Chapter 5
Sundays were the only days he stayed away from the studio.
He usually spent them doing household chores, cooking himself a decent meal, and curling up in his armchair with a thick book.
The hours tended to stretch, long and empty.
Sometimes he went for a drive instead, because although he was no newcomer to the state, California still held wonders for him.
Frank was not in that sort of perverse mood today.
It helped that every time he glanced in the direction of the frogs, he found himself smiling.
Carver was squished up against the Christmas tree as if he considered himself a gift.
Reed was inside the elves’ wagon, his glossy green belly overhanging the edges.
Frank even sang them some carols while he cleaned the tank and gave them fresh water.
Right around noon, the idea stopped nibbling at his brain—but only because it engulfed it entirely, completely taking over Frank’s will.
His feet carried him to his desk, to the stack of drawings he’d brought home on Friday.
He’d taken most of them back to the studio yesterday, but several remained.
Including the one on which Carver had written his phone number.
Frank picked up his phone and dialed.
“He won’t answer,” he told the frogs. “He’s far too busy for that.”
But the call was picked up after the third ring. One of the most familiar voices in the country said, “Reed.”
Frank very nearly hung up. His hand was shaking, for Christ’s sake. At least he was able to keep his voice steady. “Uh, hi. This is Frank Porter. The animator. I’m really sorry to bother you, but—”
“Frank! It’s great to hear from you! I’ve been sitting here trying to come up with an excuse for getting your number from Sylvia. Where are all the writers when a fellow needs one?”
It was altogether possible that Frank was going to have a heart attack. Or a stroke. That goddamn idea had nibbled and gotten him into this, so why couldn’t it respond? After what felt like eons, he said, “Why did you need to call me?”
“The usual reason: I wanted to speak with you, Frank. You’re really easy to talk to.”
Frank very much wished he had Carver’s gift of gab. Instead his tongue was like a big chunk of concrete. “I, um, thanks. Look, I know you’re an incredibly busy man, but I was wondering if I could have another chance to, um, watch you. Just half an hour?”
Carver answered quickly. “Where do you live?”
“Burbank.”
“Perfect. I’ll be over in… let’s see. I’ll take the Porsche, and I’ll be there in about twenty-five minutes.”
It hadn’t crossed Frank’s mind that, even if Carver was willing to meet up again, he’d want to do it now. And at Frank’s house. “Um, my house isn’t exactly a mansion.”
Carver laughed. “And mine is. But it’s a mess.
I’m having the pool replaced, the kitchen and two of the bathrooms redone, the living room redecorated…
. And don’t ask me why I decided to do all of that at once.
I was clearly in the middle of a delusional fit.
But if you’d rather, I’m sure we could get someone to let us into the studio. Unless you had somewhere else in mind.”
Frank hadn’t had anyplace in mind; the nibbling hadn’t been that specific. “My place is fine, as long as you set your expectations low.”
“You’ll be there, right? That’s all I need to know.”
After giving directions, Frank hung up. Then he stood there and tried not to hyperventilate. “You did this,” he reminded himself. “You called him.” And Carver had answered. And now he was on his way over.
For a moment, Frank had an urge to go on a whirlwind cleaning spree.
But in truth his house wasn’t that untidy to begin with, and nothing he could do would transform it into a Beverly Hills palace.
He sat in his armchair instead, drawing a picture of himself with a crazed-looking monkey gnawing on the back of his skull.
The Idea, he wrote at the top. Then he added two frogs in Santa hats, one in each lower corner.
He was considering whether to put some holly sprigs along the top of the page when the doorbell rang.
He was certain that fewer than twenty-five minutes had passed, but he set down the sketch, took several deep breaths, and made his way to the door.
He didn’t bother with his cane since he was at home, which meant his gait was a little unsteady.
When he opened the door, there stood Carver in chinos and a pale-green zippered pullover.
His hair was more tamed than last time although not completely well-ordered, and he held a paper bag under one arm.
“The Porsche’s fast,” he said with a rakish grin.
Frank stepped aside to usher him in.
“Can I put this in the kitchen?” Carver asked.
“Fresh-squeezed orange juice. My former gardener wanted me to cut down the orange trees so he could give me an English garden, which is nuts in Los Angeles and is why he’s my former gardener.
