Lebanon Hostage Ch. 05

Actually, no. It's Robert who's gone. Donald is now in Robert's cell. On the second morning after all the commotion, Allan finds a note from Donald under the sink, informing us of the change. "RB must have gone home," Donald writes. "Hubbub was so we wouldn't know who was going." I infer that Donald and Paul have seen this kind of thing before, when Sutton and Dalessio were released.

Home. Robert's gone home.

I'm in shock. It doesn't feel real. Every one of us in this basement longs, constantly, to be released—and suddenly, without any warning, it's happened to one of us. Just like that, Robert's gone. He could be back in the United States, with his family, at this very second.

If Donald's right. Which Allan and I have no reason to think he isn't. Donald would recognize the signs of a release better than we would. Paul, too, assumes that Robert has been released.

I am profoundly conflicted. I should be happy for Robert, and I suppose in some corner of myself I am. But I'm incredibly, painfully jealous, too. Why was it him and not me, goddammit?

Inevitably, I feel guilty for thinking that. Robert was kidnapped ten months before me, obviously he should go home first. If anyone has a right to feel cheated, it's Paul: he's been a hostage even longer, a couple months more than Robert. How did our captors pick who to send home? Did they pick Robert as compensation for the beating? And why did they send him homenow? Are their demands finally being met, perhaps in installments? Was Dalessio released back in July because some of the Kuwait prisoners were released? Now some more of the Kuwait prisoners have been released, so Robert's gone home? Is that what happened?

Two hostages released three months apart. One way or another, it seems like wheels are turning, albeit slowly. Will someone else go home a couple more months from now? Paul? Donald? Me?

Maybe not even that long. Maybe Robert's release is the beginning of the final resolution, the one that went off track whenever the U.S. bombed Libya. Maybe the whole remaining group of us will be going home very soon...

"Don't lose hope, but don't lose yourself in hope," Allan reminds me. I imagine (we don't talk about it) that his emotions must be even more turbulent than mine. Robert's release is a sign of hope for me, since we assume that I, too, am being held for the release of the Kuwait prisoners. But we have no reason to think it's a sign of hope for Allan; presumably his release depends on some other demand. Thinking about Allan's situation makes me sick—part grief, part guilt—which puts the brakes on my own hopes, keeps them from running wild.

I feel sick, also, that Paul and Donald are back in solitary. I feel sick forthem, of course. But also because their separation forces me to confront the reality that Allan and I, too, could be separated at any moment, whenever our captors feel like it.

Passing messages becomes more complicated now that there are three parties using the pipe instead of two. If Donald leaves a message for Paul, it will always end up sitting in our cell for a day, since Allan can't unroll the message there in the bathroom to figure out who it's for—not enough time, too much noise. Once Allan brings the message back to our cell and realizes it's meant for Paul, he has to wait until the next morning to return the message to the bathroom. An extra day's delay will likewise occur every time Paul leaves a message for us or we leave a message for Donald.

Paul quickly devises a system to get around this problem, which he explains in notes to the rest of us. When we see one or more messages waiting in the pipe, we need to check the corner of the rolled-up foil that's closest to the pipe's mouth. If the tip of the corner has been ripped off at an angle, that indicates a message for Donald. If a piece in the shape of a square has been ripped out of the corner, the message is for Allan and me. If the corner is intact, the message is for Paul.

Okay... but how are we supposed to remember that arbitrary code? After mulling it over for a little while, Allan announces that it isn't arbitrary, he's cracked the logic. Tearing the corner at an angle means removing a right triangle, which resembles the letter D, for Donald. Tearing off a square requirestworips, hence a message for thetwoof us, Allan and me. I'm not convinced that this is what Paul had in mind when he devised the code, but if it works as a mnemonic for Allan, whatever.

Once the code has been instituted—which is to say, once Paul can send a message to Allan and me without Donald intercepting it—Paul advises us:

DM tried suicide last time he was alone. Please support!

Allan appears as alarmed by this announcement as I feel, which surprises me, since I tend to anticipate the worst while he's generally steadier. During feedings, I keep an ear out for the sound of Donald shattering his tea glass, since that's the suicide method I contemplated in my first prison. I can't imagine any other method he might try.

