by Camille Eide
Eliza kept a polite smile fixed on her face, but her heart sank. As she went through the buffet line, listening to the friendly chatter in the room, all she could think about was how these people lived smart, glamorous, completely foreign lives. Holding her food-laden plate, she looked across the small sea of prominent people.
She was so out of place here.
John came to her side with a plate in one hand and stood close enough for her to catch the scent of his tantalizing cologne. “Where would you like to sit?”
Oscar approached them, balancing his plate and a Bible. “Mind if I join you two?”
“Please do,” Eliza said.
Dining with film stars, agents, and lawyers? Eliza shook her head to clear the sense she was dreaming and tried to eat her lunch, but with a handsome man seated on either side, her attention was anywhere but on her plate.
“Well, what do you think of our little church, Mrs. Saunderson?”
Eliza returned Oscar’s kind smile. “It’s lovely. I’ve only attended church one other time, so I’m no expert, but I’m guessing this one isn’t typical.”
Oscar laughed. “Good! Shows you’ve come with an open mind.” He unfolded his napkin. “I hear you’re making great progress on John’s memoir.”
Eliza glanced at John. How much he had confided in his friend about the project? “I think it’s coming along nicely.” She nibbled on a slice of dilled cucumber.
John ate in silence. Rather, he toyed with his food. “You’ve also got a book in the works, Oscar. Maybe she’d like to hear about yours.”
“Oh, I’m sure she would.” Oscar smiled at Eliza. “How to Win the Press is probably just the book you were looking for, Mrs. Saunderson, am I right?”
Eliza laughed. “Yes, how did you know? And please, call me Eliza.”
John grabbed his cane and stood. “I need to talk to Pastor Ted, and I see he’s alone right now. If you’ll excuse me.” He left, weaving awkwardly between the chairs and diners.
Eliza watched him go, her heart burdened by his discomfort. Some days he seemed to be in more pain than others. She returned her attention to her plate, her waning appetite now gone. When she looked up, Oscar was watching her intently.
“So, Eliza, I’m curious. What’s it been like for you, writing John’s story?”
How much should she say? This man was John’s good friend, but even if Oscar knew him better than anyone, perhaps he didn’t know everything. “It’s certainly different from anything I’ve written.”
“No surprise.” Oscar nodded. “It must be difficult, isn’t it? I mean, being a woman and hearing some of the stories?”
Eliza studied him. Oscar seemed genuine, and from John’s account, he was a man of admirable character. “To be honest, yes, sometimes. But I think his story is important, especially in its entirety. I’m glad he’s writing it, and not just for the reason he states—to share the hope he’s found—but also because I think people need to understand who he is now. For his sake.”
Leaning forward, Oscar met her gaze squarely. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For seeing John for who he is. Not what he was.”
Eliza’s throat tightened. She hadn’t always seen John in a positive light. The day she met him came back in a rush, her mistrust of him, her assumptions. She swallowed hard. “It’s just … the religious part of it is not something I’m familiar with—an invisible God who can change a person inwardly. It’s so opposite of …”
Oscar rested his chin on his hand. “Of what?”
“Of the pressure in society to look perfect, to conform, or at least to appear that way. Everyone in their proper place doing exactly what’s expected, all the while turning a blind eye to oppression. It’s … I’m sorry, I’m getting on my soapbox now.”
“No, please, go on. I’m interested in hearing what you think.”
Eliza looked around to be sure no one was listening. Why was she telling a virtual stranger the inner battles of her heart? “There’s an unspoken pressure to conform to the American ideal—happy and prosperous in appearance, but sometimes all I see is an empty façade. Empty and also unjust, because you can only fit the American ideal if you are of the right economical class and ethnicity. And for those who do fit the criteria, I suspect some seek fulfillment by conforming outwardly, but are only fooling themselves and growing emptier by the day.”
“That’s rather profound, Eliza. You’ve thought about this quite a bit?”
More than you know. “Yes.”
“And you see John’s experience as a genuine change, then, rather than simply the appearance of change?”
