Free What's eating Gilbert Grape? by Peter Hedges Page B

Calm down!" He swivels his chair so as to face away from me. "No. Yes, I'm in a conference.

    PETER HEDGES
    With Gilbert Grape, yes." Mr. Carver pauses and, without turning back to look at me, says, "Gilbert, my wife wants to know how you are?"
    "I'm uhm fine."
    "He's fine. Uh-huh. What has Gilbert got to do with this?" There is another silence. "Honey, don't start crying again. Please. Talk to me."
    Mr. Carver's voice is barely audible now. The back of his neck is turning red.
    "Of course I'm disappointed. Of course I'm sad."
    He is drenched in sweat. A strong man, surely he could pull off my arms with relative ease.
    "Well, my concern is the boys. What are we going to tell the boys? They are the reason for all of this. The boys are who I'm thinking about. That just won't be the same. Calm down, Betty, or I'm coming home. That's it. I'm coming home. Right now. We can't do this over the phone." He hangs up and sits there motionless. Oh God. With his feet he kicks his chair around. Mr. Ken Carver stares at me with a smile like the one in the picture. "Something has come up. You will excuse me."
    He moves out of the office fast—I stand and follow in a daze. Melanie is saying something about rescheduling, but I don't hear her. I open the door to leave and the bell rings or dongs. The heat outside slaps me confirming that this is no nightmare.
    "Gilbert," Mr. Carver says, standing next to his Ford Fairmont. "Would you drive me home?"
    I stop and stand there, hesitating to answer. My heart starts racing. I feel sweat forming.
    "I'm in no state to drive," he says, smiling like I have no choice.
    "But ..."
    "If it wasn't an emergency ..."
    We climb into my truck and he looks for his seat belt. "I took them out," I explain. "They always got in the way."
    He takes a moment to lecture me about the safety risk. "If you don't have them put back in, we'll have to raise your rates."
    "Okay," I say, "I'll put them back in."

    What's Eating Gilbert Grape
    We're on the highway with the windows rolled down. Mr. Carver starts speaking, or shouting, rather. She told him about us. He knows. I know that he knows.
    "Women, Gilbert. I'm married to a woman." He pauses here for effect. What effect exactly I do not know. "And God knows 1 love her—God knows it. And we have two boys, but you knew that. And Todd and Doug—they are at church camp and they miss their parents, their house, and I thought when we picked them up, you know, today—this afternoon—I thought we'd bring them a reminder. Something that states our love without saying it. So my wife—God love her—this afternoon something happened to my wife—do you know what . . . ?"
    "Uhm."
    "You'll never guess."
    I almost say "Don't be so sure," but this isn't the time for cleverness. "What happened to your wife?" I ask.
    "Well, my wife sets out to make a batch of cookies for my boys. It seems to me these cookies were the perfect gift. How many mothers make cookies for their kids? Not many these days. There was a time when all mothers did was make cookies. 1 am married to an exceptional woman. But sometimes, Gilbert, sometimes I wish 1 was somebody else's husband because sometimes . . ."He takes a breath, pressing his lips together, making them disappear. Then he continues, "My wife ..."
    Oh God. Here we go.
    "My wife. Burns. A batch of cookies. It is no big deal. A disappointment for the boys, sure. But it is no big deal! Now she is crying like her life is destroyed, crying over a bad batch of cookies. Sometimes, I tell you, honestly, sometimes I want to put her head in the oven and turn on the gas."
    Mr. Carver suddenly pushes at his forehead with the palm of his left hand. "Oh God. I can't believe I just said that. Can you? I did not mean that about the oven. I can't believe I just said that."
    I pull into their driveway. Through a window, I can see Mrs. Betty Carver sitting with her head down on the kitchen table.
    "I think what you mean, Mr. Carver, is that sometimes she gets on your