What's eating Gilbert Grape? (4 page)

PETER HEDGES

have it fixed because he feels as I do—that none of us need to be reminded we exist.

So I always drive there for my gas. No cord, no bing-bing, bong-bong, ding-ding. Bliss.

I pump in a few bucks' worth, buy an Orange Crush from the pop machine and a bag of Cheetos. I pay in exact change.

Dave says, "The carnival."

"Yep?"

"Real good for business, you know."

"Really?" 1 say.

"Some of the rides run on gasoline."

"They buy it from you, I hope."

"Yeah." Dave smiles. I've never seen him look so proud.

Driving out of town, 1 pass Chip Miles driving a tractor on his daddy's farm. I honk and Chip waves—all happy, 1 guess, that someone recognized him. Chip is a nice enough guy, strong in that 1-throw-a-lot-of-hay way. He was a champion wrestler for the high school team in Motley. He graduated a few weeks back. The tragedy with Chip is that he never had a date the whole four years he went there. See, he's got one of his front teeth capped in silver and that just discourages any girl in these parts. When he talks, he barely moves his top lip. But if you catch him off guard, like I just did, he will open his mouth wide, yell "Hey!" and you'll get a glare from his tooth.

I've got time to kill before my insurance appointment, and I'm going to relax. I speed up to seventy, seventy-five miles an hour and head for my favorite county road.

The roads all around Endora are completely straight and flat and bland except for Highway 2, which I am presently on. This road curves, and there is a small bridge stretching across Skunk River, which is actually just a creek, but since it's officially named a river everyone thinks that's what it is.

It's eleven miles later and I'm at the county cemetery. I drive under the metal framelike gate thing. I turn off my truck and walk across the graves. 1 find my place and sit. I eat my Cheetos, drink my Orange Crush. I lie back and look at the sky. Every five minutes

What's Eating Gilbert Grape

or so I hear a car or a semi drive past. I look at the clouds, which are not even clouds today—wisps of white, little streaks, strokes, that move, but not in any interesting way; even the clouds have their doubts.

I eat two Cheetos for every sip of soda and soon both are gone. I roll over on my stomach and try to picture what my father looks like now. His skin is surely gone, and his heart and brain and eyes have turned to whatever it is they turn to. Dust, maybe. I'm told hair is one of the last parts of you to decay. The bones most certainly are still there, still rotting.

There are two weeds to the left of his tombstone. I pull them out and throw them several feet onto somebody else.

My heart beating confirms I'm alive. Sitting in this particular cemetery on this particular day makes me feel special. Like I stand out.

I lie back and breathe myself to sleep.

The sound of a truck driving into the cemetery wakes me. It's two guys and a hydraulic shovel, and it appears they've come to dig a grave.

The sun has moved far across the sky. My skin feels all warm, I did the dumbest thing—falling asleep with no sunscreen lotion and no shade. I have cooked my skin and by tonight, I'll probably glow in the dark. I cross over to the grave diggers and say, "Hey, you know the time?"

"Four o'clock or thereabouts."

"Thanks. "

Already feeling the burn of my skin, I quickly seek distraction. "So is this how they dig graves? 1 thought you'd use shovels."

"No, man, shovels went out years ago."

Suddenly I've this sincere interest in their process. "You dig a lot of graves?"

"Yeah. Me and my partner, we dig for all three cemeteries in this county."

"You wouldn't happen to know who you're digging this one for?"

"Yeah, we know. It's on the sheet. "

The one who hasn't said anything looks at the sheet.

PETER HEDGES

"I'm wondering," I say, "because a friend of mine died yesterday. "

"Sorry about that, man."

"Well, that's the way it goes some days."

"Yeah, some days you die."

"Exactly," I say.

"Braider is her name."

"Brainer, that's her. "

"This is your friend we're digging for?"

"Yeah."

I try to look sad and forlorn.

"You don't seem all that upset about it."

"No, I do my grieving, you know, in private."

"Sure, that's cool."

They've dug about three feet when 1 say, "You can't make that hole deep enough."

"Huh?"

"Oh, nothing. Seeya."

As 1 walk away, the guy who has been silent mutters something to the other guy.

"Hey, buddy, hey you!"

"Yeah?"

