The Memoir of Johnny Devine

by Camille Eide

  “Are they going to accuse you too?”

  John strolled to the window. “I don’t care if they do. I’m not a communist. They’ve been trying to get me to name names, but I’ve already told them everything I know, which isn’t much.” He turned to her. “Listen, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t get so hot under the collar. I’m sure McCarthy’s witch-hunt will run out of steam eventually.” Muttering, he added, “I’m praying it does.”

  Millie came in carrying a tray. “Such a fine day. I thought you two might wanna work outside. Enjoy the last of that warm, sweet breeze ’fore it gone.”

  “Excellent timing, Millie, thank you.” John exhaled a long sigh. “Here, let me get the door.” He ushered them outside to the garden.

  He and Eliza each took a seat, while Millie set a plate of golden macaroons on the wrought iron table and poured two glasses of lemonade. She left the pitcher with them and hugged her empty tray. “Anything else you two be needin’?”

  “This is perfect, Millie.” John leaned back, his smile relaxed. “Thank you.”

  Millie shuffled into the house, humming a lively tune.

  Eliza grinned. That old woman had to be an angel—if there were such a thing. She tucked a tickling curl behind her ear. With her notepad and pencil in hand, she turned to John.

  His eyes were fixed on her. He quickly looked away. “So, where did we leave off, Mrs. Saunderson?”

  She cringed inwardly. It was good that he addressed her formally; it kept things professional. But still, something felt so aloof about it, as though he were pointing out that she was from a different social class, someone outside his celebrity sphere.

  She read the last page back to him.

  John began with how he tried to move on with his career after Stella left.

  “When? How?” Eliza put her notepad down. “It’s your story, but you can’t just skip over that. Which one of you broke it off?”

  John lifted his gaze slowly and studied her from beneath those dark lashes.

  Something in Eliza’s chest fluttered. Cut that out. Next you’ll be swooning.

  “I ended it. And let’s just say she wasn’t ecstatic about it.”

  “Why did you break it off? I mean—” Eliza set her pencil on the table with great exaggeration. “If you don’t mind my asking.”

  He looked at her pencil. “Off the record?”

  She nodded. His readers may forever wonder what happened, but she wasn’t writing another word until she knew.

  John sighed. “All right. I finally got fed up with her using me to line her pocketbook.”

  “Wise decision.” Eliza took up her pencil, biting her lip to hide a smile. She took notes as John went on.

  After Stella left, he continued to audition on his own as “Johnny Devine” and failed every audition—no surprise, since Stella had taken her clout and left unhappy—but then in 1925, he got a lucky break with the American Laboratory Theatre in New York. Former Moscow Art Theatre members Richard Boleslavsky and Maria Ouspenskaya took Johnny under their wing. There he learned Stanislavski's system, known later as Method acting, a style that helped create some of the world’s most renowned stars.

  When an MGM scout spotted him performing at “The Lab,” he invited Johnny to Hollywood to audition. Johnny went west, and though he failed that screen test, he found enough bit parts and odd jobs on studio sets to stay alive. Also, he discovered a new hero: Charlie Chaplin. By this time, Johnny was passing screen tests, and agents had begun to take notice. Working at DeMille Pictures, as it was known at the time, he met Cecil B. DeMille one day while working on a set.

  After giving Johnny some tips on making it in pictures, DeMille cast him as an extra in The Godless Girl. From there, he started working in other silent films, then graduated to talkies in the 1930s at a time when many big name male stars were washed up because they didn’t have the voice to make the transition to sound. Johnny Devine’s face and voice suddenly landed him better parts. He began working with top-billed stars, and though he wasn’t yet a household name like Douglas Fairbanks or Clark Gable, he was becoming known well enough to be recognized in public.

  John leaned back with glass in hand, as though thinking about what to say next.

