling a tune I don't recognize, when Mrs. Rex Mefford steps out from behind the bread rack and says, "Gilbert, come here."

  "I'm uhm uh busy. ..."

  Mrs. Rex Mefford smiles that I-know-you're-afraid-of-me-Gilbert-Grape smile and I've this sudden urge to tape her mouth shut. Mrs. Rex Mefford is a staunch member of the Baptist church and every year she makes the butter cow Endora sends to the state fair.

  "I need you for just a second."

  "Mr. Lamson would be glad to help. ..."

  "It concerns the eggs. Gilbert, you're to help us customers."

  So I follow Mrs. Mefford and her perfume that smells like a certain laundry detergent. She wears a puke-green polyester dress

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  with black shoes and a plastic hat on her head in case it rains. It hasn't rained in weeks, though, and 1 can't decide if she wears it to keep others hopeful or if she wears it just in case.

  1 study her. She must be almost sixty. Her hair is dyed brown and it's been curled into these little curls. It has that helmet look hair often has in this town. The kind of hair that can withstand any weather, the kind that stays facing front when a person looks from side to side.

  I follow her past the milk, past the cheese, to the egg section. She lifts up a carton and pops up the Styrofoam lid. "These eggs are broken. Cracked."

  "Yes, ma'am. That happens sometimes."

  "Does it?"

  "Yes, it's the unfortunate part of being an egg."

  I dig lower, hoping to find a carton with only unbroken eggs.

  "You know, Gilbert, eggs are like people."

  Oh boy, oh no. 1 start to move away. She grabs my arm. This woman is strong.

  A couple of kids have entered the store and are buying candy from Mr. Lamson. I want to scream. Rape!

  "We're all little broken eggs till we turn to Christ."

  1 say, "You will let go of my arm. You will let go of my arm."

  She does. 1 back away—smacking into the canned fruits and vegetables. She smiles. "Gilbert, turn to God. Turn away from false idols, prophets. God loves you. He always has."

  "Well, tell him thanks anyway."

  At this point, Mrs. Rex Mefford goes off, speaking as if what she says is memorized, planned, as I dig frantically for some better eggs. Her words are not her own. I listen, trying to appear open, and when 1 think she's finished, I say, "Here are some fine eggs. Some fine Christian eggs. Perfect. White. Round. Shells intact."

  She stops smiling.

  "Take, eat," 1 say. "Eat your eggs."

  Mrs. Rex Mefford, her face all aworry, her eyes darting about, takes in a simple breath as her lips form a frozen line. "God forgives you your sins."

  I say right back, "And I forgive him his."

  What's Eating Gilbert Grape

  She backs up slowly, almost forgetting to pay for the eggs.

  As soon as she is gone, a sudden fear washes over me. I sense that a holy war, of sorts, has been declared; a war that many in my family might not be able to win. Mrs. Rex Mefford could be just the beginning.

  I hang up my apron and run my fingers through my stringy hair. "Mr. Lamson, I'll be back after lunch."

  I climb in my truck and drive home fast. It occurs to me that Endora's countless churchgoing, Jesus-loving Christians might be plotting to bring the Grape family back to God.

  Understand that my father was the soloist in the choir of the Endora Lutheran church for many years. And while he was the worst singer ever, he was the only one with sufficient courage to go it alone. When he tied the knot in his neck it came as quite a shock. Dad hung himself on a Tuesday and was buried on that Thursday, and by Sunday, pregnant Momma, Amy, Larry, Janice, me, and a baby Arnie were back in church, sitting in the front row. Fortunately or unfortunately, the Bible reading that particular week included a small reference to how suicide is a sure ticket to hell. Those in the pews who minutes earlier had taken tremendous heart when we showed up for church were dumbfounded when Momma stood up and led us all down the center aisle. Pastor Osw£ild stopped reading, some church ladies whispered while Mr. Kinzer, the biggest and most sincere usher, tried to block Momma's exit with an I-love-Jesus smile and one of those wicker baskets used to collect offerings. Momma stopped and with her swollen, Ellen-filled stomach sticking out, spoke to Mr. Kinzer in a voice loud enough that even the organist, Mrs. Staples, could hear. Momma said, "God's made it clear about my Albert. I trust that I'm being as clear toward God." She pushed open the door— all eight months pregnant of her—and Amy followed holding a crying Arnie. Then Larry, Janice—then me.

