The Order of Nature

by Josh Scheinert

  “You’ve never roasted marshmallows?” he asked with disbelief.

  “No,” Thomas answered, surprised Andrew was surprised.

  “It’s easy,” Andrew said before finding a good roasting stick and piercing it with a marshmallow. When it was golden brown, but not yet burned, he pointed the stick in Thomas’s direction. “Eat it,” he said with a wide grin.

  When it was Thomas’s turn next, Andrew watched with anticipation as Thomas’s marshmallow began browning and started to bubble.

  “Ahhh!” Thomas exclaimed when it caught fire. Andrew laughed.

  “It’s not ruined,” he said, before explaining he could pull off the top, burnt layer, and eat the gooey inside. “Like this.”

  They were always careful not to let the flames get too high – just letting them hover off the ground – unlike when they built their bonfires at night in Sierra Leone, when Thomas and Andrew kept piling the wood on higher and higher, like children discovering something for the first time. Alex and Liv watched with amusement as the two of them kept wanting to build the fires bigger until the flames shot well above Andrew, who was the tallest in the group. They kept going off to the tree line and coming back with bigger and bigger branches, throwing them atop the pile without regard for anything, watching the flames grow, illuminating their faces, smiling with amazement.

  “And then there were my birthday candles,” Thomas said, turning to Andrew.

  “Oh yeah,” he said as they both laughed. Abdou sat across from them, looking on, left out of the joke.

  It was a Wednesday and they were meeting for Thomas’s twentieth birthday. “He brought me this little cake, a small one from a nice place on Kairaba. He put twenty-one candles in it and said I had to blow them out quickly before anyone saw. So I blew them out and then he sang me happy birthday quietly.”

  Andrew finished the story as Thomas turned to him, remembering. “I forgot plates,” he admitted, “and cutlery, so we had to eat with our hands in the dark.”

  Abdou smiled at them. “And when you made these small fires,” he said, turning back to the matter at hand, “no one saw you?”

  “Unless they saw from a distance and never came past us,” Thomas said. “The fires were far back from the water so that the rocks curved and blocked them. You know how it is by Bakau?”

  “Sure,” Abdou nodded.

  “And by the end, we stopped going there when the news broke about that house and the story about the gay society. And the last time we went, there was no fire.”

  “When you spent time with Alex and Liv, at your house,” Abdou asked turning to Andrew, “how was that?”

  “It was good,” he answered.

  “It was great,” Thomas corrected. “When the four of us were together you would forget something was wrong. Not wrong, but that something about the picture wasn’t supposed to be.”

  “We were just people, together.”

  “When we were alone, because of everything,” Thomas added, “we spent so much time talking about this issue or that problem. When it was the four of us, we wanted to be normal, to be like them and try to have times where we could forget. Being with Alex and Liv, you know, watching them together made me feel like I was getting as close to normal as I could, because I was a part of it.”

  Andrew had never heard Thomas speak that way about those times. As he listened and watched Thomas express himself, he thought that that’s exactly how he felt about them too.

  In all their meetings, which were always held as a group, Abdou took diligent notes. He was exceedingly polite to both of them. He knew prison was a setting that thrived on robbing away one’s dignity, so Abdou made every effort to treat Thomas and Andrew with respect. He always shook their hands and tried to be deferential when they spoke and not cut them off, even if what they were saying wasn’t relevant. His disposition stood in contrast with that of the guards. If the guards were harsh as they barked their orders each day, Abdou was soft and hid whatever frustrations he may have been feeling.

  Abdou was also sensitive to the conditions of their detention, always promising to try and find ways to improve them even as he expressed doubt he could succeed. “The worst is that they’ll say no,” he told them. He knew they were being kept in conditions most people would liken to squalor and that retaining one’s hygiene was not easy. The food he brought them from home was deeply appreciated.

  “You must thank your wife for us,” Thomas said one afternoon, licking the domoda sauce from his fingers.

  “Soon you will thank her yourself,” Abdou responded. It was a kind and uplifting response. Even though everyone in the room knew it was probably a fantasy, they let themselves be misled for a minute.

  Abdou tried to keep confident assertions to a minimum. Actually, he was more resolute than confident. But this was enough on its own to instill confidence in Thomas and Andrew. They observed his relentless determination to understand their story from every angle – to piece it together in the most advantageous way possible – and believed that Abdou was giving them the closest they could get to a proper defense. He picked up on each opportunity to highlight they were in fact just very close friends, who even if they were homosexuals, never took the next step to become lovers. Whenever he discovered a new example to illustrate this, he made the same assertive sound, an mmhmm, clearly satisfied with himself, before turning to his notepad to write it down. He even took his notes in a determined manner, his pen clasped firmly in his hand as he wrote with a look of deep concentration.

  They were getting nearer to the trial and Andrew, at the end of one of their meetings, asked Abdou if he thought it was smart for them to admit to being gay. He reminded them that because they weren’t going to testify they weren’t required to admit to anything. But he looked at them and said, whether they admitted it or not, the evidence, namely Andrew’s journal, was pretty decisive. “And on that matter,” he said, “I’m afraid most people, including the judge, will have made up their minds.”

