What's Eating Gilbert Grape

  The only pictures of my father are kept in a shoe box under Amy’s bed. The shoe box is surrounded by her overflow of Elvis books and lesser Elvis memorabilia. The pictures of him are kept hidden like they’re some awful secret.

  Downstairs, Momma changes the channels. She likes the TV loud, and it can be heard all hours of the day. A person adjusts to it or they don’t.

  I sit up on my bed. There are no posters or pictures anywhere. I believe in bare walls. I check outside for the moon, but there isn’t one tonight.

  ***

  I’m asleep now, dreaming.

  Arnie takes me to a restaurant. I notice he’s much bigger than me and really confident-looking. I say, “But, Arnie, you’re retarded,” and he says, “No, I’m smart like Einstein.” He smiles, and his teeth are perfectly straight and very white. I say, “What is going on?” He says, “Gilbert, here is a hamburger. Eat it. It is good. Mom ate it. She started crying it was so tasty. Everybody—look over there.” And I turn to see my entire family at a long table. They all wave and wipe at the hamburger juice on their chins. All of them have been crying. “But I’m not hungry,” I explain. “Eat the burger. It’s what you need.” He holds my arms down. Then that girl from the Dairy Dream, that Becky girl, materializes. She holds a giant burger and moves it slowly toward me, saying, “It is so tasty,” and I realize she’s seducing me. She says, “You’ll love it, you’ll want to never stop chewing.” I whisper, “I believe you.” I open my mouth to bite. “And best of all, Gilbert Grape, it will make you cry.” “No!” I shout. “NNNNNOOOOOOO!”

  The light snaps on in my room.

  “Gilbert?”

  My face is scrunched, fighting the light. I’ve covered my eyes. “What?”

  “You were yelling in your sleep again,” Amy says.

  “Was I?”

  “Yes.”

  “Ha. Funny.”

  “You okay?”

  “I’m okay.”

  She turns off the light and says, “You must have been having a bad dream.”

  “Huh?”

  “A bad dream. You were having a bad dream.”

  “Oh,” I say. “Is that what I’m having?”

  Part Two

  11

  It’s the same horse every year. The big white one. Arnie is on his twenty-second consecutive ride.

  The merry-go-round guy walks across the ride, gliding between horses, and steps off to where I’m standing. He looks off at the other rides when he talks to me. “Your friend on the horse…”

  “My brother, you mean.”

  “Your brother uh has to uh move. Other people want that horse. See, buddy, the white horse is the most uh popular.”

  I look around. “That may well be, but nobody is waiting on line.”

  “That’s not my point.”

  I look at this greaseball with his chipped teeth and his frequent tattoos and wonder if he’s ever had a point. “So what are you saying?” I ask.

  “My uh point is that other people should have the chance at least. They got to have the opportunity.”

  Tucker appears out of nowhere carrying a big pink cloud of cotton candy. “Gilbert, they just asked me to be in the dunk tank.” He tears off a hunk of the candy and waves it my way.

  “No, thanks.”

  “I just happened to have my swimsuit on underneath my jeans. What luck, huh? And guess what? This year they have a microphone so I can heckle people. They throw the baseball, hit the red dot, and Tucker is dunked. Take this.” He forces the cotton candy on me and half jogs to the tank.

  Turning back to the carnival guy, I say, “My brother is awful fond of that horse.”

  “But the rules…”

  “He waits every year for this day. Pretty much, it’s all he has to look forward to.”

  Arnie circles by and shoots an imaginary gun, shouting “You’re dead, Gilbert. You’re dead!”

  “Look at him,” I say. The carnival guy does. “See the odd shape of his head?” He nods. “My brother… well, he was bright like you… smart like you… until last summer when he was thrown from a horse… and kicked repeatedly in the head… by a white horse… and uhm that’s why his head is warped. My brother riding your ride is a triumph over his fear. And you, without knowing it, have given him a great gift today. You have given him a reason to live. To recover. To go on.”

  I offer the guy some of the candy, but he shakes his head, having lost any appetite.

  “But we better take the horse from him, because it’s not fair to all the other children… who should be showing up any minute now. That wouldn’t be fair to them, and since when was life fair? And as soon as this ride stops, I’ll take my brother off. Rest assured.”

