What's eating Gilbert Grape? (28 page)

Ellen is saying, "Please, Momma. Hang on. Momma!"

Amy starts apologizing. "I'm sorry. It's all my fault. 1 love you. Momma. Don't, don't give up. Dr. Harvey's coming. He's coming."

For some reason I start hitting the back of her head, popping it hard. Suddenly, the chunk or mass or blockage of food erupts out, liquid comes out her nose and the food bullets down on the table.

Momma breathes in deep and fast. Loud and scared.

Dr. Harvey hits the door running. He wears pajama tops and dress slacks. He hurries to Momma. We clear out of the way and wait to do whatever he asks.

It's fifteen minutes or so later, and Dr. Harvey is leaning toward Momma, who whispers that her throat is sore.

"It probably feels like you delivered a baby out your mouth." Dr. Harvey says that to lighten the tension, to keep us loose, but

PETER HEDGES

no one laughs. I can tell he regrets saying that by the way he smiles.

I've washed my hands. Amy is cleaning up the broken glass and Momma sits in her chair, still shaken.

Most doctors would have left by now but not Dr. Harvey. He was my father's best friend. He moves next to Arnie and explains for yet a third time that Momma's going to be all right. Arnie keeps repeating "not funny, not funny."

Ellen is getting the vacuum cleaner for Amy when I see the McBurney Funeral Home hearse pull into our driveway. 1 am out of the house fast.

"You get the fuck out of here, motherfucker! Go! Go!"

I'm pounding on the hood of the hearse. Bobby McBurney is inside and he goes to lock the doors. But 1 get the passenger side open before he can lock it and 1 grab him and say, "You got some nerve. She isn't dead. My mother isn't dead! You fuck!"

I'm about to punch him, he's white in the face and smelling like some cologne or something—when Ellen screams from the porch, "Stop it! Stop it!"

I pull back, get out of the hearse, and point firmly, violently for Bobby to drive away. "Get out of here, you motherfucker."

"He's my date."

"Huh?"

"Bobby's my date."

Bobby shifts to reverse and starts to back out.

"Oh, great!" Ellen shouts. "This is the end of my entire life!"

She bursts into tears, Bobby is terrified and as he shifts to drive, I run out in front to block his escape. He drives toward me—I climb up on the hood. "Let me explain," I'm saying. Bobby shakes his head. "Let me explain, Bobby. Our mother ..."

Ellen is running alongside the hearse, squeezing her Bible. "Gilbert thought you were coming for Momma. Bobby, our mother just about died. He thought that's what ..."

Bobby stops the hearse. He won't look at me. 1 ripped a couple of buttons off his shirt, his neck is red where I was squeezing it.

I slide off the hood. "I'm sorry," I say to Ellen. She tells Bobby that she has to cancel the date—what with Momma and all. I tell

What's Eating Gilbert Grape

her to go on. "Have a great time. Amy and me will take care of Momma."

She reluctantly gets in the McBurney Funeral Home hearse, and they drive off. I'm walking back to the house when I find Amie clinging to a tree. 1 peel him off and we go up the porch steps.

Inside, Dr. Harvey is making Momma drink water.

"It hurts to swallow," she says.

He refills the glass.

She takes a small sip and says, "It hurts."

42

\,t must he midnight now. Looking out the kitchen window, I see her lit cigarette. I go to Amy, who is spooning Momma some applesauce. Amy says, "All is calm now, Gilbert. You go out for as long as you need." Momma looks puzzled and Amy says to her, "Gilbert's friend is out back."

I called Becky after Dr. Harvey left half an hour ago. She said she'd be over right away. She asked what this was all about and I said, "Nothing, really." But I'm sure she heard the quiver in my voice.

I walk out the back door. We don't hug or kiss. It's more of a handshake than anything. I explain the day; the trampoline, the little brother who won't bathe, the taste of death.

Soon I'm pacing in my backyard, the dry grass scratching my bare feet. Arnie is in bed, Ellen's still out, and as Amy sits with Momma, watching an old movie, the house glows blue from the TV.

"It's like you're somewhere else."

"Yes," I say. "We almost lost Momma."

"Oh," she says. "But she didn't die. That's good, right?"

I don't say a thing.

"You're not happy about that?"

PETER HEDGES

I shrug.

