What's Eating Gilbert Grape by Peter Hedges
I hang up.
“Gilbert, what’s the fridge thing? What’s that thing?”
“A surprise for Arnie is what it is.”
“Oh.”
Arnie is sitting in Momma’s chair. He has put a cigarette in his mouth backward and he pretends to smoke.
“That’s not good for you.”
“What?”
“Smoking. Smoking is not good for you.”
“You do it.”
“Yeah, and look where it’s got me, huh?”
“Yeah.”
I turn off the TV. There is nothing on worth watching. Since Lance’s triumph, the TV and I have not been the same.
“Gilbert.”
“What, Arnie?”
“You’re shrinking, right?”
“That’s right.”
Arnie wiggles his toes and says, “Gilbert’s shrinking,” five times fast.
52
Later, there’s a knock on the door.
“Hello?” I say from behind the screen. “Helloooo?” I turn on the porch light. A soft breeze blows a certain perfumy smell. “You can come out.”
She steps out from behind the evergreen bush.
“Yeah,” I say. “What is it?” The skeptic, the I’m-over-you quality to my voice is ignored by the Michigan girl. She gestures for me to come outside.
“No way.”
“Come here. I’ve got something for you.”
“Bull.”
“Come see.”
Becky is getting hit with this light from inside our house, which casts shadows that make her look angelic. She waves her soft hand again and I drift out and stand on my porch. “I’ve got a present for you,” she says.
My eyes look around to Arnie’s bush, to the sycamore tree, to the evergreens in front. “I don’t see anything.”
“Wait,” she says, disappearing behind the house.
So I stand on the porch, waiting. I’m Gilbert Grape. I’m twenty-four years old. My life is not moving in a respectable direction. This proves it.
“Close your eyes,” she calls out.
“No way. No fucking way.”
“It’ll only take a second. Please, Gilbert.”
I shut my eyes for no real reason. “They’re closed,” I say.
I hear the sound of feet moving, a stick breaks, as if something is moving close to me and I get a chill.
“I’m gonna look,” I say.
“Not yet.”
I feel this warm rush of energy, this heat around my body. She must be close to me. I whisper, “What are you doing?”
I feel her hand on my forehead. She touches my temples and lightly moves down my arms. I feel this warmth whoosh through me, this warm heat, pulsing.
“What are you doing to me?”
I’m waiting for an answer when Becky says, “Open your eyes now.”
At first it’s blurry. Then I see a face inches from me. The little whiskers, the early wrinkles. The face looks scared. I half smile nervously, the face half smiles. Looking to the periphery I see that Becky is holding a big, round mirror, and the face I’m looking at is my face.
“See. See what I mean. See the hate.”
I’m about to say “No, I don’t” when Arnie shouts, “Gilbert, Gilbert!”
I move my head to see him in the mirror. He’s standing in the doorway behind me. There’s frosting all over his chin, up around his nose.
I punch at the mirror with the palm of my hand. I hit hard. Becky steps back and it drops to the ground. I jump on it but there’s no break. Not even a crack. Arnie is giggling and Becky is saying my name over and over. Instead of saying “Shut up” or slapping her silly, I find one of Arnie’s big rocks on the side of the house. I struggle to get it above my head—I let it drop, and still the mirror won’t break.
“You don’t fix things by destroying them.”
I look at that girl and murder her with my eyes.
“There’s a better way. Find the better way.”
Arnie says, “Gilbert’s getting weaker, getting weaker and weaker….” I turn to him and point firmly. “Shut up! Go inside!”
Arnie shakes his head no, then licks the palm of his hand where he’s been hiding a helping of frosting. “That does it,” I say, opening the screen door, then slamming it, locking the metal latch.
Becky says, before I close the front door, “Gilbert. Love Gilbert.”
I shut and lock the wood door, grab Arnie by the wrist, and inspect his hand. Traces of frosting remain. I drag him toward the kitchen.
“Owww. Owww.”
