“Oh, hi, Paul.”
“Hi yourself.”
Paul Blanchard was one of the writers. He always looked slightly disreputable with his loosened tie, his rumpled shirt, and his snowy hair escaping all influence of a comb. But he could be counted on to pen the most brilliantly funny lines and, during story meetings, to act out all the characters so perfectly that Frank would actually see a princess, a frog, a cowboy, or a baby instead of a round, florid man in his early sixties.
For no discernible reason, Paul had taken a fatherly interest soon after Frank was hired. Paul was probably the person responsible for Frank’s rise from lowly in-betweener to animator, and he was certainly the one who’d insisted that, for the current project, Frank draw the frog.
Paul pointed at Frank with the tines of his fork. “You look like you’re heading for the guillotine after lunch. What’s wrong?”
Frank could try to dodge the question, but he knew from experience that Paul would keep pressing until he spilled his guts. He decided to save himself the effort. “Carver Reed is coming by the studio today. So I can observe him.”
“Horrors. An afternoon spent with a movie star. That does sound like a fate worse than death.”
Frank huffed impatiently and watched Paul take a few bites of his lunch. His wife must have put him on a diet again, because today he was eating a beef patty, cottage cheese, and some cantaloupe. He didn’t seem happy about it.
“It’s not a horrible fate,” Frank admitted. “But it’s a distraction.”
“Because frogs are beneath the great Frank Porter?” Paul asked, eyebrow raised.
“The work isn’t beneath me.”
Paul nodded. “Good. Look, maybe you have it in you to be another Picasso. I don’t know. You can try on your own time, I guess. Once upon a time I told myself I’d be Hemingway, Faulkner, Fitzgerald. But I had bills to pay. Hungry mouths to feed. So I got hired on here, and I told myself I’d make films that my kids would love. Later, it was films for my grandkids. Along the way, thousands and thousands of other kids loved ’em too. I bet that’s more than Hemingway can say.”
“Yeah.” In truth, Paul’s words hit close to home. Not that Frank would ever have children or grandchildren to please. But he’d long ago set aside his dreams of becoming a serious artist in favor of paying the rent—and becoming a damned good animator while he was at it. As Paul had pointed out, lots more people saw his art in films than would ever have seen it on gallery walls.
He couldn’t quite admit to Paul his true problem with the upcoming meeting. Even though Paul had gently—very gently—hinted now and then that he understood that Frank was queer. For example, whenever he invited Frank over for dinner, he always said that Frank was welcome to bring a friend, and he never specified the friend’s gender. Which implied that he didn’t disapprove of Frank’s queerness.
But Frank wasn’t yet comfortable enough to test him on it. He always attended the dinners solo—not that he had anyone in particular to invite anyway.
Now, Paul was clearly waiting for him to say something, so Frank gave him an incomplete version of the truth. “They’re bringing Reed in to serve as a model for me. But I’m not drawing Carver Reed. I’m drawing a frog. And I can’t imagine how I’m supposed to make a frog look like Carver Reed. And why I even have to try.”
“Ah.” Paul finished off his beef patty and scowled at the cottage cheese before continuing. “You know, when the studio took me on, the animation department was much bigger than it is now. Back then, the artists were packed in so tightly that they could barely move, and that original building was bigger. It was before we relocated here to Burbank. Some great work came out of that old place. And that work brought in a lot of dough.”
Frank knew this history lesson had a point, so he nodded. “The Wild Swans. Thumbelina. The Most Incredible Thing. I watched those when I was a kid, and they were the reason I wanted to be an artist.”
That made Paul beam. “So you see what I mean about my job being fulfilling? But as you also know, the studio’s been struggling for a while now. It’s been a long time since we had a huge success.” He sighed. “We can’t blame ourselves. Disney would probably have gone belly-up two years ago if Cinderella hadn’t hit it big, and now they’re turning to live-action films instead.”
“Much faster and much cheaper,” Frank said gloomily.
“Yup.” Paul pushed his plate away, melon uneaten. “If The Frog Prince doesn’t rack up box office receipts, we’ll all be unemployed soon. Carver Reed is Mr. Rask’s attempt to avoid that. He figures that if the frog is voiced by a big matinee idol, by America’s Beau, then it won’t be just kiddies who clamor to see our film. Their older sisters and mothers and aunts will want to go too. And, undoubtedly, some older brothers and fathers and uncles.” He caught Frank’s eyes for a moment, until Frank blushed and glanced away.
“But it’ll still be a cartoon frog,” Frank muttered.
“Your job, my friend, is to make audiences forget that. The familiar voice will help, of course. But the way that frog moves, the expressions he makes with his wide mouth and bulging eyes, those should be unmistakably Carver Reed. Do you see?”
Frank did, but it didn’t make him feel any better. He’d already felt a huge responsibility, as if the studio’s fate rested on his shoulders, but now that burden was even heavier. He had to perform a veritable magic trick. And the first step of that trick involved keeping his head straight in the presence of the man he fantasized about during his lonely nights.
The groan he made was perhaps melodramatic but entirely heartfelt.
Paul leaned forward a little and spoke softly but intently. “You can do this, kid. I have faith in you.”
“Thanks.” Frank’s voice might have wobbled a little on that word, but Paul pretended not to notice.
“Speaking of faith,” Paul said in a much louder voice, “are you certain you don’t want to change your mind about Christmas? Lillian and I would love to have you join us. Our kids will be there, and the grandkids…. It’ll be a glorious chaos. Bring a friend and make our chaos even more beautiful.”
For the week of Christmas, the Blanchards had rented a luxurious compound in Palm Springs that had once belonged to a silent-film star. There would be a swimming pool, piles of good food, and a lot of laughter. And since Paul had already tendered an invitation to Frank—several times—it seemed that Paul and Lillian sincerely wanted him there. Plus, Frank liked the Blanchards a lot.
But he shook his head. “I appreciate it, but I’m just going to take some quiet time and, maybe, put in a little extra work. I’ll probably just stay home and sleep a lot.” This was honest. The real truth, however, was that seeing all the familial joy was painful, even if they had eagerly welcomed him to join in. Better to nurse his psychological wounds alone rather than risk dragging the party down.
