All of a sudden I see Momma and Arnie disappear through the floor. When I cross to the hole they made, I see that they kept falling and this wind blows and they went through the center of the earth and out the other side, which is probably Vietnam or something, and they keep going, surely, toward the sun and when Momma and Arnie hit the sun, the sun grows too bright and hot and the earth melts into nothingness.
Fortunately, this is just my imagination.
I glance at the floor below Momma. The saglike curve is bigger than it was this morning. I go into the kitchen where Amy is baking a couple of meat loaves. “Smells good,” I say.
“You think?”
“Yep.”
Amy would like it if I gave her a hug when I came in from work. But Gilbert Grape is not the hugging type.
“I called you to bring home some potatoes for dinner. Mr. Lamson said you’d…” Amy stops when she looks up and sees my skin.
“Gilbert, my God.”
“Yeah, ouch, huh? The sun was something today….”
Amy turns back to the oven, shaking her head.
“Mr. Lamson gave me the day off.”
“We need the money. You can’t just go take off the day to work on your tan….” She takes a toothpick and sticks it in a meat loaf.
“It was just one of those days….”
She burns two fingers on the second meat loaf pan. “Ow. Darn it! Darn it!” Amy isn’t the swearing type. She runs cold water over her hand. I take the pot holders and lift out the second meat loaf.
“You okay?”
“Of course.”
I lie and say, “Looks really good.”
“Oh, and Melanie called. Seems you missed some appointment with Mr. Carver….”
“Oh, crap.” I completely forgot about my appointment.
“She wasn’t happy with this….”
“I’ll reschedule….”
“She said that you better hope Mr. Carver can fit you in.”
In the dining room Momma has given Arnie the controls to the TV and he’s pushing the buttons fast.
“So I guess I know why you took the day off from work. At least I hope this was the reason. Is he going to help us? Say that he will.”
“Who?”
“Tucker.”
“Sure, sure. Of course.”
“So you talked to him.”
“Uhm.”
“That’s the reason you took the day off. To work on the floor situation.”
“Yes?”
“You say that like a question. Are you asking me or telling me?”
“Tucker will be glad to help.”
Amy doesn’t know whether to believe me or not. She turns off the water and dries her hands on her apron. She half smiles, lifts her foot and stomps suddenly.
“Ants,” she says. “There are ants everywhere in this house.”
“At least something likes us.”
“Cute, Gilbert.”
“If Ellen would do the dishes…”
Washing dishes is Ellen’s job, mine is laundry, and Amy does everything else.
“Oh, and that was a real clever thing you did this morning. That was Dad’s lawn chair, you know.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“It was his favorite lawn chair.”
“Well…”
“And Ellen went off all morning.”
“I’m sure she did.”
“Please. Please stop inciting her.” Amy is using some of her I’m-a-teacher’s-aide big words. “I told her I want this resolved today. I want this family cooperating. We don’t have to love each other but we have to get along. Are you listening?”
“Yes.”
“You’ve got to do your part. You’re older than she is….”
When Amy finishes today’s lecture, she points to a pink envelope that has been taped to the refrigerator. In purple is a giant “G.” I take it into the downstairs bathroom, sit down on the toilet, and begin to read.
“Dear Brother,
I am sorry.
I say that even though I’m not.
Things are happening in me that I can’t explain.
Things that a guy can’t understand.
Your Sister.”
There is a water spot at the bottom of the page. Ellen has circled it with a turquoise marker and written “One of many tears you caused.”
I slowly crumple up the note, drop it in the toilet, and flush.
***
Amy has split one of the meat loaves in two. One half goes to Arnie, one half goes to me. The other meat loaf is on Momma’s plate and she’s fast at work. She takes a bite, changes the TV channel, then takes another bite.
“You eating, Amy?”
“No. Starting a diet,” she whispers. “Tooooo-day.”
“Oh. You should eat something.”
“Look at me, Gilbert.”
Good point.
If Amy’s so worried about the floor, why did she bake Momma an entire meat loaf? I better not ask. Instead, I grab a fork out of the drawer only to find that it has a piece of cereal crusted on one of its prongs. The next fork has this line of grease or oil or butter or something. I pull out fork after fork, and all of them are grungy or dirty or whatever. So I take the meat loaf in my fingers and eat like an animal. At least I know where my hands have been, I’m thinking, when Amy comes into the kitchen.
“Jesus, Amy, these forks.” My mouth is full of meat loaf. “Have you seen these forks?”
Amy didn’t get a word. “Swallow before talking.”
“These forks—cleaned lovingly by my premenstrual sister, whom I love and like and cherish…” I pause to push a chunk of meat out from between my teeth. “These forks prove…”
Amy is smiling. She loves to see me upset. It proves to her, I guess, that this brother has feelings.
“These forks prove…”
“What do they prove?”
“THE EXISTENCE OF SATAN!”
Momma drops her silverware. “Amy?”
“Yes, Momma.”
“Tell him this is my house. Tell him we don’t have any shouting during dinner. Tell him that.”
“He knows, Momma. Gilbert didn’t mean to raise his voice.”
The hell I didn’t.
“Have him get his momma some cigarettes.”
