Page 32 of The Christmas Keeper

Brann, you stupid fuck.

Kenan nodded slowly, walked over to a table, pulled out a seat, and glared at me until I stormed over to do the same. Then we both stood there, glowering, chairs out, no one sitting, for a good minute and a half before I flung myself down into the seat so hard it made my tailbone ache. Only then did Kenan sit.

“First off, Margo and I never had sex. She’s a lesbian. She’s in a committed relationship with her hairdresser, Eve. They’ve been a couple for ten years,” Kenan informed me flatly.

“Why is she hiding it?” I asked because I had nothing in reply that sounded intelligent after I got the lowdown on Ms. Margo Morgaine.

“Because it’s country and western, Brann.” He sighed and scrubbed at his face with his hands. When his fingers fell to the table, he looked at least five years older.

Look what you’ve done. You’ve torn the joy out of this man just like you did Paulie.

“There are gay singers who are out in that field,” I argued. Surely there had to be in this day and age.

“Yes, there are a few. I can count them on my hands and toes, but yes, a few. Margo and I were not ready to come out then. She still isn’t, and that’s fine. People are allowed to come out when they’re ready. And I wasn’t ready. Plus, I am a Jew. A gay Jew in a cowboy hat. Can you imagine how that would sell to all the rednecks?”

“Are you telling me there are no Jews in country and western music?”

“No, there are plenty, but most aren’t queer on top of it. It was…” he ran a hand through his curls, “my agent suggested I keep that under the covers. Give the world a few years to get used to me, learn to love me, and then we could spring the Jewish bit on them.”

“And when did he think you should tell your fans you were gay?” I leaned back, folded my arms, and did my best to be as truculent and shut off as possible.

He shrugged. “He never really said, which meant he thought it should be hidden forever. And since he was also Margo’s agent, his advice for her was the same. But amazingly, we could be a fake couple for the world to hide our nasty little rainbow secret. Sure, people might titter about a woman in her forties hooking up with a guy in his twenties, but better that than having the good ole boys find out that Lance Galloway was a fag. And no, my agent never used that word, but it was always hovering in the air like a swarm of malignant mosquitoes.”

“You could have just done it anyway, come out,” I tossed out.

“Yeah, I could have, but I was twenty years old when Jack found me playing in a dive in rural Kentucky. He had been in the business for over thirty years and had Margo on his roster. I was so starstruck that he could have pitched me a contract where I made a dollar a night and I would have leapt at it. He took me under his wing and promised me that he would be at my side as we worked through the less than savory life situations I was burdened with.”

“Being Jewish and gay,” I said, suddenly disliking this Jack dude a lot.

He tapped his regal nose. “Exactly. So, I signed, and it was a good deal. He didn’t try to rip me off like other agents sometimes do. The only thing he asked us, and added to our contracts, was that we maintained a good, wholesome public image.”

“Sure and being queer and a Jew didn’t fit that wholesome image.”

“Well, the Jewish part was less a stumbling block than a man who liked to suck dick. But yeah, they were to be hidden. So Jack suggested we pitch the idea that Margo and I were an item. She’d been dating men for years in public, probably still is. I don’t keepup with what’s going on in Nashville anymore. I would have set myself on fire to please either one of them, and before long, I was opening for her on the road and pretending to be her lover. We never went further than a chaste kiss now and again to keep up the ruse and the fans happy. After the first few months of this lie, I started doing K now and again to keep me moving and to dull the pain of being something that I wasn’t. Seems I have a highly addictive personality because I was hooked and using that shit hard in no time. Somehow I managed to keep myself clean for shows, but as soon as I got off stage I had friends, and that term is usedreallightly, who would show up to get high with me.”

“I’m sorry,” I whispered, feeling lower and lower the longer this tragic tale went on.

“You didn’t sniff shit into your nose. That was all on me. And Brann, it was euphoric. And then it wasn’t. I started falling into k-holes, where I would become totally unaware of the world around me. My heart would speed up, I’d grind my teeth so hard my jaw ached, and I’d get wobbly and fall over. Jack and Margo did what they could to keep me under control or lie to the press to say I drank too much because falling down backstage is okay if you’re drunk but condemned when you’re stoned.” I quirked an eyebrow. “Yeah, society is way more accepting of dudes being assholes soused on beer.” He grimaced. “No offense.”

“None taken.” I tried my best not to serve people until they blacked out. The mayor’s overindulgence tonight was above and beyond for me, but he’d only had one pitcher among five people, or so I knew. I wasn’t really here to babysit even though barkeeps ended up doing just that more than we would like.

“So yeah, shit was spiraling fast. My career was taking off, but my addiction was a monster that I had no control over. At the darkest point, which was the baddest night I have ever lived through, I was sniffing K every twenty minutes.” My eyes flared. He bobbed his head. “Yeah, it was really bad, but the worst wasthe night it all went to shit. Margo and I were invited to the Opry. Or I should say Margo got the invite, but they wanted us to play a new duet we’d recorded that was ripping up the charts. I was so nervous before we went on that I asked Margo’s makeup artist for a little K just to get me through the biggest night in my life. He was happy to share with me.

“I hit the stage so out of it that I couldn’t recall the lyrics. I ended up falling into Margo, then off the stage, lost control of my bodily functions, and my blood pressure rocketed. Needless to say, after that performance in front of a sold out audience packed with press, I was quietly whisked away to rehab. The first one. Out in thirty, back two months later, out in thirty, back using, then fell into another k-hole that nearly killed me. That last stint stuck. My fans did not. My agent did not. And Margo, well, she was never really my girlfriend, but she was a friend, or so I had thought, but even she had to move on from the wreck that was Lance Galloway. I don’t hold it against her, even if she was my friend. Sometimes you have to distance yourself from toxicity. So yeah, that’s my story.”

He was picking at his fingernails, a nervous trait I had never seen before. Heart breaking, I reached over the sticky table to place my hands over his. Sad, dark eyes raised from his jagged hangnails.

“That’s one hell of a story. I think you’re brave and strong, and I am so fucking sorry for being such a bent-up asshole.” He wiggled his fingers between mine, his gaze dewy. “I just…” I exhaled so hard I got dizzy. “When Paula told me who you were—”

“Kenan is who I am. That’s the real me. Lance was a name Jack made up since my real name sounded a little too foreign for the fans.”

“I think Jack has no clue about the fans. I cannot imagine a group of people who worship Dolly Parton would turn on yousimply for being queer and Jewish.” He gave me a tart ‘come on, Brann’ look. “Okay, sure, some would, yes. But overall, I bet most of the fans would be fine with a gay singer who lit eight candles instead of a tree every December. I know I’m head over heels for him.”

His lips twitched at the corners. “Well, that’s not even on my radar. The fans, the tours, or the friends who ply you with drugs just to ensure they stay on your good side. I gave away a lot of money when I was using, spent a lot too. So much so that I walked out of rehab with nothing but my first guitar, my clothes, and a map of the United States in my back pocket. No set goals, no family to come get me, just my six-string and my voice. Oh, and a parting severance check from Jack that bought me a used car. But hey, that was enough. And I did okay. Busking is good money if you’re in the city.”

“How did you end up in Elmira? I mean, if you’re looking to do well busking rural anywhere probably will just get you the John J. Rambo treatment from the cops.”

He chuckled. “I feel that. I’ve been run out of dozens of small towns. I ended up here after my car broke down along Route 17, and I walked to the airport after seeing the signs. I kind of stupidly thought it would be bigger…”

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