  “Oh, man,” the carnie says. “Don’t. Oh, man. Christ, he should be riding for free.”

  “But that wouldn’t be fair….”

  “Forget fair, you know what I mean? This kid, your brother, man oh man. He rides for free. I just decided that. He always gets the white horse, too. Always.” The carnie wipes his eyes and composes himself.

  We watch as Arnie circles around again. He hits his horse to go faster.

  “I’m Gilbert Grape,” I say. “And that’s my brother Arnie.”

  “I’m Les,” the carnie says, preparing to go back to the controls to stop the ride.

  “Here,” I say, offering the cotton candy.

  “No, I couldn’t,” Les says.

  “Please. For me.”

  He takes it.

  ***

  Seven free rides later I move toward Arnie. “Hey, buddy. You tired of going in circles?”

  “Nope.”

  “I’m getting dizzy just watching you. Let’s take a break, huh?”

  “Nope.”

  “Hey, let’s say we go up in the air. Let’s go up.”

  “Nope.”

  I try to pull him off his horse, but he won’t budge. Les is watching this and he says, “What’s the problem?”

  “I need a break from all this going in circles,” I say. “I got to go up. Rise above this. You understand?”

  “Totally.”

  “So that’s the problem.”

  “Hey, I got an idea,” Les calls out, taking a ticket from a kid, “I’ll watch him for you. He’s A-OK right here with me.”

  I give him the thumbs up and step off the ride as it starts up. My walking away goes unnoticed by the retard. Free at last, I say to myself.

  Making my way through the carnival, I pass the Tilt-A-Whirl, the Octopus, the games, and the Bingo tent. Pretty much every person I see I know. They say “Hi” and I say “Hi.” I pass the tank where Tucker is heckling anyone who passes. He’s still dry—and not because people are missing but because no one has tried. He sees me and starts to call out, “GILLLLBEEERRRT GGRRR…!” I move out of range fast.

  I walk to a booth and pay the seventy-five cents for a ticket in exact change. I turn to find a beehive hairdo blocking my view. I look down. Her mole has expanded since yesterday, and I say, “Hi, Melanie.”

  “You’re avoiding me, aren’t you?”

  “No. Never.”

  “You were just looking at me from the merry-go-round.”

  “Was I?”

  “Yes. Didn’t you see me waving at you? Flagging you down?”

  I must have mistaken her head for cotton candy. “No, I didn’t see you.”

  “Well, you were looking right at me. Got a little sun, I see. You feeling bad about missing yesterday’s appointment?”

  “Should I feel bad?”

  “Yes! It’s rude and unadultlike to miss an appointment. No call. No apology even.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t apologize to me. It’s not me who you were scheduled to see.”

  I sigh and grab my head. All I want is to ride the Ferris wheel. Somebody or something, please lift me up and out of here.

  “Would you like to reschedule? Gilbert?”

  “Yes. Tomorrow.”

  “He picks u
p his boys at church camp late in the afternoon tomorrow. It’s a very hectic day. He’s an incredibly busy man. But show up at your regular time, two P.M. He’ll get to you when he can.”

  “Fine, great, yes, looking forward to it.”

  “Don’t forget.” Melanie brushes one forefinger over another as if to scold me, smiles like all is forgiven, and sways off, her designer jeans too tight, her hair too big, too bright.

  ***

  “Here’s my ticket.” A bald carnie with a Hitler mustache signals for me to sit, the protective bar is secured, he shifts a lever—back and up I go. Each time I descend, this tingly, whooshy feeling washes through my balls. So I think naughty things on this wheel tonight. Sex things.

  As I spin, I close my eyes. I picture places far away from Endora, places where no one knows my name.

