Country

by Jeff Mann

  “I figured this would be a pretty bleak holiday for you, so I brought you a bunch of tasty things.”

  “Good! Eating and drinking are about all I got left. Except for all those male prostitutes I keep hiring.”

  Brice’s drawl was wry. He’d actually looked for local hustlers online only to give up when he discovered that the nearest were scrawny boys hours away in the state capital of Charleston. Upon further consideration, he’d realized that such boys might run off to the press afterward if they figured out who he was. He did not need a big Star story about “Brice Brown, Whoremonger and Pervert.”

  “Male prostitutes? Yeah, right. As if little Summers County is crawling with them. Well, there’s probably some crab-infested drunk down on Third Avenue who might be willing to trade sex for a big bottle of Mad Dog 20/20.”

  Brice guffawed. “No, thanks. Is that fruitcake?”

  “Yes. Daddy’s recipe. The only fruitcake I’ve ever had that isn’t gummy and tasteless. And here’s a container of chili I made the other day. And some corn muffins. And some ham biscuits. And some kale. It’s real tender. And some sugar cookies. And here’s a big bottle of attitude-adjustment.”

  “More Jameson. Good timing. Wayne and I put a dent in the bottle I had. Why don’t you sneak Carden down here after school some day when he’s back in classes, and I’ll give him and you some belated Christmas gifts?”

  “Don’t get anything for me, brother. I know your finances are stretched. Just get Carden another WVU Mountaineers sweatshirt or something along those lines. Now I’d better get going,” she said, pulling on her coat. “I promised Carden I’d get home in time to make more of those sugar cookies.”

  Brice walked Leigh to the door and saw her off. In his porch mailbox, two fat manila envelopes were wedged. Brice pulled them out and examined the return addresses. Both were from his agent, Steve Morgan.

  “Uh, oh,” Brice muttered. Back inside, he tossed the envelopes on the couch, then headed over to the desk in the back parlor and turned on his computer, both hoping for and fearing a return message from Wayne.

  Nothing yet. It’s only 4 pm. He’s probably still at work.

  Brice snacked on a few ham biscuits and sugar cookies in the kitchen and mixed up a hot toddy. Shit, now this drink will always remind me of Wayne. In the front parlor, he started up another fire. He lay back, watching the light outside fade and the night fall. He finished his drink, mixed another, and then, with a sigh of reluctance, turned on a corner lamp and opened the first of the two bulging manila envelopes. It was crammed with smaller envelopes.

  Brice slid the contents out onto the couch. On a typed piece of Steve’s business stationery was a note.

  December 19, 1997

  Dear Mr. Brown,

  Since you left town, many of your no-doubt doting and admiring fans have sent you mail care of this office. I thought you might enjoy reading them and responding to them over the holidays.

  Do have a glorious New Year.

  Sincerely,

  Carolyn Rood, Office Manager

  Steve Morgan Management

  Nashville, Tennessee

  “Bitch,” Brice growled. “I’ll bet you’re enjoying this something awful. I hope you end up dead in a ditch.”

  He took a couple swallows of his drink, waiting to feel a good, solid buzz. When, after another few minutes and another hearty swig, the warm, careless feeling filled his head, he tore open one of the letters.

  Brice Brown,

  You’re a pervert. I thought you were a real man. I loved your music. But last night I threw all your CDs in the trash. To think that I’ve had a crush on you for years. Now I look at the pictures of you in the magazines and I’m disgusted. May Our Lord Jesus have mercy on your soul.

  Candy King

  “Shit. Just what I fucking need.” Brice finished his drink and opened another letter at random.

  Dear Sir,

  Our church is praying for you. Your sin is one of the most grievous, an abomination hated by God. Surely you recall what happened to those cities on the plain, Sodom and Gomorrah? Repent, sinner, lest you be cast into the lake of fire, into the outer darkness, where there is much weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth.

  Yours,

  The Congregation of the Millbrook Baptist Church

  Danese, West Virginia

  “Ack!” Brice grunted. This is not the kind of attention from fans I’ve always craved. He opened the second fat manila envelope and dumped its contents out onto the coffee table. The same thing: letters, letters, letters, almost all of them with the address handwritten.

  The next one Brice ripped open was composed in all capital letters with a red pen.

