Country

by Jeff Mann

  “Let me in, damn it,” Buddy said, wedging his foot between the door and the wall.

  “No, Buddy. Sorry. I—”

  Buddy slammed his shoulder against the door, knocking Brice backward. “Hey, honey girl, come on out!” Buddy yelled. “I’m Brice’s bass player, and I’m dying to meet you.”

  “Damn you, Buddy,” Brice said, grabbing at his arm and missing by an inch. “Come back here.”

  Buddy ignored Brice. He stalked down the hall into the living room. Brice followed, stomach clenching.

  In the living room, Buddy came to an abrupt stop. He scowled, surveying the evidence of last night’s debauchery: piles of clothes, the tube of lube, the used condom.

  “Looks like a shitload of fucking to me,” Buddy said, crossing his arms and looking disgusted. “You hired yourself a whore?”

  “Uh, just a bar pick-up. Look, let me get dressed, and you and I can head out and grab a beer and talk about whatever—”

  “Your girl dresses like a man,” Buddy said, swiping up Mike’s camo briefs and one of his cowboy boots. “Got yourself a country girl? A cowgirl?” He examined the boot, then the underwear. “Size 11 boot? Sounds like an Amazon, man.” He dropped both briefs and boot and snatched up the jeans. “Men’s jeans. Size 32. What’s going on, Brice? Wait! I think I know.” With a grim grin, Buddy dropped the jeans and headed toward the master bedroom.

  Brice followed him, mouth dry with anxiety. “Buddy, stop this shit. What the hell are you doing?”

  “I’m confirming a suspicion. The big news Steve told me.” When Brice grabbed his arm, Buddy shook him off. He strode into the bedroom. He stared at the mussed sheets. Grimacing, he picked up another tube of lube. He dropped it on the bed and stepped into the master bathroom.

  “Okay. Mirror’s still steamed. The vixen’s been showering?” He gave the air an exaggerated sniff. “That isn’t perfume. Smells like Old Spice to me.”

  “Okay, Sherlock. Enough of this,” Brice snapped. Again, he gripped Buddy’s arm, trying to drag him out. This time, the bigger man shoved Brice backward against the wall. Pain spasmed through Brice’s lower back. Buddy threw open the bathroom closet.

  “No?” Buddy stared at the roomy space full of shelves: folded towels, soap, shaving cream, and deodorant. “Honey girl? Where are you?” he yelled, re-entering the bedroom.

  “Get out,” Brice said, seizing Buddy by the elbow. Buddy responded by shoving Brice so hard that he fell backward onto the bed.

  Buddy threw open the bedroom closet and stepped back, as if he were expecting a peevish anaconda to uncoil itself, reveal its rows of needle teeth, and lunge at them.

  For a long moment, Buddy and Brice simply stared at the line of plaid shirts, T-shirts, and faded jeans on hangers. Then Buddy squatted, gazing past the row of Brice’s expensive cowboy boots into the closet’s far interior, and heaved a raspy chuckle.

  “Damn, Brice, your girl needs to get herself one of those pretty, pink-handled razors. Look at those hairy calves.” Buddy stood and parted the concealing veil of fabric.

  Mike stood pressed against the far wall, a towel wrapped around his lithe waist. His face was very red. “Uh, hi, man?” he said, crossing his arms across his teeth-bruised chest.

  “Well, howdy,” Buddy said, extending his hand. “You can’t be Brice’s lady friend. Who’re you?”

  Mike’s flushed face grew redder. “Uh, I’m Mike. We were just—”

  When he gripped Buddy’s hand, his towel slipped off, dropping down to swathe his feet. His dick, large even when limp, swayed in the morning light. He cursed, released Buddy’s hand, and bent to snatch up the towel.

  “Yeow! You can put that big thang away,” Buddy said, jolting back. “Well, Brice?” he said, turning to his friend. “Who the hell is this?”

  “Mike’s a personal trainer I hire when I’m down here,” Brice said. His capacity for composing quick, convenient lies had grown very deft over the years. “We were just working out.”

  “Really? This closet the door to your private gym? So where’s the woman you mentioned?”

  Brice got to his feet, willing his voice steady. To hide his shaking hands, he clasped them behind his back.

  “She must have stepped out while I was brewing coffee. You know women, they—”

  “I know women, yeah. But do you?”

  Brice frowned. “What do you mean by that?”

