"Funny," I say.
Lance stops, takes a fry, dips it in ketchup, holds it like a cigarette for a moment, and then eats it. "But that's what makes horse races. And America great. Where else could two guys from the same town become such different people? What a world."
"Yes."
Lance stops talking at this point. He eats french fry after french fry and he tries my burger, too. I push my plate closer to him. I guess this is what famous is. Eating other people's food.
I feel strange sitting with him, like I'm being watched. I hear the sounds of people and I turn to see that a small group of townies has gathered outside the cafe. They are talking among themselves, but with their periodic glances our way, it's clear that they're monitoring Lance and his every bite.
I go to shut the curtain.
"What are you doing, Gilbert?"
"Isn't the sun in your eyes?" I ask.
"No!" he says, his mouth full of my food.
"I thought I'd close ..."
"Christ, no. God. no!"
"Okay." So I sit and he eats more. Beverly brings him an extra order of fries, covering her neck with one hand and setting the plate down with the other. "On the house," she says.
Lance has the ketchup in his hand, ready to eat. when I say, "My mother thinks you're terrific."
Lance looks up. stares at the awe-struck adults outside, and says. "I'm very popular with mothers."
"I know."
"What about the young people?" he asks. "What do they think?"
"Well, my sisters and my brother think you're tops."
"Really."
"My little brother—^you know—the retard. He worships ..."
What's Eating Gilbert Grape
Lance goes, "You mean the next president of the United States?"
I stare at him, feigning puzzlement, as if I've no idea what he's tcdking about.
Lance is looking everywhere but at me. "But most importantly, what does Gilbert Grape think of me? Huh?"
I stare at him and try to lie. After a considered silence, I say, "I think ..."
"Yes?"
"I think you're ..."
Lance looks up at the window and his eyes suddenly bulge a bit. The door swings open and I see that he's enamored. "Oh Christ," he whispers. "Oh my God."
I'm about to say "What?" when I smell that smell. It's her. I hear her w£dk our way. She snaps her fingers, practically shouting, "You're uhm . . . uh . . . you're uhm ..."
Lance smiles, unfazed that she can't remember his name.
"You are that guy that uhm ... oh boy ... oh boy oh boy oh boy . . ."
Lance is gesturing for me to get up so that she can sit in my seat. I stand and back away. She is really snapping her fingers now, struggling to get his name, slapping the palm of her hand on her forehead, blushing and excited. This is not the Becky I know.
"Yes, it's me," Lance finally says.
She breathes in deeply. "I thought so."
Lance points to my old chair, giving her permission to sit.
"Would you excuse me one moment?" she asks.
Lance goes, "Why of course."
"Stay right here," Becky says, backing up to the door.
Lance smiles. "I'll be waiting." He looks my way, gives a look like this happens all the time. He sits back down slowly, adjusts his underwear, puts his elbows on the table, and chuckles.
Opening the cafe door, Becky whistles loud. "Hey, kids! He's over here!"
Lance freezes. His thoughts are "Did she just do what I think she did?" He looks to me. I shrug. Hearing the approaching mob, he is up like a shot. He ducks out the back through the kitchen
PETER HEDGES
as the mass of kids hits the door running. Ed Ramp blocks their way with a broom. The kids—who now must number close to fifty—turn and tear out, splitting into two groups instinctively— half going to the left, the other half to the right. Lance is on his own now.
Trailing behind the group is Arnie, running to keep up. He can't decide which group to go with, and I'm out of the cafe and grabbing him before he sees me. "Arnie," I go.
He looks at me, surprised that someone knows him. He studies me for a moment. It's as if he doesn't remember who 1 am. Then he smiles. Then he looks scared and shouts, "No water, Gilbert. No water!"
"Shhhhh," I say. A loud squeal is heard. Lance has been sighted and the kids are in hot pursuit. Hearing their yells, Arnie starts to go, but I get behind him and give him a bear hug. He struggles and he is strong. "No, Arnie. Amy wants you home."
Suddenly he stops his struggling. I'm thinking. This was easy, when I see Becky standing fifteen yards away, straddling her bike, looking our way.
