When the Stars Come Out (27 page)

screen characters would have: with a smile on her face and a

song in her voice. No, she handled her challenges by attempting

to destroy anything that got in her way.

And often, she succeeded. She nearly succeeded with me,

too. Kitty Randolph wanted my head, and was probably disap-

pointed that she had to settle for merely ruining my career . . .

N
oah awoke early the next morning, invigorated by a cool, fresh breeze through the slightly open window. He watched Bart, his

eyes still closed in sleep, for a few minutes, and thought that this was exactly the way he wanted to wake up every morning.

After an evening of slow, slow dancing in the gazebo.

Without disturbing him, Noah slipped out of bed and rushed

through his shower and shave, suddenly eager to start the day. He

threw on a pair of khakis and a loose shirt and, twenty minutes

after rising, walked onto the patio. Although the temperature had

finally started to drop, it was still pleasant in the backyard.

He greeted Quinn, who sat and sipped a cup of coffee at that

round glass table.

“Good morning,” Noah said.

Quinn considered that, then said, “If you say so.”

Still, Noah pressed on. “Ready to do some reminiscing this morn-

ing?”

“Not really.”

Noah swallowed and did what he knew he had to do. “About last

night . . . I’m sorry about that. I was out of line.”

“You were.”

And that was that. Noah struggled to remember that magical image

of Quinn and Jimmy dancing in the gazebo, because the magic was

fading quicker than the dew in the morning sunlight.

The men sat in silence for an uncomfortably long time until

Noah finally conceded and walked back to the kitchen, making a

beeline to the coffee pot. He reached it just as Jimmy entered the room, the billows of his robe and Camille trailing behind him.

“Morning, sunshine,” he said, as chipper as Quinn was gruff.

“Good morning.” Noah held up the pot. “Coffee?”

“Please.” He strained to look out to the patio. “And how is Mr.

Happy-Pants this morning? Cooperative?”

“Not really,” said Noah, as he poured. “I think he’s still looking for his comfort level with me.”

Jimmy rolled his eyes. “Get used to it, Noah. It’s been a lifetime and I still don’t think he’s found one with me.”

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“Oh, I think he’s . . .” Noah stopped, realizing almost too late

that there was no need to confess to voyeurism, let alone implicate Bart, if he didn’t have to. “I think he’s just a bit cranky in the morning.”

“Hmmph,” grunted Jimmy, noncommittally. Then, brightening,

he said, “I’m running a few errands as soon as I get some caffeine in me and get dressed. Need anything from the outside world?”

“You’re leaving me alone with him?”

“Forty-five minutes,” Jimmy said, laughing at what looked like

terror on Noah’s face. He would have to remember to tell Quinn to

be a bit easier on the kid. “Plus, you won’t be alone. Bart is somewhere around here, isn’t he?”

“Yes, he is,” said Bart, picking that moment to stroll into the kitchen, like Jimmy clad only in a robe. “I’ll help keep the beast at bay, Noah.”

“Thanks. Coffee?”

“Sure.”

When Jimmy left the kitchen, Bart asked, “So how is he this

morning?”

“Unforgiving.”

Bart winked. “Just remember the dance.”

And so, remembering the dance, Noah steeled himself and

walked back to the patio.

“Do you feel like talking?” he asked Quinn.

“Maybe later. Right now, I’m not in the mood.” With that, he

stood and walked back into the house.

Moments later, Noah decided to follow him, but got only as far

as the kitchen before Jimmy and Bart stopped him.

“I sent him upstairs for a nap,” said Jimmy. “Let him sleep off

that attitude.” He looked off in the direction of Quinn’s departure before continuing, making sure that he had actually left the room.

“I can help you, you know.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that.”

Jimmy continuing in a whispered, conspiratorial voice as he

leaned in to Noah. “I don’t want him to hear. He’s not always as

deaf as he lets on. But here’s the deal: I have to take Quinn to physical therapy at 3:30. He’ll be there ninety minutes. After I drop him off, I’m going to come right back home. You’ll be here?”