  In the silence, Eliza took a moment to reread her notes, all the while marveling at this inside glimpse of Hollywood. John was eating one of Millie’s cookies, so Eliza reached for one and took a bite. She hadn’t had a macaroon since Mama was alive. The toasted outside and soft, chewy inside melted in her mouth. Eliza closed her eyes and savored the taste of coconut and almond. “I can’t cook worth beans, and I don’t have a grandmother,” Eliza said between bites. “I may just have to adopt Millie.” She reached for her lemonade.

  John chuckled. “Sorry, but her twelve grandchildren might have something to say about that.” He looked across the garden to the tree line bordering the south side of the property. His face sobered. He turned and pushed the plate of cookies toward Eliza. “Say, why don’t you take these home? Millie always makes far too much. It would cheer her up to know someone will use them.”

  Eliza pushed her glasses higher and eyed him. “Millie needs cheering up about her cookies?”

  “Sure. She’s adamant about not letting anything go to waste. She single-handedly saw her entire family through the Depression.”

  “Did she? What an amazing woman,” Eliza said. “So then … why does she keep making too much?”

  John took a moment to think about that, then he chuckled. “You got me.”

  Eliza hadn’t forgotten Millie’s speech about being thrown out to beg in the street. “In danger of losing her job, my foot.” She laughed. “You know, you’re not the only actor in this house.”

  “You’re right. That was an Oscar-worthy performance if ever I saw one.”

  Eliza looked down at her notes but couldn’t help smiling. Millie was something else. And if given a choice, Eliza wouldn’t have her any other way.

  When she glanced up, John’s eyes met hers and held, as if seized by some unseen force.

  Her heart skittered double-time.

  With a frown, he reached for his glass but didn’t raise it, just stroked away beads of condensation. “Now then, where did we leave off?”

  John dictated and Eliza wrote until they had composed another page.

  She was still jotting the last few lines when John reached for his cane and stood. “If you’ll excuse me, I have some things to attend to. I won’t be long.”

  “Of course. I’ll just go inside and type these pages.”

  John nodded and left. Instead of going into the house, he passed the front door and continued along the stone path toward the driveway. Perhaps he was going to see Duncan.

  Eliza headed for the house, but as she reached the door, she heard John’s voice and stopped. She peered around the bushes but didn’t see anyone with him. Strange.

  When John came into the library a little later, Eliza had finished typing his notes. “Where were we?” he asked, taking his seat by the fireplace. He placed a small notebook on the table. He looked spent.

  “Hollywood, the early 1930s. You were fast becoming a recognized name.”

  John stared into the water glass Millie had left for him. “I’m not sure what to talk about next.”

  “Why don’t you start with some of your films?”

  He stared across the room. “Yes, I suppose that’s about when things really began to unravel.”

  Eliza turned away and worked at her desk. Perhaps that would make it easier for him.

  “My first big break was on the film The Pearl of Kuri Bay. Fans went bananas over what Louella Parsons dubbed an ‘explosively passionate couple’ in her article—along with a few other nicknames she coined for me.”

  Eliza tried but couldn’t contain her pesky curiosity about the other half of this explosively passionate couple. “I’m not familiar with that film,” she said, her cheeks cooking. “Who was your co-star?”

  John took a sip o
f water. “Deborah Marlow.”

  Heart thumping, Eliza wrote the actress’s name, but in her mind’s eye, she saw the gorgeous blonde from the matinee—her charisma, her raw emotion. Eliza might have guessed Deborah Marlow was the one. And the columnist was right. Explosively passionate described that toe-tingling kiss between Deborah and John, right down to the—

  “Mrs. Saunderson?”

  With a jolt, she turned. “Yes?”

  “I said, ‘Are you ready for me to continue?’”

  “I’m sorry, yes.”

  John went on and listed a number of films and directors, stopping at times to look in his notebook to check his dates.

  “Is that an earlier draft of your book?” Eliza nodded at the notebook.

  “No, it’s my journal,” he said. “Some thoughts, reflections, a few prayers sprinkled in. But in a way, I suppose it’s like a draft. Most of what’s going into my memoir comes straight from this.”