  “What do you think,” Thomas asked cautiously, “about homosexuality?” Abdou and Andrew looked taken aback by the question. They hadn’t veered into the personal like this before. “I know how Gambian men feel, including the progressive ones. So don’t be ashamed, or maybe embarrassed is the better word. But I’m curious, after spending time with us, what you think about homosexuality.”

  “Honestly, I never thought much about it before I met both of you,” he said, stalling for time as he thought how to answer the question. “And I don’t want to be unprofessional and disclose personal opinions and biases that might undermine your confidence in me. But because I believe honesty is critical to trust, I’ll share a little.” He spoke in the formalistic way of many educated Gambians, a way of speaking that Andrew sometimes thought might be used to mask unpleasant or unnatural conversations. “What I will say is I’ve become good at distinguishing between homosexuality and homosexuals. And while I may not yet fully understand homosexuality, or be familiar with it, I have come to understand that... that one’s confusion over homosexuality should not come at the expense of the rights of the homosexual. That is all to say that while I, and I believe many others in this country, become more acquainted with the idea of homosexuality and its existence within our communities, we shouldn’t be taking out that confusion on the individual.”

  The looks on Thomas and Andrew’s faces told him he wasn’t being as eloquent as he wanted, nor had he convinced them he was a true ally.

  “What I’m trying to say, and perhaps I am not being as clear as I want to be, is after having met and interacted with both of you, with homosexuals for the first time, I find it difficult to justify taking out... taking out,” he appeared frustrated by his inability to articulate himself, and stopped himself and proclaimed, “Just because I don’t understand, and for me it wouldn’t be my first choice, it doesn’t give me, or anyone the right to pass judgment on you. And certainly not criminal judgment.”

  He stopped to reflect on his answe
r and think if there was more he needed to say. Seeming content with himself, he turned to Thomas. “Is that a satisfactory answer? I hope it is, because it’s the truth.”

  “It’s very satisfactory,” Thomas replied.

  Abdou’s visits grew shorter and less frequent in the lead-up to the trial. He spent most of his time at his office, crafting his arguments, preparing questions for the prosecution’s growing list of witnesses, and speaking to Andrew’s friends to try and shore up his case, which he knew – but didn’t share with them – needed shoring up. When he did go and see them he had a list of questions that needed only short explanations.

  “At Andrew’s where did you park the bike? You said you hopped over the gate at night. You did this with a bicycle?”

  “No,” Thomas explained. The bike was always parked nearby, close to a fuel station but away from anywhere people could see. “It was in a mostly empty and abandoned area. I would park and walk to their house, and then walk back to pick it up.”

  “Okay. And this was your bike? You said you had little money to spend on things. How did you buy a bicycle?”

  “My friend, Suleiman, the one I told you about who I lived with, he let me use his so I wouldn’t have to spend money to get to work every day. When I moved out he insisted I take it. He wouldn’t let me refuse.”

  “Aha. I see.”

  These sessions were the only events to break up the mundane waiting game before the trial. They interrupted the anxiety brought on by minds left with little to do but think as they waited and waited, wanting on some level just to get the trial over with and leave behind their uncertainty. Andrew had, for the time being, given up on Maya or the U.S. government’s ability to free him. Even the guards taunted him, they can’t save you. He equated the infrequency of Maya’s visits with a lack of progress. The last he’d heard from her was that his family had returned home and were arranging various meetings on his behalf.

  He was only given one phone call with them. It was after his second week in detention when Maya and Abdou came to tell him.

  “Really?”

  “Yes,” Maya said. “Everything has been arranged. They’ve been given a phone number and will be calling in thirty minutes. They’ll only let you speak for five minutes, though.”

  Five minutes? What do you say in five minutes?

  Andrew was glad he only had a half-hour warning about the call. He wasn’t sure he could’ve handled waiting longer. His heart was thumping like crazy as he waited. He tried to think of what he would tell them but had difficulty focusing and organizing his thoughts. He was also nervous for what they’d say, or didn’t say, now that they knew about him.

  Two guards led Andrew, along with Maya and Abdou, to a small office with a desk, chair, and telephone. Andrew was told to sit and the call would be dispatched through. He’d have privacy for the five minutes, but as soon as the five minutes were up a guard would come in and he’d have to hang up. Maya warned him the call would probably be recorded.

  “Hello? Andrew?” It was his mother. The connection with the prison landline was poor and it made her sound faint and far away.

  “Hi mom.”

  “Oh my goodness! Andrew! We’re all here on speaker – your father, me, and Lindsay.”

  “Hi everyone.” His eyes were welling up. “Where are you?” he asked, wanting to be able to picture them.

  “In the kitchen,” his mother answered.

  He saw them sitting together at the wooden table. He wanted to be in the room with them.

  “Andrew, are you okay?” his father asked.

  “Yessss,” he said, “I’m fine,” before biting his lip to stop himself from crying.

  “We’re doing everything we can to get you home as quickly as possible,” his father continued. “The people at the embassy and here at the State Department are being very helpful. Hopefully something will happen soon.”

