Country

by Jeff Mann

“Go right ahead.”

  “Well, how does all this work? Do I just meet with you? Do I go into some sort of clinic and stay there for a while? I mean, if I’m a homosexual, then—”

  “You’re not a homosexual,” the doctor replied with yet another smile. “Any more than I’m a homosexual.”

  “But…I just told you I’ve slept with lots of guys.”

  “Let me explain. Christian therapists like me don’t really believe in homosexuality per se. You’re what we might call a struggler. Men like you are heterosexuals, but with, well, a homosexual problem.”

  “A homosexual problem?” I’ll say. I want to kiss and touch and suck and screw other men all the time, but now folks’ve found out, so now it’s a problem. A big goddamn problem.

  “Yes. Your attraction to men is an anomaly. We here in Exodus International believe that such desires are caused by unhealthy family dynamics during childhood. What sort of relationship did you have with your father?”

  “Oh, man, the parent thing? Should I be lying on a couch for this part?”

  “That’s not necessary.” Dr. Zucker chuckled. “Were you and your father close?”

  “Naw. We were too much alike. I can see that now. Both of us were selfish, strong-willed sorts who wanted our own way. Mommy was always refereeing our conversations. Him and me were always butting heads and fighting for attention.”

  “Did your mother dominate him?”

  Brice laughed out loud. “Hell, no. He was one of the bossiest, most domineering men I’ve ever met. It was like my mother and sister and me were pathetic little planets orbiting around his sun.”

  “Really? A dominant mother is more typical of the childhood of strugglers. It was certainly that way in my family.”

  Brice stared at Dr. Zucker and grinned. “Your family? Are you a ‘struggler’ too?”

  “I am. I thought I was gay for years. Now, thanks to lots of therapy and the love of Christ, I realize I’m not. That’s why I’m in this profession. Now that God has healed me, I feel compelled to be a conduit for His love so that, through me, He might heal others like me.”

  “So you were gay, but now you’re straight?” Brice tried to control his tone, but the words still came out sounding dubious.

  “Yes. I’ve been married for five years, and I have three adorable children.” The doctor brandished framed photos of a curly-headed blonde girl and two fat-faced toddlers. “Here’s living proof of God’s power.”

  “Hmm. So, if my attraction to men was caused by my parents….” Brice paused, suppressing a grin. He could still hear Bob, a hot Italian man he’d bedded in college, joking, “My mother made me a homosexual. And if you give her enough yarn, she’ll make you one too!”

  “That means that your feelings, your attractions, aren’t chosen. But they become sinful when you choose to act on them. As you have.”

  “Yep. Again and again. I guess I can’t help being a stud.” Feeling defiant, Brice made a show of flexing his right biceps.

  Dr. Zucker’s eyes widened, but his thin lips pursed up. “‘Stud’ is not the word I’d use, and you could help it if you’d chosen to. I’d imagine a man with your looks, charisma, and talent could indeed be wildly promiscuous if he so chose. All that means is that you’ve used the many gifts that God has given you to break His commandments. And your use of humor is inappropriate in a serious setting like this, don’t you think?

  “Looks and charisma?” Ex-gay, my ass. I’ll bet he likes my muscles. “Yeah, maybe so. Sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt. You were saying? You were explaining where homo…uh, same-sex desires come from.”

  “Yes. Well, many strugglers like us lack healthy bonds with our fathers. Our relationships with them are sadly damaged, and so—”

  “You did? Had a damaged relationship with your father?”

  “Yes. And what that can mean is that, without a solid relationship with the father, we grow up without forms of healthy masculinity in our lives. Rather than having positive relationships with other men, rather than learning to embody masculinity in ourselves, we end up searching for masculinity in other men and eroticizing it. Does that make sense?”

  Brice twisted up his mouth and coughed. “Yeah. But also no. Daddy and I didn’t much get along, but I’ve had lots of buddies—good male friends—in my life. In high school and college. Guys in the music business. In my bands.”

  “Including Zac Lanier?”

  “Yes. Including him. We were good friends for a long time before sex fucked things up. Sex fucks up friendships all the time, don’t it? Between men and women too. And what you said about not embodying masculinity….”

