by Camille Eide
Passing the corner bus stop, she kept going. Nothing sounded better than an invigorating walk and some fresh air. The post office was an easy ten-block stroll, and she’d planned for it by wearing her old saddle shoes.
She hurried past shop windows with signs promising more kinds of automatic household equipment than she’d ever seen. Everything was automatic now, even dishwashers. Mama had taught Eliza and Betty to work hard, to never spend a penny when one could make do with elbow grease, and not just because times had been so lean. Although Eliza’s parents had been fortunate to find work during the Great Depression, they continued to do things the frugal, old-fashioned way, even after the economy had improved. Mama had often hummed a little tune while she scrubbed laundry in a tub, an old-world sort of tune that Eliza had never heard anywhere else. Maybe it was something Mama had made up. Or perhaps something Mama’s mother had taught her as a girl—somewhere in Europe. Somewhere too insignificant to show the curious young Eliza on a globe or map.
By the time Eliza was in high school, she’d finally given up asking her parents where they’d come from. Laura and Wesley Peterson were just quiet, boring literature teachers from some quiet, boring place. But when Eliza was a child, the vague way Mama and Papa had referred to their younger years had often sent her imagination running wild. She’d imagined they were in a band of horse thieves and were hiding from the law. Or royalty ousted by a coup and living in exile. She had always preferred that fantasy, daydreaming about how, one day, a string of white Rolls-Royces might stop at the door of their small Sacramento bungalow and whisk the Peterson family away to a castle in another land.
But after years of living with the couple who spent more time with their noses in books than anyone she’d ever known, Eliza finally accepted the fact that something far less exciting was likely to account for her parents’ lack of interesting history and gave up asking. With such a dull home life and the prevalence of so many books, it was no wonder Eliza had developed such an imagination.
She greeted folks passing by on the sidewalk, and as the Laurel Theater came into view across the street, she smiled. Now she could afford to treat herself to a nickel movie. The Laurel ran old, reissued films in a program they called “Yesterday’s Favorites,” which was a growing trend with the smaller movie houses.
Maybe she’d stop on the way back from mailing her article, since Saturday matinees were a double feature and still just a nickel. She’d missed most of the first picture. That was fine. It was probably an old B western, which she wasn’t over the moon about anyway.
As she neared the marquee, she smiled again. Empty Saddles—clearly a western. She might still catch the tail end of that one, and then see the A picture which was—
Nothing to Say but Goodbye, starring Marlow and Devine.
Eliza halted, causing another pedestrian to jostle her elbow.
Blonde bombshell Deborah Marlow and Johnny Devine. What were the chances that “Yesterday’s Favorite” would be one of John’s pictures?
She stepped off the sidewalk to get out of the way of passersby and stared at the marquee. On second thought, it wasn’t so surprising. The growing popularity of television was causing a drop in box office sales, so houses like the Laurel would run a popular older film for a few days, then switch to another. They went through a couple of old films a week that way. And John had starred in many films. In fact, she’d seen his name on the marquee before. Still, it was an odd coincidence.
She mailed her article and then walked back to the theater, curiosity growing with each step. She’d seen a few of Johnny Devine’s pictures when they released, but that was years ago. At the time, she had no idea she would one day meet him. What would it be like to see him on the big screen now?
With her ticket and soda in one hand and a bag of popcorn in the other, she slipped through the curtain and into the dark theater. Her eyes took a moment to adjust to the dark. Scanning the rows, she saw an empty spot about midway down the aisle, so she made her way to the wooden bench and ducked onto the seat.
The lady beside her greeted Eliza with a smile.
Minutes into the first scene, Eliza stiffened. According to a close-up shot of a newspaper headline, the story was set in 1938. Perhaps seeing a movie wasn’t such a good idea after all. The less she remembered about the year she turned eighteen, the better. But then, she hadn’t treated herself to a movie in a while, and it wasn’t as if the worst year of her life would be on the screen. She could leave at any time, if she wanted to. She focused on the rueful strains of saxophone in the opening score.
The heroine was a cynical young heiress with no one she could trust. Desperate for a break from the boardroom, she set sail on a cruise ship and disguised herself as a working-class girl, much like Eliza. But the similarity began and ended with the girl’s work status. Even in a plain overcoat and felt hat, the woman was gorgeous. Bold, self-assured. A woman who knew her worth and would never let anyone tell her otherwise. Was it the actress or the character exuding such confidence, or both?
The heiress explored the ship but kept to herself until she noticed a group of men playing cards in a smoke-filled room off the lower deck. She asked to join them, but none of the men looked happy about a woman interfering with their game. Especially the handsome man with a cigar clamped between his teeth—played by Johnny Devine.
“No dames allowed,” he said in that deep, trademark rumble.
Eliza’s breath caught.
“Oh, I know what you mean, he does the same thing to me every time,” the woman beside her purred, gaze fixed on the screen. She sighed. “I could watch him all day. Isn’t he positively divine?”
