by Jeff Mann
Brice rubbed his bearded jaw, then sat back in his chair, crossed his arms across his chest, and looked Shelly in the eye. “Look, honey, tell ‘em what you want. My label’s dropped me, which is no surprise. Steve says that if you and I make a show of reconciling, if you let me move back in, that might salvage my career, but I’ve thought about that, and it wouldn’t be fair to you, so, like I said, do what you have to do. You’re still young, Shelly. You’re still beautiful. I’ll bet you’ll find another husband in no time.”
“That’s sweet of you to say. I’d like the house.”
“Ah, here we go,” Brice groaned. “Come to this, huh?”
“Half of marriages do, don’t they? I want to put it on the market. I want to sell it and then move back to Georgia and buy a place near my parents. Daddy called and begged me to come home.”
“I’ll bet he did. Look, I ain’t gonna argue with you,” Brice said, extending his palms up and out in a gesture of surrender. “My parents may not have had a pot to piss in for most of my childhood, but they brought me up never to argue about money. All’s I need’s my truck and my old guitar. Let me come by and fetch the little bit of my stuff still there, and then you can do what you want with the house. The Florida condo I’ll need to sell, I think, and the motorcycles. Some of the musical instruments too, since I doubt I’ll be needing ‘em. Might have to sell the Nashville condo too, just for spending money. The homeplace back in the mountains is paid for, thank God.”
“That seems more than fair to me,” Shelly said, smiling with visible satisfaction. “Our Williamson County estate is worth five times as much as all those properties put together.”
“Yep,” Brice said. “You always were good at math. To be honest, that place was always too big and fancy for me. I felt like a bearded version of Elvis with my own over-groomed Graceland.”
“I know. I know. All you’ve ever wanted was a cabin way out in the woods somewhere.” Shelly, relaxed with triumph, patted Brice’s denimed knee.
“And a big audience. A big, big, big, big, big audience.” Brice heaved a grim laugh. “So much for a sea of clamoring fans. None of ‘em’s gonna buy a faggot’s CDs.”
“Don’t use that nasty word. So what are you going to do now?”
“Steve wants me to do an interview, issue a denial, some such thing. Maybe go into one of those ex-gay programs the evangelicals think can change guys like me. I’m not sure I’ll be doing either of those, though. I’m going to head home to West Virginia for Christmas, I guess. Spend some time with my family, what’s left of it, anyway. If they’ll have me. Folks back home are even less likely to be understanding than folks in Nashville. Right now, though, I intend to gobble down a big plate of Lorrie’s good food.”
Brice rose and marched to the counter. “Lorrie, honey. We’re about done talking. It’s safe to come out. Those fried pickles ready yet?”
SHE’S A WOMAN. THAT MIGHT MAKE THINGS easier, Brice thought, regarding the stylish reporter sitting on Steve’s office couch. Brice rarely felt any hostility toward the opposite sex. When his volcanic temper surged up, and the accompanying desire to kick ass—a tendency toward violence that he’d fought for decades—that ass was almost always a man’s. Fucking men’s butts and kicking men’s butts, the greatest suppressed urges of my life, Brice thought, doing his best to look friendly and composed. Between reining in lust and choking back rage, it’s a goddamn miracle I haven’t run amok ages ago.
“Mr. Brown, I really appreciate your willingness to speak to me,” said the smiling journalist. Karen Reed was in her early forties, around Brice’s age, and from West Virginia. She was known as having left-wing views, and she wasn’t overtly religious. Steve had chosen her for all those qualities. Furthermore, she worked for The Tennesseean, one of the more liberal newspapers in Nashville.
“Howdy, Mizz Reed. I’m pleased to meet you.” Brice, good manners at the ready, rested his hands on his knees. Behind his desk, Steve studied the pair with anxious intensity.
“Shall we get started?” Steve said, clicking a pin.
“Yep. Sure. Fire away,” Brice said. Years ago, he’d had a nonverbal communication class at West Virginia University, so he was deliberately arranging his body in such a way as to indicate relaxation. Legs apart, back straight, look her in the eye.