  “I kept a journal after my parents’ deaths,” she said. “My way of breaking reality down into more manageable pieces.”

  “The reality of all you’d lost.”

  She glanced up. “Yes. Actually, it was more of an ongoing letter to my mama.”

  Until Ralph tossed it in the trash. Because, according to him, anything that took Eliza away from attending to his needs was a waste of time.

  She swallowed the sting and readied her pencil. “What next?”

  “Yes. Well, in spite of my growing success, something was off-kilter. And getting worse. I’d never gotten over how Stella had used me, and now, others were lined up to do the same. Two-timing agents. Dames who only wanted to be kept in high style. Studio owners who wanted to control my every move, my life. I no longer knew who I could trust. On top of that, I worried constantly about my acting. I wondered if I was being sought after for my talent or just for the image the studio had created. Any time a critic doubted my talent, I pushed myself to the limits to prove I was either a superstar or a complete fraud, one or the other. I started drinking and staying out all night. I’d show up on the set at the last minute, wearing last night’s clothes, hungover and scrambling to remember my lines. Honestly, I don’t know how I pulled it off, but somehow, I did. I wasn’t going to let anyone tell me I was no good. I was the only one allowed to do that.” John swirled the water in his glass. “And throughout all that, there were women.”

  Eliza kept her expression even. You’re just here to type a book. And you’re being paid well to do it. She gripped her pencil and waited.

  John rose and went to the window. “But that’s all I’m going to say about that for now.”

  Exhaling her relief, Eliza nodded.

  “About that time, I met Oscar Silva.” John turned toward Eliza. “From the moment he signed on as my agent, I gave that man a steep uphill run for his money. He could barely keep up with all the scandals. Oscar saved my backside more times than I can count, and he saved the studio a lot of bad press. They didn’t want to lose all those ticket-buying fans by letting it leak that I—”

  Air hissed from between his gritted teeth, and he returned to the window.

  She kept her eyes on the page in front of her. Avoiding eye contact kept things comfortable. And not just for John.

  “That I never slept in the same place twice.”

  She wrote it exactly as he said it, but the marks on the page could not convey the shame in his voice.

  “Anyway,” he went on, “I was a louse. I still don’t know why Oscar stayed with me as long as he did.”

  It seemed John was no longer dictating, but talking to her. She looked up.

  “As a matter of fact, we’re still friends to this day, though I certainly don’t deserve his friendship. Shows you his caliber. He’s a good man.” He let out a sigh. “A very good, honorable man.”

  Her gaze locked onto his, and something tugged in her chest. The idea of John admiring another man for his goodness and honor made her heart heavy.

  Everyone knows a realistic actor is either a very good liar or a very poor one.

  ~The Devine Truth: A Memoir

  9

  By the end of the week, Eliza and John had fallen into a working rhythm. Friday afternoon, when they had finished their dictation for the day, Eliza read back over her notes, then turned to John. “Can I read this last section back to you?”

  “What am I listening for?”

  “I’m thinking we should insert a little more detail, give the reader the feeling you’re inviting him or her into your inner circle, so to speak. That’s what you want in a memoir.” She tapped her pencil on her pad, ideas already forming for a couple of spots where he could engage the reader more.

  “Mrs. Saunderson …”

  She met his gaze.

  John leaned forward in his chair. “I don’t believe I’ve thanked you for all the hard work you’ve been putting into this.” He looked into her eyes and smiled. “I’m beginning to think your name should be on the cover, not mine.”

  Eliza had often made a point to avoid those penetrating dark eyes, especially when they probed hers like this, and she had succeeded—most of the time. But she couldn’t ignore his words of praise, which spread through her now like warm cocoa. She’d always been a sucker for a kind word. There hadn’t been an overabundance of them lately.

  Who was she kidding? There hadn’t been any at all.

