Country

by Jeff Mann

  He was in love with me. Why couldn’t I just accept that and be thankful? Why couldn’t I just go with my feelings for him and love him back? Why did I have to be a coward? Why did I have to close myself off and drive him away? If I hadn’t, maybe none of this bullshit would have happened. Maybe he’d still be healthy and I wouldn’t be square and fairly fucked.

  The story continued on the fourth page. The photograph accompanying that segment was of Zac and Brice performing at a concert they’d given at the University of Georgia, a month after their affair had begun. Zac was playing his acoustic guitar while he and Brice sang into the same microphone, their bearded faces only inches apart. Damn, he was so handsome. Damn, we made great music together. We were almost as good together on stage as we were in the sack.

  Brice scanned the article, wincing and groaning. Then he read the article more carefully, emitting little snorts of outrage. The contents entirely banished the razor-edged longing for Zac that the photos had evoked.

  GAYS IN COUNTRY MUSIC?

  A Chat with Zac Lanier,

  Brice Brown’s Ex-Guitarist

  By Jerry Roberts

  Country music has long been considered the bastion of traditionalism, old-fashioned religious faith, and family values, but now Zac Lanier, former guitarist for country star Brice Brown, has come forward with a shocking claim: he and the singer had a clandestine homosexual affair while Lanier was still a member of Brown’s band. I spoke to Mr. Lanier in his apartment on the outskirts of Nashville.

  JR: Mr. Lanier, when and how did your sexual relationship with Brice Brown begin?

  ZL: Brice and I toured a lot together in 1995 and 1996. A mutual attraction developed, I guess you could say, but we were both reluctant to act on it. I tried to resist, because I’ve always been a real moral person and I knew feelings like that were wrong. Then one autumn night last year, it was mid-October 1996, after a lot of drinking at his fancy house in Williamson County—we’d had a party to celebrate the release of his latest CD—he and I ended up really intoxicated and stoned and in the hot tub together. He started stuff, touching, you know? One thing led to another. I tried to stop him, but then I was just so drunk that I gave in.

  ZL: Are you saying he raped you?

  ZL: No. I wouldn’t say that. We were both adults. I just chose wrong.

  JR. Had you been intimate in that way with a man before?

  ZL: Oh, no. I was raised strict Southern Baptist. I had never even considered such a thing. The preachers back home in Georgia said it was an abomination.

  JR: Do you think that Brown had been with other men before?

  ZL: Oh, yeah. Lots. He seemed really experienced, if you know what I mean. Promiscuous.

  JR: All this occurred at his house, you said? Was his wife there?

  ZL: Not in the hot tub.

  JR: I assumed that. I meant, was she in the house at the time?

  ZL: Yes. She’d gone to bed hours before. I guess she’d gotten tired of all the carousing. You know how wild we country boys can get.

  JR: I do indeed. How long have Brice and Shelly Brown been married?

  ZL: Uhm, around ten years, I think.

  JR: How did you feel, getting involved with Brown that way but knowing he had a wife?

  ZL: I felt pretty bad, as you can imagine. Real guilty. As you probably know, Brice and Shelly separated last May, and I feel kind of responsible for that. That’s one of the reasons I’m coming forward now. That, and my faith. I just couldn’t break God’s rules anymore. I wish I could tell Shelly Brown how sorry I am and beg her forgiveness. She didn’t deserve the lies we told.

  JR: So how long did your affair with Brice Brown last?

  ZL: Six months. Till April of this year. We used to meet in secret in motels here and there. That photo I gave you, of Brice naked in bed, I took that during one of those get-togethers. Brice got pretty attached to me. When I started to have second thoughts, he started buying me real expensive, real nice gifts, trying to convince me to stay in the relationship. But then I just couldn’t take the secrets any more—every time I ran into Shelly, it nigh-about killed me, and the thought that we were lying to our fans was just awful—so I broke it off with Brice, though he cried a lot and begged me not to. Playing in his band got real uncomfortable after that—he’d harass me, you know?—get real feely—so that’s when I quit.

  JR: Have you had any contact with Brice Brown since?

