“I don’t know.” Carver waved a negligent hand. “I’ve never taken classes or anything. It’s just what I do.” He resumed messing around with the piece of machinery.
Frank could never have been an actor. It took so much effort for him to keep himself masked that sometimes he felt like a polio victim confined in an iron lung. If he opened himself up enough to imagine others’ emotions the way that Carver did, he’d fall apart. Or explode. Sometimes the pressure hurt more than his stupid foot.
A short time later, Carver danced over and stared over Frank’s shoulder at the drawing pad. “Jesus!” he exclaimed.
Frank clutched the paper protectively. “They’re just quick sketches, not?—”
“No, no, look at that.” Carver pointed at a small drawing in one corner. “I mean, that’s me. Even though my face is only a couple squiggles and my hair”—he ran fingers over his scalp—“God, is it really that messy? But it’s clearly, obviously me. How do you do that?”
Here came another blush, this one the hottest yet. “It’s my job.”
“Yeah, yeah. But… you know that old saw about how certain tribesmen somewhere think that photographs capture your soul? That sounds like a load of racist bullshit, but I feel like that’s what you did with that drawing.” He crouched so they were at eye level, only inches apart. “You stole a bit of my soul.”
“I’m sorry.” It was hard to talk. How could anyone, especially someone who’d been through a war, have eyes so clear and bright and sharp? Frank wished he had paints or colored inks so he could try to do them justice, although he knew he’d fail.
Carver answered in a husky tone. “I’m not sorry. I’d be happy to give you more, if you wanted.”
Frank had the irrational yet certain idea that they were about to kiss. And that it would be the best kiss of his life.
And then the door to the room opened with a bang and two men in suits strode in.
Carver stood upright, again so smoothly, and when he spoke his voice sounded entirely normal. “Frank’s work is extraordinary. I see why you chose him to illustrate the frog. But I thought we weren’t going to be interrupted.”
Both men looked chastened. The bald one cleared his throat uncomfortably. He was Earl Vossen, Mr. Rask’s second-in-command. He was the one who spent his days fretting about finances while Mr. Rask dreamed up ideas and schmoozed people who could help make those dreams come true. “I’m sorry about that. We’re just checking to make sure everything’s going smoothly.”
“We were doing fine.” Carver marched closer to them, arms crossed and eyebrows raised.
“Glad to hear that, glad to hear that. We, um, well, I’m sure you know how important this film is to us.”
“It’s important to me too. I was nominated for Best Actor—do you think I’d just accept any old role?”
Gruff and boastful as it was, the assertion seemed to placate Vossen, whose posture relaxed. He was an angular man, and Frank was tempted to draw him as a clothesline support or stepladder, stiff and unbending. But he didn’t.
Vossen pasted a smile on his face. “If you don’t feel that Mr. Porter is the right man for the job, we have many talented character animators on staff. We can?—”
“If anyone but Frank draws me, I’ll walk.”
“The contract!” squeaked the other man. Frank didn’t know his name, but he was, most likely, one of the studio lawyers.
“I don’t give a fig about the contract. I want Frank.”
Perhaps Frank should have spoken up at this point, but hell if he was going to mediate his own demotion… or firing. Besides, I want Frank was awfully nice to hear, even if Carver meant it in professional rather than more intimate terms. For the foreseeable future, Frank would replay those three words during his bedtime self-gropes.
At any rate, Vossen nodded. “All right, all right. As long as you feel he’s up to it.”
“I already told you that I do. Now if you’ll excuse us, gentlemen, we’d like to get back to work.”
Vossen and the lawyer mumbled a few things before fleeing. As soon as they were gone, Carver spun to look at Frank. “Idiots. I do love it when I get the chance to play diva, though.”
“You didn’t have to. What he said was true—there are a lot of other talented animators here.”
“I want the best. And that’s you.”
As if none of the preceding scene had happened—including the not-kiss before it—Carver strode over to a microphone and lifted it from the stand. It wasn’t on, but he spoke into it as he gave a short speech thanking the Academy for his award, and thanking the writers and artists who’d made him such an excellent frog prince, and thanking his agent and his fans. Interestingly, unlike most award-winners, he didn’t mention any family members. Frank wished he felt comfortable enough to ask why. Instead, he drew.
They spent time chatting about Carver’s cars and airplane, about a trip to Mexico he’d taken a few months earlier, about how sometimes he visited Paris, which always felt a little strange to him after the war. He asked questions too, and Frank ended up describing his little walkup apartment in New York and how difficult it had been to create appealing images to advertise an antacid medication.
Carver was easy to talk with. A simple way to describe him would be charismatic. But more accurate would be that he seemed to attract all the light in the room, as if even photons couldn’t resist him. Frank could imagine him as a figure in a painting by Raphael or Paolo Veronese, one of those works that took up an entire museum wall and showed dozens of people in togas and other classical clothing. There would be dogs gamboling around feet, fruit and flowers draped everywhere, patterned fabrics festooned from balconies, and a dizzying array of arches and balconies with an orchard-dotted vista in the distance. But as soon as observers spied that painting, their eyes would be drawn straight to Carver, as if none of the rest of the image existed.
