Country

by Jeff Mann

  Lucas pulled the chair closer to the bed, sat in it, and took Brice’s hand.

  “Maybe you should just rest now. We can talk later.”

  “Naw. Naw. I need to know what happened. Why can’t I remember?”

  “’Cause you got cracked in the head, man.”

  “Cracked in…? Lucas, tell me. Please. Tell me!”

  “Okay, okay. Don’t get all riled up. Here we go. Matt’s a state park employee who lives here in Charleston.”

  “Charleston? We’re in Charleston?”

  “Yeah. They brought us both here after the attack. So Matt’s driving up from Charleston to get him some of that ramp supper, and he rounds the corner just about the time that bald bastard clobbers you with that fucking baseball bat. Do you remember that?”

  Brice lay back. “I do, just barely. Like it was a bad dream. Could I have some water? My mouth’s parched.”

  “Ah. Sure.” Hurriedly, Lucas poured a plastic cup full from a pitcher nearby.

  Brice took the cup with shaking hands and gulped the water down. “Ah. Ah. Better. Okay, go on.”

  “So the bald bastard hits you upside the head with that bat and down you go. I’m thinking you’re dead, and I’m thinking I’m next, ‘cause that big goateed guy has wrenched my right arm so hard he’s dislocated my shoulder, and he has his arm around my neck and is doing his level best to choke the life out of me. But then I make a fist with my left hand, and I bring it up and swing it back, and I catch him right in the balls, and he yowls like a cougar and drops me fast.”

  “Holy hell. Thank God you got away.”

  “Thank God indeed. Right about then—speaking of divine intervention and heaven-sent timing—that’s when Matt drives up, and he takes it all in real fast, and he pulls a crowbar outta his truck, and in a flash he’s on top of the bald bastard, who’s fixing to bash your skull open, and Matt brings that crowbar down on the guy’s arm, and the fat turd drops the bat, and then Matt clocks him in the jaw with the crowbar, and the fat turd goes down, and then Matt, he leaps—Man, you shoulda seen it! It was like some kinda slow-motion Olympic event!—he leaps over the bald bastard’s body and starts swinging the crowbar at the goateed guy. Well, Matt catches him hard in the chest, and the guy flies through the air and hits the hillside, and then Matt’s helping me up, and the goateed sonofabitch scrambles up and hops into his truck, and he’s outta there like a bat outta hell, leaving his bloodied buddies behind.”

  “Damn. I guess we owe this Matt guy our lives.”

  “We do indeed.” Lucas bent to kiss the knuckles of Brice’s hand. “He’s real cool. He’s come by a lot to keep me company while I’ve hung out here by your bed.”

  “So then what?”

  “So then, well, Matt hands me his crowbar, and the baseball bat for good measure, and he spins off in his truck to fetch help, and I guard the three pricks—the redhead you put out, the blond I stabbed in the neck, and the bald guy that Matt knocked the shit out of—and I watch the blood pour outta your arm and ooze outta your nose, and I check your pulse and pray you ain’t gonna die. Pretty soon, Matt’s back with folks, and then the emergency people show up, and the cops, and we’re both on our way here.”

  “So why was I out for so long?”

  “That bald pig gave your skull a hairline fracture and bruised your brain. The doctors considered operating but decided against it, said you’d likely come to on your own, once the swelling went down. They did have to stitch up your arm. That knife wound was real deep. But why should I tell you all this when you can read about it? We’re in the news again.”

  Grim-faced, Lucas tapped a magazine lying on the bedside table. “Country Weekly did a whole cover story on it. It was written by that Johnson guy, the one who came to Phagg Heights, the one you sorta liked? It was real sympathetic, focusing on the gay-bashing aspect and pointing out how dangerous homophobia can be. The Star did a story too, of course, and the Charleston Gazette, and all sorts of other newspapers. A few journalist types, including Mr. Johnson, have been lurking around, waiting for you to wake up.”

  “So your parole? You didn’t have to…?”

  “Go back to prison and resume my career as a butt-bitch for a series of big bruisers? Naw. Only guy whose butt-bitch I’m ever gonna be is Brice Brown’s. There was a parole hearing, but your sister Leigh came up to help with all that, since she’s a lawyer, and Matt testified that the bastards had attacked us. Plus my dislocated arm and bruised-up face, your injuries, and the fact that all kinds of homophobic bullshit had been published about us, all that convinced the judge that it was a clear case of gay-bashing and self-defense.”

