"Coup de Foudre" 10
Very bad days.
By Gaedhal
Los Angeles, May 2016
It had never been completely quiet in the house on Creekside Canyon. The soundtrack of a film Ron was running in his office. The voices from the telenovelas Carmel played in the kitchen from morning until night. The music blasting from Gus’s room as he studied or texted or played video games. And Brian, his voice raised, yelling at his fucking iPod or at the fucking treadmill or yelling for some fucking peace and quiet.
But now it was quiet. Hushed. The house was full of people, but voices were lowered. Even Carmel’s television was turned off as she stood in the kitchen, pouring coffee and handing out dishes of food with one hand, while wiping her eyes with the other.
And one room in the house was especially quiet. Deadly quiet.
“Brian?” Diane tapped tentatively at the bedroom door. “Can I come in?” When there was no reply - again - she pushed the door open. “Brian? Honey?”
“Get the fuck out of here.” The muted voice came from a dark bundle of covers on the bed.
“Brian… there are people downstairs. Ron’s mother and his sisters are wondering where you are.”
Suddenly a figure loomed up from the bed, towering over Diane like a thundercloud. “What about ‘get the fuck out of here’ don’t you understand?” the figure snarled. “So get out!”
Diane backed up against the door. “But…”
“I said get the fuck OUT! Now!”
Diane got out.
The funeral had been a horrible experience - what funeral isn’t? - but at least Brian had been present. Dorian and Peter handled all the arrangements since Brian told them bluntly that every religion was fucking bullshit and Ron would have said the same thing. He was fucking dead! What more did they want? But if they wanted to do it, then fine. It was what was expected. But that didn’t mean Brian accepted it. That didn’t mean Brian accepted anything.
The turnout at Temple Israel on Hollywood Boulevard looked like an Industry Who’s Who. Jimmy Hardy, Ron’s self-proclaimed best friend, gave the eulogy and when he broke down in the middle it seemed genuine and not a typically melodramatic Jimmy Hardy performance. Afterwards, during the reception at the house, Brian seemed stunned, but he held up and did what he was expected to do - stone-faced, he greeted and nodded and listened to the offered condolences. And there were a lot of them because although Ron could be a prickly perfectionist on set and off, he was also widely admired. He’d been successful, both financially and artistically, and Hollywood would never argue with success. The days when he’d been an outsider because he was openly gay and unapologetic about it were long past - in 2016 that was no longer an issue. People were stunned by his sudden, senseless death and they truly felt sorry for his handsome, grief-stricken husband.
After the burial, Brian stood all day in the living room of the house in Creekside Canyon, shaking hands and accepting hugs, while Gus stood by his side, trying not to cry. He kept looking at his father, waiting for the cracks to appear, but he never saw them. Brian was cold sober and focused, staring straight ahead. He looked tall and perfect in his vintage Armani suit - perfect and empty. He gave Gus the creeps.
In the corner sat Ron’s elderly mother, dazed and red-eyed, while his sisters and their husbands felt distinctly out of place. Famous movie stars took their hands and murmured at them, but without Ron there everything was off-kilter. Ron’s husband, who even after ten years, they barely knew, was distant and distracted. His young son smiled at them, but had little to say. Only Ron’s friends, Dorian and Diane, took the time to make sure they were taken care of, for which they were grateful.
But the real discomfort came after most of the mourners had left. Dorian and his partner, Peter, stayed, as did Diane and her cute little daughter, Mia. And Jimmy Hardy. He was drunk and maudlin, moaning about Ron and how heartbroken he was, about how Ron was his best friend in the world and how much he loved him and what would he do without him? Not even Jimmy’s wife, Tess, could get him to shut up and go home. Finally, Dorian and Peter put Jimmy in the poolhouse, where he passed out on the sofa.
But once almost everyone had gone home, that’s when something snapped inside Brian. It was like a light had been turned off. He tore off his Italian silk tie, stumbled upstairs and into the bedroom, slamming the door behind him. And there he stayed.
Dorian wasn’t sure what to do next. He’d been raised all over Europe and England, following either his mother or his father from film set to film set, then to various public schools in England. During all that time he’d never had any religious training, either Jewish (his father) or Catholic (his mother). But once he landed in Hollywood, he’d quickly understood that as much business was done in the synagogue as in the boardroom, so he learned how to play the game. When he met Peter, who was actually observant, the pair became regulars at Temple Israel with the other movers and shakers, the producers and directors and agents. So at least Dorian knew enough to have Carmel cover the mirrors and made certain that the catered food was kosher.