"You want a drag?"

I shake my head.

Becky exhales. Her air sounds nice.

I sit on the swing out back. She's on the ground in front of me, her legs crossed Indian style. The sky is full of many stars.

"I feel like dancing," she says. "Or running around naked, singing to the moon. Something to remind the living."

"Huh?"

"Remind the living."

"Of what?"

"That we're alive."

"I know I'm alive, thank you very much."

Becky puts the cigarette out on the bottom of her shoe, stands, and does a cartwheel. Then she starts this rhythmic, pulsing kind of movement. "Come on," she says.

I refuse to move.

"Your mistake," she says as her movements get even bigger, her arms whipping everywhere, her head and hair whooshing around.

"I make lots of mistakes," I say.

The last five minutes have felt like five hours. I'm still on the swing and Becky's rain dance has continued nonstop. I've no words. She is giggling and whooping and it's not like she's trying to pretend she's having a good time. She's not a faker. It's the middle of the night, we're in Endora, Iowa, and this girl is very much alive. I want to bury my head in my pillow. I walk over to a small tree of ours which has these orange berries. I yank off a handful and start tossing them at her. The first two miss, the third hits. She suddenly stops. She looks at me. Into my eyes. Piercing me.

I look at her like "What? What's wrong?"

"I don't know about you, Gilbert. You call me late at night . . . and I come over . . . you say nothing.

I throw a fourth berry, a fifth.

"... stop throwing those . . . you pretend like nothing ..."

Quickly picking a bunch of them, I wind up like the baseball

What's Eating Gilbert Grape

pitcher I never was and throw about ten berries. They spray Becky.

"... and then you throw things at me . . . !" She stops talking. She walks quickly to her bike, which leans against the side of the house. I follow after her. She starts to get on her bike and I say, "Let me walk you,"

"No."

"Let me, please."

"Fuck you."

"Sorry about the berries. Sorry."

We walk without words for some time. The only sound is the click from the bike and the crickets. She smokes. My hands tremble.

"You're so cut oflF from yourself."

"No, I'm not," I say, stuffing my hands in my pockets so she won't see them shake.

"Feelings, Gilbert. They're what people are supposed to have."

"I have feelings."

"Ha."

"I have plenty of . . ."

"You stopped having feelings a long time ago. Look at you. You cdmost lost your mother and you're out walking with me."

"Yes, because . . ."I say. "Because uhm I'm trying to live. Don't you see?"

She stares at me some more. Then she takes the handlebars, pulls her bike from me and gets on. Her cigarette drops to the ground.

"I feel! I'm a feeling guy!"

She rides away.

"You're just afraid of me, little girl! You're scared, too!"

She's gone.

I look down. Her cigarette is still smoldering. I bend down, pick it up, walk home down the middle of South Main, attempting to smoke what's left.

"Momma's sleeping, " Amy says, meeting me at the front door. I say, "That's good."

PETER HEDGES

"You know how long it's been since she slept at night?"

"True. All this commotion must have been hard for Momma to swallow."

Amy doesn't get my joke, which is not surprising for a woman who doesn't think our family is funny. "We almost lost her, Gilbert."

"Yep, I know."

Momma snores and snorts, and with each burst of sound. Amy seems to feel better and better.

The TV is on but the sound is down.

"Hey," I say. "Let's turn off the TV. It needs a rest." Our TV plays around the clock.

"Momma likes the light. Helps her sleep."

"Fine, okay, whatever."

"Gilbert?"

I'm on the second stair, heading to bed.

"Huh?"

Amy whispers this with special intensity.

"Let's make Arnie's birthday the best one ever. For Momma." The blue light from the TV casts a shadow on Amy. "Gilbert, did you hear me?"

I stop and look long at her. The flickering light makes my sister of thirty-four look about eighty-two.

"What's the matter?"

1 say, "Oh, I was just thinking how we're not so young anymore. 1 was thinking how 1 used to like us better."

"I know what you mean. 1 used to like us better, too. We never do anything. As a family. Like other families. Like real families. That's why Arnie's birthday is so uhm ..." Amy's thoughts trail off, partially because she's sleepy, but mainly because a thump, like a muffled drum beat, comes from upstairs. Arnie has begun his music making. The thump becomes a thud.

