The Memoir of Johnny Devine

by Camille Eide

  Mille stood near the kitchen doorway, hands clasped at her bosom. Eliza’s options were Millie, the washroom, or the front door.

  “God truly is merciful,” John said. His tone beckoned like a cool stream in summer. There was a peculiar gentleness in his eyes.

  “Excuse me,” Eliza whispered. She darted to the front room, passed through it, and reached the dining room before the gathering tears spilled. She took off her glasses and searched for something to dry her eyes with, but there were only table linens. As she wiped her cheeks with the heel of her shaking hand, she pictured her parents waving from the train, happy, oblivious to what lay before them, both on the tracks and beyond. Where were they now? If surrendering to God and trusting in Christ truly was the way to heaven, had they known that?

  A rustle in the room made her heart skip. She turned and met Millie’s tired, kind gaze.

  Without a word, Millie came closer and gently patted Eliza’s shoulder.

  Eliza could only stand there trembling, trying to collect her wits, oddly comforted by the old woman’s silence.

  John, who must have followed her, cleared his throat in the next room.

  She gave her cheek another brisk swipe.

  Millie handed her a small, lacy-edged handkerchief and lifted her chin to peer up at her. “You remind me of my youngest girl,” she said. “She’s a strong, tender heart too, just like you.”

  Eliza stole a glance at John as he approached and prepared herself for another blow.

  He stopped at the edge of the dining room. “I’m so sorry if I upset you,” he said, his voice especially deep. “I didn’t mean to—”

  “No, you only spoke what you believe. You needn’t apologize for that. I’m the one who owes you an apology. I’m sorry for what I said to you. I … didn’t mean that.”

  John glanced at Millie, then back at Eliza. “Say, would you …?” He hesitated, the look on his face strangely conflicted. “I attend a small church in Kensington. It’s a bit different, as it meets in the minister’s home. More private that way. I’m sure you understand my need for that. Anyway, I’d like to invite you. Maybe it would help … answer some of your questions.”

  After all she’d heard about God and heaven in the past few days, she couldn’t possibly hear any more.

  This job was turning out to be quite the emotional roller coaster. The woman at the agency really should have warned her.

  Eliza put her glasses back on and lifted her chin. “To be honest, I’m not sure I’m ready for that. Perhaps I could think it over.”

  John eased out a sigh. “Yes, of course. Take your time.”

  Millie shook her head at Eliza. “But not too much time. I ain’t gettin’ no younger.”

  Hollywood promises fulfillment and happily-ever-afters, but it never delivers. Yet no one seems to notice or care—we always come back for more. At times, even I bought the fantasy, and I was partly responsible for creating it.

  ~The Devine Truth: A Memoir

  12

  Eliza blew ripples across the surface of her coffee as people passed by on the sidewalk outside the diner. When was the last time she could order anything she wanted on the Lucky’s Diner menu without first checking to see if she could pay for it? She ordered a grilled tuna and cheese on rye with extra tuna—Mr. Darcy would appreciate the leftovers—and a slice of peach pie à la mode, which couldn’t possibly be anywhere near as good as Millie’s.

  Maybe when she was finished with John’s book, she could get Millie to teach her how to—

  What was she thinking? When the book was finished, the job would be over and she wouldn’t see Millie again.

  Or John.

  Heart sinking, she sipped her coffee. It burned going down, adding to the ache that was already forming in her chest. She needed to be more careful with these temporary jobs. Not let herself get too used to things—like Millie’s cooking. And steady money. Things would get tight between jobs. She needed to be better about watching her pennies, even while money was coming in. Take nothing for granted.

  Someone put Nat King Cole’s “Unforgettable” on the jukebox just as Greta delivered Eliza’s meal. She pulled her plate closer and sipped her coffee, savoring the velvety sounds of Cole’s smooth voice.

  A man in a long black overcoat and fedora approached her table. The man she’d seen here before. “Mind if I join you?”

  That voice—it was also the man who had telephoned her. And followed her from the theater.

