The Naked and the Dead - Norman Mailer [131]
"Yeah, okay," Wyman murmured.
Like a relapsing fever, Red had again the familiar ache of age and sadness and wisdom.
Croft and Martinez had not received any mail either; they never got any.
Ridges was given a letter from his father. It was written laboriously on coarse ruled paper into which the pencil lines had cut deeply. Ridges gave it to Goldstein to read for him.
It went: Dere Son, we one and al of us miss you, the crop was harvest, and we made som little money, enuff to kepe us, Thank the Lord. Sim grew prette near haff a foot and your other brothers and sisters are kepeing him compeny, ma is felling pretty good. Old man Henry lost his 3 acres, it is a shaim, but the company will not take a no for a answer. We appreshate the monee you sent, you are a gud son, we al saye that. Your loveing father.
"That's a mighty fine letter," Ridges said when Goldstein had finished. "Pa writes a nice hand."
"It's a very nice letter," Goldstein said. He read over again the last lines of one of the letters his wife had sent him. "Danny asked about you yesterday, I've been telling him all the time that daddy is in the Army, and he hasn't forgotten you one bit. He's so cute, oh, Joey, I wish you could see him growing up, there's nothing like it. He said yesterday, 'When does Daddy come back from going boom-boom?' I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. Manny Straus promised he'd take some pictures of him. . ."
Goldstein sipped his beer and felt an awful longing.
Wilson had Gallagher reread one of the letters from Wilson's wife next morning. He laughed angrily several times as Gallagher read.
"I am not going to stand for this I hav been a gud wife to you and you no that, I hav alwaze giv you all the monie you want, and I am entitel now to one hunedird and twentie dollar everie monthe I was tawking to Wes Hopekinds down at the cowntie clerke offis and he saiy that you hav to giv me the monie the armie take care of it thair is no thing you can do abowt it. Unles you do that yurselfe Woodrow I am goeing to rite a leter to the armie I no the adres cawze Wes done tolde me how to go abowt it. I am tird of be a gud wife to you cawze you do not unnderstan. . ."
"Well, now, how do you like that ol' shit?" Wilson said. He was angry and he brooded over his answer. "You're gonna write a letter for me, tonight. Ah'm gonna tell her that she cain't get away with none of that stuff." He phrased a few sentences to himself. "Ah'm tellin' ya, y' better start actin' like a decent wife, and cut out all that fussin' an' naggin' or I damn sure ain't gonna come back to ya." He censored "damn." Wilson had an obscure prejudice against using profanity in a letter. "There's plenty of women would be glad to have me, an' you know it. Ah cain't stan' a woman who's always tryin' to take away the last cent from a man. If Ah want a little money in the Army, Ah'm gonna have it. Ah don' want no more talk about this "lotment." Wilson felt bitter and righteous, and the act of composing had given him a heady pleasure. His mind was filled with things to tell her, and he felt a glow each time he conceived a biting phrase.
He sat on the edge of the hole at the tent entrance and squinted at the sun. "Y' take that other gal," he said to Gallagher, "she's awright. Ah got a letter from her Red read me last mail call we had, an' she tol' me she was jus' waitin' for me to come back to Kansas so we could git married an' then go on south. That was a woman. Use' to cook for me, mend my clo'es, starch up my shirts for Satidday inspection, an' she gave me as good lovin' as Ah've had for a long time."
Gallagher spat with disgust and envy. "What a bastard you are. If you like her so goddam much why don't you tell her you're married, and give her a break?"
Wilson looked at him as if Gallagher were stupid. "Hell, man," he protested, "why should Ah tell her? Ah never can tell how Ah'm gonna be feelin' when Ah git out of the Army. Maybe Ah'm gonna want to go to Kansas and hook up with that other woman. There's