What's eating Gilbert Grape? (15 page)

"What do you think?" I ask, hoping that she'll send a compliment Tucker's way and silence the Becky tirade.

"Hmmmm," she purrs.

"Is that all? Hmmmm? Is that all you have to say?"

"No."

Tucker, up near the ceiling, straddling two lower boards, looks at Ellen, expectant.

Ellen speaks. "She's not what you guys think. She's not so pretty really. That's what Randi Stockdale from Motley says. She says that if the Miss Iowa pageant were held tomorrow, this 'girl' wouldn't make quarterfinals even. And Randi would know, wouldn't she? Yes, I think so. I urge you to spread the word, okay? She's not so cute. Really, she's not." Ellen walks back to the washer and dryer. She finds her Dairy Dream uniform in a laundry basket and as she walks past us, she says, "There are pretty girls right here in Endora. Right under your noses." She carries her uniform upstairs, holding it like it's a baby.

What's Eating Gilbert Grape

"You hungry?" I say.

Tucker looks at me and says, "How'd she know?"

"You can have my sandwich. I won't be eating."

"Sure." Tucker dives for the food. "Gilbert, your sister like just read our minds. Does this not amaze you?"

"No."

"We were talking about the new girl and then she like appeared and somehow knew ..."

"Tucker," I interrupt, "she was standing at the top of the stairs listening to us for the past ten minutes."

"Yeah? How do you know?"

"I could smell her."

"Oh."

He begins to inhale both sandwiches. For a little guy he's got quite an appetite. With his mouth full, he garbles, "You lie. You didn't know she was listening."

"1 can smell her lotion. I'm not kidding. Like right now, she's listening right now."

"I wasn't listening to you guys!" Ellen shouts down.

Tucker looks confused. I simply laugh.

It's an hour later and we're still tightening and screwing and bolting.

"How much longer, you think?" I ask.

"Depends. "

"Depends on what?"

"On how easily you satisfy."

"Oh, I satisfy very easily," I say.

"I know. That's why you live as you do."

I'd be eternally grateful to my mother if she could fall through these support boards right now and crush Tucker in the process.

"Your hair is getting stringy, Gilbert. The way you neglect the washing of your truck. Those rare times when you speak the words 'Thank you.' All of this points to my uhm ..."

"Conclusion."

"Conclusion, yes, that you're not interested in being complete, being ..."

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"Thorough."

"Huh?"

"The word is thorough."

"I know! See, you don't let me finish. ..."

The phone rings upstairs. Please be for me.

"Hold it. Tucker—hold that thought."

I can hear Amy walking toward the basement door. She opens it and calls down, "Gilbert."

"Don't lose that thought. Tucker."

Upstairs Amy stands with a bowl of cookie batter in her arms. She says, "That was Sheriff Farrell on the phone. Arnie's climbed the water tower."

I say, "I'll get him," because I'm always the one to get him. But before I start out, two of my fingers slip into the batter and I get a mouthful. Amy slaps my hand but I get it behind my teeth and smile.

I'm going to let the screen door slam loudly so as to communicate to the women in my family that I am fed up with being the one who always has to get Arnie down from the water tower. I send the door flying, and as I bounce outside, I hear Amy say, "Don't let the door ..." but it slams before she can say "slam."

23

It started last summer. Arnie found out he could scale the water tower and so now he does it every chance he gets.

When I arrive there, I find a small crowd staring up in awe. Arnie is hanging off the railing, dangling by his arms. Sheriff Farrell says, "You better get him, son. No way am I going up there." I scream "Arnie!" and as he shakes his feet, one of his shoes falls to the ground. The water tower is tall and if he falls, then no more Arnie. I climb up the metal ladder on the side fast. The kid is giggling, having the time of his life. He's never shown off like this before. It must be because the police lights are flashing.

What's Eating Gilbert Grape

I get up to him.

"Gilbert, they're watching Arnie. They're watching Arnie."

I say, "Course they are," as I pull him to safety.

We climb down.

We're halfway to the ground and I'm already out of breath; my jeans are full of sweat, and the crowd, for whatever reasons, won't go away.

Sheriff Farrell waits, holding the shoe. When we touch down, I take it and put it on Arnie's foot and tie the laces in a square knot.