Noah lifted an eyebrow. “Uh . . . why?”

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“I have something to show you. I think you’ll like it. It will put Quinn in a very good mood, and make him much easier to work

with. But not a word of it to you-know-who, right?”

“Agreed.” Noah cast his eyes downward. “Except . . . I don’t know

if it’s such a good idea for me to keep living out here.”

“Don’t be silly,” said Jimmy. “Take it from someone who’s lived

through it forever. It blows over. Plus, most of your clothes are

here, and Bart won’t let you leave with them, so we sort of have you trapped, don’t we?”

“I guess you do.”

Jimmy and Bart exchanged a smile. “I
knew
you’d see things our way.”

That afternoon, after Jimmy forced the loudly complaining

Quinn into the hunter-green Mercedes and drove off to his physi-

cal therapy appointment, Noah and Bart realized they had the house to themselves. For twenty minutes, at least.

Not a word needed to be spoken. They darted up the stairs the

minute the car left the driveway, and, leaving a trail of clothing beginning at the midpoint of the staircase, had stripped to their underwear by the time they threw themselves on the bed.

Noah rolled onto his back and Bart straddled him, his powerful

thighs pinning Noah’s hips and, beneath the thin fabric of their

briefs, their erections grinding together.

“No deflation problem this afternoon, I see,” said Bart, as he

lowered his upper body until his lips met those of his partner.

A short time later they lay in bed, their hands gently caressing

each other after the hurried intimacy. Neither said a word, afraid of breaking the spell.

It was Bart who finally spoke. “What do you think of Quinn and

Jimmy? I mean, together?”

“I think they fit. I guess you do that after thirty-six years.”

“Do you ever see . . . ?” Bart stopped himself, and Noah knew

that the words to follow would be edited for content. He was right.

“Do you ever see
yourself
in a long-term relationship like that?”

Noah sighed and rolled onto his back. “I don’t know. Decades of

monogamy . . . it could get boring. Personally, I don’t know if I can make a commitment like that.”

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183

“Oh.” Noah felt Bart pull away from him. “Yeah, maybe . . .” He

paused. “But I sort of like seeing it. In theory, I mean. Mutual support . . . growing old together . . . always having someone to watch your back.”

“It’s like you said: ‘in theory.’” Noah propped himself up on an

elbow and looked at Bart, whose eyes were now lost in wistful

thought. “My father has been married three times, so I’m not sure

that theory always becomes practice. I mean, it’s a nice thing to aim for—that whole ‘together forever’ thing—but the reality is that

people change over time. And it’s rare when they change at the

same time, and in the same direction.”

“Maybe you’re right,” said Bart, distantly and without commit-

ment. “But . . .”

“But what?”

Bart rolled slightly toward Noah. “Well, my parents got married

four weeks after their first date, and they’ve stayed together for almost forty years, so it
can
be done.”

“I know it can be done. I just don’t know . . .” A sound from out-

side the windows—a slamming car door—stopped him. “Shit. He’s

home.”

“That was quick,” said Bart, with what Noah thought was too

much distraction, as he rose from the bed. “Clothes!”

“I’m on it.” Noah leapt from the bed, slid into his briefs, and

darted out to the hall to collect their clothes as the sound of Jimmy’s voice, calling for Camille, rose from the front yard. Ten seconds

later, he deposited their jumbled clothing on the bed, and they separated the items and hurriedly dressed to the accompaniment of a

slam from the front door. Jimmy Beloit
did
love to slam his doors.

He was clutching a brown-papered box and fluffing the flowers

on one of the small decorative tables in the entry hall, whistling tunes from a string of unrelated musicals—something from
Rent

morphed into something from
Fiddler
morphed into something vaguely Sondheimian—when Bart and Noah finally walked down

the stairs. The younger men waved as they descended with feigned

casualness.

