What's eating Gilbert Grape? (27 page)

"Hi." 1 stand there as she waits for me to talk. "I wanted you to

PETER HEDGES

know . . . uhm ... St. Louis sounds like a good . . . opportunity. ..."

Smiling like a proud parent, she nods.

"Well ... it could be a great opportunity . . . I've always found St. Louis . . . uhm . . . uh . . . and after Arnie's party . . . I'm . . . uhm avai "

"Gilbert," she says, "oh, Gilbert."

"1 think you know what I'm trying to say."

"We've already said our good-bye."

"Yes, but ..."

"If we keep on saying it, it won't mean anything, will it?"

The door opens and little Todd says, "Mom. Mom! Uncle Dan is doing magic. Come see. Mom! Come on!" He pulls on her T-shirt.

She says, "In a minute. Mommy's finishing up with Gilbert Grape."

Todd goes inside and the door closes. The porch light goes off, leaving Mrs. Betty Carver and me in the dark.

"Todd must have ..."

"It's okay. ..."

"He must have bumped the switch. I can turn it back ..."

"No."

There is nothing to say, nothing left to do. She sees through me; she sees me wanting to use her for my escape. We stand for a bit, then she swings open the screen door, goes inside, letting the door slowly close.

Uncle Dan must be doing his magic because the music has been turned down and I hear the "ooo's" and "ah's" of the relatives, the laughter of the kids. I stand there listening.

I make sure my headlights are facing the Carver house when I snap them on. I position my truck so they shine bright on the living room window. This way she'll notice as Gilbert Grape drives away.

Tucker's light is on. The TV is on inside. I can hear pro wrestling. I have to knock real loud.

Bobby McBurney opens the door. He has replaced me as Tucker's best friend. "Gilbert."

What's Eating Gilbert Grape

"Hi, guys."

I'm let into Tucker's garage/apartment in such a way that I feel like an unwelcome visitor to a top secret club.

"1 didn't see your hearse, Bobby."

"Yeah, well, my dad doesn't like me to drive it for a few days after a funeral. Seems a bit tasteless to remind people of death at such a tender time. Give it two or three days and I'll be back at the wheel. Of course, if somebody else kicks off, then I'll be stranded a few more days."

On TV, a big, fat guy with a bunch of tattoos beats on a little, more muscular guy who wears a snow mask. Tucker leans forward, intent on the wrestling. 1 sit and ask myself, "Why, of all places, did 1 come here?" Finally, after the tattooed guy practically chokes the masked guy on one of the ropes, the masked guy pins the tattooed guy to the screaming delight of the fans. It's a break to a commercial. Tucker lowers the volume and turns to me. "We looked to you for advice. We uhm ..."

"Entrusted," Bobby says.

"Yes—with the truth of our girl situation. You have offered no advice. No counsel." Tucker goes on to say, "You're lucky we even let you in tonight. 1 seriously considered leaving you outside, standing alone, so you could uhm ..."

"Contemplate."

"Yeah, contemplate your lack of action, your inability to care for your two buddies, Bobby and Tucker."

Am I hearing this?

"You didn't seem to appreciate our ideas but you gave us no other idea, no other alternative."

1 think fast. 1 need these guys right now. I need the comfort of stupid people.

"Friends help friends, Gilbert. Friends call. Friends talk. Friends are . . . uhm . . . uhm . . . friendly."

Bobby nods in agreement.

I go, "You guys think of me as some mastermind with girls."

"No, we don't."

"You're just luckier."

"If that's the case, then why did you turn to me?"

PETER HEDGES

"Because you have experience." Tucker sounds like a commercial for the Army Reserve.

"I did come up with an idea. I've been mulling it over." (Yeah, for about twenty seconds.) "But it sounds like you guys aren't interested in my ideas anjmiore. ..."

Tucker says that they are interested, venj interested but that they don't want to get their hopes up.

Bobby is cooler about it all but he, too, is dying to know my thoughts.

"You guys know Cindy Mansfield?"

"Yeah."

"Well, Cindy has a group of girls that meet Sunday nights at the Church of Christ. They have a Bible study, they hold hands when they pray. They hug a lot. My little sister is the newest to belong to the group but there must be ten, twelve girls of varying ages."

"What are you saying?" Tucker asks.

"I think I'm being clear."

Bobby nods, he's gotten my drift.

