by Jeff Mann
Brice rose, knees twinging, and limped over to his truck. He sat back in the seat, rubbing the ache in his temples, and watched sunlight recede and shadows lengthen over the rows and rows of Rebel graves. When the setting sun slipped behind a bank of purple-gray clouds, he turned on the radio.
Country music started up. “Lucky bastards,” he muttered, as a Tim McGraw song faded out and a Toby Keith song started up. “Handsome, hot, hetero bastards.” He gobbled one of three Hardee’s sausage biscuits he’d packed for the trip, then wiped crumbs from his beard, gulped coffee from his travel mug, and pulled out, ready for the long drive through the dark to his hometown in southern West Virginia.
DAWN WAS BREAKING AS BRICE DROVE ALONG A high road carved into the shaly mountainside, far above the waters of the Bluestone Reservoir. Despite the several breaks he’d taken at rest stops to piss, snack, grab brief naps, or admire burly truckers, he was blurry-eyed and exhausted after so many hours of driving.
Just can’t do road trips like I used to, he thought, massaging his brow. One thing hasn’t changed, though: these mountains are still the prettiest on earth. I’ve always loved the way they loom up against the sky, as if they were castle walls protecting their people. Why’d I ever leave? Oh, yeah, ambition. Wanted as many fans as I could get. Well, that’s all come to shit, hasn’t it? My life’s a wreck, but these West-by-God-Virginia hills, they’re just as solid and scenic as ever. At least some things stay the same.
The reservoir in December was as he remembered it: broad and wintergreen, high with recent rains, lined with the lacy glint of ice. After a few miles’ drive, Brice passed the Bluestone Dam and descended the hill. Two rivers converged at the bottom, the New and the Greenbrier. The road he took bridged the former, then the latter, then followed the railroad tracks into town. He passed gas stations, McDonald’s, Kroger, and Magic Mart, then entered the suburb of Avis, a disparate array of little houses, some well kept, some dilapidated and dirty, a few in complete ruins. In Brice’s youth, the town’s economy was still healthy, but now the signs of poverty were everywhere.
Jobs on the railroad and in the state parks. That’s about it, Brice thought, driving up the new bridge into Hinton proper. He turned left at the War Memorial—recalling the touch football he’d enjoyed in the lawn there, the bare chests of his Phys Ed classmates, and one amazing day when a slew of migrating Monarch butterflies had filled the air—and took a brief detour along the main street, Temple, counting the number of storefronts that had closed since he’d grown up.
Cato’s was there, and there a men’s clothing shop. And Murphy’s, where I used to buy comic books and candy. And that big lot where the fire happened, I used to hang out at Bowling’s with that hot-as-holy-hell Wayne Meador, drink coffee, and read the sports pages. Looks like this town and I are sharing hard times.
Brice turned up the bumpy cobblestones of Third, then turned right, the Methodist Church on one corner, the Presbyterian Church on the other. How many churches are in this town? I doubt these small-town Christians are going to be particularly excited to see that I’ve come home. Bet they’re having second thoughts about naming that bridge after me.
Brice bumped down Ballengee Street, past the florist, past the post office, the crumbling bulk of the McCreery Hotel, and the red-brick towers of the monumental Summers County Courthouse. Before the street veered left, he pulled into a parking space and turned off the engine. The little park before him—three houses lining it to the left, four to the right—spread down a gentle slope and ended at a line of boxwood hedges. Beyond that, he knew, a sheer cliff dropped off. At its base ran the railroad, and, beyond that, a line of sycamores and willows edging the river. At least once during Brice’s youth, a drunk from one of the Third Avenue bars had staggered into the park at night, probably to piss, and had unwisely pushed through the hedge and fallen over the cliff to his demise.
“Home,” Brice sighed, watching the mountaintops across the river catch the first rays of sunrise. He cocked his baseball cap over his eyes, pulled up his hood, slipped on his sunglasses, and climbed out. To his relief, no one was on the streets at such an early hour. Free of observers, he looked around, remembering.
