Country

by Jeff Mann

  Brice took a walk around the compound, taking deep breaths of cold mountain air, trying to calm himself, trying not to imagine or expect the worst. In Lucas’s cabin, he gathered up their dirty clothes, grinning at the sight of Lucas’s skimpy underwear mingling in the hamper with his own much larger boxer briefs, and did some laundry on the lower level of the lodge. He contemplated lifting weights, but, without Lucas to spot him, and fearing for his back, he took a lengthy dip in the hot tub instead.

  As twilight fell, Brice’s worry increased. Cooking, he decided, might prove to be a decent distraction. He tuned the kitchen radio to a country-music station, reminiscing regretfully about his Nashville years and the fellow musicians with whom he’d socialized, most of them still successful presences on the airwaves, not one of whom had shown him any support during his downfall. After rooting around for provisions in the cupboard and finding a copy of The Joy of Cooking on a shelf, he put together a passable chowder with some canned clams. Letting it simmer, he found the ingredients for mulled wine and warmed that up as well.

  He was sipping on a mug of the wine and sitting in a rocking chair in a corner of the kitchen when he heard the very welcome sound of a vehicle crunching into the gravel drive before the lodge. He stood, wanting to look busy rather than paralyzed with concern, and was dumping a can of kale into a pot when footsteps clumped down the stairs and Lucas entered the kitchen, an open bottle in his hand.

  “Hey. Smells good. Whatcha cooking?”

  Heavy with relief, Brice ached to embrace him, but, imagining the deep state of Lucas’s emotional turmoil, didn’t know what kind of response he’d get. Instead, he lifted a ladle.

  “New England clam chowder. Canned clams, bacon, cream, potatoes, carrots. How’s that sound? With oyster crackers? And kale? And a salad?”

  “Shit. Sure. I’m starved.” Lucas tipped up the bottle and took a long drag. “Thanks for making dinner.”

  “You may be starved, but you ain’t thirsty, are you? You haven’t been drinking and driving all day, have you?”

  Lucas groaned. “Don’t go getting all parental on me. I’ve had enough of that today. No, I haven’t been drinking and driving. Well, I have, but just from Radclyffe’s Roost up to here.”

  “Where’d you go?”

  “I drove up to the top of Spruce Knob. Five thousand feet up gives you a little perspective. Had lunch at a little place near Seneca Rocks. I took a long walk in the state forest. Stopped by to see Grace and Amie. I bought this bottle at their place and opened it on the way up the valley. Grace recommended it. Try it. It’s good.”

  He handed the bottle to Brice. Brice took a bubbly swig before handing it back. “It’s tasty. What is it?”

  “It’s another Prosecco, a lot like that one we had on Valentine’s Day. I figured, since we celebrated last night, we could celebrate again this evening.”

  “You feel like celebrating?”

  Lucas took another long swig and smiled. “Shit, yes, I sure do. It’s the party season around here. Grace reminded me that tomorrow’s Fasnacht in Helvetia. Wanna go with them? The Hutte’s got a holiday buffet I’m dying to sample.”

  “Sure, kid. What’s Fasnacht?”

  “Ah, it’s a Swiss thang. Kinda like Mardi Gras. There’s a parade—they call it the Lampion parade, since it’s done with lamps and candles—and a masked ball, and at midnight they burn an effigy of Old Man Winter to celebrate the coming spring.”

  “Sounds fun. I’m up for it if you are.”

  “I sure am. We could do with some fun, huh? What’s that there?”

  “Mulled wine. Glühwein, the Germans call it. It’s got a bunch of spices in it. Shelly used to serve it at our Christmas parties down in Franklin.”

  “Great! More to drink. Good.” Lucas took another long gulp from the bottle and handed it to Brice. “You finish this. I’m gonna get into that wine. Smells great.”

  Worried by Lucas’s show of cheeriness, Brice sipped the Prosecco, watching Lucas as he poured out a mug of Glühwein. “You ready to eat?”

  Lucas sat with a sharp exhalation of breath in the rocking chair. He slurped the wine and smacked his lips. “Naw. I wanna drink first. In fact, I might get a big ole buzz on tonight. You mind?”

  Chuckling, Brice shook his head. “Nope. After what happened this morning, I figure you deserve a good drunk.”