  ZL: No. I told him to stay away from me. I told him we were both sinners, and that I was tired of sinning. I stopped accepting his calls. So now I’m praying a lot and trying to get my life back on track and caring for my poor ill mother. Plus I’m dating a girl who’s very spiritual and forgiving. She’s helping to lead me toward the light.

  JR: You’re to be commended for your courage. What would you say to Brice Brown if you were ever to encounter him again?

  ZL: I’d tell him to pray. Pray hard. Jesus loves him. And Jesus wants to heal him. He wants him to give up the life of a sinner and come to Him. Jesus will forgive him just like Jesus has forgiven me. I’ve forgiven Brice for leading me astray, so I know Jesus will too.

  JR: That sounds like good advice. Thanks for speaking to me, Mr. Lanier. I know our readers will appreciate your honesty. All good luck in the future.

  “Jesus fucking Christ,” Brice spat. He briefly contemplated the destructive pleasure of throwing the tumbler of Scotch against the wall, but he dismissed the thought as wasteful. In West Virginia, farm boys learn early that waste is one of the cardinal crimes. Instead, Brice gulped down the rest of the glass in between bouts of muttered cussing.

  “Honesty? The little bastard. The little prick. I broke it off with him, and he’s been begging me to come back to him ever since. And he says I cried? God, I’d like to whip his ass. Greedy fucker. All that religious horseshit. He’s ruined my entire life for money. For a bag of gold. Like goddamn Judas. I don’t care if he’s sick. He should never have—”

  Brice’s furious monologue was interrupted by the ringing of his cell phone. When he flipped it open, he saw Shelly’s name displayed.

  “Hey,” Brice said. “I’ve been trying to get hold of you. We need to talk.”

  “We sure do.” Shelly’s voice was wry and weary. “Damn that Zac.”

  “You’re telling me. So look, can I come by the house? I can be out there within the hour.”

  “I assure you, you don’t want to come out here. This place has been surrounded by news crews ever since that article was published. They’re like a pack of starving wolves.”

  “Well, sheeeee-ut! So can we meet somewhere else?”

  “Yes. I have some things to say, and I want to do it in person.”

  Zac swallowed hard. The thought of what Shelly might say made his groin ice over. “Okay. So where?”

  “Queenie’s. For dinner. Say, six pm. I already talked to Lorrie. She’s willing to close early so we won’t be bothered by anyone. Okay?”

  “Yep. Thanks, Shelly.”

  “See you then,” she said curtly, hanging up.

  “Ohhhh, fuck,” Brice groaned. He bit his lower lip and ran his fingers through his thinning brown hair. Then, since his habit of running down to Jack’s Bar-B-Que, his favorite downtown lunch spot, had been rendered impractical by all the bad publicity, he opened up a bag of pork rinds, stretched out on the couch beneath an afghan, and watched rain draw vertical bars of cold silver down the window glass.

  QUEENIE’S WAS A ROADSIDE DINER just north of Nashville, managed since 1993 by Shelly’s tart-mouthed distant cousin Lorrie Kershaw, a blonde vixen with enormous breasts and very short shorts she wore in all kinds of weather. The place specialized in hot chicken, a dish developed in Nashville: spicy chicken fried with lots of cayenne, served with white bread and pickles on the side. Brice was always hankering after hot chicken, and he and Shelly had been Queenie’s regulars before the separation. In fact, there’d been a signed photo of Brice prominently displayed in the little restaurant. It was, Br
ice noticed as he pushed past the CLOSED sign on the door, still hung on the wall.

  Brice hadn’t seen Shelly’s car in the rain-puddled parking lot, so he entered assuming she had yet to arrive. Lorrie sat behind the counter, cigarette in one hand and beer in the other. Instead of the outraged glare that Brice had been steeling himself against ever since Shelly suggested Queenie’s as a meeting place, the look on Lorrie’s face was perplexed concern.

  Relief washed over Brice. Maybe she ain’t gonna tear me a new one after all, he thought, giving Lorrie a weak wave.

  “Hey, Lorrie,” Brice said as he eased the door closed behind him. He knew that Lorrie hated it when folks made unnecessary noise. It was trashy, she had often declared. “Thanks for letting us meet here. It was real nice of you to close early so folks won’t harass us.”