  I must go up and around ten, fifteen times with my eyes closed. When I come to a stop at the very top, I open them and look out. The sun is down. The lights from the rides make this night colorful. From up here I can see our tired house, my old school, and the Dairy Dream. Far away I can even make out the glow from the Food Land parking lot. Peering over the side I see below me a little boy and his mom being helped off the ride. The carnie picks up a bucket of water and splashes it across their seat. One of them must have thrown up. I check around me for any vomit remnants, but fortunately this car or basket or whatever it’s called is as spotless as these rides ever get. Stuck up here for the time being, I continue my look around. I notice a rip in the merry-go-round’s tent roof. Les should be told about this. At the dunk tank, Tucker is still dry and no one is throwing. There’s a long line for the Tilt-A-Whirl, but that’s always the case. Some kids are playing the balloon game and the basketball toss and the cranes.

  I’m checking on the status of the puke cleanup when I see a bicycle coast past, a boys’ bike, with a certain girl on it. She wears a white T-shirt and blue jeans and her black hair blows like a horse’s mane. The wheel starts up with a sudden jolt. I follow the girl as she coasts past the games, past the kiddie cars. As I go by the operator I say, “I’m ready to get out now,” but he waves like I paid him a compliment or something. She zips over to the Octopus and passes the Scrambler, the popcorn booth and the Pillow House. “Let me off! Let me off!” I scream, trying to remain nonchalant but failing. The carnie rubs the tip of his nose with a knuckle and spits.

  I’m at the bottom and going back up. The girl is pedaling toward the Ferris wheel. She stops and studies it. When I come down in front, I’m all set to wave some gesture, but she’s gone.

  She’s gone.

  It’s another five minutes before I’m finally let off.

  I thank the operator for a “marvelous” ride and under my breath utter, “You asshole.” The girl from Michigan has left the grounds, I can feel it. I check all over anyway. There is no sign of her. No bike tracks, even.

  “Thanks for watching him,” I say, pointing to the rip in the tent. Les nods like he knows. “Okay, Arnie, time to let the horse rest.”

  “But my horse isn’t tired….”

  “Arnie!”

  “But… but…!”

  “Say goodnight.”

  Arnie gives his horse a hug and starts to kiss its nose.

  “Arnie, no!”

  I take him by the hand and pull him off the ride.

  ***

  We’re walking out after buying him some taffy when I hear amplified: “GILBERT GRAPE IS A RAISIN! GILBERT GRAPE IS A RAISIN!”

  It’s Tucker and still no one has nailed him. I flip him the bird from about seventy-five yards.

  “REAL TOUGH, YOU RAISIN YOU! REAL TOUGH OF YOU!”

  Arnie is running around wondering where the sound is coming from, people are looking at me, and in hopes that the Becky girl might be watching from some hiding place, I walk real cool-like toward Tucker. Arnie tags along.

  “OH, HERE COMES MR. TOUGH! OOOOOO—I’M SCARED!”

  It’s three balls for a dollar and I pay five bucks’ worth, giving me fifteen throws. The first six throws miss. A crowd is gathering. No sign of the girl yet. Tucker talks faster and faster; he’s getting meaner and meaner. The seventh ball I throw right at him. The chicken-wire screen protects him, but it feels good to have scared him. The people watching are getting loud, half of them want Tucker wet, the other half don’t. Balls eight through eleven aren’t even close. Ball twelve hits dead on, but Tucker doesn’t drop.

  “YOU GOT TO THROW IT HARDER, YOU WIMP! YOU GIMP!”

  This has become an exercise in humiliation. Everybody is laughing and I’m suddenly angry. Tucker is having a field day with my name and the length of my hair and the rust on my truck. Normally I could ignore it, but not in this situation, not today, not now. Ball thirteen slips out of my hand. I bend down to pick it up, when Arnie ducks under the sawhorse divider and runs straight at the bar. Tucker sees this, but before he can stand up, Arnie pushes the red bull’s-eye, the tractor tire seat drops, and Tucker falls in the water. The people cheer.

  Victory, Arnie Grape style.

  I reward my retard brother with a celebratory malt at the Dairy Dream. We drive home. He goes to bed early because the “horsies” wore him out. I lie in my bed, horny as all get-out, and think about the girl from Michigan. I picture it all perfectly. After I relieve myself, I clean up, using an old sock.

  12

  It’s the next morning, and I’m back at work, describing Arnie’s carnival experience. Mr. Lamson laughs so hard he cries. “That brother of yours—a good boy,” he says.