  “Ain’t that the fucking truth?” Lucas propped a booted foot on one knee. “You gonna join me?”

  Brice shook his head. “Huh uh. I need to keep my wits about me. The rest of this and a mug of that wine are all I need. Someone needs to stay sober tonight.”

  Lucas leaned back into the chair and rocked. “And why is that?”

  “So someone can take care of you. That job falls to me. And it’ll fall to me as long as you want it to.”

  Lucas stared at Brice. He chewed his lower lip. “Yeah?”

  “Yeah.” Brice tipped the Prosecco bottle up and drained it.

  “Promise?”

  Brice nodded. He put the bottle on the counter and crossed his arms. “Promise.”

  Lucas nodded. He took another slurp of wine and dropped his gaze to the floor.

  “So what we celebrating?” Brice said, taking up the ladle and stirring the chowder.

  “What you think we’re celebrating? I’m done with that harpy.”

  “Looks like it.” Brice kept his voice noncommittal, waiting to see where Lucas’s mood was tending.

  “I’m shitting you.” Lucas’s voice dropped lower. “That’s not why we’re celebrating.”

  “Oh?” Brice opened a cabinet and pulled out a bag of oyster crackers.

  “Did you mean it?”

  Brice took the salad spinner from another cabinet, put it on the counter, and turned to Lucas. The boy was slumped in the chair, head on his chest.

  “Did I mean what?”

  Lucas looked up, still rocking. His eyes bored into Brice. “You know. What you said this morning.”

  Brice leaned back against the edge of the counter, pushed his hands into his pants pockets, and bowed his head. “I know it’s hard to believe. It’s hard for me to believe. I know I’ve only known you for a short time. Maybe I’m deluding myself. Maybe my desire and my need are hoodwinking me. Maybe what I feel is just a passing infatuation. But I don’t think so. I think I’ve met you at just the right point in my life, and I think you and I could have something deep and lasting. If you’re interested.”

  Lucas said nothing. His chair rocking ceased.

  Chest tight, Brice refreshed his mug of mulled wine. He stared into the cloud of steam that rose from his cup. “Am I in this alone?”

  “Brice,” Lucas muttered. “Oh, Brice.”

  Brice put his cup down and cleared his throat. “I know you’ve been through a lot. I know that intimacy, physical intimacy, is a difficult thing for you. I’ll understand if you’re not ready for more. I’ll understand, and I’ll be all right. But, honestly—I guess I just realized this too—if you don’t think you’ll ever want more, if you don’t think you’ll ever be able to love me back, I don’t think I can stay here and just be buddies. I don’t think….”

  Lucas rose from the chair. He held out his mug. “Can I have some more?”

  “Sure.” Brice took the cup and filled it.

  “Spring’s coming,” Lucas said. “It’s just around the corner.”

  “Yes.”

  Lucas lifted his mug. “So here’s a toast to spring.”

  Brice lifted his mug. They clinked.

  Lucas reached over, resting a hand on Brice’s shoulder. “I’m too tore up now to….”

  “Yes. I know. I’m sorry. This is the worst possible timing, to say what I did on a day when….”

  “Yep, I guess I’m officially an orphan.” Lucas shook his head. “Amazing. She’s just amazing. But here’s another toast, okay?”

  “Yeah?”

  “To…to you staying here with me. To me getting better. Stronger. ‘Cause, Brice
? You ain’t in this alone. You ain’t. Far from it. I don’t know what I’d do if you….”

  Lucas coughed. He knocked back the wine and gulped till it was gone. He poured himself another mug. His hand shook and he put the steaming mug down. He slumped back against the counter and looked up at Brice. His eyes, rimmed with tears, spilled over.

  “Lucas. Buddy.” Brice put his mug down and gripped the boy’s arm.

  “Oh, hell.” Lucas wiped his eyes. Then he threw his arms around Brice, pressed his face against the bigger man’s chest, and began to sob.

  BRICE GUIDED LUCAS UP TO THE GREAT ROOM. They sat together on the couch in the dark before the flameless hearth, and Brice held Lucas, and Lucas trembled in his arms and wept, his sides shaking, till Brice’s shirt was moist with the boy’s tears. He cried as if he never had before, as if it were a novel release and a passionate luxury he’d never allowed himself: wracked coughing, choking, shaking, cursing, punching the couch pillows, blowing his nose, hacking up phlegm, and hugging Brice so hard the older man had to suck in air to catch his breath.