Amy moves toward the dining room and says, “You’ve still got an entire pack left.”
“But after that! WHAT AM I GONNA SMOKE AFTER THAT?”
Amy takes a ten-dollar bill from the Folger’s coffee can on top of the refrigerator and hands it to me. “Get her some cigarettes. And please speak with Tucker. Don’t tell me you have when you haven’t, okay? And pick up Ellen from work at nine. She likes it when you pick her up. It would mean something.”
“Sure, Amy. I’ll do it all.”
“Good. I knew I could count on you.”
***
It’s nights like these that I have to get out of my house. I drive around town and dream about going places. I dream about the kind of families I watched on TV as a kid. I dream about pretty people and fast cars, and I dream I’m still me but my family is someone else. I dream I’m still me.
7
Tucker says, “Did you hear? Did you hear?”
“Hear what?”
“They’re finally building…” Tucker has to stop because a bug gets in his mouth.
“Finally building what?”
“A Burger Barn.” He looks at me like he expects me to start dancing around the room.
I say, “Yeah, so?”
“Don’t you see what this means? Don’t you see the uh… uh…”
“The implications.”
“Yeah, that’s the word. Burger Barn is just a first step. Someday we’ll have a Pizza Hut, a Kentucky Fried Chicken. Maybe a Taco Bell. I’m gonna get me a job. Wear one of those uniforms.”
“Neato,” I say.
“Gilbert, I hate you. All day I’ve been waiting to tell you this and now you stand there like a tele
phone pole.”
“You got any beer?”
“Does Tucker have beer? Tucker has Canadian beer.”
“Yeah, so?”
“Canadian beer uses a certain kind of water.”
“Big deal.”
“It is a big deal, Gilbert. It’s not every beer that uses this special Canadian water.”
He tosses me two cans and I start drinking.
Tucker lives in a converted garage behind his parents’ house. He has a little refrigerator and a hot plate that is more for show than anything because he eats every meal with his parents. He and his dad did all the work on the garage conversion, and while it’s not very impressive-looking, his garage/bedroom/apartment is functional. They cut a hole in the garage door and put in this stained glass window of a horse. Other than that, the place is dusty and dark, very Tucker. They installed track lighting to illuminate his beer-can collection which totals over nine hundred cans. You go to his place and it smells like you’re in a bar. A bar without women, though, because Tucker never dates.
I’m finishing can number one when he says, “I guess it’s that special Canadian water.”
“Nope.”
“It’s the water—admit it.”
I’d rather be wrong than concede that Tucker was right. I never let him win, either, and if he were ever about to, I’d have no choice but to change the rules.
“Anyway, about the Burger Barn. You know, they bring in a team of experts and they build the whole thing, start to finish, in less than thirty days. I drove out there today. They’re putting it up right next to Food Land. They’ve leveled the ground and it will be open, get this—by the middle of July.”
Tucker is on a roll. It usually takes two beers for him to like himself but tonight he only needs half a can.
“I mean,” he continues, “just this morning I wake up, I look around my room, and I see achievements. I see that I have a life. Some people don’t have what I have, right? I’ve got my own place. Certain skills, you know?”
I nod, but my mind is elsewhere.
“So I couldn’t get out of bed today. I couldn’t even move! Does that ever happen to you? Tell me it does. Well, I get up finally and go to my truck…”
Tucker got his pickup the week after I got mine. He bought his brand-new. He never had to spend a penny because his dad took out a loan to pay for it. It has remained in mint condition because Tucker covers it every night with a black tarp.
“…and my truck starts right up—engine humming nice—and I drive to Food Land to get some donuts…”
Lamson Grocery has superb donuts, I want to say. I make a fist to punch him in the arm but I stop when I see his eyes watering.
“…and my life suddenly wasn’t what I wanted, you know? I’m thinking ‘Is this it?’ You know? Have I reached my uhm…”
“Potential.”
“Potential, yeah.”
Those can’t be tears forming. Surely a gnat or a dust ball got in his eye.
“I hope I haven’t, because why get up? Why wake up? You know? So I see the sign announcing the arrival of the Burger Barn and… I don’t know how else to say it… but it was like suddenly my life made uhm… uhm… made…”
“Sense.”
“Yeah. And well…” Tucker wipes his eyes. Those are tears and I suddenly feel sick. “I knew then that this was supposed to… uhm… happen. I had hit bottom and now I was on the way back up.”
Tucker stops talking and waits for a response. I open the second can of beer and begin to chug it.
“Aren’t you happy for me? Aren’t you happy for me? Aren’t you happy for me?”
I can answer him now that the second beer is inside me. “Tucker?” I say. “I’m happy for you.”
He smiles. He can’t tell when I’m lying. He takes the empty can from my hand, rinses it out in his little sink, and dries it with a towel. He turns on his track lighting and, without much ceremony, puts the can in its new home next to the others. “Whew. It’s been a big day. I need to wind down. Pro wrestling comes on in a couple of minutes. You’re welcome to stay and watch.”
“No thanks on the wrestling, buddy.”
He moves his beanbag chair to the center of the room, turns on his TV, and as he sits, the chair makes that beanbag sound. “Okay,” he says, “well, see you, then.”
