by Camille Eide
Betty’s words echoed in Eliza’s ears. “Why? What do you mean?”
Her sister stared at Eliza. “Come with me.”
Eliza followed Betty out of the den and into the dining room, then down a hall and into Betty’s bedroom.
Betty opened the closet and took down a photo box. She leafed through photographs of her children as babies, then pulled out a folded blue paper. “There. Does that make you happy?”
Frowning, Eliza unfolded the official-looking paper and read. “Nadia Petrovich.” She turned to Betty, confused.
“Read the date.”
January fourth, nineteen nineteen. Betty’s birthday. “What is this?”
“It’s my birth certificate, Eliza. Unlike yours, which leaves no doubt that you’re a full-blooded American.”
Eliza glanced down the page to the lines listing the infant’s mother and father. Instead of Laura and Wesley Peterson, as were listed on Eliza’s birth certificate, the parents’ names on Betty’s read Lara and Vasily Petrovich.
So her parents were Russian.
I finally had to admit that Oscar’s faith wasn’t just a fad. Eventually, his patience and persistence wore me out, so I fired him. Repeatedly.
~The Devine Truth: A Memoir
15
The first thing Eliza did when she returned to her apartment was to tape a note beside the telephone that said Absolutely NO Calls for Eliza. And if Agent Robinson showed up at the apartment building, maybe the super would send him away. She could hope, anyway. She couldn’t endure any more questions, not until she sorted out what she’d discovered about her parents. Unfortunately, Betty knew nothing more than what was on her birth certificate. Eliza had asked several times until she was satisfied her sister was telling the truth.
Why had Mama and Papa kept their real names and nationality a secret? They must have worked hard to leave so little trace of an accent. How had they hidden being Russian so well?
Were they communists?
Thursday night, Eliza sat at her typewriter, stroking the cat with her feet, picturing Papa’s broad shoulders and Mama’s gentle smile. And her dark-blue, almond-shaped eyes, which Eliza had inherited.
Spies?
Mama and Papa had been such quiet people. Though they had never spoken of their lives before Betty and Eliza were born, there had been no pretense with them. They were genuine; the same people every minute of every day. If they truly did have some kind of secret involvement or ties with communism, they would have had a very good reason for it.
But she still had too many questions that needed answers. Perhaps, by some miracle, she would find those answers before Agent Robinson did.
Because of John’s out of town trip, Eliza had four days off in a row, and it felt strange. She already missed the story and the dictation, the discussions.
On Friday, she spent most of the day on the telephone, hunting for numbers to establishments that might offer some information about her parents’ immigration. She needed to find a lead on their background or a clue about them—a ship’s log, a hospital record, a person who knew them, anything. The trouble was, she was searching in the dark and didn’t even know what for.
Saturday began with a drizzle that turned to steady rain, so a matinee was out. She was trapped in her tiny apartment. And alone, since Mr. Darcy hadn’t come around for his morning milk. He’d been coming to see her so faithfully, even staying inside a few nights. What could be important enough to a tomcat to interrupt his homey, new routine? But then, he’d probably been a stray for a long time and wasn’t accustomed to being a cherished pet.
She worked on editing an article on women’s equality, but the Bible story about the woman and Jesus kept creeping into her thoughts. Perhaps Pastor Ted was telling the rest of it in tomorrow’s service. Eliza certainly wouldn’t be going. She would probably be welcome, but she wasn’t about to go there on her own. She didn’t belong.
But she did have a Bible, and it wasn’t as if she couldn’t read the story for herself.
Eliza took the Bible from the bookcase, belly-flopped down on her bed, stocking feet crossed in the air, and leafed through the Gospel of John—a name hard to forget.
She read several chapters, stopping to look up unfamiliar words in the dictionary the way her parents had taught her. She went on until she found the story of the adulterous woman. She read it carefully, touched again by Christ’s compassion and by his words, “Neither do I condemn thee: go, and sin no more.” But after Jesus rescued the woman, there was nothing more said of her. The story went on to Jesus teaching judgmental men about Himself and about truth.
Another line stood out: “And ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free.”
So how was it that the sinful woman had been set free, but the so-called righteous men still clung to their binding way of thinking?
As far as Eliza could tell, Christ came to change people and liberate them from man-made rules that only changed how a person appeared outwardly. The men in the story, on the other hand, wanted this woman ridiculed and made to conform to their rules. They had no interest in helping her truly change.
Eliza read the next chapter as well, but there was no further mention of the woman. Had she changed?
Was true change even possible?
If you let Me, I will make you new.
Eliza stilled. It was as if she felt the words rather than heard them. They were just there, like the memory of a familiar voice.
Mr. Darcy howled at the glass door. Eliza hurried to open it before he changed his mind.
Would John know more about the woman in the story? Perhaps she could ask him the next time she saw him.
Which wouldn’t be for another dreadfully long day.
Monday arrived with a stiff breeze that caught the hem of Eliza’s skirt and sent a mild chill up her legs. The sight of John’s house and of Millie waiting for her at the door was a relief.