Donald shows signs of growing low within just a week or so being moved. Messages like this—

Glad we can communicate, even just to say hi. Means a lot to me.

give way to this—

Bad day. I miss my wife and kids.

followed in turn, one day, by—

You two are lucky. Be good to each other.

That last sounds so much like a farewell missive that Allan dashes off the following reply in urgently drawn letters:

Donald, your wife and kids love you. Don't hurt them! You could be home soon!

On the same day he leaves that message under the sink for Donald, Allan leaves a message alerting Paul that he thinks "DM may be about to hurt himself."

From the morning we receive Donald's "be good to each other" message, it takes three more days—the minimum possible—for Allan to leave his urgent answer and then retrieve an answer left in turn by Donald. During those three days, Allan is more anxious than I have ever seen him. He wonders aloud: Should he just call across the basement to Donald and have done with it? A thumping's a small price to pay if it saves Donald's life.

In an odd role reversal, I find myself in the position of urging Allan to calm down and be reasonable. We haven't been able to think of any way Donald could try to kill himself except cutting his wrists with glass—and we haven't heard him shatter his glass. Paul, who knows the details of Donald's first suicide attempt, hasn't called out to him, even though we know Paul's willing to do that (from when he called out after Robert's beating)—so evidently Paul doesn't believe the situation is that urgent yet. Let's wait for another message from Donald and see what it says.

Donald's next message to us reads:

I'm not that bad, but thank you. Sorry I scared you. Fuck Paul for telling you.

Allan is immensely relieved. But he also feels immensely foolish, which he takes out on me: We're supposed to challenge each other when we get caught up in Strange Ideas. So why didn't I challenge his overreaction to Donald's message?

I react defensively: I did challenge him, I told him he should wait for another message from Donald before panicking.

Allan's not going to let me off the hook; he's determined to stick blame on me. I didn't call it a Strange Idea, like I should have. He claims that would have made a difference to him. And I should have said something sooner—before he preached at Donald in that god-awful way about not hurting his wife and kids.

I know this isn't about me, it's about Allan feeling ashamed, so I stop responding as if it's an attack. Instead, I try to say the kind of thing Allan would say to soothe me if I were the one lashing out. I assure him that he hasn't done anything to feel bad about. He was worried about Donald, as was I; and yes, we overreacted, both of us, in different ways; but the only result is that Donald knows how much we care about him. What's wrong with that?

Allan retorts that it's easy for me to talk, I'm not the one who made an ass of myself. I tell him he didn't make an ass of himself, and I feel sorry that he feels like he did because he has absolutely no reason to. That said, I ensure myself the last word by lying down on my back and closing my eyes. I interlock my fingers on top of my chest and cross my calf over the other shin to show that I'm relaxing, not upset. I leave Allan to work through his grouchiness.

Following that night's feeding, Allan and I end up kneeling beside one another, rinsing out our bowls at the same time. I find the scene pleasurably domestic. Like we're a married couple, keeping house together.

Allan takes advantage of the moment to apologize for jumping down my throat earlier. He says it lightly, as if we've already made up, which in a way we have since I haven't been holding a grudge. If I were the one apologizing, I'd be hanging my head, mumbling remorsefully or sullenly. But as a rule, Allan doesn't do dramatic guilt. I'm equally light as I accept his apology: That's okay, we're fine.

He catches my eye. "You handled yourself pretty well," he says in the tone of someone compelled to acknowledge an opponent's prowess.

A wave of delight rolls through me, so powerful I can't stop my mouth from stretching into a self-satisfied grin. I'm immediately embarrassed. Once I've managed to put on a modest expression, I say, "I'm just glad Donald's all right."

"Me too."

Lying back to back with Allan, waiting to drop off to sleep, I bask in a sense of... I shouldn't say "contentment." I'm notcontentto be here, I'm not insane. But I do feel happy. More precisely put: there are a number of things that, tonight, I feel happy about. Donald's not suicidal after all. Robert's gone home, which gives me hope that my own release has moved some increment closer. In the meantime, I'm blessed not to have been separated from Allan. I'm adapting to hostage life, as Allan says. At this very moment, lying here, I have that feeling of everything being natural, which I still find weird, but which helps me keeps my spirits up. I'm not homesick, not at the moment, anyway, although if I dwell on that fact, I'm liable to become so.

