The Memoir of Johnny Devine (10 page)

He frowned. “But if you know people won’t
listen, doesn’t that make the writing more challenging?”

Eliza smiled, feeling like the teacher of a
student who understands far more than he realizes. “Yes, it does.
But nothing of real significance is gained without a challenge, is
it?”

John locked eyes with her.

Something told Eliza he was dissecting her
words. It seemed to be a habit of his.

“
You’re right,” he said
finally, studying his cane. “You sound like my editor, Fred
Wharton. He told me not to be afraid to write the hard stuff. He
said the things my readers will find most compelling will be the
things I find the most difficult to write.”

Eliza smiled. “Mr. Wharton sounds like a
wise man.”

John nodded. “He is. You’d like him.” He
looked at his pages. “Now, where were we?”

“
The First
Years
,” Eliza said.

He stared at what he had written, but his
lengthening hesitation reminded Eliza of the reason for his
discomfort.

“
Perhaps you could just …
tell it to me?”

His gaze rose above the pages. A faint smile
softened his handsome face. “That’s the best news I’ve heard all
week.” He tossed the papers onto the table, then leaned against it.
“I was born in 1904 in Cincinnati to an Italian shipbuilder and a
Welsh immigrant. We were a close family. My childhood memories are
good ones, but there were two things I loved most. Visiting the
shipyards with my dad, and having my hero always at my side—my
older brother, Will.”

As Eliza wrote, John strolled toward the
window. “Will was six years older than I but never treated me like
a little kid. He always let me tag along, always watched out for
me. But when the U.S. entered the Great War, my father and Will
joined up and shipped out. I was thirteen. I … I never saw either
of them again.”

Eliza glanced up.

John pulled the curtain back and faced the
window. “The war robbed me of my entire family,” he said. “Not only
had a battle in France claimed the lives of my father and Will, but
within a year, it claimed my mother’s life too. Her grief won the
battle for her mind, and she died in an asylum.” His voice faded
away.

No surprise. He was reliving the sudden loss
of his entire family, and worse, as a teenager. She knew that
feeling all too well.

“
When Mom and I first
learned of their deaths, I did everything I could to join the army.
I lied about my age repeatedly, but I always got caught. I was just
too young. At the time, I didn’t care that, by trying to run off
and avenge my dad’s and Will’s deaths, I was only adding to my
mother’s grief. All I could think about was how the Vincent men
were heroes—all but one.”

In the silence that followed, Eliza finished
writing, shaken by the pain of his loss. No, it wasn’t his pain
that shook her, but his shame. Shame that was undeserved.

Unlike hers.

She felt such relief at the news of Ralph’s
death that she may as well have fired the shot that killed him.
That relief had haunted her dreams ever since.

As John ambled to the fireplace, Eliza
wrestled her shame back to the shadows where it had come from.

He toyed with the knickknacks on the mantel.
“But perhaps I don’t need to include all that about my family in
the book.”

“
Why not?” Eliza said. “I
think it’s important—it shows your readers who you are.”

John ran a finger over the glass covering
the clock face. “Talking about losing my entire family in one
year—it might sound like I’m trying to excuse …” He shook his head.
“It’s not my intention to paint myself in a sympathetic light, Mrs.
Saunderson. There’s no excusing the life I chose, the things I’ve
done.”

As he tinkered with the clock, Eliza let his
words sink in, wondered at his hesitation. It didn’t make sense.
“If I were reading this, I wouldn’t think that.”

“
A lot of people suffer.
It’s no excuse for living a reckless life.”

Stunned, Eliza stared at the loops and
curves of shorthand in her lap. “I also lost both of my parents
when I was young,” she said. “In a train accident. I was eighteen.
I don’t think anyone who suffers such a loss can ever be the same.
Especially a young person. It changes who you are. It changes a
great many things.”

Things like the survival options Eliza had
to choose from upon graduating high school: marry Ralph or move in
with Betty and her new husband—an option Betty had not
encouraged.

John turned and studied
her, incredulous. “You lost your parents
and
your husband?”

She nodded. Why had she inserted herself
into the conversation when they had a book to write?

“
I’m very sorry to hear
that,” John said, voice soft.

“
Thank you. And if you
don’t mind my saying, I think you should leave it in.”

“
Well, perhaps. For now.”
John turned and paced the room. “Where were we? When my mother
passed, I was fourteen and on my own. I wasn’t the only one hopping
trains, looking for work, but I was probably one of the youngest.
The need to stay alive brought my high school education to an early
end. I hadn’t meant to ride the rails as long as I did. I only
meant to sock away enough money so I could finish high school and
maybe go to college. But when train hopping led me to New York in
’22, my plans changed. I no longer cared about school—I had
discovered the theater. At eighteen, the thrill of the stage
claimed my dreams, both waking and sleeping. And then, along came
…”

Eliza finished the line and looked up,
waiting.

“
Scratch that last line.”
He stood in front of a bookcase, face stony.

She continued to wait, but John remained
silent. “What came along?” she ventured.

He sighed. “It’s not something I’m proud of,
Mrs. Saunderson. I’m … not eager to see it in print.”

Something in his tone made her sad, though
she had no idea why. At least he was honest with himself. But
wasn’t it his aim to be honest with his readers as well? “What do
you want people to come away with after reading your story?”

His gaze met hers. “That with God, there is
hope of redemption—for all of us. Even for the worst of
sinners.”

Redemption? Of course she expected to hear
of his religious conversion at some point in the book. She just
didn’t understand why he was so intent on telling others about it.
“Well then, I think that in order for people to appreciate your …
message of hope, you need to show us what hopelessness looked
like.”

John closed his eyes, then nodded. “Yes, I
believe you’re right.”