In the fridge, the cake, which Arnie tried to rewrap but failed, sits with the memory of a retarded boy’s fat fingers. He has dug out major portions of the icing. Arnie squirms and squirms, but I won’t let him go. “You know what that cake cost, Arnie? You know the cost? You don’t understand,” I say softly. “You know why you don’t understand?”
Arnie is trying hard to get away.
“Hey! You know why you don’t understand?”
He bites into my wrist big time and my left hand cracks him on the side of his head. Arnie’s teeth let go as he falls to the floor. His head hits the metal trash can.
“Owwwww.”
He holds the back of his dirty head. When he starts to sit up, I give him a swift, pointed kick to the chest. He goes flying back, his head smacks hard on the floor. He doesn’t make a noise. He’s in shock. Then he begins to whimper.
“Go to the tub, you little fuck, get up to the tub.”
Arnie doesn’t move, though. I step over him and drag him by his arms down the hall, his legs kicking, his shoes scuffing the walls.
At the bottom of the stairs, I am firm. “Upstairs. Upstairs.”
Arnie won’t move.
I pull his hair and he stands fast.
“Upstairs.”
I push him, but he won’t budge. I start punching his back. Each punch harder until he takes a step. He stops. I punch him harder. He takes another step. And another.
“Ow, ow,” he says.
“Move it, Arnie.”
I slide open the shower door and force him in the tub. He stands there, his bottom lip pushed out.
“Strip,” I say.
“No.”
“You will strip.”
“Nooooo!”
I turn on the water anyway, pull up the shower knob and the water sprays on him. Arnie shakes himself, going “Ooooooo!” And I say, “Can it, Arnie!”
“Nooooooo.”
“Take off your clothes. Take ’em off!”
“I can’t with the water…”
I push the shower knob down. The water comes out the faucet. “Strip!”
The water below is already a dark brown.
“Do it now!” I scream.
“Gilbert…” He lifts up his filthy T-shirt. It gets stuck around his head but he gets it off. He pulls down his pants but stops when he realizes his shoes are still on. I reach down to undo his laces when he lets fly with a wad of spit. It hits my neck. I get one shoe off when he spits again. I pull up the shower knob, water pours down. He’s about to spit again when I slap him hard. Once. Blood comes from his nose and I can’t stop. My right hand, my left, my right, my left. Arnie falls to the base of the tub, the water showers down. He tries to block my hands but I’m too fast and strong. His head is getting smacked back and forth, his struggle stops and he’s saying something and it isn’t until my slaps slow and I turn off the water that I hear what he’s been saying.
“My eye. My eye. My eye.”
Arnie covers his good eye with both hands. The blood continues to flow. He is past crying, past pain. He lies there, in his wet underwear, his pants still at his knees, his muddy fingers clinging to his head. I run for ice and towels.
The ice cubes won’t come out so I slam the tray hard on the counter, several cubes scatter. I grab four and some towels and am up the stairs fast.
“Here, Arnie.”
He pulls back, shouts, “No!”
“Shit. Shit,” I say. “Take the ice, at least. Uncover your eye, Arnie, and take the ice. You can see, right? You can see out of your eye, right?”
He removes his hands, looks at me, and blinks.
“You can see, right?”
He nods.
***
It takes twenty minutes to get him calmed down, the ice pressing to his face. Arnie goes quietly to bed, half clean. I’m standing quietly outside his door, listening as he whimpers softly.
All my life it’s been: “You don’t hit Arnie. Nobody hurts Arnie.” And in one night, all of that is burned away, and it was easy and quick.
I am beyond hate for myself.
***
He’s asleep now. I clean up the mess in the bathroom first. I wash the towels and dry up the spilled water. Downstairs I clean the kitchen. I take the cake out of the refrigerator. I find what’s left of an old can of frosting, remove the cellophane, and begin to patch and repair the cake.
53
It’s after midnight when the headlights of two cars move through our darkened house. The women are giggling and I hold the front door as Momma waddles in. They all smell of different perfumes. Amy and Momma both have new hair, Momma’s is in curls and Amy’s is feathered and bushier.