Brian had disappeared and Ron’s family sat there, waiting. Now what? Dorian and Peter couldn’t imagine sitting shiva in this house for seven whole days, but what else could they do? Ron hadn’t been a practicing Jew since he left for college, although he donated to all the requisite Jewish charities and had even shown up for the High Holidays a few times early in his career, although never since Brian had been in the picture. Even their wedding had been completely secular, with the ceremony conducted by - who else? - Jimmy Hardy, flourishing a certificate as a ‘minister’ of the Universal Life Church that he’d gotten online.
Dorian arranged for the Rosenblum family to stay at the Four Seasons in Beverly Hills, as well as for a driver to take them shopping or sightseeing or wherever they wanted to go. But the day after the service, there they were at the house, waiting for people to make a shiva call - and waiting for Brian to make an appearance. For the first three days, there were some visitors, mainly people from the industry paying their respects as a mitzvah. Not the big shots who had come to the service, but writers and minor actors and crew members who’d worked with Ron on various projects, some from years back.
“Where’s Brian?” they all asked.
“Upstairs,” said Diane, the unofficial hostess. She tried not to let the worry show in her voice or on her face.
That’s when she finally when upstairs and knocked on the bedroom door. But it didn’t work.
On the fifth day two men showed up late in the afternoon.
“Welcome,” said Dorian. He didn’t recognize them, although he felt that he should know who they were.
“We weren’t sure whether to come,” said the shorter man. “But when we got the call, we got on the plane as soon as we could.”
“The call?” Dorian was confused. “Call from whom?”
“Uncle Michael!” Gus ran to the two men and embraced them. “Uncle Ben! You’re here!”
“Hey, sport,” said Ben, hugging the boy. “How are things going?”
“Not good,” Gus admitted. “Dorian, this is my Uncle Michael and my Uncle Ben.”
“So happy you could make it,” said Dorian, shaking their hands. “Are you related to Brian?” He didn’t know a lot about Brian’s family, but he did know that he didn’t have a brother.
“Sort of,” said Michael. “We grew up together. And Gus and I are sort of related, too. We’re ‘lesbian-adjacent.’”
Dorian wasn’t sure what he was hearing. “Pardon? Lesbian what?”
“Michael is the father of my sister, Jenny Rebecca,” Gus explained. “Except she’s not exactly my sister, because we have two different mothers. And two different fathers. But we’re connected through my two moms. Or my mom and my ex-mom.” Gus shrugged. “It’s kind of complicated.”
Dorian knew Brian’s situation was complex, but he was only now beginning to understand just how complex. “I think I understand. So, Gus called you gentlemen to come here?”
“No,” said Diane, coming down the stairs. “I called them.” She walked up to Michael. “We only met once, at the wedding in Hawaii, but Brian talked about you all the time. He said that you got him through some difficult times.”
“That’s true,” said Michael, his brown eyes filling with tears. Damn! He’d promised himself that he wouldn’t do that!
“This is a difficult time, too,” said Diane. “Brian won’t talk to anyone. He’s shut down completely. He won’t speak to me, or Dorian, or Peter. He won’t even see Gus. But maybe he’ll speak to you.”
Michael swallowed. “What… what if he won’t? Brian can be awfully stubborn.”
“You have to try,” Diane pleaded. “Maybe something you say will get through to him. Because I can’t do it. None of us can.”
“I’ll try,” said Michael. “I love Brian so much. I hate to see him in… in pain.”
Diane nudged him towards the stairs. “We all hate to see it. Do what you can.”
Michael climbed the steps reluctantly. He thought about the times in the past when Brian had needed him. All the times he’d had raging conflicts with his father and sought refuge at the Novotny house. The time when he’d come back from New York, sick and shaken. When he’d almost lost his job at Ryder and faced losing his loft and everything he’d worked for. When Justin was bashed and it was like Brian had been bashed as well, except all the wounds were deep on the inside instead of where everyone could see them. When he got cancer and was facing his own mortality. And then when Justin left - all of the times. And the times Brian had been there for him, too - so many times! Michael gritted his teeth. All of those had been hard, so goddamn hard, but this…
“Brian?” He didn’t expect an answer. He knew Brian too well. So Michael took a deep breath and pushed open the bedroom door.
