The Memoir of Johnny Devine (9 page)

The lady beside Eliza throttled her bag of
popcorn, sending a shower of kernels all over the floor, but Eliza
couldn’t take her eyes from the screen. It was the longest, most
heart-stopping kiss she’d ever seen. She checked on her neighbor,
who was fanning herself and trying to clean up the mess she’d
made.

Then the ship docked and Geoffrey was on the
telephone in a dark little room at the back of a seedy café. “Sure,
I’m sure. She’s hooked all right, and by the time we get back to
New York, I’ll have her reeled in.” Geoffrey listened and checked
around him.

Eliza’s heart sank.

“
Don’t worry. She’s so
head over heels she won’t know what hit her until after the
shareholder’s meeting … sure, I’ll remember. Just make sure
you
remember to bring
the other half of my dough.”

Eliza stopped
breathing.
It’s just a movie.

Her neighbor patted her arm. The woman was
watching her intently, nodding. “This part always gets me too,” she
whispered. “Have you seen it before?”

Eliza shook her head.

“
He’s really not a bad
man. But don’t let me spoil it for you.”

With a nod, Eliza resumed watching, but with
growing regret over her decision to see this film. So many thoughts
and sensations flooded through her. Hearing the sound of a younger
John’s deep voice coming from the screen and seeing him without a
cane was so strange. And of course, a ten-foot image of his
smoldering eyes and handsome face was now permanently burned into
her memory.

That
wouldn’t be helpful come Monday morning.

And seeing him portraying a man so
convincingly in love threw her for a loop—and how. But the most
difficult part was watching how skillfully Johnny the Actor
depicted a man playing such a duplicitous, unscrupulous role. A man
pretending to be a man pretending. A multi-layered lie, one that he
pulled off with disturbing authenticity.

The thought of all that deceit and
believable sincerity made Eliza’s stomach twist, popcorn and all.
She wasn’t sure she could finish watching. She hunted in the dark
for her handbag and slipped its handle over her arm.

“
You’re not leaving, are
you?” her neighbor whispered. “You have to see what happens next.
It’s the best part!”

“
Well, maybe a few more
minutes.” Eliza sat back and tried to relax.

As the story went on, the couple became
inseparable, spending every remaining moment together. By the time
the ship docked, they were making ardent promises to each other to
meet again. They parted and headed in separate directions, but then
Geoffrey turned back, forced his way through the crowd, and found
her.

In a softly lit close-up, he pulled her
close and told her he loved her like he’d never loved anyone. He
kissed her, and the heiress melted into his crushing embrace.

Eliza’s insides lurched. So convincing, and
yet, such lies. Similar to the lies Ralph had used to woo her. Too
bad Eliza hadn’t been warned of Ralph’s duplicity the way this
audience had been warned about Geoffrey’s.

Back in New York, Johnny’s character went to
meet the man who had hired him, sweating and fidgety as he waited.
When his contact arrived, Geoffrey said he wanted out. Not only did
he refuse the rest of his “fishing” money, but he also gave back
the money he’d already been paid.

It turned out poor Geoffrey the snake had
fallen in love—for real.

Eliza was not surprised by the storyline;
she had already guessed where the plot was going. It had been done
before and would be again. The way she had it figured, the heiress
would now discover that Geoffrey had been sent to “fall in love”
with her as a decoy, a way to detour some important investment
decision she was about to make, and the poor woman, who thought she
had finally found someone to love and trust, would realize it was
all an act, and worse, a means to use her for gain.

The pain and humiliation of such betrayal
hit too close to home. With teeth gritted, Eliza held on a little
longer, just to see if she was right.

In a penthouse office, the heiress was paid
a visit by a terse-talking private eye who had proof that her
company’s competitors had hired a decoy in an attempt to manipulate
her and railroad her investors. She didn’t believe him at first,
but then the detective said he had a photograph of the decoy. He
took out an envelope, but the heiress stopped him, saying she
needed a moment. She squared her shoulders as if bracing herself,
and then took the envelope. She pulled out the photo, gave it a
brief glance, then slipped it back inside. Her eyes glistened, but
only for a moment. Chin up, she handed the envelope to the man.
“Good work, Mason,” she said. Something in her expression changed.
Hardened.

Eliza could feel the woman’s embarrassment
coming straight off the screen in waves.

“
Do whatever you need to
do,” the heiress said evenly. “I don’t ever want to see that face
again.”

Eliza had also had enough. She stood.

“
Oh, but you’ll miss the
ending,” her neighbor said. “You’ll never guess how, but it all
turns out, I promise. Are you sure you have to go?”

“
I’m afraid so. Nice
chatting with you.” Belly churning, Eliza dashed out of the theater
and kept going. There were better ways to spend a nickel, ways that
wouldn’t upset her stomach and remind her of her own humiliation.
Perhaps the less she saw of her employer, the better—

A weird tingling on the back of her neck
made Eliza stop and look over her shoulder.

People were walking the sidewalk in both
directions. A man in an overcoat a block away was going the same
direction as Eliza. Watching her.

The man from the diner.

You’ve seen too many detective pictures.
Snap out of it.

She ventured
another look back, but the man was
gone.

I
knew I was being lied to and yet chose to believe it. What’s
sad about self-deception isn’t that it makes a fool of you—though
it does—but that sooner or later you wake up and realize there’s
nothing worth believing in.

