He didn’t really want to leave; he had more ideas. But he also didn’t want to end up on Sylvia’s bad side, so he packed up his things and walked slowly to the car. Blue skies again today, shirtsleeve weather. No hints that Christmas was only days away.
Wait, that wasn’t true. Decorations festooned several studio buildings, and someone had stuck a potted, decorated Christmas tree near the edge of the courtyard. In fact, the windows in the Ink and Paint building were covered in holiday-themed images created by the artists inside. All of this had been in place for a couple of weeks at least, but Frank had stubbornly refused to acknowledge any of it.
The last time he had truly celebrated Christmas—if celebration was the right word to use—was eight years ago in Bastogne. Frank and several dozen other members of the 101st Airborne had crammed into a room where a chaplain led the service while shells screamed and snow fell outside. Like Frank, most of the men in the room had been wounded, but they couldn’t be evacuated due to the siege. Frank had been feverish with pain despite the freezing cold and was becoming increasingly convinced that if he survived, he was going to lose his lower leg.
A first aid station was bombed that night. More people died. Some of them had been his friends.
Frank had joined in the Christmas prayers and caroling and, for the first time in his life, made a genuine effort to address God. Please. Get the rest of us out of here alive. And if you can do anything to end this war, I’d appreciate it.
Who knows, maybe God had listened. The following day, the Army managed to drop desperately needed ammunition and medical supplies into the city. And the day after that, the siege was broken and Frank and the other casualties were evacuated. He’d spent a festive New Year drugged up in an army hospital.
Maybe he would have been in the mood to celebrate in the years since, if he’d had anyone to celebrate with. Instead he’d stayed home alone, drawing and listening to records. Telling himself that if he could survive Bastogne—and all the war that came before it—he could get through the damn holiday without drinking himself unconscious to avoid the memories. And he’d always won that battle too.
“Well,” he said now, collapsing into his car seat, “this year I’ll have a little party with the frogs. That’ll be celebratory. But we need some decorations, I think.”
He started driving and a while later found himself pulling up to valet parking at Bullocks Wilshire. He’d been inside the luxury department store—a magnificent art deco palace—only once before, shortly after receiving his first paycheck from Rask Studios. The prices had been heart-stopping. But hell, he got paid a lot more now, and he didn’t spend much. He could afford to splurge a little.
His intention was to head straight upstairs to the housewares department, which he assumed would have small ornaments in stock. But to get there he had to pass by the gleaming cases of jewelry and perfume, and he ended up choosing small, pretty bottles of scent for Paul’s daughter and daughter-in-law and a lovely silk scarf for Paul’s wife, Lillian.
It turned out that the men’s department had a whole display of gift ideas. Frank selected a patterned apron for Paul, who’d lately become enamored of barbecuing, and very nice pocketknives for Paul’s two sons and son-in-law.
That left the grandchildren, and Frank had no idea what might be age-appropriate. Until he spied some nice art kits: bright tin cases containing colored pencils, paper, brushes, and paints. He figured those would work for kids of nearly any age, and the younger ones would grow into them eventually. He chose five tins.
By now he’d almost spent more in a single day than he ever had before—except for his house and car—but he was having fun. He couldn’t carry everything, but the clerks were happy to wrap his purchases and have them sent down to wait near the entrance until he was ready to pick up his car. But he still hadn’t bought anything for the frogs—not that he intended to inform the salesclerk who the recipients were.
The housewares department was a visual feast, with gleaming flatware, shining crystal, and ornately patterned dishes. He found himself wishing he could draw it, but he didn’t have any paper on him. Besides, the Bullocks employees would likely disapprove. He wandered for a while instead, avoiding near collisions with the many other shoppers while trying to record the images in his head for later reference. Christmas music played over the sound system and the air smelled of candle wax and balsam fir.
Although the entire department had been decked out in holiday décor, one section concentrated exclusively on the theme. Glass ornaments hung from several artificial Christmas trees, and shoppers could choose from individual baubles or boxed sets. There were also Nativity scenes crafted from porcelain or wood, ornate candle holders, embroidered stockings, and an assortment of figurines to decorate tables and mantels.
“May I help you?” asked an attractive young woman. She wore expensive clothing and her hair was carefully styled, but despite her smile, she looked a little frazzled. Holiday shoppers were probably exhausting.
“I’m looking for a… a very small Christmas tree. About yea high?” He demonstrated with his hands. “Ceramic?”
She responded as if this were a common request. Maybe it was. “Sure. Just over here.”
She took him to a table laden with miniature trees. He chose one and then, because he couldn’t help himself, also picked out a pair of tiny elves, one of which had a wagon full of wrapped gifts. He passed on the Santa, however. “Shall I have them wrapped?” asked the saleswoman.
“No, thanks. They’re for, um, my house.”
“They’re very festive, sir. I hope you enjoy them. Have a merry Christmas!”
As he drove away from Wilshire Boulevard, his car considerably fuller than when he arrived, he decided to take himself out for an early dinner. He might as well, considering he was throwing money out the window today. So he drove to the Smoke House in Burbank. Like Bullocks, he’d been there only once before, about a year after it opened. He’d gone for lunch with several guys from work, all of them attracted to the place because Mr. Rask, Mr. Disney, and other studio owners were rumored to love it.
Now he was there alone, a single man occupying the vast banquette seat, which was curved and upholstered in rich burgundy to match the patterned carpet. “Will anyone else be joining you, sir?” the waiter asked. He had an interesting face, with a narrow mustache under a beaky hooked nose, and long skinny legs. If he were an animated character, he’d be a flamingo.
Frank grinned at him. “Not likely. Can I still get dinner?”
“Of course, sir! What can I bring you to drink?”
“Just water with ice and lemon, please.”
The flamingo raised his eyebrows but didn’t comment. Sometimes people did comment on his avoidance of alcohol, occasionally even suggesting that teetotaling was a sign that he was queer. When that happened, he always wanted to inform them that no, having sex with other men was a sign that he was queer. What he drank had nothing to do with it.
Because it was early and the restaurant wasn’t yet busy, Frank took his time with a porterhouse meal and garlic bread, occasionally wiping his fingers on a napkin so he could do a quick sketch of the flamingo or other people in the room. There was no rational explanation for it, but he felt more comfortable, more at peace with himself than he had since… well, as long as he could remember.
Stomach pleasantly full, he paid his bill and drove home. He carefully arrayed the gifts for Paul’s family on the dining room table, which he rarely used for meals. With the colorful papers and sparkly bows, they made a holiday decoration in themselves. Then he took some time setting up the little tree and elves inside the terrarium. Carver and Reed seemed singularly uninterested in the festive additions, but the tableau made Frank smile. He even did a drawing of the tank, adding little Santa hats atop the frogs’ heads, and leaned the finished sketch on the otherwise bare mantel.
An idea was nibbling at the base of his brain. It was a terrible idea, really, so terrible that he refused to acknowledge its existence. But it nibbled anyway, making his heart beat a little faster and his skin feel warm. Although he opened his bedroom window, he didn’t sleep well that night. The nibbling was too disruptive.