“Yes.” Eliza pushed her plate away and leaned her chin on her hands. “Yes, I do.”
“Or a person who’s been truly transformed, instead of conformed?”
“Exactly!” She’d spoken too loudly. She glanced around.
Goldie met her gaze with a smile. John looked at her from across the room, then quickly resumed his conversation with Ted.
“So you know about John’s conversion experience, then? How he found Christ?”
She shook her head. “We haven’t gotten that far yet.”
“Hmm.” Oscar nodded, studying her. “That’s interesting.”
Eliza twisted a grape from its stem, more out of a need to escape his scrutiny than from hunger. “Why do you say that?”
He shrugged. “Oh, I don’t know.” Oscar leaned back and folded his arms loosely across his chest, the picture of a man perfectly at ease. “So, do you think I should buy a copy of The Devine Truth?”
With a smile, Eliza popped the grape in her mouth. “You should buy cases of them.”
Oscar laughed long and loud. “Ouch. I guess John won’t be needing his agent. Sounds like you’ve got that covered.”
Eliza smiled. “I believe his is a very powerful story that can touch many people.” She glanced across the room and found John watching them carefully. “I can’t wait to see how it ends.”
Oscar nodded slowly, studying her with a thoughtful look. “Neither can I.”
Oscar often said he was praying for me, but I told him he could keep his prayers. I was a rational creature. A careless, drunken creature, to be sure, but rational enough to know my perfectly happy life needed no interference.
~The Devine Truth: A Memoir
14
Monday morning, Eliza made it to the street corner long before the bus arrived, a notable first. It was unfortunate that Pastor Ted hadn’t finished the adulterous woman’s story in his sermon. Had she gone on as before, or had Christ’s pardon changed her? Perhaps John could tell Eliza what had become of the woman.
At John’s house, she gave her coat and scarf to Millie, then entered the library.
John was on the telephone near the kitchen. He smiled and beckoned her in.
Her question would have to wait. Perhaps she could ask Mille when she had a chance.
“I’m sorry,” John said to Eliza, pressing the telephone receiver to his chest. “I have to take this call. But listen, I had a boatload of ideas last night and jotted them down. Maybe you can salvage something useful from it. It’s on my table.”
Eliza went to the table beside his chair and found a notebook with writing in it. He’d actually written a lot. And on further inspection, it wasn’t bad. In fact, it was quite good. Perhaps her input had been rubbing off. Or, more likely, John was a better writer than either she or John had realized. Maybe he’d just needed a little encouragement and practice. Maybe soon he wouldn’t need her help on the composing at all. Maybe—
Maybe things would go back to the way they were. Him writing elsewhere, and her typing in the library, alone.
Eliza stared at the typewriter, then out the front window. A dull fog obscured the bay. Dead leaves dotted the grass at the base of the trees, their usefulness at an end. Winter was coming.
She sat down to work. John had written enough that she worked on it until five o’clock, stopping only for
lunch.
Tuesday, John gave her more pages, which were also fairly well-written, so she spent the entire day working alone, again. By Wednesday afternoon, they had made more progress on the book than they had the entire previous week. John seemed more focused, less reticent. His story had now circled back to the point where it had first begun, in the final year of his film career. It shouldn’t take much more to finish that phase of his life. After that, Eliza didn’t know where his story was going, or how much of his life after Hollywood would be included in the book. Surely there was much more to his story. There had to be. Whatever it was, she couldn’t wait to hear it.
But the mystery would have to wait. John was leaving the next day to help Oscar with some kind of Charlie Chaplin Silent Film tribute in Los Angeles and would be gone through the weekend, giving Eliza a couple of extra days off.
When she arrived at home on Wednesday evening, the super blocked her path to the stairs and handed her a slip of paper. It read Agent Bert Robinson, Berkeley 3549.
Eliza wadded up the telephone number, tossed it in the waste can, and continued around the super and up the stairs. Halfway up, she stopped and turned. “If that man calls again, there’s no need to take a message. I don’t want to talk to him. And if he comes around, he’s not welcome here.”
