Country

by Jeff Mann

  Grace led the way down a flight of stairs, through a low-ceilinged dining room furnished with massive wooden tables, chairs, and antique sideboards and on into a long kitchen lined with windows. The big panes were spattered with rain. By one of the cluttered counters, an old woman with hollow cheeks and graying hair heaped up into a bun was peeling potatoes.

  “Doris Ann,” Grace said. “How are you?”

  The woman dropped her paring knife, startled. Then she smiled.

  “Mizz Grace! How you been?”

  “Fine, fine,” Grace said, ushering Brice around the counter. “This gentleman has come to see Mr. Philip. Is he around?”

  “He’s in Elkins today, getting supplies, but he should be back in another half-hour or so.” Doris Ann wiped her hands on a towel before turning to Brice. “You’re welcome to wait for him upstairs. Are y’all hungry? I could heat you up some vegetable soup and biscuits or—” She paused, staring.

  Here it comes, thought Brice. Daddy always said, “Be careful what you wish for, or you might get it.” I wanted to be famous....

  “Lord God!” she blurted. “Brice Brown! What are you doing here?”

  She shuffled forward and seized his hand. Her finger-joints might have been gnarled, but her skin felt soft. “Oh, what a stupid question. I know what you’ve been through. I’m so glad you found us. Mr. Philip said we’d be having a special guest.”

  “Thank you, ma’am. I’m very glad to be here. Should I move my truck? It’s parked just out front.”

  “It’ll be fine right there. How about I have Lucas start a fire for you upstairs and you can wait there till Mr. Philip gets back.”

  “Who’s Lucas?” Brice asked.

  “Our handyman. He can do just about anything. I’ll call up to his cabin and have him come down. I can heat up some nice apple cider for you too. It’s getting on to five, so I’ll doctor it, if you’d like. I know you like your bourbon.”

  “Sounds great. How do you know I like bourbon?”

  “Lord, son, half your songs make that clear. All that lovesick driving down back roads and ‘sucking up Dickel from a flask,’ as you put it. Mizz Grace, will you stay for cocktails? Mr. Philip is always home for cocktails at five.”

  “No, thank you. I need to get back to the store. Some folks are due in about half an hour from now for an early dinner. Jeff and Brendan? That couple from Roanoke that bought that little place down the road? It’s their anniversary.”

  Grace turned to Brice and gave him another wincingly powerful handshake. “Okay, Bubba. You mind if I call you that?” She cocked a dark eyebrow and smiled.

  Brice chortled. “Not at all. Just remember that I’m a good bubba, not a bad bubba.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind. Tell Mr. Philip he ought to come down for Sunday dinner sometime soon. You come along too. Amie will make her famous fried chicken.”

  “You bet. Hey, thank you. It meant a lot to me that you made me feel welcome. That hasn’t happened much in the last few months.”

  “It’ll happen a lot around here. Right, Doris Ann?”

  The elderly lady nodded. “Oh, yes. We here in Brantley Valley know how to take care of our fugitives. And feed ‘em too.”

  Brice wandered around the lodge, cupping a mug of spiked cider in his hands, waiting for the handyman to show up to start the fire. In the high-raftered great room, he found an upright piano, which he tested, finding it fairly well in tune. In one side room, he found a pool table and an elegantly appointed bathroom. In another, an especially cozy space with big windows looking out over the covered pool, he found more overstuffed leather furniture, a computer atop a dark-wood desk, and shelves stuffed with books built into the walls. I love this place, he thought. Country-masculine, like a hunting lodge, just the way I like it. This Mr. Philip must be very cool.

  Brice took a sip of cider, rubbed at a twinge in his lower back, and looked out over the pool. Night was falling. Winter rain continued, running down the glass, and mist floated in patches over the pool deck. Beneath his breath, Brice murmured a brief prayer of thanks, to have found a place in which he might feel safe.

  A blue gleaming on one windowsill caught his eye. It was an enormous point of quartz crystal, at least a foot long and half a foot wide, embedded in a wooden stand. An electric light inside the stand shone up through the milky mineral, illuminating it, making it resemble frozen flame. Awed, Brice stepped over to it and stroked it.

  So beautiful. How old is it? Where was it found? How did it get here? It was probably on this planet before the first human being ever evolved.