The current one likes the trees. And I didn’t bring any vodka because I had the impression you don’t do booze, but if you want screwdrivers I can run out and get some.
Did I tell you I talk too much when I’m nervous? ”
“Why are you nervous?” Frank was genuinely puzzled.
Smiling instead of answering, Carver made his way to the kitchen—it wasn’t hard to find—took a pitcher out of the bag, and looked around. “Glasses? A big spoon?”
Frank wordlessly gave him both. He was still taken aback that Carver had noticed his abstention and had accepted it so easily.
Then they were sipping juice, which was really delicious, as Carver gave himself a tour of the place.
There wasn’t much to look at in the modest bungalow: two bedrooms, one and a half baths, a living room, a dining room, and the kitchen.
The single-car garage had an attached studio space with a large north window.
The small backyard was mostly gravel, with the only color coming from a couple of potted red geraniums. Frank’s foot precluded most gardening, not that he’d ever been particularly drawn to the task.
The spare bedroom contained a drawing table and various art supplies, even though Frank did most of his work at the dining table or in his armchair.
The living room and dining room had a small assortment of decent furniture, a bookshelf stuffed mostly with art references, and a few of his own pieces framed and hanging on the walls.
And, of course, the frogs sat in their large tank in the corner of the living room. Carver had explored the entire house before stopping in front of the terrarium. “Handsome fellows.”
“A guy brought a bunch of them into the studio for a couple of days so we could observe. Well, mostly so I could observe, since I’m drawing the prince in frog form. I thought they were interesting, and the fellow said I could have a couple.”
“I like them,” Carver announced. “They look like they’re thinking deep thoughts. And I see they’re in a holiday mood.”
One of Frank’s dumb blushes heated his cheeks. “I was at the store and saw the tree and elves….” Which wasn’t a complete lie, although it skipped the fact that he’d been specifically looking for items like that.
“The decorations are nice.” Carver bent to get a better look, which incidentally gave Frank an excellent view of his ass. It was the type of ass that deserved to be memorialized in art. Frank had to suppress a sigh.
Carver spent a few moments wiggling his finger near the glass in an apparent attempt to get the frogs’ attention. “Not the cuddliest of housemates, I guess, but at least they won’t scratch the furniture or bite the mailman. What are their names?”
Oh no. Frank should have anticipated this and come up with aliases.
They wouldn’t have complained. But now his mind was a pristine sheet of paper, and Carver was looking back over his shoulder and awaiting an answer.
Shit. “Reed and Carver,” Frank mumbled. As if saying the names in that order would keep Carver—the human one—from realizing what Frank had done.
“Pardon me?” Carver gave a small shrug. “Hearing’s not great. Too much time around jet engines.”
Now Frank’s blush flared into a conflagration. “Reed. And Carver.”
His guest looked delighted. “Really? You’re not just saying that? I don’t think anyone’s ever been named after me.”
“They’re just frogs. And I’m sure plenty of women have named their kids Carver because of you.”
“Those kids should be named Chaim. ’Cause that’s me, Chaim Roth. Or it was, until I changed it. And yeah, I know, I don’t look Jewish.” He said the last phrase in a sing-song tone. “My mother’s a shiksa. And I can see that Carver and Reed here clearly celebrate Christmas.”
“I could get them a tiny menorah.”
“Nah. Hanukkah was last week.”
“I’ll change the frogs’ names if it’s too… strange.”
Carver pointed a finger at Frank. “Don’t you dare! I’ll be deeply offended if you call them anything else.” He bent over again and cooed at his namesakes for a few moments while Frank enjoyed the view and tried to memorize it for later sketches.
When Carver stood and turned, he faced the dining room, with the table clearly visible through the wide doorway. “That’s a nice pile of gifts. Big family?”
“Friends. Have you met Paul Blanchard? He’s one of the writers. Those are for his clan.”
“Don’t know him, sorry to say. You must be close.”
“He’s a good man. He and his wife, Lillian, they’re sort of… parental, I guess.”
Carver nodded thoughtfully. “Nice to have.” He drained his glass, set it on the end table, and spread his arms slightly. “You said you needed me?” He raised his eyebrows questioningly.