Millie tut-tutted, ushering Eliza inside like a mother hen. “That wind gonna blow winter right in on top of us, Miz Eliza. You best bundle up from now on. Catch your death if you don’t.”
Eliza removed her scarf, smiling. Millie had been polishing with lemon wax again. This house always smelled wonderful and so right. Like home ought to smell.
Millie tilted her head up and narrowed a gaze at Eliza. “You done somethin’ different with your hair?”
“No, same hair.”
The sound of John’s cane approaching gave her a huge case of the jitters. As he came near, he looked tense, but even so, it did her heart good to see him. She couldn’t contain her broad smile.
The tension on his face gave way to surprise. His eyes searched hers, questioning. Then just as quickly, his hard expression resumed. “I hope you had a good weekend. You’ve been working hard and certainly deserved a break.”
“Thank you. I visited my sister. How was your benefit event?”
“Long. And a bit of a shock, to be honest. I haven’t been to L.A. in more than a decade. Brought back more memories than I’d bargained for. But it was for a good cause. Oscar cooked up this event to help a group of his long-time clients. He thought my name would lend some draw power.”
“And did it?”
“The turnout wasn’t bad, especially for a first-time event.”
She smiled again, pleased for his success. “So, you’re glad you went?”
His gaze shifted away from her and toward the library, as if he would rather be in there. “I’m grateful for any chance I can help Oscar.” He gestured toward the other room.
Millie left them and Eliza went to her desk, but John didn’t join her in the library after all. Odd. Shaking off her disappointment, she reviewed the last few pages of his manuscript, then glanced at John’s table for new pages. She didn’t see any. Perhaps he had gone to get them.
Millie brought a tray with two cups of coffee and offered one to Eliza, then looked around the room with a frown. “This room feel chilly to you? I’ll have Duncan lay a
fire.”
“I’m fine, Millie, but I don’t mind if you think a fire is needed.”
Still frowning, Millie set the other cup of coffee on John’s table. Duncan entered, mail in hand. Millie stopped him and asked about a fire. With a sigh, Duncan dropped the mail on Eliza’s desk and trudged out.
John was still nowhere in sight. Maybe he’d left pages or his notebook and she just hadn’t seen them.
Eliza went to his table and searched more closely, but found nothing. Strange—no pages and no John. She returned to her desk and looked again, finding nothing there either. Her eye caught something pink peeking out of the stack of mail.
A small, square, stationery-style envelope.
Checking around to make sure no one was watching, she leaned closer.
The corner with the return address poked out, but not enough to see who it was from.
Knowing full well that she shouldn’t, she reached over and tugged the envelope out a little more.
The return address read “D.M.” with an address in San Diego. In a feminine hand.
Something in the center of her chest turned to ice.
A sound in the hallway made her jump, and she returned to her seat, heart thumping. She was no gumshoe, but wasn’t it obvious? John was receiving regular mail from a woman with the initials D.M.
It’s none of your business, Eliza.
She inserted a clean sheet of paper into her typewriter. Betty would also tell her it was none of her business. Even Mama would say it. But as Eliza waited, heart still pounding, Deborah Marlow’s beautiful face flooded her mind like a movie screen. Glamorous, alluring, confident.
Though tabloids had paired Johnny Devine and Deborah Marlow romantically in the past, he had never talked about her.
Not yet, anyway.
Appalled at the childish direction her emotions were headed, Eliza straightened the stack of manuscript pages, then glanced at the stack of mail. It was rather odd that he never talked about Deborah when he had been candid about other women. Perhaps John had been more in love with this woman than anyone else. Which wasn’t hard to imagine. Perhaps he still carried deep feelings for her—why else would he be so secretive about their relationship?
John’s cane tapped as he approached.
Foolish girl. You’re an employee. This is a job. A temporary job that will end soon.
It was just that her lungs wouldn’t work, and her heart fluttered like a caged bird.
What’s wrong with you? Stop acting like a child.
Eliza put on the most composed look she could, hating the fact that she was forced to hide behind a mask yet again.
But she had no choice. Allowing John to see that she had fallen in love with him was out of the question.
Vacancy demands to be filled. It’s basic physics. Only a pure fool would ignore or try to deny it.
~The Devine Truth: A Memoir
16
Eliza looked up at the sound of John’s cane.
“So sorry to keep you waiting,” John said.
Duncan came in from the kitchen carrying a long-handled basket of wood, which he hauled to the fireplace with shuffling steps.
John eyed him. “Expecting a freeze, Duncan?”
The old man set the basket down. “Millie wants a fire.”
“Seems warm enough to me, but if Millie wants it, I won’t argue.”
Duncan placed wood in the fireplace, muttering about what Millie wanted.
John took his seat and set his cane beside him. “Where did we leave off, Mrs. Saunderson?”
Eliza took the last page of manuscript from the stack and held it up to read. Her pulse still hadn’t returned to normal. “It was 1941, and you suspected that your looks and popularity were the real reason you were cast in so many films.” She peeked at him. Oh, yes. He still had the looks. She dropped her gaze and readied her pencil.
