The Naked and the Dead - Norman Mailer [129]
His depression had increased while he was with the other men. Gallagher was busy writing to his wife, leafing through the fifteen letters that had come from her in order to answer some of her questions, and Wilson had been complaining about his wife. "Ah gave that damn woman lovin' she'll never forget, and now she's always fussin' over why Ah don' send some o' my pay."
"You're gonna die in jail," Red had snorted.
By the time he returned to his own tent, he was very depressed. At the entrance he kicked aside an empty beer can and crawled into the hole. As he straightened his twisted blankets in the dark, he swore a little. "It's just like the goddam Army," he said to Wyman, "three cans of beer. They got more ways to tease a man."
Wyman twisted over in his bedding, and spoke up softly. "I only drank one of my beers. Why don't you take the other two, Red?"
"Well, thanks, kid." Red hesitated. A tacit friendship had developed between them since they had been bunking together, but Wyman was making more and more overtures lately. You start buddy-buddying with 'em and they get knocked off, Red thought. More and more Wyman reminded him of Hennessey. "You better drink the beer yourself, kid," he said, "they ain't gonna give 'em out again for a while."
"Naw, I don't like beer much."
Red opened a can and passed it to Wyman. "C'mon, we'll each have one." If he had kept both of them and drunk them it might have muddled him enough to fall asleep easily. Ever since the night they had marched up to the front, Red's kidneys had been bothering him steadily, keeping him awake at night. And with insomnia there was always a re-enactment of the moment when he had waited for the Japanese soldier to stab him. But even so, two beers was a big favor, too big a one. It would give Wyman a call on him. It was better when you didn't owe anybody.
They drank silently for a few minutes. "You get lots of mail, kid?" Red asked.
"I got a batch from my mother." Wyman lit a cigarette and looked away.
"What about your girl friend, what's-her-name?"
"I don't know, I didn't get anything from her."
In the dark, Red grimaced. The whole setup should have told him. Giving away a beer, mooning by himself in the tent -- he should have guessed what was wrong with Wyman and avoided a conversation. "Aw, hell, kid, she'll write you," he blurted.
Wyman fingered his blanket. "I can't figure it out, Red. I haven't got any mail from her since I been overseas. Back in the States she used to write me every day."
Red rinsed his mouth with a swallow of beer. "Aaah, it's just the Army's got the mail fugged up," he said.
"I used to think that, but I don't believe it any more. When I was in the replacement depot I didn't expect to get any, but now we've had two mail calls here, and I got a bunch of letters from my mother each time, and nothing from her."
Red fingered his nose and sighed.
"I'll tell you the truth, Red, I'd be scared to get a letter from her now. It'd probably be a Dear John."
"There's lots of women, kid. You're better off if you learn early."
Wyman's voice was troubled and hurt. "She ain't like that, Red. She's really a swell kid. Oh, Jeez, I don't know, there was something real different about her."
Red grunted. Wyman's emotion was embarrassing him, and he knew he would have to listen. He drank some beer, and smiled wryly. I'm paying for the goddam drink, he said to himself. Abruptly, he pictured again Wyman brooding by himself all evening, and the thought softened him. "It's kind of hard just to sit around and think," he said. By now he had stirred at best only a partial sympathy. Other men's troubles usually bored him. Everybody gets his share of bloody noses, and it's Wyman's turn now, he thought.
"How'd you meet her?" he asked.
"Aw, she was the kid sister of Larry Nesbitt, you remember he was that buddy of mine I was telling you about?"
"Yeah." Red had a vague recollection.
"Well, I always used to see her around his house, and she was