  Brice leaned his brow against the cold glass, suddenly exhausted, and stared out into the rain. Hell, it might have been buried in a cave when the dinosaurs breathed their last, gleaming on a hillside when the mastodon….

  Brice’s stream of thought snagged and stopped. A man had appeared in the mist on the far side of the pool. He paused beneath a clump of bare trees, then skirted the pool, heading toward the lodge. Something about the purposeful way he moved fascinated Brice, a cross between a youth’s self-conscious swagger and a warrior’s long stride toward the front lines of battle. As he strode nearer, he looked up and saw Brice standing at the window.

  The stranger paused again. Through the storm-stippled glass, their eyes met. The man nodded and then disappeared around the corner.

  A moment later, a door opened elsewhere in the lodge. Boots stamped off wet. The stranger appeared in the door of the library. He nodded at Brice, unsmiling.

  “Doris Ann said you wanted a fire?” His voice was husky, his accent country-thick.

  Holy shit, he’s handsome, Brice thought, trying not to stare but taking in every detail nonetheless. The stranger looked younger than Brice by over a decade and shorter than him by several inches. His face was striking: big blue-gray eyes, luxuriously long eyelashes, a close-cut reddish-brown beard framing an oval face, and thick black metal hoops in his ears. Everything he wore was black: black denim jacket, black ball cap, black jeans, and black work boots.

  “Hey. You must be Lucas.”

  “Yep.” The boy’s face reminded impassive.

  “Lucas was my great-great-grandfather’s middle name. He was a Rebel soldier. Died at the Battle of Franklin in Tennessee.”

  “Yeah?” Lucas shrugged. “Got a Confederate ancestor myself. So, did you want that fire?”

  “A fire would be great,” Brice said, offering his hand. “I’m Brice Brown.”

  “Uh, huh.” Lucas shrugged again. “Uncle Phil told me you’d be coming.”

  “Mr. Philip is your uncle?”

  “Yep.” Lucas hesitated a long moment before shaking Brice’s hand. He stepped back, looking Brice over. The glow of transfixed fandom that Brice had hoped for, especially coming from a young guy this hot, was nowhere to be seen. Instead, the boy seemed vaguely disappointed, as if Brice in Person contrasted unfavorably with Brice the Legendary Star. Well, I am about twenty pounds heavier than the last CD cover, damn it, Brice thought. Was I ever as sexy as this boy? Not in my best years. Shit.

  “Okay, well, lemme start that fire,” Lucas said, pulling off his wet jacket. Beneath, he was wearing a tight slate-gray T-shirt beneath a closely tailored, unbuttoned leather vest. Metal-studded leather bands adorned his wrists; tattoos streaked his furry forearms; metal chains glinted around his neck.

  Everything about him made Brice ache. He followed Lucas into the great room, full of an erotic fascination he hadn’t felt since he’d met Zac so long ago. Boy, this kid is built. Big shoulders, small waist. Look at those biceps. Shit, shit, shit. And that butt…. Is he gay? Maybe. Maybe not. Shit!

  Brice took a big swig of his cider, nearly choking on it. “Need some help?” he said. Any excuse to move a little closer to you.

  “Naw.” Lucas bent by the hearth, arranging kindling and twisting up strips of newspaper. “I got this.”

  Brice settled into an armchair, watching the boy’s broad shoulders move. When Lucas bent over, his back to Br
ice, and lit the paper, Brice stared at the kid’s compact little rump and suppressed a groan. He settled back into the soft chair and closed his eyes. God, he’s hard to look at. To look but not to touch? It’s torture. I’d rather not see him at all….

  “Hey, you asleep?”

  Brice jolted out of a drowse. Lucas stood over him, brushing wood-dust off his hands, his brow creased with what could have been concern or could have been bemused disapproval. Behind him, the fire was already beginning a busy blaze.

  “Sorry. Just resting my eyes. Tired. Long drive. Long day.”

  “Whatever,” Lucas mumbled with deep disinterest. He removed his hat, shook off the wet, and ran his fingers over his chestnut-colored buzz cut. “So you do country, right? I mainly listen to industrial stuff.”

  Brice nodded. “I guess lots of younger guys are into that.” Ummm, those pretty lips. It’s been so long since I’ve kissed a boy as desirable as that. “Say, I’m about done with this cider Doris Ann gave me. Would Mr. Philip mind if….” Brice gestured toward the bar.