I feel happy—comfortable—in my pajamas, my socks. The power's out, so I don't have the fan blowing cold, humid air over me. I've been curled up under my blanket long enough to warm me up to a cozy temperature.

I feel happy remembering how I handled myself today with Allan. We fought a little, like friends do at times. Like even lovers do. But I stood my ground. I'm proud of that. And what makes me even prouder, I moved beyond standing my ground to rise to the occasion and be the mature one, for once—the one who was serene and reasonable and saw what this fight was really about, saw what Allan really needed. I gave him what he needed: the assurance, the boosting, the perspective. I was the older brother. I was the steady one. And in the end, Allan praised me for it.

So yes, I'm happy. For the moment.

I enjoy my happiness as I sink into sleep.

* * *

I wake up, some hours later. I'm still curled up warm under my blanket. Behind me, Allan is snoring softly. I have no idea how close it is to morning. The only way I can know it's morning is when Allan gets up to take his long piss. His full bladder is our cockcrow.

Usually when I wake up in the night, it's because I need to empty my own smaller bladder. I feel a little bit of a need to do that now. But there's no way in hell it's going to happen, at least not right away.

I am hard. Not one of those automatic half-erections I wake up with in the morning now and then. This is a full-on, stretched-to-the-limit, almost-painful,I-want-sexerection.

I haven't had an erection like this since before I was kidnapped. The last time I had an erection like this, I would have been back in the States.

Was I having an erotic dream? I don't remember.

Very softly—Allan's still snoring, I want to keep it that way—I move my right hand from where it's tucked under my chin for warmth, down to my lap. I wrap my hand around my hard-on, groping it through my pajama bottoms and briefs. As I squeeze, pleasure radiates out from my groin into my thighs and stomach. Ohhhhh...

I want to jack off so badly. I want to fondle my nipple with my left hand through my pajama top while gently pinching the head of my dick between my thumb and fingers, over and over, rapidly. It's an efficient but satisfying method I relied on in my college dorm to hide what I was doing from my roommate, in bed on the other side of the room. I could pull that off here, in the cell, without being detected, couldn't I? Allan asleep, me concealed under my blanket...

Actually, speaking of Allan... Jacking off isn't what I really want to do. What I want to do is turn over and grab Allan and rub my pajama-clad body against his until I squirt into my briefs.

Nope. Stop. You can't do this.

As soon as my id draws Allan into my sexual fantasy, my superego won't let me go further. I let go of my dick, tuck my hand back under my chin. I'm not beating myself up, I'm not berating myself for being disgusting or perverted or anything along those lines. This is merely... improper. I can't jack off lying right next to Allan. Not only because of how mortified I'd be if he woke up and caught me, though that's certainly a major consideration. But also because it would be an imposition on him, an assault on the paper-thin barriers that preserve what tiny amount of personal space we each have.

And I shouldn't indulge in sexual fantasies about Allan, it complicates things. The last thing I want to do is create for myself a situation in which I can't look him in the eye because of guilt over the thoughts I've been having about him. I'd give myself away.

Not to mention the impracticalities of masturbating. It's not like I have an extra sock lying around. I can't change into a new pair of underwear in the morning. I have tissues in my tub, I could use those, I suppose. The tissue paper would make a scratchy sound, though, I'd be at risk of being discovered. I could try constricting my dick when I cum, the way I used to do when I first started masturbating, as a teenager. If I can still get the technique to work—it's been years since I did that—most of the ejaculate would stay backed up inside my urethra, and then I could piss it out.

Having to think through the mechanics is killing the mood.

As my urge to masturbate slowly subsides, so does my erection. I regret the loss. Who knows when I'll have sexual feelings again? I still don't know what caused me to get aroused tonight. Because I felt so good when I went to sleep, would be my guess. Together, my body and my subconscious mind found another way to express my happiness.

It's better for me if my sex drive stays suppressed, under the circumstances. That's the intelligent, pragmatic way to think about the situation.

Still, I can't help but feel that I've just watched a window of opportunity seal shut. I lost my chance. I let something get away that, for all I know, might not return.