  Eliza shook her head, but the man slid into the seat opposite her and took off his hat, revealing short-cropped, red hair.

  “No, I meant you may not join me.”

  “Expecting someone? One of your Red commie contacts, perhaps?”

  She swept a glance around the diner and lowered her voice. “I’m not a communist, so I’d appreciate it if—”

  An older woman in the next booth turned and stared at Eliza.

  Unbelievable. She could end up under suspicion simply by association with this man. “Who are you, anyway? Do you have some identification?”

  The man took out a wallet and showed her a card with a government emblem and the initials HUAC. “Bert Robinson, Field Agent.” He pursed his lips and put the card away.

  Eliza was not at all comforted by his credentials. “Why have you been following me?” she said, lowering her voice to a whisper. “I told you I’m not a communist. There’s no reason you should think I am.”

  His bright-blue eyes locked onto hers. “You’re mistaken. Your family is communist, and blood ties run deep.” He eyed the ice cream melting on her pie.

  “My family? Now I know you’re mistaken. I’m alone.” She winced at her blunder. That was the last thing she wanted a strange man to know.

  “And Russian family ties run especially deep. Did your parents give you their contacts in the Soviet Union? You can spare yourself a lot of difficulty and embarrassment by giving us names.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. My parents are dead. And they were European, not Russian.” At least, not that she knew of. “And they certainly weren’t communists.” Her appetite had completely disappeared. Signaling to Greta for a doggy bag, Eliza grabbed her purse and stood.

  The man didn’t even have the decency to rise for a woman.

  “I’m leaving. I’d appreciate it if you would stop bothering me.”

  The lady in the next booth and her husband were both fully tuned in now.

  “How did they die?” the man said, ignoring her last remark.

  Eliza pulled her handbag against her abdomen and wrapped her arms around her middle. “Don’t you know? I thought you knew everything about me and my family.”

  The agent shook his head. “Just giving you a chance to shoot straight. They died on a south-bound train headed for Fresno.”

  “What do you know of my parents’ death?” The coffee turned her stomach sour.

  Greta came by with a bag and slapped it on the table. “Oh. I suppose you want your check now too.” She left muttering.

  The agent kept steady, narrowed eyes on Eliza. “The biggest underground commie faction on the West Coast at that time met in Fresno every year in May. When did your folks take that trip?”

  She couldn’t believe what this man was suggesting. Her parents were no more communist than she was. “It was May.”

  He took out a small notepad and pen. “And where’d they say they were going—family reunion?” He puffed a little nose laugh.

  Eliza glared at him. “They had job interviews at Fresno State College. I’m sure it can be verified.”

  “Wouldn’t mean much. The well-trained ones are slick.”

  “Well-trained in what?”

  “Espionage.”

  “What? This is ridiculous! My parents weren’t spies. They were literature teachers.” Eliza glanced around the diner. Everyone was staring at her now, even Jimmy in the kitchen. She lowered her voice. “You’re wrong, and you’d better get your facts straight. You have no
thing but conjecture, no proof.” Fumbling with her purse, Eliza took out money for her check and slammed it on the table. “Leave me alone!” She left her meal behind and walked out, willing her knees not to buckle.

  “Betty, we need to talk.” Eliza wrapped the telephone cord around her wrist and checked over her shoulder for eavesdroppers in the lobby.

  “Oh, Eliza, I’m so glad you called. Stanley was just asking Ed about you. I think he’s still in-tres-ted …” She sang it with a lilt in her voice.

  Eliza closed her eyes. “Listen, Betty, I need to ask you something.” She looked over her shoulder again. “Do you know anything about where Mama and Papa lived in Europe? Did they ever tell you where they were from?”

  A hushed silence. “I know as much as you do. Why do you ask? What’s this all about?”

  Eliza hesitated at the odd tone in Betty’s voice. How had that agent found Eliza? “Betty, has anyone called you or approached you about … me or our parents, or about anything else? Men in suits?”