There, just down the street, was the Confederate monument Brice had always been awed by, a bearded, rifle-toting soldier atop a column. To its left was the Memorial Building, where Brice and his family used to attend suppers to raise money for the local Democratic Party. To the right was the firehouse, where he used to admire the firefighters in their tight, sweaty T-shirts as they washed their great red trucks. Beyond was the Central Baptist church, into which his grandmother once dragged him for a shape-note singing session.
And here, Brice thought, breaking into a faint grin, in this very spot where I’ve parked, Robbie O’Neill gave me a blow-job in my truck one night that summer I came home from college and worked Recreation at Pipestem State Park and he and I got to flirting in the Bluestone Dining Room where he was working as a waiter. All that curly hair, and that tight mouth and talented tongue…and some cops shooting the shit just a few yards down the street, where the jail used to be. The good ole days, when I didn’t have so damn much to lose.
Brice pulled out his duffel bag and guitar case, locked the truck, and headed down the walk. The first of the three houses on the left, a turreted Victorian, housed his sister’s law office, but the hour was far too early for it to be open. The third house, set nearest the cliff, was most likely empty at present, the retired couple who owned it having decamped to Florida, as they did every winter. The middle house, nearly a century old, as were all the houses edging the park, was painted a pale yellow with green awnings. In that house Brice had grown up. Now it was his, mortgage-free, something he might cling to if the revelations about his sexuality were to ruin his finances entirely.
He climbed the steps to the porch, back aching after the long drive, pulled out the key, fumbled open the door, and pushed inside. The house was as he’d left it nearly a year ago, when he’d visited his sister and nephew for the Christmas holidays. High ceilings, oak pocket doors. A front foyer. Stairs to the left. Kitchen straight ahead. To the right, front and back parlors, the former with a fireplace and an upright piano.
Groaning with relief, Brice locked the door behind him. He shambled slowly up the stairs and into the largest of the front bedrooms, which had once been his parents’. Painted a light gray with darker gray trim, it overlooked the park, with a view of the river far below and, farther off, the bridge that the town had named after Brice when he’d first achieved fame in Nashville. Outside the two front windows, someone—no doubt his sister Leigh—had hung green plastic Christmas wreaths in an attempt to bring a touch of holiday cheer to the house.
Brice dropped his duffel bag on the floor, stripped down to his socks and briefs, hit the bathroom, then drew the bedroom curtains, climbed into the big bed heaped with quilts his great-aunts had made, grunted happily at the feeling of clean flannel sheets, and almost immediately fell asleep.
BRICE WOKE THREE HOURS LATER to the sound of the doorbell. “Shit,” he rasped, rolling out of bed. He dumped the contents of his duffel bag onto the dresser, tugged on a pair of gray fleece sweatpants, a white thermal undershirt, and a pair of moccasins, then thumped over the hardwood floors and down the stairs. Through the glass of the front door, he could see his sister, Leigh, waiting on the porch. She was bundled in a long gray coat and held a casserole dish. Beyond her, a light snow had begun to fall.
Brice flipped the lock and threw open the door. “Hey,” he said. “Come on in!”
“The prodigal son,” she sighed, heading straight to the kitchen. Leigh was five years younger than Brice, a very pretty woman with blue eyes, ash-blonde hair, a Rubenesque build, and a no-nonsense attitude. “Let me just put this down.”
Brice followed her, sniffing. The aroma of food reminded him of how little he’d had to eat in the last twenty-four hours: those to-go sausage biscuits he’d gotten at Hardee’s before he left Frankli
n, and, along the way, a burrito at a truck stop near Knoxville. “What’s that?” he said, belly growling.
“Swedish meatballs,” Leigh said. “I made them as soon as I got your message. Give me a hug.”
“You bet.”
The siblings hugged hard. They’d always been close, but Brice couldn’t remember ever before being quite so pleased to see his little sister. “God, it’s good to be back. The things I’ve been through since Thanksgiving….”
“I can imagine. I’ve seen several of the stories. It even made it to the local news out of Princeton. What a mess.” Leigh shrugged off her coat, revealing one of the stylish Coldwater Creek outfits she wore in professional settings. “Mercy, it’s chilly in here. I have a little while before I have to be in court. Let’s have some coffee. Last night, I stocked up your kitchen with some basics. Coffee, sugar, flour, cornmeal, cereal, milk, Crisco, potatoes, cabbage. Some noodles to go with these meatballs. Some canned greens. Some pinto beans. Some chow-chow and bread-and-butter pickles and hot peppers I put up last summer. Buttermilk’s in the fridge if you’re feeling like biscuits. Jimmy Dean’s in the freezer if you’re feeling like sausage gravy. There’s also some fried pies in there that my secretary Hope made. I know how much you love those.”
