What's eating Gilbert Grape?

by Hedges, Peter

  She covers her hands by sitting on them. She must have felt the judgment of my eyes.

  I say, "Your wedding ring."

  "What about it? " she says, pouring the lemonade.

  "It looks expensive."

  PETER HEDGES

  "It was."

  "You and Mr. Carver were happy once, right? I mean, there were good times."

  Mrs. Betty Carver doesn't answer. She wears a white summer dress. Her hands begin to creep out from under her. They fidget with a napkin.

  I'm on my second piece of chicken now. A wing.

  "You love chicken, don't you?"

  "Yes."

  "Chicken is your favorite."

  "Yep."

  "I love making a person's favorite food." She takes two rubber bands out of her picnic basket and puts her hair in pigtails. "And I made some cookies. Chocolate chip cookies."

  I smile because I'm supposed to, adding the obligatory "Great," all the while wondering if she burned them.

  I keep eating and she lies back and looks at the clouds and I keep saying "Hmmmm. This is good. Oh my God. This is great chicken. What cole slaw. Amazing potato salad." I feel like a food whore. But while she might not be getting everything she wants, at least she's getting something. My love of her chicken is more love than her pathetic husband ever gives her.

  "That looks like a boat."

  "What does?"

  "Those clouds. See, there's the mast and the sail,"

  "I don't see it," I say.

  Mrs. Betty Carver has put her hands in the two big pockets that hang on her white dress. "You're—how old are you now?"

  "I'm twenty-four."

  "That makes me . . .oh, can you believe it?"

  In the clouds, Mrs. Betty Carver sees a dinosaur, Santa's beard, a candlestick, and me. "That's you, Gilbert. You're the big cloud."

  "That doesn't look like me."

  "But it's your spirit."

  "Hey—^you going to eat any of this chicken?"

  "It's for you. Everything there is for you."

  I put the remaining four pieces on my plate.

  What's Eating Gilbert Grape

  "See that little cloud," she says. "The one moving the fastest?"

  "Where?"

  "The little tiny one—it's darker than the others."

  "Yes—okay. I see it. Hey, will you give my sister your recipe for this chicken?"

  "That little cloud is me. Did you notice how it was chasing the big cloud?"

  "Not really."

  "I didn't think you noticed. The little cloud was racing after the big cloud when it suddenly stopped."

  "The wind died down."

  "Exactly."

  "So? I mean, they're just clouds, right?"

  "Forget it."

  Wait a minute. I'm thinking, was this another one of those conversations where what is meant and what is being said are not the same thing?

  "You don't get it, do you?" Mrs. Betty Carver stands suddenly and walks to the footbridge that crosses Skunk River. When she reaches the middle of it. she drops into the water. Her arms flail— she coughs and chokes.

  "I know you can swim!" 1 shout. "I'm not going to save you. I'm not going to!"

  Mrs. Betty Carver goes under the water. I look for air bubbles. I stroll to the edge of the bridge but when there's no sign of her, I shout, "I don't believe this!" I pull off my shirt and kick off my shoes. I prepare to dive in when she rises out of the water. She stands where it must be only three feet deep. She is muddy and dripping and I see her bra through her wet dress.

  "Not funny," I say. "Not funny at all."

  "I'm not so old. you know. I'm not so stodgy. Jump in. Swim with me."

  I shake my head.

  "You're the one who isn't flexible anymore. You're the one who's ..."

  I've picked up my shirt. I put on my tennis shoes without tying them.

  PETER HEDGES

  "You were going to save me, weren't you?" Mrs. Betty Carver bobs up and down in the water and watches as I back away.

  "Thank you for the meal," I say.

  "If you walk away, we're done. We're finished."

  The last piece of chicken—a wing—has a nice piece of meat left on it. I'm about to reach for it when 1 think again. See this as leaving practice, Gilbert.

  So I walk away without looking back, leaving Mrs. Betty Carver in the water, leaving the chicken wing with its last bite of meat.

  26

  L'm in the basement, sorting laundry, when 1 see for the first time the intricacy of Tucker's floor-support design. Clean white boards everywhere—smartly installed and securely fastened. The network of beams seems capable of keeping Momma afloat, even though we all know it's merely a temporary solution.

  The phone rings.

  Tucker has been in hiding since he finished. I know he's mad at me because he's gone twenty-four hours without calling.

  The phone rings again.

  I'll give him a call later to congratulate him. He has outdone himself.

  The phone rings again and again.

  "Gilbert isn't going to get it!" I shout. No one answers it. The ting-a-ling or the bing-bing has me throwing dirty clothes everywhere. I stomp up the stairs, screaming, "I love this family!" I yank at the kitchen phone. "Gilbert here!"

  "May I speak with Amy?"

  "Amy?" I call out. Momma's snoring drowns out my voice. "Amy!" Looking out into the backyard, I see that she's preparing the grill for hamburgers. Lifting a window, 1 shout, "Phone's for you!

  ii"

  What's Eating Gilbert Grape

  "Who is it?"

  "I don't know. You ask them!"

  "Find out, please. My hands are all dirty from the grill."

  "Who's calling?"

  "Don't insult me like that," the voice says.

  I stop. Was I just insulting?

  "You know who this is."

  "No, I don't think 1 do."

  "Great, fine. Thanks. Gilbert Grape."

  "Oh. You sound different on the phone."

  "It's that new girl, isn't it? The one from Michigan that everyone's talking about. She's the reason, isn't she?"

  "I'm sorry," I say.

  "No, you're not."

  I listen to the phone static, not knowing what to say.