  FAGGOT! SOMEONE OUGHT TO SHOOT YOU IN THE HEAD AND PUT YOU OUT OF YOUR MISERY.

  A sharp chill pulsed through Brice. Okay, third time’s the charm. Damn. You ain’t even met me and you want to shoot me in the head? If the rest of these are anything like the first three, there’s no damn way I’m going to get any sleep tonight.

  In the kitchen, Brice contemplated having a proper dinner, realized that he had little appetite after the haranguing messages he’d read, and settled for some pork rinds and a big glass of Jameson straight up. He trundled back into the front parlor, nudged another log onto the fire, closed up the fireplace, turned on the blower, clicked off the lamp, stretched out on the couch, and drank till he passed out.

  Around midnight, Brice woke in need of a piss. Too tired to climb the stairs, he stumbled out into the winter chill and relieved himself off the edge of the porch. Probably feeding that damn poison ivy that keeps coming up every year, he thought, moving unsteadily back inside.

  Oh, hell. Wayne.

  Brice hurried to his desk chair and nudged his computer awake.

  There it was, a message from Wayne in his in-box. Brice took a deep breath and opened it.

  Hey, Brice,

  Thanks for the message, man. Those reporters have been calling here at all hours and showing up at the door too. I have been “reached for comment” several times, and every time the comment has been FUCK YOU.

  One guy at work today called me a faggot. If he does it again, I’m going to punch him in the face, sure as shooting, even if he is twice as big as me. Gail’s real upset, and so are her parents, and, to be honest, my boss is giving me funny looks. If I lose this job, I’m fucked in a major way.

  Look, Brice, Gail’s pretty much told me what you told me: to stay away from you. I’ll bet you never thought you’d see a day that Pooch Meador was so pussy-whipped that he’d do what a girl told him to do, but that day has come. I really love her, man, and, hell, her mother’s dying, so, look, I’m going to keep my distance for a while. I sure hope you understand.

  I love you like the brother I never had, Brice. You hang in there. Fight that dark shit inside you, man. Fight it. Stop caring so much about what other people think.

  Wayne

  Brice burst into tears. He staggered back into the front parlor, slumped down on the couch, and sobbed for a long time. Then, with great effort, he got to his feet, downed a glass of water in the kitchen, and trudged up the stairs to his empty bed.

  BRICE WOKE AT 3:30 AM. HE PISSED AND GULPED down another big glass of hangover-prevention water. He climbed back into bed and lay there, staring at the ceiling. Sleep refused to return. Not even the soothing susurrus of the river helped. He kept running over and over in his mind the words of Wayne’s e-mail message. The time they’d so recently shared already seemed like long ago. He tried to summon another fantasy about Wayne—his friend naked and hairy and muscular and submissive, eager to give his body to Brice—but the gap between reality and erotic fiction was too great, so soon after reading Wayne’s message. Brice’s cock lay limp in his hand.

  He rose, stood naked by the window, shivering, and looked out over the river, the bridge, and the mountains looming above the town. Now his mind veered back to the piles of scattered letters downstairs, letters yet unopened, hundreds of th
em, most of them probably as vicious as the first three. All those people hate me, and all I wanted my music to do was make them love me. Ain’t their God supposed to be about loving folks, not hating them?

  Sighing, Brice climbed back into bed, flipped on the bedside lamp, and tried to read a book of Civil War history. His attention refused to stay focused on the page. All those soldier-boys just hoped to get home, but so many of them never did, and now here I am, I’ve made it home, but my battle’s just begun. Hell, what kind of soldier would I be? I’m afraid to leave the house.

  The clock on the nightstand said 4:01. Fuck it. Brice slipped out of bed. He pulled on warm clothes and a pair of work boots with heavy tread, thumped downstairs, tugged on his camo hooded sweatshirt, rawhide jacket, and Stars and Bars cap, and stepped out into the night.

  It was very cold. The light of a waning moon gleamed on hardened crusts of snow. No assholes out here now, by God. Now I have the whole town to myself. Brice stuffed his hands into his pockets and headed up the walk, taking deep breaths of air, feeling exhilarated, feeling free. There was no traffic whatsoever, and not a soul on the streets.

