Country

by Jeff Mann

  He sat heavily on the couch and reached for a letter. He paused. He sifted through them, as if trying to sense, by their look or weight or something more subtle, which few might be sympathetic, might even be uplifting. He settled on one in a pink envelope scattered with yellow flowers. Looks like the kind of prissy stuff a seventh-grade girl would use, he mused, thumbing it open. It was written in an immature scrawl that befitted the style of the stationery.

  Mr. Brown.

  In the past, I have so enjoyed your music, but I can’t condone your perversion. My preacher has explained it all to me. I wish it were not so, but I know there’s no hope for you. Now, when I hear your music, I can hear Satan’s voice in it. The Last Days approach, and it sorrows me to know that you, because of your sexual crimes, will be left behind on the Day of Rapture, and you will suffer and writhe and rot with the rest of the sinners. I would pray that the Lord have mercy on you, but even the Lord, with a heart as vast as the universe, cannot pardon your insufferable sins…as Romans and Leviticus have made so clear.

  Sincerely,

  Rhonda Bennett

  Columbus, Ohio

  “You little cunt,” Brice snarled. He tore the pink-and-yellow letter into pieces. He gulped the Scotch, fighting the urge to lob the glass against the far wall. Gathering up all the letters, he knelt by the hearth and fed them in twos and threes to the embers until the very last one was ash and smolder. He grabbed another bottle of sparkling water from the fridge and thudded up to bed.

  Brice lay unsleeping for hours. He thought of his father’s guns, hidden only yards away in the linen closet. He thought about the hideous mess a bullet through his brain might make, and how Leigh would most certainly be the one to find him. He thought about jumping off the Suzanne Matthews Bridge instead, launching himself off the concrete emblem of his failure and his fall, making that metaphoric fall literal at last, smashing down into frigid water and rock, where the molecules of his blood would merge with the New, run down into the Kanawha and the Ohio, and ride the Mississippi down past New Orleans and out into the sea.

  He thought about the night his grandmother died in the hospital, the woman who loved him more than anyone ever had before or since, and how he sat by her bed until the end, and how, for a week after the funeral, he’d jolt awake at four am sharp and would sit in the darkness of the front parlor, rocking in a rocking chair and waiting for daybreak to come.

  He thought about the night his mother died, in the very same hospital, and how he sat by that deathbed too, and the nurses put on soothing music, and he gritted his teeth, determined not to cry, and swabbed his mother’s lips just as the nurses showed him, and how his father came by only long enough to sign some papers and then left, and how, when his mother was gone, he called his sister and walked out into the February cold and looked up at the moon, and a buck trotted across the end of the parking lot, as if it had shown up to give his mother’s soul a ride home.

  He thought of how his father had died suddenly while Brice was far away, on a concert tour in California, and how his father had never found anything Brice did of much interest, no matter how hard he strove to impress the man, and how poised Brice had been when he spoke at his father’s funeral, and how much Brice had never said to him, about his anger and his resentments, because what would be the point of that kind of whining anyway?

  He thought of past Christmases in this house, the red cedars he or his father always cut in a vale behind the farm where Leigh and her family lived now, and how the tree annoyed his mother’s allergies but she tolerated it anyway, and Christmas dinner was either ham and scalloped potatoes and deviled eggs, with lots of eggnog spiked with bourbon, or exotic, fattening lasagna with garlic bread and a big green salad, and fruitcake, always fruitcake afterward.

  The river. Always the sound of the river in this room. It used to be such a comfort, like the sound of the trains moving through the valley. How old is that river? Second oldest river in the world, after the Nile. Eternal, like God. Running through here when the Cherokee used these mountains as a hunting ground. Running between these same vast sky-stroking mountains when my ancestors got here, from England, and Scotland, and Ireland, and Germany. Running through here when the bluecoats and the graycoats battled it out and bled. Running here when I was still a gob of cells in my Mommy’s womb. God, I’m so small. So brief. A spark off a campfire. A bug. Why the fuck think about blowing my brains out when my life’ll be over soon enough? And what will I have done? What will I have achieved? Who will have loved me? Who will have touched my body with honest desire and welcomed me to do the same?

