by Camille Eide
“I do.”
More shocked stares.
“Jiminy,” Ed said, his face thoughtful. “Looks like we’ll have a celebrity in the family, Betty.” His eyes lit up. “Your name’s going on the cover, right?” He leaned forward on folded arms. “What kind of, uh … royalties are you going to be pulling in?”
“Well, it doesn’t work that—”
“Where?” Betty said. “I mean, where does this dictation take place?” She said the word as if it fouled her tongue to say it.
Here it comes. Eliza met her sister’s questioning stare head-on. “We work in the library at his gated home. There’s a maid and a gardener there at all times.”
Betty reddened. A thick silence settled over the table.
Ed’s gaze shifted between Eliza and Betty. He looked as though he’d just stepped into a nest of something best left undisturbed.
“Darling, I don’t mean to be negative,” Betty said, tone cautious, as if Eliza’s previous outburst had been a lesson to her. “But are you aware of this man’s reputation?”
“Yes.” As a matter of fact, I hear it, write it, read it, and type it. Every day. You could say I know him by heart now.
“Should you really be working for a man like that?”
Eliza studied her hands in her lap. No wonder John had a hard time forgetting his past—no one else could. “He’s perfectly professional, Betty. He treats me with utmost respect. I can assure you he has never, nor will he ever, make a pass at me.” A dull ache settled deep into her chest. “And what you don’t know—at least, not until the book comes out—is that he’s changed. That’s the reason he’s writing—”
“Changed? Please. He’s an actor, Eliza. It’s an act.”
Eliza broke from Betty’s gaze to avoid another scene. One outburst per holiday was Eliza’s limit, and her earlier tirade would be remembered for holidays to come.
All she had to do was keep her wits about her for another half hour, then she’d be on a bus back to Oakland.
“Betty,” Eliza said as evenly as possible, “may I remind you that I was desperately in need of a job. This one pays me well enough to put away a tidy little nest egg.”
“And may I remind you that you wouldn’t have to work if you would only—” Betty clamped her lips.
“Get married? Yes. You’ve reminded me.”
Odella moved through the dining room without making a sound, coffee urn in hand. “More coffee, ma’am?” she asked Eliza.
“Oh yes, thank you, Odella.” As the woman poured, Eliza turned to her. “By the way, Odella, do you have a family?”
Odella didn’t make eye contact. “Yes, ma’am.” She concentrated on the urn.
“Are they waiting for you to get home so you can have Thanksgiving dinner together?”
The woman’s gaze lifted slowly until it met Eliza’s. “Yes, ma’am.” With a sideways glance at Betty, Odella collected dishes on her tray and left the room.
Betty spooned three lumps of sugar into her coffee with a clang each time her spoon hit the cup. “Of course, you could just marry Johnny Devine. Then you would never have to work again.” She stirred her tea with a vengeance and picked up her cup without meeting Eliza’s gaze.
Marry John? Her sister must have pinned her curls too tightly and pinched her brain. “Don’t be ridiculous, Betty. He doesn’t see me that way. At all. He’s an award-winning movie star with scores of fans who swoon over him and smart, glamorous friends whose beauty would take your breath away. I’m nobody.”
As the last two words left her lips, they tore something from her, leaving a hollow ache.
Betty set her cup down and leaned closer, blue eyes flashing. “Good. I wouldn’t marry that skirt-chasing gutter trash if he were the last man on the planet. There. How’s that for not letting a cheater off the hook?”
Anger seized Eliza’s lungs. “You’re wrong about John,” she said with all the calm she could muster. “That’s not who he is. Not at all. Not anymore.”
Betty studied her long and hard. “Oh, Eliza,” she said, shaking her head. “You’d better watch yourself. You’re treading on very dangerous ground, in more ways than one. You need to end that situation pronto. I see nothing but heartache on the horizon for you.”
Don’t I know it.
