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My award is early, because no one really cares about the screenplay category. I’m glad we’ll get it over with so that I won’t have to be nervous for the rest of the show. I’m not nervous about winning and having to get up there onstage, I’ve managed my expectations. I’m nervous about the part where they show the faces of the nominees on TV as they announce them and then show them again when they name the winner. I’ve been unable to decide how my face is supposed to go. Mona Lisa smile? Glee? When they announce Barry Sterns’s name as the winner （that’s who I’d pick）， do I nod in agreement and applaud? I decide that’s what Meryl Streep would do. Nod and applaud. That’s the gracious way out.
Martin and I are on the aisle in the second row. Leo and Naomi are directly in front of us in today’s episode of fresh hell. They look so right together, like they should be the models for all of the wedding-cake toppers in all the world. They must be in that comfortable silence part of the relationship, because they don’t speak.
Peter Harper from Sunrise is announcing the category. His press people have been trying to get him everywhere in anticipation of that film coming out later this year. His last film, Shrapnel, a World War II piece, got him a lot of attention and a quick relationship with a swimsuit model.
He comes out in a tuxedo and says some words about the importance of story. I’m underwater now and can’t really hear anything. “The nominees are,” he starts, and Martin pinches me, actually pinches me. I turn to him and see his best Mona Lisa smile, which I gratefully replicate. I breathe.
“And the Oscar goes to . . . Nora Hamilton, for The Tea House.” I hear this and Mona Lisa is gone. I beam with what must be Bernadette’s smile, and I can only imagine my kids at Penny’s house jumping up and down on the couch.
I am being hugged by Martin. He whispers in my ear, “You have to go up now,” so I do. This part is not what I imagined from watching it on TV. The steps are treacherous, though I manage them by lifting the front of my dress and walking too slowly. Peter Harper is at least three inches shorter than I imagined, and he kisses my cheek as he hands me the statue. It’s heavy, just like they say.
I am at the podium and there are so many more people there than I could have imagined. Thirty seconds count down on the clock, and my three sentences are lost to me. Leo is in the front row and gives me a smile, his real smile, and the surprise of it brings me to.
I ad-lib. “I am really grateful that I had the opportunity to tell this story. And I’m more grateful that it was welcomed, nurtured, and performed by such talented people. It’s wonderful to speak your truth and be heard. Thank you all.”
And now Peter Harper has his arm around my waist and he’s leading me offstage. I didn’t thank Martin or shout out to my kids or even mention the Academy. I now see what the deal is with the index cards.
I return to my seat at the commercial break, and Naomi hugs me and says all the right things. Leo says, “I knew it,” and gives me his real smile again.
“Don’t do that,” I say, too quickly.
The orchestra starts and someone’s coming out to introduce a dance number. I can feel my phone blowing up in my tiny bag. I can feel the weight of this gorgeous statue on my lap. I see Leo whisper something to Naomi that makes her smile. Life really is a mixed bag.
Martin wins and thanks me for such a heartfelt story. Leo wins and says, “And I’d like to thank Nora Hamilton for the story and for letting us overstay our welcome in her tea house.” This makes me cry, and I know that he sees. I fish in my bag for a tissue, more to protect my makeup than my pride. You were welcome to stay, I want to say. I might have even let you start sleeping inside.
When it’s over we pose for photos. They want Martin, Leo, and me all with our Oscars against the logo backdrop. “Can you move in a bit closer, Mr. Vance?” asks the photographer. “Maybe put your arm around her?” He puts his arm around my waist instead of my shoulders and pulls me close to him. This takes me by surprise, and I turn to look up at him. The camera flashes, and I think this is the photo that will make it into all the press. The one with me looking up at Leo like he’s the prom king.
CHAPTER 22
At the Vanity Fair party, I sort of float around. The Oscar I’m carrying shouts, “Talk to me! It’s important that you know me!” I meet directors and producers and actors that I’ve been watching for decades. I drink champagne and eat off of passed trays while people take turns carrying my Oscar. It’s just been engraved with my name so I assume it’ll make its way back to me. I keep an eye out just in case.