by Jeff Mann
“And what did you do then, Uncle Phil?”
“Well, then I put my hands on my hips and I said, ‘No, ma’am! I’m no princess! I’m a queen!’ I mean, I wasn’t going to be demoted right there by the baggage carousel!”
Lucas guffawed. “That is so fucking funny. I love that story.”
“What did she say?” Brice gasped.
“Oh, she just laughed and patted me on the arm and tottered off, God love her. I hope she had a fine cruise.”
“I better check on those cabbage rolls.” Lucas stood. “By the way, when you leaving for Florida? Real soon, right?”
“Day after tomorrow. I’ll be gone for about six weeks. And I’m giving Doris Ann a couple of months off, since she wants to visit her sick sister up in Moorefield. So it’ll just be you two. What y’all planning to do for Valentine’s Day? It’s coming up soon.”
Lucas and Brice exchanged glances. Lucas made a wry face, and Brice shrugged. Six weeks alone with him? If he doesn’t warm up to me pretty soon, I’m going to lose my mind. Maybe coming here wasn’t the best idea after all.
“Hell, I don’t know. Eat chocolate till we throw up?” Lucas knocked back the rest of his beer before tramping off to the kitchen.
“Little monster,” Phil said, watching his nephew go. “He could do with a few sessions of Charm School. He was much more mannerly before...those troubles I’ve referred to.”
“Before prison?”
“He told you?” Phil blurted, then lowered his voice. “I’m amazed.”
Brice lowered his voice as well. “Yep, he told me. About the hustling, about the trucker who tried to rape him, about the trial. I can’t believe that stupid-as-fuck jury sent him to prison instead of his assailant.”
“Never underestimate the power of rural homophobia. I’m floored that he’s shared all that with you. He must be coming to trust you already.”
“Not so sure about that. One minute, he’s civil, and the next, he’s acting like he wishes I’d drop dead. Every conversation with him feels like I’m walking on eggshells. I really pissed him off today when I asked what his prison time was like.”
Phil bit his lip. “I know it was deeply unpleasant. He’s never told me about it in any detail. A boy as handsome as he is…I figure that what he narrowly managed to prevent in that truck he had to endure quite a bit in there, though he assures me that he’s still free of disease. I do know that he was attacked, because his mother and I visited him in the prison hospital a few months before he was released. His torso was all bandaged up.”
“Shit. How bad was the attack?”
“I’m not sure. He refused to give us the details.” Phil nodded in the direction of the pool. “When he swims here in the summer, I can see his scars, but when I ask him about them, he just shakes his head and walks away. As you can imagine, when he came out of prison, he was much different from the boy he was when he’d gone in. All the angers and resentments and insecurities he’d already had were intensified.”
“I’ll bet they were. It makes me feel a little sick when I think of all he’s likely been through.”
“I feel the same. You two ought to do something nice for Valentine’s Day. Just to have a reason to celebrate, to do something different, to get off the compound for a while. Maybe have a nice dinner in Elkins. There’s an elegant mansion there with a fine restaurant.”
“Valentine’s Day,” Brice murmured. “I guess that meant something to me once, during those first few years of marriage when I’d just about convinced myself that Shelly and I had something real. She sure insisted that I make a big fuss out of the holiday. Roses, candy, fancy dinner out….”
“You’ve never celebrated Valentine’s Day with another man?”
“Naw. Never got that chance. Never gave myself that chance.”
“Lucas hates the holiday for that very reason. The only love he’s received from men has been in the form of rampant genitals and cold cash.”
“He’s never been involved with another guy romantically?”
“Not that I’m aware of. Who knows what went on in prison? I quail to think of it. Well, tomorrow is another day, as Miss Scarlett famously declared. As for Valentine’s Day, you two tortured wrecks ought to keep each another company. It’ll be like Wuthering Heights set in West Virginia. God knows Lucas needs—”
“This stuff’s ready!” Lucas shouted up the stairs.
Phil drained his wine and stood. “Would you be kind enough to escort my faded glory down to dinner? I’m hungry enough to eat a bear’s butt.”