  I’m sweeping Aisle Four when Mrs. Betty Carver comes around the corner carrying a box of brown sugar.

  “Gilbert?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Carver, I know, Mrs. Carver. I’ve made an appointment for two P.M. today!” I say this loud because I know Mr. Lamson is listening. He walks up behind her, looking puzzled.

  “I missed my appointment—I’m sorry—I’ll do it today. Really sorry, Mrs. Carver!”

  She holds out the box of brown sugar and says, “How much?”

  “Huh?”

  “There’s no price on the box. How much?”

  “Oh.”

  Mr. Lamson says, “The sticker must have fallen off, because Gilbert doesn’t miss a box.”

  “I’m not here to scold or condemn,” she says. “I’m only here for the sugar.”

  Mr. Lamson takes the box and they go to ring it up. As she walks out the door, she looks back my way and I shake my head.

  “Don’t worry, boss, I’ll be using my lunch hour to go to my appointment.”

  “Of course, son.”

  “I messed up on Wednesday, sir, and now it’s getting way out of hand.”

  “Life’s like that.”

  ***

  It’s my lunch hour. The clock on the outside of the Endora Savings and Loan blinks out 1:55, then 97 degrees, 1:55, 97 degrees, 1:56. I drive by the insurance office and see Mr. Carver’s car. I keep on driving, though, down Elm Street and two miles out the south end of town. I turn left at Potter’s bridge, make a right at the shingled mailbox and do it all in record time. I pull into the driveway of a two-story farmhouse with green shutters. The door to the red brick garage opens—eager to swallow my truck and me. I pull into the garage. Using my fingers like a comb, I try to make my hair nice. She is watching me from the side porch, looking lovely, holding the controls for the garage. She pushes the button and the door begins to close. I have to crouch to get out in time.

  “Your hair looks fine,” she says, turning and going back inside.

  I smile, but my thoughts are “Here we go again.” We’re in the house fast. All these precautions seem absurd now, but when we began all those years ago, it was the only way. When the Carvers moved to the country, I thought the need for secrecy would lessen. But Mrs. Betty Carver respects tradition, and this, I’m afraid, is ours.

  She has changed to work-around-the-house clothes. Her hair looks as if she took a brush and unbrushed it. Her lips are made up bright red.
She smells like expensive soap and her teeth are shiny white. She does not in any way look like her name. It’s not her fault that she was born in a time when people believed in names like Wanda, Dottie, and Betty. She’s more of a Vanessa or Paulina.

  “You got dough and stuff on your fingers,” I say.

  “I’m making cookies.” She washes her hands, then dries them off with a flower-patterned towel. She takes out a food timer and sets it for eighteen minutes.

  I say, “Cookies take that long?”

  “This isn’t for cookies. You know that.”

  “I know. Isn’t eighteen minutes an odd time, though?”

  “I like odd times.” Mrs. Betty Carver has never looked so ready. It’s been a while since our last uhm whatever you want to call what we’re about to do here.

  “What kind you making?”

  “Oatmeal.”

  “Oh,” I say. That explains the Quaker Oats from Wednesday and the brown sugar from this morning.

  “I was a good actress today, wasn’t I? And Wednesday, too. Really believable. They don’t suspect a thing. Nobody does. Nobody ever will.”

  I tell her that she should have given me more notice.

  “Wednesday. I was expecting you Wednesday.”

  The timer ticks.

  I start to say “I’m here now, aren’t I?” when Betty, who-doesn’t-look-like-a-Betty Carver, wife of the only remaining insurance man in Endora, mother of two little snotty boys, Todd and Doug, covers my mouth with her now clean, soap-smelling hands. Talking is not the idea of this.

  She points to a slip of paper on the counter. As I dial the number written down, she unhooks the barrette in her hair. She unbuttons her shirt. She takes it off. She lifts my T-shirt and kisses my stomach—leaving the red shape of her lips like a scar.

  “I’m dialing,” I say, hoping she’ll wait till I’m done.

  She unzips my pants. Kissing my tummy, she licks lower. I dialed wrong, I think. I hang up and she giggles. I dial again as she pulls down my underwear.