Ms. Reed pulled a miniature recorder from her purse and turned it on. “So, day before yesterday, the Banner reported that your wife Shelly had filed for divorce. Is that true?”
“Yes, ma’am. I’m afraid so.”
“I see. How do you feel about that?”
“How do I feel? Like crap.” Brice took off his ubiquitous baseball cap and rubbed at his close-cropped hair. Steve had advised him to be remorseful so as to impress the fans, but there was no need to fake the feeling. Remorse and shame of one form or another had hounded him since adolescence, since he’d recognized his desires for what they were and knew that the world around him would never tolerate the honest expression of them. The more you pretend to be someone you’re not in order to spare or shield yourself, the more you wind up hurting others, he’d come to discover.
“I’ve made a big mess of things, and there’s no reason a lady as fine as my Shelly should have to suffer for it. She’ll be better off without me. I wish her the best, the very best. I’m just so sorry for everything.”
“By everything, do you mean your affair with Zac Lanier? You are admitting that the two of you had a relationship?”
“Yeah. It wasn’t really a relationship, though. I mean, he exaggerated a lot in that interview of his. He…well….”
“Go on, Brice,” Steve urged.
God, another big shit-pot of lies. I wish I was dead. “Well, he started what happened between us, not me. I just shouldn’t have gotten so damn drunk. And then he got out some pot, and, hell, after that, I didn’t know what I was doing.”
“Was this in the hot tub Mr. Lanier referred to?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Brice folded his arms and sighed. Somehow his gaze had left the woman’s face and was studying the arabesque design of the office carpet. “It only happened a couple of times. That ain’t really a relationship, right? Just a couple of drunken mistakes. He got real attached, and I realized it was all wrong, so I ended it.”
“But Mr. Lanier said you started it and he ended it.”
“Yeah, I read the interview, but that ain’t, uh, isn’t true. I broke it off with him, and then he pressured me to get back together with him, uh, I mean, see him, meet with him, but I was afraid Shelly’d find out and it’d break her heart, so I told him to get lost. That’s why he quit the band. That must be why he’s trying to ruin me, claiming I’m a promiscuous homosexual. He’s just bitter and vindictive.”
“Have there been other men, Mr. Brown? Do you identify as a homosexual? As a member of the gay community?”
“Identify? Look, I don’t know much of anything about ‘the gay community.’ Isn’t that a bunch of skinny city boys all into fashion and shit?” No need to dissemble on this point either. Ever since Brice had started sleeping with guys in college, he’d never much related to open gays. Some of them had been fun to fuck, but most of them seemed too extreme and urban for his mountain-bred tastes.
“But have there been other men? Mr. Lanier indicated that you’d had a lot of experience in that regard.”
Steve interrupted, his bunched brow a clear indication that he did not approve of the direction the conversation was taking. “Lanier is just trying to stir up scandal. Tell her about Exodus International, Brice. I’m sure your fans would want to know about that.”
“Oh, yeah! So, Exodus International is a Christian group who can cure, uh, same-sex desire. I’ve made an appointment with a local reparative therapist in their organization, Dr. Adam Zucker. I don’t think I’m gay, or even bisexual, but I’m planning on joining the Exodus program just to see if…well, maybe through them, God can….”
Brice trailed off, his throat tight, his voice husky with sha
me. Steve filled the conversational gap.
“Brice grew up in a God-fearing community in West Virginia, as you no doubt know, Ms. Reed. We both have faith that Christian therapists can put him on the right path. And we want his fans to know that. We’re sure many of them have been very upset by the revelations of the last week, but we’re confident that Brice’s fans will forgive him. Please tell your readers that Brice will begin his therapy sessions with Dr. Zucker next week. After Brice has gotten the help he needs, he’ll be taking some time off to get back to his country roots and work on a new album of songs. Right, Brice?”
“Uh, yep. Yep!” Brice forced another smile. “Been writing up a storm. Hard times can bring that out in an artist, y’know.” Brice stood. “So, look, that’s all I really have to say. I hope you have enough, ma’am. This has been awfully painful, as you might imagine, and so I’m going to go home now and pray. I hope you understand.” Pray and drink, drink and pray. I pity that bourbon bottle tonight.