  “And the guys who did it?”

  “Well, the three of ‘em we took out all ended up in the Elkins hospital. The guy I key-stabbed is still there. The cops tracked down the one who got away. They’re all facing big charges and are liable to get prison time. We’ll have to testify, of course.”

  Brice set his lips. “Be glad to. The fuckers. They could have killed us.”

  “They’ll get theirs, your sister says. Especially with Matt’s testimony. The priceless thing is that Matt’s gay too.”

  “Really?”

  “Oh, yeah. And a part-time musician. He’s crazy about your music. When he figured out whose asses he’d saved, he about pissed himself with pride and joy. So those guys all got their butts kicked by a trio of ferocious faggots. Hah! That’ll teach ‘em to mess with country queers. Hey, look here.”

  Lucas handed Brice a paper. Brice squinted at it.

  “Vision’s a little off. What is it?”

  “Good news. While I was waiting here for you to wake up—Grace and Amie and Uncle Phil and your sister have all been by to give me breaks—I finished studying and I took the GED. I passed! With really high scores. Now I gotta get ready for the ACT. After that, I’m gonna apply to the forestry program at WVU like I planned.”

  “That’s wonderful, Lucas. I knew you’d—”

  A short, stocky white woman entered the room, followed by a tall black woman with high cheekbones. “Mr. Brown, you’re up. Welcome back to the world,” said the black woman.

  “This is Dr. Boone,” Lucas said, indicating the taller woman. “That there’s Nurse Bugg. They’ve been real, real nice to me.”

  “And Mr. Bryan here has been equally pleasant,” said the doctor. “If you’ll leave us for a bit, Mr. Bryan, we need to do some tests on Mr. Brown here.”

  “I figured.” Lucas lifted Brice’s hand and kissed it. “I’m gonna go call your sister and Uncle Phil and let ‘em know you’re outta that coma. Be right back.”

  Dr. Boone looked after him fondly. “He’s been here every day, Mr. Brown. That boy’s the soul of devotion. So let’s see how you’re shaping up. With any luck, we can send you home soon.”

  “BRICE IS REAL TIRED, AND HIS HEAD HURTS, SO let’s keep this short, okay?”

  “Whatever you say, Mr. Bryan. I know you’ve both been through a lot. I’m just grateful that you’ve agreed to speak to me. Country Weekly readers really want to know your side of the story.”

  Larry Johnson settled into the chair by Brice’s hospital bed, then pulled out a notebook and a tiny tape recorder he clicked on. “So how shall we begin?”

  Brice took a sip of orange juice. “How about this? I’m gay. I denied it for years, denied it to the world and denied it to myself. No more lies. I’m gay.”

  “And why did you deny it?”

  Brice rolled his eyes. “Why do you think? So I could keep making music, keep making a living at making music. So I wouldn’t lose my career.”

  “Or his life,” Lucas added. “As you know, we both nearly died a few weeks back. Brice came to only five days ago.”

  “Yes. So Zac Lanier was telling the truth? About your affair?”

  “For the most part. I hurt him, and I’m sorry about that. I was too much of a coward then, an emotional coward, to let myself care for him the way he needed to be cared for.”

  “
And now you two, you and Mr. Bryan, are indeed a couple?”

  “Yes.” Brice took Lucas’s small hand. “We are indeed. I never really let myself love before. Never had the guts. I was afraid of the consequences. But then I met Lucas, and I guess he gave me the courage to be true to myself at last.”

  “And you two plan to share a future together?”

  “Yep.” Lucas nodded. “We’re not sure what’s next, but we’ll do it together. Brice is getting outta here tomorrow, and we’re heading back up to Randolph County. Some friends got a welcome-home party planned.”

  “Brice, you wanted to keep this brief, so we will. I have just one more question. What would you like to say to your fans, to the country music community?”

  “I’d like…I’d like to say....” Brice took a deep breath. “I never chose to be who I am. Who does? I didn’t choose to be gay. I didn’t choose to love men. I didn’t choose to be a country boy, a Southerner, or a mountain man either. ‘Southern by the grace of God,’ y’know? Some would say God made me all those things. Some would say that my upbringing, and my genes, I guess, gave me those identities. Who knows? I just know that I didn’t choose any of ‘em, but I’ve finally learned to accept ‘em, the complex, the…contradictory passel of selves I am, and to be truthful about that. So now, other folks—Nashville, country-music fans, whoever—are just gonna have to learn to take me as I am.”

