The Naked and the Dead - Norman Mailer [290]
"Who isn't?"
"How does Croft keep going?"
"That sonofabitch likes it."
Roth's mind cowered as he thought of him. The episode with the bird had come back to him, and he blurted, "Do you think Croft is going to have a prejudice against me?"
"For the bird? I dunno, Roth, it's better not to waste your time trying to figure him out."
"I wanted to tell you, Red, that. . ." Roth paused. His exhaustion, the enfeeblement of his diarrhea, all the aches and bruises, the terror Wilson had caused him, all of it was working on him abruptly. The fact that several men, that this man beside him, had come to his aid after Croft had killed the bird overwhelmed him with self-pity and gratitude and warmth. "I appreciate extensively what you did today about the bird." His voice caught.
"Aaah, forget it."
"No, I. . . I want to tell you that I appreciate it." To his utter dismay, he found himself weeping.
"Jesus Christ." Red was touched for an instant, and he almost extended his arm to clap Roth on the back. But he aborted the motion. Roth was like the mongrel dogs with shaggy moth-eaten hides that had always gathered in the rubbish dumps or clustered around the flophouses when the swill was thrown out. If you gave them a scrap of food or a pat on the head, they would follow you for days, staring at you with watery eyes of gratitude.
He wanted to be kind to Roth now, but if he did Roth would be coming to him all the time, donating his confidences, making a touch for sentiment. Roth would latch on to anyone who was friendly to him. He couldn't afford it; Roth was the kind of man who would stop a bullet soon.
And more than this; he didn't want to. There was something nasty, unclean, about the emotion Roth was showing. Red always curdled before emotion. "For Christ's sakes, man, cut it out," he snapped. "I don't give a goddam about you and your bird."
Roth stopped as if he had been slapped across the face. For a moment in his weeping he had been expecting the warm arms of his mother. They were gone now; everything was gone. He was alone. It gave him a bitter pleasure, as if in having plumbed this last rejection he knew at last that there was no further humiliation he could receive. The foundation stones of his despair were at least stones. Red could not see the bitter smile Roth assumed instinctively. "You can forget about it," Roth said, turning over on his side away from Red, staring through the tears in his eyes at the cold gaunt reaches of the mountain. His throat was hot when he swallowed. At least now there was nothing left to desire, he told himself. Even his boy would grow up to mock him and his wife would become more and more of a nag. No one appreciated him.
Red stared at Roth's back, still tempted to reach out to him. The small hunched shoulders, the stiffness with which Roth held himself worked as a reproof; Red was troubled and felt a little guilty. Why did I even help him with the goddam bird? he asked himself. Now it's gonna be between me and Croft. He sighed with fatigue. Sooner or later it had to come out between them. I ain't afraid anyway, Red told himself.
Wasn't he? He wondered, and then edged away from the question. He was weary and Roth's appeal had moved him despite himself. As often happened when he was very tired, his mind had become clear and he felt as if he understood everything, but at times like this the knowledge was always wistful, burdened with the exhaustion of living. He thought of Wilson, saw him very clearly for a moment as he had looked in the assault boat months before when they had invaded the island. "C'mon in, y'old billygoat, the water's nice an' cold," Wilson had shouted to him.
"Up yours," or it had been something like that he had answered, but what difference did it make? Wilson was a mile or two away, perhaps dead by now, where the hell did it all come out?
Aaah, everybody loses. Red almost said this aloud. It was true. He knew it, they all knew it, every one of them. He sighed again. They knew it, and yet they still were soft,