“Tucker, I got a favor to ask.”
“I knew it. The minute you said ‘buddy’ I knew it. It’s not a good day for favors, okay? Oh man, I’m tired!”
“But…”
“I just told you my day. It’s been unbelievable. I can’t absorb any more….”
“It’s Momma.”
“What?”
I repeat that it’s Momma and Tucker is suddenly interested. He loves my mother maybe more than his own.
“Is she sick? Is she okay?”
“Well, Tucker, you’re one of the few who has seen Momma these last few years.”
“Yeah. And it means a lot to me.”
“You know that she’s about the biggest thing around.”
“I was at the state fair and I saw this guy that was a little bigger….”
“Yeah, but…”
“I’m just saying that she’s not the biggest I’ve ever seen. That’s all I’m saying.”
I tell him about the floor and how it sags.
He says, “Your momma isn’t that big.”
“Afraid so.”
“No way possible.”
“You’ve got to see it to believe it.”
“I’ll come over tomorrow.”
I stand and walk to his TV. I block the screen with my body and turn it off with the back of my hand. “Momma needs you tonight.”
***
We head home, stopping to pick up a carton of cigarettes at ENDora OF THE LINE, the stupidest name for a store ever. I walk in, and Maggie or Josh or whoever’s working just grabs a carton of Kool and rings it up before I’m even at the cash register. This is the one advantage in having a mother so set in her ways.
Inside the house, we find Momma and Amy watching “The New Dating Game” and Arnie asleep on the floor.
“Tucker and I are gonna play some cards,” I say, handing Amy the carton of Kool. “Or throw some darts.”
“Careful with the darts,” Amy says.
Tucker waves and says, “Hey, Mrs. Grape.”
Having just picked bachelor number two, Momma stays fixed on the TV. She doesn’t acknowledge Tucker, and there’s no thank you for the cigarettes. She says a person shows their gratitude by action, not by words. So I guess that means she thanks me by smoking every cigarette in every pack.
Downstairs, Tucker’s mouth is open. He’s in shock. The sagging floor looks even worse from below. Taking out his tape measure, he says, “We got to act fast. These beams could snap at any time.” He wants to talk to Momma. “To see if she’d consider moving to another part of the house for a while.”
“She won’t move,” I say. “And anyway, if she knew she was cutting a hole through her floor, she would lose it big time. Especially since she’s drilling right directly above where my dad hung himself.”
“What?” All of a sudden Tucker gets this squeamish look on his face. “Right here, right here is where they found your dad?”
“Yep. He was hanging from that support right there. A puddle of piss was below him and there was vomit all across here.” I point to the washer and dryer. “He was found swinging. His body still kind of warm. But it was too late.”
Tucker is confused, so I explain that when a person dies often their bowels let go for the last time. “You dump in your pants and piss down your legs. If you’re hanging.”
He says he doesn’t see how I can be so cold about it.
I say that if you live with something long enough, it becomes normal. “Besides, my getting all teary isn’t gonna change anything. It’s done, he did it, and what’s foremost is that Momma’s gonna fall through the floor if we don’t do something fast.”
; Tucker estimates that she’ll fall through by the beginning of next week. “There’s even a chance she could go tonight.” With that, he grabs my arms and pulls me out of the way.
I say, “What are you doing?”
“She might go right now.”
***
Upstairs, we’re heading outside to my truck.
Amy says, “Pretty fast cards.”
I say something about not being in the mood for playing games, and then I wink at Amy, trying to hint that we’re working on the floor situation. My guess is that she didn’t get my signal, because she says, “Remember to pick up Ellen.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” I say.
“Bye, Mrs. Grape,” Tucker calls out.
Momma doesn’t move. It occurs to me that maybe Tucker loves my mother because she has no interest in him.
***
We’re getting into my truck, when I hear Arnie scream. I run back to the house, certain that Momma just fell to Hell. I throw open the door and find Amy hugging Arnie, who woke from a bad dream. “Everything’s fine, Gilbert. You go on with Tucker. Go have a fine time,” she says with a wink.
I guess she got my earlier point.
8
“It will take great planning to save your mother. No floor is made to withstand such… such…”
“I know, buddy, I know. But if anyone can do it…”
“Thanks. Means a lot coming from you.”
I pull up at Tucker’s. He jumps out while my truck is still moving, calls out, “I’ll get right to work!” and sprints inside to begin drawing up his plans.
***
My sister Ellen works at the Dairy Dream. Some dream. They’ve got cones, colored sodas, candy bars, sprinkles, nuts, malts, shakes and one of those real dippy, sissy, piss-me-off bells that tinks or clanks or chimes when a person enters.
Before you enter the Dream, look in and study whatever girl is working. Make sure she doesn’t see you and then observe how she is hating her job. She wants to be in some fast car, you see, or home doing her nails—anywhere but in the Dream. Then push in the door, she’ll hear the bell, and this smile will snap on like a zipper unzipped. Or like God will take her face and turn it inside out. All of a sudden she’ll be smiling like some beauty queen and so friendly and so interested and so happy. This is some shit, huh?