  “I mean you need to give Steve a call. Turns out you’re in the headlines back in Nashville. Turns out you’re not the man everybody thought you were. You’re not the man I thought you were.”

  Buddy turned to sneer at Mike, who was edging toward the bedroom door, towel covering his groin. “You Brice’s new boyfriend?”

  “Boyfriend? Naw.”

  “You a whore?”

  Mike gave both men a pained look. “Whore? Naw. Like he said, I’m just here ‘cause—”

  “You know who this guy is?” Buddy jutted a thumb toward Brice.

  “Ah. Nick?”

  Buddy guffawed. “Naw. This ain’t Nick. This here’s Brice Brown. Ever heard of him? Country music singer?”

  Mike paused, adjusting the towel about his waist. “Uh. Yeah.” He peered at Brice, rubbed his eyes, and grunted. “Well, hell. Wow. Yeah, I know a song of yours, I think. You look kinda different.”

  “He puts on a few pounds in between photo shoots. He loves the booze and the pork rinds. Yep, Brice here is famous. Well, he was famous. Lately, he’s been sorta famous. But now he’s really famous.”

  Something about the grim expression on Buddy’s face made clear that “really famous” was not the kind of famous that Brice had been craving lately. He cleared his throat and glared at Buddy. “What are you talking about? You mentioned headlines. What headlines?”

  Buddy crossed his arms and regarded Brice. Sadness flickered over his face, replaced by an expression of contempt.

  “Zac outed you, man. He went to the press.”

  “What?”

  “He told ‘em you and him were lovers. Told ‘em that’s why he quit the band. ‘Cause you dumped him.”

  “Oh, shit. Oh, holy shit,” Brice said, sitting heavily on the bed. Disbelief made him dizzy. Zac. Zac. Oh, man, why would you do such a thing?

  “Uh, damn, man, I better head out,” Mike muttered. “Let you all talk.”

  “That’d be a good idea, kid,” Buddy said, curling his lip as the hustler fled the room.

  “Guess we do need to talk. You want a beer?” Brice said, getting to his feet. A cold numbness spread beneath his breastbone, as if the news about Zac had functioned as a long needle of Novocaine.

  “Kinda early, but sure,” Buddy said. Brice headed for the kitchen and Buddy followed him. In the living room, Mike was pulling on his clothes as fast as he could. “Bye,” he blurted. Before Brice could respond, the hustler had scuttled down the hall and slammed the front door behind him.

  Shit. He was fine. Guess I’ll never see him again, Brice thought, pulling two beer cans from the fridge. He popped both, handed one to Buddy, and took a seat on the couch where Mike had sprawled, so prettily naked and submissive, just hours ago.

  “So, was he a whore? Or are you dating him?” Buddy took an armchair. He didn’t look at Brice. He looked out the plate-glass windows and over the sea.

  Brice took a long pull on his beer, contemplating one lie after another and discarding them all as worthless and far too late. “You really want to know?”

  “Yeah. Yeah, I do. I think the whole thing’s hard to believe, but I wanna know. We’ve been friends for years, Brice. Or I thought we were. I couldn’t believe what Steve said that Zac said, but then I come over here and….”

  “And find a naked man in my closet. Yeah. Yeah, Mike’s a hustler.”

  “Shit. You pay for sex?”

  “Easier than having a real relationship. Safer. Easier to keep secret.”

  “So you’ve been lying to us all these years? You’re really queer? Gay, I mean.”
<
br />   Brice licked beer off his upper lip. “I want other men, if that’s what you mean. Yep. ’Fraid so.”

  “How long have you known?”

  “Since high school. Since I looked at guys in the locker room after gym class and wanted them. Since I went to church alone and prayed that God would change me. But He never did.”

  “So, what about your marriage?”

  “I thought I was in love with Shelly. I thought being with her would change things. But nothing really changed. And then last spring she figured things out. She found a few letters Zac’d sent me. That’s when she asked me to move out. She’s been real good at keeping my secret. I guess she likes being a star’s wife, even if it’s all a sham.”

  “So Zac’s telling the truth? You and him…fucked?”

  “We did more than fuck. We cared about one another.”

  Buddy snorted. “Really?”

  “Really.” Brice hung his head. He felt exhausted. He wanted nothing more than to down half a bottle of George Dickel, pop four or five back pills, and head back to bed.