  Brice’s boots crunched on snow; his breath turned to vapor. In half a block, ice crystals edged his moustache. He walked slowly, and as he walked, the places he passed inundated him with memory. Almost every sight held significance.

  The big ole courthouse, where Leigh spends so many hours of her days. The post office: I still remember when Daddy ordered that box of honeybees through the mail, and the postal clerk called him, all upset, and told him to get his ass up there, that some of ‘em had gotten out, and here Daddy came down Ballengee Street, holding that box out with both hands, and three or four loose bees floating around his head, sticking close to their queen.

  The florist where I bought that basket of daisies to take to the hospital for Nanny the day before she died. The theater. Watched The Great Gatsby and Jaws and Young Frankenstein with Wayne. Gobbled popcorn and SweeTarts and wanted to hold his hand.

  The Presbyterian Church. How’d I get roped into that Christmas play? Played one of Herod’s slaves who pissed him off and got dragged off to be executed. And the Methodist Church. Went to a few breakfasts in the basement there, just so I could look at Ronnie Burroughs’ big chunky chest in those football jerseys he always wore.

  Another block, and Brice stood before the high school. Christ, the girls I pretended to get serious about. Jennifer and Patty and Joyce and TJ. I’ve been a liar from way back. Tenth grade, dissecting fetal pigs in biology, and eleventh grade, boiling test tubes in chemistry, the big explosion when Mr. Persinger mixed sodium and chloride. And the Senior Follies, when I played my guitar and sang one of the first songs I wrote and everybody applauded, and the sound of their clapping made me feel like I was worth something after all, was worth admiration and attention. I got the bug for applause that very night, and I’ve given up a real life for it, and here I am, standing on a snowy street, back in the town I’m from, the town that used to be so proud of me but now hates my guts, standing here at 4-fucking-30 on Christmas morning. Hell, I’m like a vampire, some sort of monster that can only come out at night, ‘cause in the daytime I’d be hounded down the street by these fine Christian townsfolk.

  Brice turned back down Ballengee Street. The grumble of a car engine approached behind him. He pulled his cap down over his face as a salt-grimed pickup truck bounced past over the uneven cobblestones. If that were full of the bad kind of good ole boy, as opposed to the good kind, like Wayne and me, and if they figured out who I was, I might get a serious ass-kicking right now and end up face-down in the snow.

  Brice picked up his pace. Soon, he’d entered the park. Instead of going inside, he snow-crunched down to the edge and looked out over the New River, at the detestable renamed bridge, at the wide black shushing flow and the lacy curlicues of whitewater foaming over rock midstream. River sounds like applause, Brice thought. Reminds me of my first appearance on the Grand Ole Opry, there in the Ryman. Damn, I think that was the best night of my life. Knowing I’d made it. That I’d attained the company of the greats. All those people looking up at me, smiling, loving my music, loving me.

  He moved closer to the ragged boxwood hedge edging the park. There was a gap of about a foot toward the right end of the hedge. Must have been where that drunk slipped through, the fool that staggered down here that night while I was still in high school and fell over the edge.

  Taking a long breath of winter air, Brice stepped sideways through the gap. It’s like a little door. On the other side, two snowy feet of dead weeds shivered in a breeze, and after that, the land dropped off. Brice stepped even closer to the cliff-edge and looked down. Far below, perhaps a hundred feet down, railroad tracks gleamed in the sparse moonlight. Past the rails, a line of bare willows edged the New River.

  He stood there for a long time looking down. For a few seconds, he ceased to think of anything. He forgot the past and the future. He felt his heart beating in his head and the cold on his face and in his toes. He listened to the eternal rushing of the river.

  How can it get better? How can anything get better? How can I stop feeling this sick, black hopelessness? Everybody despises me. I’ve only allowed myself to care about a handful of men, and none of them could love me back. How can l live here? Where else can I go?

  Brice took another step, his legs stiff, his hands clenched. The rough murmur of the river rose up to greet him, much like the sound of the surf at Daytona. A fall so far’d do it. I guess. Maybe not. Maybe I’d end up a fucking pathetic cripple. And what would it do to them, the handful of folks who care about me? Wouldn’t that be weak and cowardly as hell, to end myself and leave them to suffer? Leigh and Carden and Wayne.... Only three people? Jesus. Steve’d be sad, maybe feel a little guilty. Shelly’d get to play the grieving widow while she made the round of the wealthy folk’s parties around Atlanta. Zac…shit, who knows how Zac would feel? I guess I don’t care.