“That man,” said Jimmy, chipper as ever as he fluffed the arrange-

ment. “Twice a week for two years he’s been going to PT, and twice a week for two years it’s been an ordeal. I keep telling him ‘Fine, don’t go. Sit on your ass on your patio until your bones fuse into an 184

R o b B y r n e s

L-shape and your muscles atrophy. That way it will be easier for me to shove you down the basement steps and be done with you.’ But

does he listen to me? No. He keeps whining and bitching, but ulti-

mately he keeps going to PT.” He looked up from the flowers and

said, “I smell sex.”

On cue, Noah and Bart blushed and stammered.

“Oh, stop,” said Jimmy. “Boys, I’m sixty-two years old, but I’m

not dead.” He finished his business with the flowers and, waving

the box in their direction, told them, “Follow me. I have something to show you.”

Noah and Bart trailed Camille, who trailed Jimmy, as they de-

scended the stairs to the screening room. Once he flipped on the

lights and they stood in dim fluorescence, he explained.

“I just picked up a package from the post office. Quinn’s birth-

day present.” He set it down on the floor.

Jimmy stepped into the projection room and opened the black-

lacquer cabinet where he kept the videotapes. When he turned, he

was holding the box containing
When the Stars Come Out
. Noah noticed for the first time that it was battered, showing the wear and tear of years of handling.

“This,” Jimmy announced, handing the tape to Bart, “can go in

the trash.”

“The trash?”

Jimmy smiled and picked up the box from the floor. He began

peeling the brown paper from the box. Freed from its taped edges,

the paper fell to the floor, and Jimmy opened the package, reveal-

ing its contents: a selection of DVDs. On the top of the stack was the repackaged, re-engineered, and decidedly more high-tech version of
When the Stars Come Out
.

“And so the Scott-Beloit household joins the twenty-first cen-

tury,” said Jimmy.

“That’s great,” said Bart. “Quinn’s going to love it.”

Jimmy continued to hold the
Stars
case, setting the others aside.

“Shall we give it a whirl?”

Bart looked at his watch. “Uh . . . we don’t have time. Someone

is going to have to pick up Quinn.”

“Not the entire movie! I just want to make sure everything is

working. I think we all know what we would be in for if I gave Quinn W H E N T H E S T A R S C O M E O U T

185

this present and the DVD didn’t work, or I couldn’t run the player.

I’d rather do a test run and make sure everything is all right.”

“I see your point,” said Bart. “Why don’t you just play the last

scene. You know the one I’m talking about.”

Jimmy smiled. “My thoughts exactly.”

He disappeared into the projection room as Bart, Noah, and

Camille took seats, and he stayed there as the screen lit up. After a few fumbles working the DVD player—skipping to a scene he hadn’t

wanted to; switching to the Spanish language option—Jimmy found

the introduction to the
Stars
number and dimmed the lights.

Kitty Randolph, circa 1970, blond and wholesome in a white

gown, was again on the screen singing:

When the evening falls, my dear,

And when dream-time calls, my dear,

You’ll be with me;

Of that, no doubt,

I’ll see your face when the stars come out . . .

Noah turned to Bart and whispered. “Very crisp. And the color

is much better than the video.”

Young, handsome Quinn Scott was now on the screen, singing a

serviceable response to Kitty. Then she sang back. And then they

danced.

Noah stole a glance at Bart, whose attention was fully on the

screen. He wondered if Bart saw himself up there, dancing with Kitty, waiting for Noah to appear—black tie around his neck and walking

stick in hand—to steal him away.

“Oh, fuck!” Bart snapped, breaking the mood. “Un-
fucking
-

believable.”

Noah turned his attention back to the screen. “What? What did

I miss?”

“That is so wrong.” Bart’s voice was angrier than Noah had ever

heard. “Can she do that?”

Jimmy stood in the back of the room. Even in the dim lighting of

the screening room, Noah could see he was ashen.

“What happened?” Noah asked. “What did I miss?”

“That
bitch
,” snarled Jimmy.

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“I missed it,” Noah said once again, to which Bart merely sighed

with . . . was that disgust?

“Here,” said Jimmy, and Noah saw he was carrying the remote