"I better stop the kid before he crushes his skull. You coming to bed?"

"Can't yet."

"Momma will be fine."

What's Eating Gilbert Grape

"Ellen, though."

"What? She's not back yet?"

Amy says, "No."

Arnie crouches on his knees and baps his head in his sleep. Instead of waking him, I jam a pillow between him and the headboard and this muffles the sound enough and pads his brain. Clouds of dust and dirt poof out with each thud.

Back downstairs, I offer to go drive around and find the puberty girl. Amy says no need. I'm going back upstairs, when she asks me to wait up with her. So I do. We watch an old movie with the sound down. Amy whispers, "I hope Momma doesn't wake up. Ellen still being out would worry her." This movie craves more commercial breaks.

I say to myself, Bobby McBurney better not touch my little sister or I'll beat his ass.

"Something going on, Gilbert?"

"Huh?"

"Somethingyou're not telling us about. You seem to be drifting."

Me? Never, I say to myself.

"You're not yourself. Your mind and such. Something going on?"

I must have fallen asleep, because I don't remember the answer 1 gave Amy or the end of the movie, for that matter. I wake up to find Amy opening the door for Ellen. 1 stand up fast, shake my face as my little sister bounds in with a "Howdy, everybody." Amy sighs and 1 look out the window and see Bobby and the hearse drive off.

"Good night, everybody, " Ellen sings as she skips up the stairs. The kid is so fast and we're so tired that she gets by us with no problem.

Amy looks at me. "Did you smell beer on her?"

I shrug.

"I smelled beer," she says.

It occurs to me that getting drunk is the right idea wasted on the wrong person. "You want me to talk to her?" I ask.

PETER HEDGES

"No."

"She's just a kid."

"I know. Tomorrow I'll lay down the law."

"Good," I say, knowing full well that Amy will turn soft. As I climb the stairs, two steps at a time. Amy goes to check on Momma and grab one last snack. Ellen has gone in the bathroom and as I pass the door, 1 hear her vomit. "Don't forget to flush," 1 say, through the door. 1 listen for an answer. She pukes again.

"Youth," 1 say to myself as I climb in my bed and put my left hand down my underwear.

Part

Five

"... she gets her braces off and she's like a dog without a leash for the first time. One minute she's a beauty queen—next minute she's a Christian—now she's staying out too late."

Amy's face is looking over me in my bed. I roll over on my stomach to hide my erection, the same one I went to sleep with last night.

"You've got to explain to her about guys, Gilbert—make her wise to men's true nature. Now that her teeth are straight, I fear the worst."

"Okay, okay. I'll talk to her."

Amy continues and I drown her sound by sandwiching my head between a pillow and my mattress. I squeeze it tight until she's gone.

First 1 throw on some shorts and a red-and-yellow Iowa State University T-shirt (Janice's alma mater). While peeing, 1 hold my breath—the bathroom is filled with Ellen's beer/vomit stench. I walk down the hall and knock on her door.

"It's open."

"Hey. Ellen."

My sister is lying on her pink bed. her face and hair still hung over. She is reading a National Geographic. In my nicest voice, I say, "Since when did you start reading that?"

"Since now."

"Reading stuff like that people will begin to think you're smart."

"Just don't tell anyone, then."

"People change. Your reading that proves my theory that people change."

"I'm not reading really. I'm just looking at the pictures." She's been flipping the pages very fast.

"I'm relieved you aren't reading. "

247

PETER HEDGES

She flips her hair back. We both know why I'm in her room and it's a waiting game to see who will speak first.

"Oh God!" Ellen says this, most likely, to avoid what I'm about to say.

"What is it?"

"Look at that."

Ellen shows me two pictures on a lost tribe from Africa or somewhere, some primitive tribe. The first picture I look at is a close-up of a man with a huge yellow hoop through his nose.

"Ouch," I say.

"Look at the other one."

It is five women and many babies. The women have no shirts or tops on, they are on the edge of water doing laundry by hand, their breasts are hanging out.

"Can you believe that?"

I shrug.

"This magazine is in libraries all over. These women aren't even ashamed, or embarrassed. I'd be so embarrassed."

"Speaking of embarrassment ..."

Ellen stops, she looks at me, squinting her eyes as if to burn a hole in my head. "I really can't be bothered, Gilbert."