  "I'm calling for Amy."

  "Oh." I put my face to the window screen and yell, "Amy, it's Mrs. Carver!"

  In the house, Amy raises her right shoulder, sandwiching the phone to her ear.

  "Hello, Betty. Yes? Uh-huh. Well, how thoughtful of you. Let me get a pencil." As the conversation continues, I realize Mrs. Carver has called to give Amy her chicken recipe. When Amy hangs up, she says to herself, "Now wasn't that the nicest thing." If my sister only knew.

  I go back to the basement.

  As 1 pour bleach into a load of whites, I wish I could get clean from my days with Mrs. Carver. 1 wish I could wash it all away so that my first kiss would be Becky.

  A colored load is in the dryer and I check to make sure the heat is on high. Then 1 climb through the network of boards and beams that support Momma. On one of the boards, written by Tucker in blue ink is this: "Because 1 love Bonnie Grape."

  I climb the basement stairs, which creak and cry. Momma has stopped snoring. The evening news is on. 1 will get out of the house before any special report by Lance Dodge, I decide. I ap-

  PETER HEDGES

  proach Amy at the grill £ind say, "I'm not in the burger mood tonight."

  "Why?"

  "I'm just not."

  "Ellen's working, so it's just Arnie and Momma and me."

  "I know."

  "Gilbert, stay and eat. I hate it when you're not home for dinner."

  "I gotta sort some things out. It's been one of those days."

  "Every day lately has been one of those days."

  "Yep."

  I move to kiss her forehead, when she says, "They're burning down the school."

  "What?"

  "Burning down t
he school. Saturday. Two days from now."

  "Noooo," I say.

  "Don't seem so shocked, Gilbert. We always knew one day they would." Amy is all excited. "A schedule of activities surrounding the burning can be found in this week's edition of the Endora Express. "

  "Activities?"

  Amy describes the events as scheduled. 1 am speechless and stand there in a daze.

  "So are you gonna take Arnie to watch or am I? I need to know so I can plan the meals and coordinate getting Janice from the airport. She's landing in Des Moines Saturday morning. Let me know which you'd rather do."

  I shrug.

  "The fire will be something else."

  I say nothing and walk immediately to my truck.

  Arnie is sitting in the driver's seat. I signal "get out." He won't, so I pull him by his feet and leave him ripping the brown grass out of our lawn in dry clumps. "Stop digging!" I shout. He doesn't.

  I drive away.

  Tucker's mother, Ruth Ann, who has gold hair and a lazy eye, tells me where to find Tucker. She asks, "How's everything at home?"

  I say, "My mother's fine, thank you."

  What's Eating Gilbert Grape

  "Is there anjrthing we can do?" "We're fine," I say.

  Her eyes light up suddenly and she says, "You going to watch them burn down . . . ?" I cut her off with a "See ya" and climb in my truck.

  I find Tucker parked across from "The Future Site of the Burger Barn." I pull up next to him. Dressed in a T-shirt that has a big beer-can design on it, he is listening to some heavy-metal music. He looks over at me and, with no expression of surprise or happiness, he turns back and watches with envy as the construction workers pack up their tools and load up for the day.

  I move from my truck to his. He doesn't turn down the music. He squeezes the steering wheel, his eyes are mad and he won't look my way. 1 reach to turn down the sound, but his hand stops mine.

  "Thank you!" 1 shout.

  He doesn't hear me. He waves to a worker who doesn't wave back.

  "THANK YOU!"

  He heard me this time but pretends he doesn't. I lunge for the dial on his tape deck, the volume goes down and I speak like an auctioneer. "Thankyouforfixingthefloor. Youdidagreatjobthank-you. Itmeanssomuchtomyfamilyandtome. Sothanks!"

  Tucker fights a smile.

  "I know. I took you for granted. And I'm sorry, buddy."

  He flinches on the word "buddy." I was premature in the use of that word.

  "You think it's that easy? You just say the words and I forget the hours of unappreciation? You think I just erase my uhm pain so simply, with such uhm simplicity?"

  I suggest that might be best.

  Tucker goes, "Humpf."

  We sit in silence for minutes that feel like funerals.

  Across the street, the remaining workers drive out for the day. Tucker honks. I cover my ears, and the workers don't notice us. "They're good guys," he says.

  "Yeah?"

  PETER HEDGES

  "Real serious. Real pros."

  "Oh."

  Tucker opens his door as he is going in for a closer look. I follow.

  "They poured the foundation Monday. I missed it because I was doing your floor."

  "Thanks again for doing that, by the way," I say.

  He squints his eyes like he can't believe the nerve of me. He continues, "They're ready for the frame and they'll have the roof up by Saturday. Now this whole thing is a first-class operation."

  "Yeah, 1 see that."

  "This Burger Barn will be a perfect replica of the original in Boone. You know there are over fifteen Burger Barns in the lowa-Nebraska-Missouri area. It's a growing and prosperous company. And the whole idea that each Burger Barn is identiccd to the others makes me . . . makes me ..."

  "Well, it's impressive. It's reassuring."

  "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."

  1 look at him. I'm getting all emotional about this for no explainable reason. 1 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 1 consider this man my best friend.

  What's Eating Gilbert Grape

  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," 1 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. 1 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. 1 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."

  PETER HEDGES

  "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!"

  1 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

  X'ue been up since Jive-thirty, shaved twice, even though my face is still mainly fuzz. 1 combed my hair several times, trying my standard part on the side, a more daring part in the middle, and

  What's Eating Gilbert Grape

  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, 1 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.