  Brice leaned back and interlaced his hands behind his head. “I gotta admit that I was kind of scrawny in middle school, but I started filling out in high school and ran track and played some football and started lifting weights. I feel pretty comfortable in my masculinity, if you wanna know. I’m not like those skinny, pretty gay guys I used to see in the bars in Morgantown. In fact, once I realized I wanted men and then met queeny gay guys like that, I was bound and determined not to be like them. I’m just a West Virginia redneck, Doctor.” Brice cocked his baseball cap over his eyes, propped his right foot on his left knee, and stroked the brown leather of his cowboy boot. “I just happen to want other guys.”

  “I didn’t mean to impugn your manhood, Brice,” Dr. Zucker said, wrinkling his brow. “You are indeed a very masculine man, more so than many strugglers I’ve worked with. But is it manly to want other men? I think not. Please keep in mind that this therapy is not primarily about your gender expression. It’s about helping you cast out your same-sex desires. Do you understand?”

  “Yep. So enough of these theories. If I stay in this program, what happens?”

  “You’ll meet with me regularly. I suggest twice a week. If you do so, I have faith that we can free you of your same-sex attractions. With luck, we’ll be able to heal your relationship with your wife Shelly. I’m sure she’s suffering, and I’m sure you’re suffering without her. I suspect that God wants the two of you to be together. If you continue your therapy with me, we can work toward you having the kind of marriage He wants you to have. Imagine! No more lies and shameful secrets. No more furtive desires. It’s such a liberation, believe me. To stand in His Light and cast off the perverse affliction and feel clean and free.”

  “Okay. God knows I’m tired of lying, that’s for sure. But I want you to know that—at this point, at least—I’m not entirely convinced this program is gonna do me any good. Right now, I’m just hoping, well, not to heal myself so much as my relationship with my fans. If I lose my career, I’ll lose everything.”

  “That’s a mercenary attitude, though it’s understandable. I’m not talking about riches and fame, though. Those are things that thieves can steal and rust decay. I’m talking about spiritual health and a closer relationship to God.”

  “Well, spiritual health does sound like a right worthy goal. So what now?”

  “Now you must take the first step. You must renounce your former self, the flawed and sinful man you were, and embrace the title of ‘ex-gay.’ Think of it as a sign of faith, your faith that God can heal your sexuality through me, through the teachings of Exodus International.”

  Brice scowled. “You don’t mean some public thing? Like earlier today?”

  “Yes. Exactly. We can schedule a press conference and make the announcement. Once people hear that you’re adhering to our teachings, to our program…a man as famous as you…imagine the lost souls who will turn to us. You could be part of God’s plan to save thousands of suffering, confused sinners.”

  Brice sat up straight and shook his head. “Uhhhh. Doctor Zucker, didn’t you just say that I’d be free of lies? How can I tell the world that I’m ‘ex-gay’ if I still want men? Ain’t that putting the cart before the horse?”

  “It’s a necessary step.” Dr. Zucker pressed his thin lips together and tapped his pencil on his desk. “As I said, it’s a sign of
faith that our program can save you.”

  “But I just told you that I don’t have that faith.” Brice lowered his eyes and flicked a bit of mud off his boot. “I’m doing this to keep my fans and keep my manager. He’s pretty much said that if I don’t do this, that he’ll drop me just like most of my fans have already. I know you don’t wanna hear this, but I’m not here to save my soul but to save my career.”

  “This isn’t a publicity firm, Brice. Don’t you want your sexuality to be healed?”

  “I ain’t entirely convinced it needs healing. Why would God make me this way, put in my heart and head and, well, my dick, a desire for men, if He thought my feelings were wrong? I’ve been asking myself that since I first started looking at guys back in junior high.”

  “Brice, that just isn’t the way to think. There’s no question that the Lord disapproves of same-sex lust. Imagine all the fellow strugglers you could help in the process of helping yourself. I think we need to pray. If we pray together, God will convince you that this is the right course to take.”

  Dr. Zucker stood. He moved from around the desk, stood before Brice, and seized Brice’s right hand in his. “Rise now,” he urged, tugging at Brice. “Get up.”

  Holy shit. Stunned, Brice obeyed. Holy shit. The crazy bastard is holding my hand.