A confession can be made to one person or to many, but either way, dark deeds must be exposed to the light and acknowledged for what they truly are.
~The Devine Truth: A Memoir
20
The first thing Eliza noticed when she woke Friday morning was that her favorite clock had suffered some kind of malfunction. Even though Kit-Cat’s tail and eyes were moving back and forth in unison, the time read one thirty. Eliza rolled out of bed, stumbled to the bureau, and checked her watch.
The clock was right. She’d slept into the afternoon. Good thing she had the day off.
A heart-stopping rattle on her door made her realize this wasn’t the first time someone had knocked.
Eliza closed her eyes with a groan. No more questions. No more insinuations. No more trying to defend herself and her parents to people who would not listen.
“E-liz-a? You alive in there?” Joan’s voice carried through the door.
Tucking back a stray curl, Eliza went to the door and opened it a crack. “I think so.”
“Good. I know you said no calls, but it’s a gal. Says she’s your sister.”
Was there some rule in Emily Post’s etiquette book that said she had to take her sister’s call? Eliza sighed. “Thank you, Joan, I’ll be right down.” She wrapped her robe around her and belted it, stepped into her slippers, and tiptoed down the stairs, praying no one would see her. Pressing the receiver to her ear, she tried to smile and failed. “Hiya, Betty.”
“Do you know what you’ve started?” Betty’s voice squeaked.
Eliza’s head pounded. Aspirin. No, coffee. With two lumps of aspirin. “What’s wrong?”
“I was just paid a visit from a friend of yours from the house of UN-American something or other. We’d left the picture of Papa in uniform on the coffee table, and the man questioned me about him. At length!”
“What?” Eliza shook her head, only making it hurt more. “You let him in your house?”
“Of course I let him in, Eliza. I have nothing to hide.”
“What did he say?” Heels clicked down the stairs, and Eliza pressed herself closer to the wall. Apparently the other girls in the building had the day after Thanksgiving off too.
“I don’t remember, he asked all sorts of questions. About the red star on Papa’s uniform, which the man said was the uniform of Lenin’s Red Army. He also insisted on seeing my birth certificate. How did he know about that, Eliza?” The pitch of her voice bordered on hysteria.
“I don’t know, Betty. Probably the same way he knew how our parents died. How do these people know anything?”
“I don’t know. You tell me.” A huff rattled across the line.
“What—you think I told him?”
Silence.
This was too much. With her only living family member against her, there was no one on Eliza’s side.
“He insisted I tell him why all the lies and secrecy and what subversive activity this family is hiding.” A muffled sob. “My children had to hear that.”
This was not good. If Sue Ellen and Eddie Jr. were nearby, they were probably afraid their mother was losing her marbles. “Betty, where’s Ed?” Eliza asked gently, hoping her tone would calm her sister.
“I can’t reach him. He’s at a big lunch meeting with a bunch of engineers.”
Eliza tried to think. There wasn’t really anything she could do for Betty in this moment. The harassment needed to stop, that was all there was to it.
But the only way to end it was to find some kind of proof that she and Betty were not involved in anti-American activity. If only there was such proof.
“Betty, I’m sorry this happened. I know you’re upset. But I’m sure he won�
�t be back. Just try to calm down.”
“Calm down? He said I should be prepared to go to their headquarters in downtown Berkeley for questioning. Why? I haven’t done anything, and I don’t know anything. I shouldn’t have to endure all this questioning, Eliza. I’ve worked too hard to have a good standing in the community. Whatever you’ve gotten yourself into, you need to drop it. It’s upsetting my family and I won’t have it.”
Eliza started to answer but was interrupted by a disconnect tone.
Saturday, Eliza spent most of the day in the library reading everything she could find about Lenin’s Red Army and what had been taking place in Russia during the years prior to Betty’s birth. The Red Army had been made up of young volunteers who believed in the promises of Lenin’s new communist regime, and who hoped to be paid for their service in food rations, since the country was facing one of the worst famines in history.
