He found himself thinking about families. Not his own, which had been pathetic at best and hadn’t existed for years. But about Paul’s large, boisterous family, which had welcomed him since his early days at the studio. He’d never fully understood why, but Paul and Lillian had opened their doors to him and treated him like a son. Not only that; they seemed willing to continue treating him that way despite his confirmation that he was a homosexual.
And then there were Sylvia and Ruth. Two remarkable women who’d steered their chosen course despite huge obstacles. They’d created their own little family and, if Sylvia was to be believed, found happiness there.
Something deep inside Frank, something that had been painfully tight since he was a child, loosened. Not by much, but anything at all was a relief. Realizing that family and love and happiness weren’t necessarily out of his reach despite his circumstances—that was a relief.
Of course Frank knew that he couldn’t have these things with Carver Reed. That was far too much to dream of. But perhaps someday he’d find a man who was equally interesting. One who was willing to tolerate Frank’s many shortcomings and who also appreciated Frank’s virtues. That man would be as good a bed partner as Carver was, as willing to pose for Frank’s sketches, as full of fascinating stories, as handsome, as enthusiastic, as?—
“You might as well expect fairy godmothers and magic frogs,” Frank scolded himself. Then gave a little sigh and went to do his evening chores.
Tuesday at work was strange. Most people had taken the day off to prepare for Christmas or to travel and visit relatives. In the animation building, only the Jewish people remained, along with a few Scrooges like Frank. And Sylvia, who was eager to spend time with Ruth but obligated to remain at work because she was the boss. After today, everyone had the rest of the week off, and a festive mood reigned. Kenny the office boy had surprised everyone by bringing homemade cookies and little tarts, and he turned out to be much more skilled at baking than making coffee. A few of the guys served up some booze, which Sylvia pretended not to notice. Frank declined politely when they offered.
In general, so little work got completed that at half past two, Sylvia threw up her arms and shouted, “That’s it! Go home, everyone. We’re shutting her down for the week.”
While his coworkers scrambled happily to obey, Frank took his time. He might have even resisted, except he was aware that Sylvia wanted to leave too, and she couldn’t unless he did.
“What are your Christmas plans?” he asked as he put away his pencils and pens.
She beamed. “Ruth is flying us up to San Francisco, where her sister lives. We’re going to feast on Dungeness crab and take a boating excursion in the Bay. And we’re going to visit an artist friend in Sausalito. We’ll go for some hikes in the redwoods up north, maybe. And I’m going to sleep in until noon every damn day!”
“That sounds like a good holiday.” He settled his rinsed-out coffee cup in exactly the right place and made sure all his desk drawers were closed.
“How about you?”
Frank stood, winced, and grasped his cane. “I’m having a very intimate party.” He walked slowly to the coat stand.
“Oh? Who with?”
“My frogs. I’ve already decorated and planned a meal—light on the bugs for me. Maybe we’ll do some caroling. They don’t know any of the words, but they do enjoy singing.”
“Frank,” she scolded. “Really.”
He smiled at her. “I’m going to catch up on my reading. I’m looking forward to it.” That wasn’t even a lie.
They walked to the parking lot together, Sylvia matching Frank’s slow pace. After they said their good-byes, Frank got into his car.
He didn’t go home right away. Instead, without consciously deciding to do so, he drove west until he ran out of land, followed the coastline north for a short time, and parked along the side of the road. On one side was a scrub-covered sand dune, and on the other was a short, steep drop-off to a small beach.
Frank got out of his car and spent a long time just standing there, looking out across the placid-looking ocean. He had complicated feelings about oceans. On the one hand, they reminded him of Normandy and the carnage he’d witnessed there. But on the other hand, he’d gotten through D-Day unscathed; it was a cobbled road in Belgium that had done him in. And the ocean was vast—beautiful in a way he could never hope to capture with brushes or pens. It was diverting to watch the water and try to catalog all the shades of blue, green, and gray, and to note the way the colors shifted as the light changed.
The briny scents were good too, and the hint of moisture against his skin. He liked to watch the birds wheel and dive or scuttle along the damp sand, and he enjoyed hearing their calls.
By the time he drove away, he felt at peace—or at least as close to it as he could get.
CHAPTER 9
“It will not be a white Christmas,” Frank informed the frogs. He figured they’d be relieved to hear that since they didn’t like the cold.
It was nearly noon on Wednesday, Christmas Eve Day, and Bing Crosby crooned on the radio while Frank relaxed in his armchair. He’d made himself a big mug of hot cocoa, the first he’d had in years, and it was delicious. In fact, he’d probably make another later on, once he felt like getting out of the chair again.
A small stack of books lay beside him on the end table. He’d started out reading East of Eden but decided it was a bit too heavy for the holiday and set it aside for later. He’d followed that with a collection of stories by a new-to-him author, Ray Bradbury. Many of the plots and themes in that book weren’t exactly cheery either, but he found it acceptable in small doses.
Frank had gone to the market that morning, so now a small ham waited in the refrigerator. He planned to cook it tomorrow, along with parsley potatoes, green beans, and cornbread. He’d bought ice cream for dessert. It was a lot of food for one person, but he knew he’d enjoy it, and he would have easy leftovers for a few days. Inspired by Sylvia, he’d also bought some cooked crab, which he was going to prepare in a salad for tonight’s dinner. Just the thought of such feasting made him rub his stomach in anticipation.
“Today will be a literary day,” he said. “For me, at any rate. You boys can enjoy the music instead. Tomorrow I cook. And Friday, maybe—just maybe—I’ll clean out the studio.” Although attached to the garage, the small space got good light. It was one of the reasons he’d chosen to buy this particular house. He’d had visions of painting there evenings and weekends, producing artworks that found their way into galleries and museums. But although he’d spent a good amount of time setting up the studio exactly as he liked it, it was rarely used. In fact, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d been in there. It was likely full of spiders, dust, and mice.
“I will clean it out,” he promised the frogs. “And I’ll paint something.” He wished he could do a portrait of Carver, gloriously nude, but didn’t feel he could do his subject justice without him there to model. But that was all right. Frank could paint something else. Geraniums from his garden, maybe, or a formal still life. Something to get him back into practice. “No frogs, though. Sorry. I have enough of that at work.”
Then an idea struck: he could do a portrait of Paul and Lillian. It was too late to gift it to them for Christmas, but he could give it after the holidays, a thank-you for their care and friendship.