“That all sounds great. You know me better’n anybody,” Brice said, moving into the back parlor to turn up the heat. Despite his bleak career circumstances, happiness welled up in his chest. His little sister had always known how to improve his dark moods, mainly via simpatico commiseration and down-home victuals. “God knows I’m standing in need of some comfort food.”
“I’ll bet you are. I know all your favorites. Meatballs. Spaghetti. Meatloaf. Beef stew. Any kind of pie. Take a seat, Brice. I’ll brew up the coffee,” Leigh said, fetching filters from a cabinet. “Speaking of comfort food, you’re heftier than you usually are, aren’t you? And, mercy, your beard is so big. Getting salt-and-pepper too.”
Brice sat by the kitchen table. “Since my music career’s down the tubes, I don’t have to go on another damn diet to look sexy for the next CD cover. Don’t look like there’s gonna be any more CDs. And I’m letting the beard grow out and go gray ‘cause, well, it’s kind of a disguise. So folks won’t recognize me, so folks’ll leave me the fuck alone. All kinds of asshole reporters were harassing me in Nashville.”
“Did you kick any butts?”
“Anger management issues, me? Like I said, you know me better’n anyone. I was tempted. But no.”
“Well, I’m glad you’re home, ‘cause that’s where you ought to be in times of trouble, but….” Leigh paused to measure out the scoops of coffee. “You should know that the town…well, some folks here….”
“Ohhhhh, shit. I know what you’re gonna say, and I ain’t surprised. Everybody around here is backwoods devout. I know that already.”
“You know it. But you’ve never lived in this town when…. Things are different now, Brice. When you lived here before, I was the only person who knew you were gay.”
“Gay. Well. I don’t know that I think of myself as—”
“Oh, please. Don’t split hairs. You want men. You sleep with men.”
“Yeah, okay. Sorry. Go on. A queer by any other name….”
Leigh poured water into the coffee machine and flipped it on. “Now everyone knows you’re gay, Brice. It’s not going to be easy living in this town. And I hate to tell you this, but the bridge…the one they named after you, they….”
“Oh, hell. Let me guess. Ain’t the Brice Brown Bridge anymore, huh?”
“No. The town council, the week after that nasty Zac person spilled the beans about your all’s affair, they voted to change the name to the Suzanne Matthews Bridge, after that little girl who’s working up in Congress. They didn’t get a chance to remove the sign, though, because some bastard had already torn it down the day after the local news carried that story about you.”
“Shit.”
“Well, I haven’t told you the worst news.” Leigh brushed hair out of her eyes, then fiddled with the diamond ring on her finger. “My husband, bless his heart, is being difficult. You and Jerry, I know y’all have always gotten along pretty well, but….”
Brice groaned. “Oh, no. I’ve been so wrapped up in the bullshit I’ve been going through that I didn’t even think….”
“Yes. You know how much his faith means to him. Now that he knows the truth, he’s been ranting and raving about having ‘a faggot in the family,’ as he puts it.” Leigh made a face. “He and I have had several knock-down-drag-outs about you. He doesn’t want Carden to see you now that everybody knows you’re gay.”
“Fuck him! Why not? Is he afraid I’ll seduce my own nephew?”
“He hasn’t come right out and said that. You know he’s just downright narrow-minded and ignorant about some things.”
“And he has the ambition of an ant. Hell, ants work more than he does. A lot more. The man can’t seem to keep a job. You should have divorced him years ago.”
“Don’t start, Brice. I’ve told Jerry that he’s just prejudiced and that you’re the same man you’ve always been, but he won’t listen. And his entire family feels the same.”
“Well, Christ, of course they do. They’re all Southern Baptists.”
“Yes. Jerry’s mommy, Mizz Mabel, well, the next time she says something snide about you, I just might cram one of those delicious dinner rolls she makes from scratch right down her throat.”