  “I don’t mind, honey. I could do with an evening off. Shelly just called. She’s stuck in traffic, but she said she’d be here soon. She said not to fix her any food—you know how her stomach gets when she’s upset—but can I get you anything?”

  “Right now, I’d kill for a beer,” Brice said, taking a stool at the counter. “Once Shelly’s here, I’d love a big plate of hot chicken, maybe a batch of fried pickles on the side.”

  “You got it.” Lorrie ground out her cigarette and fetched a bottle of Sam Adams, a brew everyone knew Brice savored most. “So, you’re in a peck of trouble, ain’t you?” she said, opening the bottle and handing it to him.

  “Yes, ma’am, I am,” Brice said, taking a long swig of beer. It seemed to reduce the bitter taste that had filled his mouth ever since he’d heard that Zac had outed him. “I’m relieved that you’re not cussing a blue streak. I figured you’d throw something at me as soon as I walked in here. I know what a temper you have and how protective you are of Shelly. And I know what a churchgoer you are. I figured you’d have taken my photo down already.”

  “Oh, honey, you’ve got me confused with the mean-spirited kind of Christian. Them’s pit bulls. Christ was a shepherd of lambs, not pit bulls. I’ve committed too many sins myself to judge other folks. I must admit, a couple customers complained about your picture and told me I ought to take it down, but I told them that they ought to kiss my country ass. They flew right outta here in high dudgeon.”

  Lorrie snickered. Brice guffawed. He’d always relished Lorrie’s crude sense of humor. She was as down-home as Shelly was sophisticated. “Well, thanks for that. I need all the support I can get.”

  “I know you do, sweetie pie. Shelly confided in me about you a long time ago, since I’m about the only family she’s got, other than those stuck-up parents of hers. At first I was shocked, but then I prayed, and, well, there’s this sweet little lesbian in my congregation, well, she ain’t little, she’s built like a linebacker, bless her heart, but her soul’s pure gold, and she lives near me, and she and I have been making Mexican food together once a week for three years now—Taco Tuesdays, we call it—and I consider her a dear friend, so…I ain’t judging you, Brice. You cain’t help how you’re made any more’n I can. Yes, you lied to Shelly, but I can see why…especially considering all that’s happened to y’all in the last forty-eight hours. That haitful, haitful, haitful Zac Lanier. So destructive. So selfish. Hasn’t he ever heard of ‘Do unto others?’”

  Lorrie popped open a Bud Light for herself and then lit another cigarette. “It’s not like you and Shelly had a grand soap-opera love, and then you spurned her and broke her heart. I know my cousin. She grew up with money, and she was always determined to stay accustomed to that lifestyle. We both know that’s why she married you, the handsome, wealthy, famous country star. She used you, honey.”

  “Yeah. I guess so. Guess I got what I deserved. I sure used her.”

  “Seems like y’all used one another. You got, what? A show of normality? And she got to pose in pretty dresses for Country Weekly and People, and she got to play the fine lady in that fancy house of yours. And she ain’t been as lonely as you might think, if you know what I mean.” Lorrie inhaled, grinned, and blew out a big smoke ring. “You ain’t been the only one with secrets.”

  “Really?” A flicker of husbandly jealousy ran through Brice, then just as suddenly snuffed out. “That’s good, I guess. Yeah, that’s good. I’ve been feeling awfully guilty. We never really had….”

  “A real marriage. I know, honey. She’s told me. Hell, Harland hasn’t pushed my lil’ button for going on five years. Or licked it neither! Lots of folks past the craziness of youth are in the same boat. For most of us, marriage ain’t exactly a fuck-a-minute. Was sex with Zac any good?”

  Brice’s face flared hot. He’d never discussed his man-on-man sex life with any woman before, much less his wife’s cousin. “Lorrie, what a question!”

  “Lord God, you look like you just gulped a whole bottle of Tabasco or a cup of cayenne pepper,” Lorrie said. “Well, if it was good, count your blessings. I may be a Christian, but I ain’t exactly a lady, and as far as I’m concerned, sometimes a prime piece of tail is worth the risk…though the price you’re paying right now seems mighty steep to me. Oh, I think Shelly just drove up. I’ll make myself scarce in the back. Got to start on those fried pickles and chicken.” Lorrie stubbed out her cigarette and hurried off.