  Brice paused to sip his juice. “I also want to say to the country-music world…please stop hating gay folks, and please stop using your religion as a free pass to being nasty. If you saw me a few days ago—sprawled out here in a coma—you would have seen the consequences of hating. Lucas and I both could’ve died that day. Those guys didn’t even know us, but they hated us so much they did their damned best to kill us.”

  Brice closed his eyes and settled back against the pillows. “So I say, folks, if you don’t like who I am, just leave me alone and fuck off. Leave me be. If you’ve got love in your heart for anyone, then be happy that Lucas and I have found love too, that some men can find love with men and some women can find love with women. I don’t know what the future holds, but I do know this: I’m gonna love Lucas and I’m gonna be honest, and I’m gonna keep making honest music, authentic music, no matter what.”

  “That’s long enough,” Lucas said.

  Larry flipped off the recorder. “Great. Thank you. I’ll send the transcript along for you and your lawyer to vet.”

  He rose and shook first Brice’s hand, then Lucas’s. “My photographer is a little late, but she should be here any minute. You don’t mind a few photos? I think it would do Nashville good to see the two of you together.”

  “I think you’re right. We’ll hold hands. That’ll certainly give ‘em something to talk about,” Lucas said, brushing his palm over Brice’s shaven scalp. “Just give big Brice here a few minutes to straighten up that mussy, fly-away hair of his.”

  “Cut it out.” Brice swatted wearily at Lucas’s hand.

  “I’m just messing with you, Daddy. He looks pretty tough and manly all bald, don’t he, Mr. Johnson? The perfect studly image for the cover of Country Weekly.”

  “YOU’RE BACK! YOU LOOK WONDERFUL!” Amie enthused, throwing her arms around Brice. Next in the hugging line was Grace, then Philip, then Doris Ann, then Eleanor from the Hutte Restaurant, and finally Matt Taylor, who’d reserved a room at Helvetia’s Beekeeper Inn and driven up from Charleston to attend the celebratory event.

  The dining area of Radclyffe’s Roost sported “Welcome Home” banners, vases of flowers, piles of cards from well-wishers, and platters of finger food Amie had prepared. In the background, Brice’s CDs played softly on the stereo. Brice, feeling detached, dizzy and weak, sat back in a cushioned armchair, listened to the happy chatter, and savored the refreshments Lucas brought him: cups of Amie’s rum punch, as well as plates crowded with sausage balls, steamed shrimp, cheese straws, and ham biscuits.

  Within an hour, Brice nudged Lucas’s knee. “I’m sorry,” he muttered, “but I’m dead tired. Can we head home? I just wanna lie down and close my eyes. I still can’t see well, and I’m wobbly as hell.”

  Lucas nodded. The two said their goodbyes and received another round of hugs before Lucas bagged up the as-yet-unread letters and cards, helped Brice out to the pickup, and drove them up the hill to Phagg Heights.

  In the cabin bedroom, Lucas undressed them both, led shaky-kneed Brice into the shower, and bathed him. After drying them off and doling out Brice’s pain medications, Lucas helped him into bed. There, he stroked Brice’s scalp and massaged his face.

  “Thanks, man. That helps the headache,” Brice sighed. “But my vision’s still blurred, and my hands keep trembling.”

  “The doctors said there’d be lingering symptoms, buddy.”

  “What if they’re permanent? What if I can’t play guitar? What if—”

  “Stop it with the what-ifs. I’ll take care of you, no matter what. You’re gonna be fine, that’s what Dr. Boone predicted. It’s just gonna take some time.”

  “Yeah. Sorry. Patience has never been my strong suit.”

  “You’ve sure been patient with me. Time for me to return the favor. How about tomorrow I make us some mimosas, scrambled eggs, and sausage? We can have breakfast out on the porch with Uncle Phil, and I can read you some of those cards you got. You got so many.”

  “That’d be nice,” Brice whispered. “God, I feel so washed-out, so weak. All my life I’ve tried so hard to be strong, but now….”

  “Brice, honey….”