“Well, certainly.” Ms. Reed rose. She clicked off the recorder and slipped it into her purse. “So where will you be going during this return to your roots?”
Reporters swarming around the Hinton house? I’m sure the locals would love that. I just hope I’m not tarred and feathered while I’m there. “Uhhh, not sure. Probably….”
Steve cut in. “We’d prefer not to say. After all he’s been through, Brice needs his privacy.”
“Certainly. One last thing. Any comments on that front-page photograph? The one Mr. Lanier says he took during one of your rendezvous? You must admit it looked a little incriminating, a little salacious. You bare-chested in bed, apparently naked, with that cowboy hat on.”
“Hell, that was just me being silly. Some horseplay in a hotel room after a concert and some beers. I guess a camera brings out the fool in me.”
“All right. Thanks, both of you. I’ll see myself out.” She moved toward the door, then paused.
“Mr. Brown, I honestly hope things improve for you. I’ve seen some pretty nasty headlines in the gossip rags since the Banner ran that interview with Mr. Lanier. “Homo Hot Tub,” “Fairy Fornicator,” and so on. Some of my compatriots are, well, ruthless and vulgar. Good luck, and happy holidays.” With that, she left.
“Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck,” Brice gasped, slumping back into the chair.
“What? Relax. It went tolerably well, I think.”
“Thanks for pitching in. But, goddamn it, it’s one lie after another. Feels like I’m sinking deeper into quicksand every time I open my mouth.”
“Not that many lies,” Steve said, patting Brice’s shoulder. “You are going to see that Exodus therapist next week, aren’t you?”
“Yeah. At least I have an appointment. Whether or not I have the guts to actually go, I don’t know.”
“Keep the appointment, for God’s sake,” Steve said, taking his seat behind the desk. “The folks I spoke to at Exodus seem very eager to work with someone as famous as you. We can stage a photo shoot, get some pics of you waving and smiling as you enter their facility. That might improve your public image and make you more sympathetic to your fans.”
Brice heaved a hoarse groan. “Look, Steve, we both gotta face it. I want men, and I just don’t think a Christian therapist is gonna change that. I may not give a damn about the gay community that Mizz Reed spoke about, a bunch of queens marching around and making a fuss, but I—”
“Have you ever fallen in love with a man?” Steve asked.
“It sure felt like I was in love with a buddy back in high school. Wayne Meador. He was only seventeen, but he could have been a porn star. And I was seriously infatuated with a few of my fraternity brothers at WVU. Even messed around with a couple.”
Steve frowned and rolled his eyes. “You were a boy then. We all feel crazy things in our youth. What about Zac? Did you love him?”
“I could have, but I didn’t let myself, I guess ‘cause I knew it’d never work in my line of business. He was in love with me, though. He fell for me hard, and one of the reasons he’s being so nasty is ‘cause I spurned him and broke his heart. I cared a lot for him as a buddy, and…he was great in bed. But I wasn’t in love with him.” Even as he said it, Brice wondered if he were speaking the truth. If you don’t know the truth, how the hell can you tell it?
“So you’re saying that you’ve never been in love with a man. See?” Steve said with triumph. “You’re not gay, Brice. You’re not like any gay man I’ve ever met, and I met quite a few during my time in New York. You’re just a horny redneck.”
“You’re saying I’d fuck a snake if I could hold its head still?” Brice gave Steve a sour grin. “‘Gay’ isn’t a word I’ve ever related to…but I tell you, I want men, not women. I’ve never fallen in love with a woman either.”
“What about Shelly?”
“I thought I loved her, but I was just fooling myself, trying to talk myself into normality since the alternative was so damn hard. I’ve been looking at men since I was a kid. Some of them I can hardly keep my eyes off of. I look at them, and everything in me downright aches to get them naked and touch them. I don’t want to want them, and I know you don’t want to believe I want them, but the truth’s the truth.”
“That kind of truth is a gallows, my friend, a gallows you might hang yourself on. Wanting men is the very thing you need to keep lying about. Otherwise, as I said before, you’ll lose everything.”
