The Naked and the Dead - Norman Mailer [132]
On the way home he slips in a puddle, and wets his pant leg up to his hip. Fug you, he roars at the pavement. Plot, always fuggin a guy, well, you ain't gonna get me.
He lurches into his flat, and pitches off his overcoat. His nose is bitter. He sneezes raspingly, and swears to himself.
Mary wakes up in her chair, and looks at him. You're all wet.
That all you got to say? I'm. . . I'm. . . what the hell do you know about it?
Roy, every time you come back you're like this.
Trying to keep a man down, all you're interested in is the goddam dough I bring back, well, I'LL GIVE YOU ALL THE DOUGH YOU WANT.
Roy, don't talk to me like that. Her lip wavers.
Staaart crying, go ahead, staaart crying, I'm on to you.
I'm going to bed.
C'mere.
Roy, I'm not going to hold it against you, I don't know what's the matter with you, but there's something in you I just don't understand, what do you want of me?
Lea' me alone.
Oh, Roy, you're wet, take off your pants, honey, why do you drink, it always makes you so bitter, I've been praying for you, honest I have.
Oh, lea' me alone. He sits by himself for a few minutes staring at the lace doily on the table. Aaah, I don' know, I don' know.
What's in it for a guy?
Work tomorrow.
(He would defend the lady in the lavender dress with his sword.)
He fell asleep in the chair, and in the morning he had a cold.
10
Gallagher's numbness continued. In the days that followed the news of Mary's death he worked furiously on the road, shoveling without pause in the drainage ditches, and chopping down tree after tree whenever they had to lay a corduroy. He would rarely halt in the breaks they were given every hour, and at night he would eat his supper alone and curl into his blankets, sleeping exhaustedly with his knees near his chin. Wilson would hear him shuddering in the middle of the night, and would throw his blanket over him, clucking to himself at the misery Gallagher was undergoing. Gallagher showed no sign of his grief except that he became even leaner and his eyes and eyelids were swollen as if he had been on a long drinking bout or had played poker for forty-eight hours at a stretch.
The men tried to feel sorry for him, but the event had given a variation to the monotonous sweep of their days on the road. For a short time they sustained a quiet compassion when he was near and spoke in soft voices, uncomfortable in his presence. They ended by feeling merely uncomfortable and were resentful when he sat by them, for it inhibited their speech and made them acutely uneasy. Red felt a little shame and brooded over it one night on guard, deciding there was nothing he could do about it. It's tough, but I can't change it. He looked off into the night and shrugged. To hell with it, it's Gallagher's bloody nose, not mine.
The mail began to come in almost daily, and a frightening thing happened. Gallagher continued to receive letters from his wife. The first one came a few days after Father Leary had told him about her death; it had been mailed almost a month before. Wilson collected the letters for the platoon that night from the orderly room, and he debated whether to give it to Gallagher. "It's gonna make him feel mighty funny," he said to Croft.
Croft shrugged. "You can't tell. He may want it." Croft was curious to see what happened.
Wilson's voice was casual when he gave it to Gallagher. "Some mail for ya, boy." He felt embarrassed and looked away.
Gallagher's face whitened as he gazed at the letter. "That ain't for me," he muttered. "Some mistake."
"It's your letter, boy." Wilson put an arm on his shoulder, and Gallagher shook it off. "You want me to throw it away?" Wilson asked.
Gallagher looked at the date on the envelope. He shivered a little. "No, give it to me," he blurted. He walked away a few yards and ripped it open. The words were indistinguishable to him, and he could not read it. He began to tremble. Holy Mary, Joseph and Jesus, he said to himself. His eyes were able to focus on a few lines, and their meaning seeped into his mind. "I been worrying about you, Roy, you're allways so angrie about everthing, and I pray for your safety every night. I love you so much when I think of the baby, only sometimes I can't beleive that its going to come so soon. Only three weeks now, the doctor said." Gallagher folded the letter, and walked around blindly. The purple lump on his jawbone twitched dully. "Oh, Christ Saviour," he said aloud. He began to tremble again.