What's eating Gilbert Grape?

by Hedges, Peter

  PETER HEDGES

  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 1 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 Gilbert'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.

  What's Eating Gilbert Grape

  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. 1 say that it better because the farmers are about to lose their crops. 1 tell her about my family and how my little brother's birthday is coming up and how were 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 1 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. 1 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, 1 thank the grandmother. She says that she's glad we've reached an understanding.

  "Yes, ma'am," 1 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?"

  PETER HEDGES

  "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.

  What's Eating Gilbert Grape

  'My grandmother likes you."

  Tm glad." 1 smile a bit; we walk on.

  'But she likes everybody."

  28

  Js 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 meiny entranced with Becky. So many people are staring that 1 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," 1 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. 1 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. 1 feel her getting farther and farther away so 1 open my eyes and follow.

  When 1 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?"

  PETER HEDGES

  "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, 1 stand and put on a serious face. 1 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. 1 tap louder, but she won't open the window to take my order. 1 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. Be
cky 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. 1 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. 1 press my face close to Cindy, not because 1 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

  What's Eating Gilbert Grape

  the number of coats of makeup that she has appUed. 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!" 1 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." 1 say.

  "So you coming to our Bible study? Huh?"

  Walking backward. 1 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 a 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 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

  PETER HEDGES

  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.

  Becky touches my shoulder. 1 jump. She says, "What is it?"

  "I'm just seeing if anybody's here. You know, to throw away my cup. Let's go." 1 leave my cup on the hood of Mr. Carver's car.

  The next several minutes, Becky is talking about her house back in Ann Arbor, her friends, her parents and how they're professors at the university. 1 don't hear much of it, though, because my thoughts are totally on what 1 just witnessed.

  "What was going on in there?" she asks. "Tell me the truth."

  So 1 do. I describe what 1 saw. She asks if I'm all right. I just say I'm fine and that I'd really like to keep on walking.

  Becky says, "Okay,"' like it's no problem. For her, true feelings never seem to be a problem.

  As we walk on, the haunting image of Mr. Carver, Melanie, and her wig clogs my thoughts.

  "Is something the matter, Gilbert?"

  "Oh, nothing."

  "What is it?"

  "It's just that Mr. Carver has a wife. I feel bad for her, that's all."

  "That's sweet of you to care so much for another person's feelings."

  Funny—I don't feel sweet.

  We walk up and down practically every street in Endora. At the self-serve V-shaped car wash, I put in three quarters and Becky

  What's Eating Gilbert Grape

  stands there while I spray her with water. Her T-shirt gets wet and sticks to her chest. I dig my fingers into the backs of my legs to keep from ripping off her shirt. She sprays me with water, too, and we end up cleaner than any car.

  After the washing, we sit on the wet pavement to dry out in the sun. She asks about my previous girlfriends and I say that there has been only one and that it's long in the past and that I don't want to talk about it.

  "Sounds like you regret it."

  "Yep."

  Becky says. "I never want to regret. 'Regret' is the ugliest word."

  To me, the ugliest words are "family," "Endora," "Jesus Christ." So I say, "I don't have a problem with 'regret.' "

  Becky stretches out, her eyes closed. I sit Indian style, looking down at her smooth skin, her angel face. She breathes in and out slowly. Her eyes are closed while mine remain open and stay fixed on her.

  The cement under us is no longer wet. We've been baking in the sun for over an hour and Becky hasn't said a word.

  She stands up suddenly, stretches her arms above her head. She feels that her shirt is almost dry. I cup my hands in front of me in an effort to hide my erection.

  "I want to walk."

  "Okay," I say, sitting there a moment, hoping my bulge will go away.

  "Your nose is turning pink, Gilbert Grape."

  "Oh well. "

  Tucker drives past in his truck. He sees us first. I wave—he doesn't even honk.

  We're walking in silence when suddenly Becky sprints ahead. I notice how smooth she runs, how it's as if she's floating. She skips a bit, picks a dandelion and puts it behind her ear. I keep her in sight—walking at a steady pace—refusing to speed up, unable to slow down.

  PETER HEDGES

  29

  L hat's my old school!" I call out.

  Becky is walking toward the old building with its red brick and green tin roof. 1 have to run to catch up. "Pretty ugly building, huh?"

  "I like it."

  "You didn't have to go there for thirteen years."

  Becky moves toward a window and looks through the dusty glass. Many of the windows are broken, and for the most part, the school has been boarded up since it closed seven years ago, the summer I graduated.

  "They're burning it down tomorrow," 1 say.

  "1 heard."

  "Practice for the Volunteer Fire Department. Can you imagine?"

  "It's the most interesting building in this whole town. So it gets burned down. Some justice." This is the first time Becky has sounded anything like angry.

  "Well, we live in a time of Burger Barns."

  "Very true, Gilbert. How old is this building?"

  "Nineteen hundred something."

  She moves to another window.

  "My sister says they're anticipating quite a crowd."

  "Crowd?"

  "Yes, hundreds of people are expected. The Methodist Church is selling popcorn. Mayor Gaps is going to start the fire."

  "How morbid."

  "Welcome to Endora."

  I go on to explain that I'd rather pick up my sister in Des Moines tomorrow th
an be around Endora to smell the burning and listen to the cheering masses. "They're making a celebration out of it."

  What's Eating Gilbert Grape

  Becky looks in a second window, a third.

  "That was the fifth-grade room," I say.

  She lifts up a window and tries to climb in.

  "What are you doing?"

  "Good-byes are important. You've got to learn to say good-bye."

  "To a building?"

  It's the middle of the day and Becky has disappeared into my old school, the day before its death. 1 have no choice but to follow. "I haven't been in here in years," I say, pulling myself through the now open window. 1 scratch my stomach on the bricks. Inside, I lift my T-shirt and show her my scrape in hopes that she'll kiss it to make it feel better.

  "Ouch," she says.

  "Yes," I say, trying to look as if I were in pain.

  She turns away from me, no kiss. She crosses to the wall and says, "So this was fifth grade?"

  "Yep."

  She runs her nails lightly down the dusty blackboard. My hands are on my ears and I shout, "Don't!" I see her laugh. "Not funny," I say.

  She walks out into the hall, which is dark and hot. She opens the doors to other rooms—she looks in where the old library was, where Melanie and her red hair would stamp everyone's books.

  "So this was it?"

  "Yep, you're seeing where my entire education took place."

  She looks at me. "Are you saying that you've stopped learning?"

  "Something like that." I laugh. Becky doesn't.

  I show her where my locker was for grades seven through twelve. "Lance Dodge was six lockers down," I say. Becky doesn't seem too impressed. "Lance often would call out to me. He'd say 'Hey, Grape. How'd you do on the quiz? How'd you do on the Iowa Basic skills test? How'd you ...?'" I look to Becky, but she's writing on an empty, dusty trophy case.

  "What are you writing?"

  PETER HEDGES

  She steps away from the trophy case and I walk to it. Written in the dust are these words:

  HELPING GILBERT SAY GOOD-BYE

  We walk toward where the gymnasium/stage/cafeteria used to be. This part of the building is higher than the other part and the light pours through windows that have been broken. Several golf balls lie on the tile floor—they were the glass breakers, 1 decide. The basketball hoops have been removed, the championship banners and fold-up tables, too.