DURING THE MEAL, PHIL REGALED them with an assortment of outrageous travel stories that had Brice aching with laughter. Afterward, Phil pled exhaustion and retired to his quarters in a wing of the lodge. Brice helped Lucas clean up, trying and failing to start up a conversation with the boy, who seemed as distant as ever, despite their frank chats earlier in the day.
Chores done, Lucas gave Brice a brusque “Good night” and, without waiting for a reply, slipped out the back door of the kitchen. Through the window, Brice watched him climb a circular staircase to the pool deck and fade into the darkness.
Shit, I thought we’d found some kinda rapport today, Brice thought, wiping down the counters a final time. What do I do with this longing? Is desire always pointless? Always destructive? Not for some folks, but certainly for me. Wanting other men has wrecked everything. What kind of mass-murdering son of a bitch was I in my last life?
Restless, Brice climbed the stairs to the bar, poured himself another Scotch, and wandered around the rest of the lodge. He shot a solitary game of pool. He sat on the dark screened-in porch, rocking in a rocking chair, listening to a fine rain on the tin roof and enjoying the invigorating cold that nipped him out of postprandial sluggishness.
Downstairs, he found a tiny massage room, a shower, a steam room, a dry sauna, and, in a sort of dim grotto, a hot tub steaming beneath a padded covering. For a moment, he contemplated a long soak in the jets to ease his sore back but decided to put that off for another evening, perhaps one during which he could convince Lucas to join him in the tub. I want to study his scars. I want to memorize his every tattoo, Brice thought. And now I’m thinking like some kind of lovesick schoolboy. At age forty. Pathetic.
Brice returned to the great room. He stood by the piano, picking at it, a few chords from the last set of songs he’d written, composed well over a year ago. The first few notes of a new melody drifted through his mind, but when he tried to follow it with his fingers, he lost it.
“Played out,” he sighed. “No point. You fucking has-been. You fucking washed-up loser.”
Brice slumped into an armchair. He watched the fire fading into embers behind its grate, sipped his Scotch, and sifted through memories of what Lucas had said to him earlier, trying to pinpoint some certain and solid clue that might reveal how the beautiful boy regarded him. Did Lucas despise him, did Lucas like him, did Lucas pity him, did Lucas hold him in complete and utter contempt? Brice was unable to marshal enough evidence to support any theory save for one: that the young man was as much of a contradictory, confused, emotional mess as he was, if not more so.
“Bad, bad combo,” he sighed, knocking back the last of his drink as the familiar feeling of dull despair spread like tar in the pit of his stomach.
Brice tugged on his jacket and cap and lumbered out onto the pool deck. There, he lifted his face to the night sky and felt the cold rain misting his liquor-flushed face. In a line of empty guest rooms overlooking the pool, Brice found a small gym, furnished with a few weightlifting machines and racked free weights.
I’d like to watch him work out. While he’s shirtless. Maybe he’d let me work out with him? God knows I could stand to firm up. Where does he live anyway? The first time I saw him, he came out of the woods on the far side of the pool.
On a whim, Brice returned to the pool deck. There. He was standing beneath that little grove of trees over there. Redbuds, looks like. And there’s a flight of stairs heading
up the hill.
Brice crossed the deck and started up the wooden steps. They were slick, so he gripped the railing as he climbed. The steps ended in a small graveled space—parking for the rooms above the pool, Brice assumed. He peered up the hill. There. A light among the trees. And here’s a gravel driveway.
Brice followed the gravel path into the woods and up the slope. Soon he was standing beside a cabin much like his own, set against the slope of the mountain, with an elevated porch in front and a Ford pickup truck parked in back. He could hear faint music playing inside. Around him, the drizzle thickened, moistening the shoulders of his jacket and dripping off the brim of his cap.
Brice stepped onto the back porch and moved toward the nearest window. Don’t get caught, Brice. Being revealed as a stalker or peeping Tom is not going to endear you to that sullen boy. The music paused. He stood to one side of the lit pane and peered inside.