She also tried to find record of her parents’ arrival in America. Betty’s birth certificate listed the name of a hospital in Queens County, New York, as her birthplace. Eliza got the hospital’s number and called to see what records they had on file, but nothing turned up. So far, every scrap of information she could find had only led to a dead end.
Sunday morning, Eliza half hoped that John would invite her to his church again, even though it wasn’t a good idea to continue being seen with him. Going with him the one time had probably raised questions, and he certainly didn’t need that, or to give the appearance that he was gadding about with women, not with his book coming out soon.
By Sunday afternoon, most of her distress over Betty’s call had dissolved. Though there was no reason to be so hysterical, Eliza couldn’t blame her sister for being upset over a visit by Agent Robinson. And though she hadn’t admitted it to Betty, Eliza suspected she was to blame. Who knew how long the agent had been watching Eliza? He had probably found Betty by following Eliza to her home. It was fortunate—or perhaps providential—that Eliza had removed the Russian letters from Betty’s house. Those people were probably experts at finding anything they wanted to.
Which made it all the more urgent for Eliza to find out who her parents were before that agent did.
John was quieter than usual when she arrived to work Monday.
Eliza took her cue from him and waited at her desk, notepad in hand.
John rose and paced the room, stopping to examine a picture on the wall. “This is under the heading 1942,” he said finally. “Being out of work for the first time in two decades, I was finally forced to face what my life had become. That happens when you’ve lost your friends, your work, and your self-respect.” Frowning, he peered out the window at the rear of the library. “By then, I’d become an expert at avoiding the truth with enough Scotch to drown a horse.”
“What truth? Of who you had become, the puppet of studios, that sort of thing?”
John shook his head. “No.” With a deep frown, he studied the floor. “Something I haven’t been able to talk about, but … since I’ve revealed just about everything else now, I guess I can’t withhold this.”
More confessions? Her heart twisted. “Are you sure it’s necessary to include in your book?” If only she could spare them both any more of his difficult memories. Hadn’t he confessed enough?
John’s face tilted skyward. “I do believe God has forgiven me. And I want people to understand that there is nothing He can’t forgive. But … it’s still hard to forget some things and go on carefree, as if no harm was done. There are things I’ve done that some people will never be able to forgive and will certainly never forget.”
Unfortunately, she had just learned this firsthand at her sister’s house. There would always be people who would never let John forget what he once was. “The truth shall set you free,” she said, remembering Jesus’s words.
John pivoted and studied her from across the room, perhaps surprised that she knew a Bible verse. He turned back to the window. “What if the truth that sets one person free only imprisons others?”
He said it so quietly, she wasn’t sure he meant for her to hear it. She set her notepad down and stood. “Why don’t I get us some coffee, give you a chance to collect your thoughts.”
He nodded vaguely.
She went to the kitchen, but Millie wasn’t there, so Eliza started the electric coffeepot. While it percolated, she went to the doorway to see if John was ready to resume.
He just stood in the library, leaning more heavily on his cane than usual, looking defeated, burdened too long by a weight too heavy. With a sigh, he sank onto one of the nearby chairs. “Jeanette Lovell was young,” he said. “Talented, but too green for the politics. Studios collected starlets with a certain daring look, and she had it. ‘Studio candy,’ they were called. When they weren’t going over lines or doing promo shoots, girls like her were assigned to the arm of an actor and paraded beneath the lights of the Boulevard. This was to make us appear more desirable, you see. Boost publicity. Great for ticket sales.”
He studied his cane, twisting it clockwise, then counterclockwise. “Jeanette had married her high school sweetheart.”
Eliza nodded, realizing he wasn’t dictating but rather remembering aloud and probably needed a sounding board. She stepped into the library so he would know that she was still listening.
“Please, stay where you were. I’d rather not have you looking at me just now.”
Pulse racing, Eliza stepped back.