  “Men in suits? Darling, are you feeling all right?”

  She eased out a sigh. “So you haven’t talked to anyone, given them my name or telephone number?”

  “Of course not. Now you’re scaring me. What’s going on?”

  Eliza told Betty about the harassment by the HUAC agent, starting with the day she was followed at the theater and ending with his visit at the diner today.

  “Oh, Eliza! How do you know he’s not some lunatic or—” Betty gasped. “A peeping tom? Did you see his badge? Does he know where you live? Maybe you should stay with us for a while.”

  Stay with Betty? She wasn’t in the habit of inviting Eliza to stay. Something wasn’t right. “Betty, is there anything you’re not telling me about our parents?”

  “Me? What a thing to say. I only know what you know. And ditto—is there anything you’re not telling me? Did he say why he thought you were a communist? He must have had some reason.”

  “No. I mean, yes, he knows about the articles I’ve written, even though they were under a pen name, and he has this crazy idea that they’re propaganda. He thinks a couple of harmless women’s magazines have communist ties.”

  “What? Darling, I told you no good would come from writing those things, didn’t I? Oh, Eliza. I know you want to be a writer, but why did you have to actually publish that stuff? What were you thinking?”

  Eliza closed her eyes. Counted to ten. Twenty. Thirty.

  “Eliza, darling. Now listen, when Ed gets home, I’ll bring it up to him. Maybe he’ll have some ideas.”

  She nodded. “Yes, all right.”

  “This is all very distressing. I’m really worried about you.”

  “I’ll be fine, Betty, no need to worry. I can take care of myself.”

  “Well, all right then. You’re coming for Thanksgiving? Should I find out if Stanley has plans?”

  Ugh. “Can we just keep it family?”

  “Well … sure, hon, if that’s what you want. You take care now, and I mean that.”

  I don’t think any actor sets out intending to trick people into believing lies. Ironically, we are most convincing when we bare our truest, most naked soul.

  ~The Devine Truth: A Memoir

  13

  Sunday morning, Eliza stared at the number she’d written on her notepad, then at the telephone. John had said to call if she wanted to go to church.

  Well … did she?

  Since John’s talk of heaven, Eliza’s anger had given way to doubt, and her doubt, to questions. Was God truly kind and forgiving, as Millie said, or a tyrant who demanded surrender? In her experience, nothing could be more demoralizing than forced submission. If that was what Christian faith was about, she was not interested. But she couldn’t forget Millie’s words. What if it was true? What would unconditional love and total acceptance be like?

  She picked up the telephone. What would it hurt to attend a service and get a few answers? Was it wise to be seen in public with John? And what was his church like? The only time she’d attended a service was in college to see a friend in a Christmas pageant. She could just imagine John strolling into that little neighborhood church. How long before the entire place would be in an uproar, with people flocking in to see the Hollywood star?

  Did Johnny Devine have to worship in disguise?

  She shook off her worries and dialed.

  “Hello?” John’s deep voice sent a tremor through her that ended with a twist in her belly.

  “Hello, it’s Eliza Saunderson. I’m wondering if your invitation is still open. For church, I mean.” She winced. What other kind of invitation would he offer her?

  “Yes, of course. Would you like to meet there, or would you prefer to have my cab pick you up?”

  Eliza pushed her glasses higher and checked her watch. Buses didn’t run on Sunday, and taking a cab as far as Kensington would be very costly.

  “Sharing your cab might be best, if you don’t mind.”

  “Fine. Ten o’clock?”

  Once he had her address, she hung up and climbed the stairs in double time, starting a mental list of possible outfits and matching hats suitable for church …

  In a minister’s home …

  Where was Betty’s voice when she needed it?

  She finally chose a slim-fitting, red with white polka-dot dress, a white cardigan and gloves, and a red pillbox hat with a matching net, and then worried that her ensemble wasn’t smart enough.

  When John’s cab pulled to the curb in front of her apartment, Eliza reached for the car door, but John got out and held it open for her. She glanced around before getting in. Luckily, none of the girls in the building were early Sunday risers.

