“I do. I also make less pay than my male predecessor; but small steps, I suppose. At least I kept my job when so many artists were let go. But Frank, do you know why I got in here to begin with?”
“Um, not specifically, no.”
She held up two fingers. They were long, like a pianist’s, and Frank was certain that, like his, they were callused from years of holding pens and pencils and brushes. “Two reasons,” she said. “The first was Mr. Rask’s self-interest. Quality is important to him. Not just because good films make money, but because of his pride. He wants to be known as the best—and that means hiring artists who are the best. Even if they’re women.”
This made sense to Frank. His co-workers were all talented, and Rask Studios paid better than its competitors so none of those talented artists would be tempted to defect. And from his very first day on board, he’d been taught that whatever the assignment, his superiors would expect a superlative product.
He looked at Sylvia. “That’s why Mr. Rask accepted my proposal today, even if it will cost more. Because the results will be better.”
“Yep. It’s also why you got the frog on this one, Frank—because we knew you’d do a better job on it than anyone else could. And it’s why I asked Carver to come by. I knew that spending time with him would improve your work.”
Frank ducked his head and again willed away a blush. Carver had inspired him, all right. Inspired him into bed. And into fantasies about a future that Frank could never have. “What’s the second reason he made you an animator?”
Smiling, she reached into her desk drawer and pulled out a picture frame. She handed it over without explanation. It depicted a woman leaning her head and arm out of the open window of an airplane cockpit. The image was too close-in for Frank to identify the aircraft, but US ARMY was clearly stenciled just below her arm.
“A WASP?” Frank was referring to the Women Airforce Service Pilots, of course, and not the stinging insect.
“Yep. Her name’s Ruth Moffatt. She got her license at sixteen. Broke several speed records. Spent the war first with the WAFS, then as a WASP. Nowadays she’s in the Air Force Reserve and she’s a test pilot for Douglas Aircraft. She’s also the love of my life.”
Frank blinked a few times. He wasn’t exactly surprised; he’d heard rumors about Sylvia now and then and had also heard her occasionally refer to someone named Ruth. But he hadn’t expected her to admit the relationship so openly, and he wasn’t sure what to make of it. Sylvia had, on a few occasions, hinted that she suspected Frank was queer and that she didn’t care. That made more sense now.
“You must be proud of her,” Frank said, handing back the photo.
Sylvia beamed at the image before tucking it away. “She has conniptions if I leave our house untidy. She’s grouchy as hell in the mornings. She scares me to death every day she goes up in the air in one of those infernal machines. And I love her with every fiber of my being. Also, she’s one reason I have this job.”
“How so?” Maybe Ruth was related to Mr. Rask.
“Because I confronted the old man and demanded to know why women couldn’t be animators even when we’re better at it than the men. He said it was because he’d put all sorts of time and money into training us, only to have us quit when we got married and had babies.” She laughed. “I told him that was never going to happen with me. And I told him about Ruth.”
To be honest, Frank was a bit envious of her bravery, and he also admired it. He wished that simply mentioning the person you loved didn’t have to be so fraught. “Mr. Rask didn’t… react badly?”
Sylvia leaned forward across her desk. “Honey, the old man doesn’t care who any of us share a bed with as long as word doesn’t get out to the public. He cares about the films his studio produces. If he needs to hire queers to get the very best work, he’ll hire queers. And he has.”
Frank knew this. There was that writer he’d run into the last time he’d been at the Blue Fox, after all. And he thought he’d detected subtle clues in some of his other coworkers: men who remained single well past the age when most married; men who showed unusual interest in fashion; men who knew a little too much about male celebrities; men whose glance lingered slightly too long on Kenny the office boy, who was very pretty. But none of these clues were definitive.
Frank wasn’t a type who did well with subtlety. “Why are you telling me this?” he asked carefully.
“I want top-quality work, too, and you’re a top-quality animator. I wouldn’t want to lose you just because you ran off, afraid you’d lose your job if your secret got out.”
For the second time in less than an hour, tears threatened. “I just want some of the normal things everyone else has. It’s not fair.”
“Lotta things ain’t fair in this world.” She gestured in the general direction of his bum foot. “It’s not right. But that doesn’t mean we can’t be happy.”
“Be grateful for our crumbs?” Frank knew he sounded bitter.
Sylvia didn’t seem offended. “Be grateful for the talents we were blessed with, for friends, for the family we were given or the one we’ve created for ourselves. Be grateful for love.” She sat up straighter and spoke more crisply. “Now go draw some frogs, Frank. Draw them really well.”
CHAPTER 8
Frank spent the rest of Monday thinking about frogs. Well, sort of. He also spent a lot of time thinking about Carver Reed, although he tried to keep those particular thoughts professional. He replayed memories of the way Carver had moved, first around the studio and later around Frank’s home, peering and poking at items.
A good chunk of time was also spent in conversations with other animators, especially the ones now called on to expand their roles for the hallway scene. The background painters would need to be involved soon, although Sylvia said that could wait until after the holidays.
And then it was late, and Sylvia was making Frank go home.
Carver-the-Frog and Reed didn’t exactly jump for joy when they saw Frank, but they were pleased with the bug dinner he served them, and he figured that was appreciation enough.
Although Carver-the-Human had spent only one day in this house, Frank sensed his presence everywhere. There was his orange juice pitcher, now empty and washed and sitting in the drying rack beside the sink. In the living room were the dozens of sketches that Frank had drawn yesterday and the Ella Fitzgerald record sitting on the turntable. And in the bedroom… God, the sheets still smelled of him. Frank lay down on the bed fully clothed, hugged the pillow to his face, and inhaled.