  Dr. Zucker grasped Brice’s left hand as well, then gazed into Brice’s face with a sad smile. “You’ll see,” he said. “God will lead us. Let’s close our eyes and speak to Him together.”

  “Yeah. Okay.” Brice bowed his head.

  “Lord, please hear us,” Dr. Zucker began, closing his eyes.

  Brice raised his head, studying the devout doctor’s earnest expression and suppressing a grin. Well, ain’t this cozy? Except you ain’t my type by a long shot. Never have been able to abide a scrawny guy. Part of Brice wanted to punch Dr. Zucker in the nose. Part of him wanted to throw back his head and laugh. Part of him wanted to bolt out the office door and drive away as fast as he could. And part of him wanted to cry. Yeah, Lord, hear us. Hear me. I need help bad.

  “Please help us, Lord,” the doctor continued. “Please help this suffering man see that the path is open to him here. The path to healing. The way to escape the perverse lusts that have plagued him. Give him the strength to take the first crucial step on that path, the strength to announce himself publicly as one who has….”

  Brice stopped listening. He closed his eyes, lowered his head again, and composed his own silent prayer.

  I want to be close to You, Lord. I really do. But being in a church or here in this office just ain’t the way, at least not for me. I’ve felt You close when I’m looking out to sea, or hiking the woods on the farm, or driving down a back road with the sugar maples burning in fall, or, yeah, when I’ve been lucky enough to hold a hot man in my arms. This guy’s a nut, but he’s right about one thing. I need to hear from You, ‘cause I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing, I don’t know what the fuck I’m going to do now. Please don’t let me lose everything. And if I do, if that’s Your will, for some big reason I can’t understand, then please give me strength to endure it like a man. If I’m about to lose the life I’ve had, please help me find a new one. I’m so sad and angry and lonely and scared. Bring me some kind of peace. Please? Please? Amen.

  Brice raised his head. Dr. Zucker was just winding down.

  “…I feel You here in this room. I feel the warmth of Your light upon us. Thank You, Lord. Thank You for the gift of Your Son. Amen.”

  The doctor opened his eyes and squeezed Brice’s hands. “How do you feel?”

  Really sad. Really lost. And you’re even more lost than I am, you poor bastard.

  Brice mustered a stiff smile. “I think that helped. I think I know what to do.” He dropped the doctor’s hands, then turned to grab up his jacket and cap. “Some things are clearer now. Look, I need to go home and think on all this. I need to pray some more. I hope you understand.”

  “That’s fine.” Dr. Zucker smiled. “We’re about out of time anyway. Stop at the receptionist’s desk, and she’ll set you up with future appointments.” He stepped forward and gripped Brice’s hand. “I feel sure that you’ve come to the right place. I know the Lord sent you here, and I know that you and I will share many successful and enlightening sessions in the future.”

  “Yep. You bet.” Brice gave the man’s hand a hard squeeze, managed another smile, and then fled. No reason to hurt somebody’s feelings if you can help it. Best reason to fib I know.

  In the outer office, Brice gave the receptionist an awkward wave, then loped right past her desk and out the door into the bright December sunshine. In another minute, he was ensconced in his truck and punching in Steve’s phone number.

  Voicemail picked up. Brice sighed with relief, paused, and then spoke.

  “Hey, Steve. I just got outta the therapist’s office. Look, I wanted to tell you this in person, but I just don’t have the guts to say it face to face. This ain’t gonna work. This Exodus thing. These folks are lying to themselves, and I’ve been doing the same damn thing for a long time, and I just don’t have the strength to do that anymore. I’m heading up to West Virginia tomorrow. Just leave me be for a while, okay? I know you’re probably gonna drop me for sure now, and I’m real sorry about that, I’m real sorry about everything, but it just can’t be helped. You were great, Steve. You were a real friend. I’m sorry I let you down.”

  Brice hung up. “Shit.” He sat back in the sunlight for a few minutes, eyes closed, trying to concentrate on the comforting warmth that surrounded him. Then he dialed Shelly.

  Voicemail again. He cleared his throat.

  “Hey, honey. Look, I need to come by tomorrow and pick up those things of mine, if that’s all right. I’m leaving town for a while. Don’t figure there’s anything left for me here, other than maybe Lorrie’s hot chicken and a few more gossip-rag headlines. Call me, okay? Let me know what time’ll work best for you. I still got a key, y’know, so you don’t need to be there. Probably be best if you aren’t. We’ve kind of already said our goodbyes, right?”

