“There, that’s better.”
Says who?
She lays the garment bag in back and climbs in the truck, all the time aware that a group of men watch her from inside the station. I screw on the gas cap while the boy brings the credit card on one of those portable credit card thingies for her to sign. He gets close and almost gags from the copious amounts of perfume and hair spray that she has applied. Janice signs her name in that elegant fashion of hers, she makes the “J” really big, and instead of dotting the “i” in her name, she makes a tiny heart.
***
As we drive, I fill in Janice on family matters. I preface each update with “Your retard brother,” “Your walrus mother,” “Your ever adolescent little sister.”
“Stop it. They’re your family, too.”
“Nope. Don’t think so.”
In disgust, she opens her blue purse and pulls out a long, skinny brown cigarette.
“You find everything about me pretty much repulsive?”
“Pretty much,” I say.
You don’t light a brown cigarette and then ask Gilbert Grape for an opinion.
We drive many miles in silence.
***
“Arnie’s still alive?”
“Yes,” I say.
“Good.”
My sister is digging for conversation material. It takes a few seconds for me to register the nature of her question and I say, “Oh my God. I forgot. He did die.”
“When?”
“About a month ago.”
“How was the funeral?”
“Lovely.”
“Many people?”
“The whole town.”
Whenever we imagine Arnie’s funeral, we picture tons of people.
I get this clear image of me helping to carry Arnie’s coffin, when Janice launches into a tirade about how we must prepare for the inevitable. She explains what I already know, that our little brother has lived way longer than anybody expected.
“I know.”
“We’d be fooling ourselves if we thought…”
“I know.”
In the air, I’m sure Janice is the best stewardess going, but on the ground, her brain latches onto her body and the psychologist we hoped she’d never be surges forth. She explains why Momma is so fat. “Wouldn’t you eat if you were her? Wouldn’t you hate living in the house where your husband died?” She provides insights into Amy and how she’ll never have a man because she puts the family first. This, too, can be explained because she’s the oldest, the “man” in the family, in a certain sense. Larry’s behavior is the easiest to understand. “The house is hell for Larry. It was Larry who found Daddy. The house brings all that back. Move to another house and I bet you’d see Larry all the time. Ellen never had a father and she’s seeking in all the boys she dates the father she never had. Arnie is retarded and that’s reason enough for why he does as he does.”
“That leaves you and me, Janice. How do you explain you and me?”
“Amy didn’t leave, so I did. Larry and I are the breadwinners.”
“I work….”
“The major breadwinners and that’s all right. It’s the part that makes us happiest. Keeping you all supported. It keeps us close.”
I want to tell Janice that because she sent her last check late, we had to go on credit with Mr. Lamson.
“You’re the only one, Gilbert, who defies a kind of definition or comprehension. I mean, one doesn’t know what you want. You don’t travel, you don’t read, you don’t expand yourself. I arrange for you to fly to Chicago, but you won’t get on a plane. You play it safe in all things and I’ve never known if it’s because you’re scared or if it’s because you’re just lazy. Of course, I love you and don’t in any way mean to hurt you. You need to examine your life on a deeper, more honest level. Quite simply—you don’t know what you want and it shows. You’re a scared little boy.”
I look at my sister smoking her brown cigarette, her cowboy boots resting on the dash, her makeup melting like chocolate in the heat—I look at her and consider the source.
Janice blows her brown smoke in my direction and a sudden urge to be anywhere but in this car with this particular sister hits. When the speedometer reaches 80, Janice begins to giggle. When it hits 90, she can no longer laugh. At 100 mph, she says “Not funny” three times. At 110, she digs for her seat belt and finds that it’s gone. She screams, holds onto her cowboy hat and claws my arm until the skin breaks and I bleed.
One wonders who’s scared now.
31
We pull into the drive in time for dinner. Janice jumps out before I even get the truck in park, grabs her bags, and goes upstairs. Amy meets me at the door, sees me holding my bloody arm, and asks, “Did you two fight?”
“Why would you even think such a thing? We had a marvelous time.”
I get Arnie to help bandage my arm. I’ve never been so proud of a wound. I hope it leaves a scar.
As we eat, Janice has lengthy conversations with Amy and Arnie and tosses comments across the kitchen into the dining room, where Momma occasionally grunts or moans in agreement. Janice is a big-city girl, so this gives her the right to tell us all about the “real” world. Amy is worried that the spaghetti isn’t done enough and Arnie is much more interested in getting a noodle from between his teeth. I have a great time agreeing with Janice. I keep saying “I know” to whatever she says and she does an amazing job ignoring me. Janice is real top-notch about denying what’s most obvious. I keep saying, “I know, I know.” Amy presses her foot on top of mine to get me to stop it.
“Ouch, Amy, you’re pressing on my foot.”
Amy pulls it off and looks at her beans. Arnie looks up and stares at Janice, squints as if he’s looking at something particular about her. He moves his face toward hers, so close that he’s about six inches away and this makes Janice even more self-conscious and she says, “What is it, Arnie?” and he says, “Nothin’,” and returns to his potatoes and beans.
