The Memoir of Johnny Devine

by Camille Eide

  “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.”

  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

  8

  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?

  At her door, she froze. What if he was in her room now?

  With fumbling hands, she unlocked her door and peeked inside, staying out on the landing just in case. Why would he be following her? She’d heard of men who targeted women. Especially single ones living on their own. Too bad she didn’t have a brother or an uncle. Of course, there was Betty’s husband, but Ed Cunningham was a placid, preoccupied man, whom she couldn’t picture fighting with some trench-coated masher. Besides, Ed and Betty lived an hour away. No, if she was going to prove that women were complete and capable in their own right, she would have to deal with things like this herself.

  Fortunately, the only male lying in wait for her was one hungry tomcat.

  When Eliza arrived the next day, John was on the telephone at the other end of the library. As she waited for him to finish, she read over her typed pages and tried not to listen in on John’s conversation, but his tone made it impossible not to.

  “No,” he said with slow, deliberate patience, as though he were speaking to an unreasonable child. “As I said, I only know what I’ve already told you. I don’t know any subversive anti-Americans. In fact, I’ve never even met one. Are you sure there are any?”

  Eliza met his gaze inadvertently.

  John opened his mouth to speak but then clamped it shut, lips pressed tight as he listened. “Now you’re twisting my words. You know that’s not what I meant.” He listened for a few more seconds, shaking his head. “Look, I’m sure you have far more important things to do. I know I do, so let me make it easy for us both and say goodbye. That’s right. You have a good day now.” He hung up the telephone, but he stared at the receiver as if he wanted to toss
it across the room.

  Eliza turned to her typewriter, curiosity swelling.

  John came to her desk. “Still typing yesterday’s notes?”

  “It’s finished, I’m just looking it over. Was that something about the book?” And that’s the best you could do? Surely the man can spot a nosy female a mile away.

  “It’s this McCarthy fiasco. Ever since the Rosenberg executions, there’s been a pack of bloodhounds at the House Un-American Activities Committee devoted to sniffing out communists in Hollywood.” He shook his head. “They even have a small deputation in Berkeley. They’ve set up a temporary headquarters at the Shattuck Hotel. Apparently, they can spy on entertainers and intellectuals from there.”

  Even though he no longer worked in film, could John be affected by the heightened scrutiny on Hollywood?

  “I don’t know why Eisenhower puts up with McCarthy’s nonsense,” he said. “The man accused the entire Truman administration of being communists. And he’s still running around like a lunatic with the authority to accuse anyone who sneezes of being a commie.”

  The execution of Julius and Ethel Rosenberg earlier that summer had sent a fearful hush rippling out across the country. Eliza had heard about it in the newsreels. And the papers reported that a growing number of citizens were afraid of the suspicious eye of Senator McCarthy and the HUAC. With actors being blacklisted, many in Hollywood feared they would be next.

  “Have any of your friends been affected?” she asked.

  “Just about everyone I know is being questioned, and I’ve known a lot people in this industry. People whose political interests are none of my concern. Did you know they blacklisted John Garfield? I worked with him and never heard him say a word about being a communist.”

  Eliza had read about Garfield. “I heard he died of a heart attack last year.”

  John nodded gravely. “People think his death had something to do with this whole Red Scare debacle.” He shook his head. “He was only thirty-nine.”

  How could the government continue to support such paranoia? Rumor had it many people questioned whether or not Ethel Rosenberg was even guilty of her husband’s crimes. If they could convict and execute someone on weak evidence, what did that mean for others under scrutiny?