A sound from the sitting room made Eliza
aware of someone’s presence.

Millie hovered at a lamp near a sitting room
window with her feather duster, flicking at a spot here and there,
still humming.

John blasted out a breath. “And then along
came Stella.”

Eliza turned away from him and wrote at her
desk. Perhaps not looking at him as he spoke would help him say the
more difficult things. “Who?”

“
Stella
Beatty.”

The name seemed vaguely familiar, but Eliza
couldn’t place it. “Who was that?”

“
Stella was a retired
actress, a widow twenty years my senior. She was many things. She
was my acting coach, my mentor, my banker, my foot in the door, the
one who pulled strings and got me screen tests. She had important
connections. She came up with my stage name, my look, my walk, my
voice—everything.”

Eliza finished writing.

John remained silent.

“
And …?” She peeked over
her shoulder. Surely there was more, but she wasn’t sure she wanted
to hear it.

John stared at the book spines on the
shelves. “We were lovers. I’m sure the relationship is no secret,
thanks to Louella Parsons and her gossip column.”

And so begins the sordid
details
. Eliza wrote, and when she
finished, she glanced up.

He fiddled with something on the bookcase,
looking like he needed something—a drink perhaps. A strong one.

“
Go on,” she said lightly,
trying to picture the woman. She would have been beautiful and
fascinating and glamorous, of course.

John shook his head. “It’s not a pretty
story.”

Eliza studied him. What did that matter now?
There was probably little John could reveal to his readers that
wasn’t already known. After all this time, he was worried about
what people would think of him?

No—he said he didn’t want to paint himself
in a sympathetic light, and she believed him. He wasn’t looking to
impress anyone. The book was some kind of confession, as he had
claimed.

Duncan appeared in the library doorway. “Beg
your pardon, Mr. John. I have today’s mail.” He handed a stack of
letters to John, then tugged his cap at Eliza and ambled away.

John shuffled through the mail. He stopped
at one point and drew out a small, pink envelope. He slipped it
into his pocket, then went to his chair and tossed the rest of the
mail onto the table. “Where were we?”

She read back over what she’d written. “You
said Stella was twenty years your senior. How old did you say you
were?”

“
Eighteen.” He picked up a
piece of mail, then went to the fireplace and opened it.

Eliza’s stomach did a little twist. “She was
thirty-eight?”

“
I know how it
sounds.”

“
Do you?” Eliza bit her
lip.

He flashed her a look. “You don’t think I
know how much more disgusting that makes it?”

In spite of his rebuke, Eliza’s thoughts
whirled. Disgust was only part of what she felt, but what could she
say? It was none of her business.

John studied her and then turned away. “I’m
very sorry, Mrs. Saunderson, I shouldn’t have snapped at you. I’d
just … rather not mention the relationship, because even though
it’s true, some people might find it too sordid. And others will
just find it entertaining.”

She wasn’t the least bit
entertained. The idea of an older woman involving herself with so
young a man sickened her, no matter the reason. Maybe
Eliza
was naïve to the
ways of the industry, but getting mixed up with someone young and
impressionable was wrong in any social sphere.

“
Why did she do it?” she
asked. “I mean, why did she help your acting career like
that?”

He shrugged. “I guess she saw something she
thought was worth gambling on. A sure way to make a name.”

Eliza huffed. “A name for whom?”

“
For us both, I
imagine.”

“
So she used you.” Had she
just said that aloud?

“
That’s how things work in
show biz.” He turned and glanced at her notepad. “You’re not
writing that, are you?”

“
No.” Why was getting
information out of him like coaxing a stray cat inside? “It just
sounds to me like Stella was a greedy woman who took advantage of a
kid who really needed—” Eliza’s breath caught. She’d probably just
spoken her mind right out of her job.

“
Sure, I was little more
than a kid, but it’s not as if I wasn’t willing.” His words sounded
flat.

Was John taking the blame
for the relationship?
It’s none of your
business, Eliza, let it go … Don’t be foolish …
“No,” Eliza said, shaking her head, marveling at her own
audacity.

“
No?” He
frowned.

“
She held a position of
power over you. She
used
you.”

John threw her a look, then limped to the
window and opened it. He kept his back to her. “You’re right, but
I’ve forgiven her. And while I intend to be truthful, I don’t
intend to cast blame on others for things I’ve done.”

“
But I believe it’s
important to give the whole story. It explains—”

“
It excuses.”

Millie cleared her throat from the doorway.
“Lunch is served, Mr. John, Miz Eliza.”

John mopped his brow with a handkerchief and
gestured with it toward the dining room. “After you.”

She could hear Betty
now.
Stop getting yourself mixed up in his
story, Eliza. You’re only here to type a book.

It’
s easier to believe you’re running a race than it is to admit
you’re just running.

~
The Devine Truth: A Memoir

As Eliza entered her
building
that evening, Joan met her on her
way out. “Heya, toots, there was a telephone call for you earlier.”
She pushed the knot of her neck scarf to one side. “Some man.
Didn’t sound too promising, though. I’d give that fella the
heave-ho if I were you.”

What man would call her,
unless … John? No, he would have no reason to call her after hours.
But wouldn’t that be something if it
was
him, and Joan had talked to a
famous film star without knowing it?

She stifled a smile at the idea, then
realized Betty had probably given Eliza’s telephone number to Ed’s
friend Stanley. She grimaced. “Did he give his name?”

“
Nope. He just said he’d
be in touch. Oh, and he said he hoped you enjoyed the matinee.” She
winked.

Joan sauntered out, leaving Eliza alone with
her numbness.

So she
was
being followed outside the
theater. By whom? And why? Thoughts whirling, she climbed the
stairs. How had the man gotten this number? Did he know where she
lived?