After Momma falls back into a loud sleep, we move to the porch for a dessert of Popsicles and fudge bars. Ellen returns from work, and her reunion with Janice, as usual, is teary and screamy. They jump up and down like those little gymnast girls do at the Olympics.
Amy spoons out a plate of leftovers from the refrigerator. Ellen asks Janice hundreds of questions. Amy brings Ellen her plate, and she forgets to say thank you. The “girls” move upstairs. Their laughter and giggles grow even louder now. I’m convinced it’s because they’re mocking me and Amy’s certain they’re poking fun at her.
Amy and I sit on the porch swing watching Arnie attempting somersaults in the front yard.
“So how was today?” I ask.
“Arnie loved it. There must have been a thousand people there.”
“Oh God.”
“The fire got so hot and I had this rush of memories. I thought of walking to school. All of us walking to school. Funny.”
“Not really.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Yeah.”
“They let Arnie sit in one of the fire trucks. He wore a hat and everything.”
“That’s nice.”
“He kept asking for matches on the way home and I said, ‘No, matches are bad.’ After lunch, he dumped out the junk drawer on the kitchen floor, and I said, ‘Arnie, what are you doing?’ and he said, ‘Matches.’ But you know how it is when he gets something into his head…”
Upstairs this summer’s hit song plays on Ellen’s cassette deck. Their girlie screams accompany it.
“They’re having fun,” Amy says.
Arnie unearths a big rock and runs around the yard with it, threatening insects and shrubbery.
“Arnie!”
He stops and turns, his lips and chin covered with brown from the fudge bar.
“Arnie, what are matches?” I ask, my voice firm.
He smiles.
“What are they?”
He shakes his head.
“
Put down the rock and come here. Put it down.”
He drops it. Amy flinches because the rock just misses his bare feet. Arnie runs to us, his drool splashing the porch floor. “Matches are…” he says, searching for the words.
“Matches are what, Arnie? Are what?”
Amy adds, “You know what matches are.”
We wait a minute while Arnie slaps his head.
I say, “Matches are bad.”
“I know that, I know that.”
“Say it with me.”
And he does.
The screen door swings open—Janice says, “Tah-dah,” and Ellen steps out wearing one of Janice’s stewardess outfits. The blue dress fits tight across her breasts. Her hair is pinned up and she wears a stewardess hat.
Ellen turns like a runway model and Amy claps and I say, “Whoop-de-doo.”
Ellen calls to Arnie and says, “Hey, Arnie, look!”
He turns and says, “Yeah, so?” Then he lifts up his rock and disappears around the side of the house. He has the right idea.
Amy says, “You look great.”
I quickly pray for those two to go back upstairs when Janice puts a fist to her mouth, like a microphone, and speaks the following: “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. We’d like to welcome you to flight 161. Nonstop from Des Moines to Chicago’s O’Hare International Airport. For your flying safety, please direct your attention to one of our flight attendants who will go over safety procedures.” Janice points to Ellen, who stands waiting, beaming and nervous. “In the seat pocket behind you, you will locate a…”
This continues as Janice describes the safety features of our plane/porch and Ellen points to where oxygen masks would be. She pantomimes the “correct” seat-belt procedure and in the “unlikely event of a water landing” we learn that our supposed seat cushions will act as life preservers. Amy watches politely as my hands grip my head.
They finish with a flourish and I stand to go to the bathroom.
I sit on the toilet much longer than I need to. When I come out, I find Janice sitting in my spot on the porch swing. Walking back and forth, Ellen asks if she can keep the uniform on for a few hours. “To get used to the feel of it.”
“Practice makes…”
“I know,” Ellen says. She throws her arms in the air, gyrates in a these-clothes-are-the-greatest way.
I stare at Janice, who stretches out in my seat. I hate it when someone takes my place. Janice lights another brown cigarette and I consider pulling her up by her frosted hair when the phone rings.
“Gilbert Grape,” I say, happy to have been sprung from the activities outside.
“It’s me,” she says.
“Oh. Hello,” I say. There’s a long silence where I don’t know what to say. I start doodling on an old newspaper.
Becky speaks cheerily. “It’s no big deal, Gilbert—I just wanted you to know I’m going away. See my parents. Meeting up in Minneapolis. Just wanted you to know so when you came looking for me…”
I start to say, “Who says I’m going to come looking…”
She laughs. “Whatever. Just wanted you to know.”
“Okay,” I say. “Now I know.”
“Bye, then.” The phone clicks.
Weird call, weird girl. Come looking for her? Please. Gilbert Grape may be many things to many people but he’s not desperate.
***
Later I walk to my old school. I walk the way I did all those years. Left at the mailbox at the top of the street, cut through the Pfeiffers’ yard, past Tucker’s house, under the water tower, down Vine, and left on Third Street.
It is gone. My school. The ground is charred, with chunks of brick lying about, bits of popcorn, too. An orange ribbon, stapled to wooden stakes, surrounds the barren site.
My school is gone.
Part Four
32
Becky has been gone for three days. Don’t think for a moment I’ve missed her.