  “You and Zac? You both look like wrestlers. You both grew up hunting and fishing and splitting wood. You’re cocksuckers?” He laughed and the sound hung like a secretive smog in the air around them. “Which one of you was the woman?”

  Brice’s mouth twisted. “Don’t get nasty. I don’t ask about whether or not you eat your wife’s pussy, do I?”

  “No, you don’t. Yes, I do, as a matter of fact. Tastes like salmon fresh from Alaska.” For a split-second, the Buddy that Brice knew appeared, only to be replaced by this cold man sitting across from him.

  Buddy consumed the rest of his beer in a long gulp. Then he stood.

  “You better call Steve. He’s doesn’t know whether to run, shit, or go blind. He says this news is going to ruin you.”

  Brice stood. For a split-second, he thought he might cry. “Yeah. I guess he’s right. So will I see you back in Nashville?”

  “Naw. I don’t think so. Sorry, man. I don’t want to be implicated, y’know? I mean, if folks believe that you were giving it to Zac, they might think….”

  “What about next spring? Steve told me that Molasses Mount just offered us the deal. They’ll want us to tour—”

  Buddy rolled his eyes. “Are you crazy? Don’t you get it? They’re sure to cancel your contract now. The pop music folks might tolerate David Bowie and Elton John, but country music fans are wanting to hear about God and tradition. They’re not gonna buy a gay guy’s CDs.”

  Buddy crushed the beer can in one fist, then dropped it on the carpet. “Call Steve. I’m sorry this happened. Good luck, man. And goodbye.” Buddy turned, strode down the hall, and left the condo, leaving the door open behind him.

  Brice leaned back into the couch. He looked at the sun on the sea for a long time. Then he opened another beer, washed down a handful of pain pills and a couple of sleeping pills, and, back aching, went back to bed.

  IT WAS DARK WHEN BRICE DRIFTED TO THE surface of his chemical sleep. Rain was pattering on the windowsill. He rolled out of bed, took another round of pain pills, pissed, and took a long shower, savoring the way the hot water eased his lumbar region. Then he slumped naked on the couch, took a deep breath and a big slug of bourbon, and listened to the messages Steve had left on his phone.

  “Brice, I have some bad news. I need to talk to you as soon as possible. Call me.”

  “Brice, call me, dammit.”

  “Brice, where the hell are you? We have a crisis on our hands. Call me!”

  “Since you aren’t returning my calls for some damned reason, I’m just going to have to break the bad news now. There’s an interview with Zac Lanier coming out in tomorrow’s Nashville Banner complete with a couple of photos. He claims that you and he were lovers, gay lovers, back when he played in your band. I’ve tried to squelch the article, but I’ve failed. What I need to know from you is…is this true? If it isn’t, maybe we can salvage something. If it is, Brice…I don’t know what we’re going to do.”

  “Brice, if you’ve listened to my previous messages, you know you’re in big trouble. Call me so we can do some damage control.”

  Brice peered at the clock—8:30 pm—and then dialed Steve’s number.

  “Where the hell have you been?” He had never heard Steve so angry before. He sounded rabid.

  “Sorry, man. Had company. Drank too much. Passed out.”

  “You better have tickets back to Nashville?”

  “Yep. Gonna leave tomorrow.”

  “Good. Right now I need to know one thing. Is it true? What Zac said. What you tell the rest of the world is one thing. What you tell me…. I need the truth. You owe me that much.”

  Brice took another swig of bourbon. “Yeah, I guess I do. It’s true.”

  ”Damn.” Steve’s breath resounded down the line as if he were hyperventilating. “Why the hell didn’t you tell me? That way we could have headed off any possible…. Well, it’s too late now. I did my best to keep the story out of the paper, but my efforts just seemed to make the bastards more determined to run it. You better fly first class and don’t speak to a soul at the airport or on the plane, not even to ask for a damn pillow. Or a drink. You come by my office day after tomorrow early, say, nine am. By the time we meet, I’ll have a better sense of where things stand.”

  “Thanks, Steve. I’m sorry I didn’t—”

  Brice stopped speaking. Steve had already hung up.