1 had forgotten about Becky.
Arnie walks slowly to her. He shakes his head slightly. He puts his hand up to touch her.
"Don't," I say.
Becky takes his hand and puts it on her forehead. She lets him touch her face, her mouth. He does what I've only dreamed of doing. He is quiet and reverent because even a retard knows that this girl is special.
1 say, "Let's go, buddy."
She says, "When he's finished."
As he continues his exploration, 1 look back at the cafe. 1 catch Beverly watching us—she pulls the curtain closed.
I encourage Arnie to finish up so we can get on our way. 1 move to my truck, sit in it. Arnie's hands are moving all over now, touching her waist, her neck, one hand rests for a time on her breast. 1 honk my horn. His hand stays there. I guess she allows it because it's not sexual, Arnie's touch, it's curious. Still, though, I've no choice but to honk my horn long and loud.
What's Eating Gilbert Grape
Finally he finishes and runs to my truck, his head down and the sweetest smile on his face. He climbs up. We both look at Becky. He waves. I shift to reverse.
I guess 1 should thank her. I roll down my window before pulling out of the parking lot. I stick my head out to speak. But before I can, she says, "Don't mention it."
"No. Thank . . ."I stop. Something is wrong with this picture. I hit the gas pedal and drive Arnie home.
37
It's the next morning, July 6. It's only been twenty-four hours since Arnie spent the night in the tub and already his refusal to bathe is visually obvious. His face is colored with numerous stains and smudges. An anonjonous call came minutes ago wondering if we could do with some soap. Amy got angry and 1 laughed. I say let him turn to dirt if it's what he wants.
But I have the day off, and I'm behind the bushes in our front yard, down on my knees, trying to get the hose on the outside faucet, thinking if I can get Arnie to run through the sprinkler, some of the dirt and gunk will wash from his body. I can't get the faucet hooked, though, and the evergreen needles from the bushes are pricking at my bare legs. I hear a car horn and, fearing that it will be Tucker or Bobby McBurney, I slowly rise from behind the bush. The boys have been calling incessantly, begging for me to meet with them, hoping that I'll give them girl pointers and woman tips.
My head is visible now—and to my surprise, I find Mr. Carver in his wife's station wagon, rolling down his window in a panic, shouting, "Gilbert! Gilbert Grape!"
The moment has finally come. Mrs. Carver has told him everything and he has come to remove my genitalia with a hacksaw.
"What? Hello? " I say.
PETER HEDGES
"Oh, Gilbert, I'm glad you're here. Oh boy—thank God." Mr. Carver looks cill over heated, his cheeks all red like winter time.
"Can I get you some lemonade or something, Mr. Carver?"
"No. Get in the car. You got a minute?"
"Uhm. Not really."
"Fifteen minutes, twenty at the most. I'll drive you back right away. Please. Just this once." The man is desperate and even though a ride in his car might mean my life, I get in.
Before we drive off I tell Amy that something has come up and that I'll be back soon and for her not to worry about Arnie. "I'll get him clean."
"You have ten days," she says as I ge
t in Mr. Carver's car.
We're heading across town, our seat belts fastened, my knees jammed up to my chin because Mr. Carver drives with the front seat pushed all the way up. "Unbelievable."
"What is, sir?"
"You call me 'sir.' I am grateful for that. I appreciate that. I wish you were my son, Gilbert. You know how to make a man proud." He pauses. His hands tremble on the steering wheel. "I sure appreciate your doing this for me, Gilbert. You're swell."
"Gee, thanks."' I sneak looks around the car, searching for a rifle or a handgun that he might use to off me. But Mr. Carver and I are guilty of the same crime. I saw him and Melanie together. Surely we can talk things out before he does something drastic.
"A man tries in this world. A man tries to do some good. Bring a certain dignity to this planet which it is clearly lacking. You try—through example—to touch those you can. And when you've done all that you're capable of and you still come up short—oh so short—it is a time of great sadness."
"Sure," I say. "Or at least I'd think."