  “I couldn’t protect you from them.” Brice shifted over onto his belly, buried his face in a pillow, and started to shake. “I wasn’t strong enough or fast enough. I—” His voice broke.

  “Brice, stop it. No one’s a superman. That’s in the comics and movies, big guy. This is real life, whether we like it or not.” Lucas wrapped an arm around him. “Roll over here. Kiss me, okay? Just kiss me, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  The two men shared a series of gentle kisses. With his thumb, Lucas wiped the tears from Brice’s cheeks.

  “Hey, your sister wants us to come down to Hinton and visit once you’re feeling better,” Lucas said, resting his cheek against Brice’s furry pec. “You can show me where you grew up.”

  “That’d be good. I want you to meet my nephew. I’m so glad to be here, Lucas. I’m so glad to be home. I’m so glad….” Brice murmured, his speech trailing off into deep sleep.

  “WAKE UP, BIG BALD BEAR.”

  Brice opened his eyes to find Lucas sitting naked on the bed and holding two mugs. Behind Lucas, gauzy curtains wafted in the May morning wind.

  “I got fancy. I used Uncle Phil’s recipe for café au lait.”

  “Thanks.” Sitting up with difficulty, Brice took the cup. The tremors in his hands were less noticeable this morning, though the pain in his head lingered still.

  “How you feeling?” Lucas stood, resting a hand on Brice’s shoulder.

  “A little better. Nightmares, though.”

  “Yeah, I heard ‘em. I’ve had some of those too. PTSD. Bound to happen. You hungry? Up for that porch breakfast with Uncle Phil?”

  Brice looked up at Lucas and nodded. The boy’s sweet face and beautiful body made him want to break down and sob. Instead, he muttered, “Yeah. Yeah, I am. God, I’m so grateful you’re all right.”

  “DARLING! I LOVE WHAT YOU’VE done with your hair,” Phil said, joining them on the porch.

  “You had to say it, didn’t you?” Lucas screwed up his mouth.

  “It’s the baseball bat special,” Brice said, handing Phil a mimosa. “It costs quite a bit. Thank God for health insurance.”

  “I think it’s real sexy, now that the big bruise is gone.” Lucas doled them out plates from a tray. “Y’ought to keep shaving your head for a while to see if you like it. Dig in, guys, before it gets cold.”

  The three ate happily and heartily. A soft rainstorm drifted over the valley and drip
ped from the leaves. Phil went off to his office to pay bills, leaving Brice and Lucas to themselves. Lucas prepared another round of mimosas and began the process of sorting through the cards Brice had received at the Charleston hospital. Brice rocked in the rocking chair, fingering the red scar on his forearm, and looked out over the countryside, feeling profoundly thankful that he was still around to see the mountains gleaming with rain and spring’s gold-green.

  “Here’s one from Tim McGraw and Faith Hill. Wow. And one from Mary Chapin Carpenter.”

  “Liberals. Makes sense.” Brice dug a thumb against his temple, trying to drive off the dull hurt there. “The conservatives, they probably wish I’d died.”

  “Here’s one from McGavock Confederate Cemetery. Where’s that?”

  “That’s where my Rebel ancestor’s buried, down in Franklin, Tennessee. I send ‘em donations every now and then.”

  “Here’s one from your nephew. Another from that Travis kid up at WVU. And one from your ex-wife.”

  “I guess she can afford to be forgiving.” Brice sipped his mimosa and watched a breeze shake raindrops from black locust blossoms. “Is there one from Lorrie Kershaw? She’s Shelly’s cousin. She was real sweet to me, even after the big scandal last fall.”

  “Yes. She sent one. This one’s from Steve Morgan. He was your manager?”

  “Yep. Who else?”

  “An official-looking one from Molasses Mount Records. They the label who dumped you?”

  “Yep. Anything from the Country Music Museum? The Country Music Association? CMT?”

  Lucas scowled. “Nope. Not a damn thing.”

  “That figures. Anyone else familiar?”

  “Let’s see. Wayne Meador. Your high-school crush?”

  “Yeah. Cool. You’ve got to meet him one of these days. Anyone else we know?”

  “Ummmmm. Yeah.” Lucas’s brow bunched up.

  “Who?”

  “Zac. Zac Lanier.”

  Brice stopped rocking. “Hand that here.” He opened it, peered at it, rubbed his eyes, cussed under his breath, and handed it back. “Read it to me, would you?”