  After a quarter of an hour, Lucas subsided. Without words, Brice directed him downstairs. They made a brief meal of chowder, crackers, salad, and kale. Lucas, wet-cheeked, red-eyed, and stony-faced, insisted on cleaning up. Then he took Brice’s hand and led him out the door and up the hill.

  In Lucas’s cabin, they stripped and climbed into bed. As soon as Brice pulled Lucas to him, the naked boy began shaking and sobbing once more. Brice held him and rubbed his back and stroked his face till Lucas’s grief-stricken sobs tapered off and he fell asleep. Heart hurting, Brice spooned him from behind, knowing what every lover comes to know: no matter how strong or smart you are, there is no foolproof way to shield your beloved from sorrow.

  BRICE WOKE TO DAYLIGHT AND the sound of water. He rolled over to find Lucas gone. For a split-second, he panicked. Then he realized that the rushing sound was the shower. He made a pile of pillows, folded his arms behind his head, and waited for Lucas to emerge.

  In a few minutes, the boy did so. He stood naked by the bed, drying his wet head and beard. “Hey,” he said hoarsely, smiling down at Brice.

  “Hey,” Brice said, studying him. Lucas’s eyes were still red, and there were faint bags beneath them. “How you feeling?”

  “Headache, congestion. As much from the crying as from the wine. Sorry I made such a fuss last night.”

  Brice shrugged. “No need to apologize. If my mother had ever treated me the way yours did—”

  “Like a dog?”

  “Yes. Like a dog. If she had, I would have had the same reaction you did. Get back in here, okay?”

  Lucas hung the towel on the back of the bathroom door and climbed into bed with Brice. He sighed, leaning his head against Brice’s shoulder, and pulled the blankets up over them.

  “I would be so fucked, so fucked, so fucked if you weren’t here,” Lucas said.

  Brice took his hand. “Maybe. But if I’d never come here, that article in the Star would never have been published, and your mother would never have shown up to…say the things she did.”

  “That show-down has been on the agenda for years, Brice. It was gonna happen sooner or later. I’m glad it’s over. Wait’ll I tell Uncle Phil. He’ll snatch her bald-headed if she ever crosses his path again.”

  “That’s a process I’d like to see,” Brice said, sniggering. “That snatching bald-headed. But it’d take a while. She’s got lots of hair.”

  “True.” Lucas nuzzled his chin against Brice’s right pec. “Man, she made me feel like the lowliest turd. I know she’s full of shit—her whole version of religion is full of shit—but still…when your own mother…. I mean, I already have problems feeling worthless. I sure didn’t need all that.”

  “No, you didn’t. Honestly, I wanted to knock her teeth out.”

  “I love that protective streak in you, though I guess punching a woman, no matter how mean, wouldn’t have been the right move. Do you know what I mean, though? About feeling worthless? I felt so goddamn no-account last night, I coulda died. Thank God you were here to hold on me. Who knows what kinda crazy shit I might have done without you around?”

  “Feeling worthless? Hell, yes, I know what you mean. My father was, well, demanding. And it was all about him, you know? Which meant I spent my whole life trying to impress him, to get his attention and make him proud of me, but he was too self-absorbed to even notice. Nothing I did was ever good enough. That’s why I got into music, I guess: to get noticed. That’s why being a big star in Nashville meant so much to me, and why it was so awful to lose my audience. It made me feel like such a big fucking failure. I’m sorry. I’m going on about myself when I should be focusing on you.”

  “No, go on. Sounds like more stuff we got in common. Besides, I don’t wanna talk about Mommy no more. Do you miss Nashville bad?”

  “No. Not Nashville exactly.” Brice rubbed his eyes and sighed. “Not the city of Nashville, but…the idea of Nashville—living there, being in the music business, making all that money, getting all that publicity. Nashville meant success. You know? The success I’d ached for. The big dream come true.”

  “Yeah, makes sense. I mean, hell, you were on the Grand Ole Opry. You were giving concerts all over the nation, right?”

  “Yep. Australia and Europe too. Like I already told you, the Country Music Museum even had a little exhibit about me. That meant the world to me. It meant that all my struggles had paid off. It meant that I was finally part of that long, glorious tradition.”

