What's eating Gilbert Grape? (3 page)

PETER HEDGES

It is a white building with gray steps, red trim, and a sincere sign that reads, "Lamson Grocery—Serving you since 1932."

I push open the door that says enter and see Mr. Lamson at the cash register. His wife of a thousand years is in the little closetlike cubicle that we use as our office, stacking pennies. The store is empty of customers. As I get my apron from off the hook, he says, "Good morning, Gilbert."

"Hi, boss." I poke my head in the cubicle and say, "Good morning, Mrs. Lamson." She looks up and smiles the nicest smile. I get the push broom from the back and start sweeping Aisle One.

Mr. Lamson moves toward me, his hands in his pockets. "Son, are you all right?"

"Uhm, yeah. Why?"

"You look like you aged ten years. Honey, look at Gilbert."

"I'm in the middle of counting."

"Is something wrong at home?"

There is always something wrong at home. "No, sir," I say.

Mrs. Lamson pokes her head out of the ofiRce. "Oh, he just looks tired. You just look tired, that's all."

"Is that what it is?"

"You're looking at me like I'm dying, please, I'm not dying. It was an early morning. I took Arnie out to see the carnival rides come in. I didn't get a whole lot of sleep."

"How do they look?"

"The rides? Okay, I guess. You know, same old rides."

Mr. Lamson nods as if he knows what I mean. He goes to the cash register, rings it open, and brings me a crisp five. "This will help."

"Huh?" I say.

"Arnie and the merry-go-round. This will get him a couple of rides, right?"

"Yes, sir," I say. "It will buy a bunch of tickets."

"Good." Mr. Lamson Wcdks away.

There is nothing he wouldn't do for Arnie. I put the five in my back pocket and continue my sweep.

What's Eating Gilbert Grape

I'm whipping down Aisle Four, my rhythm really rolling, when I see two feet in ladies' shoes. A cloud of dust floats over these shoes, and 1 look up to find Mrs. Betty Carver standing before me dressed like a Sunday-school teacher. She sneezes.

"Gilbert."

"Hi," 1 say.

"Bless me."

"Huh?"

"You bless a person when they sneeze."

"Oh. Bless you."

"I cant reach the Quaker Oats. Could you for me?"

"Yes, ma'am."

She smiles when 1 say "ma'am." I notice my fingernails are dirty. I try to hide my hands.

The Quaker Oats are on the top shelf in Aisle Three, and I'm tall enough to reach. I hand her a box. Mr. Lamson comes around the corner and says, "Oh, Gilbert got that for you. Good."

Mrs. Betty Carver suddenly blurts out, "Is Gilbert a good employee?"

"Yes. The best I've ever had."

"He's reliable, I assume. Conscientious?"

"Yes. Very."

She follows him to the cash register. "I'm perplexed, then. Why is it, do you think, that he's not prompt with his insurance payments? For his truck. Why do you think that is?"

Mrs. Betty Carver is the wife of Ken Carver, the only insurance man left in Endora.

"I'm afraid you'll have to ask Gilbert that."

She turns to look at me.

"I'm sorry," I say. "I'll take care of it right away."

"Of course you will," Mr. Lamson says. "In fact, Gilbert, why don't you run on over there and set the matter straight right now? "

"No!" Mrs. Carver practically shouts. Then looking at me, and in this churchlike voice she says, "I believe an afternoon appointment would be better. "

I look at my feet and say nothing.

Mrs. Betty Carver and the Quaker Oats are gone.

PETER HEDGES

"That woman could have been a movie star," Mrs. Lamson says. "Don't you think, dear?"

"Prob'ly so," Mr. Lamson says, all the while looking at me. "You think she could have been a movie star, Gilbert, huh?"

I find the broom and go back to sweeping.

It's forty minutes later and there have been no customers since Mrs. Betty Carver. I'm in the back of the store. Mr. and Mrs. Lamson are up front. Opening a carton of eggs, I drop two of them on the floor. I break the shells of three more. I make a noise like I just fell. From the floor I start yelling, "Darn it. Man! I can't believe this!"

Mr. Lamson hurries down Aisle Three. "What is it? What's wrong?"

He sees the eggs. I sit there, my hands covering my face. "I can't believe this day. I'm sorry. I'm really sorry, boss. ..."

"It's all right, son. You're having one heck of a day."

"Yes, sir."

