What's Eating Gilbert Grape

“Gilbert…”

  “I gotta pee.”

  I’m about to shut the downstairs bathroom door when Amy shoves her way in. Because of her increasing size there is barely room for the two of us. I sit on the sink as she says, “Is it the money? Is it because you had to ask for credit? Is that it?”

  “I don’t know anymore.”

  “Sorry about the money. We’ll have it soon. I know it was hard for you to ask. You don’t know what it means to be able to buy on credit like this.”

  I say, “It’s no big deal,” when in truth it is a big deal. I’m about to scream that maybe she should budget our money better when she says: “Both of them are late with their checks.”

  I shrug like “It’s not my problem.”

  “What can I do when both of them are late?”

  “I really have to pee, okay?”

  Amy says, “Don’t let me get in the way of nature,” as she shoves her way through the bathroom door.

  ***

  So. It’s time that you know.

  There are other Grapes. One sister, one brother.

  The sister is Janice. She is three years older than me. We send her to this amazing college, she majors in psychology, and what do you think she does now? What do you think she does that utilizes her immense and profound talents? She is an airline stewardess. Do you believe this? It is the truth. Janice is ideal stewardess material because she has a fake face. She’s perfected the kind of phoniness that gives the majority of people comfort. The smile full of teeth that makes Joe businessman breathe easy because Joe businessman knows that even though life is hard at least he’s not a stewardess. This makes him feel better about who he is; helps him justify the drinking without ice cubes, the taking of liquor straight.

  Janice visits every so often. She lives in Chicago and flies out of O’Hare airport. She says that while O’Hare airport isn’t the prettiest or the cleanest, it has the most character. In terms of what, I ask her—airports? It’s hard for me to describe what it is that stewardesses do. I’ve ignored Janice every time she’s tried to explain her work. And I’ve never flown in a plane because I don’t believe in the idea of flight. So.

  Five years older than Janice, eight years older than me is my brother Larry. Each month he sends a substantial check with no letter or note and no return address on the envelope. Janice sends two smaller checks each month, so along with Amy’s work at the elementary school and my grocery income, we’re able to get by. Larry must be very successful in a money sort of way. He returns only once a year and it’s always on the same day—Arnie’s birthday. He’ll arrive sometime in the early morning bearing gifts, like Santa, and on the same day, before the stroke of midnight, like Cinderella, he leaves. He does this every year; his annual arrival and departure are like clockwork.

  Get a couple of beers in Amy and she’ll tell you Larry stories. For instance, the first time he wiped out on his bike, his skin was ripped off his face, dangling like strips of bacon, his knuckles all opened up with bone sticking out—you or me, we’d be screaming and crying, sobbing. Not Larry. He walked into the house, blood dripping everywhere, with no expression on his face.

  When he found Dad hanging in the basement, as Amy tells it, he walked nonchalantly up the stairs and dialed the phone in front of Momma and Amy, who were baking bread. He told the operator to send an ambulance. “My dad has hung himself.”

  Janice says that there are deep, psychological reasons why Larry will only return home once a year. As a self-proclaimed expert in psychology and the only Grape to hold a college degree. Janice says that none of us will ever understand the impact that finding Dad hanging had on him. She says that just because he didn’t scream and cry and freak out doesn’t mean he wasn’t affected. On the contrary, she says, the wounds are so deep, too deep for a layman’s comprehension.

  All I know is that Arnie’s big eighteenth birthday is going to be something else. And if Momma hasn’t fallen through the floor and if Arnie hasn’t died in his sleep and if Ellen isn’t pregnant and if the other Grapes haven’t gone further off the edge, maybe, maybe we’ll be okay.

  ***

  I wash my face in the bathroom sink. I look in the mirror. I’ve these lines around my cheeks from pretending to smile too much, little webs around my eyes. Early signs of aging.

  I dry my face using my T-shirt. I flash on this afternoon and my talk with Mrs. Betty Carver. Her saying “I knew you’d never leave Endora” returns to haunt me. “I knew you’d never leave.” I lean over the sink, form a ball of spit with my lips, and let it drop.