  A roaring filled his ears. Wind in the chimney. Deep and hollow. A scratching started up. What? Sounds like insect legs scrabbling at the walls and the windows. Hell, it’s just those Christmas wreaths, they’re shifting around on their wires in the wind. Sounds like water striders look, those funny long-legged bugs so light they can slide across the surface of a pool. So graceful and delicate, like birds gliding through air. God, I’m stuck. Stuck in this heavy, clumsy, creaky body. Stuck in this self. Stuck in this town. Stuck in this house. Fuck, what’ll become of me?

  He rolled onto his side and cuddled with his pillow. He tried to pretend it was Wayne but couldn’t. He tried to cry, just for the relief that might provide, but no tears came. Instead, he could feel a cold creeping over him, like the frozen glaze on snow he’d seen during his walk the previous night. An old numbness, one more profound than any he’d known before, had come to claim him, and he closed his eyes and nodded with recognition and thanks and let it take him.

  ON THE LAST DAY OF THE YEAR, BRICE, RESTLESS and bored after days of being cooped up inside, took advantage of a midafternoon drizzle to leave the house. The streets were as deserted as he’d hoped, with no aggressive journalists surging toward him or pious townsfolk giving him surly looks. His face concealed by both sweatshirt hood and the cocked brim of his baseball cap, head down and hands crammed into his pockets, he walked briskly under slate-gray skies to the far side of town before turning back. He was nearly home when the light rain turned into a downpour. Cussing, he bounded up the steps of the Methodist church, a handsome, high-spired structure only two blocks from his house. When he found the door unlocked, he slipped inside.

  In the vestibule, Brice pulled off his hood and shook rain off his cap, and then he stepped into the sanctuary. Mommy used to sing here when I was a kid, he thought, gazing down the central aisle to the choir stalls. She had such a sweet soprano. “The Old Rugged Cross,” that was my favorite. I never much enjoyed church—the sermons were boring as shit—but the church suppers…man, there was some good eating. Folks were welcoming then. They treated me as if I belonged, and that felt good.

  Unbuttoning his jacket, Brice looked around the dim, high-ceilinged room and at the huge stained-glass windows he remembered so well. So quiet and warm in here, and no one else around. Brice slipped into a pew, took a deep breath, propped his elbows on his knees, cupped his face in his hands, and closed his eyes, trying to remember the last time he’d attended services there.

  Must have been Daddy’s funeral. Damn, things were so simple then. I still had hope. What’s left to hope for now? Man, I wish I were younger. I wish I were simple-minded enough to believe that faith could solve all my problems. I wish my parents were still alive. I wish I were straight, ‘cause then I’d still have my career. Hell, okay, I take that back. I wish Wayne, or some butch country boy like Wayne, would be sharing my bed tonight. Damn, I’m just so tired…. I just can’t seem to sleep through the night anymore….

  Brice was well on his way into a drowse when a man’s voice jolted him wide awake.

  “Good afternoon. May I help you?”

  Brice jumped to his feet, anxiety clotting his gut. A thin, middle-aged man with a receding hairline and a kind face was regarding him from the front of the church. He was dressed in a dark suit and wore a white clerical collar.

  “Aw, I…. It got to pouring outside, so I ran in here. I…I
used to attend services here as a kid. Before I moved away.”

  “Really? Then welcome back.” The man smiled. “You’re welcome here. Everyone is welcome.”

  “Th-thanks.” Brice cleared his throat. “It’s real nice in here. I’ve always really liked the stained glass. Are you the minister?”

  “I am. I don’t believe I’ve seen you at our services. Have you moved back to Hinton?” The man moved closer.

  “Yeah. I…. Naw, not really.” Brice bent to retrieve his ball cap from the pew. “I’m just back for a little while…for the holidays. To see family. I’m kinda in between jobs.” He stepped out into the aisle as the minister moved closer still.

  “Oh, you still have family here? Who are they? It’s a very small town, you know. I might know them.” The man gave Brice another benevolent smile.

  Oh, shit. Brice took a step back, feeling panic creep up his spine. “Uh, maybe. But I don’t think they attend this church. Look, I’d better get on home. Sorry to bother you.”

