by Camille Eide
“Pickin’s must be slim if you’re back for bread and water, huh? Well, I’ve got something I think you’ll like a whole lot better.” She dug through the sacks until she found the tuna, opened the can, and piled the meat high onto one of her two plates. With slow, even steps, she took the plate to the door, being careful not to frighten him.
He watched her approach, wary but curious, nose lifted high as if trying to smell through the glass.
Eliza chuckled. She set the plate down, stepped aside, and slowly opened the door.
The cat sniffed the air again, ducked his head a few times and listened, looked around the doorway, then ventured inside. He gave Eliza’s pumps a glance, then went straight to the dish and dug in.
“We have to stick together, Darcy,” she said. “Everything isn’t served to us on a silver platter. We have to look out for each other.” Humming, she unpacked the groceries, stacking coffee, cereal, and canned milk around the sideboard. In addition to the Nestlé bar, she’d also splurged on a couple of oranges.
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
10
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.”
Her heart raced. “Your New York editor wants to … meet me?”
John smiled. “Of course. But I told him you’re a very busy, in-demand writer and would have to check your calendar.”
Eliza could only stare at his handsome smile. Was he mocking her? No. With a strange certainty, she knew he would never do that.
“He’s traveling to San Francisco soon and asked if you’d like to join us for lunch. I think you’d enjoy meeting him. But it’s up to you. No harm done if you don’t.”
Duncan came in and left a stack of mail on the edge of Eliza’s desk, then touched his cap and nodded at Eliza. Sniffing the air, he tromped off in the direction of the kitchen.
“Did Mr. Wharton say why he wanted to meet me?”
“No, but I’m sure it’s because he knows the difference between a ten-thumb hack and a real writer. He noticed a ‘phenomenal improvement’ and said the writing was ‘exceptional.’”
Did John resent that? No, his face was only calm and composed. “Perhaps I could meet him,” she said. What was she setting herself up for?
“Excellent. Did I mention he’s soon to be the publisher at Covenant Press? The business has been in the Wharton family for generations.”
She gasped. “Publisher?”
John nodded. “His father will retire at the end of the year and will pass it down to him.”
Eliza stared at the blank page, thoughts churning. The fact that John’s editor wanted to meet Eliza wasn’t what was slowing John down. She met his gaze. “So, what else did Mr. Wharton say about your manuscript? The part that has you stalling now?”
John studied her for a moment, then rose and came to her.
Her pulse sped.
He reached down and took the stack of mail Duncan had left on her desk and sorted through it. “You’re very intuitive. Yes, Fred wants me to slow down and delve deeper into the difficult things. The things that drove me to the edge.”
Eliza waited until he returned to his chair, then readied her pencil out of sight. Maybe if he thought he was only talking to her, he wouldn’t let his worries about how things sounded interfere with his spoken thoughts.
“Deep down, I knew I was just a shooting star, a flash in the pan, a momentary light on the verge of burning out and disappearing without leaving a trace of anything to show for my existence. And the clearer that became, the harder I worked to be the biggest reprobate I could.”
She wrote quickly. “So … if you can’t be good, then be good at being bad. Is that it?”
John was staring at something far beyond the room. “Something like that. Yes.” He turned to her. “I want people to understand that God gave me a second chance in spite of all that I’d done. I don’t think it’s coming across. I was aiming for rock bottom as hard and as fast as I could, and yet, in His mercy, God took hold of me and lifted me out of that pit. He forgave me. For the first time in my life, I felt real peace. I didn’t get there on my own—I couldn’t. It was purely God.”
Eliza nodded and wrote it all. “That’s good. And I know you’re eager to express that message. But I think you’re getting ahead of yourself. Perhaps
we should build up to that.”
“You’re right. I suppose I just want to hurry up and put all this behind me.”
“I know.”
He looked at her, expression softening. “You do?”
“Yes.”
John studied her for a very long time. He sighed. “Will you please read back what you last wrote?”
As Eliza read it aloud, John closed his eyes. This was not a lying cheater. This was a man reliving things he desperately wanted to forget.
“Everything was about indulging myself,” he said after she finished. “Keeping my name at top billing, playing the game but hating it, using and being used, running before a woman got too serious—or, if I’d been honest—before she got any ideas of ditching me. I tramped from one relationship to another like a stray dog, never staying in one place long for fear of being trapped. Boozing it up every night until the demons disappeared. It was as if the hounds of hell were chasing me, and I wondered how long—no, I knew I couldn’t stay ahead of them much longer.”
Eliza looked up.
John was staring at her notepad. “I’m not trying to make any excuses. I hope that’s clear.”
“I’m sure it will be.”
“No, I mean, you know I’m not trying to justify what I was, don’t you?”
Eliza nodded, warmed by his concern about what she thought of him.
“I accept full blame for everything I’ve done.”
“I know,” she said softly. This certainly came as no surprise.
John picked up his glass of tea and swirled it, making the ice spin. “There were women. Married, single, engaged—it didn’t matter.” His words came out tight, laced with regret. He set his glass down slowly, as if to give the memories time to scatter. “I married twice even though I knew it wouldn’t last. There was no real commitment on my part. Both marriages ended badly.”
He lapsed into silence again, giving Eliza’s mind a chance to wander. With all those relationships, it was odd that John had never fathered a child. Perhaps he was infertile. Eliza had never become pregnant and had always supposed it was Ralph who was infertile. But, of course, he later proved that theory wrong.