Tucker asks several minor questions that do not deserve repeating. I explain that much killing and lovemaking have been done in the name of Christ. Christians "forgive" so easily, they are more apt to sway from "the path" because they can always forgive themselves. They can forgive you.

Tucker goes, "Ohhhh, 1 get it."

I pop open one of his obscure beers and chug it. 1 grab another for the road, and as I'm about to leave, my short little friend says, "Gilbert?"

"What, Tucker?"

I look down at him, a smile forms below his watery eyes. "Praise God."

"Keep practicing," 1 say.

"I love Jesus. Jesus saves."

"Really practice. Tucker. You sound stilted."

Bobby paces the room, rehearsing his lines. His script goes something like this: "I was asleep when it occurred to me. The emptiness of my life. 1 had a dream. And this group of people, you

What's Eating Gilbert Grape

girls, were in the dream. A voice said go to them. Go to those girls and ask for entry into their midst."

"Midst is good," I shout. "Midst is biblical!"

Tucker starts singing "Jesus loves me," but he has to stop because he doesn't know the words.

Suddenly, I'm the greatest guy and I leave, secure in their esteem. I drive the streets of my town. I'm looking for action.

I pass the old Lally place. I find Becky standing in her front yard, looking up at the night sky. I roll down my passenger window. I'm about to say, "What's up?" when she points up and whispers.

"What?" I say.

She points again but I don't look at where she's pointing. I look at her. "What did you say?"

"The moon, Gilbert. What a thing—the moon."

Oh Christ. Get me out of here.

I hit the gas and drive off.

I head to the cemetery. I walk around the graves and look all over—at the tombstones, the trees, even at the dent in my truck's fender. I look everywhere—everywhere but at the moon.

41

Lt's late afternoon of the next day—Monday, July 11—five days till the festivities. All morning and afternoon we've been cleaning the downstairs in preparation. Janice called during lunch and will "check in" daily until she arrives on Saturday. Larry sent an extra check to cover "necessary expenses." And Mr. Lamson has given me more time off to help ready the house.

Moments ago the retard hopped like a kangaroo through the kitchen tracking his filthy, muddy feet across the clean floor. Amy looked up and rationalized the situation. "Since Arnie will be eighteen in a matter of days, we've left it up to him to decide when to bathe. He's almost an adult. What with him itching all the time

PETER HEDGES

and the dirt getting so thick—surely he'll break down and clean up any moment now." She waits for my response but 1 have none. "Isn't it a great idea letting him make an adult's decision?" Amy Grape has found it yet again. The bright side.

But she knows damn well that I've tried everything to get the kid in water. And she knows that it's no use.

Momma keeps reviewing the schedule for the big day. We did the planning, but she has to approve everything—the menu, the party colors, the guest list. The retarded kids from a three-county area—of which there are maybe ten, all of whom are assorted shapes and sizes, all of whom speak in those garbly, retarded voices—will be over for a few hours on that afternoon. There will be party games and the opening of presents. Each activity has been carefully planned, food is beginning to be stockpiled and it's all designed to run like clockwork.

So.

I've almost finished remopping the floor when Amy comes into the kitchen and says, "A big truck pulled up out front. See who it is." She sends me outside for understandable reasons. Ever since Muffy, she has had a particular aversion to big trucks and their drivers.

Out the door, I come upon a guy, younger than me, who is balancing on the curb. An older guy sits in the passenger side, holding a pipe but not smoking it. The younger guy says, "I'm looking for a Mr. Arnie Grape."

"He's around here somewhere."

"I have a delivery for him."

"I'll be happy to sign. ..."

"No, sorry. He has to sign."

"Great, but ..."

"Buddy, that's the regulation. Only Arnie Grape can sign."

I explain that my brother is special.

"Yeah? So? We're all special. Listen, he signs or there's no delivery."

A muddy, grimy figure comes around the side of the house carrying a big rock. Unable to lift it above his head, he lets it drop on the sidewalk. He growls at the man.

What's Eating Gilbert Grape

"Come here, Amle," I say.

The dehvery man looks at the dirt boy and quickly hands me the pen. I'm tempted to say "I told you so." but 1 don't. 1 sign next to the X. The delivery man hands me a card. "It's for uhm uhm ..."

"Amie," I say. I open it and read it out loud slowly.

Amie.

a little early but Happy Birthday just the same.