"Listen. Clean up the mess, okay? Then take the rest of the day off."

"No, I can't do that."

"I insist."

"But ..."

"Gilbert, I know when you need a day off."

I pick up the shell bits with my fingers and then mop up the rest—half impressed at my theatrics, half ashamed that I've deceived him. Never has a man been so good, so honest.

As I'm hanging up my apron, Mr. Lamson approaches. "Just a friendly reminder. I know that it isn't any of my business. ..."

"The insurance?" I ask.

"Yes."

"I intend to take care of that today, sir."

"I knew you would. You're a good employee, son. You're the best I've ever had."

There was a time when I would have agreed with him.

I'm heading out the door when he says, "Gilbert, keep hanging in there."

What's Eating Gilbert Grape

I stop and look at him.

"Why do you think that you should keep hanging in there?"

Nothing will come out of my mouth. I'm stumped.

"Because ..." Mr. Lamson pauses in that I'm-about-to-say-the-most-important-thing-ever way. "Because ..."

"Yes," I say, trying to hurry him along.

"Because there will be wonderful surprises."

Taking a moment to soak that in, I then smile as if to say "I hope so" and proceed to leave by the wrong door.

I get in my truck and start it up.

Inside the store, the Mrs. brings her husband a clean rag and he begins polishing the cash register. They must sense me watching because they look my way and wave in unison.

I drive off.

I feel sorry for them, believing in me the way they do. I'm not the stock boy I once was. Plus, there's nothing worse than being told you're good when you know you're bad. For a moment, I even mourn for the eggs. Their sudden, tragic death at the hands of a deceptive employee. Life might be full of wonderful surprises as Mr. Lamson says. But more than that I believe Life is full of unfairness. I offer the fate of the eggs as proof of my point.

Lt isn't even eleven in the morning and already the day is boiling hot, the seat in my truck is on fire, and I'm sweaty wet. How I wish I were a fish.

I drive two blocks to that bastion of security and protection. Carver's Insurance. Housed in an old gas station that's been converted. Carver's Insurance is one of the many buildings in Endora that have been remodeled or made over—only Lamson Grocery has remained the same.

I pull into the gravel parking lot. Tears of sweat roll down the

PETER HEDGES

back of my legs as I climb out of my truck. I'm careful going inside because there's a bell above the door that smacks in your ear. Clink, clank, dong, bang.

Melanie, Mr. Carver's secretary, looks up, startled, as if she can't believe the sight of another human being. She puts the cap on her White-out and says, "Well, hello there, Gilbert Grape."

"Hi," 1 say.

Melanie wears her red hair in a beehive style that is completely out of date. She has a mole on her face that must weigh a pound and a half, but I guess she's nice enough. She's over forty but has always insisted that we call her by her first name. When I was in high school, she worked as the library monitor. She would let me sleep in the conference room. Once I saw her smoking, and something about her smoking disappointed me.

"Are you here to see Mr. Carver?"

He calls from the back, "Is that you, Gilbert? Melanie? Is that Gilbert Grape?"

"Yes. Hello," 1 say. "1 think I'm late on my payment."

Melanie doesn't even check my file. "You are late, Gilbert. Write us a check for a hundred twenty-three dollars and forty-three cents, and then you can scoot on out of here." She closes the door to Mr. Carver's office. "But you're always late with your payments— why the sudden appearance of responsibility, why now?"

"Oh, I'm trying, you know, to better my life."

Melanie smiles. Bettering your life, getting a fresh start, the bright side. Spout these concepts daily and you will survive in Endora; you might even thrive.

"You don't need an appointment, am I right? You just need to pay up."

"No. Uhm, also I've some confusion regarding my whatever you call what insurance does for you."

"1 think you're inquiring about your benefits."

"Yes, that's it."

"So am I hearing that you actually do need an appointment?"

1 don't know what Melanie is hearing. I can hardly talk to that hairstyle of hers. 1 wish I had a can of paint and a pair of hedge clippers. Fortunately I rarely speak what 1 think.

What's Eating Gilbert Grape

"An appointment would be most opportune."

"Gilbert, what a fine vocabulary you have."

I want to explain that any flashes of intellect that spit through me are a tribute to the many study halls I spent sleeping in the library. "1 only have you to thank for my vocabulary. I owe it all to you. Melanie."

"You charmer."

"No, I mean it."

"Well then, you exaggerate."