  “I’m just putting your words on paper,” she said, easing the words carefully around the sudden lump in her throat. “And I know you’re just pulling my leg. Your name alone will sell a million copies. I bet as soon as this book hits the shelves, everyone will be clamoring for you to make a comeback.”

  With a harsh laugh, John shook his head. “Not interested. In fact, just between you and me, sometimes I wish God would make the fame disappear. But then I remember I should be grateful, because that fame will probably help get this story into more people’s hands.”

  “That’s guaranteed.” Eliza put her notepad down and rubbed her neck. “Must be nice to have a name that sells books before they’re even written.” She gasped, cheeks instantly on fire. What a thoughtless thing to say. “I’m so sorry, that was incredibly rude—”

  “No, please, don’t apologize. I completely agree.” He reached for his cane and examined the smooth, curved handle. “If it were a matter of my writing merit alone—well, we both know there’s not a publisher who would touch it.”

  She couldn’t look at him, but from the corner of her eye, she saw John rise.

  Millie came in with a tray of iced tea and molasses cookies. Quietly, she set it down and headed back to the kitchen.

  John watched Millie leave, then turned to Eliza. “Have you been paid yet?”

  She set her notepad down. “I pick up my first paycheck today,” she said. There had to be something else they could talk about, something besides being paid to write.

  “Your agency is billing me, so I’m sure they’ll take care of it,” he said. “But I’d still like to be sure they’re giving you the proper rate for collaboration.” He looked into her eyes. “You’ll let me know if they don’t?”

  “I’m sure I won’t need to trouble you, but thank you.”

  He turned his gaze in the direction Millie had gone. “She’s been widowed many years. Her life isn’t easy. But she says, because of her family, she couldn’t ask for a single thing more.”

  Eliza simply nodded. What was on his mind? This was the time of day when she usually switched to typing the day’s notes, leaving John free to go about other business. Yet today, he didn’t seem to be in any hurry to go.

  “Do you have any other family, Mrs. Saunderson?”

  Why did he want to know that? But at least the topic was better than talking about scratching out an existence as a no-name writer. “I have a sister.” Eliza turned, put a sheet of paper in the typewriter, and propped her notepad on the easel. “And she has a family.”

  A perfect family. And she keeps a perfect home and throw
s perfect lawn parties and wears perfectly matching pearls and a perpetual smile in perfectly correct social circles.

  Eliza looked over her shoulder at John. Surely he was only being attentive to be polite.

  John nodded. “I’m just curious, of course. I mean, why a kind, intelligent young woman such as yourself would choose a career instead of …” He shook his head. “My apologies. It’s none of my business.”

  She silently agreed—it was none of his business. And yet, society deemed a woman’s role as a housewife to be implicit and, therefore, everyone’s business.

  “I’m sorry, I meant no offense,” John said. Without waiting for a response, he headed out of the library, the steady thunk of his cane echoing on the wood floor.

  Was it really so strange for a woman to choose to work instead of making a home and serving a husband and family?

  Of course it was strange. When television portrayed Harriet Nelson as the happy modern woman, who would consider doing anything else?

  Eliza wasn’t opposed to family. It was just that, during the past fifteen years, she’d forgotten what family felt like.

  Almost forgotten. Some longings hovered like a shadow, close but untouchable. A baby would have made being married to Ralph worth it.

  A lump formed in her throat. No one knew of her silent longing, not even Betty. Closing her eyes, she forced the thought away. No, she wasn’t opposed to family. But family meant marriage, and she certainly didn’t want marriage if it meant a life of shackles and lies.

  After stopping for her paycheck, Eliza got off the bus at the market near the Laurel Theater and picked up a few groceries. The feeling of money in her pocketbook was sweet, almost as sweet as the Nestlé bar she’d bought for later. She also bought a can of tuna for Mr. Darcy, just in case.

  The stray tom must have had some kind of feline sixth sense, because when she arrived home, Darcy was on her balcony drinking from the water dish she’d left out. He looked startled to see her, but he stood still, watching her movements through the glass.