  THE RAIN WAS WARM, BUT the Atlantic was cold. Brice, wearing nothing but gym shorts, stood ankle-deep in the surf. Addled on liquor and pills, he swayed from right to left, from left to right, like a cliff-side fern buffeted by high wind. To the north and south, the towering beachfront properties glowed, interrupting the autumn dark, illuminating a faint mist that hung over the sand. It was quiet except for the sound of breaking waves and low tide. The rain continued, tapping Brice’s high brow and broad shoulders. He looked out to sea. Blackness of sky above the horizon; deeper blackness of ocean below. A few miles out, a pinprick light glowed, indicating a distant ship.

  Brice tallied up the people he cared for as he waded farther into the sea, the chill climbing up his legs. Zac, who’d now matched Brice betrayal for betrayal. Shelly, his wife, who’d kept his secret so as to enjoy the occasional limelight and stay in their fine country estate. Steve, whose angry voice still resounded in his head. Buddy, the look of contempt on his face. Who else? His sister Leigh and her son Carden, whom he saw at best once or twice a year. Who else? His lead guitarist Tim. His drummer Jeff. His keyboardist Ken. The latter two religious types, likely to be horrified at the truth. And all their careers in country music derailed, if not ended entirely, by the public revelation of Brice’s secret. How many of the folks in Brice’s life would turn their backs on him now that they knew the truth?

  Brice waded farther out till the cold water reached his thighs. So few kith and kin for a man who’d achieved so many of his professional ambitions, a man who’d lived forty years upon this planet. The things in his life were more abundant. The house near Franklin he’d shared with Shelly till she found Zac’s letters and asked Brice to move out. The condo in Nashville where he’d lived since the separation. The house back in West Virginia, the place he’d grown up, inherited when his elderly father died. A collection of top-of-the-line guitars and pianos. The Daytona condo. His latest pickup truck, a slate-gray Dodge Ram 2500. His latest motorcycle, a black Honda Shadow. A slew of wildly expensive cowboy boots. A plethora of carefully hidden porn, both video and print. How many of those solid, substantial prizes he’d collected over the years of his success in the music business would he lose now that the world knew he’d slept with a man?

  Brice strode out another yard, moving farther away from solidity and deeper into insubstantiality. The cold sea reached his genitals, dousing and shriveling them. He thought of Zac again, how furry and warm the man had been, how sweet he was to cuddle with during that one winter season they’d shared, so full of pas
sion and kindness and need. He thought of Mike, grunting happily as Brice drove into him. He thought of Doug, that Philly call boy. He thought of faces and nipples and cocks and thighs and asses he’d briefly adored, briefly tasted and touched, most of the men’s names long forgotten.

  The water licked at Brice’s plump belly, tickling his navel. He shuddered. What’ll be left if I live? Who’ll mourn if I die?

  Nausea rose up in him. He turned his back on the sea, the horizon, and the sole ship’s far flickering. He staggered up out of the water and onto the land. As soon as his bare feet hit dry sand, he fell to his knees and retched. Then he wiped his beard, fell over onto his side, pulled his knees to his chest, and began to sob.

  SUNRISE WOKE HIM, AND THE advancing tide lapping his toes. He rose on one elbow, a foul taste in his mouth. Before him, the Atlantic was a restless swarm of gold. He stared into the blinding light for a split-second, then closed his eyes.

  Lord, the preachers back home would say that I’m an abomination in Your eyes. I don’t think I believe that, though I’m not sure. Didn’t You make me this way? I tried to change, but I can’t. Help me, God. Ain’t I Your child too? I need strength. Show me what to do.

  Brice opened his eyes and staggered to his feet. His back ached, his knees ached, and his left eye seemed glazed, as if it were a window coated with ice. He shook his head, trying to throw off confusion, then shambled up the beach toward the condo tower, his belly growling. There was, he knew, a joint just north of Daytona on Highway A-1-A with strong coffee and top-notch biscuits and gravy. That would make a nice stop before the flight back to Nashville.

  THE SUN WAS BRIGHT AND THE BREEZE VERY COLD as Brice approached Steve’s office building on the edge of Nashville’s Music Row, the neighborhood that served as the business center of the country music industry. The chilly weather was well timed. It gave Brice an excuse to disguise himself as best he could, with a bulky rawhide jacket, a voluminous tartan scarf, and a brown fisherman’s cap pulled low over his forehead. His in-between-CDs extra bulk served the same purpose. For future camouflage—if the consequences of Zac’s newspaper interview proved to be as disastrous as Brice feared—he’d already decided to stop dyeing his beard and let it grow out into the thick bush he’d worn in college.