"Uhm. My partner here wants to know something."

"Okay, shoot." I'm now about ten graves away from them.

"He's wondering if you're one of the Grapes! We're from Motley, you know. And for a long time we've been hearing about this family. ..."

It takes two tries to get my door shut. And with my truck kicking up a cloud of dust, I leave them wondering. I drive home. Of course I'm a Grape, I want to shout. I'm Gilbert Grape.

What's Eating Gilbert Grape

6

Urivingjast back to town, I see Endora's water tower, silver with black lettering, looking like an old whistle or a cheap rocket. If it were a rocket I'd get in and blast off.

I speed past Chip Miles again. He waves, but this time 1 don't honk.

A quick check in my rearview mirror and it is confirmed. My skin is already a hot pink. It will be bright red by bedtime.

There is something in the middle of the road a few houses up from ours. Slowing down I hit the horn a few times. But "it" doesn't move.

I come to a stop, put my truck in park and walk up to it. I whisper. "Moooooovwweeee." I make the I'm-about-to-spit sound. This something doesn't flinch. So I scream, "OH MY GOD! ARNIE IS DEAD!"

He smiles as if he likes the idea.

"I saw that," I say.

"Saw what?"

"That smile."

"But I'm dead, Gilbert. Jeez."

"You are not."

"Yes, I am!"

I start wailing and crying and moaning. I pound my chest. Of course it's all done in that pretend sort of way because Arnie is still very much alive. To a neighbor watching, my performance must be completely unbelievable. I don't cry. I just never do. And no one expects me to. I want to scream. At least something is going on here! At least we have some brotherly action here! If you'd open your eyes and look out your window, you'd see some Life happening! But I keep the screaming inside me, lift Arnie up with one arm under his shoulders and the other under his knees.

PETER HEDGES

His head drops back; he's dead again. I lay him in the bed of my pickup and pull into the driveway.

Arnie jumps out and runs into the house, letting the screen door slam. It's a miracle that he's lived this long. He'll be turning eighteen on July 16, a little less than one month from today. Who would have thought? The party to end all parties is being planned. For the members of my family, especially my mother, Arnie's eighteenth birthday will be the biggest day ever. More treasured than Thanksgiving, with more presents than Christmas, Arnie's birthday will also unfortunately bring the return of the other Grapes.

My mother is a woman of few words. The words used are choice, and you can break her conversation categories into three sections.

The first and most frequent is: "Where's my food?" Or: "What's for dinner?" Or: "I don't smell anything cooking, do you?" Food.

The second goes something like this: "Get me my cigarettes." "Who took my cigarettes?" "Matches! Matches, anybody!" Smoking.

The third category is always repeated in the same word order. She speaks it at least once a day. This is Momma at her most poignant. Her words are these: "1 don't ask for much. Just let me see my boy turn eighteen. That's not too much to ask, is it?" At my father's funeral I saw Momma write something down on a paper napkin. I'm not sure but 1 think it was those words.

I open the door and go in the house. I see Arnie under Momma's table, his arms wrapped around her feet. She's saying, "... turn eighteen. That's not too much to ask, is it?"

"Hi, Momma," I say.

She lights a cigarette. Her blue lips take a long drag. She smiles, not because of me but rather because of the boy at her feet and the cigarette in her mouth. "Gilbert, you hungry?"

All of a sudden I see Momma and Arnie disappear through the floor. When 1 cross to the hole they made, I see that they kept falling and this wind blows and they went through the center of the earth and out the other side, which is probably Vietnam or something, and they keep going, surely, toward the sun and when

What's Eating Gilbert Grape

Momma and Arnie hit the sun, the sun grows too bright and hot and the earth melts into nothingness.

Fortunately, this is just my imagination.

I gl£ince at the floor below Momma. The saglike curve is bigger than it was this morning. 1 go into the kitchen where Amy is baking a couple of meat loaves. "Smells good," I say.

"You think?"

"Yep."

Amy would like it if I gave her a hug when I came in from work. But Gilbert Grape is not the hugging type.

"I called you to bring home some potatoes for dinner. Mr. Lam-son said you'd ..." Amy stops when she looks up and sees my skin.

"Gilbert, my God."

"Yeah, ouch, huh? The sun was something today. ..."

