When the Stars Come Out (22 page)

And he also told himself that, try as she may, Kitty Randolph

would
not
stop it.

Kitty Randolph
. For all her fame, wealth, and power, was she be-deviled by the same demons that haunted Noah’s subjects? Like his

congressional staffers, cloaked in shadows and petrified to emerge from the darkness, was she also afraid of tales that should not be told? After all, according to Jimmy she had reacted fairly maturely, when all was said and done, to the revelation that her husband was gay. She had only gone ballistic when he was indiscreet, and stories started being passed around that she wanted buried forever. In trying to write this book, would Noah once again find himself cut off, shunned and stonewalled by those who wouldn’t talk, for fear of

angering the legendary Kitty Randolph?

Noah sighed and shook his head. He was still having a hard time

reconciling the Kitty Randolph of Quinn Scott-Jimmy Beloit-David

Carlyle anecdote with the Kitty Randolph of the screen. Those sto-

ries stood in such stark contrast to the wholesome image the world, including Noah himself, had of the actress. On screen, and in the

celebrity-worshipping press, she was the girl next door, warbling

her way through a series of sometimes memorable, more often not,

Technicolor films; or being romanced by a succession of handsome

leading men. And then there was her later reincarnation as the

mother of the girl next door on the television screen, followed by her latest reincarnation as the wry older woman who now once

again stole Hollywood’s heart, this time by often playing against

type. She was, in a less-sexual, less-threatening way, the embodi-

ment of Stephen Sondheim’s song “I’m Still Here”; “First you’re

another sloe-eyed vamp; then someone’s mother; then you’re

camp.” Except Kitty Randolph had never quite allowed herself to

become camp. If there was a joke, she was not only in on it, she had orchestrated its setup.

When beloved Kitty Randolph swore like a sailor in the role of

George Clooney’s mother-in-law in the 2004 movie
Marriage Penalty
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R o b B y r n e s

it ran so counter to her image that
People
magazine rushed a new cover into production proclaiming, “Kitty and Clooney Cut Loose!”

It was her equivalent to Julie Andrews’s breast-baring moment in

the movie
S.O.B.
—the legendary good girl gets earthy—and the world ate up every minute of screen time and every column inch of magazine puffery.

But Noah was learning the New Reality: Kitty Randolph was

more than a force to be reckoned with. It was no wonder Quinn

Scott gave up the fight so easily when their marriage dissolved and she chased him from Hollywood as word of his homosexuality

spread. He had to have known that she held all the cards.

His gaze returned to the world outside the window of the slow-

moving bus. The farm markets were now decidedly upscale, and the

traffic increasingly heavy, which meant he was minutes from Quinn’s house. And as he prepared to lay out his proposal for the crusty old actor, Noah felt a renewed sense of resolve.

He knew what would be in the book he had to write.

Quinn Scott had a story that needed to be told; that much was

true. But the story was not, as he had initially believed, one as a role model for older gay men. No, the biography would be Quinn’s one

last chance to reclaim the public life Kitty Randolph had stolen

from him. She had chased him into obscurity decades earlier, and

this would be his long-delayed response.

As much as Quinn’s story was one of survival, and as much as the

story of Quinn and Jimmy was inspirational, the key to the story

was their adversary: the wholesome, wily Kitty Randolph.

Lost in thought, Noah almost missed his stop. He grabbed his

folder and darted from the bus, armed with a new project and an

even newer sense of purpose.

“So here’s what I’m thinking,” said Noah forty-five minutes later, sitting on the couch across from Quinn in the living room, where

the older man was watching a soap opera on television. After leav-

ing Bart to his afternoon chore—cleaning the cluttered garage—

he had wasted no time in tracking down his employer. “You know

how we talked about writing a book?”

“I know how
you
talked about writing a book.”

W H E N T H E S T A R S C O M E O U T

147

“Well, I was just talking to my editor, and . . .”