I say, "It's okay now. I'll get him home. It won't happen again."

"Son, we hear this every time. And then a couple of days later here we are again." Sheriff Farrell has a toothpick in his mouth and never has a toothpick looked so menacing.

"I know, but this time I'm sure was the last time. Wasn't it, buddy?" Arnie stares at his feet, his bottom lip pushed out. "Wasn't it!" I squeeze his arm hard. Arnie doesn't budge.

"This is the ninth or tenth time. I got to take him in. You understand."

"What?"

"We'll take him to the station. We'll fingerprint him. Lock him up for a bit. We told you, we told your sister the next time this happened, we'd have no choice. This is the next time, so don't act surprised that this is happening."

Blood rushes to my face; my heart races. I say, "Oh, come on."

"I'm sorry, son."

1 whisper, "But he's retarded."

Sheriff Farrell says, "Seems pretty clever to me," as he moves the toothpick from side to side.

So Arnie, my retard brother, who cries because he killed a grasshopper, is taken in the police car and driven off to jail. As they put him in the back, I hear him say, "Be sure to flash the lights and play the siren. Okay?" Arnie waves to the crowd like he's in a parade, the car drives off. But there is no siren or lights. No hoopla.

The people watching are whispering to themselves and two young girls are laughing. They are Tom Keith's little sisters, and

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the Sight of them in their pink dresses and plastic barrettes pisses me off. I flip them the bird. Some mother says, "Real good example you're setting, Gilbert Grape." I don't respond to supermom. I just get in my truck and hurry on home.

As I'm pulling out, I see the Becky girl standing there in a pair of white shorts and halter top. She's with an old lady who must be her grandma. She's holding a peach. She takes a bite and half smiles. I spin out of there and race home. I just flipped off two ten-year-olds, I think to myself. Surely that looked real impressive to Becky. Oh, fuck her. She eats people.

At home Amy stands waiting on the porch. When she asks, "Where's Arnie?" I start laughing and not because it's funny. I say, "They took him to jail. *' Amy can't believe it, and then, from inside the house, we hear, "They did what?"

Amy says, "Nothing, Momma."

"I thought she was asleep," I whisper.

"I heard you," Momma says. "What did they do to Arnie?"

Amy and I look at each other. "We've got to tell her," Amy says.

So we do, and when Momma hears, she hits her fist on the table, spilling the milk from her Cheerios. "Get my coat."

I look at Amy with a face of "What did she just say?" We plead with her to stay home, but she won't hear of it. "Maybe you should ..."

"Get my coat!"

Amy gets Momma's black coat, which looks more like a pup tent. Working fast on the shoe problem, I come up with a solution. I dig my winter boots out of the hcdl closet. Momma stuffs her feet in them. She's ready for snow.

Amy says, "You'd think the police would have something better to do than pick on some poor boy who likes to climb water towers."

Momma doesn't say a word. Her face has turned bright red— she is practically growling.

I bolt down the stairs and explain to Tucker that Momma is on the warpath. I urge him to work quickly. "Maybe you can finish by the time we get back."

What's Eating Gilbert Grape

"Maybe," Tucker says.

The creaks and plaster cracking Indicate that Momma has begun her journey across the living room to the front door.

I'm up the stairs fast.

Outside I clean out all the wrappers and cups and papers from the floor and dash of Amy's Nova. I jam the front seat back as far as possible. Momma oozes out of the house. Amy follows. 1 hold open the passenger door like a chauffeur as Momma squeezes in. It must be ninety-five degrees out and Momma is dressed for winter. I'm wanting to ask her if she realizes how long it's been since her last "public " appearance, but I say nothing. Amy climbs in back and I'm set to drive. With Momma in the car we all tilt to the right. I look back at Amy and try to say with my eyes that I don't know if the car can make it. Amy looks back and with her eyes says, 1 know what you mean. Momma demands her cigarettes so I run back inside and bring three packs. It could be a long day.

The county jail is in Motley. It's a twenty-minute drive In ideal circumstances but with the added baggage, the trip could take thirty-five, forty minutes.

We're driving through town to get to Highway 13, when Momma says, "Get Ellen. " I say, "She's working," and Amy says that we can handle this alone, but Momma won't hear of it. She repeats, "Get Ellen, " and when Momma repeats, you can bet it's done.