  “Grant!” he heard his mother exclaim. “They said not to make him too optimistic,” she continued in a hushed tone.

  “Mom,” Lindsay chimed in, “he can hear you.”

  Andrew smiled, knowing exactly what everyone’s faces looked like on the other end at that moment.

  “Hey, Linds,” Andrew said tearfully. “Guess the secret’s out,” he added, his voice shaking slightly.

  “Andrew, don’t worry about any of that now. Everything is fine and we love you just the same.” His father spoke quickly and assertively, in a manner that almost undermined the effect of his affirmation. “We’ve been speaking with your lawyer, Mr. Bojang. It’s important for you to listen to what he has to say. He knows the system. We’ll continue to work with the embassy and State Department to do what we can. If you’re still there when the trial begins...”

  If you’re still there, Andrew heard, repeating it in his head.

  “...back to Senegal so we can be close by,” was all Andrew heard afterwards.

  “Andrew?” his mother asked.

  “Yes?”

  She wanted to know if he was sleeping and eating okay. It was a mother’s question, and he loved her for it.

  He told her he was, and that sometimes Abdou brought food Manima made for them at home.

  “Oh,” she said, clearly choked up. “We have to thank her.” Andrew knew she wasn’t talking to him but to his father.

  Talking over her parents, Lindsay asked if the conditions were clean.

  “It’s clean enough,” he lied, not telling them that he wasn’t sure how much longer he could endure the filth and stink all around him. “I’m allowed to wash every other day.”

  “Every other day?” his mother shot back, making him realize they probably didn’t grasp the true nature of his conditions.

  There was a knock at the door and a guard told Andrew he only had one minute left.

  “Guys, I have to go,” he said, barely able to get the words out of his mouth. “The time is running out.” He was scared to say goodbye.

  “Andrew, we love you,” his sister said. “And we’re going to see you soon.”

  There was a pause as everyone thought about what they wanted to say next.

  “I’m hugging you as tight as I can,” his mother said.

  By the time Andrew’s father told him he loved him, Andrew was inhaling a long breath through his nose that he held in an attempt to stop his tears. He gulped down the lump in his throat and closed his eyes tightly.

  “I miss you guys,” he said. “And I’m sorry about this.”

  He heard his mother saying his name as the guard approached and took the phone away from him.

  As much as he yearned to speak to or see his family before the call, it proved destabilizing instead of bringing him comfort. It put him right in the middle of a tug of war that always ended in a draw.

  The conversation reminded him that at his most vulnerable, his family still provided unyielding support – and that had to count for something. He dreamed of being together with them again, and with the family dynamic he’d always wanted. Their reunion, he told himself, would be the start of a new beginning. Andrew grew fixated on thinking of ways to run away and had wild visions of a team of Marines sent in to rescue him.

  But invariably, each time he thought about his freedom, he wound up chiding himself. Everyone seemed to be working so hard to free him. But who, besides Abdou, was working to free Thomas? And really, what freedom could Abdou promise? To so many people in Andrew’s corner, he was the full picture. But in Andrew’s mind, he was only half of the picture. As the immediacy of the phone call with his family faded, the prospect of going home – of falling back into his own bed, waking up and looking around at the walls of his childhood room – did not bring the same comfort as thinking back to the times he spent with Thomas. When his cell went dark each night, he was transported back to all the nights they spent together, holding each other, content, surrounded by the same silence. He leaned up against the wall, resting his head on it, closing his eyes, and wanted to pretend it was Thomas, and th
at he was looking out into the sea.

  Most of the time, his memories ended the same way, in defeat. He looked around and saw no beach. Above him were no stars. Maybe he had lost, and wishing for home was the next best thing. Or maybe giving up wasn’t giving up. Maybe it didn’t make him a selfish ass to hope to be deported, leaving Thomas behind to fend for himself. The circumstances had changed drastically, but on some level, isn’t that what he always knew would eventually happen? It was hard to come up with an answer for what he was holding out for. The lack of an answer made Andrew feel like an even bigger asshole.

  One day, as Thomas was left alone with his thoughts without word from Abdou about his family, he tried imagining how everything had played out at Sheriff’s house and in the village. He tried to picture his parents’ reaction. He knew they’d publicly disown him and make known their disapproval. But in their heart of hearts he was still their son. He wanted to believe there would be a pang of loyalty, or even guilt, that would follow them. He tried to picture the two of them talking at night in hushed tones in the privacy of their bedroom where no one would hear them. Would his mother or father prove to be the sympathetic one? Could their past be forgotten? He wondered if his father would completely sever off those years of fishing, all those nights on the river, only the two of them. How do you erase a memory?

  It was just as Thomas began envisioning his parents’ conversation that he was disturbed by one of the guards. Someone was there to see him. He was led to one of the interview rooms and told to wait for his visitor. Thomas had no idea who might be coming to visit him, but as soon as Suleiman walked in, Thomas was not surprised. When the door was closed behind him he looked over at Thomas.

  “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Thomas? Are you actually okay?”

  He looked across at his friend, feeling agitated. “What do you want me to say? I’m managing fine. Are you here as a friend or a journalist?” he asked suspiciously.