  “Help yourself.” Lucas picked up his coat and hat. “Uncle Phil should be back any minute now. I’d better head back up the hill.”

  Hell, don’t go, Brice thought. “You want a drink too?”

  “Naw. I got too much to do. Studying and shit.”

  “Studying? You in college? Grad school?”

  Lucas dipped his head and looked away. “Naw. Studying for the GED.”

  “Oh. Okay.”

  Lucas jerked on his jacket, his back to Brice. “I dropped out of high school. My mommy needed me to work. A man’s gotta provide for his family, right? Nothing to be ashamed of,” he said, voice tight, even deeper, defensive.

  “N-no. Not at all,” Brice stammered. Shit, I’ve pissed him off. He slipped behind the bar and examined the Scotch, looking for single malt. Discovering a bottle of Glenlivet, he poured out a healthy dram.

  Lucas pulled on his hat and turned around. “You go to college?” It sounded like an accusation.

  “Yeah. WVU. A long time ago,” Brice said, feeling faintly guilty.

  “You’re damn lucky. Must have been nice.” Lucas scowled. “When I was a kid, I wanted to study biology and become a forest ranger. Didn’t get far with that big dream. Daddy died and I had to help Mommy—”

  “YOOOOO HOO!”

  Both men jumped. A door slammed downstairs and a heavy tread ascended the steps.

  “Here comes Uncle Phil.” Lucas stuffed his hands into the pockets of his jeans and rocked back on his heels. The sour expression on his face had melted into a broad grin. “Prepare to be entertained. He’s a hoot.”

  A PLUMP, BALD MAN IN HIS SIXTIES ACHIEVED THE top of the stairs. Lucas’s height, he wore a short gray beard, tan dress slacks, and a many-hued Hawaiian shirt full of fern fronds and parrots. He put his hands on his hips, regarded the two of them, arched his eyebrows, and said, “Y’all drunk yet?”

  Lucas sniggered, pulled his cap off, and rubbed at his right temple. “Oh, Lord. Here we go.”

  “What y’all waiting on? It’s cocktail time.” Phil gave Lucas a fond hug before heading for the bar. “You’d better watch this one, Mr. Brown. He can be ferocious trouble.”

  Lucas’s face reddened. “Well, hell, Uncle Phil. Why’d you have to say that?”

  “I’m just teasing you, boy.” Mr. Philip threw himself at Brice, giving him a big bear hug. “Mr. Brice Brown! My favorite country star! Welcome to Phagg Heights! That’s ‘Phagg’ with a ‘P H,’ by the way. More sophisticated. I’m so glad you could visit. You’re looking healthy.” To Brice’s chagrin, Philip gave his waist a pinch. “Let’s have us some drinks to celebrate.”

  “I’ve already gotten into your Scotch,” Brice said, sloshing the golden liquid in his glass. “Lucas here said it would be all right. Should I start a tab?”

  “A tab? Certainly not.”

  “Well, depending on how long I stay, I should give you some kinda rent or grocery money or something. I don’t want to be a freeloader.”

  Philip waved the offer away. “What sort of mercenary heathens do you think we are? No spare-changing here. Mi casa es su casa. You’re our guest. Besides, thanks to my frightful ogre of a father and his timely demise, I’m fabulously wealthy. About godddamn time. What would you like to drink, little Lucas?”

  Lucas blushed again. He bent briefly to toss another log on the fire, and again Brice did his best not to openly ogle the solid curves of his ass. “I told you to stop calling me that. I ain’t so little anymore. I can’t get all wild and drunk with y’all. I got studying to do. Ain’t you always telling me I need to buckle down and make something of myself? See you later, Mr. Brown.”

  Brice took in the boy’s broad expanse of shoulders and smiled. “You’re welcome to call me Brice.”

  “Naw.” Lucas grimaced. “I wudn’t brought up to call my elders by their first names. That’s bad manners.”

  Philip laughed. “Since when did you care about the niceties of etiquette? You can study some other night, boy. We have here a famous star.”

  “Yeah? Then you entertain him.” Lucas shook his head. “I got more important things to do.” Eyes averted, Lucas strode out of the room.

