What's eating Gilbert Grape?

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What's eating Gilbert Grape? Page 24

by Hedges, Peter


  Ellen says, "I don't think the man has a hiccup." She hands me a Styrofoam cup of water. "Are you ready to order, sir?"

  "Hey, Donny," one of them says, "do you get the feeling that these two know each other?"

  "Yep, I get that feeling."

  "You two know each other?"

  Ellen turns and with the sincerest tone says, "No, I've never met this man before."

  I've just experienced my first verbal death. The men laugh and wave bye-bye as I walk in a daze to my truck. The heat is great. Endora is a sauna. If 1 stay in this town, I know I'll melt away.

  At home. Amy reiterates, "Friday. Please, Gilbert. Get him clean by Friday."

  I'm about to say "Yes" when the phone rings.

  "Grape residence. Amy speaking." Amy listens. "Oh my. Oh yes. Of course!" It sounds like Amy has won some telephone jackpot.

  When she hangs up, I'm all over her with questions. "What is it? What was that about? What's going on?"

  "Lance is anchoring the ten o'clock news tonight."

  "No."

  "Yes, Gilbert, he is."

  So it's dinner and we've received six phone calls since Mrs. Dodge called with the news about her son. I am not eating. I merely sit motionless and massage my stomachache.

  As Amy serves the fruit salad, she says, "Phyllis Staples called to say the Church of Christ rented a big-screen TV to watch the news on. I've only seen that kind of TV on game shows. It would be like a movie, watching the news on such a big screen."

  Ellen says, "Lance and his mother went to the Church of Christ

  What's Eating Gilbert Grape

  every Sunday. They're superreligious. They know God and God knows them."

  Amy asks, "Arnie, would you enjoy the big picture of a big-screen TV?"

  He looks up from his plate, the dirt caked and streaked everywhere. He goes, "Jeez, Amy, Jeez."

  Amy nods like what he gave was an answer.

  Momma, eating in her spot in the living room, chimes in with this thought. "Up until now. Lance has only done 'on the scene' interviews, special reports, and that real interesting feature on the Polk County Crafts Fair. Anchoring, though, is it. It's the Academy Awards of Iowa."

  Amy and Ellen stare at each other. Arnie scratches his head with both hands.

  Later, as we finish up. Amy reiterates, "It's not every day that we get this opportunity to see a big screen. Anyone interested in joining me?"

  Only Arnie looks like he's seriously weighing the options. Certainly Momma won't be going anywhere tonight. And with my aversion to any of the Lord's houses and to Lance, I plan to stay inside. I turn to Ellen and say, "What are your plans, Ellen, dear?"

  She sighs and all of a sudden goes, "Life! Nothing is simple, nothing is clear-cut. I've got invitations to Cindy's house, the Hoys', to five dififerent churches, Bobby McBurney's mortuary, and now you're adding the big-screen possibility. I don't know if I can take this anymore. I wish life weren't so complicated, you know. This depresses me to such a point that I can't eat. "

  "Me, too."

  "Shut up, Gilbert."

  "No, like you, I've lost my appetite."

  "What now—wait—what is going on here, Gilbert? Are you saying that I'm the reason you aren't eating?"

  "Yes, something like that. "

  "Well, I have heard plenty of crap in my day but this—oh my God—this is top-of-the-line crap coming from you. Don't blame

  PETER HEDGES

  me because you hate your life. Don't blame me because you don't have any excitement, all right?"

  Ellen continues in this vein until, I guess, she realizes no one is listening. She stops, stabs her fork into her cole slaw, and says something to the effect that no one in our family understands her. I suspect she's right.

  I move close to her and laugh in her face.

  She goes, "See! See what I mean!"

  Amy says, "Enough, you two!"

  Momma, who is eating in the living room, calls out the following in garbled tones as her mouth is full of food: "YES! ENOUGH OF THAT! LET'S BE ONE BIG HAPPY FAMILY! IS THAT TOO MUCH TO ASK?" She sputters and spits as she says this.

  Ellen looks at Amy and whispers, "Did anyone get what she said? Did anyone get what she just said?"

  "Something about being a happy family," I say.

  "Oh, sure."

  We're polite and civil to each other for the next several minutes. We pass food when asked, say "thank you" and "please" and what keeps me sane is knowing there's only five more days of this,

  "Oh," Ellen says, and in an attempt to make up with me, she volunteers to do the dishes.