What he saw was the cabin’s living room. Lucas lay sleeping on a couch near the window into which Brice gazed. He was sprawled on his side, facing the embers of a hearth-fire. His head, on the far end of the couch, rested on a cushion. An afghan covered him, except for the pale skin of his bare right shoulder.
Is he naked under there? Jesus. Brice stood, transfixed, one hand gripping the other. Then the music began again, and Brice nearly gasped out loud. He knew that series of chords in E minor better than anyone in the world.
My God. I don’t believe it. I don’t believe it. “Hard Gray Rain.” Title song of my first album! The kid is playing one of my CDs. The little bastard has been giving me the cold shoulder, and he’s up here listening to my music.
A flicker of joy burst in Brice’s throat. He swallowed hard, took one last look at the exposed skin of Lucas’s shoulder, then backed away from the window, padded off the edge of the porch, and made his way over crunching gravel back down the hill toward the lodge.
“LONG DRIVE TO THE CHARLESTON AIRPORT,” Lucas said. “But Florida will be good for him. The winters are harder and harder on him lately. Only reason he stayed here as long as he did this season was ‘cause he knew you were coming.”
On a gray February dawn, Lucas and Brice stood before the lodge, watching Phil’s car bump down the hill. As soon as it disappeared around the corner, Lucas turned his back on Brice. “See you around.”
“Hey,” Brice said. “Are you lifting weights today? I’m thinking I could do with some exercise. Maybe we could lift together? I haven’t gotten to a gym in months.”
Lucas shook his head and kept walking. “Ain’t lifting weights today.”
“Do you want to meet for dinner at least?” Brice followed Lucas into the lodge.
“Nope. Gotta study. There’s some beef stew in the fridge. Help yourself to that any time you want.”
“How about a hike later, if you want a break? Or a drive? You could show me more of this county. I’d love to see that Swiss town you mentioned.”
Lucas turned, scowling. “I ain’t here to entertain you, Mr. Brown. I know you were used to the high life before, and the attention of lots of fans and minions, but you ain’t gonna find that here.”
“Fine.” Brice shook off a wave of hot anger mingled with sick disappointment. “I realize that. Good luck with your studies.” Face flushed and set, Brice tramped back to his cabin.
LATER THAT DAY, BRICE SAT in the library of the lodge, staring at the desktop computer screen. He reread the e-mail message with numb disbelief. When his eyes teared up, he wiped at them.
Dear Brice,
This morning, I was having breakfast with a representative of the Country Music Museum and Hall of Fame. He mentioned in passing that, due to the recent revelations about your sexuality, they had dismantled the exhibit about you. Last month, apparently.
This conversation led to a long-delayed revelation of my own.
I’ve put this off long enough. I haven’t wanted to hurt you, but today I realized that my silence must be inflicting a terrible kind of hurt on you already.
I’m afraid that it’s time for our professional connection to end. After all that’s happened, I see no way that your career can be resuscitated and no way that I can help you.
None of this is your fault. I understand why you kept such an enormous secret from me. You can’t control being the kind of man you are. Unfortunately, we also cannot control the kind of society we live in, and the conservatism of country music fans is such that I can’t imagine that you have any hope of a future career in Nashville.
I’m so, so sorry. Wherever you are, please take care.
Regretfully,
Your friend,
Steve Morgan
Brice turned off the computer. He walked out of the library and into the great room. There, he took a half-full pint bottle of Ezra Brooks from the bar, opened it, and put it to his mouth. He gulped a big mouthful, then another, then another, and then another, till the bottle was empty. He sat on the couch and put his head in his hands, waiting for the welcome numbness inebriation brings. Soon enough, it came.
Ahhhh, yeah. Like wading waist-deep in dark, warm water. Relieved, he stretched out on the couch and closed his eyes.