By Gaedhal
Los Angeles, May 2016
It had never been completely quiet in the house on Creekside Canyon. The soundtrack of a film Ron was running in his office. The voices from the telenovelas Carmel played in the kitchen from morning until night. The music blasting from Gus’s room as he studied or texted or played video games. And Brian, his voice raised, yelling at his fucking iPod or at the fucking treadmill or yelling for some fucking peace and quiet.
But now it was quiet. Hushed. The house was full of people, but voices were lowered. Even Carmel’s television was turned off as she stood in the kitchen, pouring coffee and handing out dishes of food with one hand, while wiping her eyes with the other.
And one room in the house was especially quiet. Deadly quiet.
“Brian?” Diane tapped tentatively at the bedroom door. “Can I come in?” When there was no reply - again - she pushed the door open. “Brian? Honey?”
“Get the fuck out of here.” The muted voice came from a dark bundle of covers on the bed.
“Brian… there are people downstairs. Ron’s mother and his sisters are wondering where you are.”
Suddenly a figure loomed up from the bed, towering over Diane like a thundercloud. “What about ‘get the fuck out of here’ don’t you understand?” the figure snarled. “So get out!”
Diane backed up against the door. “But…”
“I said get the fuck OUT! Now!”
Diane got out.
The funeral had been a horrible experience - what funeral isn’t? - but at least Brian had been present. Dorian and Peter handled all the arrangements since Brian told them bluntly that every religion was fucking bullshit and Ron would have said the same thing. He was fucking dead! What more did they want? But if they wanted to do it, then fine. It was what was expected. But that didn’t mean Brian accepted it. That didn’t mean Brian accepted anything.
The turnout at Temple Israel on Hollywood Boulevard looked like an Industry Who’s Who. Jimmy Hardy, Ron’s self-proclaimed best friend, gave the eulogy and when he broke down in the middle it seemed genuine and not a typically melodramatic Jimmy Hardy performance. Afterwards, during the reception at the house, Brian seemed stunned, but he held up and did what he was expected to do - stone-faced, he greeted and nodded and listened to the offered condolences. And there were a lot of them because although Ron could be a prickly perfectionist on set and off, he was also widely admired. He’d been successful, both financially and artistically, and Hollywood would never argue with success. The days when he’d been an outsider because he was openly gay and unapologetic about it were long past - in 2016 that was no longer an issue. People were stunned by his sudden, senseless death and they truly felt sorry for his handsome, grief-stricken husband.
After the burial, Brian stood all day in the living room of the house in Creekside Canyon, shaking hands and accepting hugs, while Gus stood by his side, trying not to cry. He kept looking at his father, waiting for the cracks to appear, but he never saw them. Brian was cold sober and focused, staring straight ahead. He looked tall and perfect in his vintage Armani suit - perfect and empty. He gave Gus the creeps.
In the corner sat Ron’s elderly mother, dazed and red-eyed, while his sisters and their husbands felt distinctly out of place. Famous movie stars took their hands and murmured at them, but without Ron there everything was off-kilter. Ron’s husband, who even after ten years, they barely knew, was distant and distracted. His young son smiled at them, but had little to say. Only Ron’s friends, Dorian and Diane, took the time to make sure they were taken care of, for which they were grateful.
But the real discomfort came after most of the mourners had left. Dorian and his partner, Peter, stayed, as did Diane and her cute little daughter, Mia. And Jimmy Hardy. He was drunk and maudlin, moaning about Ron and how heartbroken he was, about how Ron was his best friend in the world and how much he loved him and what would he do without him? Not even Jimmy’s wife, Tess, could get him to shut up and go home. Finally, Dorian and Peter put Jimmy in the poolhouse, where he passed out on the sofa.
But once almost everyone had gone home, that’s when something snapped inside Brian. It was like a light had been turned off. He tore off his Italian silk tie, stumbled upstairs and into the bedroom, slamming the door behind him. And there he stayed.
Dorian wasn’t sure what to do next. He’d been raised all over Europe and England, following either his mother or his father from film set to film set, then to various public schools in England. During all that time he’d never had any religious training, either Jewish (his father) or Catholic (his mother). But once he landed in Hollywood, he’d quickly understood that as much business was done in the synagogue as in the boardroom, so he learned how to play the game. When he met Peter, who was actually observant, the pair became regulars at Temple Israel with the other movers and shakers, the producers and directors and agents. So at least Dorian knew enough to have Carmel cover the mirrors and made certain that the catered food was kosher.