  "What about your rash?" I interject.

  "My hands will endure," she says as she starts running the water.

  I want to tell her that she's going to have to do dishes for years to make up for all of the cruel pain she's inflicted, but 1 don't say anything. I smile the it's-okay smile, the kind of smile my family has perfected.

  "Sorry about this afternoon, not recognizing you. But, Gilbert, brothers can get in the way with other guys. Having a brother humanizes me. And I didn't want those men to think of me as human."

  I almost say "You succeeded." But instead I watch her as her hands get covered with dishwashing suds. She drones on and on, barely scraping the plates, and I pray for the return of her rash.

  What's Eating Gilbert Grape

  Arnie runs past and he's so embarrassingly dirty now that I almost pick him up and dunk him in the sink. I look around the kitchen and consider my future here. The mess and stench are unbearable. Once upon a time my family had a certain fuzzy charm. Not anymore. Now we're like a boil on the butt of Iowa.

  And tonight everyone in town will be rushing to their TV to watch some phoney fool us all—Burger Barn is almost built, the school is burned down—^Arnie is soon-to-be eighteen—and I have Lance Dodge to thank for my sudden clarity. My next move is obvious. I will leave this place. I will leave Endora.

  "Gilbert, you're smiling all of a sudden, " Amy says as she wipes Momma's face with a wet rag.

  "Yeah?"

  "I haven't seen that smile in soooo long."

  "Well ..."

  Amy wants to know what is going on inside me that would bring forth such a rare expression of joy. She wants to know my thoughts.

  I shrug.

  "What is it, Gilbert?"

  This family is nowhere to be found in my smile, nor the girl from Michigan. My decision to leave, to escape—my new life—is the reason for my toothy grin.

  45

  JL pull out the junk from under my bed. Dirty socks aplenty, old clothes 1 haven't seen in years, a couple of dusty magazines that specialize in naked women, and my dress shoes, which are brown and need polish. The left shoe somehow got crushed under something down there and it's all bent up, smooshed up. I won't be taking much to wherever I'm going, but it's time to begin to pack.

  PETER HEDGES

  I hear Amy's tap, and before I say "Come in" I shove the magazines under the bed.

  She cracks open my door. "Arnie decided on the big screen."

  "But he's so dirty ..."

  "Still. He wants the big screen."

  With the door wide open now, she sees the mess I'm sorting through. She sees the waiting suitcase.

  I say, "What about Ellen?"

  "I don't know her plans, but I'm pretty certain she'll be somewhere other than home tonight."

  "That's good," I say, "because Ellen is . . ."

  "I know, Gilbert. I know how you feel."

  "Thanks, " I say. She shrugs like it's nothing and heads out the room.

  "Amy?"

  She stops.

  "There's something you should know."

  She turns. "Gilbert, I'm not dumb. I may be a lot of things but I'm not dumb." Before walking away, she looks at the half-filled suitcase and stays fixed on it. "Gilbert," she says, "You'll wait till after the party, won't you? You'll be here for the party."

  I look at her. "Yes."

  She walks
away leaving my door open.

  "Amy?"

  "Yeah, what?" she calls back.

  "Try sprinkling some of Larry's old cologne on Arnie. It'll cover up his smell."

  "Yeah, okay."

  I resume my sorting and folding. Every time I decide on a shirt or match a pair of socks, the look on Amy's face flashes at me. Part of her died when she saw my suitcase. I want to explain everything to her but I don't know how. 1 decide to stop packing for the night. I sit for a long while doing nothing. Then I get out my tenth-grade yearbook, which is more like a magazine, and open it to where a torn piece of paper sticks out like a bookmark. I look at my picture. Not bad. Three pictures up is Lance Dodge, before the gym workouts, before the perfect teeth, before the facial

  What's Eating Gilbert Grape

  hair. I spend a moment amazed that a guy like me could manage to end up on the same page as a man like Lance.

  Later 1 lie on my bed and look at the cracks in the ceiling. Ellen is picked up by some friends. Amy and Arnie get in the Nova and drive off to the Church of Christ.

  It's five minutes and something seconds until the news will be on. I'm in my room going through papers, proud that I'm the only one in Endora not watching TV.