Quinn turned and glared at Noah; then, holding the remote

control obviously in front of him, turned up the volume.

Noah decided to wait until the next commercial.

When the pitch for fabric softener finally began, he started

again. Quinn wasted no time cutting him short.

“Not interested.”

“But, Quinn . . .”

“
Not Fucking interested!
Those days are my past.”

“I thought you were going to think about it.”

“I did. I thought about it, and this is what I decided: no fucking book.”

Now the television was trying to sell them term life insurance.

Noah waited a moment for Quinn’s storm to pass, then said:

“But the work is done. I mean, David Carlyle at Palmer/Midkiff/

Carlyle is ready to publish. All we have to do is give him a manu-

script.”

Quinn sighed. This Noah kid was becoming more than a pest.

All he wanted to know was whether or not Doctor Montgomery was

going to come out of his coma, and he couldn’t concentrate be-

cause—across from him on the couch—he was yammering on and

on about an idea Quinn thought he had forcefully squelched.

Then again, at this particular moment he had no interest in

term life, and people seldom kept talking after Quinn had shut

them off, so maybe there was something worth listening to. He

turned to Noah, nodded, and said, “You’ve got thirty seconds.”

“Great.” Noah began reeling off his spiel. “Here’s the story: you’re married to the world’s best-known actress, but you only find true

love with another man. She catches you in the act, and destroys you.

But she can’t destroy your love. Now, thirty-something years later and still in love, you reemerge to tell the world how you conquered her intolerance . . . how she isn’t America’s sweetheart, but rather embodies the worst impulses of the—”

Quinn had heard enough. “No.”

“No?”

“No. No fucking way. Especially if it’s going to be all about
her
.”

“Well, I mean, if we’re going to look at your breakup and ban-

ishment from Hollywood as allegorical—”

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R o b B y r n e s

“No.”

“But this could be perfect! We can frame this like . . . like . . .

like you stood up to the dark underbelly of American society!”

The soap opera was back on the screen, but it no longer held

Quinn’s attention. Instead, he was staring at Noah, who shrunk

back a bit at his unforgiving stare.

“Are you some kind of Communist?” he asked.

“Uh . . . no.”

“Then what’s all this ‘dark underbelly’ bullshit?”

Noah watched as Quinn clenched his jaw, knowing he had al-

ready said too much and fighting an urge to say more. He had to

look away from him, so he turned his eyes to the television. When

he looked back, Quinn’s own eyes were closed.

“Then she wins,” said Noah, his voice a tentative whisper even as

he braved one last comment.

Quinn’s eyes opened again. “She always wins, son. That’s what

Katherine lives for: winning.”

“And you’re going to let her do this?”

Noah had expected Quinn to be angry, but the long-retired

actor sounded, to him, far more regretful than angry. “What’s done is done. For thirty-six years I’ve looked the other way, and there’s no reason to go back and reopen the wounds.” He swiveled in his

recliner to get a better view of Noah, and to lock him in with those cool gray eyes. The tone of his voice was wistful. “Katherine can’t be broken, Noah. And, you know . . . I was never really broken. She

took away my career, but not my money. And not my love. She

didn’t get those things, which means she never really won, not by

her terms, at least. And now, well . . . now it’s been a long time, and Jimmy and I have a nice life, and I just don’t see why we’d want to go through it all again.”

“But . . .”

“Which is why I keep telling you
no fucking way!
”

And with that, the discussion was finally over.

Fortunately, Noah Abraham always tried to have a Plan B.

“So,” Noah said, as he walked into the kitchen a half hour later.

“How do you think I can convince him to write his autobiography?”

W H E N T H E S T A R S C O M E O U T

149

Jimmy Beloit looked up from the onion he was chopping. “Did

he say no?”

“Yes.”

“Then you can’t.”

As if to punctuate Jimmy’s sentence, Camille let out a low growl.

Noah took a step away from the dog.

“You see what a great opportunity this is, don’t you?”