The coffeepot gurgled.
“No one knew. No one but me, anyway. Somewhere deep down, in those rare few moments when I sobered up enough, I saw the whole thing for what it really was. But I couldn’t own up to it, so I stayed drunk.”
“What happened?”
His hand gripped the cane so hard his knuckles whitened. “When her husband learned of … an encounter between us, he divorced her. Immediately.” John hung his head. “I don’t blame him. Poor Jeanette was completely devastated. This sort of thing wasn’t a habit of hers, you see. That’s the thing. I … I should have known that. Not that it should have made a difference.”
Eliza glanced across the room at her notepad, but she didn’t need it. He wasn’t composing—he was confessing.
“At the time, I chalked it up to bad luck. Tough break, doll face, these things happen. Hollywood is no place for your heart. To work in this town, you have to pack light and keep moving.” He groaned, as if the memory pained him. “That was the extent of my sympathy. My remorse for ruining a marriage and a promising career.”
The despair in his tone echoed through Eliza like a melancholy chord. “I take it she never worked in Hollywood again?”
Shaking his head, he leaned his cane against the chair. “No, she didn’t. Jeanette had come to L.A. with two things most people only dream of having: young love and huge potential.” His voice dropped to a choked whisper. “And I destroyed both. Without even giving it a second thought.”
“Surely she could have … recovered from her loss eventually and continued acting?”
John hung his head so low she could barely see it beyond his shoulders. “If she’d had a tougher hide or a harder heart, perhaps,” he said, voice muffled. “But she had neither.”
Eliza stepped into the room to see him better. She was afraid to ask, but also feared he would sink further into despair. “John, what happened to her?” she whispered.
John gripped his head in both hands. “She tried to take her life.” His voice broke.
Covering a gasp, Eliza could only stand numb, heart sinking.
“Luckily, a friend found her and took her to a hospital. The press called it a tragedy averted. No one looked for anyone to blame. But they should have.”
“No,” Eliza whispered. That would have done no one any good.
“She never said a word, and her ex-husband never went public with the truth about the divorce, so no one knew the real reason for her despair. But I knew.”
“What became of her?”
John reached for
his cane. “She disappeared. Rumor had it she got involved with some real shady types. A few years later, I heard she grew sick and died. Alone and penniless.”
Eliza needed to say something, but what? Everything that came to mind sounded so trite.
“I believe she died of a broken heart.” His voice faltered. “And it was all my doing.” He leaned forward. Silent sobs shook him.
Eliza couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. His grief filled the room and tore at her. Dear God, what should I do?
John rubbed both eyes with the heels of his hands. “Please … don’t write that,” he whispered. “At least not yet.”
The shame in his voice clutched her heart. She went to him and stood beside his chair, aching to console him, and yet, feeling so helpless. “John,” she said, “I’m so sorry. But if what you say about God is true, then He wouldn’t want you to keep carrying around shame from past mistakes, would He? Yes, her end was tragic, and yes, it’s right and honorable for you to accept your share of blame, but it’s past and it can’t be undone. Nothing good could come from bringing it out in the open now.”
He didn’t move, didn’t respond.
Afraid he wasn’t listening, she laid a hand on his shoulder.
John stiffened.
“Admitting the truth is a very brave and noble thing. Maybe you did need to confess this aloud to someone, like me. But perhaps you don’t need to tell it to the whole world.”
His eyes drifted closed, forcing tears down his cheeks.
Her heart thudded. He looked so broken—in spite of the solid strength of his shoulder beneath her hand.
She pulled her hand away. “I’ll check on that coffee.” She slipped into the kitchen, still trembling from having come dangerously close to pulling John into her arms.
By the end of ’42, I had hit rock bottom. When I wasn’t blind drunk, I was depressed and ailing from years of reckless living. And though I lived in Hollywood’s busiest hotels, surrounded by parties day and night, I was completely alone.