“Today… us… this was marvelous,” said Frank. “But surely you’re not suggesting that we could have more of it?”
“Surely I am.”
“But—”
“Would you want more, Frankie? Because I didn’t intend this as a one-off. I’m a greedy and spoiled bastard. I want it all.”
Frank wasn’t spoiled, but perhaps he was greedy. He wanted it all too. He also wanted his foot to miraculously heal, all his bad memories to fade like old photographs, and his work to be effortless.
“I can’t have what I want,” he said quietly.
Carver looked bewildered. “But you can. I’m offering it to you.”
Unable to continue this conversation lying down, Frank sat up, leaning back against the headboard and pulling the sheet over his lap like a nervous Victorian. Then he pointed out the most obvious issue. “We’re queer. How can it possibly work? For me, yes, but especially for you.”
“It can.” Carver huffed impatiently and, with a theatrical groan, sat beside Frank. He didn’t bother with the sheet, however. “Half of Hollywood is at least a little queer. Hudson, Romero, Novarro, Clift, Price, Gable, Laughton, Granger… and that’s just the boys. There’s the girls in the sewing circle too, you know. Not to mention all the writers, the directors, the musicians…. Hell, look at Grant and Scott—they lived together for years.”
While Frank wasn’t as immersed in the industry as Carver was, he’d heard his share of rumors. That knowledge had predated his work at the studio, in fact. When he was fifteen or so and desperately trying to tamp down his growing attraction to boys, he’d been leafing through magazines at the corner drug store when he came across an article about Cary Grant and Randolph Scott. Photos showed the pair swimming together in their pool, feeding a fluffy white dog at the dinner table, relaxing with books in their living room, exercising in skimpy shorts. Frank had been naïve, but even he could see that these two handsome men were posing very much like a married couple. The idea had excited and terrified him.
Frank looked at Carver. “What would happen to your career if you openly admitted that you’re homosexual?”
“Some people know. There’s sort of a… secret club? It’s not that organized. But we know who we are, and there are places where we can be open about it.”
“I go to the Blue Fox sometimes.”
“Ah.” Carver nodded. “I’ve heard of it. Not many actors go there, but?—”
“Industry people who are less visible, yes. Execs. Writers. Technicians. Animators.”
Carver took Frank’s hand, interlacing their fingers. “Our spaces tend to be more private, I guess. Parties at people’s homes.”
Frank could picture this. He’d heard a few stories at the Blue Fox, in fact, and although he hadn’t been envious—he was aware that he existed in a different social sphere than the glittering Hollywood stars—he’d been curious. What would it be like to not have to worry about vice raids? To spend even a few hours living as his true, complete self?
But even the people who went to those parties had to worry about gossip rags and rumors. Many of them got married in an attempt to fool the public.
“You still have to keep yourself a secret most of the time,” Frank pointed out.
For several moments, Carver was silent. When he did speak, he sounded uncharacteristically subdued. “Billy Haines is redecorating my living room.”
Because Frank didn’t understand the meaning of this non sequitur, he remained silent. As he’d expected, Carver soon elaborated. “Billy was a well-known actor. He even managed to transition from silents to talkies pretty well. And he loved another man. When the studio made him choose between his contract and his lover, Billy walked away. He and Jimmie have been decorating homes and selling furniture ever since. And they’re happy.”
“Are you saying you’d be willing to give up your career?”
“I don’t know.”
It was an interesting answer, because while it was nowhere near a definitely yes, it also wasn’t a no way in hell. It implied a lot more uncertainty than Frank would have expected.
“Maybe I’m getting tired of being America’s Beau,” Carver finished.
But then Frank remembered something. “I read about Billy Haines and his partner once. Weren’t they nearly killed by the Ku Klux Klan?” He shuddered just thinking about it.
Carver squeezed his hand. “Yes. I didn’t say it’s always been easy for them. But that was back in the thirties, and Billy and Jimmie are still around, still together. Look, it’s not fucking fair that living and loving are so much harder for us than for heterosexuals. But I don’t think that means we should give up. We deserve happiness, Frank.”
People didn’t always get what they deserved; Carver ought to know that by now. And he ought to realize that he’d never be able to have a long-term relationship with another man unless both of them made significant compromises. With their jobs, yes, and likely with their friends and family members. Always careful of the words they used, of the way they interacted in public.
“I’m sorry,” Carver said after a while.
Frank looked at him, confused. “For what?”