“Look at your momma,” Momma says. “Only for that boy and this day. Remember that. Only for that boy and this day….” She sees me and she turns silent. “You probably hate my new hair, don’t you, Gilbert?”
“No,” I try to say.
Janice and Ellen come in from outside. They’re talking at the same time about how wonderful “the girls” look. Janice suggests a haircut for me. “I’ve got the proper kind of scissors.” She cuts all her boyfriends’ hair, she says. Ellen talks about how maybe one day she’d like to open a beauty parlor. Janice looks concerned and Ellen assures her that she’d prefer to be a stewardess, but she does add, “Imagine the satisfaction.”
“Of what?” asks Janice.
“Of making the ugly beautiful.”
Everything stops for a second, awkward. Momma says, “And what do you mean by that?”
Ellen looks around. Even she realizes what she just implied.
Amy intercedes with, “She didn’t mean anything by that, Momma. Nothing at all, right?”
Ellen says, “I didn’t mean a thing.”
Momma goes, “Hey, you think I don’t know? This new hair is the biggest collective waste of time. I look like a ball of yarn!”
The girls protest, “No, Momma, you don’t.”
Momma screams, “I LOOK WORSE AND WHO WOULD HAVE THOUGHT THAT WAS POSSIBLE?”
I watch them, hear every word, but all my thoughts are of Arnie.
Momma gets situated in her blue chair. Janice suggests that she sleep upstairs and Momma mumbles something about this being her house and she sleeps where she wants and that even ugly people should get to pick where they sleep.
Janice goes, “You’re not ugly.”
“Yes, I am. I am most ugly. And nobody’s gonna see me. Nobody.”
Ellen and Janice say, “Oh, Momma,” at the same time.
She says simply, almost with pride, “Nobody’s gonna see me.”
I escape into the kitchen where I find the new-and-improved Amy looking disappointed at the Food Land cake.
“Arnie got into it,” I say, looking guilty.
“Wouldn’t you know it?”
I want to tell Amy about what I did to him. I lost control, I beat up Arnie—what will I do next? I’m about to confess, when she says, “Do you like this new look on me?”
She doesn’t look like the Amy I know. Her hair is feathered and frosted. Her upper eyelids are painted blue. She holds up a white bag. “Charlie sold us all these makeups and eyeliners and crud. Janice says they’re all things we must have, so of course we bought them.”
Amy keeps on talking. I’m looking at the cake, only thinking about Arnie. “Gilbert, come back. You’ve drifted off.”
“Oh, sorry.”
“Something wrong?”
“No.”
“Thanks for picking up the cake. Hey, you get Arnie clean?” she calls out.
I say nothing as I start up the stairs.
Ellen and Janice are on the porch, giggling. Momma sits in her chair, pulling at her hair.
“Shhh,” I say to the girls, “he’s asleep.”
“Who is?”
“Arnie,” I say.
Janice calls back, one of her brown cigarettes in her mouth, “Since when did you care so much about Arnie’s well-being?” Ellen takes a drag from Janice’s cigarette and coughs.
Normally, I’d say something smart in return, I’d fight back. But tonight—and for the first time in a long time—I think Janice might be right.
“I was only joking,” she calls out. And then to Ellen, I hear her ask, “What’s up his ass tonight?”
I sit in my room and wait for them all to go to sleep.
***
It’s the middle of the night and my stomach is wrenched. I can’t take it anymore. I had planned to prepare a breakfast treat and have it waiting for him in the morning. But there won’t be any sleep until I apologize, until I beg his forgiveness. So I approach his room. I look at the sign on the door, “Arnie’s place.” I crack open the door. I step around his toys, his room is dark, my hand reaches for his mattress when I see his window open, wide open. He isn’t in the top bunk or the bottom. He’s not hiding in his closet. I look out the window. He’s climbed out and down or else he fell.
Jesus. Arnie is gone.