“Lady, butler duty ain’t part of my job description.”
“Just don’t let him in.” She left him muttering and went to her room in search of Mr. Darcy.
An hour later, Ivy knocked at the door. “Phone for you. I mean, I think it’s for you. The guy asked for Eliza Peterson. I said the only Eliza here was Eliza Saunderson, and he called me a doll face and said I was right on the money.” Grinning, she twirled a curly lock behind her ear.
“Thanks, but I’m not taking any calls from him.”
Ivy cocked her head at Eliza. “You want me to tell him to buzz off?”
Eliza smiled. “Sure, thanks.”
“Okay, but what’s he look like? Mind if I ask him if he’s single first?”
“He’s not your type, Ivy. There’s only one thing he’s interested in.” Which was true, but Ivy didn’t need to know what it was.
Ivy’s eyes narrowed. “Ohhh! I’ll tell him to buzz off all right—and how!”
At six forty the next morning, another knock on the door nearly sent Eliza into a screaming fit.
Joan, in curlers and a robe, leaned on Eliza’s doorframe as though the walk up the stairs had been too taxing. Tendrils of smoke curled up from her cigarette. “Telephone for you, toots.”
Eliza groaned. She needed to leave a No Calls for Eliza note on the phone. “I’m not taking his calls.”
“Boy, that fella must really like a girl who plays hard to get. So what’s he look like?”
Once she finally convinced Joan that Agent Robinson definitely wasn’t her type, Eliza bathed and dressed, fed Mr. Darcy the rest of her canned milk, then headed to the bus stop.
It was time to take action.
“Darling, why didn’t you call first?” Betty reached through the doorway and gave Eliza a perfunctory hug. “But it’s lovely to see you.” She tugged Eliza inside the house. “Sue Ellen?” she called out. “Eddie Jr.? Look who’s here!”
A number of things had changed since Eliza’s last visit to Betty’s home, including a larger console television set and two new pieces of impressionist art above the fireplace. Of course, the view from the front room window hadn’t changed. A person could still look down on the entire East Bay from the Cunningham home, which stood at the pinnacle of Richmond Heights in a neighborhood made up of nearly identical homes lined up in perfect uniformity.
Eddie Jr. thundered in from the hallway. “Say, what are you doing here?” he said, his freckly grin missing a few teeth.
Sue Ellen came running in. “Auntie Liza!” The girl nearly knocked Eliza over with her embrace.
“Sue Ellen,” Betty said, raising a brow.
“Oh.” Sue Ellen stepped back and held out her hand. “How do you do?” She tucked her lips in, barely stifling a smile.
Eliza took her hand and gave her a wink.
Sue Ellen burst into giggles, then turned to her mother. “Why doesn’t she have to wear gloves?”
“Oops,” Eliza said. “I forgot.”
“Really, dear. There’s no need to be sarcastic. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you how filthy those buses can be. All those people.” She shuddered. “I wish you wouldn’t take public transportation. Well, come in. You’re staying for lunch?”
Eliza dropped her handbag on the sofa. “Sure. Can I help?”
Betty opened her mouth, but then smiled the smile she used on her children when she wanted them to understand how patient she was being. “You’ve forgotten. We have Odella now.”
“Oh, that’s right. How is Odella?”
“She cooks a lot better than Mother does,” Eddie Jr. said, eyes glued to the television set.
Betty’s nostrils flared, replaced by another crisp smile. “Come into the den, Eliza. Ed won’t mind us using it. I’ll get us some tea.”
Which meant she would order Odella to make it and serve it to them.
Eliza followed Betty to the den, done up in the latest style with dark wood paneling, stark furniture, and thick plaid curtains that blocked the light.
“Make yourself at home,” Betty said. “Back in a jiffy.”
Eliza studied her brother-in-law’s cave-like den. The armless brown sofa didn’t look at all comfortable with its hard, straight lines and flat seat, and the white plastic chairs looked cold. But it was the latest style, and that, of course, was what mattered.