"So they wanted a swimming pool. This was evident when we had our Memorial Day family chat. I heard them out—then I explained carefully. I took a pad of paper and broke down the costs and demonstrated in a methodical, somewhat impressive fashion how a swimming pool was not practical at this time. You'd think that that would be the end of that."
What's Eating Gilbert Grape
"You'd think."
"No. Not with my boys."
At this point, he pulls his car over into the ENDora OF THE LINE parking lot. "I need a minute to cool off. Is this all right?"
Well, what am 1 going to say? So I nod "it's fine" and I look at him like I care.
"It is so nice of you to care, Gilbert."
To which I reply—and where these words came from I'll never know—"Mr. Carver, you and your insurance have always been there for me."
"What a nice thing to say."
"Well ..."
"I love my boys. I work hard. As hard as I can. For my boys."
Suddenly I remember the image of Melanie lying back on her desk, her skirt hiked up, her wig dangling down, and Mr. Carver thrusting into her, the crowded veins on his forehead, his eyes bulging out. I wonder if that's what Mr. Carver means by working hard.
"I sacrifice. I had all this planned to coincide with our nation's birthday on the Fourth, but wouldn't you know that the warehouse in Des Moines made a mistake and sent it to Mason City and that these last two days have been hell. We had to put a tracer on it."
"On what?"
"Come on! Don't you remember? Gilbert, I'm disappointed." I can only conclude that Mr. Carver is a man easily let down. "Surely you remember my invitation to be one of the first to try out our new trampoline."
"Oh sure. Yes. What was I thinking?"
He starts up the station wagon and we're back on our way. When we pull into the Carver driveway, he says, "This whole situation has left me virtually paralyzed."
We walk around the side of the house. Mr. Carver holds open the white picket gate and I walk through. In the backyard, sitting dead center behind the house, is a brand-new trampoline. The frame is a dark blue, the springs silver and shiny, and the tramp part is impressive and black.
PETER HEDGES
"What do you think?"
"Uhm. Wow," I say.
"BETTY! SEND OUT THE BOYS!"
I look back to the house, all the curtains and shades are drawn. The back door cracks open and I see Mrs. Carver's hand hold the door for Todd and Doug. They march out, their faces staring down at their feet. They wear their swimsuits.
"Todd, Doug—come over here."
The boys scuffle over and as they get close, Mr. Carver says, "Watch Gilbert."
"Watch Gilbert what?" 1 say.
Mr. Carver holds up a finger, the same finger that I saw diddling Melanie, and shushes me. He crouches down to the boys' eye level, in an effort I suppose to be intimate, but he looks stupid, uncomfortable. "Watch how much fun Gilbert ha§. Watch him." Mr. Carver pats the trampoline, signaling me to climb up. I start to when he says, "Gilbert, your shoes." I slip them off. "Watch him go up and down. Up and down. And study his face, too. You'll see how much fun this can be."
I begin my bounce but the boys don't look up.
"Jump higher."
I go as high as 1 can. The boys are still staring at their feet. "LOOK AT GILBERT. LOOK AT HOW MUCH FUN HE'S HAVING! LOOK AT HIM! HES HAVING A BALL! AREN'T YOU, GILBERT?"
"Yes."
"WHAT WAS THAT?"
"Yes! YES. I'm having A BALL!"
"So there, boys—so there!"
They still won't look, so 1 start hooting and hollering and not because I'm enjoying myself. I do this because I want to get it over with and get home. Part of me feels I owe him—that this is particd repayment for his wife.
I'm exuding the most positive outlook ever, making the big bounces, but the boys still won't look up. Suddenly Mr. Carver pulls Todd by the hair and grabs Doug by the arm. "Look, goddammit. LOOK!" Todd sends kicks and punches toward his dad. Doug breaks free and runs howling inside to his mother. Mr.
What's Eating Gilbert Grape
Carver proceeds to lift Todd and toss him through the air. He hits the ground with a thud.
"Stop it. Stop it!" I shout.
Todd runs inside, apparently not hurt and looking more in shock than anything.
I'm off the trampoline.
Mr. Carver is silent, on his knees. He slowly stands, brushes oJ0f his pants, turns to me and bares his teeth. "It's good to see you, Gilbert. Really, it's been a treat."