  “See you at breakfast?” Philip called after him.

  There was no answer, just the slamming of a door.

  “God love him,” Philip said, scanning the bar. “He knows that Doris Ann’s making biscuits and sausage gravy tomorrow morning. He’ll be back down here, come hell or high water, salivating like a rabid coyote. That boy will heap his plate so high it’ll look like the veritable Tower of Babel. Now what shall I sip to toast to your new membership in our Homo Hideaway? We needed a bear to complete our little zoo.”

  “Bear? I guess so.” Ruefully, Brice patted his belly. “Since my tragic fall from grace, I’ve been pretty good at consoling myself with lots of food and drink.”

  “I hope you intend to do the same here. Doris Ann is a grand cook, and so is lil’ Lucas.”

  “Why not? I won’t be posing for any publicity shots anytime soon. Oh, I brought you some wine.” Brice indicated the beribboned gift bag. “I stopped at Radcliffe’s Roost down the hill to ask for directions, and Grace told me you’d like these. They’re still chilled, I suspect.”

  “Bless her inverted Amazonian heart! We members of the Third Sex have got to stick together.” Philip pulled the dew-moist bottles out and smacked his lips. “Chardonnay and Gerwürztraminer. Excellent.”

  He opened the latter and poured out a big glass. “Take a seat, Mr. Brown. Let’s drink. Let’s drink and gossip up a storm, just up a storm! You must tell me all about your travails.”

  Brice groaned, settling into the armchair. “How about we talk about that after I have another couple of these?”

  “Whatever you prefer.” Philip patted Brice’s knee before taking a seat in a matching armchair. “Let’s focus on the positive. It’s beastly out, cold rain coming down, and Lost Creek close to flooding, and patches of fog in the fields, and here we are, all cozy and safe. Lucas has made us a nice little fire. Do you need anything to eat?”

  “Ah, naw. I had some of Grace’s great barbecue.” Brice gulped Scotch, feeling the welcome wash of an alcohol buzz, and looked around the big room. “This is a wonderful place you have, and I’m real grateful to be invited for a visit. As you know after that e-mail back-and-forth, things have been pretty hard for me.”

  “Yes! Those jackals in Nashville, and those troglodytes in your hometown. I’d like to take a bullwhip to each and every one of them. Wouldn’t that be fun? Or we could tie them to anthills. Or toss them into a seething sea of hungry Chihuahuas! Or, worse, into a swarm of rabid drag queens whose long red talons would shred them posthaste.”

  Brice grinned. This is the kind of outrageous gay guy that used to intimidate the hell out of me back in college, but now I’m damned thankful to know someone so funny and kind. This sort of place and his sort of wit are just what I need at this grim,
lowdown place in my life. “Actually, yeah. I would enjoy that. I like how you think.”

  “Revenge. Almost as delicious as this Gewürztraminer.” Philip swirled the wine around. “Such a pretty color. Thank you. You stay here as long as you want, Mr. Brown.”

  “Brice, okay?”

  “Brice. Yes. Call me Phil. That sweet Travis Ferrell was so excited to meet you and recommend you to me. I think if he weren’t still so torn up over his grand break-up with that Army ruffian, he’d have a little crush on you. As it is, he’s nearly the mess that Lucas is.”

  “A mess, huh? Lucas does seem like a guy with some issues. I’ve only known him for a few minutes, but…. So he’s your nephew?”

  “Yes.” Phil’s face darkened. He sighed. “Lucas is the reason I bought this place, actually.”

  “Really? How so?”

  “Bless his heart, he’s the poster child for Troubled Gay Youth.”

  Brice gaped. “Lucas is gay too?”

  “Yes, indeed. Gay as a goose. And this compound—I call it many names, among them Sodomite Central, Phagg Heights, and Fairyland Ranch—is meant to be a retreat for troubled gay youth. And older folks like you, once in a while.”

  “Glad to be included.” Brice lifted his glass. “Real, real glad. How old is Lucas?”

  “He’s twenty-seven. My apologies for his brusqueness earlier. He’s always aloof around strangers.”

  Brice scratched his jaw and shifted in his seat, trying to ignore the throb in his back. “No problem. I was afraid I’d made him angry somehow.”

  Phil waved away the idea. “I doubt it was anything you did. Lucas is always angry, I fear.”