  Brice fell to his knees in the snow, only a foot from the edge, and bowed his head. God, help me. God, help me. Please show me the way. Please help me climb out of this pit of tar. Give me the strength to keep going.

  Knees stiff, wet, and aching, Brice rose. He wiped ice crystals from his moustache. He trudged up through the park, into the house, and up to bed, praying that sleep’s anesthesia might finally come.

  WAYNE STOOD BESIDE BRICE BEFORE THE ALTAR, before the minister with his big book. Both men were dressed in tuxedos. Both men were young, their beards still dark, their waists lean, their shoulders broad and unbowed. Stained-glass light poured over them. Wayne stepped forward. He lifted his hand to Brice’s face and stroked his cheek. He pulled out a ring. “So how’s about it, buddy?” Wayne said. “You ready to make an honest man of me?”

  “Hell, yes,” Brice said, pulling out a ring of his own and taking Wayne’s hand. “Let’s do it.” Longing surged through Brice, a longing so vast and deep it threatened to burst him in half. Bending forward, Brice kissed Wayne on the mouth.

  Brice woke, still feeling the softness of Wayne’s whiskers against his lips. The room was gray with daybreak. He heaved a bereft groan as the dream dissolved. He rolled over onto his side, pulled a pillow to his chest, and, embracing it, fell back asleep.

  When he woke again, it was nearly noon. He rolled out of bed, scratched his crotch, scratched an armpit, sniffed himself, found himself more than usually aromatic, contemplated a shower, then shrugged and pulled on sweats. Ain’t anybody coming by today. And I ain’t going out. I’ve always liked the smell of my own pits anyway.

  Downstairs, he heated a couple of Leigh’s ham biscuits to go with his coffee, then cut and ate a big slice of fruitcake. Merry Fucking Christmas, country star! he thought, stoking up another fire. He sifted through the letters, unable to bring himself to open another. It’s like there’s a potential pit viper curled up and waiting in each one of those envelopes. He sat at the piano and picked out a couple of the tunes he’d played Wayne. He li
ked what I wrote about him. He was flattered.

  Brice let his fingers move into unfamiliar territory, trying to compose a new melody, but nothing came. I’m too wrapped up in my self, dammit. My heart’s crusted over, like the bark coating a hickory tree, and it won’t let anything new in.

  Grumbling, he poured another cup of coffee and got out his guitar, fumbling with chords. He fingerpicked, slowly, solemnly. D A D A D E D E F-sharp minor. He strummed the minor and kept strumming, reaching for words, finding a shaky melody.

  Black-bearded beauty, why you gotta stay away?

  Hairy-chested honey, why keep my love at bay?

  I cain’t have you, this I gotta face.

  Life fulla loneliness, life fulla disgrace.

  Brice trailed off. No one’s gonna listen to a gay love song. “Black-bearded beauty?” Man, they’d love that in Nashville. “Black-bearded beauty, why cain’t you be gay?” He snorted and put his guitar away.

  Brice spent Christmas afternoon in the back parlor watching action DVD’s, reading his Civil War book, and watching a slow rain come down outside. At two pm, he drove off a new passel of reporters who seemed to have nothing better to do on the holiday than annoy him. At three pm, he started drinking consolatory toddies. At four pm, he put on a porn DVD, watched a bearded stud get it hard up the ass, and managed half-heartedly to jack off. At six pm, he had a bowl of chili, a corn muffin, a pain pill, and another toddy. At six-thirty pm, he started up a sword-and-sorcery DVD and passed out a quarter of the way through it.

  Brice woke with a start at ten pm. He lumbered into the kitchen and gulped down an entire liter of sparkling water. He opened up a bottle of Glenfiddich he’d been saving for a special occasion and poured out a glass. Standing by the windows of the front parlor, he watched rain fall in the streetlamp’s gleam. The fire had burnt down to mere embers. On the coffee table, the pile of letters still waited. He could almost hear their vicious whispering and their snaky hiss.