  So we stopped going to church. Sunday mornings became our only genuinely happy time. While other kids were kneeling and praying and singing praises and not knowing what any of it meant, we would still be in our pajamas, throwing food at each other, and laughing at the preachers on TV.

  PETER HEDGES

  25

  W hen I stopped by the house to see if Jesus or his friends had paid a visit, I found Arnie in quite a state. While running around barefoot, he had stepped on a dead bee. His foot swelled up and he was screaming. As I was holding him down to stop the squirming. Amy was putting on this mixture of baking soda and warm water—this paste—which is designed to help the sting go away. Arnie just kept saying, "But I didn't do anything. 1 didn't do anything." 1 spent upward of twenty minutes trying to convince him that it wasn't anything he did wrong that caused him to get stung. I tried to point out that sometimes people get bit or hit for no reason whatsoever. This concept didn't get through to my little brother. The only comfort he seemed to find was that the bee was already dead. Arnie said, "If I'd killed him, oh boy, oh boy ..." It's true. If Arnie had caused the death of a bee, the whole chopping off grasshopper heads issue would have come surging up and he'd have fallen apart.

  So I park off the highway and hike the hundred or so yards to where Mrs. Betty Carver should be waiting. I see her under a giant oak tree that bends toward Skunk River which, as 1 told you, is barely even a creek. The first words out of me are, "It's because of Arnie and a dead bee that I'm late."

  She looks up and listens in a friendly way. When 1 take a moment to breathe, she says, "Happy
Anniversary."

  "I stopped by my house for a second and, of course, there was this crisis. ..."

  "It's all right, Gilbert. Happy Anniversary."

  "Yeah, but ..."

  "1 expected you to be late."

  This throws me. "You did? Why's that?"

  What's Eating Gilbert Grape

  "You didn't want to come."

  I'm tired of people knowing my innermost thoughts. I feign shock at her accusation.

  "It's okay. I don't know if I'd want to come see me either."

  I can't take much talk like this so I lean over and kiss her on the cheek. I couldn't make it to the lips.

  Mrs. Betty Carver has prepared a picnic lunch complete with the red-and-white checkered spread or blanket or whatever it's called, a large container of fried chicken, and containers with cookies, candies, and lemonade. There's even a bottle of wine, cole slaw and, of course, potato salad.

  "Wow." I stare at the food. "You've got everything."

  Mrs. Betty Carver tucks a napkin in my shirt and lifts the lid allowing me a quick peek and then she closes the Tupperware container fast. The chicken has a crunchy yet moist texture. I want that chicken in my mouth right now.

  "I heard about your mother going to Motley."

  "Yeah, you and the world."

  "1 admire her. She loves you kids."

  I hold my stomach and make a sound like I'm starving. Mrs. Betty Carver stops, and deep in her eyes I see her disappointment. I see her wishing I would grow up. She sets the biggest chicken leg on my red, white, and blue paper plate. I hold my first bite in my mouth as some juice or grease runs down my chin. She moves to kiss it or lick it off me but my napkin beats her to it. Mrs. Betty Carver turns away as if it were no big deal. She wants to kiss.

  I say, "This is perhaps the best chicken ever."

  She is filling my plate with cole slaw and potato salad. Her hands, 1 see, are much older than her face. The fingers are wrinkly, the skin around her fingernails is dry and peeling. Her nails are short—and not because they've been kept that way by clippers. It's as if they've been eaten.