  On the way, John told her she might recognize a familiar face or two.

  “A face from where?—the movies?”

  “Yes, but don’t worry,” he said. “I’m sure you’ll feel right at home.”

  She wanted to believe him, but it depended on whom she saw. Would Deborah Marlow be there?

  The cab stopped at a sprawling house set back from the road. John ushered her into the house and introduced her to the hosts, Pastor Ted and Sondra Moore. Sondra hugged her tight, which was a bit of a surprise but not unwelcome.

  The service was held in the Moore’s large den, where plush couches and chairs formed a large circle and more chairs formed a row along the back wall. A panoramic window stretching the length of the room offered a view of a flower garden behind the house and a glimpse of the shimmering bay beyond.

  Eliza glanced around the room at the twenty or so faces, doing a quick double take at every blonde. John introduced her as Mrs. Eliza Saunderson to a lovely couple named Miller. When she met an older actress whom she recognized, it took Eliza a moment to find her tongue. Goldie Simons had been one of her favorites as a teen. In Goldie’s younger days, she had played sweetheart roles similar to Doris Day’s.

  Goldie smiled. “I’m so pleased to meet you, Eliza. Won’t you sit by me?”

  Eliza looked at John, who offered a reassuring smile. Perhaps it was his way of turning her loose, but into what, she wasn’t sure.

  She listened through the hymns, rich with harmony, followed by a prayer. Then Pastor Ted read from the Bible. The story about an adulterous woman about to be stoned to death by an angry mob of men touched Eliza in an unusual way. Hearing of the woman’s humiliation and Christ’s compassion toward her brought tears to Eliza’s eyes. In the midst of such hate and disapproval, the woman found forgiveness and acceptance from Christ.

  After the sermon, the congregation sang another hymn, one Eliza had heard Millie sing. Eliza sat still and listened to the words.

  “Because the sinless Savior died,

  my sinful soul is counted free;

  For God the Just is satisfied

  to look on Him and pardon me.”

  At the end of the service, everyone moved to a large dining room for a buffet lunch. Glancing around, Eliza realized an older man in the group was also a
film star from a few decades ago. It made sense, of course, that celebrities who wanted to attend church might find a quiet setting like this easier to manage. She would have to ask John later why a number of actors were living around the East Bay. Perhaps, like him, some film stars preferred not to live in Hollywood and found this area a pleasant getaway, but not too far from L.A.

  Eliza followed Goldie to the buffet and searched the room for John. She finally found him off to one side talking to a handsome, silver-haired man with a goatee and a lean, athletic build.

  The man placed his hand on John’s shoulder and closed his eyes, saying words she couldn’t hear, but with a fervor she could see.

  John’s eyes were also closed and he nodded as though listening.

  Was the man praying for John?

  “Ted and I are looking forward to reading John’s book, Mrs. Saunderson.”

  Turning, Eliza met Sondra Moore’s friendly face and smiled in return. How much was she supposed to say about the book? “It’s an incredible story. I am sure you’ll find it very intriguing.” Eliza glanced in John’s direction to keep sight of him, but he and his friend were already heading her way.

  “Mrs. Saunderson,” John said. “I’d like you to meet my good friend and agent, Oscar Silva. Oscar, Mrs. Saunderson is working on my memoir. And she’s sharp, so be careful what you say.”

  Eliza smiled at the man. With any luck, he wouldn’t notice how flustered she was at being put on the spot. “Mr. Silva, it’s a pleasure to meet you. I’ve heard such good things.”

  Oscar turned to John with a sigh. “So you’ve taken up lying, John?” He winked at Eliza. “Do I get to preview the manuscript, or should I just call my lawyer now?”

  “What? Does someone need a lawyer?” a man said, leaning back from the nearest table.

  Oscar laughed. “If I do, I won’t be calling you, Lester. I can’t afford you. In fact, I don’t know anyone who can.”