Lately my time has either been spent working at Lamson’s grocery or in long, intense meetings solidifying the plans for Arnie’s party. Janice and Ellen do most of the talking, Amy adds her wisdom. I was required to sit in and listen to these planning sessions. For the record, every suggestion I made was distorted or twisted or ignored. But as they would cackle on about what the “theme” colors should be, I was able to drift off and picture my life after Endora.
I liked what I saw.
***
Today is the Fourth of July. Twelve days and counting.
I’m standing outside the Dairy Dream, at my usual spot. Lori Kickbush, the girl working, is wearing blue lipstick and red-and-white eye shadow. She slides open the take-out window and I cover my eyes from the glare. She says, “You seen him? Huh? You seen him yet?”
“No.” My retinas have been seared. I will be blind by tomorrow.
“He’s over at Lloyd’s right now and Lloyd is cutting his hair.”
“Lloyd always cuts his hair.” Where has this girl been? I say, “Lloyd is like a father to him.” I order four soft drinks and a cup of ice water.
“Well, did you try to look in?”
“No,” I say, as if her question is the stupidest ever.
“Well, the shade is down and people are gathered all around.”
“Whoop-de-doo.”
“I think it’s great he came back for this. You know, there wouldn’t be a parade if it weren’t for him. He’s gonna ride in the basket part of the fire truck. With his mother.”
“No,” I say.
“Yes, Gilbert Grape. Oh, man. He’s the coolest. Lance Dodge is the coolest.”
“You think so, huh?”
“I’m surprised he could find the time. That just shows what kind of a person he is.”
“We were in the same class….”
“No way.”
“No, we were. We used to talk a lot. About everything.”
“What’s he like? My mother and me both have huge crushes on him. Oh my God. I didn’t know you knew him. I would have been much nicer to you over the last few years if I had known.”
“He’s Lance—what else can I say?”
The bell dings or dongs or whatever the stupid sound is and one of the two Little League teams in town crowds inside. They’re dressed in their blue-and-white uniforms and they are noisy. Their coach is a guy, Mike Clary, who was a year behind me in school. He is one of many who have known Janice in the biblical sense. He sees me through the glass. We both nod like we give a small shit about each other. Lori gives me a cardboard-cup holder for the water and the soft drinks and also an employee discount because of sister Ellen.
I push my way through the crowd. The town is packed with cars and people from faraway towns like Paxton and Andlan Center who have come to town to watch Endora’s first Fourth of July parade since 1959. Motley usually has the county parade. But since the end of May, when it was announced that Lance Dodge would be spending the Fourth with his mother in Endora, Mayor Gaps has been pushing for this year’s parade. It’s considered a great coup for the city fathers and a potential boon to our small businesses. Food Land, of course, remains open, but Mr. Lamson, who could make a tremendous profit today, closed up because “Americans don’t work on America’s birthday.”
I push through the crowd, most faces I don’t even recognize, and get to the girls. Janice takes her drink and Arnie’s. Ellen asks for a straw and follows after Janice. Only Amy says “Thanks.” We watch Janice, in the distance, adjust Arnie’s hat while Ellen holds all three of their drinks.
“You did great, Amy. His costume looks great.”
“You think?” Amy says.
“Yep. No doubt.”
“You think he could win? It would mean a lot to him to win.”
“I don’t know about winning,” I say. “But I do know that I like his costume.”
The paper said something about boys and girls, ages five to twelve, coming dressed in costumes depicting something to do with our nation’s birthday. Of course, the p
aper should have read, “Boys and Girls from ages five to twelve and Arnie Grape” but the Arnie part is assumed. And while I know there are mothers and fathers who think it unfair that Arnie be allowed to compete, they would never say it or try to have him disqualified. The citizens of Endora keep their rage and disgust quiet; their smiles and friendly nods are like fabric softeners for the face.
Amy and I scout the competition. There are about nine Uncle Sam costumes—all of which look awful. I see a George and Martha Washington that isn’t bad except there are no powdered wigs. The only real competition is a girl with tremendous breasts. She looks about twenty. She has these antique glasses, a giant needle and yarn for thread, and a huge flag wrapped tightly around her chest.
“Betsy Ross is pretty good,” I say to Amy.
“Yeah, but in no way is that girl twelve.”
“Arnie is seventeen, so…” I say.
“I know,” Amy says, “but Arnie is special.” Special—the nice way of saying it.
Across the street comes an Abraham Lincoln.
“Hey,” Amy says, “are those the Carver boys?”
“Looks like it.”
“Great idea,” Amy says.
“Yeah, but the execution of it…”
Abraham Lincoln towers over the other contestants. Todd, the bigger of the two Carver boys, must be on bottom and Doug rides on his shoulders. It looks like Mrs. Betty Carver just took one of her husband’s suits, taped together a hat of black construction paper, and that was that.
“It’s a horrible costume, Amy.”
“But a great idea.”
Mr. Carver follows after the boys—two fancy cameras hang on his neck. Mrs. Betty Carver trails along.
“Yeah, it’s a pretty bad costume,” Amy finally admits.
Mr. Carver screams at his boys to smile, even though the bottom boy can’t be seen. After he takes their picture, Amy calls out, “Thanks for the chicken recipe!”