I move to my room fast and get my shoes. Downstairs, Momma sits with the TV on. She is mumbling about something, talking in her sleep.
I move around our yard, whispering, “Arnie? Arnie?” I check the trampoline, the swing hanging off the willow tree.
I drive up and down the streets, checking the water tower. No Arnie. The Civil War cannon on the square. Back to the water tower. I call his name, but there is no answer except for a soft wind. My hands are trembling and I drive along the highway to see if he’s trying to hitch a ride to the cemetery. One time we found him there—he was jumping up and down on our father’s grave. He told us it was to “wake him up.” There is no trace of him. I drive to the railroad tracks and the abandoned bridge.
I’m at a loss as to where to check. I picture all the things that could have happened. Hit by a car or maybe he fell off the water tower or maybe he’s lost in a corn field.
At the south stoplight, I hear water sloshing. I get out of my truck and run across the road, leaving the engine running and my headlights on. I’m fifty yards from the Endora town pool when I hear splashing and Arnie going, “No. No!”
There’s a blue light that shines on the water. From the fence, I can make out Becky swimming in her undies and her bra. Arnie sits in the lifeguard chair. He’s still in his Superman pajamas, but without his cape. Becky is splashing and treading water, her hair in a ponytail. They don’t see me. I put my fingers in the chain-link fence and watch as Becky stretches out her arms. She says, “You can do it, Arnie. You can.”
“No. Noooo.”
“Remember what I told you?”
He nods.
“And we don’t want that? Right?”
Arnie slowly stands, lets out a yelp. He tries to jump, but it’s more like a fall. He makes a big splash when he hits.
He flails about and Becky applauds.
And as the remaining dirt on Arnie starts washing away, it begins. My eyes burn at first from the sensation. It feels like chunks of ice moving down my face. They roll and roll. I need windshield wipers, I say to myself.
I walk back to my truck, turn off the lights and the engine, and sit with the window down. I bite my lip and feel them streaming down, without effort, these tears. I listen to the splashing laughter and Arnie screaming, “I’m a fish. I’m a fish.”
***
I stay in my truck
Becky looks surprised. It’s maybe the first time I’ve caught her off guard. Arnie, his face and body cleaner than ever before, covers his mouth to hide his smile.
I open the passenger door, he leaps toward me, wrapping his arms around my back and kisses my neck.
“Gilbert. Gilbert.”
We hold each other—there’s a battle to see who can squeeze the hardest. Either Arnie forgot or he forgives too easily.
***
He rides in the bed of the truck and Becky rides in the front with me.
“How’d you… how’d you…?”
“He was running down Main Street. I was out walking.”
“But…?”
“But what?”
“How’d you get him…”
“That was easy. I told him you’d leave Endora if he didn’t…”
“Oh.”
“He loves you, Gilbert.”
“Yep.” I know this. Doesn’t she know that I know this?
“And you love him.”
I press my foot on the brake and come to a stop. Arnie taps on the rear window. “Yep,” I say. She rests her hand on mine.
“Thirsty!” Arnie shouts from the truck bed.
I stop off at ENDora OF THE LINE and get Arnie a root beer. He drinks it on the porch and falls asleep without finishing it.
“I’ll be back,” I say. I carry him upstairs to his bed, the way my father used to carry me.
Becky and I sit on the porch and she says that she’s not sleepy. I say, “The sun will be coming up soon.” She has one cigarette left in her pack. I go inside and borrow Momma’s matches and we smoke it. We sit on my porch, everyone inside asleep, and it suddenly occurs to me. “It’s Arnie’s birthday.”
“Yes,” Becky says. “It’s his birthday.”
Part Six
54
We talk for a while, Becky and me. I drive her home, and as the sun is rising, I sit on our porch.
I must have nodded off for a bit because I’m woken up by a rapid succession of pokes landing on my forehead. “Okay, I’m awake!”
I open my eyes and see him half smiling, smelling of aftershave, his hair still wet from a shower he must have taken at a nearby motel. He goes inside the house, calling out, “What’s for breakfast?”