"No, 1 do not. All those study halls we shared. You were the finest study hall supervisor at the school. No question about it in my mind or in anyone else's."

"How kind of you to say that."

"Is it kind if it's the truth?"

"Oh, I don't know. Rest assured, I love working for Mr. Carver— 1 would never say otherwise—and I believe in Insurance. But, between you and me, 1 miss working at the high school."

"And the high school misses you, I'm sure."

"The high school is closed, Gilbert. How could it miss me?"

"It would if it could."

"I'm hard to anger, you know that, but I could bite off the heads of the people who made that decision to close our high school. Busing all those kids to Motley."

"Well, everyone's moving away."

"1 know, but still."

"There were thirty-nine in my freshman class and only twenty-three were left when we graduated."

"You don't say. Well, we could talk all day, couldn't we? We have so much in common, don't you think?"

I don't know how to answer that without lying in the most blatant of ways. "So much in common, yes, come to think of it."

"I've cdways thought it a shame that we're not the same age. You older or me younger. We'd have made a lovely couple, don't you think? Really, it's quite a shame."

"A pity."

"Yes, pity is a good word."

I left this conversation hours ago, but somehow my mouth is

PETER HEDGES

still moving, words are still forming, and none have seemed to offend. Amazing, the mind. My mind, I mean. Not hers.

It's suddenly down to business for Melanie. Her voice becomes sharp and biting. "So you'd like to make an appointment to see Mr. Carver?"

"Yes, ma'am. Please."

"One moment." She stands, moves to his door, and taps ever so lightly. She gently pushes it open. I hear classical music playing from inside his office. It takes a few minutes but soon she's standing in the doorway, smiling as if she's the most wonderful news. "How fortunate. You can see Mr. Carver right now if you'd like."

Mr. Carver calls out, "It would be a treat to see you! Step on back and let's see what we can do."

"Thank you, Mr. Carver, but I'll have to come back later. Errands and all."

Mr. Carver says, "Oh," like he's about to cry, Melanie smiles, smacks her lips and says, "I know how that is. I run errands day in, day out. Sometimes I think it's all I do."

"Well ..."

She opens his appointment Ccdendar, which, for this particular Wednesday, the first day of summer, is completely blank. "Well, you have picked a marvelous day. Mr. Carver lunches at noon sharp. He's back at one sharp. At four o'clock, he and his wife are driving to Boone to make a surprise visit to their boys at church camp. So up until four, you have free rein."

"How does two sound?"

"Perfect. A perfect time for an appointment. If it suits you, that is."

"Yeah, fine."

"We'll see you at two o'clock sharp, then."

"Okay."

"Have a nice day. And hello to Amy, your family. Your mother. I haven't seen your mother in years. How is she?"

"Oh, you know ..."

"No, I don't. It's been some time since I've ..."

I say, "Big things are happening for her, big things." I'm backing up toward the door.

What's Eating Gilbert Grape

Melanie puts a finger over her mouth, signaling me to be quiet. Then she waves me over to her and whispers, "You haven't mentioned my new hairdo? "

"That's true."

"You like it, don't you?"

"Oh, it's you."

"You think?"

"It suits you perfectly."

Melanie stops for a moment. She shines—all four and a half feet of her. I don't know how 1 did it, but somehow 1 made this woman's day. "If 1 were any younger ..."

Oh God. Here we go again. Leap for the door, Gilbert. "Bye now!" I open the door slowly but still the bell jingles and clinks.

L drive off with the windows rolled down. My hair is getting blown all over, scratching my eyes. My hair is so long that it's beginning to eat my head.

I pass Endora's Gorgeous, one of two beauty parlors in town, and suddenly the image of Melanie's bright red cotton-candy hairdo returns to haunt me. The way it stands straight up, it's like a new eraser on an old pencil. I try to picture her after a morning bath, her hair all wet and droopy. She looking in the mirror, trying to create the lie she tells herself to get up and get moving. I'll never know how she keeps such a positive point of view. If 1 were her, I think I'd cry all day, all night.

My truck's gas gauge says it all. I drive over to the other side of town and pull up at Dave Allen's station. Buying my gas from Dave is a pleasure because of his cord or tube or whatever you call the black thing that stretches across the station. It's supposed to go bing-bing or bong-bong or ding-ding when tires go over it. The one at Dave's stopped working several years ago, and he won't