Jimmy chopped and didn’t answer.

Noah raised an arm, sweeping his hand through the air as if

spelling out a headline. “‘After all these decades, Quinn Scott tells his story. All about why he disappeared from Hollywood . . . his secret love of thirty years . . .’ ”

“Almost thirty-six,” said Jimmy, still chopping. “If I have to put up with him, I want credit for each and every year.”

“It’s a way for your love to be acknowledged. Thirty-six years.

The two of you would be role models.”

Jimmy stopped chopping and, using the edge of the knife, col-

lected the diced pieces of onion and tossed them into a bowl. Task accomplished, he turned to Noah and said, “Role models to

whom? Nobody remembers
him
anymore, and they never
knew
who I was.”

Noah smiled. “That could all change so quickly. One book, and

you both would become gay icons.”

Jimmy removed a tomato from the refrigerator and began chop-

ping again. “And suppose we don’t want to be gay icons?”

“Why not?”

“Because maybe we just want to be an old couple living out of

the spotlight. You know, neither of us has ever been to a gay pride parade. I’m sure it’s fun, but that’s not our lifestyle. Our lifestyle is this: cooking and gardening and going to assorted doctors for assorted ailments. Which seem to be coming on more frequently, by

the way.” He scooped up the tomato pieces with the knife blade

and tossed them with the onions. “I don’t think we’d ever be con-

sidered role models, except for maybe by the AARP.”

That made Noah laugh, despite himself. Which was Jimmy’s in-

tent, and it had the side benefit of distracting Noah from his sales pitch for just long enough until they heard Bart entering the house from the garage.

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“Hey,” he said as he entered the kitchen. His face was streaked

with dirt and oil.

“Well aren’t you a sight,” said Jimmy, as he began chopping the

radishes. “You look so butch.”

Bart smiled. “You can clean the garage yourself, if you want.”

“No thanks. There are spiders out there.” He looked up from

the cutting board. “You boys should get cleaned up. Dinner will be ready shortly.”

Bart left, and Noah heard his footsteps clomp up the stairs to his bedroom. He considered returning to his conversation with Jimmy,

but reluctantly followed Bart upstairs. He was unsure of what to say to Jimmy and, well, the oil-smeared Bart really
did
look butch.

Alone again in the kitchen, Jimmy laughed to himself at the

thought that he and Quinn could be gay icons. It was a ridiculous

suggestion. And no matter how hard Noah had tried to sell the

idea, he could no longer imagine Quinn in any kind of iconic way.

It hadn’t always been that way, of course. When they first shared

The Glance, and later that day when Quinn had appeared in the

perimeter parking lot, Jimmy certainly thought of him as iconic.

But at some point between that day and the day Kitty caught them

in bed, he had lost his starry luster and become a mere mortal in

Jimmy Beloit’s eyes.

No; not a “mere mortal.” That phrase was insufficient to de-

scribe the man he had loved for all those years. Quinn was some-

thing else altogether: a blustery, hard-edged pain in the ass on the outside, and the warmest, most loving man on the inside. They had

given up a lot for each other, but over the years their sacrifices had proven more than worth it.

A simple book could never begin to convey the complex man

who was Quinn Scott. And it could never make him an icon of any-

thing near the stature he deserved.

But at least Jimmy could give Noah a glimpse; a slight taste of

what Quinn Scott really meant to him. And he knew exactly how to

do that.

After dinner, Jimmy stood and made an announcement.

“Since we have a special guest . . .”

“Again,” Quinn grumbled.

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151

“. . . again, I thought it might be fun to have a movie night.

Noah, have you ever seen a Quinn Scott movie?”

“I, uh . . .” Noah’s first instinct was to say that he
thought
he had; his second was to lie. “Sure.”

“Was it
When the Stars Come Out
?”

Since it was now clear where the conversation was going, he ad-

mitted he had not seen that particular movie.

“In that case, will you gentlemen be kind enough to accompany