We lurch on toward the Dairy Dream.

Ellen is giving change to two little boys with ice cream cones when she turns and sees us pulling into the gravel parking lot. Her mouth drops open and anyone can see the blood leave her face. I get out of the car and approach the take-out window,

"Come on," I say.

She says, "What happened?" and I say it's Arnie and that he's all right but that she's got to come with me because Momma wants her too.

Ellen is working this particular day with a certain Cindy Mansfield who is not only a born-again Christian but, at seventeen years of age, also the assistant manager. She has hopes of owning

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the Dairy Dream someday. As Ellen walks out and the bell makes its noise, Cindy asks in a panic, "Did anybody die?" I want to say. My sincerest hope is that you, Cindy, might die within the day. Instead I say, "No one died. Yet."

So most of the Grape family is driving down the highway. Amy has moved behind Momma. Ellen sits behind me looking like a nurse in her white polyester outfit. She tries to check her makeup in the rearview mirror. Amy presses the tips of her fingers together and smiles, a sure sign that she's worried. I roll down the window a crack because, quite honestly. Momma hasn't bathed in some time and the smell is too much.

Amy says, "Gilbert, the radio."

Momma grunts something.

I spin the dial, checking stations when I come across Elvis singing "In the Ghetto."

"Turn that up," Amy asks. I do. She mouths the words and I'm grateful she doesn't sing.

No one is talking, and after the song it's the news—Momma moves her hand in a turn-off motion. The inside of our car is silent now. Amy says that a person can take only so much news and that she hopes Arnie is okay. She quickly adds, "Of course he's okay. They're probably just trying to teach him a lesson."

Ellen, having recently completed her lip-gloss touch-up and eyeshadow check, says, "Would someone be so kind as to inform me of what is going on here, what has happened to our Arnie?" Sometimes I wonder who taught Ellen how to talk. Where she gets off sounding like some big-city girl is beyond me. She is from Endora, I want to remind her. She's not royalty, for Christ's sake. She's a Grape.

I condense the sequence of events and recount them for the little princess. Amy adds comments and Momma just sighs and moans during the bad parts.

Motley, Iowa, is the county seat. It is a town of over five thousand and is loaded with fast-food establishments, a discotheque/

What's Eating Gilbert Grape

bowling alley, and two movie theaters. The police office/county jail is smack downtown and the only parking spot I can find is across the street. I'm hoping Momma will wait in the car, but when she throws open her door, all hope dies. As she struggles to her feet, the passing shoppers and the kids on bikes all stop and stare. A dog barks. Momma stands her ground though, her black coat and my winter boots there to support. The girls and I walk toward the station. Traffic slows. Motley is silenced. It takes five minutes for Momma to make it across the street.

County Sheriff Jerry Farrell had, or so the story goes, proposed to Momma the same summer my father did. And after Daddy killed himself. Officer Farrell would patrol by our house and wave to us kids. At one of Larry's Little League games, you might look over and see him in uniform, sitting on the hood of his police car by left field, cheering my brother on. The one time Larry got a hit. Officer Farrell flashed the police lights. You can bet that Arnie squealed. Officer Farrell was so in love with my mother.

They haven't seen each other in years.

When I open the police-station door for Momma, a bell rings or dings and she squeezes through. I watch as Sheriff Farrell looks up from his desk and the expression on his face turns to one of sudden death. His eyes are stuck open; it's like they've filled with milk.

Momma says, "I've come for my son."

The radio dispatcher stops in mid-sentence, two secretaries look up, mouths drop open, and a young officer stares at Sheriff Farrell with a look that says "What do I do?"

While looking at his black shoes, the sheriff says, "You'll need to fill these papers out."

"No. I don't fill out papers."

"Police procedure requires ..."

"No, Jerry. Give me my boy."

"But, Bonnie ..."

"My boy. I want my boy."

Sheriff Farrell looks at the young officer who disappears down the hall fast. In a matter of seconds Arnie rounds the corner. The young officer says he's free to go.

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As we're leaving and the bell is tingling or dingling, I look back and see Sheriff Farrell slumped in his chair, not able, I guess, to digest the sight of Momma. I shut the glass door hard, making the bell chime out in hopes that it might snap the sheriff out of it. He doesn't even twitch.