  20

  A velvet painting of Elvis playing a white guitar hangs above Amy’s headboard. Countless posters of “the King” plaster the other walls in her room. Each picture is of him when he was young and thin. The pudgy, piglet look that he got later in life is not documented here. Amy’s stereo is an old model. Our father bought it for her when she started seventh grade. The system has speakers that have been pencil-poked by Arnie. She has a collection upward of thirty Elvis albums and a purple container thing which holds all sorts of his 45s, including an original of “Love Me Tender.” Also hanging on the wall, in a shiny gold frame, is the Des Moines Register headline announcing Elvis’s death. The newspaper has faded to yellow.

  Unable to stomach any more of this Elvis museum, I flip off the light switch, fall back on her bed, and wait in the dark. My sister is thirty-four but her room is thirteen.

  Downstairs the TV is going strong and dishes are being stacked in the sink. There is no sound of washing or rinsing or scrubbing, though, because Ellen now claims that, due to the emergence of a new, rare rash on her hands, she can no longer put her hands under water.

  I lie on Amy’s bed, wondering what a guy like Elvis had over a guy like me.

  I remember the day he died. Amy was asleep on the orange sofa in the family room. We woke her with the news. She sat there making Janice repeat it like ten times. She wouldn’t believe us, so I got this pink transistor radio and spun through the channels. She thought it was a coincidence that three stations had Elvis songs playing. Then some DJ said that he’d had a heart attack. Amy made her way upstairs and closed her bedroom door.

  That night we made Amy’s favorite dinner. This was when Momma still did the cooking, when she baked and fried and sautéed, when she still appeared in public. Arnie helped me take up the food—fried chicken with cole slaw. We set it outside her door and knocked, but she wouldn’t eat. Elvis was blaring on her record player; song after song could be heard through the cracks in the floor. You could hear it down the street.

  This whole bit about Elvis is to tell you my big sister didn’t bounce back that night. In some ways, you could say she’s never recovered. One thing is certain—she hasn’t forgotten him. One glance at these walls and you’ll see what I mean.

  The door to her room opens, the light flicks on and Amy says, “There you are. We’ve been looking for you.”

  “I’m where I said I’d be.”

  “Aren’t you hungry?”

  I say nothing.

  “You all right, Gilbert?”

  “I’ve been better.”

  “We’ve all been better. What does that mean?”

  I go on to explain how, from my perspective, we’re eating too much as a family. “There are starving people, Amy, and we’re eating like…”

  Amy, not hearing me, calls, “Ellen!” and goes down the hall into the bathroom. Ellen appears with a pad of rainbow paper and a package of colored markers. She’ll be taking notes, making lists, etc. She ran for Student Council secretary last year and won, of course. Her motto was “Ellen Grape—Food for Thought.”

  “Gilbert,” Ellen says, “I hope this is a productive meeting.” She pulls a tube or whatever out of her pocket and begins to spread this oil or grease or goop on her lips.

  “Jesus, what’s with your mouth?” I say.

  “Lip gloss.”

  I grunt my disgusted sound.

  “What’s wrong with lip gloss
? Everybody’s wearing it.”

  “Everybody?”

  “Yes.” Ellen presses her lips together.

  “Arnie wears it? And Momma? And the Byers twins? And Lance Dodge? No, no, no. Don’t think so.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “I know what you said. You said everybody. You said wrong.”

  “It’s a figure of speech.”

  “Don’t figure with speech. Speak with speech!”

  “What’s up your butt?” she asks.

  She’s just a braceless teenager, I remind myself, as Amy opens the door. “Stop it, you two.”

  I fake a smile as if to say “Whatever you say, Amy.” Ellen says nothing, uncaps the lip-gloss tube thing and proceeds to paint a second coat.

  “We haven’t got much time,” Amy says.

  “Sure we do,” I say. “His birthday isn’t for a month.”

  “Twenty days,” Ellen pipes up. “If you had bothered to look at the calendar I gave you, big brother, you’d know the time constraint we’re operating under.”

  I can’t look at her. The glare is too great. “I don’t have that calendar, little sister, anymore….”

  “Well, your tough luck then.”

  “Arnie used it for toilet paper.”

  Amy knocks her knuckles like a gavel on her white dresser drawers. Ellen and I fall silent as the meeting has been called to order. “We don’t have much time tonight,” she says.

  “This isn’t due to a certain Elvis movie?” I ask.