  “It might still be raining. You’re welcome to stay until it lets up.” The man offered his hand. “I’m Reverend Jim Jenkins.”

  Brice wanted to turn and run, but all his coaching in Southern manners denied him that easy option. Instead, he shook the man’s hand, gave him a weak smile, and said, “I’m Brice.”

  “Good to meet you, Brice. You look troubled. Do you want to come to my office and—”

  The reverend’s voice came to an abrupt halt. He cocked his head and studied Brice intently. He dropped Brice’s hand.

  “You’re Brice Brown, aren’t you?” The man’s mouth set in a grim line. He folded his arms across his chest and glared. “The disgraced singer? The infamous homosexual?”

  The scorn in the man’s voice made Brice want to punch him. His urge to flee vanished beneath a surge of belligerence. “Infamous homosexual? Yeah. Yeah, I guess I am.” Brice clenched his fists and scowled. “You wanna make something of it? I’m fucking sick of everyone around here giving me grief. I grew up here. This is my town too. These are my mountains too. This is my home. When a guy’s hurting, he just wants to come home. Right? Can’t you understand that?”

  The thin minister took a step back, as if suddenly noticing how dangerously brawny Brice was. “You don’t belong here,” he said. “You’ve violated God’s laws. You’ve shamed our town. Please leave.”

  “You just said that everyone’s welcome here.” Brice shook his head in disgusted disbelief. “So you’re gonna turn me out into the rain? Nice! I thought y’all were all about compassion. You said earlier that I looked troubled. Well, yes, I am. I am troubled. And I need help. I’ve been praying a lot lately, not for God to change me but for God to help me. Hell, it’s the world God ought to change, not me. He ought to change hypocrites like you. You’re a fucking preacher, man! Ain’t you supposed to help the suffering? Jesus did. I just need a little compassion. Where’s compassion, if not in a church? In a church my Mommy used to sing in!”

  Reverend Jenkins flinched and squinted, as if buffeted by storm winds. “Don’t shout! This is the house of the Lord. Have you repented? God and His followers can spare compassion only for those who want to change. Have you turned your back on your lusts? Have you prayed to be cleansed of your sins?”

  “You mean the sin of loving men?” Brice rolled his eyes. “Y’know, I’ve thought a lot about all that since I lost my career and fled outta Nashville with my tail between my legs. My craving for other guys can’t be a sin. Why would God make me that way, set that longing into my body, my heart, my groin—”

  Brice thumped his chest and patted his crotch. The minister looked as if he might faint or vomit.

  “Why would He make me what I am if what I am is what He hates? Is God a retard? Are you a retard?”

  “Please leave! Please leave now!” The minister turned and backed up the aisle. “Or I’ll call the police!”

  I’ve scared the shit out of him and it feels good. When Brice tapped his right fist into the cup of his left hand and made as if to follow him, the reverend bolted into an alcove and disappeared. A second later, a door slammed shut.

  Guess I better get outta here in case he does call the cops. Snickering, Brice loped down the aisle and out the door. Outside, a cold breeze blew, but the rain had stopped. Feeling mildly triumphant after his outburst, Brice pulled on his cap and bounded down the steps, ready to get home to the solitary New Year’s Eve meal he had planned: several rounds of hot toddies, a bottle of cheap champagne, a couple buttermilk biscuits slathered with butter and honey, and a big bowl of Crock-Pot-simmered beef stew.

  SNOW FLURRIES POWDERED HIS WINDSHIELD as Brice drove back into Hinton. He’d spent most of New Year’s Day at Pipestem State Park, hiking around Long Branch Lake, trying to walk off some of his holiday gut and his holiday blues in the leafless woods. He’d encountered very few fellow hikers, and none of them had seemed to recognize him. Now the sky over the town was purple-gray with late afternoon, and Brice’s belly was rumbling. He was more than ready for a buzz, followed by some dinner beside the fire.

  Weary after hours of exercise, Brice clambered out of his truck. He stood there for a moment, feeling peaceful, watching the snow falling about the towers of the courthouse. That’s when a passing pickup truck much like his slowed to a crawl, only yards from him. The passenger, a scruffy-faced man he’d never seen before in his life, rolled down the window and shouted, “Faggot!”