Eliza shook her head. What a stark contrast to John’s home. The furnishings in John’s storybook house pre-dated the turn of the century. The famous film star lived amongst old-fashioned things and didn’t seem to care.
She was still musing on the differences between the two homes when Betty returned.
“For goodness’ sake, Eliza, sit down. You look like a long-tailed cat in a room full of rockers. Now then,” Betty said, settling on the hard sofa. “You didn’t ride a smelly bus all the way from Oakland just for a cup of my tea.”
You mean Odella’s tea. Eliza sat on the edge of a chair, feeling the cold through the fabric of her skirt. “Betty, the man who’s been bothering me is an agent with the House Un-American Activities Committee. He thinks our parents were communists.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Betty said with a sniff. “They weren’t, of course, but what difference would it make if they were? They’ve been dead fifteen years.”
“Not only that, he thinks they were Russian spies. He insists they had some kind of contacts in Russia.”
Betty’s brow gathered into a frown. “And you told him they weren’t, right?”
“Of course, but he didn’t believe me. I don’t know where he gets his information, but he knows about the train accident and where they were going. He said there was a large communist gathering in Fresno at the same time they were traveling there.”
Betty’s frown deepened. She lowered her voice. “So, now you think Mama and Papa were spies? How could you even think such a thing?”
“I don’t know what to think, Betty! This man shows up out of nowhere and seems to know more about my parents than I do. It’s a little unsettling.”
Betty leaned forward. “What’s unsettling is hearing you even entertain such a notion.” She shook her head. “I knew this would happen. It’s all that gibberish you’ve been filling your head with, your fixation with coloreds and all that nonsense about oppression—”
Odella, wearing a gray dress and stiffly starched white apron, stood in the doorway holding a serving tray. “Tea’s served, ma’am,” she said in a flat tone.
As the maid came into the room, Eliza studied Betty, wondering if her sister even cared that Odella had heard her last remark, but Betty’s expression was fixed in prim hostess mode.
Odella handed Eliza a teacup. Eliza thanked her and tried
to see what was in Odella’s eyes, but the woman would not meet Eliza’s gaze.
Betty waited until Odella left and then spoke. “Is that why you came here?” Her words were slow, deliberate. “To see if there was something to the rumors you could use, regardless of how it would harm our family name?” Betty tossed her head, but her short blonde curls were sprayed so tightly they didn’t budge.
“What are you talking about?”
“I may not be a college graduate, but I know how these things work, Eliza. You’re planning to write about this, aren’t you? Are you so desperate for material that you would dig around in our own family’s private affairs just for a byline? Don’t you even care about ruining our parents’ good names?”
Heat rushed to Eliza’s face. “Of course I’m not writing about our parents. What on earth makes you think that?”
“Because that’s what you do. You stir up waters that are best left alone. Don’t you see? You’re always going against the flow. No wonder they think you’re anti-American.”
Eliza shot up from her seat, stomach in knots. She looked down at her sister, not believing what she’d heard. “I came here to see if you could help me sort this out, not get into a debate about my convictions. At least I have convictions and am not hiding behind an apron and a garden club membership.” Her breath caught, but too late to stop the words—they were out, hovering in the air between them like a cloud of yellow jackets.
Betty stood and glanced at the doorway, toward the sound of cowboys and Indians on the television. She turned to Eliza, chin high. “There’s nothing wrong with wanting to belong to the best circles,” she said in a low, even tone. “It’s not as easy for me as you think.”
“Is that all you want, Betty? Circles?”
Betty’s lips pressed together into a thin, scarlet line. “I want to be respected, Eliza. Is that so terrible?”
Eliza shook her head. “I didn’t say it was.”
“But I see it on your face. Which is ironic, because you don’t even know the half of it. You have no idea what it’s like to live in fear of losing the place in respectable society you’ve worked so hard for. Even with all your … eccentricities, you’ll never have to worry like I do.”