  Amy nods. “It’s his best movie. If it wasn’t his best…”

  Nobody objects. Amy is always putting others first and she deserves her Elvis fix.

  So I sit back and listen to my sisters voice their ideas. Amy says, “Should we go with a lasagna-spaghetti-like dish, hot dogs and hamburgers, or simple sloppy joes?”

  I shrug.

  Ellen graces us with these words: “Arnie has always seemed like a hot-dog kind of kid, but he is turning eighteen. And as you know eighteen is the year that signifies adulthood. A plate of pasta might give Arnie a bit more permission to act his age.”

  Amy listens like a good older sister. She nods and smiles, while I consider laughing out loud. I want to say, “Arnie is a retard, dummy. Feed him anything and he’ll still have half of whatever meal on his face, he’ll still be climbing the water tower every other day, and he’ll act like he’s six till the day he dies.” But I say nothing.

  Amy must sense that I’m about to rip into Ellen because her hand squeezes my knee.

  I seek a constructive route. “Which food is easier?”

  Ellen sighs as if my question were the rudest one imaginable.

  “I’m only saying that we shouldn’t kill ourselves over this….”

  Ellen blurts out, “Easier is not the issue.”

  Sensing yet another argument, Amy raises both hands and whispers, “Please, you two. Stop it. We all want this day to be special. It is a kind of culmination of all that our family is.”

  If Amy only knew the truth of that statement.

  ***

  As the drone of the plan-making continues, my mind drifts away to everything female. The women in Gilbert Grape’s life are too bizarre to believe. His whalelike mother, his oldest sister the Elvis worshiper, his little toothpick sister with her tennis-ball breasts, and Mrs. Betty Carver, his teacher, his whore. And now, the creature from Michigan, a veritable cannibal with pillowlike lips. Becky and her watermelon—this girl might be the weirdest yet.

  ***

  “We can serve the food outside….”

  “But if it rains…”

  “We’ll serve it inside….”

  “Of course, sure. What was I thinking?”

  “How long till Blue Hawaii?” I ask.

  Amy brightens up, checks her digital clock, and says, “Twenty-four minutes.”

  “Good,” Ellen says. “Then we’ll have time to go over games and party activities.”

  “Whew,” I sigh. “I was worried we wouldn’t get to that.” Amy and Ellen both nod and smile. They must think I meant that.

  Ellen opens a small purple notepad. “Jeff Lammer’s mother’s uncle loves to give hay-rack rides on Halloween.”

  “We know,” I say.

  “But only on Halloween,” Amy says.

  “I know. But, Jeff likes me. He wants me. Badly. And if you guys are in agreement, I’ll get him to get his mother to get her uncle to do a hay-rack ride on Arnie’s birthday. It’s not a problem.” Ellen smiles. Her eyes dart back and forth between Amy and me, looking for some sign that she has impressed us.

  “What do you think about the hay-rack idea, Gilbert?” Amy asks.

  “Not much.”

  Ellen pouts.

  “Me either.” Amy continues, “I’m leaning more to activities that take place around the house.”

  “Well, if you don’t like that idea, if you can dismiss my well-thought-out plans so easily, I have no choice but to throw away my notes and sketches. Clearly the work I’ve done has not been appreciated. Clearly you both can plan a better party.”

  “Ellen, please,” Amy says in a panic. “We love your ideas. We love the time and energy and care you’re giving. We’re grateful for all your work. Aren’t we?”

  I just sit there.

  “Aren’t we happy with what Ellen has done, Gilbert? Gilbert?”

  “He doesn’t want to answer your question, Amy.”

  “Oh, I do. Very much I do, but…” I fall silent. Ellen starts to gather her things, when a meow sound pierces the air. “Did you hear that?” I ask. Another meow sounds. “Right there. Did anybody hear that?” The noise comes from outside of Amy’s bedroom door. “I heard a cat!” I practically shout. “Amy, did you…?”

  “Yes!” she says.

  “I hope it’s a friendly cat! Are you a friendly cat?”

  During this exchange Ellen takes out her lip gloss and coats her mouth a third time.

  “Hello, kitty! Are you friendly or are you mean?” The “cat” answers back with a meowlike “Yes.”

  Amy asks, “Yes, are you friendly or yes, are you mean?” No noise comes in response. The cat must be confused.

