The Memoir of Johnny Devine

by Camille Eide

  “Oh no,” Eliza said. “You must have been very disappointed.”

  John heaved a sigh and leaned back in his chair. “No. It’s crazy, but deep down, I was relieved. Besides, it was for the best. Gary Cooper outdid himself as Lou Gehrig. Earned himself an Oscar nomination.”

  Eliza shivered as she wrote the lines. She should have worn a cardigan. The ancient room was a little drafty, and now that November was nearing an end, temperatures were dropping.

  “You’re cold.” John frowned. “I’ll have Duncan light a fire.”

  “Oh, thank you, but don’t bother him, not if it’s just for me. I don’t want to drive everyone else out.”

  “Not at all,” John said with a chuckle. “Millie will be happy. She’s been complaining of being cold all week.”

  Eliza watched the old man light the fire. When it was blazing well enough on its own, Eliza went to the fireplace and rubbed her arms.

  John returned to his seat, his back to the fire.

  “If you don’t mind my asking, I’ve been wondering about Duncan and Millie. How long have they been working for you?”

  John shook his head. “I don’t know. My grandmother’s dying wish was to keep this house open. I only learned of it in her will. This was her dream home, her fairytale come true, I suppose. I don’t know why she insisted on keeping the place in the family. But after getting to know Millie and Duncan, I suspected my grandmother kept it going simply to provide for them. Millie once told me that she and Duncan worked here through the Depression, a time when many houses didn’t keep help.” He turned his head slightly, perhaps so Eliza could better hear him. “I think my grandparents felt responsible for Millie and Duncan and their families.”

  “And then along came the new landlord.” She smiled, secretly admiring his profile from where she stood—a perfect vantage point.

  John nodded. “The truth is, I didn’t want to live here. I wanted to get much farther away from L.A. But due to a falling-out between my father and his, I never knew my grandparents. I felt it was my duty to make amends by carrying out her dying wish.” He shrugged. “So this is it. A big old house and a couple of ancient hired hands is all that’s left of the Vincent family. It seemed the right thing to do. Besides, by then things had changed drastically for me. But I’m getting ahead of the story.”

  Yes, he was, and that wouldn’t do. Not that she didn’t want to hear the rest of his story; she just wanted to stretch out the telling of it for as long as possible.

  “Say, if you’re interested, I might have a few pictures of Millie and Duncan when they were younger.”

  “Oh yes. I’d love to see them.”

  He went into the sitting room, then returned a few minutes later with a soft, leathery-looking book. He sat down and opened it on his table. “Bet you’ll never guess who this is.”

  Eliza looked over his shoulder at a picture of a man cutting grass using a long-handled tool with a blade at the bottom. “Duncan? Didn’t they have push mowers in those days?”

  John huffed out a laugh. “Yes. Millie told me that my granddad owned several, but Duncan refused to use them. His father was a chief groundskeeper in Ireland.” John switched to an Irish brogue. “And what’s good enough for me da is good enough for me.”

  Eliza chuckled.

  He turned the pages and stopped again. “This is my father as a young man.” John studied the picture so long that Eliza suspected he’d become lost in a memory and forgot she was there. John’s father was also quite a looker.

  She smiled at the strong family resemblance.

  He turned the page. “Ah. Here’s Millie.”

  Eliza leaned closer to get a better look. The picture was terribly faded, but the petite woman, who looked to be about Eliza’s age, was unmistakably Millie. She had that same upward tilt to her chin that Eliza had come to love. “She’s such a strong, wise woman,” Eliza said softly. “I so admire that about her.”

  John turned slightly toward her, inhaling slow and deep.

  Eliza froze. The man had no idea what his nearness did to her. And unless she wanted to lose her job, he could never know.

  He turned toward her a little more.

  She could feel his eyes on her cheek, like heat grazing her skin. Against her better judgment, she looked at his face.

  Slowly, John’s gaze rose until it met hers. The air between them stilled. Something in his eyes took hold of her, made it impossible to breathe.

  Move. Now!