  Brice hung up. He started his truck and pushed one of his own CDs into the stereo. “If I had her back,” sang the baritone voice. “If I had her back, then for sure I’d—”

  Who the hell is that? Brice thought, flipping the stereo off. “Her?” Fucking hypocrite. Okay, first the liquor store. I’m in the mood for some rye. Then that take-out barbecue place down the road. With any luck, I can get outta there with some pulled pork before any ex-fans stone me to death.

  BY LATE AFTERNOON, THE LAST LINGERING reporter had left the front gate of the Williamson County house. Off after a hot new story. Guess I’m old news, Brice thought, wedging the last of his possessions into the Ram’s truck bed. For a few minutes, he gazed up at the edifice of white columns and brick, then out over the grounds, amazed that he’d ever come so far, that he’d ever been able to afford such a place.

  Pool, hot tub, patios, fancy landscaping, horse barn. Long ways from Hinton, West Virginia. Well, folks back home always told me I’d come back, no matter where I roamed or how successful I got. Guess they were right. Guess I’ll never see this place again. I hope Shelly gets a shitload for it.

  Brice pulled on his camouflage hooded sweatshirt and denim jacket and climbed into his Ram. For another long moment, he stared at the house, saying his silent goodbyes to that era of his life. Then he pulled out his phone and dialed his sister Leigh.

  A machine picked up. Shit, it’s Thursday. She’s probably busy in her law office.

  “H-hey, Leigh. Sorry I haven’t returned your calls. Things have been real rough here, as you can guess, with all the bad publicity. So, yeah, you’re right, I think it’s best if I come on home. Ain’t that where every hillbilly who’s feeling whipped wants to go? Driving back tonight, actually. I’m going to stay at the Ballengee Street house for a while and get my bearings. Think about what you and Carden would like for Christmas, okay? I sure am looking forward to gett
ing some of your country cooking. See you tomorrow.”

  Heart heavy, Brice hung up. He drove off the estate, down the long lane lined with trimmed boxwoods and through the electric gate that had been keeping journalists at bay for the past two weeks.

  At the main highway, Brice paused. Instead of turning right, toward I-65 North and Nashville, he turned left. In fifteen minutes, he’d reached the town of Franklin. Near the columned edifice of Carnton Plantation, a local historic site, he found what he’d come for: the McGavock Confederate Cemetery. He parked and clambered out, a bunch of Kroger-bought flowers in his fist. The graveyard was a flat, grassy space dotted with bare trees and full of rectangular granite tombstones only a few feet high, each marked with a man’s initials.

  Like a sea of stubby teeth, Brice thought. Nearly 1,500 men. He strolled between the markers till he found the grave he’d visited so many times since he’d moved to Tennessee.

  Brice hunkered down, propped the flowers up against the stone, and scratched some matted lichen off the letters. W.L.B. Great-great-granddaddy William Lucas Brown. Daddy used to talk about him all the time. Took a bullet in the head fighting beside Patrick Cleburne, the Stonewall of the West. Christ, only thirty years old.

  Brice fell to his knees beside the marker and ran his fingers over the letters. Great-great-granddaddy…brother…I sure could use some advice right now, but you sure as hell ain’t in any position to give it. One thing’s for damn sure, and that’s the fact that I ain’t suffered a fraction of what you did, seeing all those men you cared about being slaughtered left and right, thirteen wild charges, heaps of corpses everywhere you looked, and then that goddamn Minié ball meant for you, and you bleeding out your life on the lawn of Carnton Plantation. Jesus, would I have stood and fought, or would I have turned and run?

  Brice shuddered, throat tight. He gulped back a spasm of tears and stood. If you saw me now, wet-eyed, whipped and scared, worried about losing my fancy property and my fancy toys and my stadiums of fans, you’d probably spit in my face, and I wouldn’t blame you one damn bit. I’m a cry-baby and a softie, but your blood’s in me, so, by God, look over me, wherever you are, and lend me some of your soldier’s spunk, ‘cause I’m sure as hell gonna need it.