Amy turns back to the oven, shaking her head.

"Mr. Lamson gave me the day off."

"We need the money. You can't just go take off the day to work on your tan. ..." She takes a toothpick and sticks it in a meat loaf.

"It was just one of those days. ..."

She bums two fingers on the second meat loaf pan. "Ow. Darn it! Darn it!" Amy isn't the swearing type. She runs cold water over her hand. I take the pot holders and lift out the second meat loaf.

"You okay?"

"Of course."

I lie and say. "Looks really good."

"Oh, and Melanie called. Seems you missed some appointment with Mr. Carver. ..."

"Oh, crap. " I completely forgot about my appointment.

"She wasn't happy with this. ..."

"I'll reschedule. ..."

"She said that you better hope Mr. Carver can fit you in."

In the dining room Momma has given Arnie the controls to the TV and he's pushing the buttons fast.

"So I guess I know why you took the day off from work. At least

PETER HEDGES

I hope this was the reason. Is he going to help us? Say that he will."

"Who?"

"Tucker."

"Sure, sure. Of course."

"So you talked to him."

"Uhm."

"That's the reason you took the day off. To work on the floor situation."

"Yes?"

"You say that like a question. Are you asking me or telling me?"

"Tucker will be glad to help."

Amy doesn't know whether to believe me or not. She turns off the water and dries her hands on her apron. She half smiles, lifts her foot and stomps suddenly.

"Ants," she says. "There are ants everywhere in this house."

"At least something likes us."

"Cute, Gilbert."

"If Ellen would do the dishes ..."

Washing dishes is Ellen's job, mine is laundry, and Amy does everything else.

"Oh, and that was a real clever thing you did this morning. That was Dad's lawn chair, you know."

"Yeah, 1 know."

"It was his favorite lawn chair."

"Well ..."

"And Ellen went off all morning."

"I'm sure she did."

"Please. Please stop inciting her." Amy is using some of her I'm-a-teacher's-aide big words. "1 told her I want this resolved today. I want this family cooperating. We don't have to love each other but we have to get along. Are you listening?"

"Yes."

"You've got to do your part. You're older than she is. ..."

When Amy finishes today's lecture, she points to a pink envelope that has been taped to the refrigerator. In purple is a giant "G."

What's Eating Gilbert Grape

I take it into the downstairs bathroom, sit down on the toilet, and begin to read.

"Dear Brother, I am sorry.

I say that even though I'm not. Things are happening in me that I can't explain. Things that a guy can't understand. Your Sister. "

There is a water spot at the bottom of the page. Ellen has circled it with a turquoise marker and written "One of many tears you caused."

I slowly crumple up the note, drop it in the toilet, and flush.

Amy has split one of the meat loaves in two. One half goes to Amie, one half goes to me. The other meat loaf is on Momma's plate and she's fast at work. She takes a bite, changes the TV channel, then takes another bite.

"You eating. Amy?"

"No. Starting a diet," she whispers. "Tooooo-day."

"Oh. You should eat something."

"Look at me, Gilbert."

Good point.

If Amy's so worried about the floor, why did she bake Momma an entire meat loaf? 1 better not ask. Instead, 1 grab a fork out of the drawer only to find that it has a piece of cereal crusted on one of its prongs. The next fork has this line of grease or oil or butter or something. I pull out fork after fork, and all of them are grungy or dirty or whatever. So I take the meat loaf in my fingers and eat like an animal. At least 1 know where my hands have been, I'm thinking, when Amy comes into the kitchen.

"Jesus, Amy, these forks." My mouth is full of meat loaf. "Have you seen these forks? "

Amy didn't get a word. "Swallow before talking."

"These forks—cleaned lovingly by my premenstrual sister.

PETER HEDGES

whom I love and like and cherish . . ."I pause to push a chunk of meat out from between my teeth. "These forks prove ..."

Amy is smiling. She loves to see me upset. It proves to her, I guess, that this brother has feelings.

"These forks prove ..."

"What do they prove?"

"THE EXISTENCE OF SATAN!"

Momma drops her silverware. "Amy?"

"Yes, Momma."

"Tell him this is my house. Tell him we won't have any shouting during dinner. Tell him that."