  She stepped back and nearly stumbled into the fireplace. What a fool, putting herself in such a spot, getting so close to him.

  What was she thinking? What must he think?

  She gathered her wits and scurried back to her seat, stunned by the intensity of her feelings. Feelings she needed to extinguish immediately, before her heart got burned.

  I remember thinking that my father and brother died to give us freedom, and this is what I do with it. Work hard to make people believe a hopeless illusion.

  ~The Devine Truth: A Memoir

  19

  The bus ride to Richmond Heights on Thanksgiving gave Eliza plenty of time to count her blessings. She had her health. Her rent was paid up, and she’d been socking away money for the in-between times. She had a job with a shot at some extra work if the movie deal worked out.

  Then she spent the rest of the trip stewing about the possibility of spending more time with John. The sooner she distanced herself from John David Vincent, the better off she would be.

  Easier said than done.

  God, can You help me? The way I feel about John needs to stop. It’s pointless, not to mention completely absurd, and will only leave me crushed when the work is finished. I can’t continue entertaining these feelings.

  It was time to tell Betty about her situation. Eliza didn’t care how her sister took the news. In fact, the more violent her reaction, the better. Eliza needed all the help she could get.

  Ed Cunningham met Eliza at the bus stop and drove her home in his new Packard. As they approached the house, Betty waited in the doorway, Sue Ellen and Eddie Jr. peering out from either side.

  “Darling, so good of you to come,” Betty said in her cheeriest voice. She spied the bouquet in Eliza’s hand. “Daisies, how simple.” She gave her an almost-kiss on the cheek. Then she stepped back and examined Eliza’s pale-blue dress and pearls with an approving nod. “And gloves. Perfect.”

  Eliza waggled her fingers at Sue Ellen. “Better safe than sorry.”

  Eddie Jr. squeezed around his mother. “Auntie Liza! I got the latest model in the Heavy Bomber series. It’s a Boeing B-29 Superfortress. Wanna see it?”

  “Eddie Jr., what have I told you about hounding guests with your airplanes the minute they walk in the door?” Betty tsked.

  Eliza smiled at her nephew. “I’d love to see it.”

  Eddie Jr. tugged her by the hand and led her to his room down the hall, chattering the entire way about the different kinds of bombers. In his bedroom, model airplanes of various sizes covered the bureau, the windowsill, and the nightstand. The newest one was in late stages of assembly on his desk.

  With a smile, Eliza glanced around the room as her nephew showed her his newest acquisition, describing it in detail. Not a thing in the room was out of place, which was no surprise. She studied the airplane. “So this bomber was used a lot during the war?”

  “Yep. My pal Jack only has the light bombers, but the heavies have the most power and can fly the farthest. Look at this.”

  As Eddie took a different one down from the bureau, a framed photo beside the model plane caught her eye. Eliza picked it up.

  It was a faded photo of a young man in an olive-colored uniform. He wore a belted military jacket, pants, and a cap with a small red star in the center. Something about the man’s broad-shouldered build drew her closer to study his face.

  It was Papa as a young man. She was sure of it.

  “Eddie Jr., where did you get this picture?”

  He
looked at the picture, then at her. He chewed his bottom lip. “I found it.”

  “Where?”

  “In the attic.”

  Eliza’s heart raced. “Are there any more photos like this in the attic?”

  The boy shrugged, already finished with any interest in the photo, now absorbed with adding small pieces to his new plane.

  “Thank you for showing me your planes, sweetheart.” Eliza returned to the living room with the framed photo.

  Betty was in the dining room directing Sue Ellen on proper place settings.

  “Betty, can I see your attic?”

  Betty frowned. “Whatever for?”

  Hoping she wouldn’t get her nephew into trouble, she showed Betty the picture. “Did you know about this?”

  Betty took it from her and stared at it. “He must have found this in that old steamer trunk that Mama had us store for her when Ed and I married. I forgot all about it.”

  Had her parents wanted it stored in order to hide it? “I’d like to look at the trunk, if you don’t mind.” Eliza pulled off her gloves.

