Read Online What's eating Gilbert Grape? by Peter Hedges - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Peter Hedges
Tags: Young men, City and Town Life
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under the sawhorse divider and runs straight at the bar. Tucker sees this, but before he can stand up, Arnie pushes the red bull's-eye, the tractor tire seat drops, and Tucker falls in the water. The people cheer. Victory, Arnie Grape style,
I reward my retard brother with a celebratory malt at the Dairy Dream. We drive home. He goes to bed early because the "horsies" wore him out. I lie in my bed, horny as all get-out, and think about the girl from Michigan. I picture it all perfectly. After I relieve myself, I clean up, using an old sock.
What's Eating Gilbert Grape
12
Lt's the next morning, and I'm back at work, describing Amies carnival experience. Mr. Lamson laughs so hard he cries. "That brother of yours—a good boy," he says.
I'm sweeping Aisle Four when Mrs. Betty Carver comes around the corner carrying a box of brown sugar.
"Gilbert?"
"Yes, Mrs. Carver, 1 know Mrs. Carver, I've made an appointment for two P.M. today!" I say this loud because I know Mr. Lamson is listening. He walks up behind her, looking puzzled.
"I missed my appointment—I'm sorry—I'll do it today. Really sorry, Mrs. Carver!"
She holds out the box of brown sugar and says, "How much?"
"Huh?"
"There's no price on the box. How much?"
"Oh."
Mr. Lamson says, "The sticker must have fallen off, because Gilbert doesn't miss a box."
"I'm not here to scold or condemn, " she says. "I'm only here for the sugar."
Mr. Lamson takes the box and they go to ring it up. As she walks out the door, she looks back my way and I shake my head.
"Don't worry, boss, I'll be using my lunch hour to go to my appointment."
"Of course, son."
"I messed up on Wednesday, sir, and now it's getting way out of hand."
"Life's like that."
PETER HEDGES
It's my lunch hour. The clock on the outside of the Endora Savings and Loan blinks out 1:55. then 97 degrees, 1:55, 97 degrees, 1:56. 1 drive by the insurance office and see Mr. Carver's car. 1 keep on driving, though, down Elm Street and two miles out the south end of town. 1 turn left at Potter's bridge, make a right at the shingled mailbox and do it all in record time. I pull into the driveway of a two-story farmhouse with green shutters. The door to the red brick garage opens—eager to swallow my truck and me. I pull into the garage. Using my fingers like a comb, I try to make my hair nice. She is watching me from the side porch, looking lovely, holding the controls for the garage. She pushes the button and the door begins to close. I have to crouch to get out in time.
"Your hair looks fine." she says, turning and going back inside.
1 smile, but my thoughts are "Here we go again." We're in the house fast. All these precautions seem absurd now, but when we began all those years ago. it was the only way. When the Carvers moved to the country. I thought the need for secrecy would lessen. But Mrs. Betty Carver respects tradition, and this, I'm afraid, is ours.
She has changed to work-around-the-house clothes. Her hair looks as if she took a brush and unbrushed it. Her lips are made up bright red. She smells like expensive soap and her teeth are shiny white. She does not in any way look like her name. It's not her fault that she was born in a time when people believed in names like Wanda, Dottie, and Betty. She's more of a Vanessa or Paulina.
"You got dough and stuff on your fingers," I say.
"I'm making cookies. " She washes her hands, then dries them off with a flower-patterned towel. She takes out a food timer and sets it for eighteen minutes.
1 say, "Cookies take that long?"
"This Isn't for cookies. You know that."
"I know. Isn't eighteen minutes an odd time, though?"
"I like odd times. " Mrs. Betty Carver has never looked so ready. It's been a while since our last uhm whatever you want to call what we're about to do here.
What's Eating Gilbert Grape
"What kind you making?"
"Oatmeal. ■
"Oh," I say. That explains the Quaker Oats from Wednesday and the brown sugar from this morning.
"I was a good
I reward my retard brother with a celebratory malt at the Dairy Dream. We drive home. He goes to bed early because the "horsies" wore him out. I lie in my bed, horny as all get-out, and think about the girl from Michigan. I picture it all perfectly. After I relieve myself, I clean up, using an old sock.
What's Eating Gilbert Grape
12
Lt's the next morning, and I'm back at work, describing Amies carnival experience. Mr. Lamson laughs so hard he cries. "That brother of yours—a good boy," he says.
I'm sweeping Aisle Four when Mrs. Betty Carver comes around the corner carrying a box of brown sugar.
"Gilbert?"
"Yes, Mrs. Carver, 1 know Mrs. Carver, I've made an appointment for two P.M. today!" I say this loud because I know Mr. Lamson is listening. He walks up behind her, looking puzzled.
"I missed my appointment—I'm sorry—I'll do it today. Really sorry, Mrs. Carver!"
She holds out the box of brown sugar and says, "How much?"
"Huh?"
"There's no price on the box. How much?"
"Oh."
Mr. Lamson says, "The sticker must have fallen off, because Gilbert doesn't miss a box."
"I'm not here to scold or condemn, " she says. "I'm only here for the sugar."
Mr. Lamson takes the box and they go to ring it up. As she walks out the door, she looks back my way and I shake my head.
"Don't worry, boss, I'll be using my lunch hour to go to my appointment."
"Of course, son."
"I messed up on Wednesday, sir, and now it's getting way out of hand."
"Life's like that."
PETER HEDGES
It's my lunch hour. The clock on the outside of the Endora Savings and Loan blinks out 1:55. then 97 degrees, 1:55, 97 degrees, 1:56. 1 drive by the insurance office and see Mr. Carver's car. 1 keep on driving, though, down Elm Street and two miles out the south end of town. 1 turn left at Potter's bridge, make a right at the shingled mailbox and do it all in record time. I pull into the driveway of a two-story farmhouse with green shutters. The door to the red brick garage opens—eager to swallow my truck and me. I pull into the garage. Using my fingers like a comb, I try to make my hair nice. She is watching me from the side porch, looking lovely, holding the controls for the garage. She pushes the button and the door begins to close. I have to crouch to get out in time.
"Your hair looks fine." she says, turning and going back inside.
1 smile, but my thoughts are "Here we go again." We're in the house fast. All these precautions seem absurd now, but when we began all those years ago. it was the only way. When the Carvers moved to the country. I thought the need for secrecy would lessen. But Mrs. Betty Carver respects tradition, and this, I'm afraid, is ours.
She has changed to work-around-the-house clothes. Her hair looks as if she took a brush and unbrushed it. Her lips are made up bright red. She smells like expensive soap and her teeth are shiny white. She does not in any way look like her name. It's not her fault that she was born in a time when people believed in names like Wanda, Dottie, and Betty. She's more of a Vanessa or Paulina.
"You got dough and stuff on your fingers," I say.
"I'm making cookies. " She washes her hands, then dries them off with a flower-patterned towel. She takes out a food timer and sets it for eighteen minutes.
1 say, "Cookies take that long?"
"This Isn't for cookies. You know that."
"I know. Isn't eighteen minutes an odd time, though?"
"I like odd times. " Mrs. Betty Carver has never looked so ready. It's been a while since our last uhm whatever you want to call what we're about to do here.
What's Eating Gilbert Grape
"What kind you making?"
"Oatmeal. ■
"Oh," I say. That explains the Quaker Oats from Wednesday and the brown sugar from this morning.
"I was a good
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