CHAPTER 5
Sundays were the only days he stayed away from the studio. He usually spent them doing household chores, cooking himself a decent meal, and curling up in his armchair with a thick book. The hours tended to stretch, long and empty. Sometimes he went for a drive instead, because although he was no newcomer to the state, California still held wonders for him.
When he was in a particularly perverse mood, he’d drive to the ocean and stand on the higher ground, looking down at the people frolicking in the waves and lounging on the sand. He’d think, then, about Utah Beach in 1944. The plane had dropped him a few miles inland from the coast, and he’d been thankful to avoid being tossed about by waves and shelled by the Germans while stumbling, wet and heavily laden, across the sand. Still, he’d had to deal with flooded fields and machine-gun sniper fire. That one long day had seemed to last for a year.
Frank was not in that sort of perverse mood today. It helped that every time he glanced in the direction of the frogs, he found himself smiling. Carver was squished up against the Christmas tree as if he considered himself a gift. Reed was inside the elves’ wagon, his glossy green belly overhanging the edges. Frank even sang them some carols while he cleaned the tank and gave them fresh water.
Right around noon, the idea stopped nibbling at his brain—but only because it engulfed it entirely, completely taking over Frank’s will. His feet carried him to his desk, to the stack of drawings he’d brought home on Friday. He’d taken most of them back to the studio yesterday, but several remained. Including the one on which Carver had written his phone number.
Frank picked up his phone and dialed.
“He won’t answer,” he told the frogs. “He’s far too busy for that.”
But the call was picked up after the third ring. One of the most familiar voices in the country said, “Reed.”
Frank very nearly hung up. His hand was shaking, for Christ’s sake. At least he was able to keep his voice steady. “Uh, hi. This is Frank Porter. The animator. I’m really sorry to bother you, but?—”
“Frank! It’s great to hear from you! I’ve been sitting here trying to come up with an excuse for getting your number from Sylvia. Where are all the writers when a fellow needs one?”
It was altogether possible that Frank was going to have a heart attack. Or a stroke. That goddamn idea had nibbled and gotten him into this, so why couldn’t it respond? After what felt like eons, he said, “Why did you need to call me?”
“The usual reason: I wanted to speak with you, Frank. You’re really easy to talk to.”
Frank very much wished he had Carver’s gift of gab. Instead his tongue was like a big chunk of concrete. “I, um, thanks. Look, I know you’re an incredibly busy man, but I was wondering if I could have another chance to, um, watch you. Just half an hour?”
Carver answered quickly. “Where do you live?”
“Burbank.”
“Perfect. I’ll be over in… let’s see. I’ll take the Porsche, and I’ll be there in about twenty-five minutes.”
It hadn’t crossed Frank’s mind that, even if Carver was willing to meet up again, he’d want to do it now. And at Frank’s house. “Um, my house isn’t exactly a mansion.”
Carver laughed. “And mine is. But it’s a mess. I’m having the pool replaced, the kitchen and two of the bathrooms redone, the living room redecorated…. And don’t ask me why I decided to do all of that at once. I was clearly in the middle of a delusional fit. But if you’d rather, I’m sure we could get someone to let us into the studio. Unless you had somewhere else in mind.”
Frank hadn’t had anyplace in mind; the nibbling hadn’t been that specific. “My place is fine, as long as you set your expectations low.”
“You’ll be there, right? That’s all I need to know.”
After giving directions, Frank hung up. Then he stood there and tried not to hyperventilate. “You did this,” he reminded himself. “You called him.” And Carver had answered. And now he was on his way over.
For a moment, Frank had an urge to go on a whirlwind cleaning spree. But in truth his house wasn’t that untidy to begin with, and nothing he could do would transform it into a Beverly Hills palace. He sat in his armchair instead, drawing a picture of himself with a crazed-looking monkey gnawing on the back of his skull. The Idea, he wrote at the top. Then he added two frogs in Santa hats, one in each lower corner.
He was considering whether to put some holly sprigs along the top of the page when the doorbell rang. He was certain that fewer than twenty-five minutes had passed, but he set down the sketch, took several deep breaths, and made his way to the door. He didn’t bother with his cane since he was at home, which meant his gait was a little unsteady. When he opened the door, there stood Carver in chinos and a pale-green zippered pullover. His hair was more tamed than last time although not completely well-ordered, and he held a paper bag under one arm.
“The Porsche’s fast,” he said with a rakish grin.
Frank stepped aside to usher him in.
“Can I put this in the kitchen?” Carver asked. “Fresh-squeezed orange juice. My former gardener wanted me to cut down the orange trees so he could give me an English garden, which is nuts in Los Angeles and is why he’s my former gardener. The current one likes the trees. And I didn’t bring any vodka because I had the impression you don’t do booze, but if you want screwdrivers I can run out and get some. Did I tell you I talk too much when I’m nervous?”
“Why are you nervous?” Frank was genuinely puzzled.
Smiling instead of answering, Carver made his way to the kitchen—it wasn’t hard to find—took a pitcher out of the bag, and looked around. “Glasses? A big spoon?”
Frank wordlessly gave him both. He was still taken aback that Carver had noticed his abstention and had accepted it so easily.
Then they were sipping juice, which was really delicious, as Carver gave himself a tour of the place. There wasn’t much to look at in the modest bungalow: two bedrooms, one and a half baths, a living room, a dining room, and the kitchen. The single-car garage had an attached studio space with a large north window. The small backyard was mostly gravel, with the only color coming from a couple of potted red geraniums. Frank’s foot precluded most gardening, not that he’d ever been particularly drawn to the task.
