1956

Chapter Two: Home; The Hollywood Aroma

Her shoulder hurts from the suitcase which pulls at it awkwardly. She forces a laugh and asks herself, "What did I pack, a thousand-pound dumbbell?"

The world has never felt so quiet; the stars are still lighting her way but the emptiness that is everything else doesn't slip past her. Comforting herself, she mutters, "Today is a jolly day. Oh, Eleanore Jane, today is a jolly day." Quickly however, she drops any attempt at self-soothing. Sighing in acceptance; it's not always a jolly day. This, well this certainly is one of the least jolly days Eleanore can think of.

Her feet are what hurt next. She can feel the beginnings of blisters form on her heels and the bottoms of her feet. Soon, she's sure she can feel her socks soak with blood. She winces with each step.

Then it's her back which aches next. Just as the idea of giving up closes in on her, the train station appears. It's only a shadow, but Eleanore swears she sees the blob of a bench. She wills herself to continue and if not for her, for Mamaw.

Discombobulated and falling apart at her seams, she falls to the bench which has never felt more comforting. The wood digs into her side but she couldn't be bothered. She curls up and rests her head on her suitcase which she uses as a pillow. Her eyes glaze over in exhaustion and she slips away into its wake.

The roaring of train horns are what wake her. She sits up, rubbing her eyes. She yawns and stretches and remembers with pain; the night before. Quickly, she remembers where she is. Then she remembers she has a train to catch. Her ticket says she's taking the 8:30 train and her pocket watch says it's 8:00.

Off she runs, into the wind and sun. Heaving in I'm-not-in-shape pain and throwing herself through the pockets of people. Having no time to slow down. She doesn't relax, not until her feet touch the inside of the train.

It's not much. A shabby seat and a broken overhead compartment will be her companions for the next few days. Unbothered, she falls with a sigh. She made it and that's all she cares about. She struggles to find comfort, but when she does she throws her head back, tosses on her eye mask and readies for some much needed rest.

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"Eleanore Goodall" a man calls monotone, "Eleanore Goodall to stage left, show's about to start."

She walks through the gaggles of people. Some throw on costumes, others plaster on makeup in a rush. Eleanore is in a gold dress, bedazzled to the nines and paired with an absolutely gorgeous beehive hairdo. She messes with it a bit; perfecting it. Meticulous, that's what they call her, meticulous. Better safe than sorry.

She floats as she moves, high on the grace that encapsulates her so effortlessly. She sees the face belonging to the man that called for her. Gently, she grabs his arm. He looks up at her wide-eyed, almost terrified, "Could you be so kind as to tell me what I'm doing at stage left." she cracks a smile, letting the kind man know she's safe.

"Oh" he takes a deep breath, "We're starting the award show"

He seems to gather her confusion because quickly he adds, "You're presenting the first award remember" and it's quick and short, a blink and a miss moment, but he adds, "You're nominated for best breakout actress" and her face flushes with excitement. Diamonds fill her eyes.

"Of course" she says with a laugh, "I could never forget that, who could forget that?" She waves her hands, all disheveled and embarrassed. Hoping desperately that this man doesn't notice her blush.

Someone weaves their way through, grabbing the nice man before she could get his name and thank him for his help. She moves toward where stage left is. She catches a glimpse of another man who, rushed and baked in sweat, points toward a spot marked with green tape. There she stands and waits.