The Memoir of Johnny Devine (13 page)

A girl just needed something fresh and juicy
once in a while.

While her coffee pot perked, she checked on
the cat.

His bent tail quivered in little circles as
he ate his fish.

Eliza got to the end of the song and
laughed. She’d been humming one of Millie’s hymns. Had the old
woman intended to get “What a Friend We Have in Jesus” stuck in
Eliza’s head? As she put away the rest of her purchases, she
thought about Millie and her steadfast calm and wise words.

Why was she so content? Was it because she
had family surrounding her, as John had said? How had Millie
managed all those years working as a maid while taking care of her
family—by herself, no less—and despite the kinds of societal
oppression she must have faced as a colored woman? Was being a maid
the kind of life she’d always wanted, what she’d dreamed of as a
little girl? She must have been born in the 1870s. Would a young
girl like Millie have had big dreams for herself in those days? Or
had she grown up simply accepting her lot in life and knowing no
other choice but to make the best of it?

Had she found religion useful?

Eliza’s parents had never said much on the
topic of religion. They had neither supported nor renounced
Christianity or any other forms of faith. They were of the mind
that people were morally accountable to their own beliefs, and that
good morals were important to strong families and a
well-functioning society.

But where had they gotten their morals?
Eliza never had the opportunity to discuss such things with
them.

A knock on the door startled her. When she
opened it, the super stood on the landing.

“
You got a caller on the
line. I said I’d get you this time, since I seen you come in, but
just so you know, I ain’t no answering service. Especially when
your rent’s past due.”

“
I have the rent,” she
said. “Just a minute.” Eliza retrieved her handbag, counted out
twenty-five dollars, and handed it to him. While he counted it,
Eliza eyed the cat to be sure his feline curiosity didn’t bring him
to the door, where he could be seen.

The super stuffed the money in his pocket.
“Well, I still ain’t taking no phone messages, and I sure ain’t
climbing these stairs every time you got a call.”

Eliza stepped past him, closed her door,
then headed for the stairs.

“
I ain’t no receptionist,
and this ain’t no sorority house,” he hollered from the
landing.

She hurried down the stairs to the
telephone, biting her tongue. No one would ever mistake this place
for a sorority house. “This is Mrs. Saunderson,” she said into the
receiver.

“
What’s your other name?”
A man’s voice.

A chill prickled her spine. Theater man—she
was certain of it. “Who is this?”

“
Don’t bother, I already
know who you are. Just giving you a chance to come
clean.”

Eliza frowned. “About what?”

“
About who you
really
are.” He drew out
each word. “
E … J …
Peterson
.”

Her jaw dropped. Only a few editors knew
that Eliza Saunderson was E.J. Peterson. “Who are you?” she asked
again. A little zap cinched her nerves. “And why were you following
me?”

“
I’ll ask the questions,”
the man said. “Who’s funding you? An underground group?”

“
Funding me for
what?”

“
How long have you been
writing propaganda?”

How had he gotten her telephone number?
Eliza looked around.

The entry door at the end of the lobby
opened.

Her heart raced.

Ivy came in with a teenybopper in a pink
poodle skirt.

“
Look, you’ve got things
mixed up, so I’d appreciate it if you’d stop—”

“
You write articles about
equal rights for minorities.”

Eliza gasped. “What?”

“
The sad plight of dames,
Japs, and coloreds. Isn’t that right?”

Eliza tried to answer but couldn’t get air
past the anger in her throat.

“
You
sneak
around in the
shadows—spreading subversive ideas—long enough, and we’ll find you.
Now why don’t you make it easy on us both and admit you’re E.J.
Peterson and you’re writing commie propaganda.”

The hallway swayed, and Eliza took a step
back to steady herself. “You’re mistaken. I’m not a communist.”

Ivy and the other girl stopped talking and
stared at Eliza.

“
How did you get
my—?”

“
The AWA has longstanding
commie ties. Tell me who’s paying you to write this stuff. I want
all your Red contacts.”

“
The American
Women’s
Alliance? They
are no more communist than …” Eliza had to stop and think. If this
man was from the HUAC, he probably thought
everyone
was communist.

“
You’re forgetting I’ve
done my homework,
E.J.
,” he said slowly.

He had found her through her articles,
somehow. “Well, you didn’t do a very good job, because I don’t
write propaganda and I sure don’t know anything about the AWA
having communist ties.”

“
I have a stack of files
on my desk that says otherwise.”

How was that possible? Did these people make
this stuff up? If so, then it would be best to deny anything that
could be twisted and used against her. “I’m afraid you’re mistaken
about me. So, please—”

“
You’re going on record as
a hostile witness?”

She heard the sound
of
a
pencil
scratching on paper. “No, I mean I’m not—look, whoever you are, I
don’t know what you’re talking about. Don’t call again.” She hung
up.

The girls whispered to each other, eyeing
her.

Propaganda
? How was writing about
injustice considered communist propaganda? Was this a joke? Or was
she truly coming under suspicion?

The newsreel picture of Ethel Rosenberg’s
grim face just before she and her husband went to the electric
chair flashed through Eliza’s mind.

No. There had been some kind of mistake,
that was all there was to it. A mistake that would sort itself out
as soon as this man realized the AWA was an organization that
supported women. Nothing more.