  “I hope the cat is friendly, Amy! Don’t you?”

  The cat barks once, twice.

  “The cat is being silly,” I say.

  “The cat is talented,” Amy says.

  “The cat is stupid!” Ellen screams. “The cat is retarded!”

  I tackle Ellen on the bed, my hands cover her mouth. My palms get gooey from her greasy, oily lips. She claws me, her red nails scratch my neck and pinch my arms. Arnie pushes open the door and runs into the room. He leaps into Amy’s arms. They watch as Ellen and I wrestle. He whoops and hollers. “I fooled you, didn’t I? Didn’t I!”

  “Yes, Arnie.” Amy is looking at me like she wishes I were dead.

  “No way is Ellen going to get away with calling him names,” I want to say. I stop the attack and roll off. She slaps me twice, but I don’t do anything except close my eyes with each impact. Arnie imitates Ellen by hitting Amy about the head until she stops him. Ellen covers up her notes and papers so Arnie can’t see them, even though he can’t read. “The party is supposed to be a surprise,” she says.

  The phone rings.

  Ellen and I both say, “I got it,” and race to the phone, which sits on the bookcase full of Nancy Drews in the hall. Ellen beats me to the phone—I don’t know how—and when she answers she says, “It’s me, hi!” as if she knows the phone is for her.

  Who am I kidding though? The phone is always for Ellen.

  But this time she listens for a second, drops the receiver, and walks away. She goes into her pink-and-white bedroom and closes her door.

  I pick up the phone.

  “Hello?” I say. “Who’s this?” I hear this hiccup come from the other end. “Hey, Tucker.”

  “How’d you know it was me? I didn’t say (hiccup) nothing yet.”

  “Somehow I just knew.”
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  “Oh.” (Hiccup.) “Gilbert, you need to know that a miracle has happened. In our town. In this state. Your buddy Tucker has had one hell of a day.”

  Amy must be tickling Arnie, because he’s giggling loud. Ellen is in her room probably braiding her pubic hair, and downstairs, every five or so seconds, the channel changes as Momma looks for suitable family entertainment.

  “You got a moment?”

  I don’t answer. No answer to Tucker means “Yes.”

  “So Bobby McBurney had to go because somebody died in Motley. He drives out of ENDora OF THE LINE. I head back home thinking the day has been a total bust, when I see that girl, walking her bike, struggling with a watermelon. I pull up next to her and ask if she’d like a ride.”

  “Did you drop her off?”

  “Yeah, but wait till you hear.”

  “Where does she live?”

  “I’ll get to it.”

  “Where does she live?”

  “Let me finish!”

  “Tell me!”

  “I’ll get to it!” He shouts this so loud that I hold the receiver a foot out from my ear. I wait until he’s quiet. When I bring the phone back, a scream comes from downstairs. Momma’s scream. “AMY! ELLEN! ARNIE! COME HERE! COME HERE!”

  “Gotta go,” I say to Tucker, slamming the phone down. Amy is out of her room fast; Arnie follows; Ellen, too. I would have been the first downstairs but I jam my big toe on Arnie’s Tonka cement mixer. I hop down the stairs, holding my foot. When I get to the bottom, I find Momma pointing in silence at the TV. Amy and Ellen stand around her watching, and Arnie puts his face right up to the screen.

  “Sit back, Arnie,” Amy says. “Sitting so close is bad for your eye.”

  “What is it?” I ask.

  Momma says, “SHHHHHH!”

  Amy turns to me and whispers, “It’s a special report….”

  Momma again, like a sea wind, “SSSSSHHHHHH!”

  Lance Dodge is on TV. He is in a light blue shirt and a red tie with white dots. He looks like a subtle flag. He is reporting live in front of a suburban house. A large crowd stands behind a yellow-taped line. Police are milling behind him.

  “Thank you, Rick,” Lance says. “A shocking, sordid tale. A family. Three daughters, two successful, hard-working parents, and a demented lonely son. Today, everything cracked for Timothy Guinee. It appears that he came home after a week in Lincoln visiting some of his college friends. He bought a gun somewhere along the way, loaded it, and waited until dinnertime. While his family was eating dinner he proceeded to shoot them dead. Victims include his parents, Richard and Pam, his sisters, Brenda, Jennifer, and Tina, and their pet dog.”