~
The Devine Truth: A Memoir

As the gate closed
behind Eliza Monday morning, her cheeks burned,
in spite of the gusty breeze that whipped across her skin and
tugged at her uncovered curls. She’d spent the morning in such a
dither that she’d forgotten a scarf. Preparing for work reminded
her of last Friday and what she’d implied to John about the ten
dollars. If her mama had been there, she would have offered Eliza
gentle words of correction. She would likely say that, while
being
mindful
of
her feminine intuition was always wise, a lady didn’t always have
to
speak
what was
on her mind.

This learning-to-assert-herself scheme
wasn’t turning out quite as planned.

When Eliza arrived at the house, Millie was
cleaning a window but set down her cloth and went to the door ahead
of Eliza, humming a tune.

“
Good morning,
Millie.”

“
Mornin’, Miz
Eliza.”

Eliza smoothed her curls and followed Millie
inside.

John appeared from the hallway, looking
dashing in a white shirt, tweed slacks, and a silk tie.

Eliza smoothed her hair again.

He motioned Eliza into the library. “After
you, Mrs. Saunderson.”

While John headed toward his chair by the
fireplace, Eliza settled at her desk. She went straight to work,
resuming where she’d left off on Friday. Knowing he was in the room
made the back of her neck tingle, similar to the way it tingled
after leaving the theater and sensing she was being followed.

After the
movie
.

The one in which John kissed a woman
speechless. Which Eliza did not care to think about—ever. And
especially not when she needed to concentrate.

“
Mrs. Saunderson, may I
ask you a question?” John said.

She turned to face him. “Yes?”

He was seated in his upholstered chair with
a Bible open on the table beside him. “I don’t mean to sound
impatient, but do you have an idea how long before we can begin
with the dictation?” The rigidity of his posture made him look as
if he were in pain.

“
As a matter of fact, I
should finish your opening chapters this morning. I think what we
have so far should meet with your editor’s approval.”

“
Fine.”

Eliza couldn’t decide if he was suffering
pain or some other disturbance. He seemed engrossed in his study,
so she put her curiosity aside and returned to her work.

Millie passed the library with a feather
duster, humming. She broke into the words, “Oh, I need Thee … every
hour I need Thee …” She moved slowly through the sitting room,
giving a little stroke here and there to a lampshade or the top of
a perfectly clean chair.

By the time Eliza had completed the opening
chapters, John had resumed his habit of pacing the library, pages
in hand. “Okay, John, I think we’re—”

John?

He pivoted slowly and gave her an inquiring
look.

Well, she
had
been thinking of him
as John, which actually went a long way in helping her forget that
he was
Johnny Devine
. Which she needed to do all the more now, after seeing him
in that film. And she had to call him something.

“
We’re ready to proceed,”
she went on, cheeks warm. “Where would you like to start?” She
turned her chair to face him with her pencil and steno pad and
waited.

“
Could you please read me
the last page you typed?” He came toward the desk.

She did as asked and then looked up.

“
We’ll begin with the
heading
The First Years
,” he said.

Eliza wrote quickly. “Do you want to start
off by reading me what you have written?”

“
Oh. I assumed …” His brow
furrowed slightly. “Is that what you would prefer?”

“
Sure. We can see how that
reads and go from there
.
”

John opened his mouth to speak but
hesitated. He looked at her ready pencil as though it were a
spoonful of bitter medicine. “Yes, about that. In case you haven’t
noticed … which is absurd since you’ve obviously noticed by now, my
… writing skills are only about as good as a ninth-grade education
can provide.”

She didn’t mean to stare
at him but couldn’t help
it
. As far as the way John carried
himself, she would have never guessed he was a high school dropout.
He seemed so polished, so cultured. But as far as the issues with
the writing, this certainly explained a lot. It also explained the
man’s frustration at her many interruptions to correct his work.
She winced. What an absolute heel she was. No one liked being
constantly reminded of his or her shortcomings.

She of all people should know that.

“
I left school at fourteen
to find work. The Great War changed things for me. Drastically.”
When he looked up, something was buried deep in his expression.
Something like pain or shame or a mix of the two.

“
I imagine a lot of people
found their lives in upheaval at that time,” she said lightly. She
had long suspected that her parents had been scarred by the First
World War, though they had never discussed it.

John studied the page in his hand. “Well,
luckily for me, in spite of my lack of formal education, I learned
valuable language and storytelling skills through script reading,
director’s cues, and grueling practice. But there’s a big
difference between delivering captivating lines to an emotionally
engaged audience and putting my personal story down on paper.”

“
I understand. Writing a
book is much harder than most people realize.”

He studied her. “You’ve written a book?”

She nodded. “Several, but … they haven’t
been published. I write on a topic most publishers aren’t too eager
to print.”

“
Which is …?”

She chewed her lip. But it was too late to
take back what she’d started. “Oppression.”

He lifted a brow. “What sort?”

“
Racial, ethnic, and …
gender, mostly.” How would he react? Usually people either tuned in
to the plight of the oppressed or tuned it out. Hers were certainly
not entertaining stories of Hollywood, although John’s depiction
from behind the bright lights painted a darker-than-average picture
of the glittering town.

“
What sorts of things do
you write about oppression, if you don’t mind my
asking?”

She lifted her chin. “I write about
Americans of Japanese descent losing their homes during internment.
Colored musicians and singers who aren’t allowed to dine or stay in
the hotels where they’ve performed to sold-out crowds. Women forced
to give up their only livelihood when men returned home from war.
Things like that.”

John studied her carefully. Perhaps he was
trying to decide how a woman like her would know of such things.
“And yet you still write about this even though no one will publish
your work?”

She met his gaze. “Yes, I
still write about it. And I
have
published several articles with the American
Women’s Alliance and the League of Women Voters. Because, whether
or not people are willing to listen, some things still need to be
said.”