  Brice didn’t hesitate. Cussing out the Methodist minister the day before had been a tipping point. He’d tolerated enough abuse. Now his hopelessness, loneliness, sadness, hurt, despair, and sense of defeat were entirely overshadowed by another emotion: rage. Turning, he squared his shoulders, clenched his fists, and shouted, “Fuck you!”

  The truck jolted to a halt. The driver leaned across his passenger, eyes wide and glaring. “Fuck you! You goddamn queer! You need your ass beat!”

  “You can kiss my ass, you shithead,” Brice snarled. “You and your monkey-faced friend there.”

  “Goddamn you,” the passenger said, opening the door. “We’ll teach you to talk shit like that to us. We’re gonna beat the holy hell outta you, you stupid cocksucker.”

  The man stepped out of the car. So did the driver. Both were wiry, with features similar enough that they might be brothers, and both were shorter than Brice by a couple of inches.

  I can take these assholes, Brice thought, chest and belly tight with tension. “Aint you a scrawny pair of little shits?” he said, giving them a menacing grin. “I think you need a big man like me to teach you a lesson.”

  In response, the driver drew out a hunting knife. “Don’t matter how big you are, long as we got this.”

  “Oh, shit,” Brice grunted, bracing himself.

  “You shouldn’ta messed with us, faggot. We’re gonna feed you your balls,” the driver snarled. “Everyone around here knows better than to piss off—”

  “Hey!” someone yelled to Brice’s left. “You! Billy Ward! Bobby Ward! What the hell do you all think you’re doing?”

  All three men turned. Half a block away, before the courthouse, a man in a blue uniform stood beside a police car, hands on his hips. He sure looks familiar, Brice thought. Do I know him? Damn good timing, whether I do or not.

  “Oh, well, hell,” the driver said, sheathing his knife. “Looks like we’ll have to finish this another day. Git in the car fast, Bobby. Let’s git outta here.”

  It took the two men only a few seconds to disappear into their vehicle, careen down the street, run a stop sign by the Confederate monument, and disappear around the block.

  The policeman approached, looking glum. He was a big, barrel-chested man, even thicker-built than Brice, with blue eyes, reddish-brown hair, and a jowly, flushed face. “Sorry so many folks around here are assholes. I bet you’ve been getting crap left and right since you got back to town, huh?” The cop offered his hand.

  “You know who I am?” Brice said, as they exchanged a firm, fast ha
ndshake.

  “Well, sure. Don’t you recognize me? Guess I have put on a few pounds since high school.”

  “Me too,” Brice said, studying the man’s face. “Well, hell. You’re Francine Bailey’s big brother, right?”

  “Yep. Frank Bailey. My sister and yours used to be fast friends.”

  “And now you’re a cop?”

  “Yep. And now you’re….” Frank trailed off, looking pained.

  “Disgraced?” Brice sighed, crossing his arms across his chest.

  “That wasn’t what I was going to say. I think you got a raw deal, Brice. I think you’re super-talented. I’ll bet nearly everybody in this county has some of your CDs.”

  “Had some of my CDs. Before they threw ‘em in the fire.” Brice pulled off his Rebel-flag ball cap and shook snow off it. “Or trampled ‘em in the street. Like they’d like to do to me, apparently.”

  “Well, those folks are just plain dumb. Their religion’s made ‘em mean. That’s pretty common around here. Look, you watch out for those Ward brothers. They’ve got tempers like rattlesnakes. If they bother you any—if anybody bothers you any—call down to the station and ask for me. Okay?”

  “Yeah, I will. Thanks a lot. Look, I live just down there. You wanna come in and get some coffee? I’d like the company.”

  Frank frowned and looked away. “Can’t. On duty. Got to get back to the station.”

  “Afraid you’ll be fingered as my new boyfriend if we’re seen together?” Brice coughed out a dry laugh.

  Frank shrugged. “Well, that hadn’t really occurred to me. Everybody knows I’ve been married twice and have six kids. Was that true about you and Wayne Meador, by the way?”