The heiress had somehow talked the men into letting her play a round of poker. If the cigar smoke and shots of whiskey bothered her, she didn’t show it. After she won several hands, the heiress thanked the men and said she needed to leave. Johnny’s character—Geoffrey—excused himself and offered to escort her to her room. “After all,” he said in her ear, “that’s my money you’re carrying, and I want to be sure you still have it tomorrow night so I can win it back.”
The blonde played it cool with a shrug and let him escort her.
Eliza could see where the storyline was going. It didn’t take long for the sparks to ignite between them, and soon Geoffrey and the heiress were spending more and more time together. One night, bathed in milky moonlight at the ship’s railing, with waves churning in the background, Geoffrey lifted the woman’s chin, looked deep into her eyes, and leaned in slowly for a kiss, his eyes closing …
The lady beside Eliza throttled her bag of popcorn, sending a shower of kernels all over the floor, but Eliza couldn’t take her eyes from the screen. It was the longest, most heart-stopping kiss she’d ever seen. She checked on her neighbor, who was fanning herself and trying to clean up the mess she’d made.
Then the ship docked and Geoffrey was on the telephone in a dark little room at the back of a seedy café. “Sure, I’m sure. She’s hooked all right, and by the time we get back to New York, I’ll have her reeled in.” Geoffrey listened and checked around him.
Eliza’s heart sank.
“Don’t worry. She’s so head over heels she won’t know what hit her until after the shareholder’s meeting … sure, I’ll remember. Just make sure you remember to bring the other half of my dough.”
Eliza stopped breathing. It’s just a movie.
Her neighbor patted her arm. The woman was watching her intently, nodding. “This part always gets me too,” she whispered. “Have you seen it before?”
Eliza shook her head.
“He’s really not a bad man. But don’t let me spoil it for you.”
With a nod, Eliza resumed watching, but with growing regret over her decision to see this film. So many thoughts and sensations flooded through her. Hearing the sound of a younger John’s deep voice coming from the screen and seeing him without a cane was so strange. And of course, a ten-foot image of his smoldering eyes and handsome face was
now permanently burned into her memory.
That wouldn’t be helpful come Monday morning.
And seeing him portraying a man so convincingly in love threw her for a loop—and how. But the most difficult part was watching how skillfully Johnny the Actor depicted a man playing such a duplicitous, unscrupulous role. A man pretending to be a man pretending. A multi-layered lie, one that he pulled off with disturbing authenticity.
The thought of all that deceit and believable sincerity made Eliza’s stomach twist, popcorn and all. She wasn’t sure she could finish watching. She hunted in the dark for her handbag and slipped its handle over her arm.
“You’re not leaving, are you?” her neighbor whispered. “You have to see what happens next. It’s the best part!”
“Well, maybe a few more minutes.” Eliza sat back and tried to relax.
As the story went on, the couple became inseparable, spending every remaining moment together. By the time the ship docked, they were making ardent promises to each other to meet again. They parted and headed in separate directions, but then Geoffrey turned back, forced his way through the crowd, and found her.
In a softly lit close-up, he pulled her close and told her he loved her like he’d never loved anyone. He kissed her, and the heiress melted into his crushing embrace.
Eliza’s insides lurched. So convincing, and yet, such lies. Similar to the lies Ralph had used to woo her. Too bad Eliza hadn’t been warned of Ralph’s duplicity the way this audience had been warned about Geoffrey’s.
Back in New York, Johnny’s character went to meet the man who had hired him, sweating and fidgety as he waited. When his contact arrived, Geoffrey said he wanted out. Not only did he refuse the rest of his “fishing” money, but he also gave back the money he’d already been paid.
It turned out poor Geoffrey the snake had fallen in love—for real.
Eliza was not surprised by the storyline; she had already guessed where the plot was going. It had been done before and would be again. The way she had it figured, the heiress would now discover that Geoffrey had been sent to “fall in love” with her as a decoy, a way to detour some important investment decision she was about to make, and the poor woman, who thought she had finally found someone to love and trust, would realize it was all an act, and worse, a means to use her for gain.
The pain and humiliation of such betrayal hit too close to home. With teeth gritted, Eliza held on a little longer, just to see if she was right.
In a penthouse office, the heiress was paid a visit by a terse-talking private eye who had proof that her company’s competitors had hired a decoy in an attempt to manipulate her and railroad her investors. She didn’t believe him at first, but then the detective said he had a photograph of the decoy. He took out an envelope, but the heiress stopped him, saying she needed a moment. She squared her shoulders as if bracing herself, and then took the envelope. She pulled out the photo, gave it a brief glance, then slipped it back inside. Her eyes glistened, but only for a moment. Chin up, she handed the envelope to the man. “Good work, Mason,” she said. Something in her expression changed. Hardened.
Eliza could feel the woman’s embarrassment coming straight off the screen in waves.
“Do whatever you need to do,” the heiress said evenly. “I don’t ever want to see that face again.”
Eliza had also had enough. She stood.
“Oh, but you’ll miss the ending,” her neighbor said. “You’ll never guess how, but it all turns out, I promise. Are you sure you have to go?”