Even with all that fame, all I had to show
for my life was a stack of films and a long line of women who
wished I’d never been born.

~
The Devine Truth: A Memoir

On Monday,
dictation went slower than molasses in winter.
John sat in his chair, head back, staring at the ceiling. He
started a few times, but then took back what he said, saying
“scratch that.”

Eliza basked in the warmth of the sun
pouring in from the window behind her and waited, giving him time
to think. Yet, after nearly half an hour of pondering, John
remained silent.

“
What about your film
awards?” she prompted. “Which picture earned you your first?” She
sounded more like a journalist than a typist, but it would be good
to get him talking.

John leaned forward in his
chair. “I won an Academy Award and Golden Globe for the film
Sweet Revenge
. My fourth
major film.” He heaved a tired sigh.

Why was he so reticent today? “I saw that
one. You played an angry lawyer, if I remember right.”

John huffed out a laugh. “Yes, an example of
Stanislavski’s influence. I played the role of a defense lawyer who
became disillusioned with the whole court system when he found out
that justice was never intended for his client.”

“
I remember,” Eliza said.
“She was on trial for killing her husband.”

John nodded. “She was a battered wife and
was completely candid with the courts about what happened and why
she finally did what she did. But the judge didn’t want to hear her
side. He only wanted to make an example of her. He was a
chauvinist. With a gavel.”

Ralph’s red, angry face came to mind, but
Eliza forced it away. She wrote the title, glad her gaze had
somewhere to be, thankful that John couldn’t see the heat flooding
her cheeks.

Of course, relief over
someone’s death wasn’t the
same
thing as actually killing him. But sometimes,
when the nightmares came, Eliza couldn’t tell the
difference.

John turned a letter opener over and over as
he recounted more of his films, then put the silver-handled tool
down and leaned back with a sigh. “I’m sorry, I really don’t want
to hear about myself right now. Let’s talk about something else.
What about you? You’re an author taking months out of your life to
write someone else’s book, every day, week after week.”

Eliza glanced at him. Had he forgotten he
was on a tight deadline? “Yes?”

“
Doesn’t it interfere with
your life?”

What
life?
“I’m thankful to have a
job.”

John picked up the opener again and worked
on a piece of mail. “Do you have to work? I mean, surely you have
other income.”

What an odd question—of course she had to
work, like any other single, working-class girl. Unless she
inherited wealth or received royalties, like John probably did, a
girl had to work. Or get married. “Yes, I have to work.”

“
I’m sorry, it’s probably
none of my business, but I’m curious as to why. A soldier’s death
benefit should be more than enough to take care of his
widow.”

Eliza doodled on the notepad, making boxes
inside of boxes until there was no room left at the center. “I am
unable to receive Ralph’s death benefit.”

“
Why?”

Not only was it none of his business, it was
odd that he was so interested in her personal affairs. Eliza
started another nest of boxes. “Ralph named someone else as his
beneficiary.” She glanced up.

John stared at her, his face a mask of
disbelief. “How is that possible? Who?”

Millie stood in the other room holding a
candlestick holder in one hand and a polishing cloth in the other.
She was staring at the cloth, but seemed to be waiting.
Listening.

Swell—an audience to witness her
humiliation. “The beneficiary was a … woman with whom he’d fathered
a child.”

The candle fell from the holder with a
thud.

John stared at Eliza, his frown
deepening.

Eliza readied her pencil. Perhaps John had
detoured long enough to get back to his manuscript. She didn’t want
to talk about herself either.

“
So you’ve been supporting
yourself on your own for eight years?” John asked.

“
Ten. Ralph died in
forty-three, two years after he went to war.” She hoped the words
hadn’t sounded as bitter as they tasted.

John’s gaze fell to his open Bible. “A man
takes care of those he’s responsible for. If he’s any kind of man.”
He rose and limped to the window.

Eliza stared at John’s tall frame. Who was
this man? By his own admission, he’d been a selfish, irresponsible
louse. But whatever he had once been, he clearly wasn’t now. In
fact, the more time Eliza spent with him, the harder it was to
believe that the man at the window and Johnny Devine had ever been
the same person.

Tuesday morning,
John resumed his pacing and pondering. At least,
Eliza
hoped
he
was pondering, because at the end of the first hour, she was still
staring at a blank page.

The scent of baking apples wafted into the
library, rousing Eliza’s hunger. She’d eaten breakfast, but corn
flakes in canned milk was like eating a bowl of sand compared to
Millie’s cooking. Which John had insisted Eliza accept as part of
her pay.

John stopped at a bookcase, pulled out a
book, examined the flyleaf, put it back, and got another.

“
Writer’s
block?”

John’s head snapped up. “Sorry?”

Eliza lifted her pad and showed him the
blank page.

He studied her notepad for a moment, then
went to his chair and eased himself onto it. He leaned his cane
against the table. “I didn’t want to tell you at the time so as not
to alarm you,” he said, “but I sent the chapters you’ve typed so
far to Fred Wharton, my editor.”

Heart in her throat, Eliza stared at him.
“And?”

“
I just heard back, and he
loves it.” John leaned back in his seat. “In fact, he wants to meet
you.”