  Betty opened her mouth to protest, then closed it. She studied Eliza’s feet. “Take those off, then. You can’t climb the ladder in heels. Come on, follow me.”

  The attic’s single light fixture offered a dim glow that didn’t quite reach the corners where the roof sloped. The amount of dust made it clear that Betty had not been up here in a long time.

  Brushing aside cobwebs and trying not to breathe in the dust, Eliza followed Eddie Jr.’s footprints to a steamer trunk in the far corner. There was very little of interest inside, just an old wool coat, a framed picture, books, a wool scarf, an ivory shawl, and two envelopes.

  Eliza held up the envelopes and gave Betty a long look. “Do you trust me with these?”

  Betty’s red lips pressed together, then she shrugged. “You have as much right to know what’s in it as I do.”

  “I promise I’m not going to harm our family’s name, Betty. If anything, I’m trying to clear it. This may be just what we need to do that.”

  Betty nodded. “All right. Go ahead.”

  Eliza opened one of the envelopes and drew out a thin, faded letter written in a language she didn’t recognize but suspected was Russian. She scanned the lines, hoping for something that would make sense.

  The letter appeared to be in feminine handwriting. Perhaps a love letter.

  Or top-secret information?

  She opened the second envelope.

  This letter looked as if it was written in the same language and was addressed to the same person. But the second one was not the same handwriting.

  Eliza checked the sender. The signature was not very legible, but she could see that it was not the same person, due to the length of the name and the difference in handwriting.

  What did these letters contain? This was such a potential find, and yet so useless in her hands.

  “I need to find someone who can translate these. Even if it’s just a simple correspondence or a love letter, at least it will help us know more about them. Mind if I take them?”

  “Please, go ahead. Just be careful.” Betty brushed the dust from her hands with a grimace. “You don’t want those getting into the hands of that G-man. He sounds positively bloodthirsty.”

  For once, Eliza had to agree with her sister.

  Stuffed with turkey, sweet potatoes, and a sliver of pumpkin pie that came close to being as good as Millie’s, Eliza leaned back with a groan and pressed a hand to her stomach.

  Sue Ellen’s eyes widened.

  On second thought … Eliza sat up straighter. She didn’t want to be the sole ruination of her niece’s etiquette training.

  “Ed,” Betty said sweetly, “why don’t you tell Eliza what Stanley said when you told him she was coming for Thanksgiving.”

  Ed took a bite of his pie, frowning. He finished chewing, then wiped his mouth with a cloth napkin and set it down. “I don’t remember. Why don’t you tell her?”

  Betty’s smile almost disguised the miffed look in her eyes. “Oh, but you remember, don’t you, dear? Stanley said she was a lovely girl, and he simply could not understand why she wasn’t married yet.”

  Ed narrowed a gaze at his wife. “I believe it was more along the lines of ‘it’s odd that she’s still not married after all this time.’” He shot a brief glance at Eliza, then stabbed another chunk of pie.

  Betty wore a flat, humorless smile.

  As annoying as the sisterly interference was, Eliza actually felt sorry for Betty. “Don’t worry, Betty. The right one may still come along.”

  “Right one?” Betty sniffed. “Any man with a decent job would do at this point. You’re not—”

  “Getting any younger, yes. Thank you for reminding me.” Eliza glanced at her niece and nephew. “So, how is school this year?”

  “Sue Ellen, Eddie Jr.,” Betty said, “it’s time to wash up and find something quiet to do in the other room.” As her children left the table, she turned to Eliza. “I know you don’t like to discuss this, but, darling, you must. Your rocky marriage is already one strike against you. And you are getting past the age that a man wants in a wife.”

  Eliza stared at her sister. “A strike against me? Are you saying our ‘rocky marriage’ was my fault?”

  Ed quickly wadded up his napkin.

  “Let’s be sensible. It takes two to make marriage work. But that’s neither here nor there, as I’m sure you’ve outgrown most of your … shortcomings by now. And if you marry well enough, you can hire a maid so you won’t have to worry about your cooking.”