“I’m afraid so. Nice chatting with you.” Belly churning, Eliza dashed out of the theater and kept going. There were better ways to spend a nickel, ways that wouldn’t upset her stomach and remind her of her own humiliation. Perhaps the less she saw of her employer, the better—
A weird tingling on the back of her neck made Eliza stop and look over her shoulder.
People were walking the sidewalk in both directions. A man in an overcoat a block away was going the same direction as Eliza. Watching her.
The man from the diner.
You’ve seen too many detective pictures. Snap out of it.
She ventured another look back, but the man was gone.
I knew I was being lied to and yet chose to believe it. What’s sad about self-deception isn’t that it makes a fool of you—though it does—but that sooner or later you wake up and realize there’s nothing worth believing in.
~The Devine Truth: A Memoir
7
As the gate closed behind Eliza Monday morning, her cheeks burned, in spite of the gusty breeze that whipped across her skin and tugged at her uncovered curls. She’d spent the morning in such a dither that she’d forgotten a scarf. Preparing for work reminded her of last Friday and what she’d implied to John about the ten dollars. If her mama had been there, she would have offered Eliza gentle words of correction. She would likely say that, while being mindful of her feminine intuition was always wise, a lady didn’t always have to speak what was on her mind.
This learning-to-assert-herself scheme wasn’t turning out quite as planned.
When Eliza arrived at the house, Millie was cleaning a window but set down her cloth and went to the door ahead of Eliza, humming a tune.
“Good morning, Millie.”
“Mornin’, Miz Eliza.”
Eliza smoothed her curls and followed Millie inside.
John appeared from the hallway, looking dashing in a white shirt, tweed slacks, and a silk tie.
Eliza smoothed her hair again.
He motioned Eliza into the library. “After you, Mrs. Saunderson.”
While John headed toward his chair by the fireplace, Eliza settled at her desk. She went straight to work, resuming where she’d left off on Friday. Knowing he was in the room made the back of her neck tingle, similar to the way it tingled after leaving the theater and sensing she was being followed.
After the movie.
The one in which John kissed a woman speechless. Which Eliza did not care to think about—ever. And especially not when she needed to concentrate.
“Mrs. Saunderson, may I ask you a question?” John said.
She turned to face him. “Yes?”
He was seated in his upholstered chair with a Bible open on the table beside him. “I don’t mean to sound impatient, but do you have an idea how long before we can begin with the dictation?” The rigidity of his posture made him look as if he were in pain.
“As a matter of fact, I should finish your opening chapters this morning. I think what we have so far should meet with your editor’s approval.”
“Fine.”
Eliza couldn’t decide if he was suffering pain or some other disturbance. He seemed engrossed in his study, so she put her curiosity aside and returned to her work.
Millie passed the library with a feather duster, humming. She broke into the words, “Oh, I need Thee … every hour I need Thee …” She moved slowly through the sitting room, giving a little stroke here and there to a lampshade or the top of a perfectly clean chair.
By the time Eliza had completed the opening chapters, John had resumed his habit of pacing the library, pages in hand. “Okay, John, I think we’re—”
John?
He pivoted slowly and gave her an inquiring look.
Well, she had been thinking of him as John, which actually went a long way in helping her forget that he was Johnny Devine. Which she needed to do all the more now, after seeing him in that film. And she had to call him something.
“We’re ready to proceed,” she went on, cheeks warm. “Where would you like to start?” She turned her chair to face him with her pencil and steno pad and waited.
“Could you please read me the last page you typed?” He came toward the desk.
She did as asked and then looked up.
“We’ll begin with the heading The First Years,” he said.
Eliza wrote quickly. “Do you want to start off by reading me what you have written?”
“Oh. I assumed …” His brow furrowed slightly. “Is that what you would prefer?”
“Sure. We can see how that reads and go from there.”
John opened his mouth to speak but hesitated. He looked at her ready pencil as though it were a spoonful of bitter medicine. “Yes, about that. In case you haven’t noticed … which is absurd since you’ve obviously noticed by now, my … writing skills are only about as good as a ninth-grade education can provide.”
She didn’t mean to stare at him but couldn’t help it. As far as the way John carried himself, she would have never guessed he was a high school dropout. He seemed so polished, so cultured. But as far as the issues with the writing, this certainly explained a lot. It also explained the man’s frustration at her many interruptions to correct his work. She winced. What an absolute heel she was. No one liked being constantly reminded of his or her shortcomings.
She of all people should know that.
“I left school at fourteen to find work. The Great War changed things for me. Drastically.” When he looked up, something was buried deep in his expression. Something like pain or shame or a mix of the two.
“I imagine a lot of people found their lives in upheaval at that time,” she said lightly. She had long suspected that her parents had been scarred by the First World War, though they had never discussed it.
John studied the page in his hand. “Well, luckily for me, in spite of my lack of formal education, I learned valuable language and storytelling skills through script reading, director’s cues, and grueling practice. But there’s a big difference between delivering captivating lines to an emotionally engaged audience and putting my personal story down on paper.”
“I understand. Writing a book is much harder than most people realize.”
He studied her. “You’ve written a book?”
She nodded. “Several, but … they haven’t been published. I write on a topic most publishers aren’t too eager to print.”