kitchen. Three tables over. When the program starts, you can go into the Grove. Miguel, the assistant head waiter, will give you something to carry and tell you where to put it down. Then you just stand against a wall with your hands folded in front of you trying to look above the whole damn thing. Here.'
She handed each of us a pair of the white gloves. Mine fit fine, which made me think that Shelly's and Jeremy's would be too tight and Gunther's would be too large. Wrong. Everyone had the right-size gloves. Mame had been in the business for more than two decades. She could gauge a glove size with a glance.
'Backstage,' I said. 'One of us has to go backstage. Our friend Spelling, or whoever he is, may want to put on a little show. You know, jump out on the stage, shove Bob Hope aside, and take a few shots at Varney or Maureen O'Hara.'
'There isn't much of a backstage area,' said Mame. 'Presenters come up from their tables and the receivers do the same, but…' She shrugged, taking a deep drag. 'If that's what it takes. Who goes backstage?'
There was only one reasonable choice. I didn't look at him but Gunther and Shelly did. Jeremy nodded.
'Okay,' said Mame. 'Come with me.'
Mame patted Gunther's cheek and they smiled at each other. Then she went back into the lobby with Jeremy behind her.
'I look nothing like Billy Barty,' Gunther said with a sigh when they were gone. 'Nothing? Am I correct?'
'Nothing,' I said.
'You're both short,' said Shelly, stuffing the last of the whipped-egg canapes in his mouth. A spot of yellow stuck to his nose.
'Yes, of course,' Gunther said with uncharacteristic sarcasm. 'How could I have failed to notice that?'
'It's better than being Van Heflin's father,' I said.
'I have never seen Van Heflin's father,' said Gunther.
We went on like this for about five minutes till Mame returned. 'Hurry,' she said and pushed open the door that led to the Coconut Grove kitchen.
The kitchen was full of cooks, waitresses, and busboys, bustling busily as quietly as they could. Beyond the door across the room a woman was singing 'The Star Spangled Banner.'
'Lena Home,' Shelly said, as Mame clicked through the kitchen giving whispered greetings to the staff, who all seemed to recognize her.
There was a small window in the door to the Grove dining room. Mame looked through it, checked her watch, and stepped away, pointing to the left of the window. I moved to the window. A small band was playing and Jeanette MacDonald was standing on a low platform at the far end of the room singing, her mouth wide and trembling. I looked to the left. It took me a few seconds to find Lionel Varney standing next to Turhan Bey. Lionel looked great in the tux. Bey looked even better.
The people in uniform were saluting. The men and women out of uniform had their hands to their hearts.
I looked around for someone who might be Spelling, but it was tough to see much till they all sat down. I did see Jimmy Cagney biting his lower lip and smiling, his eyes fixed on MacDonald. He'd failed as best actor a few years ago in Angels with Dirty Faces. Variety and the Hollywood Reporter had him neck and neck this year with Ronald Col-man. Yankee Doodle Dandy was the sentimental favorite, but the Academy was usually in M-G-M's pocket, and Random Harvest looked good for Colman.
'Lemme see,' said Shelly, putting his face next to mine and nudging me away.
Gunther, who was about three feet short of the window, with no dignified way to look through, stood looking at the kitchen crew scurrying around.
'She's…' Shelly said. 'Can you believe she's so skinny? I mean she looks like a piece of spaghetti next to Nelson Eddy, but in real life she's worse.'
When the anthem was almost done, a dark man in a tux and gloves like ours pushed a silver cart next to us. The man had a receding hairline and a full mustache. Mame introduced him as Miguel and then she clicked away back through the kitchen.
'Pitchers of water,' Miguel said. 'One for table five.' He pointed at me. 'One for seven.' He pointed at Shelly. 'And one for table twelve.' He pointed at Gunther. 'Directly to the left of the nearest gentleman to the kitchen at each table. Space has been set aside.'
'Then,' he continued. 'You find a place against the wall near the exit to the left,' the accented man said to Gunther. 'And you stay against the wall and out of the way. If one of the guests should ask you for anything, nod, get the attention of a real waiter by raising your right hand no higher than your shoulder. A waiter will come and you will tell him quietly without bending your head to him what the guest wishes. Understood?'
'Understood,' I agreed.
'Good,' said the man, looking through the window. 'Other pitchers of water are now being placed on the tables. It is time.'
'I'm a dentist,' Shelly said to the man.
'We have had physicians, lawyers, and even a senator offer hundred-dollar bills to let them wait tables on Oscar night,' the man said.
'State or federal senator?' Shelly said, taking his pitcher.
'From Oregon,' the man said, pointing to the door.
Sheily went out, Gunther followed, and I was last. Bob Hope was at the podium making jokes about William Ben-dix and pretending to be hurt because he wasn't nominated for The Road to Morocco. I found my table and put the water pitcher down next to Ronald Reagan. I knew some people sitting at the tables, worked on cases for them. Gary Cooper, Bette Davis, but I didn't figure they'd recognize me or even take a good look. People don't even recognize their own waiter in an uncrowded restaurant after they've given their orders.
I moved to a white wall, careful not to lean on it, and looked around for Gunther and Shelly. Gunther was about twenty yards away to my left. Shelly was the same distance to my right. Shelly had something in his mouth. He adjusted his glasses and gave me a small wave to let me know that we were on the same team and ever alert.
Dinner went fine. Talk, chatter, most of it nervous. Waiters scurrying in and out. Plates clanking. Dessert served.
Busboys removing dishes, smoke making the air stale in spite of the air conditioning.
And then the awards.
We stood through Mrs. Miniver winning five awards and an acceptance speech by Greer Garson that seemed longer than the movie. Cagney's acceptance speech was short and ended with, 'My mother thanks you. My father thanks you. And I thank you.'
Much applause. Usually led by Shelly.
Reap the Wild Wind got a Special Effects Oscar, and Irving Berlin gave himself the Oscar for the song 'White Christmas,' saying, after he opened the envelope, 'I'm glad to present the award. I've known the fellow a long time.' Not much of a joke, but Hope's jokes didn't get a better round of laughter.
He wasn't coming. I couldn't figure it, but the evening was winding up, with Documentary, Scoring, and Technical and Scientific awards-one went to some guys at Twentieth for the development of a lens-calibration system and the application of this system to exposure control in cinematography.
Varney laughed and clapped in all the right places, listened politely when the stars at his table spoke, and kept his own contribution to a minimum. Two or three times he looked my way and our eyes met. He didn't give anything away.
Now it was just about over and Bob Hope was cracking a few final jokes about the Oscars being made out of plaster this year, because of the war, instead of the usual gold-plated bronze.
It was Shelly who spotted Spelling. Maybe it was because Spelling had spent over an hour in Shelly's dental chair and Shelly had witnessed the sweating pores of the man. Whatever it was, Shelly spotted him.
Spelling had walked past me at least five times in the past few hours with his back to me. And he had gone past me back into the kitchen carrying stacks of plates, piles of ashtrays, and bottles of wine to cover his face.
Shelly was waving wildly. Hope glanced at him, and Dmitri Tiomkin, who was seated near Shelly, actually got up and tried to calm him. I followed Shelly's finger and looked around. Spelling was coming toward me, a water pitcher held at eye level, his face distorted by the water.
I took a step to my right to block the door to the kitchen, and Spelling knew he had been spotted. He put