When Brice came to, it was late afternoon. He lay there for a few minutes, drowsy, still drunk, staring at the ceiling and trying not to think of anything. For a few seconds, he succeeded. Then it was all there again, surrounding him and hemming him in: his great ambitions, the grand lies of his past, his humiliating exposure, the forwarded letters from former fans full of hate, Wayne’s abrupt reappearance and just as abrupt disappearance, Steve’s e-mail message, hard-faced and handsome Lucas turning from him and walking away. And tomorrow, nothing but grim gray, every breath a pointless effort, every day off key, a sour flat, dragging himself around in his heavy, aging, loveless body.
Brice sat up and nausea flooded him. He rose, ready to dash to the toilet to vomit, when the urge just as quickly faded. He grabbed a bottle of Perrier from the fridge beneath the bar and gulped down every drop. Then, leaving his hat and coat behind, he opened the door and staggered out onto the pool deck.
To the west, the winter sun was close to setting. Snowmelt dripped from the eaves. In the redbud grove, a flock of chickadees was chattering. Somewhere, incongruous, a bass guitar thumped dance music.
What the fuck is that? Obnoxious. I drive all the way out here to get me some sweet country silence, and now this? Sounds like a fucking gay bar.
Brice followed the sound toward the line of rooms overlooking the pool. There, through the wide floor-to-ceiling windows of the gym, he could see Lucas. The boy was bareheaded, dressed in a snug black A-shirt, baggy gray nylon shorts, and black running shoes. Several silver chains hung about his neck. He sat on a padded bench, working his way through a set of biceps concentration curls with a metal dumbbell.
Brice’s first reaction was awe. Those pale shoulders. Those thorny tattoos. Man, look at those arms bulge. Yep, that’s a decent dusting of chest hair, all right. Pretty, pretty curves, those pecs beneath his undershirt. And those furry calves. Holy Jesus, he’s just as sexy as I imagined he’d be.
Brice’s second reaction was rage. He threw open the door and stepped inside, glaring. “Hey, Lucas. How’s that workout going?”
Lucas looked up, startled. He dropped the dumbbell with a thud. “Shit, you scared me.”
“I thought you said you weren’t going to work out today, but here you are.”
Guilt flashed across Lucas’s face, then annoyed defiance.
“Yeah. So? I changed my mind. I got more work done this afternoon than I thought. I needed a break.”
“I told you I wanted to work out with you. Did you forget that?”
Lucas moved to the incline bench. “I got more things on my mind than what you want, Mr. Brown. Did you expect me to send you an engraved invitation? You’re welcome to work out in here any time you want.” Hooking his feet beneath the rounded pad, he began a set of sit-ups.
Brice leaned back against the wall. Be
tween the aftermath of so much bourbon and his present blaze of anger, his head was spinning. “Jesus. You don’t want any goddamn thing to do with me at all, do you?”
“I sure don’t right now, the way you’re acting,” Lucas said. Hands folded behind his head, he arced upward, touching his elbows to his knees.
“You act like you hate my guts. You act like I’ve done you some wrong. Why is that?”
“You’re imagining things. Leave me alone, goddamn it.”
“Answer me, boy,” Brice growled. “Look at me when I’m talking to you.”
Lucas did another sit-up and then another. He lay back on the pad, head slanted downward, and rolled his eyes up at Brice. “Don’t talk to me like I’m a child. I ain’t no boy. I ain’t your son. I ain’t here to cater to you. You, you, you. It ain’t all about you. It ain’t all about you and your satisfaction.”
“Thank you for that helpful reminder.” Brice pushed himself away from the wall, swaying. “As if the whole fucking world for the last few fucking months hasn’t already made that crystal clear. You’re an arrogant little bastard. Someone should kick your ass.”
“Yeah, right.” Lucas slipped off the incline bench and righted himself. “You? Try it, Mr. Brown.” He clenched his right fist and rubbed it in his cupped left palm.
Brice snorted. “You scrawny little shit. Big as I am, I could wipe up the floor with you.”
“Maybe.” Lucas was clenching both fists now. “Except I probably know a lot more about taking a guy down than you. While you were strutting across the stage of the Grand Ole Opry, or living in that big mansion with your pretty wife and fucking hustler boys like me on the side, or driving around on your fancy bikes or in your fancy sports cars, I was learning how to fight dirty in prison.”