“I’d like to see that. What does Carden think?”
Leigh smiled. “Carden’s a lot like Daddy was. Doesn’t much care what other folks think. He’s actually cussed out a few kids at school who made fun of you in his hearing. And when Jerry starts on about you, Carden just rolls his eyes and leaves the room.”
“Good for him. Wish I were more like that, not giving a shit. You know how I get. I sink down into one of those dark moods, and every little thing can knock me off balance. So do I get to see Carden or not?”
“I’ll sneak him down here some day, I promise. And, by the way, I’ve asked everyone here around the park not to let on that you’re back, so that reporters don’t get wind of the fact that you’re here. Some of the neighbors, especially the Wises, are a little dubious about you now, but they’re all beholden to me in one way or another, or they just don’t want to get on my bad side.”
“That is inadvisable.” Brice sniggered. “No one wants to piss off a lawyer, and we both inherited Mommy’s streak of vindictiveness. But, hell, I can’t stay hidden in this house all the time. I’ll need to get groceries and liquor, at the very least.”
“True. Fortunately, you’re not one of those fashionably delicate big-city homosexuals I hear tell of. You look like you can take care of yourself. Actually, with that extra weight on, you look a little like a wrestler. How much do you weigh now?”
“230.” Brice patted his belly, then stuck out his chest and flexed an arm. “It ain’t all fat. Lot of it’s muscle. I’m lifting heavier weights than I ever have, despite my back problems. Feel this here. Go on now. Give it a feel. Not bad for forty, huh?”
Leigh chuckled. She reached across the table and gave his bunched biceps a hesitant squeeze.
“Lord. Okay. That sets my mind to rest a little. You still know how to box?”
“Yep. Ever since that Phys Ed class at WVU all those years ago. And I intend to keep myself up, just in case I need to protect myself. That weight set still in the basement?”
“Yes. It’s a little rusty, but it’s still there.” The coffeepot beeped; Leigh rose to pour them both cups. “Plus Daddy’s guns are in the linen closet upstairs. So be honest. How are you doing?”
Brice cupped his brow in his hand and took a long breath. “Well, again, you know me. I’m a fucking wreck, Leigh. I’ve always fallen into black moods whenever I got a career setback or disappointment—all self-doubt and envy and resentment, y’know? If I didn’t win an award, if a CD didn’t sell the way I’d hoped. But this, thi
s shit puts all those times to shame. This is about the worst thing’s ever happened to me. Can’t sleep. Angry as hell. Scared. Brooding. Drinking a lot. Wondering what I’m meant to learn from this. Wondering what’s the point. Wondering what the hell do I do now?”
“You sound like Daddy. You sure get your depressions from him.”
“Yep. Glad you didn’t. It’s hell.”
“Well, don’t do anything drastic, for God’s sake. I’ll take care of you as best I can. How long are you going to be here?”
Brice added sugar to his cup. “Don’t know. Nothing for me back in Nashville but a bunch of reporters ready to swarm me like a pack of piranhas. Shelly’s divorcing me and taking most of the property, which is fine by me, actually. She needs to get on with her life. She’s wasted enough years on me. As you know, my label’s dropped me. My manager was pushing me to get into one of those goddamn ex-gay programs, but I just couldn’t bear to do it, so he’s liable to drop me too, since he figured that was the one way I could possibly salvage my career.”
“I’m so sorry, Brice.” Leigh shook her head and sipped her coffee. “I know how much you fought to make it as far as you have. All those roadhouses you played in around here. The shitty little gigs in Beckley. The state fair. All those years living hand to mouth in Nashville, trying to break into the big time.”
“And then I did. And now I’m here. Where I started. Except I’m not young. I’m not hopeful. And I feel like I’ve been kicked in the head, the belly, and the crotch.”
Brice sat back, staring out the kitchen window. Wind had picked up; the snowflakes fell in crazy angles. “Financially, I’m fucked. Not much income is gonna be coming in, since I suspect most of my fans are now self-righteous ex-fans who’ll stop buying my CDs, and there won’t be any new CDs, and there won’t be any tours or performances, except maybe at Hinton’s latest in a long series of swank gay bars.”
