She led the way around a fountain—drained for the season—that featured some of the studio’s most famous characters. “Yes, but he’s a frog for the bulk of the film. You need to find ways to incorporate Reed’s movements and facial expressions into your amphibian. I’m sure you’ve seen photos of him and have seen him on theater screens, but neither of those is the same as in person. When people go to see our movie, they need to recognize the frog as Reed, and not just from the voice.”
Frank was willing to concede that this was true. But still…. “How am I supposed to make a frog look like a movie star?” An incredibly handsome movie star.
“You’ll manage,” she said, patting his arm. “That’s why I assigned the frog to you. He’s the star of the show, and you’re our most talented animator.”
Under other circumstances, he would have basked in the praise. Now, however, he felt slightly nauseated. “I don’t know,” he muttered.
Sylvia stopped in her tracks. “Are you telling me, Frank Porter, that you don’t want to spend a few hours with one of the country’s biggest onscreen heartthrobs? They call him America’s Beau. And he was nominated for an Oscar, you know.”
Frank knew, all right. He knew a lot about Carver Reed. But he wasn’t about to share that information with her. “We have tight deadlines. I can’t really afford to lose time lolling around with actors.”
“You’ll be observing, not lolling. And watching him will inspire you so much that it’ll be worth a couple of hours.”
She didn’t look at him, which made sense since they’d reached the darker area before the parking lot. But her voice held a hint of suggestion that made him uncomfortable. As if she knew exactly how much, and in which particular ways, he’d be inspired by Carver Reed.
It seemed as if this experience would be inescapable, but at least Frank had two days to prepare himself. Although he had no idea how he was going to do that.
By now they’d reached Frank’s Studebaker. He was usually one of the first to arrive in the mornings, partly so he could put in more time at work and partly so he could snag one of the closest parking spots. That way he wouldn’t have to hobble quite so far. Out of habit, he patted the roof. He’d bought it used a couple of years ago and was very fond of it, although he hadn’t gone quite so far as to name it.
Sylvia paused for a moment. “Eat, drink, sleep. These are orders from your boss. And I’ll see you bright and early.” She gave a little wave before continuing briskly toward her car.
The sleepy-looking security guard at the parking lot exit gave a little wave as Frank rolled by.
Frank lived just a couple of miles from work, in a neighborhood near the Burbank airport. Talk was that they’d soon be building a freeway practically in his backyard, but for now it was a quiet place. He had two little bedrooms and a garage with an attached studio space that he never used. Sometimes he still marveled at the novelty—to him, anyway—of owning his own place. He liked his house, but tonight he thought it looked forlorn. He should have left some lights on.
He parked in the driveway instead of pulling into the garage, grabbed his cane, and made his way inside. The air smelled faintly stale, as if nobody lived there. Would it be odd if he bought himself a flower arrangement now and then to add some color and a pleasant scent? The florist wouldn’t need to know it was for him. If necessary, he could even manufacture an imaginary wife. Her name would be Grace, he decided.
Standing in the kitchen, Frank realized that he was hungry, but he was too tired to cook. Not that he possessed sufficient ingredients to do much anyway. He ended up frying a few eggs, sprinkling them with cheese, and eating them while standing at the counter. That would have to do.
As for Sylvia’s order to have a drink, he never kept alcohol in the house, so he had a glass of milk instead.
After washing the dishes, he made his way into the living room. No cane, because if he fell at home, nobody was there to see it and his dignity would remain intact. He’d bought a sofa when he moved into the house, but it was rarely used. He preferred the armchair, where he’d sit with his feet propped on the ottoman, sketching little scenes. A bird perched on a power line, perhaps, or the fountain in the courtyard at work. If he was in a certain mood, he’d draw a scene from Europe: soldiers waiting to leap from a plane, soldiers walking past a ruined church, soldiers crouching behind a wall as they waited to advance, a soldier sitting on a rock and smoking a cigarette, soldiers on cots inside the hospital tents. Those drawings didn’t make him feel better, though, and he always crumpled them up as soon as they were finished.
Tonight, rather than sitting down, he made his way over to the record player, another of his purchases after buying the house. On a table next to it was a twenty-gallon terrarium containing two frogs. The larger one slept in the corner while the smaller one was mostly hidden under a piece of hollow wood.
“Hello, boys. No food today, but Kenny will bring us some juicy crickets or cockroaches tomorrow.”
A number of frogs had originally been brought into the studio to serve as models. A few people had objected, but Frank found the creatures interesting, and eventually the man who owned them had offered him a couple. The man had also given advice on their care, so Frank knew to give them water and mist their tank every morning and to feed them insects every two or three days. He paid Kenny, one of the studio office boys, to provide the bugs.
As pets went, the frogs weren’t especially engaging. They didn’t like being handled, and they spent most of their time motionless. But Frank wasn’t home often enough to keep a dog or a cat or a bird, and it was nice to have something living in the house besides him. Sometimes he talked to the frogs, which he figured was slightly healthier than talking to himself.
He performed his nighttime ablutions, stripped, and climbed into bed, sighing with relief as the pain in his leg ebbed away. He most assiduously did not think about Carver Reed.
If he wasn’t too tired after work on Saturday, maybe he’d drive down to Hollywood. There was a bar on Melrose Street, the Blue Fox, that he visited now and then. Patrons weren’t allowed to touch each other, but the risk of police raids was low, and at least Frank could take off his mask and engage in some friendly chatter. He occasionally received an offer to accompany someone home; he occasionally agreed.
Not recently, however. There was nothing wrong with brief trysts—that was all he’d ever had—but it had begun to feel stale. He yearned for the impossible.
Also, the last time he visited the bar, he’d run into one of the writers from work, a man named Brownlee, and that had been awkward, even though they barely knew each other. They’d spent the evening carefully not making eye contact, and ever since then they’d avoided each other at the studio as much as possible. A shared secret could have strengthened their connection, but instead it had hung heavily between them, as if they’d both committed an embarrassing faux pas.
Tonight, Frank stayed home.
CHAPTER 2
Wednesday and Thursday sped by, with little time for Frank to become preoccupied with his upcoming meeting. He worked on his drawings and cared for his frogs, and at night he fell asleep almost as soon as he crawled into bed.
On Friday morning, however, he was so on edge that sometimes his hand jittered as he tried to draw. Instead of illustrating a frog walking through a castle, he drew cartoons of himself: one with a ten-ton weight hanging over his head by a thin thread and another with him tied to railroad tracks with a freight train rounding the bend. He even managed to knock over his coffee mug, spilling tepid liquid onto coworker Arnie Roberts’ leg and earning himself a well-merited swearing session.
At eleven, he gave up on trying to work and instead headed to the commissary for an early lunch. He sat there picking at his sandwich and allowing his soup to grow cold, until someone startled him by plopping a tray on the table across from him.