“I think I already have.” Brice rose, pulled on his coat, and grabbed his cap. “I think it’s too late. Maybe Kristofferson was right. Maybe ‘freedom’s just another word for nothing left to lose.’”
“Maybe. That’s a terribly bitter form of freedom, though.” Steve opened the door, and Brice prepared himself to ignore Carolyn’s accusatory glare. “Call me once you’ve had your talk with Dr. Zucker. Maybe he and his Exodus cronies can pull your fat out of the fire.”
“Maybe,” said Brice, suppressing a shudder. Steve’s wording made him think of Jews in a concentration camp or witches burnt at the stake.
DR. ZUCKER COULDN’T HAVE BEEN MORE THAN thirty years in age and one hundred and forty pounds in weight. He was dressed very professionally in a dark gray suit and tie—the sort of get-up guys wear to funerals, Brice thought—but his mannerisms reminded Brice of the fey boys he used to encounter in seedy gay bars he’d frequented in college.
“Quite the media circus outside,” Dr. Zucker said, smoothing back his styled hair.
“You’re telling me,” Brice said, doffing his baseball cap and scratching his beard, which had grown gray-dusted and bushy over the last few weeks of his disgrace. “Sorry about that. I’d just as soon have kept things quiet, but my manager thought it would be good for my public image.”
Dr. Zucker flashed Brice a very white smile. “No need for apologies. To be honest, it’s good for our organization’s image too. I’m a big fan of your music, Mr. Brown, and I’m really looking forward to working with someone so exceptional.”
“Exceptional? Shit. I mean—sorry, I got a potty mouth—shoot. I’m just a country boy from West Virginia who got lucky. Though I guess my luck’s run out, huh?”
“I think the Lord’s hand was in what you’ve endured lately. Sometimes He brings us down and breaks us apart so we’ll come to Him in our distress. Do you believe that, Mr. Brown?”
“Call me Brice, man. Yeah, maybe. I was brought up to believe that He works in mysterious ways.”
“How were you brought up, Brice?” Dr. Zucker pulled out a notebook and opened it. “In terms of religious faith.”
“Well, nothing strict. My hometown is southern Baptist pretty much through and through, but Daddy was sort of a Unitarian and Mommy was a Methodist. She used to sing in the choir. We all believed in God, and my Nanny read the Bible to me a lot when I was a kid, and we went to the Methodist church in Hinton sometimes, usually on holidays like Christmas and Easter, but most Sundays we were working in Daddy’s garden instead of going to church. He always
said that he felt closer to God in a garden or in the woods than in a church, and I’m liable to agree with him.”
“Were you baptized?”
“No, sir.” Manners dictated that Brice use “sir,” but it felt absurd. This boy’s a prissy pup, Brice thought. Ain’t any way he can help me, but might as well give it a try, if just to please Steve. God knows Steve’s got a good bit to lose too, if I go down the shit-chute of ruination.
“Let me confirm something. Did you have a sexual affair with Zac Lanier as he’s claimed?”
“Yep. Everybody knows that now. Didn’t you see my interview with that Reed lady in the paper?”
“I did indeed. Do you believe that what you did with Zac Lanier was a sin?”
“A sin? I honestly don’t know. I guess you do.”
Dr. Zucker gave Brice another gleaming smile. “Yes, I do. Yes, I do. Have you been with other men, Brice? Sexually?”
Brice squirmed in his seat. “This is all confidential, right?”
“Of course. I’m a professional therapist. I’m bound by the rules of my profession. Doctor/patient confidentiality is uppermost among those rules.”
“Okay. Good. Yeah, I’ve been with guys other than Zac.”
“How many?”
“Uh. Lost count.”
“I see.” Dr. Zucker retrieved a pencil from his desk drawer and scrawled in his notebook. “When did you first indulge in these desires?”
“Eighteen. Went to college. Ran across some guys willing to experiment.”
“Have you slept with many women?”
“Other than my wife? Uhhhh, naw.”
“I see.” Dr. Zucker made another note. “Do you think this therapy can change you?”
Brice shrugged. “Don’t know. My manager seems to think so. He seems to think that my whole career is hanging on this. So, before we get started, if you don’t mind me asking a few questions….”