  Brice took another swig of beer. This ain’t gonna be any fun atall.

  Shelly swept through the door, dressed in a purple raincoat, its hood sheltering her latest perm. Her smile was sad. “Well. Here we are,” she said, shaking off her coat.

  “Yep.” Brice nodded, mouth tight. Here at the end of things, I’ll bet. He stepped forward, helped her off with her coat, then pulled out a chair for her at the nearest table. Brice might have been a boisterous country redneck around men, but around women, thanks to his mother’s coaching in manners, he was always a gentleman, more a creature of the nineteenth century than the twentieth.

  “So, lots of reporters at the house, huh?”

  “Yes. Swarming like gnats. Where’s Lorrie?”

  “In the back. She’s cooking me up some hot chicken and some fried pickles.”

  “God, Brice. How can you think of food at a time like this?”

  “You know me,” Brice said. Sheepishly, he patted his belly. “Got to keep my strength up. Guess if my music career is over, I won’t have to worry about dieting any more, huh?”

  “That bastard. I’d like to put a bullet through Zac Lanier’s head. And to think I used to be jealous of you two and prayed you’d part ways. Now I wish you’d stayed together, just so none of this would’ve happened. He wouldn’t have outed you then, would he?”

  “Probably not. Steve told me he did it for the money, of course, but also ‘cause he’s sick and has to cover a lot of big medical bills.”

  “Sick? I don’t care if he’s sick. He’s ruined both of us.”

  “True enough. Though I sure played my part in said ruination. I’m so, so sorry, Shelly. I never meant….”

  Fuck, Brice thought, swallowing hard and trailing off. Seems like I’m on the verge of tears all the time now. Buck up, you pussy.

  “Brice, we had this talk last spring, after I found those letters. We both know this has been a marriage of convenience for a good while. But now it’s over. It isn’t convenient any longer.”

  Shelly paused to adjust her dark, wavy hair. She was a beauty, Brice knew, with her high cheekbones, green eyes, and coral lips. He’d always had a deep awe and appreciation for female beauty, though that appreciation had never translated into genital response. In some other world, where she loved him and he wanted her, he would have thought himself hugely fortunate, a bulky country boy from a hick town in Appalachia being married to a classy lady from the wealthy Atlanta suburb of Druid Hills. In this world, though, they were simply shipmates on a sinking craft, and while he bailed, she was eying the lifeboat. It was the duty of a gentleman, Brice knew, to help a lady step into the escape craft and then watch her recede into the distance while he went down with the ship.


  Brice finished his beer and placed the bottle on the table. “You want a divorce,” Brice said, trying to smile, trying to be calm and brave. All his adult life, his prayers in times of adversity had not been for this specific event or that specific thing, but for dignity and courage and the strength to do what was necessary. Encouraging his estranged wife to do what was best for her was necessary now.

  “Yes. I’m sorry. I never really loved you, Brice, and I know you didn’t love me.”

  “I did love you. Sort of. Not in a romantic way, but…. I still care about you, Shelly, so, look, do what you have to do,” Brice muttered, suddenly wishing he had another beer, or, better still, a glass of good Kentucky bourbon with a twist of lemon.

  “I hope you understand. I could live with our situation as long as no one else knew. But now…. It’s humiliating. Who knows what folks are saying about me? I don’t want their pity. I want the admiration I had before. Now Zac has ruined all of it. The only respectable thing for me to do is get a divorce. And reporters have been begging me for an interview.”

  Brice grimaced. Propping his elbows on the table, he cupped his brow in his hands. “I’m sure they’re real eager. Are you going to give ‘em one?”

  “I think so. I’m going to tell them that I’m divorcing you. I’m going to tell them that I didn’t know, that I’m as shocked as everyone else. If I told them the truth—that I found out about you and Zac but remained your wife—what would people think of me?”

  Brice chuckled. “I guess they’d think you were a fruit fly?”

  “Fruit fly?”

  “It’s gay slang. It means a straight woman who hangs out with gay men.”

  Shelly arched a shapely eyebrow. “Since when do you use gay slang?”

  “Since I started sleeping with men back in college? What would people think of you? I guess they’d think what was true…that you stayed with me ‘cause of the fame and the money, and I stayed with you to help hide my secret.”