  Momma calls from downstairs, repeating my name—and, like a dripping faucet, she will persist until I appear.

  Now I'm at the TV, adjusting the rabbit ears, twisting the hue and the color, not knowing which button does what, trying to make sure Lance looks green.

  Momma goes, "That looks good. That'll be all."

  I've been excused. I thank this unknown god of ours by getting myself an Orange Crush from below the kitchen sink and some Highland potato chips. They make Highland potato chips in Des Moines, so I trust them.

  From the kitchen, I hear the news start with the announcer saying, "The Ten O'clock Evening News with Lance Dodge!" He lists the others, but I don't hear their names. The news theme music is full of trumpets and typewriter sounds. I sneak a look from the dining room. The camera shows the news desk, which is shaped like a giant 3. Lance sits in the center wearing a blue suit and a red tie with white dots.

  The camera cuts up close. His face fills the screen and his hair has that just-got-cut look. He's never looked so confident, so certain of himself before. He spits out the words like he invented them. His eye movements are barely noticeable. You can't even tell he's reading.

  I try to imagine the churches filled with people, all the bars and houses, the entire town cheering him on. I feel around my eyes the welling of water, but I cut that concept short. No tears, thank you very much, not even because of Lance Dodge.

  At commercial, I get a fresh pack for Momma, unwrap it, offer her a cigarette, and after it settles between her lips, I light it. "I've got a gentleman for a son," Momma says.

  PETER HEDGES

  Back comes the news and Lance is the entire TV picture.

  "Gilbert?" Momma says.

  I don't say anything. I sit there, shaking my head probably.

  "This isn't such a good time for TV." she says, pushing her channel changer, turning it off. Sometimes Momma can be merciful. "Do you want to talk?"

  "Good night. Momma."

  "The boy has talent, Gilbert."

  "No doubt," I say, climbing the stairs.

  "Well, if you ever want to talk ..."

  I go upstairs to my room. I block my door with my red chair and lie on my bed, my clothes still on. The ceiling in my room has these shadows that look like rain clouds.

  It takes hours, but finally 1 fall asleep.

  In my sleep I hear this shouting. "Go! Go Away!"

  Turning on the light to Arnie's room, I find him sitting up, his white sheet wrapped up around his brown, muddy head. His neck and arms are caked with dirt and his face scrunches from the sudden light.

  "What, Arnie?"

  "Nothin'."

  "What is it?"

  "Nothin'."

  "You having a bad dream?"

  "No."

  I readjust his pillow, grab a stuffed dinosaur and two bears, and set them near where his head is supposed to be resting. "Sometimes when people sleep little movies happen in their heads."

  "Dreams," Arnie says.

  "Yes."

  "This was a dream. Bad and scary."

  "Yep. And you know what, Arnie?" He looks at me, his eye having adjusted to the light. "Don't worry—I won't let anybody hurt you. You know that, right?"

  "Yes."

  1 hug him goodnight.

  "Stay. Stay!"

  What's Eating Gilbert Grape

  "But ..."

  "Don't leave, Gilbert. Don't leave."

  I turn off his light and climb onto the lower bunk, lying on top of the covers. "Arnie? "

  "What?"

  "Sometimes a person . . . uhm ... a person has got to break loose . . . get away from ..."

  "But you stay. Promise? You stay here now. Promise?"

  "Okay, Arnie. I'll stay tonight."

  "Yep." He giggles.

  "Hey, Arnie. What'd you think of Lance Dodge?"

  He gets quiet. "Oh boy. What a gee-nus."

  "Genius. The word is genius."

  "Yep. I know, Gilbert, Jeez, I know."

  I wait the twenty minutes or so it takes for Arnie to start banging his head and I slip out of the room. Downstairs, Momma is talking.

  "You've got some nerve. That's what 1 think. What? Arnie is just fine, thank you. Dirty, yes. But he's fine and you got no right . . . you got no right ..."

  When I reach the bottom of the stairs, I see that the TV is on casting its blue light, a commercial plays softly, and whoever Momma's talking to must be in the kitchen. I sneak down the hall.

  "No . . . we've done right by Arnie ... no agency, no home would have been better . . . we've hung on . . . sometimes that's enough . . . what? 1 know you're sorry . . . you should be sorry. ..."