“Yes. I figured the only thing the director expected from me was to show up. It didn’t even matter if I could act. And I did want to act. I wanted to do a good job, or at least I did at one time. I suppose by then, however, I had lost my love for the art. I was convinced that all they wanted was to put me in a film and showcase me with all their staging wizardry. I told Oscar that producers chose specific roles to bring out my … bankable charms.” He sighed. “Sex appeal is like gold in Hollywood. Never mind my desire to act and connect with the audience. Which was what I really wanted. I never felt close to anyone after my family died. Losing them, and losing the connection with the audience left me feeling detached. No matter how many … people I spent time with.”
Eliza’s shoulders stiffened as she prepared to hear something she would rather not. But hadn’t she told Oscar how important it was for John to tell his story, in its entirety? These things needed to be said.
“I want people to understand there was a deep, aggravating void in my life. I hope readers will recognize such a feeling, no matter their specific circumstances.”
She finished jotting the last lines. “I am sure many people know the feeling. And I think your readers will be eager to read on and see if you ever found a … a lasting way to fill that void.”
“I hope so.”
He went on with stories of friends who felt the same way about being cast simply for their sex appeal or screen image and then drowned their disillusionment in drink. “Jonesy took it much harder than the rest of us did.”
Eliza paused her writing. “Who is that?”
“Gina Jones, but we all called her Jonesy. She could drink like a whale and slip right into character like nobody’s business. I don’t know how she did it. But the drinking took a deadly toll on her health. She died in a hospital, broke and diseased.”
Eliza remembered the actress all too well. Just before Ralph went into the army, when he spent most of his time out with friends, Eliza would slip out for an occasional Saturday matinee, more for the newsreels than the picture. She’d heard about the actress’s death. By that time, Eliza knew full well who the woman was because Ralph kept a life-sized pin-up poster of her in the hall closet. Gina Jones: every red-blooded American man’s dream.
Eliza had burned that poster the day Ralph shipped out.
“Disillusionment can destroy our soul, if we let it,” Eliza said.
John nodded thoughtfully. “That’s good. I wish I’d said it.”
“Use it. I was only rephrasing what you said.”
John smiled. “No, that was all you.”
His smile and the deep tone of his voice sent her heart knocking. She tore her gaze away.
He rose and strolled across the room. “And you’re absolutely right. I gave my disillusionment over to every kind of destructive vice. I was cursed to follow the path of the disenchanted, or so I believed. Sliding down a greased slope, unable to stop until I hit bottom. Or oblivion, because I’d been aiming for bottom so long I feared there was no end to it.”
“Did you ever wonder about God?” And did He ever speak to you in a strangely familiar voice when you were alone?
John nodded. “I did. Do you remember that one of my first bit parts was in a silent picture called The Godless Girl? The story was a romance between an atheist girl and a Christian boy.” John huffed out a laugh. “Ironic, isn’t it? My first introduction to God was during production of a fictional screenplay. It got me wondering if there was a God, and if there was, why He’d allowed things to turn out as they had. Why He took good men from the world, like my dad and Will, and left a lug like me to tramp around making a mess of things. I wasn’t interested in a God whose logic made no sense.”
“Which I suppose you later discovered isn’t true.”
John shook his head. “No, His logic still doesn’t always make sense. But I know without a doubt that His logic is good and right, no matter how it feels to me. The Bible says His ways are higher than my ways, His thoughts higher than mine. And do you know what? I find great peace in that.”
Eliza studied him, confused by the many God-ironies she
kept discovering. Was God fickle? Was He compassionate, as Christ had demonstrated, or was He a tyrant? Because if there was one thing Eliza knew, submitting to a bully of any kind was something she would never do again.
I still don’t know if holding on to one’s last shred of pride is admirable or just plain pathetic.
~The Devine Truth: A Memoir
17
The lunch meeting with Fred Wharton was set for Friday at the Claremont Hotel, by far the ritziest place in town. As the weekend drew near, Eliza found it harder to remain calm. Why did he want to meet her? What sort of a man was Mr. Wharton? What would he have to say to her?
And what would it be like to dine with John in public?
Friday morning, she again read the story of the adulterous woman. She still didn’t understand John’s blind surrender to God. But a woman in need of redemption, hope, and freedom—this, she understood.
She took out her navy suit and dressed with more attention than usual, adding a splash of perfume and a touch of lipstick. Perhaps red wasn’t too bold for a business meeting. Of course, Betty wore red lipstick seven days a week and insisted a woman’s lips were meant to be seen. Eliza wasn’t sure she agreed.
She studied her reflection in the mirror, then removed her glasses. Without them, she looked so much like her mama. But though Mama was a kind, lovely woman, there had always been a hint of sadness to her, constant but faint, like the steady sound of a distant stream. Neither Eliza nor Betty had inherited Mama’s subdued manner, but rather their papa’s lively one.
On second thought, she dug through her wardrobe for her red scarf. She knotted it at her neck, added red gloves and her red sweetheart handbag, then took another look at herself. She smiled at the touches of color.
Eliza arrived at John’s house at the regular time, even though the meeting wasn’t until noon. John was eager to get as much writing done as possible. Thinking about the approaching deadline tightened the knot in her stomach, but she ignored it and headed for her desk.