Brian had disappeared and Ron’s family sat there, waiting. Now what? Dorian and Peter couldn’t imagine sitting shiva in this house for seven whole days, but what else could they do? Ron hadn’t been a practicing Jew since he left for college, although he donated to all the requisite Jewish charities and had even shown up for the High Holidays a few times early in his career, although never since Brian had been in the picture. Even their wedding had been completely secular, with the ceremony conducted by - who else? - Jimmy Hardy, flourishing a certificate as a ‘minister’ of the Universal Life Church that he’d gotten online.
Dorian arranged for the Rosenblum family to stay at the Four Seasons in Beverly Hills, as well as for a driver to take them shopping or sightseeing or wherever they wanted to go. But the day after the service, there they were at the house, waiting for people to make a shiva call - and waiting for Brian to make an appearance. For the first three days, there were some visitors, mainly people from the industry paying their respects as a mitzvah. Not the big shots who had come to the service, but writers and minor actors and crew members who’d worked with Ron on various projects, some from years back.
“Where’s Brian?” they all asked.
“Upstairs,” said Diane, the unofficial hostess. She tried not to let the worry show in her voice or on her face.
That’s when she finally when upstairs and knocked on the bedroom door. But it didn’t work.
On the fifth day two men showed up late in the afternoon.
“Welcome,” said Dorian. He didn’t recognize them, although he felt that he should know who they were.
“We weren’t sure whether to come,” said the shorter man. “But when we got the call, we got on the plane as soon as we could.”
“The call?” Dorian was confused. “Call from whom?”
“Uncle Michael!” Gus ran to the two men and embraced them. “Uncle Ben! You’re here!”
“Hey, sport,” said Ben, hugging the boy. “How are things going?”
“Not good,” Gus admitted. “Dorian, this is my Uncle Michael and my Uncle Ben.”
“So happy you could make it,” said Dorian, shaking their hands. “Are you related to Brian?” He didn’t know a lot about Brian’s family, but he did know that he didn’t have a brother.
“Sort of,” said Michael. “We grew up together. And Gus and I are sort of related, too. We’re ‘lesbian-adjacent.’”
Dorian wasn’t sure what he was hearing. “Pardon? Lesbian what?”
“Michael is the father of my sister, Jenny Rebecca,” Gus explained. “Except she’s not exactly my sister, because we have two different mothers. And two different fathers. But we’re connected through my two moms. Or my mom and my ex-mom.” Gus shrugged. “It’s kind of complicated.”
Dorian knew Brian’s situation was complex, but he was only now beginning to understand just how complex. “I think I understand. So, Gus called you gentlemen to come here?”
“No,” said Diane, coming down the stairs. “I called them.” She walked up to Michael. “We only met once, at the wedding in Hawaii, but Brian talked about you all the time. He said that you got him through some difficult times.”
“That’s true,” said Michael, his brown eyes filling with tears. Damn! He’d promised himself that he wouldn’t do that!
“This is a difficult time, too,” said Diane. “Brian won’t talk to anyone. He’s shut down completely. He won’t speak to me, or Dorian, or Peter. He won’t even see Gus. But maybe he’ll speak to you.”
Michael swallowed. “What… what if he won’t? Brian can be awfully stubborn.”
“You have to try,” Diane pleaded. “Maybe something you say will get through to him. Because I can’t do it. None of us can.”
“I’ll try,” said Michael. “I love Brian so much. I hate to see him in… in pain.”
Diane nudged him towards the stairs. “We all hate to see it. Do what you can.”
Michael climbed the steps reluctantly. He thought about the times in the past when Brian had needed him. All the times he’d had raging conflicts with his father and sought refuge at the Novotny house. The time when he’d come back from New York, sick and shaken. When he’d almost lost his job at Ryder and faced losing his loft and everything he’d worked for. When Justin was bashed and it was like Brian had been bashed as well, except all the wounds were deep on the inside instead of where everyone could see them. When he got cancer and was facing his own mortality. And then when Justin left - all of the times. And the times Brian had been there for him, too - so many times! Michael gritted his teeth. All of those had been hard, so goddamn hard, but this…
“Brian?” He didn’t expect an answer. He knew Brian too well. So Michael took a deep breath and pushed open the bedroom door.