Amy and Ellen watch from the porch as the two delivery guys lift the back door of their truck. Amy calls through the screen door to Momma, giving a play-by-play report on what she sees. "It's for Amie! An early birthday present! Who's it from, Gilbert?"

I teU her.

"Momma! It's from Mrs. Carver! What is it? Tell us what it is!"

I tell Amy what I'm guessing.

"Gilbert thinks it's a trampoline, Momma!"

"Yep, that's what it is," the young guy says, passing the metal legs out of the truck.

The men and I carry it to the backyard and, after Amie shows us where he wants it, we assemble it. Ellen brings a five-dollar bill as a tip for the men. They flirt with her and she relishes their eager eyes.

As the men drive off, Amy calls out, "Dinner!"

Ellen pleads for "one minute"—^Amie climbs up on the tramp. He tries to jump up and down, but he keeps falling over. Ellen, eager to try, gets up and stands on the edge, and shouts. "My turn! My turn!" As she jumps, her little breasts jiggle. She is the only Christian in town who doesn't wear a bra. Amie paces on the grass, mumbling, "It's mine, it's mine." I wonder if Mr. Carver is watching this from wherever he's gone to.

I tell Amy I won't be eating. The gift to Amie feels more like a stab aimed at me. While the others eat dinner inside, 1 lie on the trampoline and look at the sky. I hear Ellen telling Arnie to stop spitting his food. Momma asks for thirds. Amy makes a polite plea to Arnie about bathing and the "immense joy" to be found from being clean. Arnie wisely points out that Momma doesn't

PETER HEDGES

bathe. Amy explains that Momma's a grown-up and older people don't get as dirty as younger people. Arnie doesn't buy her reasoning. Ellen asks to be excused so she can shower.

The last thing I remember before falling off to sleep is the sound of her shower coming from upstairs. This must have made me dream that it was raining.

I dreamed that it rained and rained and Arnie got clean and that my dad and 1 went fishing. We didn't catch anything. We didn't say anything. It was fine, just fishing, just sitting in the boat with him, just fishing was fine.

"OH MY GOD!"

I open my eyes to find that the sun hasn't gone down any. It must have been a fast dream, the length of a cartoon.

"OH MY GOD!" Amy screams. "HELP!"

"What is it?" 1 shout, getting up from the trampoline.

"MOMMA! MOMMA!"

1 run to the house.

"No! Nooooo!"

I'm up the porch steps and inside fast. Amy is reaching across the table, trying to get to Momma, who is all pale and unable to breathe. Momma's shoulders are locked up around her neck. Dinner is clogged in her throat.

"Momma! Momma!"

I try to put my arms around her to do that thing where you make a fist and pull up and back fast to dislodge the food. But I can't get my arms around her stomach. Ellen runs downstairs half dressed. I'm holding Momma's mouth open as Amy reaches in, trying to get her enormous tongue out of the way. Momma is going to be the color blue in moments—we're all making noise, saying things that I don't even hear. It's absolutely quiet and painfully loud at the same time.

Arnie is watching and keeps asking, "Why? Why? Why?" and none of us answers him. The lasagna and the corn on the cob and the blueberry muffins are cill a kind of soupy, mushy goop in Momma's mouth.

"Don't die," is what I want to say.

What's Eating Gilbert Grape

Amy takes hold of Momma's jaw, I make both my hands into fists and press several rapid punches into her midsection, hoping to bust open the air passage.

"Call Dr. Harvey!" one of us shouts.

Dr. Harvey's number is written in red ink on the wall above the phone. He lives all but three blocks away.

Ellen dials and talks.

"Is he coming? Is he coming?"

"Come on. Momma. Come on! Spit it out! GET IT OUT!"

Her eyes close, then open, then close. Arnie is screaming, "Don't yell! Don't yell!"

"Get him out of here!" Amy says.

"Arnie, come here. 1 got this surprise." Ellen pulls at his arm, begging him to follow her. "Arnie! AFINIE!" Arnie doesn't. Instead, he takes a dinner glass and heaves it against the wall; the glass shatters. Oh, great. He takes Momma's plate and sends it soaring straight up—it breaks into pieces and rains down on top of us. I tackle Arnie and carry him out, drop him on the porch. Momma is making this muted scream sound now. My mother is going to die. Right now. We all know it, we all sense it. And there is nothing we can do.