  Eliza drew a calming breath, then another. Neither one did the trick. “Betty, you have no idea what it was like being married to Ralph. No matter how hard I tried, he was not to be pleased. He humiliated me daily. He was unkind, uncaring, and unfaithful. And silly me, I kept smiling and giving and trying harder. What more would you have had me do?”

  Ed looked like he had just discovered his suit was made of sandpaper. He rose and excused himself.

  Betty watched her husband leave, then lowered her voice and leaned closer to Eliza. “But, Eliza, did you really try? I’m sure if you would have just—”

  “Betty! Do you hear yourself?” Eliza’s heart thumped so hard it hurt. “Do you have any idea how degrading it is to tell a woman who lives to be pleasing, day after day, that it’s her fault when her husband cheats on her? Do you have any idea how demoralizing that is? How can you, a woman, even consider letting a lying philanderer off the hook and say that a man’s dissatisfaction—or anything for that matter—justifies sleeping around?”

  Betty stiffened and stared at Eliza as if seeing her for the first time.

  “Can we just drop this, please?” Eliza hissed, her body trembling from the adrenaline coursing through her.

  “Yes, of course.”

  Did Betty really understand? Because Eliza couldn’t understand her sister’s way of thinking. Did Betty really believe a woman was to blame for a husband’s choices and men were not to be held accountable? Were men not capable of being kind and considerate out of mutual respect? Had Betty forgotten their father? He not only showed kindness to Mama, but love and affection. Was Papa a rare exception?

  Betty took Eliza’s plate and carried it to the kitchen.

  Eliza didn’t join her. Forget love and affection. Was it too much to ask for simple kindness or a little approval once in a while?

  The intensity of her own emotions shook her more than she thought possible. Too long had those feelings festered. Too deep had the pain been driven.

  Will this anger and hurt ever go away, or will it keep bursting out of me again and again? Will I ever be free of this?

  Ed returned to the dining room, followed by Odella with a tray of coffee. Ed was probably trying to think of a good excuse to take Eliza to the bus stop early, and she couldn’t blame him.

  Odella offered Eliza a cup, which she accepted with a slight tremor in her hands.

  �
�So how’s work these days?” Ed said. “I hear you’re doing some kind of book collaboration.”

  Betty returned to the table and took her seat. Her blue eyes were dark and rimmed in red.

  Eliza’s heart sank. I bet they’re glad I came. Happy Thanksgiving, everyone. She eased out a smile. “I’m collaborating on a memoir.”

  “Memoir?” Betty tried to smile, but her eyes weren’t joining in. “How interesting. So you’re typing someone’s diary?”

  “No, Betty,” Ed said. “A memoir is particular events in someone’s life, told with a point. A lot of famous people write them.” Ed turned to Eliza. “So who is he? Don’t tell me—Winston Churchill.” He chuckled.

  “As a matter of fact …” Eliza said. This was it, now or never. “I’m working on the memoir of Johnny Devine.”

  Betty’s eyes widened.

  Ed stared. Then he laughed. “Funny, for a minute I thought you said Johnny Devine, as in the famous movie star.” Still chuckling, he shook his head.

  Eliza nodded. “That’s the one.”

  Ed’s face sagged, losing all traces of mirth. “You can’t be serious. The Johnny Devine? That guy was all the rage. Legendary ladies’ man. What’s writing his story like—copying notes written on ladies’ undergarments and cocktail napkins?” He laughed at his own joke.

  Fingering her pearls, Eliza tried to keep calm. After all, Ed didn’t know John. Which made his flippant remark all the more aggravating. People could be so callous, so quick to assume and judge people they didn’t even know.

  Was this the kind of reception John’s book would get when it went public? Now, more than ever, she wanted the book finished and filling the shelves of every bookstore in the country.

  “That would be some trick, wouldn’t it?” Eliza mustered a weak smile. “No, I transcribe notes taken from dictation. I edit the notes as needed and then type the manuscript.” She stole a glance at her sister.

  Betty caught her glance and held it, her churning thoughts almost visible on her face. “And who takes dictation from him?”