He walks back to his house, his chest in the air, a look of pride on his face, as if this all went as planned.
I put on my shoes and leave out the back gate. I see Mrs. Carver looking at me out the kitchen window. Our eyes meet for a moment—then 1 turn away.
As I leave the Carver property, 1 mutter to myself, "You don't hit people. A guy just shouldn't hit people."
1 begin the two-mile walk home.
I write this note to Mr. Carver in my mind which concludes with a thought that goes something like this: At least some fathers have the courage to not live this life.
38
L'm walking down the side of Highway 13, when Chip Miles pulls over in his jeep. He gives me a ride home.
"Thanks, Chip."
"Anytime."
1 almost say, "Too bad about your silver tooth," but I don't. With a polite "So long," 1 shut the door and we continue to fake being friends.
Standing on the porch is Arnie with the newest in dirt and food stains on his face. He holds a small box wrapped in brown paper and twine. The package is addressed to me.
PETER HEDGES
"Can I open it? Can I open it?"
I tell him, "Dig in." He pulls at it. tearing at the paper on the edges. He gets frustrated, lifts the box over his head and is about to throw it to the ground.
"Arnie. no!"
He stops, scrunches his mouth to his eyes like he wants to erase his face. Amy appears with scissors. The retard and I cut the twine, he pulls away the paper fast and lifts the lid on the box. Amy watches. Our family loves a present.
Inside are hundreds of Styrofoam peanuts. Under them Arnie finds and lifts out a big black-and-white photo in a shiny gold frame. The face in the picture is fake, the teeth plastic, the hair sprayed stiff. Written in red marker is "Gilbert, thanks for lunch."
"LUlaaaaaaannnncccccceeeeeee!" goes Arnie, taking the photo and running out of the house, presumably to show everyone in town the picture of his new best friend.
"That was for you," Amy says. "Nice of you to let Arnie have it."
"Good thing he can't read," 1 say.
"Yeah. Good thing."
Later I'm in my room, on my bed, my underwear down around my knees, looking at myself. I remember back before pubic hair, back when life was to be anticipated. Now, with a world full of Lance Dodge fans, I find it difficult to decipher the purpose of things. He is as pho
ney as you can be and everyone wants him, everyone wants to be him, or to know him, touch him. What about touching me?
I drop a wad of spit into my hand, preparing to treat myself. Suddenly my door pushes open, Ellen—all in a tizzy—shouts, "I have urgent news!"
I pull over a sheet, quickly covering myself. "The word is KNOCK!"
Ignoring me she asks, "You know Mr. Carver?"
"No."
"Yes. you do."
"Okay, what about him? What about him. what about him?"
"Something happened."
"What?"
What's Eating Gilbert Grape
"Maybe he won a prize or something. Maybe it's a coma or that he died. But something big has happened."
"What happened?"
"I don't know what happened, but something did and I don't know!" Ellen has grown frustrated. "Am I a news bureau or something?"
Amy calls the Carvers', but the phone is busy. I drive past. There are many cars out front, and people are pouring into their house. Someone in town will know, so 1 drive back to the square. I find Arnie trying to stick Lance's picture down the barrel of Endora's own replica of a Civil War cannon. I honk and he runs over.
"Hey, Gilbert. Hey."
"You want a ride?"
"Yep." Arnie goes to climb in the back of the truck.
"No, sit up here with me, okay?"
"But I don't wanna."
"I know you don't wanna, but you have to because something happened to Mr. Carver and we've got to find out what it was."
"I know what happened."
"Yeah, right. I'm not driving till you sit with me."
Arnie climbs up front, clutching the picture.
"Yeah, I know." He keeps saying this over and over. "I know. Oh boy, I know."
"Okay, dummy, tell me what happened."
He bites his lip.
"Tell me what happened."
Arnie falls silent. He slips a hand down his pants and starts scratching his butt, his groin. He scrapes at an arm.
"If you'd just take a bath, you wouldn't itch anjnnore."
What's eating Gilbert Grape? Page 20