  Brice tugged at the whiskers on Lucas’s chin and slumped back into the pillows. “Then they took the exhibit down, due to ‘revelations about my sexuality,’ I think that’s how they phrased it. Just like the bridge was renamed. God, what an insult.”

  “Bridge? What bridge?”

  “I guess I didn’t tell you. Once I got famous, the bridge across the New River in my hometown was named after me. Once the big news got out that I was a fag, the shitheads renamed the bridge after a local girl who’s working in D.C. politics now. The Brice Brown Bridge is now the Suzanne Matthews Bridge.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  “Nope. It’s like I’ve been deleted. Like everything I’ve ever achieved has been erased. You call yourself a mess? Me, I…I’m sick. My ego’s sick. Fuck.”

  “What? What do you mean? Go on, buddy. Go on. Please.”

  Brice nodded. “Yeah, okay. I hate to admit this, ‘cause it sounds neurotic as hell, kinda pathetic, really, but it’s like I’m some big fucking narcissist who can only feel good about himself when folks are making a big fuss about how great he is. Man, I miss the attention. The concert crowds, the awards, the adulation…. It was like a drug. And withdrawal has been hell. I was so depressed around Christmas that I thought about killing myself.”

  “I know those feelings, and don’t you fucking dare. Am I not audience enough?” Lucas gently bit Brice’s shoulder.

  “You’re a sharp-toothed lil’ wildcat, ain’t you? Well, as much as I wish that were enough….”

  “Yeah, I get it. There’s love.” Lucas took the fur-coated flesh of Brice’s pec in his palm and squeezed it. “And there’s work. That’s what Freud says.”

  “Freud?”

  “Yep. I had a lot of time to read in prison. Freud says you need both love and work to be happy. As much as I’d like to stay in this valley with you, snuggling till kingdom come, at some point we’re both gonna have to figure out what to do with our lives. Me, who knows? You—your work, your career is music. No way around it.”

  “I think you’re right…but you’re using the L word now too?” Brice tweaked Lucas’s nose. “Be careful. Don’t get my hopes up.”

  “Yeah, I am using that word. And we’ll have a big conversation about all that, soon as I recover some from that verbal beating Mommy gave me yesterday. Anyway, back to career. A guy’s gotta have a career. And a man as talented as you should have loads of fans. Millions of fans. As muc
h as you’ve accomplished, you have every right to expect that. Every artist wants his work to be noticed and admired and respected. Man, it irks my ass that the world’s so full of pious, mealy-mouthed homo-haters that so many fans have abandoned you.”

  “That’s the way of the world right now, Lucas. I gotta cope with this fragile, hungry, malformed, big baby of an ego of mine and grow up and adjust my expectations and stop wishing I could be back where I was. All that before—my whole Nashville career—was based on lies anyway, me posing as straight. I don’t intend to lie any more, so it’s very likely—if not downright certain—that I’m never gonna have a big mainstream audience again.”

  “Maybe not. But you are gonna keep writing new stuff, right?”

  Brice fondled Lucas’s limp dick. He bent Lucas’s arm back and took a long whiff of the boy’s armpit. “As long as we share a bed, you’re damn right I’m gonna keep writing. Beauty and desire are always grist for the poetic mill.”

  “Well, then, who knows? Get together a new album of material, and maybe…. A collection of gay country-music songs? It’d be a first! You could have a whole new audience. I’ve already told you how much music like that would mean to queer folks, especially folks like us who don’t run to the cities, who are ornery enough to stay out in the boonies or in small towns and take the risk of being ourselves.”

  “Anything’s possible, I guess. But Nashville—”

  “Fuck Nashville. That’s not the only way to go. There’s gotta be some other way to get your music out there to folks who’d appreciate it.”

  Lucas tugged at the coarse hair around Brice’s navel and slid out of bed. “So, how’s about we have some of that oatmeal I whipped up yesterday, and then we go looking for some seeds and onion sets and sprouts and such at Lowe’s? It’s nearly March, and I wanna grow me up some baby broccoli and cabbage in the greenhouse, so they’ll be a decent size when planting time comes around.”

  “Greenhouse? There’s a greenhouse here?”

  “You ain’t seen it? Uncle Phil set it up just for me, since he knows we come from a long line of gardeners. Lord, every spring Mommy used to….”