  I look into the kitchen and see Momma at her table, sitting straight, gesturing with her lit cigarette, a bag of chips and a bowl of fruit at her side.

  "Momma?" I whisper.

  Her head snaps in my direction. Fire is in her eyes.

  "You all right?" I say.

  She stares into the darkness where I stand.

  "Who you talking to?" 1 ask.

  She puts her cigarette in her mouth, closes her eyes in that I'm-about-to-inhale way and says, "Since when do I gotta be tadking to someone?"

  PETER HEDGES

  She's got me there.

  "Maybe I was sorting out thoughts, maybe I was thinking out loud."

  I move closer, past the mounds of dirty dishes, past the stinking trash under the sink. I hear a fly buzz by in the dark and try to swat it with my hand. "It sounded like you were having a conversation," 1 say, in hopes that this will explain my prying.

  "Go to bed."

  "But are you all right?"

  "Good night."

  She hits the volume up high on the TV. I'm at the foot of the stairs when she erupts with, "That Lance Dodge was something else!"

  I turn and see her smiling so proud, so in awe of Lance.

  "His mother must be so proud! Don't you think, Gilbert? Don't you think?"

  I look at her, all fleshy and large. 1 try to speak, but there are no words.

  "Amy said he might be made permanent anchor. There's a good chance! He'd be on every night! What do you think about that? Huh?"

  1 climb the steps slowly. My mother keeps on talking, and I know that I will go. I will leave here. After Arnie's party. 1 will get in my truck and drive away.

  I wake up early and look around my room. I curl up in my bed, curl up in a ball. It just hit me. I'm leaving Endora with nowhere to go.

  46

  J t breakfast, everyone is bubbling "Lance this" or "Lance that." Arnie tries to use a finger as a butter knife because, in his words, "All the silverware is dirty." This from a boy whose hands look

  What's Eating Gilbert Grape

  like charcoal. I stand on the porch st
udying the sky. The dark clouds, the smell of rain.

  Amy comes outside and I say, "Look at those clouds."

  "You shoulda seen Lance."

  "Maybe," I interrupt, "we can lock Arnie out of the house and he'll get washed clean."

  "Maybe," she says as I climb in my truck.

  "You woulda loved the big screen." Amy stops. She sees the slouch of my body, the blankness in my face. She is about to tadk when 1 turn the key, rev my truck, and shift to reverse. She looks at me as I back away—I see her figure it out.

  1 drive off.

  I drive to ENDora OF THE LINE for a morning six-pack, but when Donna inquires first thing if I saw him and if it wasn't wonderful, I pivot around and walk out without saying a word.

  At the store, Mr. Lamson seems in fine spirits and business is brisk, as it looks like rain. The dark clouds have come racing in, but the talk is still all about Lance.

  At around noon a big orange-and-blue moving van drives past the store. I stop working and watch as the Carvers' things drive away. Trailing behind is the Carver station wagon, loaded full with sloppily packed boxes. I almost run out to the street and chase her car down.

  Mr. Lamson is all smiles, helping the customers the way he always does, as if they were the most important people in the world. He waves to me. "We've got the dairy coming any minute. Straighten the milk up, will you?"

  I walk to the blue crates. 1 start to push the skim milk next to the other skim and separate the whole milk from the low-fat. Something about milk always makes me think of my mother and while that might seem obvious, the thought of my mouth around her nipple, the thought of her feeding me, filling me with her milk is not a comforting thought.

  Lance's picture—the one that hangs next to the Wonder Bread clock—stares down at me. I decide that I will steal the picture and leave it. gift-wrapped, in the trash. I've never seen my mother so proud or impressed with anyone as she is with Lance.

  PETER HEDGES

  The dairy truck arrives. I do my duty and head on out of work back home. The clouds have made the afternoon feel like nightfall; they are black and bruised, soggy.

  I'm driving home from work wondering what to do now. My plans don't feel like plans anymore. A quick check of my rear mirror and 1 find Becky waving her arms, pedciling fast, trying to catch up with me. I won't pull over. I put my foot on the gas and speed up. But she is still gaining on me. I realize that she will catch me eventually—she will call when I least expect it—she will materialize at any moment, anywhere. So I pull over. She coasts up to my side of the truck. Rolling down the window, 1 expect to hear her gasping for air, but she isn't even panting. "You should be . . ."

 

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